Archive of Our Own ^beta

Because they happen to be in the same city, Eames goes to pick Arthur up at his apartment, to get to the airport. It’s sort of an informal job, low-key, and they’re in a friendly phase. Arthur’s come out for drinks with the group a couple of times after jobs in the last few months, he and Eames have had a few non-sarcastic conversations about non-work topics--so when Eames texts to say he’s in the city, heading to JFK, does Arthur want a ride, it’s not that surprising that Arthur texts back: OK.

It is surprising that when Eames gets to the address, a nice Brooklyn brownstone, the front door is standing open and there are broken plates on the sidewalk. He pulls up and takes his bearings.

Someone’s inside shouting, a man who isn’t Arthur. Eames, treading carefully up the front steps, catches a few words and feels simultaneous relief and astonishment: this isn’t work-related. This is Arthur’s life. Something smashes inside the place and he hesitates, then pokes his head through the door and into a front foyer, the hardwood littered with clothes. “Jesus Christ,” a man is saying inside, his tone vicious. “You’re such a fucking prick.”

Indistinctly, Arthur replies. His voice is much quieter, and he doesn’t say much.

“Fuck you,” the other man says.

Aha, Eames thinks. He’s torn for a moment--he should probably go back and sit in the car to wait, then pretend nothing’s happened when Arthur emerges. Except he’s already running late, their flight leaves in two hours and he tells himself there isn’t really time to tread lightly. Also, he’s insanely curious.

He steps carefully over a pile of clothes--a few of Arthur’s shirts and jackets that he recognizes, a tie he’s admired once in the past--and into a small living room. It’s surprisingly civilized. Somehow, he’d assumed that Arthur lived in a sterile box somewhere, or maybe a cell. But this looks high-end comfortable. One wall is a built-in bookcase, filled with art and architecture and photography books, novels whose spines are actually broken, psychology and science tomes, dictionaries in other languages. Eames makes a quick study of it, noting his own surprise and realizing that it’s not because he thought Arthur didn’t read--of course he does--but that he wouldn’t have pegged him as a book-keeper. Most of this stuff is digital now, and Arthur hates waste. Maybe the wall of books is for aesthetics. Arthur sees value in aesthetics.

There’s a long, comfortable-looking couch, the seat filled with a tumbled pile of electronics. Speakers, cables, battery chargers, a cracked laptop case. The day’s newspaper is spread across the coffee table, with a white china coffee mug set on one corner. Black coffee, Eames notes. Probably Arthur’s.

He’s just going over to the opened window, to judge the trajectory of the dishes on the front step, when a man walks into the room. He’s tall and good-looking in a fairly generic way, with high cheekbones and dark hair razored close to his skull. Arthur values aesthetics.

The man is wearing a white T-shirt under an unbuttoned dress shirt, a tie slung around his neck. He’s barefoot. He stops short and stares at Eames.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks. He’s clearly already pissed off, and doesn’t seem pleased to have discovered a strange man in his living room. Eames smiles.

“I’m looking for Arthur,” he says.

“Aren’t we all,” the man says bitterly. Then he turns his head and shouts, “Hey, asshole! Your ride is here.”

Eames holds onto his smile for the few seconds it takes Arthur to emerge from the next room. It’s a bedroom, if Eames is any judge of the few feet of crumpled sheets and rucked-up rug he can see from where he’s standing. Arthur is fully dressed except for his jacket. He’s got his carry-on over his shoulder and his suitcase in his hand. He doesn’t look directly at Eames.

“So that’s it,” the other man says. “You’re just going.”

“I’m late,” Arthur says. He goes to the wall closet and opens the door, spends a second sorting through what’s inside, then pulls out his suit jacket and shrugs it on. The other man laughs incredulously.

“I don’t fucking believe you. You’re leaving?”

Arthur takes a minute to straighten his collar, then turns and looks at the man. He looks weary. “Yeah. I am.” There’s a pause, and then he adds, “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” The man grips both ends of the tie around his neck and pulls it taut. The cords in his neck show. “God, you’re an asshole.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “I know. I’m sorry. But...you have to go now.”

The man’s eyes widen. Arthur’s expression doesn’t change. Eames looks back and forth between them.

“I have to go,” the man says slowly. “What, you’re kicking me out?”

