Full Chapter Title: You Mustn't Be Afraid to Dream a Little Bigger, Darling.

As if things couldn't get any worse, a week later on Friday, Arthur found himself saddled with a new intern/trainee/aspiring lawyer. His already swamped desk was cut in half to make room for said intern/trainee/aspiring lawyer, large stacks of papers pushed across to fit in only fifty percent of the space they were accustomed to. He watched in dismay as Roe v. Wade took another beating, and almost downright pouted when the new intern came in with a box of belongings, which he proceeded to litter around the now-pristine right half of Arthur's desk. The newcomer didn't even have that many deskly possessions, and Arthur was just about to push just a single stack of papers over the line, but Kettering shot him a glare from across the room so fierce that Arthur hastily pulled the stack of papers back to his side of the desk.

"Jolly good to meet you," the new intern said, sticking out a hand that Arthur felt sure might be better suited to chopping logs or handling construction materials than sitting behind a desk and reviewing torts. The hand was connected to a forearm that sported a simple, understated Rolex, and the forearm disappeared into a light-blue paisley-patterned dress shirt. Arthur suppressed a shudder. He despised paisley, considered it right up there with the seven deadly sins. Thou shalt not, under any circumstances, wear paisley. He felt sure it was written in the Bible somewhere. Probably in some obscure book of the Old Testament that nobody actually got around to reading.

Trying to ignore the pattern of the shirt (and failing miserably), Arthur took a glance at the intern's face, plush lips under a perfectly respectable nose under blue eyes that looked like they could be the colour of some ocean next to some far-off country that Arthur had never even thought of. The man was just a tad taller than him, and his hair was styled in a perfectly acceptable manner for the workplace, and under ordinary circumstances Arthur would have even gone so far as to think him quite handsome, but as it were, it was the workplace and the man was wearing paisley.

"I've heard so much about you," the man said, reaching out and taking Arthur's hand, pumping it vigorously up and down. Arthur tried to ignore the warmth of the man's skin.

"You have?" he asked, preening a bit. The days when someone said they'd heard a lot about him had become few and far between. If one even went so far as to mention Arthur Darling the Fourth, the group of friends one was with would look at you blankly and ask you if the Duchess had had another baby, or if one was referring to that one disgraced earl from York, who'd been caught quite a few times at a particular brothel in South Kensington (this was actually correct, but Arthur preferred to distance himself from the actions of his father, and would claim that he was from another branch of the Darling family).

"Oh, loads," the intern agreed, smiling at Arthur. "All As in your A-levels, perfect LSAT score, studied at The University of Cambridge Faculty of Law. Youngest junior partner at Harvey, Kettering, and Mudd."

"Quite right," Arthur agreed, brightening and returning the intern's smile. "But enough about me. You are?"

"I'm Thomas Eames," the intern replied. It was a perfectly lovely name, full and round in one's mouth. "I've just come back to the UK from travelling abroad, taking a few gap years after university to explore the world before I settle down, you know. Just flew back in from Taiwan the other week, in fact."

"Really?" Arthur asked. He'd never even thought of going to Taiwan, or, for that matter, another country. There was just something about spending ages inside a flying death compartment surrounded by strangers on all sides that didn't really appeal to him. Taiwan, though. It sounded exotic, lovely, exciting and new. "Did you have a good time there?"

"Had a fantastic time," Eames agreed. "Lovely place. Although I've got a British palate through and through, the food there didn't quite agree with me. First thing I did at the airport, in fact, was dial in an order for curry."

Arthur couldn't help but laugh. "I know what you mean," he said, and was about to continue on a laudation of his favourite curry place when he caught Kettering's eye again. The senior partner scowled fiercely at him, indicated the vast piles of papers consuming Arthur's desk, and Arthur sighed before sitting down in his swivel-back chair again and patting the one next to him that Ariadne had dragged over, indicating that Eames should sit down. He ignored Ariadne waggling her eyebrows at him from behind Eames's back and mouthing things silently at him ("Tea's a real cheese!" was what he saw, and he shot back a confused look. Ariadne had been trying to communicate to Arthur that the new intern was a real piece*), and turned to Eames, who was watching him intently.

"Well, to be honest, there's not too much for you to do here, but I suppose since you're supposed to be shadowing me or whatnot, I'm obliged to show you what I do here."

Eames nodded eagerly, and Arthur spent the next eight hours explaining to him the obscure research involved in practicing corporate and patent law, and tried to ignore the way Eames's lovely mouth quirked up at the corners every time he spilled something over Roe v. Wade.

"Bleeding hell," Eames burst out once the door had closed firmly behind Kettering and the office was dark and quiet, save for their desk. "Do you do this every day?"

