paisleythief | Sweet Disposition 002: The Rest Of The Ride, Is Riding On You

Entry tags:

Sweet Disposition 002: The Rest Of The Ride, Is Riding On You

The direct continuation of this thread.

Drifting in that tenuous place between sleep and wakefulness, Eames does the first thing anyone as relaxed and comfortable as he is right now would do: tries to will his body back to sleep.

It’s a losing battle though, as is always the case once you’ve realized you’re making the climb into the waking world, and the ratio of sleep to wakefulness tips unsatisfactorily in the latter direction, leaving the impression of the former only in your limbs. A tease, if there ever was one.

Deciding being awake doesn’t necessarily mean he has to be up, Eames buries his head further into the lush down of the hotel pillow, drawing his knees up-

And cracking an eye open when they come into contact with another pair of shins. Arthur’s shins, to be specific.

It takes a moment, to remember why this is reality and that, if he wants to keep the image of the other (hair mussed, face lax and pressed into the pillow, arm bent under his pillow and breathing through his mouth) for just a little longer, he should probably reign in the urge to jump out of bed and find his totem. If it isn't reality, his subconscious is getting reprehensibly good at this.

Licking his lips, Eames can't help but smile. Its an irrational response to the situation as a whole; Arthur sleeping across from him, the knowledge that they'd basically played hookey to fuck and then sleep (and Eames has no idea where the clock is but he's not jostling the bed to try and find out how long they've been asleep for), the way Arthur'd opened his legs for him, so at ease with what he wanted from Eames, prepared like a bleeding boy scout with slick and rubbers-

Eyes going wide and cringing, Eames pulls the covers up just slightly to get a look at himself.

There's good news and bad news. The good news is: Eames does not have a rubber dried to his dick. Additionally, Arthur is just as pleasantly naked as he remembers- very good news indeed. Which means he is not in for an embarrassing walk to the bathroom and the painful process of soaking and tugging a crusty rubber off of his delicate bits. The bad news is, of course, if the rubber isn't on his dick, and he distinctly remembers falling asleep practically on top of the point man with it still on, then either Arthur took it off (which would be a bit embarrassing) or it is currently lost in the bed somewhere (which Arthur is not going to like, but is still kind of funny).

Well, Eames figures, letting the covers fall closed over them again, I'm sure there are worse things to lose in bed with a beautiful, naked man.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Arthur was still very much asleep, snoring softly into his pillow, the gel from his hair now gone (sweated out) and leaving his hair the unkempt mess it usually is when not gelled and slicked back into a more "professional" look. It usually made him look younger than his actual age (and anyone he knew from "work" stare at him as if he had grown a third eye). His body was slightly curled towards the heat Eames provided, one hand near the other man's chest, curled into a half-fist on the sheets, fingers occasionally flexing and knuckles brushing against skin for a brief moment.

He had been the one to remove Eames' condom - remembering just as he had been about to drift off to sleep and was still feeling some kind of affinity for the other man. He had made a very smug look at the noise Eames had made in his sleep when Arthur peeled the messy rubber off, the musky smell almost overwhelming around that area under the covers (the sheets would definitely need to be changed) and chunked it over to the nearest trash can, making the shot.

Sleep had come and taken him into a deep, dreamless sleep at first. The longer he remained under, his mind eventually slipped into a memory (most of his dreams after getting into dream-sharing were memories of his more so than actual dreams - it seemed like he could only do that better with the help of the somnacin in his system).

The memory, unfortunately for him and his present self, was of the last truly meaningful [romantic] relationship he had had. He had been 24 and on holiday from the university he went to in Paris. His boyfriend, David, had somehow talked him into going to the coast. In England.

The wind and cold, causing Arthur to feel like needles were prickling at his exposed skin, had made him bitch most of the walk along the white, deserted beach. David, as always, never really lost his patience with Arthur - he was just a smart-ass to his bitchy self.

'I'm freezing my balls off!' Arthur had said at one point.

To which his boyfriend responded, as cheeky as ever,'Well that is just a bloody shame, that is! I did enjoy fondling them so!' Which then started a chase down that cold beach. At least something that resembled a chase. The sand slowed Arthur down infuriatingly and David was not fairing much better but still managing to stay out of Arthur's reach as he kept threatening to kick his ass.