“No,” Arthur says. “I’m asking you to leave. I need to lock the place up.”

“I have a key,” the man says.

“About that,” Arthur says. And leaves it there.

The man’s face flushes red. He takes a deep breath, then turns and walks back into the bedroom. Eames hears him opening drawers.

Arthur turns back to the closet and pulls out his overcoat. Eames waits quietly. He could offer to wait in the car--it would be the civilized thing to do. There’s no way on earth he’s going to do it. Arthur doesn’t seem to expect it, anyway. He closes the closet door, then goes to the couch and stares at the mess of electronics dumped on top of it. Frowning, he pulls a phone charger out of the pile and starts to wind the cord around his fingers.

Eames clears his throat and says, “That one’s missing an end.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “I think it’s in the back yard right now.”

Eames doesn’t say anything else.

When the man--Arthur’s boyfriend, Eames tells himself, trying on the phrase--comes out of the bedroom he’s fully dressed, pulling a slim suit jacket onto one arm. His face is grim, set. He walks straight to Arthur, digs a pair of housekeys out of his pocket, and holds them out. Arthur takes them from his palm.

“You’re the asshole here,” the man says evenly. “Just so you know.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “I know that.”

“I’m sure someday I’ll wish you well, but right now I kind of hope you fall off a building and die.”

Arthur nods. “Okay.”

The man’s face twists. “You know what I hate?” The set of Arthur’s shoulders indicates that he probably does know. “I hate how nice you are. How fucking reasonable. You know why you’re so fucking nice and reasonable? Because you don’t give a shit. You never did. I’m the one yelling and screaming, because I actually cared about you. You’re standing there agreeing because you just want me to get out. And you look like the reasonable one.” He turns to Eames. His face is flushed red. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you late for your important business flight.”

Eames makes a noncommittal movement, not quite a shrug.

“I’ll send you some money,” the man says to Arthur. “To pay for the shit I broke.”

“You don’t have to--”

“Oh please,” the man says. “It’s the least I can do.” He gives a short, barking laugh, then turns and kicks his way through the clothes on the floor. The door is still standing open. He leaves it open when he goes.

Eames and Arthur stand in the silent apartment. Outside on the street, a car starts up, an expensive-sounding engine. BMW, probably. It pulls out with a squeal.

Arthur takes a deep breath, and seems about to say something, then doesn’t. He slides the keys into his pocket and looks around the apartment. His expression is bleak. There are circles under his eyes.

“Probably should go,” Eames says after a moment. They’re late, after all.

Arthur nods. “Yeah.” He stoops and picks up his suitcase, and they pick their way out through the mess.

It’s the absolute last scene in the world Eames ever thought he would witness, and probably the absolute last scene Arthur would ever have wanted him to see. On the way to the airport, Eames plays the radio and keeps quiet and contemplates how hard Arthur is probably wishing, right at that moment, that he’d refused the offered ride. So much for their friendly phase, Eames thinks. Arthur will now retreat back into his hole and speak in monosyllables for the duration of the job.

Arthur doesn’t say much on the way to the airport, or during the wait for the flight, and he falls instantly asleep on the plane, slumped in his seat as if he’s been shot. But an hour or so before landing Eames glances over and sees him awake again, thumbing through his phone. There’s wifi on the plane; after a few more minutes Eames’s phone gets an email from him, with details about the mark. He reads it, then leans over the aisle. “You think we should go with the daughter?”

“I don’t know.” Arthur glances at him. “Busy flight.” Which is Arthur’s way of saying, stop talking business in the middle of a commercial airline cabin. Fair enough. Eames settles back into his seat and puts his phone away. When it buzzes again he looks at Arthur.

“Do I need to get that?”

Arthur shakes his head, not looking up from his screen. “Later. Just setting up.”

Eames closes his eyes and sinks back into his seat. Back into his hole, monosyllables. All according to protocol.

“I’m sorry,” Ariadne says, putting down her pencil. “But can we just take five minutes and talk about what is going on with Arthur?”

Eames looks up, startled. She looks serious. Yusuf looks bewildered. Arthur isn’t there--he’s gone out on some errand, something that Eames now realizes Ariadne probably made up in order to get him out of the way. It’s all surprisingly unprofessional. He smiles and closes his file folder.