Arthur looked up from where he was trying to translate page 5 of the Tennyson Contract (page 5 out of almost 500; he had a feeling he'd probably be wheeled into a retirement home clutching page 350). "Do what?" he asked, dumbfounded. "I just got this contract a short while ago. Obviously I've done work on other contracts, as evidenced by these." He indicated the stacks of paper, which, against all logic, seemed to have doubled in size since that morning.

Eames swept his arm around the office. "I mean, do you always stay this late? Good Christ, go home any later and the police will be stopping you asking you why you're out past curfew. You've got that sort of face, you know. So bloody youthful and innocent."

Arthur tried hard not to blush, tried to focus on the way Eames's paisley shirt was absolutely horrendous, but the soft lighting of their desk turned even that most dreaded of fabrics semi-acceptable.

"So I take it you don't have anyone waiting at home for you?" Eames continued, eyeing Arthur from the corner of his eye and smirking at the rosy flush that crept across the planes of Arthur's cheekbones. "I know if I had a dish like you, I'd be terrified about you coming home so late at night."

Arthur almost swooned. It had been ages since he'd been referred to like that (if he was being well and truly honest with him, nobody had ever called him that).

He cleared his throat. "Erm, no," he answered, wondering what it might be like to walk in the door of his apartment and find Eames sitting in his favourite armchair by the television, dialing up for a double order of curry. Well, in Arthur's impromptu fantasy, Eames was sans paisley, and that just led to a whole other fantasy about what he might look like shirtless, probably gloriously tanned and muscled and maybe even tattooed, and that in turn led to more fantasies about how inked skin would taste, if Eames was the type to let him leave bites littered all over his body -

"So I take it you don't have any other obligations tonight?" Eames asked, cutting into Arthur's reverie, and Arthur fanned at himself hurriedly to try and clear away the blush that he felt sure could stop traffic with its brightness. "Because I'd really like to take you out for a drink or two."

"I'm not sure this is entirely appropriate," Arthur began, but Eames just rolled his eyes.

"I'll even change into another shirt to make the experience pleasanter for you," he said, "I've seen you throwing grimaces at the shirt all day," and at that point, Arthur couldn't help but agree.

Arthur couldn't remember the last time he'd been even remotely intoxicated. And he was currently pleasantly buzzed.

"You alright there?" Eames asked as he laid a heavy hand on Arthur's lower back, sending tingles up Arthur's spine. "Bit of a lightweight, are you? The pretty ones always are."

Arthur giggled a bit, nearly tripping over his own feet as he stumbled up the steps to his apartment building. "I'm good," he agreed. "I feel great. The greatesht in a long time."

Eames smiled, the corners of his mouth quirking up, and Arthur almost fell off the landing as he leaned forward to attempt to find out what those plush lips tasted like.

"Easy there, pet," Eames soothed, opening the door for Arthur. "There's plenty of time for that sort of thing."

"D'you think we could have shex?" Arthur asked rather bluntly, turning to look up at him. At the two hims. But that just meant double the excitement, didn't it? At least that's how it always worked out in some of the more racy movies.

Eames looked highly amused as he herded Arthur into the lift. He pinned Arthur against the elevator wall, and Arthur thought that quite possibly this would be the best way to die, being smothered against the wall of a lift by Mr. Thomas Eames in a striped shirt, whose mouth was barely five centimeters away from Arthur's and who smelt like the world's best aftershave, spicy and smoky and clean. Eames bent down just a tad, his mouth just barely brushing against Arthur's, and Arthur tried to press forward, but Eames pulled back with a little smile.

"I'd feel horrible if I took advantage of you," Eames admitted, tugging lightly at the wayward curl snaking across Arthur's forehead. "And unfortunately it appears I'm a bit too sloshed to make good, coherent judgments.

Arthur pouted, scuffing at the floor of the lift with one polished dress shoe. "But I want you to take advantage of me," he muttered, and the instant the lift doors popped open with a bing, he dragged Eames out of the lift with breakneck pace.

"Jesus, you're in luck I carry rubbers like a self-respecting gentleman," Eames muttered to Arthur, who was smiling giddily up at him amidst his wrinkled linens. "The ones in your nightstand look like they're ancient enough to be put in a museum." After a moment, Eames squinted at Arthur. "Are you planning to take off your clothes? Or ought I to do that for you?"

"I can," Arthur said, hiccupping and giggling. He sat up, looked down at himself with a frown, before beginning to struggle with the buttons. He looked up at Eames haplessly. "How do buttonsh work?"

"Oh, sod the buttons," Eames muttered, bending down and pressing his mouth flush against Arthur's, his hands ripping open Arthur's shirt and sending black and beige buttons pinging all over the floor. "I'll get you another shirt, promise," he mumbled breathlessly, nipping at Arthur's lower lip and letting his hands roam across Arthur's skin. It was smooth, almost silky, and Eames pulled back, bending down to litter Arthur's collarbones with tiny sucks and nips that would stain raspberry in the morning.