He ended up nuzzling into his pillow more, his memory shifting to when they finally got back to their room and Arthur was able to be warm (and pleasantly sore). He had made a small groan then, too, that transfered into the present as he moved his legs, stretching them languidly in his sleep.

That Eames finds watching Arthur groan and stretch in his sleep enticing isn't surprising, considering how he's very nearly been fascinated with much less for longer. The line of his neck as he tried to pop his back while still getting work done at the warehouse, the pull of his shoulders when he stretches his arms behind him, his chest expanding to fill every cubic centimeter of his perfectly pressed Oxford- this certainly isn't the first time he's appreciated Arthur's ability to stretch.

What does catch him off guard is how his lip curves up and his chest gets a little heavier at something as simple as Arthur shifting against the sheets.

This isn't Eames' first time around the block. He knows how this works. You shag someone and wake up next to them thinking yeah, this isn't so bad. Maybe I could get used to this kind of thing. But it very hardly ever works and when the other person wakes up to you staring at them (a habit of Eames', though he's sure it can't be just him) they're hardly ever on the same wavelength. Its much better to start the conversation off right, give them something to wake up to so the impending conversation is easier. More shrugging and less look, so this was just- it was just this once, okay?

So he's not going to let that weight in his chest mean anything more than it should- anything more than Arthur will let it, and knowing the point man, that won't be much. He vaguely remembers something about a 'next time' (though admittedly, Eames had been shagged about half out of his mind, so that may have been a bit of creative remodeling on his behalf) and he'd really like to see a next time. That means not ending the first time on an odd note.

Scooting closer and increasing the dip in the bed as he forsakes his pillow to crowd his head onto the point man's, Eames leans in to press a kiss to the corner of Arthur's mouth.

The memory, especially the ones that made his own heart heavier, a weight he could feel even while asleep, painted itself as being more beautiful and peaceful than it probably had been in reality when it happened. He could feel David kissing at the corner of his mouth and a hand sliding softly down his side.

Back in the waking world, Arthur made a weak, sleepy noise, burying his face more into the pillow, trying to get away from those lips even as a warm hand found its way to Eames' chest, pressed flat and sliding slowly to his stomach, a weak protest, as was the hip bumping the other man's, legs sliding and bumping against other legs.

Arthur was [finally] warm and sore. He wanted more sleep, dammit.

Edited 2011-06-02 22:32 (UTC)

Unaware of anything more than Arthur's own penchant for stubbornness, Eames chases after Arthur's lips with his usual dogged affection. If he ever said as much, those knobby knees by his own naked shins would probably find their way to his groin, but Eames can't help but find the other's reluctance to be kissed, even in his sleep, a bit endearing. Its a tell in its own right- that Arthur doesn't put on as much of a facade as he'd like others to believe. His likes and dislikes translate through the suits right down to his skin, naked and warm beneath Eames' hand.

With a hand on Arthur's side, Eames can feel the protest through his abdomen as clearly as he can hear it muffled in the pillow. He won't be deterred though, and presses kisses to what he can get of the other man's jaw, working his way up to his earlobe and nuzzling into the mess of hair there. Arthur smells of sweat and something that tries to be 'unscented' but ends up smelling like product- its a good smell. Eames can see himself-

No.

Insinuating his knee between Arthur's (not encouraging per say, just, providing the opportunity for Arthur to drape his leg over Eames', if he feels so inclined) Eames licks Arthur's earlobe. That hand on Eames' stomach lethargic with sleep but just as warm as the rest of him.

In his sleep Arthur is talking to another man - in the waking world, his words come out a garbled, softly growling mess. He turns and moves against the warm body next to him, "hiding" his face against Eames' chest to where he thinks the kisses will stop trying to wake him up.

A long leg does end up draping itself over Eames' hip, Arthur's flexibility demonstrated even in his sleep, and that hand digging nails in weakly into stomach muscles as he continued to mumble and growl out an unintelligible warning into the other man's chest.

Edited 2011-06-02 23:06 (UTC)

If that movement doesn't tempt Eames' hands to Arthur's bum, his leg hooking over Eames' hip and pressing him against Eames' more than interested dick. There's very little he can control about this situation, it's a very natural reaction to having a warm body snuggle up to you- even more expected when you factor in that warm body being Arthur's and the half-formed words he's trying to bury in Eames' collarbone.

