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“Lovely,” said Eames. “I assume those are yours, then?”
Arthur stared in horror at the mob of well-dressed projections headed toward them. They were all copies of Eames-- or would have been, anyway, if not for the fact that they were wearing that season's Dior.
“You know, darling, if you want to use me as your own private mannequin...”
Arthur excused himself from the conversation in the most dignified way possible: he shot himself in the face.
“I'm sure it's normal,” said Ariadne, because of course the first thing Eames had done upon waking was to broadcast the fact that Arthur had an army of little Eameses running around in his brain.
“In what universe?” Arthur asked his pint of Newcastle. If nothing else, at least he'd been able to find decent ale in Paris. “In what universe is it normal for my projections to look like the man I hate?”
“Hate is a strong word,” said Ariadne. Arthur didn't like the look in her eye; he was sure she was picturing carriage rides, or rose petals, or-- “Maybe he's right and you really are harboring a latent desire to let him fuck you.”
Or that.
“No,” said Arthur. He shoved his empty glass away to the edge of the table, where it clinked against the four others he'd finished, then dropped his head into his folded arms. “No, Ariadne, just-- no. And don't say that word.”
“Which one? Fuck?”
“Yes. Stop saying it.”
“What's wrong with 'fuck'?”
“I said stop. It sounds weird when you curse. Who taught you to say things like that, anyway?”
“Eames,” Ariadne replied, and Arthur didn't know whether to be proud or chagrined by how willing she was to tattle on a teammate. “But that's not the point. The point is, you don't actually hate him.”
“No, I don't hate him,” Arthur conceded, and held his hand up to signal that he needed two more beers.
Cobb treated the situation more seriously, which Arthur appreciated, but his reaction was far more public, which Arthur did not appreciate.
They were in a planning meeting, sitting in a large circle with Cobb in the middle. Ariadne was doodling on a sketchpad, Yusuf was sitting with his hands folded neatly in his lap, Saito was paying more attention to his mobile phone than to what anyone was saying, and Eames was conspicuously absent. Arthur was sufficiently distracted by that last fact until Cobb turned to him and announced, “We need to address your issues before any of us go under with you again.”
“My issues?” Arthur repeated. He wasn't sure that Cobb, of all people, was in any position to talk about someone having issues, but he didn't say so out loud.
Cobb squinted at him. “Ariadne thinks that the reason all of your projections look like Eames is because you want to have sex with him. I'm sure you can understand why that would make the rest of us uncomfortable with the idea of sharing dreamspace with you.”
“What? I-- what?” Arthur spluttered. “I do not want to have sex with Eames.”
“I don't know, Arthur. It really seems like you want Eames to fuck you.” Ariadne frowned.
“You,” said Arthur, jabbing his finger in Ariadne's direction, “are a dirty traitor. I've already told you I don't want to sleep with him. And stop saying that word.”
Yusuf's face lit up the way it always did when he thought he was about to contribute something witty to the conversation. “Technically, no one has said anything about sleeping.”
The look Ariadne gave Yusuf was one of pure devotion, like he was the single most clever being in the universe.
Arthur pressed 'pause' on his rage long enough to roll his eyes.
“So you deny that you want to consummate your relationship with Eames?” Saito tore his gaze away from his phone and scrutinized Arthur.
“I do not want to consummate my relationship with Eames. There's not even a relationship to consummate!” Arthur wished like hell that Cobb would let them carry weapons in real life because his finger was itching to find a trigger.
“He's in denial,” Ariadne was telling Yusuf with a sigh. “How is it even possible for him to be the last person to figure out that he wants Eames to fuck him?”
“Who wants me to fuck them?”
Arthur felt the blood drain from his face-- he would know that voice anywhere-- and when Eames sauntered over to the circle wearing a black, three piece Dior, Arthur put his hands over his eyes, slouched in his chair, and prayed for death.
“If you're interested in an aphrodisiac compound--”
“No,” Arthur snapped. He didn't look up from the notebook he was scribbling in, because he was sure that one glance at Yusuf's earnest little face would be all it would take to send him spiraling into uncontrolled violence. He might have thrown things.
To Saito's credit, he waited at least twenty-four hours before offering to send Arthur and Eames on a weekend trip to Tahiti.
