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Eames hands a few bills across the counter into the waiting hand of the barista, letting his fingers graze hers and sliding them over her palm for a moment. She doesn’t bat an eyelash. She’s used to customers taking the opportunity to refresh themselves.
He collects his drink and has a momentary niggle: perhaps he should have picked up a coffee for Arthur. It’s too late now, anyway. And besides, Arthur has probably picked up his own.
He brushes the hand of the boy who hands him his large medium-bodied drip. It’s not strictly necessary but Eames takes it where he can; he’s always been of the opinion that you get while the getting’s good.
As he secures the lid on his coffee he thinks ahead to the problems he and Arthur are meant to tackle today. During these planning stages, they have worked out a comfortable system of arguing back and forth about the best approach to any given job, and sometimes Eames wins, sometimes he doesn’t. The resulting plan is usually pretty effective. The process has become more streamlined since the Fischer job, as Arthur and Eames have gradually cemented themselves as the go-to duo for difficult jobs.
He takes a sip, then sighs. He stands back in line to order Arthur one of those extra large triple shot Americanos he loves so much.
-------
Arthur stumbles wildly, as if shoved.
He’s alone in the lobby of the office building for the first level of the dream so he looks up, vainly trying to peer into reality through the ceiling above him. Eames is the only other person in the warehouse, and he’s not the type to bump Arthur accidentally. “What the hell, Eames?” he asks himself, getting nothing but a soft rumbling for an answer.
When nothing happens again, Arthur is ready to let the incident go. He turns towards the stairwell only to be knocked off his feet. He calmly draws his gun and shoots himself.
Arthur wakes to chaos. He sees Eames fighting with several men dressed in black tactical gear, twisting and turning every which way and barely evading their grasps, but Arthur’s attention is focused on the man tying his hands together.
He throws an arm out before the man can finish his task and pushes him to the ground, jumping out of the chair and following him to the floor. Arthur grabs the gun holstered at the man’s hip just as the man shoves Arthur up and off. Arthur puts two bullets in the man’s head.
Hearing the shots, two of the men head towards Arthur while Eames grapples with a brick wall of a man. Arthur brings the gun up again, aiming it at one of the men coming towards him. The other grabs his nightstick and throws it at Arthur’s head. Arthur’s shot goes wide as he jumps to the left. Before he can recover his balance, the shorter man launches himself at Arthur and tackles him to the ground. Arthur tries to angle the gun for a headshot, but it’s wrestled from his hand as he’s forced onto his stomach.
Arthur struggles uselessly against the two men holding him down. He feels the warm muzzle of the recently fired gun press against the back of his head and he stills.
He can hear Eames still fighting nearby, but Eames is already wearing down. A loud thud sounds next to Arthur, and he risks turning his head to the side, only to find Eames pinned down as well. Arthur watches helplessly as Eames is kicked repeatedly.
“All good?” the man pointing a gun at Eames’ head asks.
Arthur feels the gun press harder into his head as the man above him answers, “This little fucker shot Valdez.” The weight of the gun disappears. Arthur sees Eames’s eyes widen a second before his head explodes in pain and he loses consciousness.
-------
The dull thud of a door shutting and metal scrape of a heavy bolt sliding into place disturbs the quiet of the room. Eames stirs, eyelids fluttering open. The room is almost completely bare -- a bedroom possibly, but a small one. No furniture save for the two sturdy wooden chairs that Arthur and Eames are currently strapped to.
Arthur is still unconscious, head lolling on his chest. Eames tests his bonds: the ones holding his wrists together behind his chair and the ones binding his ankles to the chair legs. They’re tight but not uncomfortable, some sort of nylon material. He bends his hand up as much as possible, trying to see if he can feel how he’s tied. He doesn’t have enough wiggle room, though, and the bonds don’t give even a little.
He looks around the room. Base heaters, no windows, a closet door that’s currently shut. Carpeted in bland beige, door looks to be replaced by a reinforced steel one, unpainted and gunmetal grey.
His head pounds and his mouth is dry. It feels like the worst sort of hangover without the pleasure of having been drunk. Whatever drugs they used were rough as fuck. Eames breathes in deep, twists his body slightly to feel for any injuries. He winces: a bright starburst of pain explodes in his side, a cracked rib most likely. A tug at his ankle restraints flares a twinge of pain there as well, though he doesn’t think it’s broken. Sprained, maybe. There doesn’t appear to be anything else major; he’s sore, bruised, but largely intact. He licks his lips, but his tongue is dry and his mouth feels disgusting. He wishes he could wipe his lips at least.
Arthur jerks, looks up blearily. “What... Eames...” He looks like he’s struggling to focus, which is worrying.
Eames waits for Arthur to get his bearings. It takes a while but he watches as Arthur scans the room exactly as Eames did, in precisely the same order.
“Did you recognize anyone?” Arthur asks when he’s finished his assessment of their situation.
“No. Hired muscle, I’m guessing,” Eames replies. Arthur nods. “How are you, any injuries?”
Arthur frowns in concentration but doesn’t get a chance to answer before the they hear the sound of a lock sliding.
A woman walks in: tall, elegantly dressed in a simple black shift dress, diamonds dangling from her ears below her upswept blonde hair, elbow length black gloves covering slender arms — a rare sight that Eames finds more than a little alarming. Eames recognizes her immediately from the Sörensen job, the failed inception. Eames would know her face anywhere; he had forged her: Iliana Sörensen, wife of the mark, Niels.
Iliana sees Eames’s recognition and smiles, a bitter, tight expression that emphasizes the dark, haunted shadows of her eyes.
“So now you know — why you’re here. Why you deserve this,” she says. Eames keeps his expression neutral. In his peripheral vision he can see Arthur turning to look at him. Eames says nothing; people usually fill empty spaces with information; it’s a trick Eames makes extensive use of.
She looks at him quizzically, glances at Arthur and back to Eames. “You don’t know, do you?” She makes a face, disgusted. “No, of course you don’t. Why would you ever follow up to see how completely you ruined someone’s life? You fucking Dreamworkers. Filthy dogs is all you are. Common criminals with a fancy toy. You never have to watch the aftermath, do you? Watch as someone gets so paranoid they won’t even let their own wife touch them.” Her voice is steely, but she seems on the verge of cracking. “Well.” She straightens up further, something akin to pleasure crinkling the corners of her eyes. “As my husband suffers so shall you. “
She turns to leave, stops and looks over her shoulder at Eames. “You might as well settle in. You’ll be here for the duration.” She sweeps out of the door, shutting it with a decisive thunk and the lock slides back into place.
“Death by deprivation, then,” Arthur says grimly. “Who is she?”
“The Sörensen job, before Fischer.”
Arthur nods slowly, wrinkling his brows. “You tried inception before; that was the one, wasn’t it?”
Eames hums his agreement. “It didn’t take. We didn’t even get paid for our months of work. Niels Sörensen was head of a biotech firm in Denmark and we were hired to incept him with the idea that his company should trade publicly.”
“What happened? Why didn’t it take?” Arthur asks, and Eames wonders how much Arthur knows from his own research, how much he’s asking simply to gather anything he might have missed through second-hand information.
“The whole thing was too complex. We tried to implant the fully formed idea instead of planting the root of it and allowing it to form naturally. I forged Iliana, our lovely hostess,” he nods his head towards the door, “and apparently her husband is now a little traumatized by our meddling around in his subconscious. First I’ve heard of it, to be honest.”
“Why me, then?” Arthur asks.
Eames shrugs. “Fuck knows. The real question is, how do we get ourselves out of here before we die? I’ve been tortured once or twice in my day, can’t say I relish enduring this one.” He falls silent, considering. “I couldn’t see from this angle. Were you able to see what’s outside the door? Any guards?”
“I caught a glimpse outside the door when she came in and when she left. It doesn’t look like there’s anyone out there, but then I think that’s a hallway right there. All I saw was a bare wall directly opposite.”
Eames nods. “We also have the small problem of these bindings. I haven’t been able to loosen mine even a little. You?”
Arthur shakes his head. “They’re tight. I say we wait until she comes back in, and I’ll try to get a better look. Maybe she’ll keep talking and we can get a better idea what we’re dealing with here. Who knows, she might have to untie us or move us at some point. It’s not like we can piss here.”
Eames sighs and shifts in his seat, a vain attempt to get more comfortable. He already feels the dull ache on his skin that tells him it’s been too many hours since he last touched someone. That had been Arthur when he casually let his hand linger on Eames’s arm as he inserted the cannula. It was a meaningless gesture, no more or less than the dozens of touches that happen with anyone on any given day. Eames hadn’t given it a thought, but now, perhaps five hours since his last contact, that one touch remains a phantom sensation on his arm.
