[He screws up his face at that reply. What are they even talking about anymore?]
yeah I am. see you.
[And since he prefers to lounge around in as few clothes as possible, he throws on comfy clothes, leaving his shoes and socks off. His hair is hanging loose over his forehead, a little messy from lounging in bed. He sits at the edge of his bed, tapping his palms against his knees and waiting for Arthur.]
[ Nerves take over for a second when he gets the affirmative, because this is dumb. He doesn't even know what he wants to say, just that text was inefficient. As though he could get himself to emote correctly on something he's so mixed on.
But, he doesn't ever back off from his word. So he walks to Eames' quarters, located down a series of corridors that connect all the rooms together. And maybe it's telling, but he doesn't even really knock, just breezes in, clicking the door shut behind him.
There's Eames, perched at the edge of the bed in a loose shirt and something resembling sweats. Sockless, shoeless, hair tousled from it's normal combed back state. Arthur pauses, staring, fingertips still sitting on the door handle. It feels like his stomach drops out, heartbeat stuttering for a second before it remembers its steady pulse.
He doesn't even want to climb into his lap, he just wants, he wants– ]
[He hears the click of the door, and his shoulders tense before he recognizes that it's Arthur. He looks up and loses his breath, like he always does when Arthur's just there -
He tries a blink and a breath, and he seems to be functioning again. Arthur does that to him. Makes him lose his mind, his breath, everything. It's thrilling and terrifying, and he has to wonder if this friend talk is leading up to Arthur having noticed all this.]
Yeah. Me too, [he answers quietly. He pats the bed near him, giving him a small smile, so Arthur will stop looking so... so serious.]
Should probably just correct the record and say weird mission.
[ Being on Earth and dabbling in historical events is one thing. Dealing with spider people, foreign politics, Regency, and shrugged off death. Well, that's entirely another thing. Arthur's pretty numb to most outlandish crap– dreamshare will do that to a person– but even he can admit when something is odd.
At Eames' invitation, he crosses the room, feeling like he's leaving behind important pieces. Or that maybe this moment is more weighted than he initially thought it was going to be. Polite, he leaves some distance between them as he sits on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping under the added weight.
(He misses the flicker of breath Eames takes, but catches the smile). ]
Right, so, friends. This is gonna sound nuts but I wasn't sure.
[ Wait, that's so vague. ]
I mean, there's trust and there's trust. You've always been hard for me to read. I just thought–
[ He starts and then blows out a breath, combing a hand through his hair. ] Fuck, I don't even know what I'm trying to say.
[ How does he convey that he didn't know where Eames judged their barometer of closeness? He'd been honest; the forger was sometimes a hard read. With him, there was always layers, a con within a con. Smiles on top of laughter on top of murderous intent. Arthur had seen him pull the wool over so many people's eyes, had seen him keep his distance while simultaneously looking like a best friend. It's not that he doesn't trust Eames, because god help him, he does. It's that he doesn't trust his observation of him.
And like a true adult who has a difficult time sifting through their own emotions, he's put off asking. Partly because he doesn't want to embarrass himself. Arthur had decided, at some point, that he'd drop everything and follow Eames if he needed it. Everything he'd done for Cobb and then some. Those are the lengths he's more than willing to give.
He thinks maybe it's mutual, maybe it goes further than friendship (that moment, when they met planetside again, it replays on the back of his eyelids and he can feel the phantom embrace). ]
[He smiles genuinely. It is much more strange than being on Earth, going back in time. This is like walking on hind legs. They're far more out of their depth, and he wouldn't blame Arthur if it felt strange to him. Eames has always seen him so put together, so it's probably weird to be off his game.
The polite distance is noticed, bemoaned in his head. He listens to Arthur, trying to remain calm and quiet. He knows the other man has trouble with this sort of thing. Eames' breathing is shallow, from what he's hearing, what he's picking up from this. Is he imagining it? Or is this real? Is Arthur putting out feelers?