“I'm sorry, but why are you even here?” Arthur asked. “What do you actually do for the team besides buy airlines and occasionally get yourself shot in the chest?”
Saito gave him a vaguely threatening glare. “You could just say no, Mister Arthur.”
“I'm sorry, you're right.” Arthur sighed and dragged a hand over his face, then narrowed his eyes and said, “But I'm still not going to Tahiti with Eames.”
By the end of the week, Arthur's nerves were shot. Being around the rest of the team was a study in self-control, though strangely enough, Eames was the only one who left him alone. They interacted when they had to, and some of their interactions were even pleasant, but other than the Dior suit he wore on the first day, Eames hadn't bothered Arthur at all.
Which is how Arthur knew Eames was up to something.
He thought, naively, that waiting for the ambush would be the worst part, but when he was summoned to the warehouse in the middle of the night by a text message from Cobb, only to slide the door open and come face-to-face with an army of department store mannequins, all clad in Dior, he knew that he had seriously underestimated his opponent.
“Do you like it?” Eames drawled from the shadows.
“It's horrifying,” said Arthur. He tucked his hands into his pockets and surveyed the mob. There must have been at least two dozen mannequins. “Jesus Eames, did you draw eyes on them?”
Eames moved into the light so Arthur could see him, then offered a grin and a shrug. “I was bored.”
“You are,” said Arthur, “the most bizarre person I've ever met. Where did you get all of this, anyway? The new line isn't even in production yet.”
“No, it's not,” Eames agreed.
“Eames, don't tell me you bought the originals.”
“Darling, you wound me.” Eames clapped a hand over his heart. “As if I would do anything as high brow as buy couture.”
Arthur's eyes widened. “You lifted them?”
The smile on Eames' face could have rivaled the Mona Lisa's.
“But why? You don't even like Dior,” Arthur pointed out. Eames was clearly poking fun at his subconscious, but Arthur couldn't imagine he'd go to that much trouble for a laugh, so there must have been another reason.
Eames actually managed to look innocent when he replied, “Oh, it's not for me, pet. It's for you.”
Arthur spent a few minutes digesting that information. He turned it 'round and 'round in his brain, trying to figure out when he'd stumbled out of a reality that made sense and into a reality where Eames stole one-of-a-kind Dior suits and then gave them to Arthur as gifts.
“Eames,” said Arthur, slowly, enunciating each letter, “is this some kind of twisted mating ritual?”
Eames laughed, throaty and wholehearted, and walked over to hop up onto Ariadne's worktable. He shook a cigarette out of the pack he kept in his shirt pocket, lit it, took a deep drag and said, “Probably, darling. Probably.”
In the end, Arthur didn't accept the suits. He didn't refuse them, either. In fact, he didn't say anything at all. He simply nodded, turned on his heel, and left the warehouse in a daze that lasted until he fell face-first into bed.
“What the fuck is that?”
Arthur leaned over Ariadne's shoulder to peer into the warehouse. Somehow, the mannequins were even creepier in broad daylight. Of course, the fact that Eames had replaced the Dior suits with women's underwear didn't help.
“Why are there crossdressing mannequins?” Ariadne asked.
Arthur made a noncommittal sound and brushed past her, hoping that maybe if he just ignored the sensation that he was about to lose his mind, it would eventually go away.
Then he saw Eames sitting at his desk, wearing an eye patch.
“No,” said Arthur.
Eames looked amused.
“Whatever it is you're doing, stop it right now.” Arthur glowered. “And move.”
Eames' grin widened, but he obediently pushed to his feet and sauntered away, whistling to himself.
Arthur managed to hold out until lunchtime, at which point he slammed his laptop closed, stormed over to where Eames was lounging in a deck chair, and demanded, “Why the hell are you wearing an eye patch?”
“Why are you wearing a tie clip?” Eames countered, as if that had anything to do with anything.
Arthur gritted his teeth. “It's holding my tie to my shirt.”
“Well,” Eames replied with a shrug, “the patch is holding my eye to my face.”
“I--” Arthur's hands curled into fists and he could feel his nostrils flaring “--fucking hate you, do you understand that? Do you understand how much I utterly loathe you?”
Eames' smile was radiant.