He resolutely puts the thought out of his head and turns his attention to his wrist ties once more. He works them for long minutes, feeling for any loosening at all. He gets nothing more than chaffed skin for his efforts. Arthur appears to be doing the same, though he eventually mutters a soft curse and stops.
They don’t say anything further but Eames knows Arthur is probably thinking the same thing he is: until something else happens, they’re helpless. They can hope that the chemist they hired comes looking for them when they don’t check in for their meeting the next day, although it seems just as likely their disappearance will spook him and he’ll fuck off to places unknown. Right now their only option is to wait for an opening.
-------
Arthur has no way to tell how long ago he and Eames were grabbed, but he estimates that it’s been well over a day. He feels his hunger keenly. The brief contact he’d had with Eames and the chemist throughout the day had faded long ago, leaving him ravenous.
Movement draws his eye. Eames is swinging his right knee back and forth as far as the bond around his ankle will allow, his eyes closed. He gives off the air of being unconcerned, even bored, with the situation, but Arthur knows better than to underestimate Eames.
Arthur is just about to look away when Eames leans his head back, dangling it over the back of the chair. The move bares his throat, and Arthur finds himself yearning to touch it. It would feel so smooth and warm under his hand, alleviating the hunger in a way simply touching hands could not. He could wrap one hand around Eames’s neck and put the other on his cheek. The stubble would do nothing to diminish the pleasure from the touch, and he could finally quench his hunger.
Eames pulls his head up, the position apparently too uncomfortable to maintain for long. Arthur’s still staring when Eames opens his eyes, but Arthur doesn’t look away, already caught. His eyes drop to Eames’s lips, and he stretches his fingers as if he can actually feel the soft skin beneath them.
“Arthur,” Eames says sharply.
Arthur pulls himself out of the fantasy. His heart rate has sped up. His head, already aching and spinning from being pistol-whipped, has now decided to shoot sharp spikes of pain as well. His hands are shaking, his mouth is almost unbearably dry, and his muscles are cramping – he doesn’t need to torture himself to make this any worse.
“Yes?” he asks, refusing to be embarrassed about ogling Eames.
Eames stares for a few seconds. Arthur knows he’s being appraised, but he doesn’t look away.
“How did you get into dreamshare?”
Arthur raises his eyebrows slightly in surprise. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just curious,” Eames says. “It’s not like we have anything else to do,” he continues when Arthur doesn’t speak.
His brain feels sluggish, but something clicks and he realizes Eames is trying to distract him. “I suppose not,” he answers.
“Excellent. Regale me,” Eames orders. Arthur doesn’t know how Eames manages to look superior while tied to a chair, but he has that crooked grin on his face that Arthur always takes as a challenge.
“It’s not that exciting actually,” Arthur says. “Dreamshare was just the natural progression of my family’s business.”
“The family business?” Eames questions, sounding amused. “What type of family business naturally progresses into illegal dreamshare?”
“Exactly the kind that you’re probably imagining,” Arthur answers. He’s not sure why he’s telling Eames about his family, whether it’s an effect of his likely concussion, intense boredom, or deprivation, but he keeps talking. “Where I grew up, it was considered impolite to discuss murder and torture over dinner, but that kind of talk was readily accepted elsewhere. Encouraged, even.”
“Arthur, are you from a Mafia family?” Eames asks gleefully.
“You can call it whatever you’d like, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, neither affirming nor denying. “You sound surprised.”
“I am surprised,” Eames admits. “I assumed you followed the Cobbs into dreamshare, since you appeared with them.”
“Assuming will get you into all types of trouble,” Arthur says.
"In case you hadn't noticed, Arthur," Eames says with a pointed glance around the room, "I don't need any help finding trouble."
"Maybe you should stop inviting it," Arthur says wryly, knowing full well how useless it is to suggest such a thing.
"And live a pure and virtuous life just like you?" Eames’s dig, with mild bite but no real animosity, puts Arthur back in familiar territory. "I'm sure you've had your fair share of vengeful marks. Say...hmm, let me think...Saito?" he asks.
"Saito wasn't vengeful," Arthur defends, but he knows it's a weak rejoinder. Eames grins at him like he knows it, too.
Arthur stares at the way Eames’s skin crinkles ever so slightly as he smiles. He’s known Eames for years, has looked at his face every day for months at time, and he’s never wanted to touch Eames like he does now. To touch a person’s face when not closely related or intimately connected is aberrant, but Arthur can think of nothing else.
Eames’s smile fades, turns into a frown. Arthur forces his eyes away. He doesn't say anything else and Eames doesn't push.
They stay silent until the guards escort them to the bathroom again an hour or so later. They’re presumably the same men who captured them, since Arthur recognizes the same brick wall guard who took Eames down in the warehouse. Brick Wall comes within reach, while the smaller guard stands back, gun held securely in his gloved hands to prevent any attempt to escape.
Arthur is taken first, but far from providing relief, the short jaunt only serves to accentuate his discomfort. His vision blurs almost to the point of blackness when he is pulled to his feet; it clears after a few seconds, but the pain in his head spikes sharply. His muscles refuse to cooperate after being immobile for so long, so Brick Wall simply drags him until he can walk. Like the first time, he analyzes what he is able to see from the hallway, but as the bathroom is just on the other side of what looks to be a closet, it isn't much.
On the way back, Arthur is just able to see a staircase that he had missed last time. It leads up, and combined with the lack of windows, Arthur surmises that he and Eames are being held in a basement.
Once Arthur is bound to the chair again, the process is repeated with Eames. While he's gone, Iliana returns with a bottle of water. She places a straw in the bottle and holds it up to his mouth, her fingers brushing his lips. She's changed into a skirt and blouse ensemble, but she's still wearing the same black gloves from before and Arthur can feel the warmth of her fingers through them. He's torn between his need for water and his hunger for touch, no matter how ineffective that touch would be with her gloves.
He drinks, but Iliana pulls the straw away before Arthur can swallow more than a couple times, his thirst not even close to slaked.
She steps back and looks at him, meeting his eyes properly for the first time.
"I take it he explained why you're here?" she asks. The fury in her voice from when she spoke to Eames is gone, but the hatred is still there.
Arthur takes a second to note the apparent lack of surveillance in the room before saying, "He explained why he thinks he is here."
"And you can't figure out why you're here with him?"
"I've never done anything to you," Arthur says.
Iliana sneers. "Interesting choice of words. You may not have been the one who stole my face and made my husband terrified of me, but how many lives have you waltzed in and destroyed, never giving the repercussions a second thought? I'm doing this for those families."
Arthur looks at Iliana calmly. "I'm sure you have your reasons for doing this, but don't pretend this is for anyone but yourself. I'm here because you want to see as many dreamworkers suffer as possible."
Her face twists in revulsion. "You deserve this just as much as he does," she spits. She’s about to continue when the door opens and Eames and the guards reappear. They leave as soon as he is restrained, and Iliana gives Eames his small portion of water before leaving wordlessly.
Eames licks his lips of the tiny bit of water that dripped there, then tilts his head to the side, stretching his neck as far as it will go. Arthur hasn't touched anyone for at least thirty-six hours, and he's always found Eames's skin to be pleasant. He knows exactly how his hands feel, how his touch is a soothing, almost paradoxical combination of rough and soft. Eames's skin is usually the slightest bit dry, but his touch is always gentle, at odds with his sometimes tough appearance. Arthur can imagine the way his neck must feel, so much softer than his hands.
"Tell me about young Mafia Arthur," Eames says. Arthur realizes he's been staring again.
“I never said I was in the Mafia,” Arthur says, hedging out of habit.
“No, but you did say I could call it what I like, and I choose to call it that.”
Arthur assents with a small nod of his head and a small huff of a laugh. “What would you like to know?”
Eames purses his full lips as he thinks, never obscuring their soft texture. Arthur knows Eames would be tapping a finger against his mouth if his hands weren’t tied, has seen it a hundred times before. Arthur is momentarily distracted again, but he forces himself to think about his childhood rather than skin. “Were you groomed to take over the family business, or did your parents want you to choose a respectable career? You’d make a fabulous accountant, with your lack of imagination.”
“You’ve obviously never met my father’s accountant,” Arthur says dryly. He thinks about how to answer Eames's question, finally deciding that he's already shared enough of the truth that he might as well continue.
"My father has never intended for me to take his place. My brother is much better suited to lead. That doesn't mean I'm not an important part of the family.” Arthur smiles with a hint of mischief. “The secrets of multinational corporations come in handy every now and then."