Arthur's hands tangled themselves in Eames's hair, tugging the strands into disarray, as Eames kissed his way down Arthur's chest, sucking marks into the milky skin - Arthur's skin tasted fresh, soapy, clean, exactly what he'd expected -, taking a dusky nipple into his mouth and worrying at the pebbled skin lightly with his teeth. Arthur choked back a series of gasps, bringing one hand up to cover his mouth while the other gripped strands of Eames's dark hair between his fingers. Eames was currently nibbling kisses into the skin pulled taut over Arthur's hipbones, and Arthur tugged on his handful of hair, trying to get Eames to move down and a bit to the right, his hips lifting and pressing into his jaw.

"Impatient, aren't you?" Eames asked, his eyes twinkling as he wrapped a hand around Arthur and tugged a slow stroke upwards, rubbing at the weeping head with the flat of his palm; Arthur almost bit through his lip as he watched Eames settle his hand around the base of his cock and lower his mouth onto him, his cheeks hollowing and snugging plush lips around him while his tongue did something positively wicked and horrifyingly pleasing, tracing letters into the head, dipping lightly into the slit, teeth dragging with just the slightest hint of pressure against the skin.

Eames pulled off him after a few minutes with an obscene pop, his lips glistening in the moonlight, and Arthur swallowed roughly, dragging Eames back up to his level to press their mouths together and tasting himself in the crevices of his mouth, a bit salty and bitter.

"I'd like you to turn over, love," Eames said, his voice husky, and a shiver went up Arthur's spine at the commanding tone in his voice. "It'll be easier and more comfortable for you."

Arthur turned over obligingly, propping himself up on his hands and knees, looking over his shoulder at Eames. Eames looked positively predatory, gazing hungrily at Arthur's bare skin, and Arthur almost had time to feel self-conscious before Eames smoothed two large hands over Arthur's hips and there was the pop of a tube of lotion before two broad, slick fingers manoeuvred their way into him, curling and pressing and stroking around curiously. Arthur was about to tell him that it was slightly up and to the right, before Eames found it all on his own, the tip of his middle finger pressing right into it on his next pass. Arthur shuddered, his back dipping, pressing back onto the thick fingers breaching him. Eames drew in a sharp breath, watching Arthur writhe on his hand, and palmed at his cock with the other hand, trying to ignore the pool of heat that was starting to flood the pit of his stomach with need.

"God," Arthur muttered, his voice a half-sob, half-moan, "can you just get in me? I'm stretched enough, I swear to God, just, just please."

"No, darling," Eames soothed, "just a bit more, I don't want to hurt you."

Arthur could have screamed in frustration as Eames paused to slick up a third finger and carefully work it into him, spreading them gloriously wide and gently pumping them in and out, stroking over his prostate with every thrust. The pleasure was racing up Arthur's spine, and he could see himself leaking all over the sheets, aching and breathless and needy, and he took a deep breath and all of a sudden it was too much, it was far too much, and he was going to come -

A hand clamped around the base of his erection, and he squirmed in displeasure, trying to pull away from the constriction.

"Sorry, love," Eames's voice from behind him was raspy. "On the up side, I think you're stretched enough."

Arthur opened his mouth, wanted to inform Eames that he'd been well and truly ready two fingers ago, but his voice was lost in a breathless keen as Eames slotted himself neatly into him. There was a pleasurable burn, heat tingling all through Arthur's insides, and he whimpered as Eames expertly flicked his hips, grinding into Arthur's prostate.

"Oh, God, oh, God, oh God," Arthur chanted, sobbing and writhing under Eames's ministrations, his skin tingling and aching wherever he touched, broad hands smoothing themselves over his spine, slick mouth leaving bites all over his skin, a rough thumb rubbing over his lower back, tracing the inked letters there.

"'Veritas?'" Eames asked, his amused tone just the slightest bit breathless, the only indication Arthur had that their activities were affecting him at all. "You got a tramp stamp, and it's 'Veritas'?"

Eames draped his broad form over Arthur's slighter one, leaning forward to nibble at the tip of Arthur's right ear, his right hand reaching around to wrap around Arthur's cock. "On a quest for the truth, are you?" he murmured in between strokes, his thumb collecting the pearls of moisture that gathered at the tip.

"S-something like that," Arthur moaned, "God, don't stop, I'm going to come, please don't stop this time -"

"Well," Eames murmured, "if you really want to know, I'm a trained assassin, and I think I might just be in love with you."

Arthur sobbed, his spine going rigid before his arms gave out and he collapsed into the sheets with a riot of motion, his hips shuddering back and forth, spilling all over the cotton and Eames's fingers, clenching tight and pulsing around him.