That night, Arthut dreamed of being on board a pirate ship filled with Eames clones, all dressed in Dior suits that had been modified to flatter their peg legs.
“Stay out of my dreams,” Arthur told Eames the next day. He shoved a finger into the center of Eames' chest just to make sure Eames knew he meant it.
Eames winced, but he was still grinning like the cockiest son of a bitch alive.
“I'm serious, Eames,” Arthur snapped.
“Darling, you may as well ask me not to breathe,” Eames replied, looming over Arthur. “If I have anything to do with it, I'll get so far inside your subconscious you--”
“Mr. Eames? I had a question about the-- oh.”
Arthur jerked in surprise and took a step backwards, then promptly scowled at Ariadne for interrupting. When she gave him a confused look, he realized what he'd just done and immediately turned away. Behind him, Eames chuckled.
The thing was, Arthur might have actually considered all those stupid, thinly-veiled propositions if he knew Eames was serious. The trouble was that Eames was rarely serious about anything except forging or money, and Arthur had a definite stance against combining either of those things with sex.
The last place Arthur expected to see Eames was at the laundromat. This was partially because he didn't make a habit of going to laundromats, and partially because he couldn't imagine anyone in their right mind caring about Eames' clothes enough to wash them.
“You look surprised to see me, love,” Eames commented.
“I didn't think you actually kept any of the clothes you wear,” Arthur replied. “I thought you just wore them, tossed them out when they got dirty, then went to the thrift store and bought more.”
Eames chuckled and slung a bright green laundry bag up onto the counter, then pressed a hand over his heart. “Arthur, I'm crushed. I go to such trouble to keep myself looking pretty for you, and it's like you don't even care.”
Arthur rolled his eyes and pretended to know what the instructions on the washing machines said. He was the only person on the team who didn't speak French, a fact that the others-- namely Ariadne and Eames-- refused to let him live down.
“Delicates or permanent press?” Eames asked as he reached over Arthur's shoulder to turn the knob.
Arthur was thrown temporarily off balance by having Eames stand so close, but he recovered quickly enough and said, “Delicates.”
“You don't say?” Eames murmured, but before Arthur could elbow him in the stomach, he switched the machine on and took a step back. He tugged his laundry bag open and let its contents spill out across the counter like a disco burial shroud, and said, “I have to admit, I'm shocked to have run into you here, myself. What's made you decide to slum it with we commoners, then?”
Arthur bristled without knowing why. “I go to the laundromat all the time.”
Eames glanced over his shoulder and quirked an eyebrow at Arthur.
“All right, not that often,” Arthur conceded, albeit grudgingly. “But believe it or not, I do own clothes that aren't dry clean only.”
Eames' eyebrow crept higher. “And yet you've worn a three piece suit to the laundromat.”
“That doesn't mean I don't own anything else,” Arthur retorted. As a matter of fact, the load of laundry he was doing now consisted of three pairs of dark wash jeans, a black t-shirt, and a grey zippered sweatshirt. Of course, he would never wear any of those things to work-- he liked to keep a clear line between his professional life and his personal life-- but surely Eames didn't think he lounged around the house in Chanel.
Actually, Arthur realized, that was probably exactly what Eames thought.
“You do know you're insane, don't you?” Arthur asked.
“Well spotted, Arthur,” Eames drawled. He shoved a handful of socks and a few pairs of trousers into a washing machine. Then, seemingly as an afterthought, he unbuttoned the hideous blue shirt he was wearing and tossed that in as well, leaving him in his dark green trousers and a plain black singlet. Once he'd measure out the detergent and switched the machine on, he turned around and leaned back against it with a grin. “I may be insane, darling, but at least I'm never boring.”
Arthur couldn't really argue with that (much to his chagrin), so he just huffed and looked away to study the sign on the wall.
“Pas de matériaux inflammables,” Eames read. “No flammable materials.”
Arthur glanced at Eames from the corner of his eye, expecting another round of teasing for his poor French skills, but Eames just smiled at him. After a few seconds, Arthur hesitantly read, “Machines acceptent les...”
“Pièces seulement,” Eames supplied. “The machines only accept coins. What about... let me see... 'I prefer red wine'?”
“Je préfère le vin rouge?”
Eames chuckled and nodded. “Your pronunciation could use a bit of work, but yes, that's basically it. Now, let's see about your French numbers, shall we?”