"Arthur, you little demon," Eames says, pretending to be scandalized. "You double-crossed Cobb the entire time you worked with him?"
Arthur shrugs. "I don't think so, but I'm aware that others may disagree. I never sold him out - just shared some information."
"I'm seldom wrong about people, so forgive me for being surprised. Your loyalty to Cobb was loyalty to your family all along?" Eames asks, his question sounding more like a statement.
"I've never had reason to choose one or the other. I'm loyal to both."
"But if you had to?" Eames presses.
"My family, of course. Everyone else is just looking for a way to screw you over before you do them."
"Well, that's a pleasant outlook on life," Eames says.
"I've seen it happen far too many times to doubt it," Arthur argues.
"I've no doubt you have, growing up in a crime family. But not everyone is out to get you, Arthur."
Arthur laughs. "Evidence suggests otherwise," he says cynically, pulling at his bonds for emphasis. "Life is much neater when you simply take what you need and go."
Eames tilts his head and squints his eyes, as if he's suddenly realized something.
"What?" Arthur asks, suddenly defensive. Eames's mind works in ways Arthur has never understood, and he feels exposed after telling so much about himself.
"You don't touch anyone enough during the work day to survive."
“And?” Arthur asks. “Few people do.”
“Yes, but few people are like you,” Eames says, speaking slowly as if he’s thinking of something else. “Not many would say that it’s neater to take and go. Not for the amount of touch you need. Most go home to family or out to socialize, but you do neither. At least, not often enough.”
Arthur tenses, cursing Eames for asking such an unacceptable question while being vague enough to not cross the line. "Whom I touch is none of your concern," he bites.
"Of course not," Eames agrees amiably. He’s silent for a few moments before he continues. “Arthur, our activities are not exactly legal, and you know full well I’m...morally flexible, shall we say? I won’t judge you.”
Arthur doesn't know how Eames managed to work out his secret, but he sees no sense in denying it any longer. "I've been visiting prostitutes since I was sixteen. As I said, it's neater."
"And absolutely forbidden," Eames says. "To pay to touch and be touched? If it was about pleasure that’s one thing, but it’s not for you, is it? You get nothing more from it than what you get from touching a person’s hand.”
“Thought you said you weren’t going to judge,” Arthur says, not really caring one way or the other.
Eames shakes his head. “What you do is your business. I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”
“I don’t see the point in dealing with the emotions that come with touching someone in that manner when I obviously don’t feel anything.”
“Then go to the concierge at your hotel. It’s part of the job description.”
Arthur smiles humorlessly. “Why is this bothering you so much?”
“I wouldn’t say it bothers me. I’m just trying to understand,” he says with a small shrug, and Arthur doesn’t miss the flicker of discomfort that crosses Eames’s face from the movement. Eames continues as if nothing happened. “Only social pariahs and hermits and the like go to prostitutes. You’ve got to be as far from their normal clients as possible.”
“Probably,” Arthur agrees. “It’s just what I do, Eames. My father taught me from a very young age to keep my emotions out of business transactions, and what is touch between strangers but that?”
“So your father taught you this? To see touch and sex as alike to dinner at a restaurant?” Eames asks.
Arthur raises his chin and meets Eames’s gaze unashamedly. “Are you going to tell me he’s wrong?”
“No,” Eames says. “I just think you’re missing out on a crucial part of life. Touch is about more than survival.”
“That’s your opinion,” Arthur says calmly. “That doesn’t mean I have to agree.”
Eames nods his head once in acknowledgment, neither man saying any more on the matter.
-------
A loud bang startles Eames awake, though he hadn’t realized he’d drifted off. He’s beginning to reach that gritty-eyed, zombie-like state that comes from lack of real rest, but he’s instantly alert anyway.
Iliana stalks into the room in a blind rage, and despite its futility, Eames presses back into his chair and tugs at his wrists again.
“He’s dying,” she spits. “You fuckers, do you hear me? He’s in the hospital and I have to watch him screaming as the nurses forcibly touch his skin.” She’s in jeans and a worn-soft checkered button-up rolled to the elbow, but has taken the time to put on the gloves again. In her right hand she holds a pair of large scissors, drawing Eames’s eye as they catch the light of the bare bulb above them.
She launches herself forward and Eames jerks in his restraints. Arthur shouts but Eames doesn’t catch the words, can only pay attention to the hurricane of fury descending on him. She yanks his shirt from his waistband and roughly hacks at it with the scissors, cutting upwards. Eames tries to lean out of the way of the points and grunts when they stab into his clavicle. She cuts up each sleeve in turn, teeth bared and intent on her task. Wrenching the material away from his body, it’s still attached at the collar, so she snips the last of it and pulls it all away. It drags between his back and the chair and he, perhaps absurdly, lifts himself off to make room. She drops the rags to the side.
Realizing her intent Eames stops struggling, hoping she doesn’t mean to cause any physical damage beyond the humiliation of exposing his skin. He can feel Arthur’s eyes on him and he glares at Iliana.
Iliana rakes her eyes over him and lays a mockingly gentle hand on his chest. He can feel the heat of her under the material of her glove and it flares his needful ache. She sees the longing in his face and smiles cruelly. “Getting hungry, are you?” She turns to look at Arthur and her smile broadens when she sees the way he can’t tear his eyes from Eames.
She walks over and, with less fury but not any more careful for that, she cuts away Arthur’s once-crisp white shirt. Despite himself, Eames stares at the smooth white skin that’s exposed. Arthur yelps when her scissors catch his forearm, and a red bloom spreads on his shirt before it’s cut away.
When it’s all done she stands back, breathing heavily and looks back and forth between the two of them. Her lips twitch but she can’t seem to muster the satisfied smile from before. Instead she just looks haggard, broken. The scissors hang loosely at her side. “When I can’t watch his agony any more I think of you. Of how you must be feeling in here, wasting away. I tried to tell him once, but he doesn’t listen to me any more. Sometimes he thinks I’m a projection, sometimes he thinks I’m trying to trap him so I can go inside his head. But it’s enough that I know you’re in here.”
She walks out once more, leaving Arthur and Eames exposed and alone.
Eames stares at Arthur, knowing full well it’s extraordinarily rude to do so but unable to help himself. Arthur is doing the same, though. Eames closes his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by want, but opens them again to take in the expanse of flesh, the dark nipples that are lightly pebbled, unused to the air. Eames’s fingers twitch and his skin prickles all over. He rubs his hands together compulsively, although it does nothing to alleviate his need.
Arthur swallows audibly. “You have tattoos,” he says, and it’s not really like Arthur to point out the obvious, but Eames can understand Arthur’s shock.
Eames looks at Arthur until Arthur meets his eyes, but then Arthur looks back at the ink that adorns Eames’s skin.
“I’ve been getting these for years, although my last one was about four years ago,” he says, as much to distract himself from all that skin as to satisfy Arthur’s curiosity. Arthur had been so open about his father, he figures they’re beyond professional courtesy by this point.
“Who did them? Were you sleeping with them?”
Eames smiles. “No.”
“Why, then?” Arthur looks genuinely baffled.
Eames has thought of this many times, and his reasons for getting them have evolved over the years. It’s risky and the worst sort of taboo, baring yourself for people who aren’t your lover, much less letting them touch you, and mark you.
“At first it was simple rebellion against an overly formal upper middle class upbringing. My philosophical justification came after the fact.” He pauses, adjusts in his seat and his mind goes back to the early days. He thinks of his nanny holding his hand — that last nanny. Most of them came and went, and none of them ever had any real affection for him. That last nanny, though, she held his hand like she enjoyed it. She had stroked up his arm to above his elbow, and his young self had been as shocked as he was titillated. That was as far as she had gone before his father had sent him off to boarding school, but that touch was burned in his brain.
“It’s such a connection, a way of transcending social construct. I’d never be so melodramatic as to compare it to religion, but experiencing another person touching me in that way, having them put ink on my skin, it’s a declaration of sorts. It says a person can indulge in sensual pleasures without guilt.”
Arthur meets his eyes again, and Eames is concerned at the sunken look of them, the shiny, feverish desire that betrays his deteriorating health. He’s still very lucid, though, which is a relief. They’re not too weak yet to make a move if the opportunity presents itself. Eames gives it another day before they begin to reach that point.
“But you said four years. Why nothing since then?”
Eames closes his eyes, partly in fatigue, party to think about his answer. The truth is, he’s not sure why he stopped. His kneejerk reaction is to say that he just got too busy, that work has been too much of a distraction. But something about this room, his exposed torso, the extended quiet they’ve had between them makes him want to find the truth.