“Arthur?” Yusuf asks, clearly not tracking.

“Arthur,” Ariadne says. “You know, that guy who plans the job?”

Yusuf looks mildly insulted. “Well, I think we all--”

“The one who sends me emails at--” Ariadne leans over to peer at her laptop screen. “Three o’clock in the morning? Asking me when I’m going to have drawings for the auditorium level?”

“What about him?” Eames asks, leaning back in his chair.

“I already sent him the drawings for that level. With a receipt request, so I know he got them.” She glances at the door, as if she’s afraid Arthur’s going to come in and catch her talking about him. “He made a mistake on the timeline, too. He put seven o’clock instead of nine for the pickup. I had to tell him to change it.”

Eames looks at Yusuf.

“He does seem a little...distracted,” Yusuf says. “Now that you mention it. He’s asked me twice to go over the numbers on the mix.”

“He’s human,” Eames says.

“He’s Arthur,” says Ariadne. “He’s never like this. Something’s up.”

Eames pretends to ponder this notion.

“I think he’s working another job,” Ariadne says. “I mean, it’s the only thing I can think of that would make him act like this. If he’s doubling up.”

Yusuf snorts. Then he purses his lips, looking thoughtful.

“If you’ve got any other suggestions?” Ariadne says. There’s silence. “Anyway,” she says, going back to her drawing. “It’s starting to bug me.”

Yusuf’s expression has shifted over to troubled. He turns away and fiddles with his chemistry set, moving little things around without doing much.

Eames goes back to his folder.

When Arthur gets back half an hour later, slinging a plastic bag of art supplies onto Ariadne’s desk and heading directly to his chair, nobody says a thing.

“A word,” Eames says quietly, leaning over Arthur’s desk while Yusuf watches Ariadne dream. Arthur glances at him sideways, his eyes instantly suspicious. Eames gives him a smile, and nods toward the door.

“I’m busy,” Arthur says. He’s working on something that looks soul-killingly boring--long columns of budget figures stolen from the company’s intranet. “Can it wait?”

Eames doesn’t alter his smile.

Arthur takes a deep breath, then pushes back from his desk and gets up. Eames goes on ahead, not waiting for him to catch up. On his way past the kitchenette he pulls an orange from the communal bag, and notices Yusuf glancing over their way, looking worried.

There’s a concrete landing outside the metal door of the warehouse. Eames stands on the edge of it, his elbows propped on the rusty metal guard rail, and peels his orange. A minute later, Arthur follows him out. The door clangs shut, but Arthur doesn’t come to the railing. He stays by the door, as if walking another two feet forward will put him irreconcilably behind schedule on his horrible budget dealings.

“Okay. What?”

Eames drops a strip of orange peel into the parking lot. “Are you all right?”

There’s a pause.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just wondering if you’re all right.” Eames pauses to shake juice off his fingers. “There’s been a bit of discussion. About whether your head’s in the game on this one.”

Again, a pause. Then Arthur lets out a breath.

“Discussion,” he says.

“Nothing serious. And it’s really your own fault for being so perfect all the time.” Eames twists to look over his shoulder, smiling easily. Arthur’s face is stony. “It makes people notice more when you slip up, here and there.”

“What? Where am I slipping up?”

“Well, Ariadne seems to think you’re not reading her emails.”

“What emails--” Arthur stops. Eames can almost hear the gears clicking. “Fuck.”

“I’m only letting you know, there’s been chatter in the ranks. You might want to say something.”

“Say something about what?” There’s a different edge in Arthur’s tone now. Eames thinks, Oh for God’s sake.

“Just tell them you’re getting over a flu or something,” he says, keeping his tone mild. “Or don’t. Whatever you like.”

There’s silence. He starts sectioning the orange, holding it at arm’s length so it won’t spray.

“Right,” Arthur says. He sounds wooden. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll...pull myself together.”

“Of course you will. And as I said, it’s nothing serious.” Eames turns and holds out a dripping slice of orange. It’s a cheeky peace offering, but at the same time sincere. They are good oranges.

Arthur looks at the orange, then turns and goes back inside without a word.

Eames sighs, turns back to face the parking lot, and eats the orange. Spitting the pits in the general direction of Arthur’s rented car.

