[Fic] One Week: Sunday
Title: One Week: Sunday
Author:
duckgirlie & weatherfront
Team: ROMANCE
Prompt: Silence
Word count: ~1300 (this part)
Summary: Eames needs to be more careful about where he leaves his notes.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Eames stood under the fluorescent lighting and scanned the shelf in front of him. He may have been a little out of his depth. He looked around for a staff member and finally spotted one at the end of the aisle.
He waved her over frantically. She shuffled up to him, a little confused.
"Could you tell me," said Eames, "what your best brand of hand sanitizer might be?"
"Well," she said, "this one's pretty popular--"
Eames examined the bottle she pointed out, and shook his head. "I'm sorry, but this apparently smells like ocean mist, and I don't think I'm allowed to smell like ocean mist," he said. "Could you recommend an unscented alternative? Actually, could you recommend the most romantic unscented alternative you can think of?"
"The most what?" She blinked, and held out another bottle for his perusal. "I mean, this is more or less standard, I don't know if romantic is what our customers usually look for when they..."
"That's the thing, isn't it," said Eames, "there's nothing usual about my situation. I've got my whole life hanging in the balance here."
"I-- I wish you the best of luck," she said. "Do you need anything else, for your-- for your--"
"Ah yes, as a matter of fact I do," said Eames. "Where might you carry latex gloves?"
"That would be aisle 8," she said. "Sir, you did say romantic, right? That's the word you used?"
"Romantic hand sanitizer," Eames said over his shoulder, jogging to aisle 8. "Romantic latex gloves."
Eventually it occurred to him that his shopping list brought to mind not so much a romantic rendezvous as it did a veterinary delivery of a breached foal, but at any rate the cashier was much too jaded to spare him a second glance
Eames stuffed all of his purchases into his shoulder bag and secured the straps firmly. It wouldn't do to lose anything and have to re-buy.
Now he could sleep.
The next morning, he spent twice as long as usual getting ready for work. Made sure his face was completely smooth and shampooed his hair three times. He didn't even gel it down, because there was no way Arthur would touch his hair if there was stuff in it.
Oh god. Eames stared at himself in the mirror. What if Arthur refused to touch his hair anyway? What if Arthur didn't want him touching his hair? He's been thinking about running his fingers through Arthur's hair, totally disheveling it, since they'd met. If Arthur didn't want that, he was probably going to have to tie his hands down to stop himself.
He finished brushing his teeth, flossed extra-carefully, and rinsed with mouthwash twice before pulling his clothes on. He didn't normally wear deodorant if he was planning on having sex - it makes you smell generic and tastes horrible - but he figured Arthur would appreciate it as a sign of cleanliness, and sprayed some on.
He squared his shoulders and gave himself a final look-over in the mirror.
Time to do this.
Arthur pushed the door to the warehouse open and sighed. None of the lights were on, which meant that everyone was late for work, which meant that he was going to have to make some very angry phonecalls.
He wasn't even paying attention as he stalked to his desk to set down his bag, and at least there wasn't another ridiculous note on his desk, but if Eames and Ariadne had cut work to have sex then he was going to-
Someone coughed.
Arthur looked up suddenly, scanning the room for intruders. Eames was leaning against his desk, the top of which was cleared of it's usual papers and books and was covered in nearly arranged boxes.
"What's going on?"
"I am here to engage you in vigorous debate," said Eames, his face in the half-light grim as a man going to war.
"Okay," said Arthur, "but why..."
That was all he got out before Eames was bending toward him, just a quick step or two-- and then the gentle push of fingers against his chin, tilting his head-- and that, that was Eames's face in front of his, filling every corner of his widened eyes, that was Eames's mouth on his-- Eames's lips brushing against his, a quick press like sealing an envelope closed-- god, Eames was kissing him.
It was hardly a kiss, so fleet and ridiculously sterile that Arthur would have laughed at it. He would have, maybe, if the kiss hadn't been from Eames. As neatly as he came, Eames drew back, and there was something so eager in his expression that Arthur felt like he wanted to cry instead; because ludicrous as that kiss had been, Arthur suddenly knew what it was that Eames meant, what it was that he'd been missing, always hearing it and hearing it without ever really listening to it. Everything flashed by him -- the coffee mugs, the paper frogs, the slanted line of sight -- everything they'd said and done just past each other, skittering across his memory like a zoetrope, like the frantic montage near the end of The Usual Suspects when you realize that Verbal Kint is really Keyser Soze, only with a lot less of Kevin Spacey's face coming through a fax machine.
"Eames," said Arthur, feelingly, lost for any other words, "what is with the hand sanitizer and the latex gloves?"