"Christ," Eames groaned, his hips snapping forwards once, twice, thrice as he came, Arthur's velvet inner walls milking him through his orgasm. He slumped over Arthur, pressing a series of soft kisses in the hollow of Arthur's shoulder blades before pulling out of Arthur with a soft sigh.

"Do you want a shower?" he asked Arthur. When no response came, he took a closer look at Arthur's face to find that he'd already fallen asleep, his hair curling over his forehead, soft and silky.

He smiled quietly, and went to Arthur's bathroom to find a washcloth to wipe him down with.

Arthur woke up the next morning, his temples pounding and the sheets crusty beneath him. He frowned as he sat up, the room wobbling slightly around him, wincing at the unprecedented ache in his hips. He stood up carefully, padded towards his bathroom, drew back from the mirror with a horrified gasp as he took in the sight of dozens of small, irregular red marks littering his neck and chest.

He thought about calling a doctor, surely this sort of thing wasn't normal, when he heard the door to his flat open.

Tugging on a pair of boxers and grabbing an old cricket bat from his closet that had seen better days, he cautiously approached the front of his flat. He held his breath as he braced himself against the wall, leaping out from around the corner and nearly tripping over his own feet.

"Alright there?" Eames asked, looking up at him from where he was laying out the contents of a brown paper shopping bag. Fresh melon and a tub of yoghurt were already sitting on the table, and he was currently in the process of slicing some cinnamon bread. "You've got absolutely nothing to eat in this place, did you know that?"

Arthur approached him cautiously, still firmly gripping the cricket bat. Eames just rolled his eyes, smirking, and Arthur suddenly had a vivid memory of those plush lips snugging around him, sucking, dragging, and he clapped a hand to his head, which had started aching worse than ever all of a sudden as the memories of last night came flooding back.

He dropped the cricket bat unceremoniously on the floor, making a mad dash for the bathroom, where he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet and heaved up the contents of his stomach. A few moments later, when he was still draped over the white porcelain bowl, he felt fingers carding through his hair and rubbing at his back.

"Better to get it all out before breakfast, I completely agree," Eames said, soothing. "Seems like fresh fruit costs more than petrol these days."

"Did you mean it?" Arthur asked, carefully prying his fingers from their death grip on the porcelain, standing up unsteadily and wobbling over to the sink to brush his teeth.

"Mean what?" Eames inquired, leaning against the counter to watch Arthur.

Arthur spit the toothpaste foam into the sink. "You said you might be in love with me," he said, quite seriously, although Eames found it terribly hard not to laugh at him, what with his mouth covered in mint green foam and all.

"Yes," Eames agreed, wondering if Arthur remembered the first part of that statement. "I did mean that."

"You know nothing about me," Arthur protested. "You don't know what kinds of music I like, or what my favourite type of food is, or whether or not I enjoy gambling."

"Well, Mr. Darling," Eames said, smiling, "you're a fan of Bastille, your favourite food is curry, and...well, I don't actually know whether or not you enjoy gambling." At Arthur's openmouthed stare, he hastened to explain. "I went through your records this morning, and you've got quite a lot of curry takeout menus in your kitchen drawer. I was looking for a bottle opener so I could open the orange juice."

Arthur just stared at him, opening and closing his mouth, rather like a fish with a rather foamy mouth.

"I know we've gone about this a bit backwards, but if that's all you're worried about, we've plenty of time for dates and picnics in the park and trips to the beach, and that way we can get to know each other better."

"I...I'm not quite sure," Arthur hedged, dropping his gaze and staring into the foamy sink. A warm hand settled on his lower back, rubbing at his tattoo.

"Well, you can think about it. I'm certainly not going anywhere." The hand left, and Arthur almost opened his mouth to ask for him to put it back, it felt quite good, but Eames was already at the bathroom door. At the door, he turned, leaning against the frame and catching Arthur's eye in the mirror.

"You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling," he said with a slight smile. "Surely there's got to be something better than working contract law morning to night, then coming home to takeout curry. Just think about it, that's all I'm asking."

Over breakfast, Arthur contemplated his cinnamon toast and wondered when the last time he'd had something other than oatmeal for breakfast was. He couldn't remember the last time in recent history. Eames was resting his head on one of his hands and absentmindedly dragging a toothpick through some thick yellow egg yolk, drawing swirls and stars and curves.

Arthur cleared his throat, and Eames's attention immediately snapped to him. Arthur couldn't remember the last time in recent history he'd drawn someone's attention so quickly.

"Fine," he said. "I will agree to try and get to know you better."

Eames's smile brightened, and he opened his mouth to say something, when Arthur interrupted him through a mouthful of cinnamon toast.

"But on one condition."

"Yes?" Eames asked, looking positively ecstatic.

"That you never, ever wear paisley again."

He held out his hand across the table. Eames reached out instantly, grabbed his hand, and dragged him nearly halfway across the table into a kiss that had crumbs of toast spilling everywhere.