“I suppose it lost its appeal,” he says, eyes still closed, head rolled to the side, stretching his neck. He takes a deep breath and looks at Arthur once more, at the smooth lines of his shoulders. He can almost feel the skin under his fingertips. “What once felt like a hedonistic sort of pleasure just... failed to deliver.”
The look of concern that Arthur gives him makes Eames chuckle wryly. “Oh don’t get me wrong, love. I don’t regret a single one. But neither am I in a rush to go out and do it again. Take away the urge to stick it to the old man and suddenly grandiose statements seem a little less important than who you share that connection with.” Eames slumps a little, deflated, hungry, tired.
He thinks about how long it’s been since he last let himself go with someone, allowed them to feel the tender skin under his upper arms, felt the intimacy of fingertips on his chest. He’s had the odd dalliance but it’s been a long time since he’s taken the step of touching and being touched in that way. It sort of fell off his list of priorities —; never made the top five, really.
He sees Arthur squirming slightly, trying to get circulation going; he feels his own growling, clawing need and it hits him in a wave. He can’t do this for another day, two days, three. They’re unlikely to last beyond that, and by tomorrow they may be too weak to do anything effective.
“Arthur, how’s your strength?”
Arthur looks up, finding a level of alertness Eames hasn’t seen in the better part of a day. “What do you have in mind?”
“She left about thirty minutes ago, yeah? We can assume she’s not going to come back with food or water for a while. And if she does...” Eames doesn’t finish that thought. “I can tip over in your direction, and if you can do the same, we might be able to shift around enough so that I can get at your hand bindings.” Eames wiggles his fingers. “My fingers are numb from these bindings. Would you be able to undo mine?”
Arthur shifts, tugs, shakes his head.
“I could bite them open, then. It’s nylon but I think I could do it,” Eames says, looking over at Arthur to gauge his reaction.
Arthur gets that look: the one when he’s entering the action portion of a job. A frown, a flexing of his jaw, a grim-set determination. It puts Eames in action mode as well and it feels good to take control.
“We’ll get out of here,” Eames says, as much to reassure Arthur as himself, as if declaring it into being.
“With grace and aplomb, I’m sure,” Arthur says, ghost of a smirk twitching the corner of his mouth.
-------
“We’ll have to tip ourselves over,” Arthur says. His eyes zero in on the bruises spattered across Eames’s chest, then move to his swollen ankle. “Are you going to be able to do this?” he asks.
“I could ask the same of you,” Eames replies, “but it’s now or never, so I’m afraid our answers are rather moot, wouldn’t you say?”
Arthur doesn’t respond, just asks, “Do you think you can move your chair forward about two feet and turn sideways? If I do the same, we should be able to tip so that you can reach my hands.”
Eames nods and jerks himself forward, his chair moving an inch. They awkwardly, gracelessly move their chairs closer together, legs catching on the carpet, slowing their progress.
Arthur stops and glances over his shoulder at Eames, a few feet behind him and to the right. Eames grins. “After you, darling.”
Facing forward, Arthur takes one calm breath before rocking back and forth, careful to time it so that he tips in the right direction. Arthur seems to hang in midair for a second before he falls. He lands heavily, his head banging against the ground and sending pain rolling through him.
“You okay?” Eames asks.
“Fine,” Arthur lies. “Use your feet as much as you can to get going.”
“Thank you, Arthur. I’m sure I never would have figured that out,” Eames says, already rocking. Eames’s ankle must be killing him, but no sounds of discomfort escape him. Arthur hears and feels when Eames hits the floor behind him, hears Eames’s grunt and knows that the fall hurt more than Eames will ever let on.
They awkwardly maneuver themselves into position, arms crushed beneath them by the backs of the chairs. “Excellent, Arthur. Right there,” Eames says after a minute of painful shifting. A second later, Arthur feels Eames start tugging at his restraints. Eames works quickly, but every so often his lips or his cheeks brush Arthur’s hands and Arthur jolts from the contact. Eames never stills, just continues biting and pulling until he gets the rope loosened enough that Arthur can pull his hands free.
Arthur rubs his hands together to increase circulation. Scooting forward, he makes quick work of the restraints around his ankles. He rolls to his knees with the intention of standing, but a sudden wave of dizziness and nausea keep him kneeling, head bowed.
“Arthur?”
“Yeah, I’m coming,” Arthur answers. He turns towards Eames but stops, taken aback by the open look of concern. “I’m fine,” he says.
Eames smiles. “Wouldn’t dream otherwise,” he says, but the concern doesn’t leave his eyes.
Arthur makes his way around the chairs in an odd crouch. He sits on his heels behind Eames, and gritting his teeth, resolutely ignores the broad expanse of skin and zeroing his focus on the knots. He gets Eames’s hands free and then starts on the ropes around his ankles. As soon as Arthur is done, he reaches for Eames’s ankle to examine it, but Eames moves his leg out of the way and stands, leaving Arthur to look up at him from the floor.
“It’s just a sprain, Arthur. I’ve dealt with worse.” Eames holds a hand out and Arthur accepts it gratefully, both reacting instantly to the touch. Eames breathes deeply, as if Arthur’s scent adds to the pleasure, while Arthur closes his eyes for a second as a shiver runs through him even as warmth floods his body.
Eames pulls him to his feet and they lock gazes over the chair between them, hands still connected. For a moment Eames’s grip is tight and he’s tugging just a little, as though he’s trying not to and failing.
With a sudden hard tug, Eames pulls Arthur to himself and traps him in his arms, their chests pressed together. Arthur’s hands slide over Eames’s back and it’s almost overwhelming, the rush of relief. He could nearly collapse with it. His eyes slam shut involuntarily and he’s lost, trying to get his fill, shifting himself so that there’s a bit of friction between them. He bends to bury his face in Eames’s shoulder, breathes him in and feels Eames doing the same.
Almost at the same time they shove, hands pushing but palms glued to each other’s skin, unable to bear breaking contact completely. Eames grips Arthur by the upper arms, shaking. The skin there is tender, the touch intimate but compared to the touch they just shared, not anywhere near enough. They stand heaving for long moments, unable to meet each other’s eyes but still gripping arms. Arthur feels tears of frustration prick at the corners of his eyes. He clenches his jaw and blinks furiously, fighting to control himself.
Reining himself in with more effort than he thinks he’s ever mustered, Arthur forces himself to assess their situation. He looks over Eames’s shoulder at the door. “We’re not getting out of here yet,” he says, voice strained. “We have no way of getting that door open.”
“I think that’s rather the point of installing a reinforced steel door,” Eames says, not sounding any better than Arthur. “What are you thinking?” Eames asks, his arm brushing briefly against Arthur’s, and it’s all Arthur can do to focus on the tasks ahead.
Arthur doesn’t say anything for a few moments. “We made a lot of noise and no one has come yet. They likely have no idea we’re free.”
Eames just nods, and Arthur knows Eames has already come to the same conclusion. “Element of surprise, then?” Eames asks.
“Next time they come, we rush the door,” Arthur agrees.
“Without knowing how long that’ll be...” he shakes his head. “We can at least use whatever time we have to recover some,” he says, giving Arthur’s hand a squeeze and gazing hungrily at his body.
“Nothing close to enough, but with the state we’re in, we’ll need it,” Arthur says.
“We’ve faced worse,” Eames says confidently. He’s lying, because they’ve never had to fight after more than three days without touch, but that doesn’t change the fact that he obviously believes they’ll come through this.
Arthur starts walking forward, pulling Eames along. “C’mon, let’s get into position. If they come back and we’re not ready...” Arthur says, trailing off. They both know this is their one shot.
They stand next to the door, Arthur with his back against the wall and Eames with his against the door, ready to move when they hear Iliana.
They hold hands as they wait, the contact initially soothing and nourishing, but as his adrenaline lowers and the hunger rushes to the front of his mind, the touch becomes its own torture. He needs more, and Eames is standing right next to him, shirtless. Arthur has never gone three days without touch, has never been so close to dying of deprivation, and to suddenly have exactly what he needs within his reach yet still untouchable is almost worse than being bound and helpless. Knowing that Eames is just as desperate is doing nothing to help.
Unable to push temptation from his mind, Arthur nevertheless tries to focus on the fight ahead. He runs the small bits of information they know about what is on the other side of the door over and over in his head, then talks it over with Eames until they have a basic plan laid out.
With their strategy outlined, Arthur finds his thoughts sliding inexorably back to the few seconds that he and Eames had touched earlier. His only thought had been to touch as much of Eames as possible, but there had also been a rush of emotion in the touch, something that Arthur hasn’t felt since he was a teenager and his father had caught him with Carl Stigora.