“Six, cinq, quatre,” Eames said the next day during a practice run.
Arthur smiled. “Trois, deux, une...”
They woke up laughing.
Their tentative truce almost came to an end two days later.
“Explain to me again why we're breaking into Yusuf's apartment?” Arthur muttered under his breath before glancing down the hall to make sure no one was coming.
Eames, who was on his knees with a lockpick set in his hands, grinned and replied, “I told you, love; it's for a bet.”
“What kind of bet involves breaking into Yusuf's apartment?”
The lock clicked and Eames gave the door a little push so that it swung open. “The fun kind, Arthur. You do have at least a working knowledge of fun, don't you?”
Arthur scowled and followed Eames inside. “I liked you better as a pirate.”
“What's that, pet?”
“Nothing,” Arthur muttered.
The apartment was a pigsty. Yusuf's laboratory at the warehouse was a disaster area, but his apartment made his workbench look clean enough to eat off of. There were pizza boxes and takeout containers strewn across every surface in the living room, including the couch, and piles of dirty underwear were stacked here and there like landmines. The whole place stank of week old garbage.
“I hate you,” Arthur decided out loud as they picked their way across the room. “I don't think I've hated you this much since you thought shooting me in the forehead with a slingshot was a viable method of killing me.”
“And I've apologized for that,” Eames pointed out.
“Not enough. And I still hate you.”
They made their way down the hall and into the bedroom which, thankfully, wasn't nearly as bad as the rest of the apartment. The heaps of laundry on the floor made Arthur squeamish, though, especially since he knew for a fact that Yusuf owned a few pairs of Tom Ford trousers. The thought of them being crushed to death by mountains of t-shirts made Arthur want to weep.
Eames, meanwhile, didn't seem to notice or care about the mess, and Arthur wondered what his apartment looked like. Arthur imagined it would be like Eames himself: colorful, mismatched, and thoroughly irritating.
“Arthur?”
“I'm sorry, what?” Arthur snapped out of his thoughts.
Eames looked amused. “I was asking you to check the closets. I know how well-acquainted you are with them.”
It took Arthur a moment to catch on, but when he did, he scowled. “I'm not in the closet. Contrary to what you assholes seem to think, I'm neither sexually repressed nor in denial about my preferences.”
Eames, the bastard, grinned wider. “Actually, Arthur, I was calling you a fashionista, but thank you for that helpful bit of information.”
“I hate you,” Arthur reiterated, just in case Eames had missed it the first time. After shooting Eames one final glare, he turned and slid the closet door open. “What am I looking for?”
“Anything of interest.”
“Anything of interest?” Arthur glanced over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes at Eames. “We're not actually here for a bet, are we? You're snooping.”
Eames chuckled. Before he could reply, though, he was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. A second later, they heard Ariadne giggle. Eames shot Arthur one of his 'oh dear what shall we do about this unfortunate turn of events' looks, but before Arthur could suggest the fire escape, he was being shoved backwards into the closet.
“Ah, the old hiding-in-the-closet plan,” Arthur grumbled as Eames closed the door behind them. “Because no one ever thinks to check the closet.”
“Would you rather be hiding under Yusuf's bed while he fucks Ariadne?” Eames replied. The way his accent curled around the word 'fuck' should have been illegal
Arthur shivered and hoped that if Eames noticed, he would assume it was from thinking about the two lovebirds who'd just tumbled into the bedroom together. Thankfully, Yusuf was being quiet enough that Arthur could pretend he didn't exist, but Ariadne was was making quiet little mewling sounds that were impossible to block out.
“Who knew little Ariadne was so easy to please?” Eames murmured into Arthur's ear.
Arthur closed his eyes and tried to ignore the way his body reacted to the warmth of Eames' breath on his skin. The closet was pitch black and already stuffy from their body heat, and he hadn't realized how close they were standing to each another until that very moment.
A moment that was ruined when Yusuf grunted and Ariadne moaned.
“I can't help but imagine that being trapped in a closet with you would be a much more pleasant experience if not for that,” Eames whispered.
Arthur snorted under his breath because really, what else could he do when he was all but pressed against Eames in the dark, listening to their co-workers have sex just ten feet away?