The rest of the job is fine, apart from the fact that Arthur seems to have turned himself into some sort of automated workbot. He has every detail at his fingertips, has thought through every possible contingency. It’s admirable and professional and completely depressing. At one point Eames takes off his watch, sets it on the table in front of him, and watches Arthur sit staring at his computer screen for ninety-seven minutes without once changing position.

“I almost wish I hadn’t said anything,” Eames tells him, perching on the corner of Arthur’s desk to watch him pack up. Yusuf and Ariadne have both left earlier that morning, released back into the wild, flush with success and cash. Eames himself is all set to try his luck at standby on a flight to Hong Kong, but for some reason he’s lingering.

Arthur, wrapping cables, glances at him. “About what?”

“Oh,” Eames says. “Are we still playing that game?”

Arthur colors, and looks back down at the cables. After a minute he says, “Thanks for letting me know.”

“Well, I may have given you the wrong impression. There was no potential for an uprising, just to be clear.”

“That’s not--I don’t want people thinking I’m slack.”

“You’re not slack.”

“I was, for a couple of days there. And I’m sorry.”

“Yes, you’ve already apologized.”

Arthur crouches to stow the cables in a bag. “So let’s drop it.”

“All right.” Eames swings his foot and watches Arthur stuff adapters and cable junctions into the pockets of the bag. After a few seconds, Arthur stops and looks up.

“Did you need something?”

“I just thought,” Eames says, “that given the scene at your flat--for which you have my deepest condolences--you might be in a...susceptible frame of mind.” He smiles, to make his meaning even more clear.

Arthur stares at him. He looks tired and irritated and very un-susceptible.

“Or not,” Eames says, standing up. “In which case, I’ll slope off to catch my flight.”

Arthur goes back to the bag. “I’ll see you later.”

“No doubt,” Eames says, and leaves.

He’s standing in line to board his flight when the airport’s fire strobes go off. For a moment it’s surreal, everyone standing around stiffly in the silent flashes. His hand is in his pocket, testing his poker chip, before he even thinks about it.

It’s all real, though. He allows himself to be shepherded into a corner along with a loose gaggle of disgruntled first-classers. Announcements come over the PA system. Passengers are instructed to follow instructions from staff in evacuating the terminal.

No instructions are forthcoming. The airline attendants gather around the check-in desk, talking in fierce whispers. Eames cranes his neck; it’s the same at all the gates. The strobes flash all up and down the terminal. Telephones ring.

He texts Arthur: International terminal locked down.

A moment later: Domestic same.

Reason? It seems unlikely that it’s them, that anyone has tracked them down and closed an entire airport just to get hold of them. Stil, his heart has picked up.

There’s no reply for a long, tense couple of minutes. Then:

Bomb threat, Arthur texts.

“Thank Christ,” Eames breathes.

He finds a chair and sits reading the newspaper on his phone. When the PA tells everyone to proceed in an orderly fashion toward the exits, he looks up in annoyance.

“That means everyone, sir,” says the lady in the blue airline uniform, shooing him. “They’re closing the airport down.”

He sighs, gathers his carry-on bag, and dutifully follows the crowd. It takes forever to get through the bottleneck at the security checkpoint. While he’s waiting, he texts Arthur.

We’re evacuating.

Us too.

Eames lets a woman in turquoise cowboy boots go in front of him. Meet up?

There’s a pause. He inches forward, trying not to be annoyed as people tread on the backs of his shoes.

Bad idea, Arthur replies.

Why?

Protocol. Arthur always has a quick answer where that’s concerned. He’s not wrong, but honestly. Sometimes he’s too boring for words.

Eames texts a frowny face, then has to put the phone away as he navigates the exit gate. When he gets to the other side, there’s another text waiting.

Srsly?

He’s not sure if Arthur’s calling him out for using an emoticon, or for being so unprofessional as to suggest a meet-up in the same city where they’ve just finished a job. But it wasn’t a very big job. And clearly the authorities already have their hands full.

Yes, he texts. I have work-related questions.

Arthur texts back exactly nothing, which Eames decides is the equivalent of deadpan disapproval.

Hilton waterfront, he texts.

He puts the phone away and somehow, through the grace of God, manages to hail a taxi to take him out of the mob scene at the front curb.