“How long has this thing with Stigora’s son been going on, Arthur?” his father asked later when they were both seated in his office.
“Three weeks,” Arthur said.
“And do you have feelings for this boy?” he asked, voice harsh and eyes judgmental.
Arthur’s eyes widened. He’d never had the impression that homosexuality was frowned upon in his father’s house, but maybe he wasn’t so accepting if it was his own son. “I don’t know,” Arthur answered truthfully. “What would you do if I was gay?” Arthur was only brave enough to ask the question because he knew he was his father’s favorite.
“I don’t give a fuck who you touch. Skin is skin, and as long as you’re discreet, it doesn’t matter.” Arthur breathed a sigh of relief, but his father wasn’t finished. “What matters is that you keep touch impersonal. I’m going to say this once, and one time only.”
Arthur sat up straighter, recognizing the importance of an edict from his father.
“Never touch someone based on emotion.” His father’s voice was deep and powerful, his words sharp. “When you touch someone and emotions are involved, you give them power over you. You make yourself vulnerable to their suggestions. You make this family vulnerable, and that is something I will not tolerate.”
Arthur nodded. He didn’t understand yet, but he’d figure it out later. “Family first,” he said firmly, counting on his father’s favorite saying to get him through.
“I knew you would understand,” his father said with a fond smile. “You’re going to learn how to fulfill your needs, no more, no less. From now on, you’ll come with me when I go out. I’ll teach you how to touch someone without risk, so that your decisions are entirely your own. I don’t want to see you with the Stigora boy or anyone else anymore. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Father,” Arthur said, nodding his head again.
“Good. Be ready to leave at nine o’clock tonight.”
Within months, Arthur had learned how to compartmentalize his life, everything neat and tidy in its proper place. Fifteen odd years have passed and Eames remains the only thing that Arthur can’t keep locked away. Arthur should be concerned with his own escape, with Eames along as a means to an end; instead, he’s only thinking of plans that will save them both. Any plan that doesn’t accomplish that is unthinkable.
They’ve been silent for a what feels like ages but in reality is probably only ten or fifteen minutes when they hear faint sounds. Arthur turns to Eames, who mouths, “Stairs” as he drops Arthur’s hand and steps to the other side of the door to wait.
A sense of calm washes over Arthur. He’s been off balance since the attack at the warehouse, able to react but never take control, and he welcomes the familiarity of making the first move.
The door begins to open and they move instantly. Eames grabs the door with both hands and pulls, opening the door fast enough for Arthur to dart through before the guards have fully realized what is happening.
Arthur bursts into the hallway, taking in the scene as he moves. He grabs the smaller guard and throws him to the left so that Eames can get to Brick Wall. The guard reaches for the gun holstered at his hip, only managing to undo the flap before Arthur slams the man’s head into the wall and gets his own hand around the grip, pulling it free. He quickly steps back out of range and aims the gun at the man’s head. He directs the guard to move closer to his partner so that his attention isn’t so divided. Arthur moves the gun to the right a few inches and fires a shot into the wall, fixing his aim as soon as he’s done.
“Enough. You’re done,” Arthur orders Brick Wall, his eyes never leaving the one in front of him.
Brick Wall stops fighting immediately and backs away from Eames slowly, but not before Eames disarms him. Eames orders them to remove their shirts and empty their pockets before Arthur roughly pats them down, then uses the gun to herd the men into the room Arthur and he had been held in, locking the door behind them. Stepping back, he points up and simply says, “Iliana,” as Eames deftly sifts through the men’s belongings on the floor, pulling out two mobile phones and leaving the rest. The shirts hang loosely from his hands.
They cautiously make their way up the stairs, expecting either Iliana or more guards to be waiting at the top, but they find no one. Their reluctance to break their touch slows the search and lessens their stealth much more than is prudent.
“Do you think she’s visiting her husband?” Eames asks.
“Possibly,” Arthur answers. “The bigger concern right now is figuring out where we are and finding a safe house.”
“I think I know of a place,” Eames says as he shrugs on one of the shirts, passing the other to Arthur. Once they’re buttoned, Eames grasps Arthur’s hand and they slip quietly, cautiously out the door through the kitchen and out into the night beyond.
-------
Eames scans the street looking for a car that’s unlikely to be alarmed. Arthur speaks lowly and quickly into the phone. They’re on the adjacent street to the house and although Eames has to work quickly when his body aches and his fingers move too slow, it’s almost calming doing something so familiar and hearing Arthur’s terse, no-nonsense rumble. Eames isn’t sure who he’s called, just trusts that Arthur’s contacts will be fast and discreet.
“No, Eames has a place. Better you don’t know where, just find everything you can on Iliana or Niels Sörensen. Who their contacts are, who they hired to grab us. I need to know what we’re up against, what her resources are... what?”
Eames selects a non-descript Vauxhall and elbows out the window, wincing at the noise. He opens the door and slides inside, reaching across to unlock the passenger-side door for Arthur. He misses the next bit of Arthur’s conversation as Arthur moves around to get in. With a deft yank, Eames exposes the wires and sets to work starting the car.
“...the police bands. What’s the fallout? No, I’ll wait. Go.”
As the car sparks to life, Eames shoots Arthur a questioning look. Arthur tilts the mouthpiece away and says, “Niels is dead. It’s on the news; he was killed at the Centre hospitalier universitaire vaudois. Sy’s just looking into it now.”
Eames has no idea where they are so he just drives, trusting that they’ll reach a major identifiable road sooner or later. He knows Lausanne well, and it doesn’t take long before he gets his bearings.
Arthur rests his hand on Eames’s on the gearshift until Sy starts talking again and Arthur withdraws, focusing on the conversation. He grunts a few times in acknowledgment, frowning.
“Yeah, thanks, Sy. I owe you one,” he says and hangs up.
“The police have Iliana in custody. It looks like she killed him,” Arthur reaches across and almost absentmindedly places his hand atop Eames’s again. It would be nothing to Eames usually but it’s like droplets of water on his lips when he’s dying of thirst. He determinedly listens to Arthur’s words.
“Wait,” Eames says as the information gains meaning in his brain. “She killed him.” It’s a statement, not a question. Arthur provides facts, not conjecture. “Mercy killing, then? God, she must have been going barmy right alongside him.”
“Who the fuck knows?” Arthur replies. “The point is, she’s in custody. And unless she’s planning on using her one call to send more guys after us, we should be safe, at least for tonight. It’s doubtful she even knows we’re gone by now. Where are you taking us, anyway?”
“My father’s cabin, actually. It’s...” Eames sucks in a breath as Arthur undoes the button on Eames’s sleeve.
“We need to get some strength back,” Arthur says pragmatically, though the slight breathiness of his voice betrays him. “Probably best if we do this in stages,” he adds, unnecessarily. Eames knows if they take in too much skin too fast the shock would likely make them sicker. He just nods.
“Your father’s cabin?” Arthur prompts, rolling up Eames’s sleeve.
Eames clears his throat. “The family cabin, and it’s more like a cottage. It was our holiday home. It’s mine now, really. He left it to me three years ago.”
Arthur strokes Eames’s forearm, slips his own arm underneath to rub their wrists together. He’s watching the contact intently.
“Yeah, I heard about your dad. I’m sorry about that.”
“Well. The old man and I didn’t always see eye to eye, but we got along well enough by the end.” Eames pauses, his father’s ashen face rising in his mind, unreadable and distant as ever when he told Eames he hadn’t long to live and instructing him where to find the legal documents he’d need. “I check in on it about once a year, do some basic maintenance. I should sell it, but I haven’t got round to it.”
Arthur’s eyes flick up as Eames glances at him, and Eames can see that he isn’t buying busyness as an excuse. He’s gracious enough not to press, though. Arthur turns his attention back down, running the flat of his palm up Eames’s wrist. It shouldn’t have any real charge but it does. It’s probably the intensity of focus Arthur has that makes Eames want to bare himself. He mentally wills Arthur to drift his hand up past Eames’s elbow, to brush the sensitive skin under his upper arm. Eames’s face flushes slightly at the thought.
“Is that why you suggested this job? I thought it was a little basic and small-potatoes for you,” Arthur says, never ceasing his ministrations.
“Mm. Not exactly. I just thought we’d test out the new chemist on something small. The opportunity to stop in at the cabin afterwards was just a bonus.”
“Mm hm. Tell me about the place. How are we going to secure it when we get there?”
Eames glances at Arthur again, then back to the road. He knows Arthur is distracting him, but it’s also true that they’ll need to take a few steps to ensure their safety when they get there. It’s fairly remote and well-equipped; Eames has stayed there on holiday in the past and set the place up for himself. As he tells Arthur about the lay of the land and his particular brand of paranoid but effective modifications, Arthur keeps stroking, warm and firm.