Giving in to temptation, Eames' hand smoothes over Arthur's hip and around to his bum, fitting his palm to the weight of his arse. He has a heft to him, something Eames could have told you- possibly because he spent a lot of time looking, but also because it was damn near impossible to miss with those slacks tailored to within an inch of their lives. Sometimes Eames wonders about that- whether Arthur is some sort of sadist, bent on making everyone else miserable because they can see his arse but aren't allowed to touch it.

Well. Eames can touch it. At least for now, and he's not wasting a moment of it.

Unable to bend his head to give Arthur proper kisses, Eames ducks his head into his chest and rubs his scruff against whatever part of Arthur's face isn't tucked into Eames' chest. He gives Arthur's bum a playful squeeze and warns, voice still rough with sleep, "Wake up or I'm gonna keep fondlin' you."

Arthur does enjoy teasing people with what they can't have - especially Eames - but the suits, surprisingly, are not an intentional tool in that teasing. Arthur simply likes for his pants to fit him.

And at the fondling of his ass, he ends up letting out a slow but louder groan against the other man's chest, nails scratching, and hips rubbing against the forger. "Mmnmghpervybastard," is what comes out clearly.

"Come again," Eames smirks, wondering if Arthur is awake enough to begrudge him his bad taste in puns. If nothing else, Arthur is obviously not awake enough to realize he's rubbing off on Eames' thigh-- which is fine by the forger's standards. More than fine, Eames' got a handfull of Arthur's ass and is having fun trying to find new patches of skin to press his face into. He likes the feel of Arthur's fingers pressing into his stomach, dull but just enough pressure behind them to make Eames feel them.

Inquisitive, as if he actually misheard the other, Eames gives Arthur's bum a squeeze, "You like a firm hand on your bum?"

At the next squeeze, Arthur lets out another groan that ends up taking on a near-whining quality as he turns and twists in Eames' grip, turning his back to the other man. "David! Stop it! M'tryin' to sleep!"

Usually, Arthur did like to have his ass squeezed and fondled, but not when he was still trying to sleep.

Irrationally, Eames' first thought is that Arthur said Daniel and his stomach nearly drops through all seven floors of the hotel they're in. But then, Arthur's foot brushing Eames' shin as he shifts, the notches of his spine visible where he's turned his back to Eames, the forger realizes two things: Arthur can't know that name, and Arthur definitely said David.

There is a part of him that hoards that information away, pulls it into his head and feels triumphant because that's one more thing he knows about the point man, one more clue. But there is another part, dark and embarrassing, that wants to forget the name entirely. Purge it from his memory and slip out of the hotel as quietly as he can. Let Arthur and his David have their dreamy moment together until he woke up to an empty bed.

Eames isn't self-deluding enough to think he wouldn't label it as punishment, even if Arthur wouldn't care either way.

Who did Arthur sleep with enough to have a customary complaint against? How many dreamshare professionals did he know of named David?

It only occurs to Eames then that maybe this David fellow isn't in the dreaming community. Maybe he's just a regular bloke that Arthur keeps tucked away somewhere. Maybe Arthur's got a house somewhere with a man named David living in it, missing Arthur's bum and his surly morning attitude.

Pulling his hands back to himself, Eames stays still for a second. Wondering where his pants are. Wondering if he has enough cash on him to call a cab.

Edited 2011-06-03 00:19 (UTC)

At turning from Eames (from David in the dream), that's where it ends and the heaviness in his chest is enough to bring him back to partial wakefulness - and the life he now leads waiting for him. Arthur stretches an arm over the bare side of the bed, eyes still closed and as his open hand runs along the sheets, he feels a sharp twist in his chest. He had done this so many mornings after the relationship had ended, reminding himself before he opened his eyes, that he shouldn't expect anyone there. Not anymore.

Remember why that is - and why it's better it stays that way. It was usually why Arthur would sleep at the other's person's place, and then be long gone by the time they woke up.

He could feel that irritating sting behind his eyelids and breathed out of his mouth shakily. He ended up rolling onto his stomach, his out-stretched arm moving to curl around his head, hand going through his hair, trying to calm down and get a grip. He hated dreaming those memories. Like rubbing salt in a wound he thought was healed. Should have been healed. It had been years, for God's sake. Arthur was getting as bad as Dom in not letting things go (and he knew where that could lead).