He listens, and then he takes a breath, and starts speaking.]
I don't... I don't blame you, Arthur. For being unsure. I've worked my whole life to ensure I was difficult to read.
[He takes another breath. And starts to lay out his metaphorical cards. One by one.] But you have to understand, underneath that, I still feel things. As much as we skip around the subject, we're... not just friends. We're there for each other. Better than bloody... casual friends. Arthur, I've put my life in your hands so many times. I trust you. I would take a bullet for you, and then bleed on you for payback.
[He cracks a smile at his own joke, but now he has one card left. It feels like a slow fall, the way the words come out of his mouth, the way he starts to give up the act. His words are breathless by now and he shifts closer, lashes dipping low over his eyes.] But you're not just asking about being friends. Are you?
[ It should be relieving to hear Eames admit that he's made it hard for people to read him. Because Arthur knows that. He knows it, has known it for years, from the second they met. A niggling part of him whispers that he should've been able to see past it all anyway. As a point man– his entire reputation hangs on being able to sniff out a dangerous or precarious situation before it even has the chance to start. He reads people all the time, eyes wary, motions cautious, holding everyone at an arm's length.
But more than the professional aspect, they're friends. Close friends, not just associates who occasionally get drinks together. Who occasionally fall into bed together. He's disappointed in himself, stupidly. ]
Jesus Eames, I know you have feelings, you're not some sociopath. [ The forger has never been accused of being an emotionless robot, not like he has. Still, it takes the air right out of his lungs when he keeps going, talking about taking a bullet for him and Arthur knows he means it. Topside, not in dreamtime, where getting shot and bleeding all over has real consequences.
He swallows reflexively at the sudden wave of fear that swoops through him at the admittance. It's edged with the premise of a joke, but he knows how to parse it, read between the smile and see the truth. Eames would be willing to take that risk for him and he–
–he'd do the same. ]
No? Yes?
[ In battles of mind vs emotion, Arthur's never let the latter get the best of him. Even when Cobb had nearly gotten them all sunk into limbo, he'd tempered out his rage. Let it sink into his bones and settle, cool rationale coming to the fore, because getting angry and shouting wasn't going to solve things. But here, his heart's a traitorous muscle, a visceral ache that smoothly pulls all of his logic down like waves against sand.
(He remembers, suddenly, the moment before he put Eames under in the hotel room. That flicker of concern, the murmured they'll run you down hard. Even further, the twist of his mouth when he'd kicked his chair out. The time on BASE, when he'd woken up next to him, their hair glorious messes, pillows askew, artificial lighting doing no favors.
Arthur wants to keep it all, wants a million little things just like it stretching on forever).
But the words are stuck, lodged between what he wants and what he realizes is a weak point. Isn't that what he'd told Meliorn? That everyone is fragile if you know where to apply pressure?
[Eames wants him so badly. Not in bed (well... not just in bed.) Him... completely. He's been so wound up over him, for so long, so many years. How could he not take a chance on him now, when they've been through so much, when Arthur might just feel the same things?
He swallows nervously and moves closer, eyes locked on Arthur's deep brown ones. He's so beautiful, hair loose and almost curling. Eames wants to touch it, run his fingers through his hair, but he's got to get this out before he loses his nerve entirely.
He brushes his hand over Arthur's. His stomach is all tied in knots, fluttering nervously. Acting isn't going to cut it, so he's left with being himself. Which really sounds like a horrible idea, but if Arthur wants him, then he's going to want him.]
Arthur... [He presses his hand to Arthur's, glancing back up at him. He puts down his last card and shows his hand.] I'm mad about you. I can't even look at another man or a beautiful woman. You drive me absolutely mad, but every fucking flaw is just a part of you, and you are... the most fascinating, brilliant, incredible man I've ever known.
[He laughs, a short, strangled noise.] And I know you won't let me forget I said that, but I don't care. I had to give this a shot. And I'm just praying you feel the same. I know you're worried, but I mean, I'm not going to leave you because of your job. I can handle myself with any thugs that might try to use us against each other, you know I can.