When Arthur’s fingers whisper past the edges of Eames’s folded up shirt, he falters slightly but carries on talking, rattling off a litany of security enhancements. He’s aware of Arthur looking at him but he refuses to turn his attention from the road. He keeps his voice steady but it’s nearly impossible when Arthur’s fingers boldly slide up under the material and Arthur lets out a heavy, slow breath. Eames keeps his arm perfectly still, afraid to move while he carries on talking.
When he finishes his exhaustive description of their imminent hideout, he simply falls silent and lets Arthur continue. Arthur gets more brazen, sliding his fingers up under the material as far as they’ll go, and Eames closes his eyes for a second before snapping them open to look at the road. All he can do is breathe ever more heavily; he can’t reach out and touch, though his fingers practically twitch with the urge to. He’d pull over right here if he could but it’s not much farther now.
In fact it’s about fifteen minutes, both achingly too long and crushingly too short. Eames could soak up Arthur’s shameless touch forever, but soon the car is crunching up the gravel driveway, headlights illuminating the darkened house. Arthur withdraws his hand. Eames lets out a breath: of relief or regret, he’s not sure.
That they both rush out of the car to the door, despite their fatigue, is something they both pretend not to notice. Eames flips open a section of the wall, revealing a discreetly hidden key panel and taps in a passcode with shaking, jittery hands. When he steps inside an alarm begins to beep, so he steps in through the utility room and into the house proper, tapping another code into the keypad on the wall in the kitchen. Arthur steps in cautiously behind Eames.
As soon as the code is entered and the long beep ends, Eames reaches back blindly, seeking Arthur’s hand. Arthur grabs it fiercely and pulls Eames around, rubbing his palm feverishly up and down Eames’s forearm. Eames, after the last few days, after the wait at the door and the touching in the car, is far beyond caring about propriety. He undoes the first few buttons of Arthur’s shirt before getting impatient and just yanking hard, placing his palms on Arthur’s firm stomach, feeling the hard, smooth, vital flesh there. He sighs, body relaxing in immense relief.
Arthur moans and closes his eyes for a moment before opening them and fumbling with Eames’s shirt. Eames refuses to remove his hands from Arthur’s skin, so Arthur simply open the buttons and slides his hands up Eames’s pecs and over his shoulders, under his shirt. The touch is too much, intense, like a flash of a too-bright light and Eames flinches before it subsides slightly into pleasure and he presses into it.
His own hands explore, feeling the dips and planes, the occasional bump of a freckle, the tight line of a scar. At the small of Arthur’s back is a birthmark; Eames trails his fingers over it like braille, reading Arthur’s body. His hands drift up, memorizing the curve of his shoulder blade until Arthur shrugs him off suddenly, shocking Eames into removing his hands as from an open flame. But Arthur is only impatiently removing his shirt, and Eames does the same. Not wanting to be interrupted again, Eames quickly undoes his belt, his trousers, dropping them to the floor with a soft clang, and Arthur follows suit.
“We need to slow down,” Arthur whispers. Then, slightly louder, “It’s not healthy to take too much too fast. Tomorrow we’ll —;”
“I know, I know. I can’t... can you slow down?” Eames asks, leaving his hands resting on Arthur’s shoulders, still but for the obsessive brushing of his thumbs over the soft skin in front.
Arthur shakes his head, his eyes feverish, a sickly sheen of sweat on his brow.
“We’ll pay for this tomorrow,” Arthur says, but he’s already given in, arching his fingers to rub and feel at Eames’s shoulders and up his neck.
Eames licks his lips, feels the drag of his tongue too keenly and knows he’s feverish but he says, “It’ll be okay, I’ll — I have medical supplies. I just need to...”
He stops speaking as Arthur draws his palms down Eames’s front, pushes his thumbs up the centre, then widening to rub them against Eames’s nipples. The pressure, so much more than the gentle brushing of palms earlier, causes Eames to hold his breath for a moment, closing his eyes. Arthur caresses in circles, then presses harder, taking Eames’s left nipple between two fingers and rolling it lightly. With a welling of horror, Eames knows he’s about to come, and can’t form the words to tell Arthur to stop. Instead he simply hunches forward, forehead thumping on Arthur’s shoulder as he shudders and spills inside his boxers with a grunt. Arthur huffs out a breath and ducks his head to try to coax Eames into looking up but Eames can’t. He’s frozen, hands gripping Arthur’s waist, eyes squeezed shut.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur says and Eames huffs a breath of his own.
“Nothing to be sorry for, Arthur.” He doesn’t move his head, but begins caressing Arthur’s sides again. “The bedroom’s upstairs. We should probably share.”
Slipping his arms around Eames’s shoulders and drifting his hands down Eames’s back, Arthur nods against Eames’s head. It occurs to Eames, now that he can think, that once he gets to bed he won’t want to leave for days. He’s exhausted and weak and needs to keep touching; he can barely muster up the energy to even imagine the walk upstairs, or parting from Arthur’s skin.
When he turns to lead the way, though, Arthur stays close behind, one hand rubbing up and down Eames’s arm and back. Despite the fact that Arthur has been doing this since they came in, something about being turned away from him, walking through his old holiday home half naked, exposed, makes Eames feel intensely vulnerable. He has a flash of a thought, worrying about the fallout, about what they’ll say to each other afterwards. But as he approaches the open door of the room and sees the bed, he pushes the thought from his mind and pulls Arthur to it.
Eames quickly strips himself of his boxers, unselfconscious of his semi-hard cock when so much of him has been exposed already. He sits Arthur down and straddles his lap, starved again now that the whole night stretches in front of him with no other place to go.
Arthur lays back and lets himself be felt. It’s almost obscene the way he stretches out his arms and clasps them above his head, lays himself bare for Eames to take what he needs. It’s incongruous from what Eames knows of Arthur, both the buttoned-down professional and the more recent revelations. He sees hesitance in Arthur’s eyes, but something desperate as well. He’d be more gentle, take it slower, but all that skin... he leans down and lightly drags the tip of his nose over Arthur’s clavicle, taking in his scent. His cologne has long since worn off, the faint sour sweat smell of fear settled onto his skin, but it’s mingled with a warm, familiar scent that’s all Arthur.
Eames leans his weight into his hands on Arthur’s chest, then pushes himself back, watching and feeling every contour, lightly gliding over the dark small ovals of Arthur’s nipples, trailing his fingers down the delicate, tender skin of his armpits. Arthur tenses but is otherwise still. Suddenly Arthur’s position is too much, too vulnerable for Eames to witness. He shifts to the side, grabs Arthur by the hips and tugs. “Over,” he says.
When Arthur turns, Eames taps him, points to the head of the bed. “Up there.” When Arthur has settled himself against the headboard, pillows hastily shoved behind his lower back, Eames moves down to the foot of the bed. He traces the curve of Arthur’s heel, studies with his hands from ankle to back of knee, from strong thigh over the edges of his boxer briefs, the dip of his lower back, every scar and blemish from heel to nape. Arthur, for his part, breathes heavier and heavier, the occasional sigh or moan seeping from him.
In all of the experimenting Eames had done in his youth, no one ever touched his feet like this, nor he theirs. That he just did without thought, that Arthur had let him makes something in Eames’s chest shift and flutter. It’s impossible to untangle from his fever, the goosebumps that prickle his too-sensitive skin. He’s ill and overwhelmed, too weakened to either resist or trust his emotions right now.
When he draws his palm up the side of Arthur’s neck, Arthur changes, like a switch has been flipped. He turns and pulls Eames down to lay at his side and spoons him from behind He rests his forehead on Eames’s spine, one hand on Eames’s back, and snakes his other hand around to stroke up Eames’s front. Although Eames’s cock is standing at attention and Arthur’s hand brushes past it, making it twitch, Arthur ignores it. He maps Eames the way he himself had been mapped, and Eames gets lost in it, loses sense of time and place. Exhaustion takes over.
-------
The heavy, thick legs entangled in his, the warm arm draped across his middle is shocking to Arthur when he wakes at some ungodly hour of the night. His instinct is to push them away, to protect his body from too much, to protect himself. But he hasn’t the strength and it feels too much like comfort. Before he can muster the energy or the will to do anything, sleep drags him down once more.
-------
Arthur struggles to open his eyes, trapped in the state between sleeping and waking. His mind screams for more rest, but his body is protesting the binge touching he’s indulged in since the escape.
