Fic: Three Weeks
Three Weeks
Words: 1,300
Written for:
sorrynotsorry's prompt: a scene three weeks after the relationship begins.
Eames wakes up for the tenth day in a row lying next to Arthur,
Three Weeks
Eames wakes up for the tenth day in a row lying next to Arthur, and promptly panics.
Not outwardly, of course, but internally, as he eases Arthur’s surprisingly heavy arm off his chest and then rolls out of bed with skill finely honed from years of escaping sleeping bedmates. Eames only bothers putting on his trousers before slipping through the door onto the balcony; the rest of his clothing is likely lost somewhere in the living room and possibly the kitchen after the frantic scuffle with Arthur that took place last night. A scuffle that ended in bite marks and bruising that would likely scandalize any innocent passersby who might happen to glance up at the tenth floor where Eames is currently standing.
Three weeks, Eames thinks as he hunts through his pockets for a light. Three weeks in this thing, this relationship that Arthur somehow conned him into. Nevermind that it was Eames who had asked whether Arthur was seeing anyone else in a fit of jealousy over the positively lewd way the delivery boy had eyed Arthur. And nevermind that before the delivery boy, it was Eames who had deposited all his things on the floor of Arthur’s living room in lieu of getting his own hotel room or, better yet, renting a flat of his own. He’d had some reasons for doing that—possibly to do with money (of which he is constantly running out of) and definitely to do with the opportunity to have near constant sex. The current living situation hasn’t done much to improve the monetary one, but Arthur has been doing his part—and more—to live up to the promise of living in debauched sin.
All of that is neither here nor there, he decides. What matters is that Eames—who had prided himself on successful avoidance of the label ‘boyfriend’ or ‘lover’ or, god forbid, ‘husband’ for twenty some-odd years ever since that unfortunate mishap with Isabel Robinson in the school playground—has somehow been entrapped in a relationship of the monogamous sort for the past twenty-one days.
“I thought you quit smoking,” Arthur says, coming up behind him, catlike, as he tends to be. Eames jumps three feet into the air and swears loudly when ash catches on his arm.
“My god, we need to put a bell on you,” Eames grumbles as Arthur leans against the railing next to him. “And I did.”
“Hm,” Arthur says as he steals Eames’ cigarette.
Eames raises an eyebrow when Arthur doesn’t stub out the cigarette but takes a drag instead. “You smoke?”
“No.” Arthur hands the cigarette back with the twinkle in his eye that signals when he thinks he’s being funny. Eames has been seeing more of it, lately, and resists the urge to be charmed.
Eames forces himself to look away from the rather entrancing spectacle of Arthur with sleep mussed hair and a smile happy enough for his dimples to make a showing. That Eames notices either of those things is not the distressing part—it’s the fact that they make him want to lean and put his arms around Arthur, possibly kiss his nose to make him laugh. This is very bad, Eames knows—if he continues at this rate he’ll be doodling Arthur’s name in hearts and sighing over his dreamboat eyes in no time at all.
“Eames?” Arthur says after a minute passes and Eames hasn’t said anything. “You okay?”
“Absolutely fantastic,” Eames replies. It’s a half-hearted lie at best, but he finds he can’t scrounge up a more convincing one this early in the morning.
“Eames,” Arthur says again, and his fingers are hesitant against the small of Eames’ back. “Is there something going on that I should know about?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eames tries to put on his best defensive-with-something-to-hide voice, but it fails at being convincing, yet again. He’s been having the most difficult time lying to Arthur the past few weeks; this is a recent development he’s not sure he likes either.
“It means that if you want to talk about it, I’m here.” Arthur presses a kiss to Eames’ bicep. “If you don’t, that’s fine too.”
Eames wants to take Arthur up on his offer of silence—he does—but words fall out of his traitorous mouth instead. “I was just thinking that we’re moving a bit fast, yeah?” Eames flicks the ash from his cigarette and then glances over at Arthur. “You and me.”
“We’ve known each other for six years,” Arthur says, voice dry as bone. “You flirted with me shamelessly for five of those, then ran away and refused to come back until nearly a year of me courting you. It took six months before you agreed to a real date, and another four before you moved yourself into my apartment and said you didn’t want to see any other people.” Arthur quirks an eyebrow up. “It’s practically the definition of a whirlwind romance.”
Eames had forgotten about that year of courtship—surely the most awkward and yet sweetest attempts at winning favor Eames has ever been party to. He tries to suppress a smile at the memory of Arthur covered head to toe in powdered sugar, but can’t quite manage it.
“You’re like a bulldog attacking a bone with scraps of meat still on it," Eames declares. "When someone tries to take it away, you just plod along after it relentlessly until you get it back.”