“Shall we play a game to pass the time?” Eames breathed. His lips were just centimeters from the side of Arthur's neck, and even though his voice was barely even loud enough to be called a whisper, there was a ragged quality to it that made Arthur's legs weak.
Arthur swallowed and muttered, “I doubt I'd be interested in playing any of the games you come up with.”
“Your lack of faith breaks my heart,” Eames chided. “I was only going to suggest a little game of 'I Spy'.”
“We're in a closet.” Arthur sighed.
“Well,” said Eames, sounding amused, “I never said it would be a very long game.”
Arthur couldn't help it: he laughed.
The next day, the mannequins were all wearing eye patches and several pairs of Yusuf's dirty underwear.
“Did you break into my apartment yesterday?” Yusuf asked Eames. He actually looked angry for once. When Eames just grinned in response, Yusuf raised his voice and repeated, “I asked you if you broke into my apartment yesterday. Answer me. How did you get my underwear?”
Arthur decided to intervene. He wandered over with his hands tucked in his pockets and said, “Mr. Eames was with me yesterday.”
“All day?” Yusuf challenged.
“All day.”
Yusuf stared at him for a moment, then glared at Eames before hurrying away to retrieve his dirty laundry.
Meanwhile, Eames grinned at Arthur. “Merci, mon chéri.”
Arthur couldn't help but smile in return. “Mon plaisir, Mr. Eames.”
When Arthur's phone rang later that night, he answered it without checking to see who was calling. There were only a handful of people who knew his home number in Paris-- two, in fact: Cobb and Ariadne-- and they only called him when it was important.
“Hello?”
“Pesto or marinara?”
“Eames?” Arthur nearly dropped the book he'd been reading. “Why are you calling me on this number?”
“Well, it wouldn't do me a lick of good to call your number in London now, would it? Do try to keep up, darling. Now, pesto or marinara?”
“But I never-- how the hell did you get this number?”
“Arthur, please. You know how endearing I find it when you insult my intelligence, but I'm dealing with time constraints at the moment, so if you wouldn't mind answering the question...”
“Marinara,” Arthur blurted without really thinking about it.
“Excellent choice. I'll see you in ten minutes.”
The line went dead.
“Wait, what--? Eames?”
True to his word, Eames appeared at Arthur's door ten minutes later, bearing an enormous paper bag and two bottles of wine. He was wearing a gorgeous, vintage overcoat, but Arthur was almost relieved to catch a glimpse of purple and green lurking beneath the black wool.
Arthur, by contrast, had barely had time to change out of his jeans and t-shirt. He answered the door wearing slacks and an untucked button-down, and belatedly realized he was still wearing his glasses.
“You wear glasses,” said Eames. He just stood there in the hall, staring at Arthur like they'd never met before.
“I usually wear contacts,” Arthur corrected as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He didn't know why saying that made him so uncomfortable.
“You're barefoot,” Eames replied.
“I'm wearing socks.”
Eames nodded faintly, then seemed to snap out of whatever trance he'd fallen into and flashed Arthur a smirk. “I'm touched that you went to so much trouble to make yourself presentable for me, Arthur, I really am.”
Arthur rolled his eyes and took a step back to let Eames inside. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought that was obvious, pet: I'm bringing you dinner.”
“I gathered that, but why?” Arthur followed Eames into the kitchen and stood in the doorway, watching Eames rummage through his cupboards.
“I thought it was time for something a bit more traditional.”
“Traditional what?”
Eames didn't reply; he handed Arthur a stack of plates and cutlery, then shooed him out of the kitchen. “Go settle in. I'll bring the food and the wine.”
It was on the tip of Arthur's tongue to refuse until Eames gave him an explanation, but Eames flashed him a dazzling smile, and Arthur just sighed and did as he was told.
Eames emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later, balancing the bag of food, the bottles of wine, and two glasses he'd already filled with Bordeaux. He put everything down on the coffee table, then shrugged out of his coat and slung it over the back of an armchair.
“That fabric is hideous,” said Arthur.
Eames looked down at his shirt, which was printed with brightly colored peacock feathers, then looked up again with a wounded expression on his face, “What a horrible thing to say, Arthur. This is the nicest shirt I own.”
Arthur had to press his lips together to keep himself from laughing. “Somehow, I don't doubt that at all, Monsieur Eames.”