[He rubs his hand over Arthur's, anxious again.] I'm talking too much. Just... how do you feel, darling? About me? Or questions... Ask me things, if you need to.
[ For a bit, he's able to hold his gaze, feeling steady despite the tension running down his spine.
When Eames puts his hand over his, he glances down, looks at the lines of their palms and wrists intersecting and listens. It doesn't feel real, feels like he could just be dreaming, because they're never been like this. Honest, without the edge of a joke, without the sharpness added to keep themselves protected. Defense after defense, built up over years, even if it was occasionally as transparent as glass.
Arthur surrounded himself with knives, with guns and bullets, made like his bones were steel and his blood simply ran like ice. Untouchable. It was easier that way, not to let anyone too close. And Eames had done something similar, but everything was veiled. Smoke and mirrors. The cushion of velvet before the slice. People underestimated him and didn't understand when they'd walk away bloody.
Yet here they are, with Eames' cards on the table; a royal flush, winner takes all, maybe it wasn't coincidence his totem was a poker chip after all.
(His fingers itch to roll the die he has in his pocket, wondering if it'll be the three white pips over and over again). ]
I know you can handle yourself, I know.
[ Arthur says it low, just above a murmur. Less like a painful admittance and more like a tentative thing, a fawn on unsteady legs. He doesn't want to think about them being used as leverage, even if they're completely capable. It's the idea itself, the possibility that it could happen, it's searing and frightening.
Abruptly, he looks up again, worry etched in every line. ]
I do. Feel the same. I just– what if we destroy each other in the process, Eames? What if we end up like...
[ Like Mal and Dom, so in love. Like Mal and Dom, who dreamt a lifetime together. Who made one mistake and then it was just Dom. Just Dom, who he followed around the fucking world, who carried the shadow of his wife dreaming and awake.
Arthur knows himself, he wouldn't be able to let go, either. ]
[He can feel the glass around Arthur, feel the cracks veining through it as Arthur's walls begin to shatter with his defenses. Eames has never felt so nervous, so breathless and on the edge of the knife, waiting for his fate.
He looks up, and Eames sees every fear, every moment of his time with Cobb coming back to haunt him. And Eames caresses his cheek; he has to touch Arthur or he's going to go insane because he just said he felt the same way. Eames can't be relieved yet, though. There are so many ways this could end without Arthur in his arms, and he can't let that happen.
His voice is strangled when he speaks, his other hand gripping his arm like he's afraid to let go.]
We won't. I promise you, Arthur, we won't. We'll be careful. Hell, if you want me to, I'll quit dream sharing here and now.
[He moves in, to kiss his cheek softly, whisper to him.] But we can't let fear of what we could lose dictate this, when we have so much to gain. Please.
[ He's never been very good with emotional moments. Part of it comes from an adolescence filled with a lot of anger issues and no productive way to let loose. In the military, he learned how to bottle things up, compartmentalize— those lessons stuck, made him good at what he does, running point. Objectivity is important, especially when one is making as many split second decisions as he does on even a normal job.
Most of all, though, he's bad at emotions because they're overwhelming. Years of defense has gotten him a moniker of being some kind of automaton, but he cares. Deeply, without reservation, with the kind of trust attributed to dogs more than people. Easily, he can see it fucking them up completely.
But Eames is promising him, voice hitched and slightly strangled, and Arthur wants to believe every word.
Maybe they won't self destruct. Maybe they won't be another Dom and Mal Cobb, a warning for every person in dreamshare.
Maybe this will work out, because they both have feet planted firmly in reality. This reality, the one that feels slightly surreal but is all the same. Eames brushes a kiss on his cheek and Arthur caves slowly, leans in and presses his forehead to the forger's shoulder. He slides his other hand over top of Eames' where it's set on his lap, laces his fingers in the spaces between. ]
Don't quit. [ The words are muffled by fabric and muscle and bone. Like this, he can almost make out his heartbeat, a steady thrum. He's afraid but he wants this, wherever this leads. ]
I'm not gonna let you loose after this, I hope you realize.