He took deep breaths, eyes still closed and absolutely refusing to get emotional over this. He just needed a moment to recollect himself and wake up.

Unfortunately for him he forgot he wasn't exactly alone and that this private moment wouldn't exactly be private.

Edited 2011-06-03 00:44 (UTC)

Lying still next to the other, he waits for the shifting to subside, figuring Arthur's a particularly restless sleeper (without David, his mind supplies) and that he'll stop skimming the sheets in a moment. But Eames is paid to pay attention and it's ingrained in him to notice the little things. The change in Arthur's breathing, the sudden stillness from his side of the bed, the hitch of his breath; this is probably the point where Arthur realizes who he went to bed with and questions why.

Well. He's going to have to answer that question for the both of them.

Again, with the shaky breath, Arthur's body twisting into the pillow and for a second, Eames is blisteringly angry. What right does Arthur have to be melodramatic about this? What the fuck did he think was going to happen going to bed with Eames, he was just going to leave? He wasn't going to fill a quick need and then fuck off like nothing happened? And Eames wants to hold onto that anger- wants to greet Arthur with it when he finally pulls his head up from that pillow because...

Its easier than reading the hurt in the curve of Arthur's shoulders and the pain in the bend of his wrist, knowing the feel of your own fingers working themselves into your scalp because there's no one else to do it. It means he can ignore the creeping suspicion that he did something wrong; that something about this situation is his fault and he should know if he just looked at it from a slightly different angle.

In the end, he can't hold onto it; the anger, the hurt. No matter what Arthur's done, Eames can't quell the sympathy that wells up inside of him.

Quiet as anything, Eames reaches out and touches his fingers to Arthur's shoulder. "Arthur?"

Arthur flinches at the touch, startled, and his shoulders tense and he's almost trying to move away when he remembers that voice and the past few hours and then relaxed back into the bed, even while his hidden face is pained on so many levels. Swallowing hard and letting his arms fall to the side, his ears were red and he felt deeply embarrassed.

But, Eames didn't sound angry. And he was still here. This had only ever happened one other time. And his bed partner had actually tried to comfort him (and Arthur let her because he considered her a friend). He had apparently talked in his sleep that time as well. Arthur is betting he did that again.

It makes him more embarrassed, want to lash out and tell the other man to leave. It's none of his business anyway. And he just wanted to get laid, he didn't give a fuck about anyone or anything but himself.

But Eames was still here. And... when Arthur finally forced himself to slowly look up at the other man with one brown eye over his arms, he felt a mixture of things. All of which proceeded to make him feel worse. He was still feeling that weight from the memory, humiliation at Eames seeing him like this, anger that he had seen it, and guilt at the look on the other man's face as well as confusion at why he was looking at Arthur like that.

Arthur would have expected something akin to mocking - or at least him leaving but he was still here. The point man was suspicious but... "I'm sorry." It just came out. Soft but sincere.

"If I said anything that hurt you -- I'm sorry." He attempted to clarify. He didn't want to talk about it but he didn't want Eames to think that was connected to why he slept with Eames. For the most part it really wasn't. Arthur's reasoning for going to bed had more or less accumulated in him telling himself he was "getting it out of his system" and Eames would get his fill and leave, too.

Now... he didn't really have a fucking clue what he was doing or feeling other than he couldn't stand Eames looking at him like that after he most likely said another man's name in his sleep after they had fucked each other.

And yet he felt his face flush more at the apology, his stomach lurching slightly because. Fuck. Eames would probably laugh at him now.

To say that Eames is unused to having such a reunion after a fuck that was nothing less than fabulous on his end, a sentiment he'd thought was reciprocated right up until now, would be a vast understatement. And while he knew that going to bed with Arthur would be different, he hadn't expected this.

He is, for one horrible second, afraid that he's done something wrong. That possibly he's misinterpreted the invitation, or the circumstance of this liaison, and that Arthur didn't mean for this to happen at all. That this is what Arthur looks like backed into a corner with a bad decision lying next to him in the form of a man who was too eager. Eames has never felt worse, but his own apologies stick in his throat, caught between the way he remembers Arthur beneath him (writhing, hungry, and so eager for it) and the way he is now.

"You don't-" Eames starts, hand molding over the curve of Arthur's shoulder- hovering, testing how welcome his presence is. He's already driven Arthur away from him (so many times, to a chorus of agitatedly collected papers and testily slammed warehouse doors) and he doesn't want this to be another one of those times. "You don't have to apologize to me, Arthur."