"Because you--" said Eames. He rummaged in his pocket and came up with a worn little scrap of paper, the handwriting familiar, and Arthur read, the quality of our coitus will be directly proportional to the quality of the hand sanitizer we will employ for our purposes.
"Oh, Jesus," said Arthur, tangled his hands in the front of Eames's shirt, and kissed him with as much tongue as he had.
That was more like it. Eames wasn't rigid with shock for long before his mouth opened against Arthur's, wet and obscene. His tongue snaked across the tender roof of Arthur's mouth, every touch a tiny electric shiver, and Arthur gasped into it, already hot inside his skin. He fumbled with Eames's belt buckle, biting down on a plush lower lip and licking at the soft indents of his teeth, and plunged his hand into Eames's underwear.
"What," choked Eames, "My god, what--"
"Yes," hissed Arthur, feeling out the half-hard heft of Eames's cock, "that's much better."
He drew his hand back out and leaned across Eames's desk, sweeping everything off of it in one wide swing of his arm. The bottle of sanitizer skidded across the floor, the gloves spilling out from their box and scattering in tufts of powder, and an aerosole can of disinfectant spray rolled all the way into the far corner of the room. Arthur kicked off his shoes and lay back on the cleared surface of the desk, tugging Eames on top of him.
"Get me filthy, Eames," said Arthur. "Fuck me on every piece of furniture in this room."
He licked the damp taste of pre-come off his palm, arching up against the line of Eames's body, pressing them together. Something hungry and heated flickered in Eames's eyes, a lit match on the edge of a bone-dry prairie meadow.
Today is going to be a good day, thought Ariadne, the morning sun bright on her face as she threw her curtains open that morning. In half an hour Arthur will arrive at the warehouse, Eames will be there, and they are going to have immaculate, spotless sex. Afterwards, Arthur will rate Eames's performance on a scorecard comprising a fixed scale. It's going to be very clean. It will also be very quiet. Nothing will stain, nothing will break, and we are definitely not still going to find them sleeping in the middle of a wreckage of desks and chairs when we get there tomorrow, Arthur curled against Eames with one long bare leg still hooked around his thigh, Eames's arm thrown heavy and content around Arthur's waist. Just one round of hygienic, civilized, finely controlled sex, and that will be the end of that.
Author:
duckgirlie & weatherfrontTeam: ROMANCE
Prompt: Silence
Word count: ~1300 (this part)
Summary: Eames needs to be more careful about where he leaves his notes.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Monday | Tuesday | Wednesday | Thursday | Friday | Saturday
Eames stood under the fluorescent lighting and scanned the shelf in front of him. He may have been a little out of his depth. He looked around for a staff member and finally spotted one at the end of the aisle.
He waved her over frantically. She shuffled up to him, a little confused.
"Could you tell me," said Eames, "what your best brand of hand sanitizer might be?"
"Well," she said, "this one's pretty popular--"
Eames examined the bottle she pointed out, and shook his head. "I'm sorry, but this apparently smells like ocean mist, and I don't think I'm allowed to smell like ocean mist," he said. "Could you recommend an unscented alternative? Actually, could you recommend the most romantic unscented alternative you can think of?"
"The most what?" She blinked, and held out another bottle for his perusal. "I mean, this is more or less standard, I don't know if romantic is what our customers usually look for when they..."
"That's the thing, isn't it," said Eames, "there's nothing usual about my situation. I've got my whole life hanging in the balance here."
"I-- I wish you the best of luck," she said. "Do you need anything else, for your-- for your--"
"Ah yes, as a matter of fact I do," said Eames. "Where might you carry latex gloves?"
"That would be aisle 8," she said. "Sir, you did say romantic, right? That's the word you used?"
"Romantic hand sanitizer," Eames said over his shoulder, jogging to aisle 8. "Romantic latex gloves."
Eventually it occurred to him that his shopping list brought to mind not so much a romantic rendezvous as it did a veterinary delivery of a breached foal, but at any rate the cashier was much too jaded to spare him a second glance
Eames stuffed all of his purchases into his shoulder bag and secured the straps firmly. It wouldn't do to lose anything and have to re-buy.
Now he could sleep.
The next morning, he spent twice as long as usual getting ready for work. Made sure his face was completely smooth and shampooed his hair three times. He didn't even gel it down, because there was no way Arthur would touch his hair if there was stuff in it.
Oh god. Eames stared at himself in the mirror. What if Arthur refused to touch his hair anyway? What if Arthur didn't want him touching his hair? He's been thinking about running his fingers through Arthur's hair, totally disheveling it, since they'd met. If Arthur didn't want that, he was probably going to have to tie his hands down to stop himself.