[God, it's real. This is real and he's holding Arthur and Arthur... has feelings for him. He breathes in easy for once, for the first time in a long time. Closing his eyes, he holds on to Arthur like he's the only thing tethering him to the earth.
Eames smiles, cards his fingers through Arthur's soft hair.] It's okay. I'm holding on to you too.
[He lets the silence carry on for a bit, running the tips of his fingers over the soft hair at the nape of his neck.] Stay with me tonight? I promise you can leave as bright and early as you need to.
[ As Eames combs finger through his hair, he relaxes in increments. It's been a while since he's just indulged in this, touching without the promise of taking his clothes off.
He's so chilled out by the time he gets that question, he's not even considering rejecting it out of hand. The words are there though. Because he's busy, he's got a million things to do and—
Whatever. Fuck it for now. ]
Yeah, okay. If I wake up late, I'm making you do the edits to the mazes.
[Grinning in victory, he attempts to pry Arthur from his shoulder-] There are a lot of legitimate reasons to wake up late. I might argue the terms of this deal tomorrow. [-to press his lips to Arthur's.] But deal.
[It's so... weird to be at this point with Arthur. To be able to be affectionate without making himself vulnerable. Or maybe he still is. Maybe he just knows Arthur won't hurt him because of it.]
[ Lucky for Eames, he's managed to pull himself away from the comforting warmth of his shoulder. Mostly so he can raise a very questioning brow at the idea of "legitimate reasons to sleep in".
Granted, his skepticism doesn't last too long, since he's smiling a bit into the quick kiss. ]
Should I be worried if you argue? Will your fans hear it and come fawning?
[ The last time Eames argued with all of his fervor, he ended up with something like a spider attaché. It was, quite frankly, amusing. ]
[He chuckles, just hovering near his mouth.] God, I hope not. Although they seem to be advertising John's odd little pipes fairly well.
[He gives him another quick kiss before disappearing into the crook of Arthur's shoulder, kissing the skin there softly and mouthing his way up his neck.]
On second thought, if I manage to get you to sleep in, I'll take the bloody punishment.
[ They've been close before. Obviously, because Arthur's been stripped down under Eames' hands, nothing between them but sweat and skin.
And somehow, these sweet close-mouthed kisses are more intimate. Personal. Arthur feels even more exposed, defenses crumbling to the ground. He leans into it, lets Eames kiss a line along his throat, hums a bit at just the warmth.
It seems to spread, blooming to fill his lungs, his rib cage expanding with it. Happiness, threatening to bubble over like a bottle of champagne shaken and uncorked. He's smiling, dimples clearly showing, eyes crinkling right at the corners. Somewhere, he feels like maybe this is stupid, that he's stupid, for letting this affect him so much.
But right now, he's finding it hard to care. Gently, he brings his hands to either side of Eames' face, silently getting him to make eye contact. ]
I think if I'm exhausted, that's possible. [ His smile goes from beaming to a curve of a smirk, implicating. ] Think you can do that, Mr. Eames?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Have we? Wait, look. You in your quarters? I'll be over in a few.
[ this is an even worse idea but he has a terrible voice over text. ]
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yeah I am. see you.
[And since he prefers to lounge around in as few clothes as possible, he throws on comfy clothes, leaving his shoes and socks off. His hair is hanging loose over his forehead, a little messy from lounging in bed. He sits at the edge of his bed, tapping his palms against his knees and waiting for Arthur.]
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But, he doesn't ever back off from his word. So he walks to Eames' quarters, located down a series of corridors that connect all the rooms together. And maybe it's telling, but he doesn't even really knock, just breezes in, clicking the door shut behind him.