“Work-related questions,” Arthur says, sliding onto the stool next to Eames. His tone is dry as paper.

Eames, nursing the same brandy and soda he’s had in front of him for the last forty minutes, nods. “Extremely urgent in nature.”

Arthur sighs and shrugs out of his coat with a grimace. “I had to take the bus back to town.”

“You could have come with me, I had plenty of room in my taxi.”

“Fuck off.” The bartender’s hovering. “Soda and lime, thanks.”

“They’re calling it al Qaeda.” Eames nods at the television playing CNN silently over the bar. “Which means who knows what.”

“Maybe it means al Qaeda.”

Eames shrugs. “Anyway. I was hoping you could give me a couple of pointers.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “On what?”

“On...” Eames pauses to think. “Extremely dull number-y things.”

“Right.”

“No, honestly. I was thinking, how useful it would be to be able to do dull things from time to time. In a pinch, that is. When my many other talents aren’t in demand.”

“You want to do dull things.” Arthur drinks from his glass of soda. “I’m not sure how offended I should be, exactly.”

“Let me rephrase. Come upstairs and see my room.”

“I’ve seen hotel rooms before.” There’s the hint of a smile at the corner of Arthur’s mouth.

“Then come upstairs and don’t see the room.”

“Really, Mr. Eames.” Arthur squeezes the lime into his drink, then licks his fingers. “I don’t see what this has to do with work.”

“It’s my hope,” Eames says, “that it will have nothing to do with work at all.”

Eames stands aside to let Arthur in first, then hangs the do-not-disturb sign and flips the lock. The room is a suite. Arthur’s already dropped his coat over the back of the couch and put his bag down beside the bed. He turns, tugging at his tie.

“Drink?” Eames asks, glancing at the mini bar. Arthur gives him a skeptical look. “Public transportation can be wearing.”

“I’m not really here to talk about public transportation.”

“Excellent,” says Eames. “I’m not really here to talk.”

That makes Arthur smile. He sits down on the edge of the bed, working on the buttons at the neck of his shirt. Eames walks over and sits beside him, close enough that their legs touch. Arthur looks down at their legs, then looks at Eames. Then he leans over, still unbuttoning, and they kiss.

There are times when Eames can tell from the very first moment, the first point of contact, that the sex will be good. Not always--sometimes people surprise him. But sometimes there’s an immediate, happy sense of...shared intent. Without anyone saying a word, it’s sometimes possible to communicate: this, yes, precisely.

Arthur keeps unbuttoning his shirt, but he tips his head to deepen the kiss. His mouth is warm and soft and he tastes like lime. His tongue is unselfconscious. Eames thinks, this, yes, precisely, and gets to work on his own buttons.

They wrestle out of their shirts together. While Eames is still working on his cuffs, Arthur starts pushing him back onto the mattress. Eames lets himself be pushed, then grins when he feels Arthur’s hand on his belt.

“Greedy.”

Arthur, propped on one elbow, kissing him from above, pauses to say, “Gross.”

“You’re the one racing for my cock.”

Arthur gives him a frank look. “I’m sorry, did I misunderstand what this is?”

“Not at all.” Eames works a hand around Arthur’s side, pulling his undershirt out of his trousers and sliding up over his side. Arthur’s skin is warm and smooth over his ribs. He feels slim, muscled, delicious. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Stop talking.” Arthur kisses him hard, then swings a leg over Eames’s hips and kneels over him, pressing their dicks together. Eames, delighted, wriggles farther up the bed to accommodate. Frottage is an underrated pleasure.

They kiss a while longer, shedding clothes as they do, grinding through their trousers. When Eames’s shirt and undershirt are off, Arthur sits back for a moment and stares at the tattoos. His face is flushed, his lips red. He has beard burn on his chin.

“Those are--” He almost looks as if he’s regretting something. “Those...”

“Oh come on.” Eames presses his hips up, smiling. “Least of your concerns.”

Arthur leans over to inspect. “‘Laugh now, cry later’?”

“Ignore that.” Eames takes Arthur’s head gently in both hands, tips it up, and kisses him again.

To Arthur’s credit, he lets it go. As they kiss he gets a hand down Eames’s trousers and fingers his cock through his briefs. It’s light, at first. Gentle, teasing touches. Then, when Eames makes an approving sound, Arthur slips his hand inside. The first touch of his fingers is electric, and Eames thrusts up hard. Arthur bites him.