“That is a surprisingly specific metaphor,” Arthur says, unperturbed by the seeming non sequitur. “Although I’ve always thought of myself more as a Doberman Pinscher.”
“Thanks, I worked very hard on it.” Eames slouches forward on the railing and stares down at the river below them, waters still tranquil in the early dawn light. “And you’re definitely more a bulldog. Perhaps an American one. But stubborn, deliberate—planned down to the minute.”
Arthur’s eyebrow is still raised. “And you are?”
“Spontaneous, acting on whims and passing fancies and constantly searching for next experiences—the way a free mutt in the world should be.” Eames exhales a puff of smoke and watches a little boat make its way slowly down the river. “I don’t know what it says about me that you’ve decided I’m something worth investing in.”
“Is that what you think?" Arthur has the audacity to laugh. "That I made a reasonable, well thought out choice to be with you?”
Eames tosses his cigarette butt over the side of the balcony and tries not to pout. He mostly succeeds. “It’s not like you do anything else.”
“You know, over the years, I have made every kind of list about you,” Arthur says. “Pros and cons, major and minor character flaws--probabilities that I would wake up in a tub full of ice missing a major organ or two.”
“I’ll have you know that I have never been involved in the selling of—" Eames pauses. “I have never been directly involved in the selling of any major organs. Or minor ones.”
Arthur smiles, but it fades as he leans forward to rest his forearms against the railing again. “None of it mattered. The lists always told me that you were a terrible idea. Hell, even Dom tried to give me some roundabout advice involving weather patterns and chickens and some other analogy that might have made sense at the time.” Arthur falters. “But still I—"
Eames stares at the side of Arthur’s face, the way his hair falls into his eyes when it isn’t gelled back into submission. “What?”
“I wanted you,” Arthur says simply, turning to look Eames in the eye, completely fearless. “Still do.”
“And how can you not be—" Eames gropes for the words. “There’s just all this uncertainty.”
Eames wants to look away, but Arthur’s brought a hand up to cup his face, thumb stroking gently over the shell of his ear. “I know,” Arthur says, voice low and soft. “So what?”
“You’re a bit more of a thrill-seeker than I first took you for,” Eames says, feeling something loosen a little in his chest. “I’m not sure I approve.”
“I can live with that,” Arthur says with a tiny smile that grows wider when Eames finally leans forward to kiss him.
fin
Words: 1,300
Written for:
sorrynotsorry's prompt: a scene three weeks after the relationship begins.Eames wakes up for the tenth day in a row lying next to Arthur,
Eames wakes up for the tenth day in a row lying next to Arthur, and promptly panics.
Not outwardly, of course, but internally, as he eases Arthur’s surprisingly heavy arm off his chest and then rolls out of bed with skill finely honed from years of escaping sleeping bedmates. Eames only bothers putting on his trousers before slipping through the door onto the balcony; the rest of his clothing is likely lost somewhere in the living room and possibly the kitchen after the frantic scuffle with Arthur that took place last night. A scuffle that ended in bite marks and bruising that would likely scandalize any innocent passersby who might happen to glance up at the tenth floor where Eames is currently standing.
Three weeks, Eames thinks as he hunts through his pockets for a light. Three weeks in this thing, this relationship that Arthur somehow conned him into. Nevermind that it was Eames who had asked whether Arthur was seeing anyone else in a fit of jealousy over the positively lewd way the delivery boy had eyed Arthur. And nevermind that before the delivery boy, it was Eames who had deposited all his things on the floor of Arthur’s living room in lieu of getting his own hotel room or, better yet, renting a flat of his own. He’d had some reasons for doing that—possibly to do with money (of which he is constantly running out of) and definitely to do with the opportunity to have near constant sex. The current living situation hasn’t done much to improve the monetary one, but Arthur has been doing his part—and more—to live up to the promise of living in debauched sin.
All of that is neither here nor there, he decides. What matters is that Eames—who had prided himself on successful avoidance of the label ‘boyfriend’ or ‘lover’ or, god forbid, ‘husband’ for twenty some-odd years ever since that unfortunate mishap with Isabel Robinson in the school playground—has somehow been entrapped in a relationship of the monogamous sort for the past twenty-one days.
“I thought you quit smoking,” Arthur says, coming up behind him, catlike, as he tends to be. Eames jumps three feet into the air and swears loudly when ash catches on his arm.
“My god, we need to put a bell on you,” Eames grumbles as Arthur leans against the railing next to him. “And I did.”
“Hm,” Arthur says as he steals Eames’ cigarette.
Eames raises an eyebrow when Arthur doesn’t stub out the cigarette but takes a drag instead. “You smoke?”