There's Eames, perched at the edge of the bed in a loose shirt and something resembling sweats. Sockless, shoeless, hair tousled from it's normal combed back state. Arthur pauses, staring, fingertips still sitting on the door handle. It feels like his stomach drops out, heartbeat stuttering for a second before it remembers its steady pulse.
He doesn't even want to climb into his lap, he just wants, he wants– ]
Uh, hi. Fuck, sorry, it's been a weird few days.
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He tries a blink and a breath, and he seems to be functioning again. Arthur does that to him. Makes him lose his mind, his breath, everything. It's thrilling and terrifying, and he has to wonder if this friend talk is leading up to Arthur having noticed all this.]
Yeah. Me too, [he answers quietly. He pats the bed near him, giving him a small smile, so Arthur will stop looking so... so serious.]
Have a seat and let's chat, hm?
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[ Being on Earth and dabbling in historical events is one thing. Dealing with spider people, foreign politics, Regency, and shrugged off death. Well, that's entirely another thing. Arthur's pretty numb to most outlandish crap– dreamshare will do that to a person– but even he can admit when something is odd.
At Eames' invitation, he crosses the room, feeling like he's leaving behind important pieces. Or that maybe this moment is more weighted than he initially thought it was going to be. Polite, he leaves some distance between them as he sits on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping under the added weight.
(He misses the flicker of breath Eames takes, but catches the smile). ]
Right, so, friends. This is gonna sound nuts but I wasn't sure.
[ Wait, that's so vague. ]
I mean, there's trust and there's trust. You've always been hard for me to read. I just thought–
[ He starts and then blows out a breath, combing a hand through his hair. ] Fuck, I don't even know what I'm trying to say.
[ How does he convey that he didn't know where Eames judged their barometer of closeness? He'd been honest; the forger was sometimes a hard read. With him, there was always layers, a con within a con. Smiles on top of laughter on top of murderous intent. Arthur had seen him pull the wool over so many people's eyes, had seen him keep his distance while simultaneously looking like a best friend. It's not that he doesn't trust Eames, because god help him, he does. It's that he doesn't trust his observation of him.
And like a true adult who has a difficult time sifting through their own emotions, he's put off asking. Partly because he doesn't want to embarrass himself. Arthur had decided, at some point, that he'd drop everything and follow Eames if he needed it. Everything he'd done for Cobb and then some. Those are the lengths he's more than willing to give.
He thinks maybe it's mutual, maybe it goes further than friendship (that moment, when they met planetside again, it replays on the back of his eyelids and he can feel the phantom embrace). ]
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The polite distance is noticed, bemoaned in his head. He listens to Arthur, trying to remain calm and quiet. He knows the other man has trouble with this sort of thing. Eames' breathing is shallow, from what he's hearing, what he's picking up from this. Is he imagining it? Or is this real? Is Arthur putting out feelers?
He listens, and then he takes a breath, and starts speaking.]
I don't... I don't blame you, Arthur. For being unsure. I've worked my whole life to ensure I was difficult to read.
[He takes another breath. And starts to lay out his metaphorical cards. One by one.] But you have to understand, underneath that, I still feel things. As much as we skip around the subject, we're... not just friends. We're there for each other. Better than bloody... casual friends. Arthur, I've put my life in your hands so many times. I trust you. I would take a bullet for you, and then bleed on you for payback.
[He cracks a smile at his own joke, but now he has one card left. It feels like a slow fall, the way the words come out of his mouth, the way he starts to give up the act. His words are breathless by now and he shifts closer, lashes dipping low over his eyes.] But you're not just asking about being friends. Are you?
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But more than the professional aspect, they're friends. Close friends, not just associates who occasionally get drinks together. Who occasionally fall into bed together. He's disappointed in himself, stupidly. ]
Jesus Eames, I know you have feelings, you're not some sociopath. [ The forger has never been accused of being an emotionless robot, not like he has. Still, it takes the air right out of his lungs when he keeps going, talking about taking a bullet for him and Arthur knows he means it. Topside, not in dreamtime, where getting shot and bleeding all over has real consequences.