Awareness filters in slowly, his mind too muddled to comprehend much. Arthur groans as he realizes the warmth enveloping him is Eames, still half on top of Arthur, naked, and dozing fitfully. Eames’s touch, so pleasurable and comforting last night, is suddenly painful, much more than Arthur’s body can handle. Arthur pushes Eames away roughly, not caring at all if he disturbs Eames.
Arthur rolls out of bed and nearly collapses on the floor, weak and disoriented, the adrenaline from yesterday long gone. He stumbles towards the adjoining bathroom and manages to reach the toilet before he vomits, nothing but acid emptying from his stomach.
“Arthur?” The light comes on, and Arthur slams his eyes shut, almost whimpers before he catches himself. “Sorry,” Eames says. He sounds like he’s still asleep, voice low and quiet. “You okay?” Eames asks, resting a hand on Arthur’s forehead like he’s trying to feel for a fever. Arthur jerks away violently. “Sorry,” Eames says again.
“You said you had medical supplies?” Arthur asks, almost flinching at his rasping voice.
“Ah, yes,” Eames says, shifting guiltily. “I may have stretched the truth a bit.”
Arthur glares, well aware that the effect is lessened considerably since his head is resting on a toilet seat. “How so?” he asks.
“My supplies run more towards gunshot wounds and broken bones. Can’t say deprivation, starvation, or dehydration have ever been at the top of my list of concerns.”
Arthur closes his eyes for a second, absorbing the coolness of the porcelain. “Who’s nearby? We can call someone in.”
“I’ll sort it.” Eames fills the empty glass on the counter with water. “Drink this and get back to bed. I’ll be right back.” Although Eames doesn't look like he’s in any shape to be moving around, he levers himself off the doorjamb and slowly makes his way out of the room. Arthur hasn’t the heart or the energy to stop him.
When Eames returns to the bedroom, it’s with a sickly sheen of sweat on his brow and a tray in his hands. He sets it down on his bedside table, revealing a mobile phone, two bowls of what looks like canned mixed fruit and two bottles of Gatorade. Arthur shifts up, though his body protests, and takes the proffered food and drink.
“My neighbour Marcus, an old friend of my father’s. He can be trusted to be discreet, and he’ll bring over some supplies, check on us once a day or so. He’s a vet,” Eames looks sheepishly rueful, but Arthur will take a vet over a random civilian should they need medical attention beyond food and rest. And if Eames trusts him, well, that’s enough.
He forces himself to finish the fruit and drink more water, and worries for a moment what he’ll do during all this recovery time, but he’s not even sure he finishes the thought before drifting off to sleep again.
-------
After a bleary, sweaty, uncomfortable and fairly unrestful day, taking painkillers every few hours to manage the fever, Arthur finally sleeps a solid five hours and wakes warm but not overheated, hungry but not weak. Eames is still there in the bed asleep, and although he’s on the other end of the queen sized bed, it’s comforting having him there. He’s laying on his back, one hand over his head, the other across his stomach. Arthur reaches across and feels the hairs on Eames’s forearm, not quite gripping hard enough to pull, just gathering tufts lazily.
When Eames draws a deep breath, Arthur stops and sighs, rolling out of bed after a moment and heading to the bathroom to top up both of their waters. He picks up the mobile from the bedside table, careful not to wake Eames.
In the bathroom he phones Sy. It occurs to him after he dials that Sy might be sleeping. He can’t be bothered figuring out what time it is here, much less where Sy is. He lets it ring.
“‘Allo, ‘allo,” Sy says, and it’s odd to be reminded that somewhere else, other people are cheerful.
“Sy, Arthur.”
“Arthur! So you’re not dead then. That’s good news. What can I do for you, mate?”
“I just need an update on Niels and Iliana. I have to know if I need to get the fuck out of dodge,” he says. Ordinarily he’d find the words to ask Sy how he’s doing, make the idle chitchat that keeps his contacts sweet and familiar, but he can’t. He relies on the blatant fatigue in his voice to explain his reasons, and fortunately, Sy seems unperturbed.
“I figured you might, hold on, let me just get back into the system.” There’s a rapid tapping of keys and Arthur settles himself on the closed toilet lid, taking a sip of his water while he waits. “Got it,” Sy says, sounding smug. “Not that this was particularly difficult; it’s been in the papers. But I got access to the police reports anyway. She’s been charged already. The questioning didn’t last long; there were enough bloody witnesses. I checked on the guys she hired as well. Bulgarian boys, the Nikolovich family. As far as gangs go, these boys are all business, in it for the paycheck. No paycheck, no boys as far as I can see. You in a safehouse?”
“Yeah,” Arthur says. “Hey listen, Sy. One last favor?”
“Arthur, mate. If ever there was someone I’d want owing me a favor, it’s you. Name it.”
“Call Cobb, tell him all this and get him to keep an eye on the Nikolovich clan? Just in case. If they make a move into Switzerland, he can contact me.” Arthur makes a mental note to text Cobb with their standard coded message, leaving him the number he can be reached at. “And thanks. Again.”
“Say nothing of it. And Arthur, get yourself healthy, would ya? You sound like shit.”
Arthur laughs and hangs up, rubbing his hand down his face.
When he returns to the room, Eames looks up at him from under his arm which is now thrown across his eyes. “Who was that?”
“Sy. I was just making sure we’re safe here still.”
Eames looks at Arthur for a moment, and then, apparently satisfied that Arthur would let him know if they have to move, covers his eyes again. “Any information on Iliana?”
“In custody and charged with murder. She’s not a problem anymore.” Arthur half expects Eames to ask about the guards, but the question doesn’t come. Either Eames is too exhausted to care or he trusts Arthur that much. Both options unsettle Arthur.
“Eames, have you heard of any other marks having a reaction like Sörensen’s?”
Eames uncovers his eyes, holds his hand out toward Arthur in an unspoken request. Only after Arthur crosses the room and settles next to Eames, interlocking their fingers, does Eames speak. “I hadn’t even heard of Sörensen’s. I don’t make it a habit to expose myself by checking in on past marks, and I know you don’t either.”
“Should we?” Arthur asks. “If this is a frequent occurrence -”
“If it was a frequent occurrence,” Eames interrupts, “we would have heard something.”
“So it doesn’t happen often,” Arthur says, absentmindedly trailing the fingers of his free hand up and down Eames’s arm. “That doesn’t mean it’s an isolated event. The military only tested the effects on willing subjects. The technology was appropriated before its other uses were explored and tested."
Eames doesn’t say anything, just watches Arthur and waits, obviously recognizing that Arthur is thinking aloud rather than looking for a response. The thought that Eames knows him better than his own family flashes across Arthur’s mind, startling him. He pushes it away to deal with later.
“I could start doing more research on marks before jobs. Specifically looking at any history of mental instability.”
“That already shows in your research,” Eames says. “Remember the Kovich job?” Eames swings a leg over between Arthur’s, rubbing their feet together.
Arthur closes his eyes against the sensation of the touch, lost in simple pleasure before he remembers to answer. “Spending three months in a psychiatric ward is one thing. I’m talking about looking for signs in otherwise healthy individuals that could point to the possibility of being pushed over the edge.”
“Anyone can be pushed over the edge. You know that. I’m not saying I disagree,” Eames says when Arthur opens his mouth to argue, “but that’s a lot of extra research for something that you can’t predict.”
“Not necessarily,” Arthur says. “I’m not talking about much. History of mental illness in the family is a must. Maybe spending more time hacking into records of therapy sessions. I usually only do that if I’m looking for something specific.”
Eames sighs. “It’s up to you, Arthur. Our job doesn’t exactly take place on moral high ground to begin with, but I can understand wanting more information to work with.”
“That’s all I’m asking for. I’m not advocating getting out of the business.”
“What would we even do with our time if not this?” Eames smirks. “Go back and join your Mafia family?”
Arthur scoffs. “As if you’d be welcome.”
Eames smiles. He doesn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes says that he knows Arthur’s lying.
-------
They settle into a comfortable routine, keeping themselves occupied as much as possible to stave off their restlessness. Arthur devours Eames’s books and monopolizes the laptop with unspecified research, and as long as he isn’t getting up and moving around too much, Eames doesn’t mind what he does. Eames himself catches up on a lot of movies and a bunch of the books he’d bought but never got around to reading.
He doesn’t notice how comfortable he’s become in his recovery until he passes Arthur in the sitting room, reading a China Mieville novel Eames had picked up last summer. Seeing him there in Eames’s childhood holiday home, comfortable and relaxed makes Eames simultaneously content and unnerved. Without thinking, Eames reaches out to touch Arthur’s hairline at his nape, only to have Arthur flinch and duck out of the way. Eames purses his lips but lets it go, carrying on his way into the kitchen.