To Arthur's surprise, Eames was a charming dinner companion. They ate side-by-side on Arthur's sofa with their plates balanced on their knees. The food was excellent, but Arthur was more surprised by the quality of their conversation. At several points during the meal, he caught himself laughing so hard he couldn't eat, and by the time they settled in to finish off the bottle of Bordeaux, Arthur's cheeks hurt from smiling.
“That's such a lie. You've never trained a lion.” Arthur chuckled and watched Eames pour the last of the wine into their glasses. “Apes maybe, or a bear, but not a lion.”
“All right, all right, I've never trained a lion.” Eames grinned. “I've petted one, though. My father took me to the zoo when I was eight, and he paid the staff veterinarian to let me pet a lion they'd sedated for surgery.”
Arthur took a sip of wine. The world was starting to go fuzzy around the edges, and he felt comfortable enough to ask, “What was he like? Your dad, I mean.”
“Oh, he's wonderful,” Eames replied, surprising Arthur with his sincerity. “A workaholic sometimes, but I couldn't ask for a better father.” He paused and arched an eyebrow. “You're giving me a look, darling.”
“Was I? I didn't mean to.” Arthur set his glass down and shifted so he was turned toward Eames. “I just never pictured you as having a normal childhood, I guess. Actually, it's hard for me to picture you as a kid at all.”
“Ah, you thought I had just burst forth into the world at age thirty, green tweed and all?”
Arthur laughed. “Something like that.”
“I'm deeply sorry to have disappointed you.” Eames chuckled and refilled his glass. “What about you? What was my obsessive, meticulous little Arthur like as a child? I'll bet you were balancing your mum's checkbook by age five.”
“I was a terrible kid, actually,” said Arthur. “I did all right in school, but I'm pretty sure I spent most of my childhood grounded for one reason or another-- cutting my sister's hair, writing on the walls of my bedroom in crayon...”
“Don't all children draw on the walls?”
“I was thirteen.”
Eames let out a surprised-sounding laugh.
“I didn't calm down until high school, when my parents got divorced. I was old enough to understand, but my sister wasn't, and I could tell she and my mom needed someone to take care of them. My mom's remarried now, and my sister turned out okay, but those couple of years in between were what I needed to get my act together.”
“And a good thing you did, too. I don't know how Ariadne would feel about the addition of crayon graffiti to her levels.”
Arthur snorted. “It couldn't be any worse than the time you dreamed about a giant sandwich shop instead of a pool hall.”
“In my defense, that sandwich shop has the best pastrami in Her Majesty's Kingdom.”
They smiled at each other and then lapsed into a companionable silence. Arthur watched Eames-- watched the curve of his mouth while he sipped his wine and the way he rubbed the stem of his glass with his thumb-- and wondered when they'd gotten so comfortable with each other that they could lounge on his couch at half past midnight, drinking and talking about their families.
After a few minutes, Eames put his glass aside. “I almost forgot,” he said in a tone that suggested he'd done nothing of the sort, “I brought you something.”
Arthur felt too relaxed to do more than lift an eyebrow.
Eames withdrew something from his trouser pocket, then reached up to slide Arthur's glasses off. The touch was so bizarrely intimate that it made Arthur's skin prickle. Eames stretched the elastic band to fit it over Arthur's head, then settled the eye patch over Arthur's right eye.
Arthur was dumbfounded. “You brought me an eye patch.”
“It's not Dior, but I trust you'll accept it as a token of my affection anyway.” Eames winked, then grinned and added, “Arrrthur.”
Arthur wanted to laugh, but Eames was touching his face; he stroked Arthur's cheek with his fingertips, then slid his hand down the side of Arthur's neck and left it there. Every nerve in Arthur's body leaped to attention, and he wondered if Eames could feel how fast his heart was beating.
“Arthur,” said Eames, “I hate to spoil the mood, but there's a very serious matter we need to discuss: we're overdue for our first kiss.”
“What?” Arthur replied weakly.
“As I understand it, the third date rule normally applies to sex, but given our history together, I'm willing to make an exception.”
Arthur opened his mouth, then closed it again. Finally, he managed to say, “Third date?”
“Our first date was the night I brought you Dior. If you count our chance meeting at the laundromat, which I do, that's two.”