Whatever's wrong here, Eames just doesn't want it to be him.

Arthur lets out a rueful huff, running a hand through his hair again, "I do if I said a name in this bed that wasn't yours." Because it was Arthur's experience that proved nobody liked that.

He didn't know what it was but, the way the other man was looking at him, how gentle if hesitant his touch, his voice so soft, it made Arthur want to tell him more than what he was actually willing to. It made him feel constricted and open all at once, like being naked and having had sex with Eames was only the tip of a deeply submerged iceberg.

Letting out a sigh, trying to relax his body back into the bed, his voice wasn't as steady as it usually was, lacking the confidence borderline arrogance that usually accompanied it and instead had a heaviness to it that made him sound weary, "Sometimes I have dreams - well, they aren't really dreams, my mind seems to fall back on memories mostly - and it's like I'm living them all over again and I get caught up in them..." He rubbed a hand over his face, frustrated, "I just want you to know it was nothing you did or didn't do, that it was my mind, my memories of something I don't particularly enjoy being reminded of that... it just makes things difficult." Adding, "I'm sorry that doesn't make much sense, does it?"

Arthur ended up pushing himself to his elbows and rubbing both hands over his face, so not used to this kind of thing. He didn't want to pour his heart out to anyone, that just went against his reflex. But he felt, for some reason, that he owed the other man some kind of explanation (and Arthur actually wanted it to be as close to the truth as possible without revealing every last detail).

He could shake his head at the other and tell him the honest truth: Arthur doesn't owe him anything. It doesn't escape Eames' notice that Arthur could very well have said anything during their tumble. Could have said or done whatever he liked because, in the end, Eames doesn't know him any better than Arthur wants Eames to know him.

Between them there are a couple years of camaraderie and this razor thin line of tension that Eames could never keep himself from touching- the little boy with the hot kettle that simply never learns. With every pull, yes, his hands would come back a little bloodied, but oh the things he'd learn. The curve of Arthur's frown (when it was truly amused, just a tick more severe than admonishment) and the shape of Arthur's knee against his slacks (sharp, like so many things about the point man) and Eames would take those cuts, only skin deep, and think,

I'm getting closer.

But what he'd thought was the end of the line, the great reveal, as it were, was nothing of the sort. From where he was standing, pulled in so close, he couldn't see just what a wall he'd come up against. Arthur wasn't hiding an attraction to him (and now, lying in bed with the smell of their sweat mingling on the sheets, Eames can almost laugh at himself for thinking that could have been the end to it) any more than he was hiding a personal life; it just wasn't a fact that Eames was allowed to peruse idly.

To know these things about Arthur took work, an unyielding dedication- and it makes Eames wonder what other assumptions he's made of Arthur that, if he just took a step back to look at the whole picture, maybe he'd see more clearly.

Leaning back on his pillow, the sheet draped over his stomach and the duvet somewhere near his hips, Eames idly wishes for a fag- it might make things easier. "It makes as much sense as it can," Eames shrugs, licking his lips and feeling for the truth in all the words that rattle around inside his head. "From an outsider's perspective."

If Arthur were truly more honest with himself, let himself think beyond spite and trying to avoid getting hurt by others' carelessness or malice, he would know deep down that Eames has never really done anything to earn the treatment Arthur has given him.

Not even him being annoying could warrant such things as Arthur has done and said to the other man beside him.

Most of Eames' "crimes" are things Arthur has assumed of him, pushed onto the forger, and mainly to protect and shield himself. Getting attached to anyone like he had allowed himself to before (one time too many) is just not something he can allow himself to do. And Eames, from the moment Arthur met him, was the kind of person Arthur could easily get attached to and he immediately rebelled against the notion so thoroughly and violently it came out as verbal lashings and barely restrained hatred towards the other man. At least that was how it seemed.

What it really was, at the very core, was Arthur wanting something he couldn't have and he despised the whole notion of it. When stripped of all his defenses and walls, Arthur knew he was so simple in his motivations that it was painful. Even when he felt like the remains of an empty shell, he still knew there was something inside that he had to keep numbing himself against.

And for all of that, he did owe Eames an apology at the very least. An explanation was something he couldn't even provide for himself, so an apology would have to do.