That goes on for a bit, Arthur’s hand stroking him lightly at first and then firmer. Arthur’s dick shoving into the side of his leg, a lovely hard friction. Eames’s fits his hands around Arthur’s ass, clutching him through the fabric of his trousers. No protest there. Arthur’s free arm is curled around Eames’s head, his fingertips brushing Eames’s cheek and ear.

“I’ve got--” Eames has to twist free to speak. “In my bag, if you want.”

“No.” Arthur doesn’t even pause. He’s so single-minded, it’s one of his charms. “I’ll just blow you.”

“Or I could fuck you.”

“Or I could go.”

“A blow job sounds lovely, thanks.” Eames looks down at their bodies, pressed together. Arthur, shirtless, is lean and smooth and gorgeous, with just a little pink flush starting across his chest and throat. Eames imagines him on his hands and knees, or down on his belly with his ass raised, his hands fisting the sheets. “Or--”

Arthur shoves Eames’s trousers down, slides down his body, and takes the tip of Eames’s cock into his mouth. Eames says, “Ah--” and forgets everything else.

Arthur gives head the same way he does everything: relentlessly, ruthlessly, and very well. He uses his fist and his mouth together, tight and wet and hot, feeling around for the right rhythm. Eames tries to cooperate, to keep his thrusts shallow and slow until Arthur can get warmed up. Within a couple of minutes, though, he’s starting to fray. Whenever he looks down he sees Arthur’s pale muscled shoulders, Arthur’s hair coming out of its combed lines. Arthur’s mouth taking his spit-slick cock, his reddened lips sliding down its length, his tongue circling the head.

Eames feels the hot tightness start to gather in the backs of his legs and in his cock, and tries to force it back. He wants this to last. All those lingering hints he’s dropped, and finally Arthur has taken him up on them--he wants to make it last for hours.

But when he drops a hand and gropes blindly for Arthur’s shoulder, Arthur doesn’t stop. Eames tries to shove him away. Arthur pins him down.

“Wait--” Eames says.

Arthur pulls off just long enough to say, “No,” then starts up again. Eames groans and lets himself go, thrusts up hard a few last times, then short and fast. Arthur gets clear, finishing him with a hand alone.

“For fuck’s sake,” Eames says, dazed and annoyed. “I didn’t want to come yet.”

Arthur gives him a last couple of strokes, slower now. Almost friendly. “Sorry.”

“There are times, Arthur, when we don’t prize efficiency over all else.”

“Thank you, Eames. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I ought to leave you to hang,” Eames says, but when he lifts his head Arthur is straddling him with his dick pointing due north out of his trousers, his bare chest lovely and just slightly streaked with Eames’s come. “But I won’t.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Because I’m the bigger man,” Eames tells him, dragging himself up the bed and turning lengthwise. “Come up here, will you?”

Arthur knee-walks up to the top of the bed, then sits back easily on his heels. One hand rests on his dick, the fingers a loose circle. Eames just looks at him. Thinking how odd life can be. How little sense it makes, the way things happen. Bomb threats and domestic disputes and irritating coworkers with soft mouths and gorgeous dicks.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Eames shakes his head. “What do you want?”

“I’ll have what you had.” Arthur smiles. “Seems fair.”

“Premature orgasm, then. I’ll see what I can do.”

In fact, he does his best to make it last. He goes slow, and when Arthur starts to speed up, he pulls off and admires the view. Arthur really does have a lovely cock, and there’s a great deal of satisfaction to be had from dragging things out. It annoys Arthur, for one thing. He pushes up into Eames’s mouth, and curses when Eames pulls away. He says ungenerous things. The muscles of his thighs quiver and spasm, and after a while he has to drop backward off his heels because he can’t sit upright anymore. He half-lies awkwardly on his back, his heels digging into the mattress.

“Fuck,” he says. “Fucking--Jesus, fuck, Christ--”

Eames sinks his mouth down again, plush and hot and messy. Arthur tastes good, smells good, like skin and spit and salt. His dick strains and jerks in Eames’s mouth. Little pulses of slippery wetness at its tip.