Arthur was too dazed to even try to keep up.
“The afternoon at Yusuf's was either our second or third date,” Eames went on, “which makes this our third or fourth. Either way, I would very, very much like to kiss you.”
Arthur wanted to say yes, but his mind was in shambles and all he could manage was: “You've been dating me?”
“I've been trying to.” Eames leaned in so that his lips grazed Arthur's. “But right now, I'm trying to kiss you, so if you're finished being impossible...”
Arthur hesitated, weighing every pro and con his sluggish mind could come up with. Then, just as he opened his mouth to reply that kissing was probably a terrible idea (but one they should follow through with anyway), the fire building's fire alarm went off.
“Fireworks? Why the fuck was someone storing fireworks in your building?”
“Because the universe hates me.” Arthur sighed and resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. “The first floor is completely uninhabitable, and they're making everyone who lives on the second and third floors stay away until they're done assessing the damage.”
Ariadne gave him a sympathetic frown. “What are you going to do in the meantime? I'm sure Yusuf--”
“No, no, that's all right,” Arthur interrupted before she could finish that horrifying thought. “I'll just stay in a hotel for a few days.”
“Or you could stay with me.”
Arthur turned to find Eames shamelessly eavesdropping on their conversation. When he smiled, Arthur thought, 'Oh god, I almost kissed you last night.'
“Don't look so scandalized, darling.” Eames laughed, but Arthur swore there was a twinge of wariness in his voice, like for once, he wasn't sure whether or not he was saying the right thing. “I have a spare bedroom, which I promise you is free of paisley and peacock feathers.”
“Okay,” Arthur said before he could give himself too much time to think about it.
Ariadne, damn her, looked back and forth between them with a knowing smile.
It took Arthur exactly two hours after settling in to Eames' spare room-- which was, as promised, free of both paisley and peacock feathers, and which was, in fact, rather tastefully decorated in cream and navy blue-- to decide that there was no reason at all why things needed to be awkward between them. He put the book he'd been reading down on the nightstand, straightened his glasses, and went into the living room, where Eames was sprawled on the couch, watching rugby.
“Our first date was in Moscow,” Arthur announced.
Eames looked up at him, apparently stunned by this revelation, then muted the television and said, “Moscow.”
“Moscow,” Arthur replied. “We had dinner and drinks together after the Vosnivek job and I took you home in a cab. It was the only time we've celebrated alone.”
“All right.” Eames drew the words out and frowned.
“The night you stole Dior for me doesn't count as a date, because you tricked me into participating.” Arthur moved closer, blocking Eames' view of the television-- not that Eames was paying attention to anything but Arthur, which was a rather nice feeling, Arthur realized. “The laundromat doesn't count, either, because that was accidental-- nice, but accidental.”
“Not as accidental as you might think, actually.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow, but when Eames just offered him a beaming, self-congratulatory smile, he went on. “That would make the afternoon at Yusuf's apartment our second date-- though to be honest, I don't know many people who would actually consider that a date-- and last night was our third.”
“I see.” Eames tipped his head back to look up at Arthur. “So what does that mean?”
“It means that either way, you're right, and we're overdue for--” Arthur's reply was cut short when Eames grabbed him and yanked him down onto the couch. They ended up in a heap, half on top of each other. Eames had one arm around Arthur's waist, a hand in Arthur's hair, and his lips pressed to the corner of Arthur's mouth.
“That ah--” Eames murmured against Arthur's skin “--that was meant to be a tad more graceful and romantic than it ended up.”
Arthur laughed and turned his head so their lips were touching.
“Does this mean I can kiss you now?” Eames asked, then quirked a smile and added, “Though hopefully without literal fireworks this time.”
“Actually, Mr. Eames, I was thinking about what you said last night, in regards to modifying the third date rule to be applicable to a kiss instead of sex.” Arthur whispered as he slid a hand up Eames' chest and inside his shirt. “And as much as I appreciate your willingness to preserve my virtue, I think that if we're going to follow the aforementioned rule, we really should follow it to the letter. You know how much I hate cutting corners.”
Eames grinned, and Arthur could feel it against his lips. “Will you wear the eye patch?”
Kissing, as it turned out, was remarkably easy to do while laughing.