Sighing again and laying back down on the bed, "Well, it'll have to do because I can't think of another way to explain it." Not without going into details he honestly didn't want Eames or anyone else to know. He looks away from Eames, arms tucked under his chest slightly, head titled back onto his pillow. It had a way of making him look younger and nearly endearing, and almost as if he would end up going back to sleep like that.

Until he shifted onto his side, facing Eames, and opening his eyes more widely, arms spread out to where his knuckles brush against the sheet covering Eames' stomach. He looks at the other man with softer brown eyes than he's probably ever seen on the point man. He looks for a long moment, almost watching, before saying, "You never gave me an actual answer to my question."

It speaks to just how many blows to the head Eames has received that he has to bite the inside of his cheek to contain his smile when Arthur gets petulant with him again. Now is not the time to be misinterpreted, and leave it to Arthur to find the worst way to spin a scenario, so there will be no rueful grinning between these sheets-- even if Arthur is reverting back to his usual snippy behavior while sinfully naked and tousled.

Somehow, the look doesn't work as well when he's not all buttoned up and pinned in place.

And just like that, Eames is okay with whatever this untamed, unruly individual beside him wants to hand over. If its just a shag, for stress relief or whatever else, then that's what it'll be. Eames had miscalculated, come at this from entirely the wrong angle, and he'd assumed Arthur viewed sex the same way Eames did- how daft of him.

So there was a David who probably palmed his bum and held him in the mornings. That is, in the grand scheme of things, none of Eames' business. Arthur'd only asked for a trip back to his hotel- and wasn't that just Eames' eternal pitfall with the other? The specifics. There wasn't any room in this bed for another man, and if Eames was a placeholder... well, he did know how to play a part.

Content with knowing which angle he's allowed to take with Arthur, Eames shifts in the sheets and turns his head toward him, a soft smile playing at the corner of his lips. Pressing his shoulders into the bedding and arching his back, Eames makes those knuckles brush against his belly. "What question was that, darling?"

Moving his head on his pillow, his hair getting more rumpled and his lithe body taking on an almost feline physicality, especially as he moved one hand to where his fingernails pressed into the other man's stomach just above the sheet.

Voice soft but more sure of itself than it had been mere minutes ago, "Why do you care what I think or say?"

Yes, Eames, Arthur remembered and he wanted an explanation for the "answer" you gave when they were fucking. Sex with anyone else... it wouldn't have mattered. But with Eames, Arthur already knew what was at stake if he allowed himself to become attached and a part of him wanted to know just what was at stake for Eames in all this (if anything at all - and Arthur would be able to tell if he was lying).

Vaguely, he remembers this question. The way Arthur had grabbed his face like it was important he stop talking; the pressure of his knees at Eames' sides, squeezing him with an almost punishing pressure. He thinks he must have said something along the lines of "why wouldn't I" because that's the only logical follow up to such an open ended question.

Licking his lips and enjoying the bite of those nails just above his belly button, Eames casts amused eyes on Arthur. "Would you rather I not?"

At one point, before Eames knew the salty taste of Arthur's spunk on his lips, before he'd seen him open and bare, that might have been giving too much away. But now there's a David and Eames knows nothing about him beyond that Arthur knows him well enough to think the warm body next to him should respond to that name-- it means there's relatively little risk in the equation for Eames. He tenses his abdomen, challenging Arthur even though he knows he shouldn't.

There are a lot of things he shouldn't do with Arthur, and look at how well Eames has followed that logic.

He digs in his nails more, harder, almost dragging them along Eames' flesh. It was an almost disturbing contrast to the softness that remained in Arthur's voice (although the slight growl in it, the hint of rising annoyance, made it less unfitting), "I would rather know why you do in the first place."

He removes his hand, pulling it back to his body. "It doesn't make any sense. I'm an asshole to you more than half the time. Why do you care at all?" He was tired of beating around the bush and he wanted a real answer. If he didn't get one he was not going to be a happy bed partner. At all.

"Good to know I'm not the only one keeping count." Eames chuckles, stretching his neck out. He isn't about to lie to the other. Everyone who has met Arthur would surely admit he's a bit of an arsehole- maybe not to his face (at least as readily as Eames does, but there is something inherently different about the way Eames does anything around the point man) or even without prompting, but Arthur doesn't exactly make it a point to be friendly when he can get the same information from a stern look and a well-placed threat. Its probably more "economical" or some bollocks, but Eames sometimes wonders if the other just plumb doesnt know how to do it.