He finished brushing his teeth, flossed extra-carefully, and rinsed with mouthwash twice before pulling his clothes on. He didn't normally wear deodorant if he was planning on having sex - it makes you smell generic and tastes horrible - but he figured Arthur would appreciate it as a sign of cleanliness, and sprayed some on.
He squared his shoulders and gave himself a final look-over in the mirror.
Time to do this.
***
Arthur pushed the door to the warehouse open and sighed. None of the lights were on, which meant that everyone was late for work, which meant that he was going to have to make some very angry phonecalls.
He wasn't even paying attention as he stalked to his desk to set down his bag, and at least there wasn't another ridiculous note on his desk, but if Eames and Ariadne had cut work to have sex then he was going to-
Someone coughed.
Arthur looked up suddenly, scanning the room for intruders. Eames was leaning against his desk, the top of which was cleared of it's usual papers and books and was covered in nearly arranged boxes.
"What's going on?"
"I am here to engage you in vigorous debate," said Eames, his face in the half-light grim as a man going to war.
"Okay," said Arthur, "but why..."
That was all he got out before Eames was bending toward him, just a quick step or two-- and then the gentle push of fingers against his chin, tilting his head-- and that, that was Eames's face in front of his, filling every corner of his widened eyes, that was Eames's mouth on his-- Eames's lips brushing against his, a quick press like sealing an envelope closed-- god, Eames was kissing him.
It was hardly a kiss, so fleet and ridiculously sterile that Arthur would have laughed at it. He would have, maybe, if the kiss hadn't been from Eames. As neatly as he came, Eames drew back, and there was something so eager in his expression that Arthur felt like he wanted to cry instead; because ludicrous as that kiss had been, Arthur suddenly knew what it was that Eames meant, what it was that he'd been missing, always hearing it and hearing it without ever really listening to it. Everything flashed by him -- the coffee mugs, the paper frogs, the slanted line of sight -- everything they'd said and done just past each other, skittering across his memory like a zoetrope, like the frantic montage near the end of The Usual Suspects when you realize that Verbal Kint is really Keyser Soze, only with a lot less of Kevin Spacey's face coming through a fax machine.
"Eames," said Arthur, feelingly, lost for any other words, "what is with the hand sanitizer and the latex gloves?"
"Because you--" said Eames. He rummaged in his pocket and came up with a worn little scrap of paper, the handwriting familiar, and Arthur read, the quality of our coitus will be directly proportional to the quality of the hand sanitizer we will employ for our purposes.
"Oh, Jesus," said Arthur, tangled his hands in the front of Eames's shirt, and kissed him with as much tongue as he had.
That was more like it. Eames wasn't rigid with shock for long before his mouth opened against Arthur's, wet and obscene. His tongue snaked across the tender roof of Arthur's mouth, every touch a tiny electric shiver, and Arthur gasped into it, already hot inside his skin. He fumbled with Eames's belt buckle, biting down on a plush lower lip and licking at the soft indents of his teeth, and plunged his hand into Eames's underwear.
"What," choked Eames, "My god, what--"
"Yes," hissed Arthur, feeling out the half-hard heft of Eames's cock, "that's much better."
He drew his hand back out and leaned across Eames's desk, sweeping everything off of it in one wide swing of his arm. The bottle of sanitizer skidded across the floor, the gloves spilling out from their box and scattering in tufts of powder, and an aerosole can of disinfectant spray rolled all the way into the far corner of the room. Arthur kicked off his shoes and lay back on the cleared surface of the desk, tugging Eames on top of him.
"Get me filthy, Eames," said Arthur. "Fuck me on every piece of furniture in this room."
He licked the damp taste of pre-come off his palm, arching up against the line of Eames's body, pressing them together. Something hungry and heated flickered in Eames's eyes, a lit match on the edge of a bone-dry prairie meadow.
***
Today is going to be a good day, thought Ariadne, the morning sun bright on her face as she threw her curtains open that morning. In half an hour Arthur will arrive at the warehouse, Eames will be there, and they are going to have immaculate, spotless sex. Afterwards, Arthur will rate Eames's performance on a scorecard comprising a fixed scale. It's going to be very clean. It will also be very quiet. Nothing will stain, nothing will break, and we are definitely not still going to find them sleeping in the middle of a wreckage of desks and chairs when we get there tomorrow, Arthur curled against Eames with one long bare leg still hooked around his thigh, Eames's arm thrown heavy and content around Arthur's waist. Just one round of hygienic, civilized, finely controlled sex, and that will be the end of that.