He swallows reflexively at the sudden wave of fear that swoops through him at the admittance. It's edged with the premise of a joke, but he knows how to parse it, read between the smile and see the truth. Eames would be willing to take that risk for him and he–
–he'd do the same. ]
No? Yes?
[ In battles of mind vs emotion, Arthur's never let the latter get the best of him. Even when Cobb had nearly gotten them all sunk into limbo, he'd tempered out his rage. Let it sink into his bones and settle, cool rationale coming to the fore, because getting angry and shouting wasn't going to solve things. But here, his heart's a traitorous muscle, a visceral ache that smoothly pulls all of his logic down like waves against sand.
(He remembers, suddenly, the moment before he put Eames under in the hotel room. That flicker of concern, the murmured they'll run you down hard. Even further, the twist of his mouth when he'd kicked his chair out. The time on BASE, when he'd woken up next to him, their hair glorious messes, pillows askew, artificial lighting doing no favors.
Arthur wants to keep it all, wants a million little things just like it stretching on forever).
But the words are stuck, lodged between what he wants and what he realizes is a weak point. Isn't that what he'd told Meliorn? That everyone is fragile if you know where to apply pressure?
He doesn't want to be fragile in another place. ]
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He swallows nervously and moves closer, eyes locked on Arthur's deep brown ones. He's so beautiful, hair loose and almost curling. Eames wants to touch it, run his fingers through his hair, but he's got to get this out before he loses his nerve entirely.
He brushes his hand over Arthur's. His stomach is all tied in knots, fluttering nervously. Acting isn't going to cut it, so he's left with being himself. Which really sounds like a horrible idea, but if Arthur wants him, then he's going to want him.]
Arthur... [He presses his hand to Arthur's, glancing back up at him. He puts down his last card and shows his hand.] I'm mad about you. I can't even look at another man or a beautiful woman. You drive me absolutely mad, but every fucking flaw is just a part of you, and you are... the most fascinating, brilliant, incredible man I've ever known.
[He laughs, a short, strangled noise.] And I know you won't let me forget I said that, but I don't care. I had to give this a shot. And I'm just praying you feel the same. I know you're worried, but I mean, I'm not going to leave you because of your job. I can handle myself with any thugs that might try to use us against each other, you know I can.
[He rubs his hand over Arthur's, anxious again.] I'm talking too much. Just... how do you feel, darling? About me? Or questions... Ask me things, if you need to.
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When Eames puts his hand over his, he glances down, looks at the lines of their palms and wrists intersecting and listens. It doesn't feel real, feels like he could just be dreaming, because they're never been like this. Honest, without the edge of a joke, without the sharpness added to keep themselves protected. Defense after defense, built up over years, even if it was occasionally as transparent as glass.
Arthur surrounded himself with knives, with guns and bullets, made like his bones were steel and his blood simply ran like ice. Untouchable. It was easier that way, not to let anyone too close. And Eames had done something similar, but everything was veiled. Smoke and mirrors. The cushion of velvet before the slice. People underestimated him and didn't understand when they'd walk away bloody.
Yet here they are, with Eames' cards on the table; a royal flush, winner takes all, maybe it wasn't coincidence his totem was a poker chip after all.
(His fingers itch to roll the die he has in his pocket, wondering if it'll be the three white pips over and over again). ]
I know you can handle yourself, I know.
[ Arthur says it low, just above a murmur. Less like a painful admittance and more like a tentative thing, a fawn on unsteady legs. He doesn't want to think about them being used as leverage, even if they're completely capable. It's the idea itself, the possibility that it could happen, it's searing and frightening.
Abruptly, he looks up again, worry etched in every line. ]
I do. Feel the same. I just– what if we destroy each other in the process, Eames? What if we end up like...
[ Like Mal and Dom, so in love. Like Mal and Dom, who dreamt a lifetime together. Who made one mistake and then it was just Dom. Just Dom, who he followed around the fucking world, who carried the shadow of his wife dreaming and awake.