He notices that Arthur makes no attempt to touch him for the rest of the day, and has put on socks, which they’d been going without since they got here. That evening after dinner, they sit on the sofa watching yet another kung fu movie from Eames’s collection, their forearms gently touching. When Eames reaches his other hand across to trail up Arthur’s arm and tease at the rolled up cuff at Arthur’s elbow, Arthur shrugs away.
“All right, enough. What’s this about, then?”
Arthur looks over, frowning. To his credit, he doesn’t pretend not to know what Eames is talking about, nor deny that he’s been backing off.
“We’re almost better now. This... thing. Whatever it is. It’s exactly what my father was talking about. My decisions are compromised.” Arthur’s voice, grown so familiar over the past week, sounds suddenly like the Arthur Eames always knew. Professional, clipped.
“Of course they bloody well are,” Eames says, losing patience. “What did you expect?”
“It’s just best to keep things simple,” Arthur turns back to the TV, as if that’s the end of it.
Eames glares at Arthur’s profile, but Arthur doesn’t turn. “So tell me. How simple is it going to be for you to pretend nothing changed here?”
Arthur opens his mouth to respond, then closes it again. He takes a breath. “Look. Even if it was a good idea for us to... it’s just not wise to base things off a traumatic experience like this.“
“Oh? What would be a good way to start, then? Hm? Meet randomly while walking dogs in the park? Go for coffee, move onto dinner? I hardly think either of us were ever cut out for ‘normal’, Arthur, and I, for one, have never sought it. Neither have you. So don’t give me this shit.”
Arthur stands abruptly and stalks to the door. Eames follows and catches him in the kitchen hand lightly resting on Arthur’s shoulder. He can feel the muscle and bone under the cotton, remembers distinctly what that skin felt like without the barrier. Arthur wheels around, hand placed firmly on Eames’s chest to push him away, but he doesn’t quite. He just rests it there.
“It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? Getting close to people.” He looks down at his hand where it rests on Eames’s chest.
Eames shakes his head. “It was never like that.” He tries to get Arthur to meet his eyes but Arthur won’t. “I don’t give a toss how this started. But it did, and I’m not obtuse enough to pretend otherwise.”
Arthur’s fingers touch the edges of Eames’s buttons and begin to play around the edges of the material. The press of his hand has eased to the barest whisper of weight. Eames gambles.
He leans in and nudges Arthur’s nose up with his own, brushing lips to lips. Arthur closes his eyes and frowns, then slides his fingers between the buttons to rustle across Eames’s chest hair and gives in, kissing Eames fiercely.
Eames tugs at Arthur’s shirt, half indicating for him to remove it, half nudging them both back towards the sitting room. They kiss as they walk, awkwardly trying not to stumble while undoing their buttons. It’s slow but neither seem willing to let go of the contact.
When they’re in front of the sofa, they strip entirely and Arthur’s erection rests on Eames’s belly, hot, hard and electrifyingly new. When it brushes against Eames’s own cock, he shivers. He sinks his fingers in the flesh of Arthur’s arse and pulls him tight, grinding their cocks together. Arthur sucks in a breath and bites his own lip. He presses Eames down to sitting and straddles him, running his hands all over Eames’s torso, pinching at his nipples, all of his previous reticence abandoned.
Eames lifts Arthur up, urging him to his knees and noses around the head of his jutting red cock, reaching his tongue out gently to lick at it. Arthur supports himself on the back of the sofa and with his other hand guides himself into Eames’s mouth, running a finger over his lip. Eames holds Arthur steady with both hands and sucks on Arthur’s shaft, urging him to press in further. Arthur’s hips pulse and he runs his hand through Eames’s hair, fucking his mouth like he expects Eames can take it, no hesitance or caution, and Eames gets harder at the thought of how far they might be able to push each other.
When he feels the familiar rumble in Arthur’s sac, the tense readiness, he pushes Arthur’s hips back and jacks him quickly. Arthur watches and soon he’s dropping his mouth open, frown creasing his brow as he shoots thick ropes of white come into Eames’s hand, splashing onto his belly and dripping between his fingers. Eames eases his grip, gathers as much of it as he can off Arthur’s cock before reaching around and holding Arthur’s arse open with his other hand. He pauses.
“Fuck. No condoms here,” he says, realizing what he was about to do.
“I’m clean, you?” Arthur asks tersely, much more desperate sounding than Eames would have expected, having just come. And of course they both have their results, PASIV technology being what it is and necessitating regular testing. Eames nods. “Then do it.”
He smears the come up into Arthur’s hole messily, his whole hand covered and slipping on Arthur’s skin. He pushes one finger up inside and Arthur kisses him, every bit as hungrily as when they started. “More,” he says, and Eames complies.
When he figures Arthur’s as ready as they’re both willing to wait for, he coats his cock with the rest of what’s on his hands and rubs his head against Arthur’s entrance a few times, savouring the moment of anticipation. When he presses upwards, it happens faster than he expects as Arthur sits down on him at the same time, and in one smooth motion, he’s buried to the hilt.
Arthur rides him, rolling his hips down onto Eames and Eames wants to throw his head back and close his eyes but that would mean missing Arthur’s intense look of concentration. And it’s as if both of them have been storing all their energy for the past week as they frantically, feverishly grind themselves together. It’s too short a time before Eames comes with groan, feeling his own come spill back out of Arthur and drip down his cock to his sac. He reaches around to draw a finger through it and to feel where Arthur’s stretched around him. Regretfully, he slips himself out. It’s satisfying that Arthur makes a rueful sound at the loss.
With both of them panting and sweaty, Eames doesn’t quite know what to say. Arthur looks at him, his expression complex and unreadable. He climbs off.
“I’ll take the first shower,” Arthur says, gathering up his clothes. “If you could back this movie up to where we stopped watching, I’d like to see it with you. It’s one of my favourites.”
Eames smiles and nods, reaching across to the side table to grab a tissue to tidy himself a little in the meantime.
When Arthur returns, Eames briefly notes the bare feet before heading to the shower himself.
-------
"Arthur, how'd the Niels check go?" Eames says, handing Arthur his extra-large triple shot Americano.
"Clean. No family history, no apparent susceptibility, but keep an eye out while you're tailing," Arthur says, taking a sip and absent-mindedly petting his hand up Eames's waist. Arthur barely seems to notice the move until Eames shivers slightly. Arthur glances at his hand as if he’s surprised at its location.
Eames smiles fondly. “I would suggest a nap, but I know how useless that would be.” His voice softens. “Drink your coffee, love.”
Arthur nods and obeys, his hand tightening around Eames’s waist briefly before he drops it and returns his full attention to work. “There’s some new information for you to look over,” he says, handing over a folder. “Turns out Underwood spent a year in Spain not too long ago. See if there’s anything you can use.”
Eames flips through the pages, ideas already flowing. He sits at his desk a few feet from Arthur’s and turns his chair so that he’s sitting next to him. Eames sets the folder in his lap and grabs one of Arthur’s hands.
Arthur pulls away. “I need both of my hands to work, Eames.”
“Sorry,” Eames says, not sorry in the least. He reaches up and wraps a hand around the back of Arthur’s neck, enjoying the feel of Arthur’s cool skin against his own. He leaves his hand there as they both work.
Eames finishes reading. He strokes Arthur’s neck gently for a minute as he thinks about what he’s just learned. He dips his fingers below Arthur’s collar and Arthur twitches immediately.
“Not here, Eames.”
“Everyone knows we’re together. We’re not shocking anyone,” Eames says, sparing a brief glance for the job’s chemist and architect.
Arthur shakes his head. “That’s not the point. We’re at work.”
Eames sighs, smiles, then works his fingers, still under Arthur’s collar, beneath his tie.
“Eames, I’m serious,” Arthur says, leaning out of Eames’s reach.
“I’m sorry,” Eames says, holding up his hands in surrender. “You’re right, not at work.”
“Thank you,” Arthur says. He moves back within reach. Eames sets his hand back on Arthur’s neck, earning a look of warning, but he behaves, limiting his touch to visible skin. If Eames hadn’t been watching, he would have missed the way Arthur’s lips turn up slightly as he allows himself a small smile.
Eames smiles himself as he thinks of the irony that the torture meant to destroy him has led to him being happier than ever. Eames doesn't think often about the torture, but every once in awhile, he'll have a sudden flash of a memory: of Arthur, desperate and weak, feverish and fervent, reining himself in with grim determination to get them out. He wonders what he would do in revenge if Arthur were ever damaged beyond repair.
---End---