Pulling the sheet down with his toes, Eames smiles, focused on revealing centimeter by centimeter of his stomach. "Just because you're an unlikeable arsehole, I shouldn't care for you? Tut tut darling, thats much too linear for my tastes."

Arthur rolls his eyes, "No, Eames, I'm completely oblivious to the the way I can be to people." He was very aware of how he was and could be. Mainly because he chose to be that way (and it usually was more effective). And also because he used to not always be like this. There was a time when Arthur was merely prickly and stubborn but not out-right mean. There's also the fact that there were times he had been able to be nice, kind even. But these moments nowadays were quite simply few and far between.

So, Arthur did know how to be nice. He just never felt like he could.

Flatly, patience only willing to be stretched so far like this, "Enlighten me, then." Adding, "If really can." Because, yes, Arthur was certain that Eames was all talk on certain subjects and with how he kept avoiding giving Arthur an actual answer the point man was honestly starting to wonder if this wasn't one of them.

Edited 2011-06-07 03:30 (UTC)

Rolling over with a huffy exhale, Eames feels the words shut up form on his tongue- part playful and part something else entirely. Something like protection, and consideration, and- everything that Arthur never seems to afford himself. Through those sweat-dried curls, Eames can see enough of Arthur to tell that he doesn't believe anyone else would refute the claim but that he doesn't see any reason for them to. He works very hard to be thought of as an asshole, and even if Eames can't tell why, he can tell that much.

Eyes roaming over the shape of Arthur's face, the line of his neck down to the couple angry, mouth shaped bruises Eames left on his skin, Eames can't help but swallow those words though. Arthur can expect all the harshness he wants, that doesn't mean Eames has to give it to him.

"You realize that you're asking me to explain the very basis of why people do things they shouldn't, yeah?" Eames asks, but its more rhetorical than it is inquiry, so he sighs and touches a freckle on Arthur's abdomen. "Sometimes people are attracted to things that aren't necessarily good for them. They want things they can't have, and they want them even more if they know they're bad for them. On some base level I'm sure we all know that, but its the chance that 'the rules won't apply to us' that keep the slots spinning. We become occupied with the thought, and sometimes we lose sight of the reasoning."

Pressing his whole hand to Arthur's stomach, Eames looks him in the eye, realizing he's rambling. "So, no matter what I say, whether I think you're an unlikeable bastard or not, has nothing to do with what you actually are. Perhaps I'm fine with you being that way. Perhaps someone else is okay with you being that way- I don't know." With a gentle smile and probably a bit too much truth, Eames rubs his hand up Arthur's stomach, over his chest, and around to the back of his neck. "All I know is you're on my bloody mind more than roulette and you're words are twice as dangerous so I've gotta make sure the guns loaded in my favor."

Edited 2011-06-07 04:41 (UTC)

It was easy for him to accept that role because it meant, mostly, that he would be left alone. That he wouldn't have to complicate things, that he wouldn't have to make commitments to anything other than work, that he'd be able to move and not be tied to anyone else. That he wouldn't give and give only to have nothing left to give. It also seemed to help get things done faster and more efficiently. Less mess when emotion and consideration was left out of the equation.

But at Eames' words, his heart feels like it fumbles in his chest and he can feel the color drain from his face and he is left staring at Eames. He has to remind himself to breathe and blink. He might be trembling but he has no idea as his hearing seemed to revert to a high pitched ringing.

He couldn't believe it. He looked, he stared, and he couldn't see any trace of a lie. He couldn't. Either Eames was getting better with his acting or he was actually telling the truth, the truth that Arthur knew was deep at his own core and it fucking terrified him.

And what's more, not being a forger, the point man was shit out of luck at being able to school his reactions.

Edited 2011-06-07 05:08 (UTC)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

wtf I don't know where he's taking this anymore D: /muse still surprises mun

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

okay. uh. this is why eames doesnt get to use his "reasoning skills"

lol awww well, at least he tried? sort of?

i love self-sabotage; otherwise known as I LOVE RUINING EAMES' LIFE

LOL if only you knew how I have ruined Arthur's life over and over~

APPARENTLY re: david

and that's just the start of it DX

;; i can't wait to find out moreee

you and everyone else it seems XD