Arthur knows himself, he wouldn't be able to let go, either. ]
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He looks up, and Eames sees every fear, every moment of his time with Cobb coming back to haunt him. And Eames caresses his cheek; he has to touch Arthur or he's going to go insane because he just said he felt the same way. Eames can't be relieved yet, though. There are so many ways this could end without Arthur in his arms, and he can't let that happen.
His voice is strangled when he speaks, his other hand gripping his arm like he's afraid to let go.]
We won't. I promise you, Arthur, we won't. We'll be careful. Hell, if you want me to, I'll quit dream sharing here and now.
[He moves in, to kiss his cheek softly, whisper to him.] But we can't let fear of what we could lose dictate this, when we have so much to gain. Please.
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Most of all, though, he's bad at emotions because they're overwhelming. Years of defense has gotten him a moniker of being some kind of automaton, but he cares. Deeply, without reservation, with the kind of trust attributed to dogs more than people. Easily, he can see it fucking them up completely.
But Eames is promising him, voice hitched and slightly strangled, and Arthur wants to believe every word.
Maybe they won't self destruct. Maybe they won't be another Dom and Mal Cobb, a warning for every person in dreamshare.
Maybe this will work out, because they both have feet planted firmly in reality. This reality, the one that feels slightly surreal but is all the same. Eames brushes a kiss on his cheek and Arthur caves slowly, leans in and presses his forehead to the forger's shoulder. He slides his other hand over top of Eames' where it's set on his lap, laces his fingers in the spaces between. ]
Don't quit. [ The words are muffled by fabric and muscle and bone. Like this, he can almost make out his heartbeat, a steady thrum. He's afraid but he wants this, wherever this leads. ]
I'm not gonna let you loose after this, I hope you realize.
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Eames smiles, cards his fingers through Arthur's soft hair.] It's okay. I'm holding on to you too.
[He lets the silence carry on for a bit, running the tips of his fingers over the soft hair at the nape of his neck.] Stay with me tonight? I promise you can leave as bright and early as you need to.
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He's so chilled out by the time he gets that question, he's not even considering rejecting it out of hand. The words are there though. Because he's busy, he's got a million things to do and—
Whatever. Fuck it for now. ]
Yeah, okay. If I wake up late, I'm making you do the edits to the mazes.
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[It's so... weird to be at this point with Arthur. To be able to be affectionate without making himself vulnerable. Or maybe he still is. Maybe he just knows Arthur won't hurt him because of it.]
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Granted, his skepticism doesn't last too long, since he's smiling a bit into the quick kiss. ]
Should I be worried if you argue? Will your fans hear it and come fawning?
[ The last time Eames argued with all of his fervor, he ended up with something like a spider attaché. It was, quite frankly, amusing. ]
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[He gives him another quick kiss before disappearing into the crook of Arthur's shoulder, kissing the skin there softly and mouthing his way up his neck.]
On second thought, if I manage to get you to sleep in, I'll take the bloody punishment.
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And somehow, these sweet close-mouthed kisses are more intimate. Personal. Arthur feels even more exposed, defenses crumbling to the ground. He leans into it, lets Eames kiss a line along his throat, hums a bit at just the warmth.
It seems to spread, blooming to fill his lungs, his rib cage expanding with it. Happiness, threatening to bubble over like a bottle of champagne shaken and uncorked. He's smiling, dimples clearly showing, eyes crinkling right at the corners. Somewhere, he feels like maybe this is stupid, that he's stupid, for letting this affect him so much.
But right now, he's finding it hard to care. Gently, he brings his hands to either side of Eames' face, silently getting him to make eye contact. ]
I think if I'm exhausted, that's possible. [ His smile goes from beaming to a curve of a smirk, implicating. ] Think you can do that, Mr. Eames?
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That won't be a problem, [he says confidently, and he kisses him like he wants to, like he's always wanted to. Softly and lovingly.]