“No.” Arthur hands the cigarette back with the twinkle in his eye that signals when he thinks he’s being funny. Eames has been seeing more of it, lately, and resists the urge to be charmed.
Eames forces himself to look away from the rather entrancing spectacle of Arthur with sleep mussed hair and a smile happy enough for his dimples to make a showing. That Eames notices either of those things is not the distressing part—it’s the fact that they make him want to lean and put his arms around Arthur, possibly kiss his nose to make him laugh. This is very bad, Eames knows—if he continues at this rate he’ll be doodling Arthur’s name in hearts and sighing over his dreamboat eyes in no time at all.
“Eames?” Arthur says after a minute passes and Eames hasn’t said anything. “You okay?”
“Absolutely fantastic,” Eames replies. It’s a half-hearted lie at best, but he finds he can’t scrounge up a more convincing one this early in the morning.
“Eames,” Arthur says again, and his fingers are hesitant against the small of Eames’ back. “Is there something going on that I should know about?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eames tries to put on his best defensive-with-something-to-hide voice, but it fails at being convincing, yet again. He’s been having the most difficult time lying to Arthur the past few weeks; this is a recent development he’s not sure he likes either.
“It means that if you want to talk about it, I’m here.” Arthur presses a kiss to Eames’ bicep. “If you don’t, that’s fine too.”
Eames wants to take Arthur up on his offer of silence—he does—but words fall out of his traitorous mouth instead. “I was just thinking that we’re moving a bit fast, yeah?” Eames flicks the ash from his cigarette and then glances over at Arthur. “You and me.”
“We’ve known each other for six years,” Arthur says, voice dry as bone. “You flirted with me shamelessly for five of those, then ran away and refused to come back until nearly a year of me courting you. It took six months before you agreed to a real date, and another four before you moved yourself into my apartment and said you didn’t want to see any other people.” Arthur quirks an eyebrow up. “It’s practically the definition of a whirlwind romance.”
Eames had forgotten about that year of courtship—surely the most awkward and yet sweetest attempts at winning favor Eames has ever been party to. He tries to suppress a smile at the memory of Arthur covered head to toe in powdered sugar, but can’t quite manage it.
“You’re like a bulldog attacking a bone with scraps of meat still on it," Eames declares. "When someone tries to take it away, you just plod along after it relentlessly until you get it back.”
“That is a surprisingly specific metaphor,” Arthur says, unperturbed by the seeming non sequitur. “Although I’ve always thought of myself more as a Doberman Pinscher.”
“Thanks, I worked very hard on it.” Eames slouches forward on the railing and stares down at the river below them, waters still tranquil in the early dawn light. “And you’re definitely more a bulldog. Perhaps an American one. But stubborn, deliberate—planned down to the minute.”
Arthur’s eyebrow is still raised. “And you are?”
“Spontaneous, acting on whims and passing fancies and constantly searching for next experiences—the way a free mutt in the world should be.” Eames exhales a puff of smoke and watches a little boat make its way slowly down the river. “I don’t know what it says about me that you’ve decided I’m something worth investing in.”
“Is that what you think?" Arthur has the audacity to laugh. "That I made a reasonable, well thought out choice to be with you?”
Eames tosses his cigarette butt over the side of the balcony and tries not to pout. He mostly succeeds. “It’s not like you do anything else.”
“You know, over the years, I have made every kind of list about you,” Arthur says. “Pros and cons, major and minor character flaws--probabilities that I would wake up in a tub full of ice missing a major organ or two.”
“I’ll have you know that I have never been involved in the selling of—" Eames pauses. “I have never been directly involved in the selling of any major organs. Or minor ones.”
Arthur smiles, but it fades as he leans forward to rest his forearms against the railing again. “None of it mattered. The lists always told me that you were a terrible idea. Hell, even Dom tried to give me some roundabout advice involving weather patterns and chickens and some other analogy that might have made sense at the time.” Arthur falters. “But still I—"
Eames stares at the side of Arthur’s face, the way his hair falls into his eyes when it isn’t gelled back into submission. “What?”
“I wanted you,” Arthur says simply, turning to look Eames in the eye, completely fearless. “Still do.”
“And how can you not be—" Eames gropes for the words. “There’s just all this uncertainty.”
Eames wants to look away, but Arthur’s brought a hand up to cup his face, thumb stroking gently over the shell of his ear. “I know,” Arthur says, voice low and soft. “So what?”
“You’re a bit more of a thrill-seeker than I first took you for,” Eames says, feeling something loosen a little in his chest. “I’m not sure I approve.”
“I can live with that,” Arthur says with a tiny smile that grows wider when Eames finally leans forward to kiss him.
fin