“Fuck,” Arthur says, driving the back of his head into the mattress. “Would you please fucking--can I just--”

Eames slides a hand around beneath Arthur’s leg, runs his fingers into the crack of his ass, and starts a slow rhythm there to match his mouth on Arthur’s dick. Arthur doesn’t protest. Instead, he groans and thrusts harder, one arm over his eyes. He’s gone mottled red in his face, down his throat and chest. There’s a sheen of sweat on his belly, and in the seams of his thighs. Some part of Eames’s mind notes it and thinks, interesting.

He makes it last a few more minutes, teasing, until his jaw starts to cramp. Then he goes hard and fast, a little cruel even, not bothering about his teeth. Arthur goes over like a man pushed off a cliff. Eames presses the tip of a finger inside him while he comes, and he thrusts back hard against it.

When it’s over, Arthur lies limp and spread-eagled, breathing hard. His trousers and briefs are down around one leg, his hair is all over. Eames disengages and sits back to massage his jaw. He’s more than halfway hard again, which surprises him not at all.

Over on the desk, Arthur’s phone makes a rude buzzing sound. Arthur closes his eyes.

After a minute or two he says, “You’re a prick, Eames.” There’s no anger in it.

“Says the smaller man.” Eames gets up and goes to the mini bar for a bottle of water, then to the toilet for a cloth. In the mirror, he looks dazed and disheveled. His cheeks are pink and his lips look heavily used. He splashes a little water on his face, wipes his belly, and goes back out.

Arthur’s slowly gathering himself, sitting upright on the bed. He takes the water when Eames offers it, swigs, and sits looking around the room. Their clothes are scattered across the floor.

“On a scale of one to ten,” Arthur says, holding out the bottle. “How stupid was that?”

Eames shrugs and starts collecting his clothes. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”

“Just a little friendly sportfucking between co-workers.”

“Precisely.” He shakes out his trousers to get the legs right. “No harm in it.”

Arthur makes a noncommittal sound, then drags himself out of the bed and goes to the toilet. He moves as if his limbs are made of lead.

“You can stay a bit,” Eames calls after him. “If you want. Have a nap.”

Arthur doesn’t answer. When he comes out a few minutes later his hair is pushed more or less back into place, and he’s cleaned up. He scoops his briefs and trousers off the carpet and starts untangling them. “Any word on the airport?”

Eames finds the remote and flicks the telly on to CNN. They both dress, watching the ticker with half an eye until the words scroll by. Airport bomb scare, hundreds of flights delayed or cancelled, terminals evacuated. Authorities still investigating.

“Still unsolved,” Eames says, shrugging into his jacket. “There are trains, I suppose.”

“Ariadne’s on one.” Arthur is reading his phone screen from the desktop, his head tipped at a sharp angle while his hands knot his tie. “Sounds like they’re pretty packed.”

“Yusuf?”

“He had an early flight, he might have got out.” Arthur scrolls back through his texts with one finger. “Nothing so far.”

“Hardly seems fair, does it? He buggers off early and avoids the whole mess. And here we are, stuck in the middle of international politics.”

“You could have left early.” Arthur’s still working on his tie, but he’s looking at Eames.

“I had important work matters to attend to.”

Arthur looks down, but it doesn’t hide his smile.

Eames sits on the bed and watches him collect his coat and bag. When he’s got himself all neatly repackaged, he turns back. “Well--thanks.”

Eames lets that pass. “What are you going to do?”

“Try for a train, I guess. You?”

“I’m stuck waiting for the airlines, I’m afraid.” He smiles. “They don’t make trains that can cross the Pacific.”

“Right. Well--” Arthur keeps looking at him. “Good luck with that.”

“I’ll be here tonight, I assume. In case you should miss your train, and need a floor to sleep on.”

Arthur’s mouth twitches. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He turns and starts for the door, but pauses with his hand on the lock. “Thanks again, for...telling me to get my act together, on the job.”

“You really do need to let that go.”

Arthur gives him a half-smile, then unlocks the door and shoulders through it with his bag in his hand. The latch clicks behind him. His footsteps go away down the hall.

Eames lies back on the bed with one hand on his chest, the other draped lightly across his groin. There’s still a pulse there, low and pleasant. The chances of Arthur coming back are very low, he thinks. But then again, life can be quite odd. And, from time to time, quite lovely.