Work Text:
“No,” Arthur said, before Pollock could even get the rest of his offer out. They were in the first class lounge at LAX, and Arthur was literally one shortish cab drive away from his apartment- for the first time in six months. He wasn't going to hang around for Pollock- a professional idiot, to strong arm him into another job.
“You'll get a few weeks of downtime before we have to start I promise,” Pollock said, “Seriously this job isn't going to get off the ground without you.”
“Then it's going to have to stay grounded,” Arthur glanced over at the first class steward who gave him a tiny nod- his cab was ready.
“Shit,” Pollock reached out and grabbed Arthur's arm as he stood. “Okay fine, you don't want to work this one, at least give me a recommendation- someone good.”
Arthur hesitated. He made a habit of not sharing the details of colleagues- in this industry discretion was valued more than anything else. Still, it was too fucking good- far too good an opportunity to pass over.
“Try this guy,” he said, writing down a number on the dry edge of the napkin he had been using to catch the condensation from his complimentary glass of orange juice.
“You're a lifesaver, Jim,” Pollock said, and not for the first time Arthur regretted his choice of pseudonym. Best to pick something without any diminutives next time.
“Yeah whatever,” he said, and didn't bother with a proper goodbye.
--
The first message came about three weeks later, just about at the point where Arthur was kind of getting bored of his downtime.
“You're an arsehole,” it began. “You're a fucking- fucking bastard, why did you give this man my number. I have never worked with a worse group of-” Abruptly Eames cut off, as if someone had walked in and caught him mid rant.
Another one, half an hour later.
“You're dead to me,” Eames said, sounding sad more than anything else. “You hear me Arthur?”
Arthur laughed until he thought he was going to be sick.
--
Eames got his own back though.
Arthur preferred to work corporate jobs- they paid well, and it was in the interest of the client to keep it all incredibly quiet – not like work for criminals, who were far more likely to leave Arthur high and dry at the end. He spent a month putting together a watertight pitch for QRCorp, worked his very nicest suits and spent what felt like interminable meetings discussing cost margins and operational deadlines, and then on the last day- at the very last minute, Eames swept in and stole the job.
Right from under his nose.
“Have you met Mr. Rowles?” Miranda, CEO of QRCorp began, when Arthur found her and Eames packing up in the boardroom. Eames was in a grey suit, his top button was undone and as Arthur watched- transfixed in horror – he slid a pair of aviators onto his nose and grinned. He'd had his teeth done, apparently.
“We've met,” Arthur said, aiming for bland, and getting something more like constipated. Eames' (newly) white smile widened fractionally.
“Well,” Miranda was no nonsense, and had responded well to much of Arthur's perfectly constructed brief. She was cost conscious though, and Arthur realised right then, that he had aimed far too high. “Mr Rowles has made a pitch. Sorry to say, his bottom line was considerably lower than yours.”
Of course it was.
“Won't you let me make a counter offer?” Arthur said, as Eames lifted his briefcase and waggled his eyebrows behind Miranda's back.
“I don't think that is necessary,” she said primly. “You've had plenty of time to convince me, as has Mr. Rowles.”
That was that then, and Arthur had to go back to his hotel room and take down all his painstaking research, call all his potential team members and tell them the job was off – all the humiliating after-effects of a lost job. Arthur was not used to losing clients. He put on the hotel TV and spent the next three hours watching 24 hour news channels and eating nuts from the minibar. Eames called later to gloat.
“That's what you get dear, when you try and fuck me over professionally,” he said, “You should know better.”
“I passed you that Pollock job on a plate you asshole,” Arthur was so far slumped down in the bed that his chin was pressed against his chest. Between his feet two wall street experts were discussing the latest Nikkei movement. He didn't even have the energy to reach for the remote to change over to something more interesting.
“You passed me a moron who used somnacin basic and didn't know the difference between a id forge and an ego forge!”
Arthur had to laugh. God Pollock was an idiot.
“You know,” Eames continued, “It went all right, mostly because I took over every fucking part of the planning, but at the end Pollock got himself injured and decided to shoot himself to get out quick.”
“Mmmm?” Arthur threw his empty tub of cashews over towards the TV.
“He missed! He tried to shoot himself and fucking missed,” now Eames was laughing too. “I've never actually met anyone more incompetent.”
Arthur was inclined to laugh with him- at least until QRCorp stock rolled past briefly on the on-screen ticker tape and he was reminded of how supremely Eames had just fucked him over.
“I hate you,” he said, ”I put months of fucking work into this job, and you just swan in with new teeth and steal it?”
“Ah you noticed,” Eames said warmly. “Well you don't want this job anyway. I know for a fact that the mark suspects that Miranda is up to something. She's not exactly been quiet about it. I reckon it's a dud.”
For a moment they were both silent, then it clicked for Arthur.
“You're going to fuck her over, aren't you? You're working for Tarkon.”
“Bingo!” Eames sniggered, “Anyway, are you still in the city?”
Arthur had to think about how to answer that. He looked at the TV, where they were discussing oil prices earnestly. He still had at least three snacks left in the minibar.
“Yeah,” he said slowly.
--
Eames turned up forty minutes later with a bottle of red wine and his crooked teeth back.
“Did you actually wear caps?” Arthur said as he let him in. He took the wine carefully, like it might bite, but despite his general lack of taste elsewhere, Eames was actually pretty good with wine.
“I took undercutting you very seriously,” Eames inspected the hotel room but didn't actually make any comment about the mess, instead tossing his jacket on the floor next to the empty packets of cashews. Arthur watched him tug off his tie and toss that too, watched the way the muscles of his arms bunched beneath his white shirt, the way his tattoos were ghostly shapes under the thin fabric. He hadn't shaved.
“No hard feelings?” Eames said, his voice dropping a few pitches to hit silky depth.
“Plenty of hard feelings,” Arthur tugged the cork out of the wine and poured himself a glass. “This works a lot better when I'm angry at you.”
Eames' mouth twitched. He knew it was true. He moved to take the wine bottle from Arthur, and just because Arthur could- he snatched it away, grinning when Eames lunged again. Some wine may or may not have splashed onto the cream hotel carpet.
“You,” Eames muttered, forgetting the wine and going for Arthur's belt instead.
They kissed and just like always, Arthur felt upended, like it was the first time- back when the scrub of Eames' stubble and the lazy fuck of his tongue had been brand new and heady. The wine just managed to make it to the table, before Arthur busied both hands removing Eames' shirt.
“Come on,” Arthur said, when Eames drew away. He dragged the shirt off and ran his hands up Eames' arms, from his wrists to his shoulders. His skin was hot, Arthur could feel the edges of his newest tattoos, even without looking. “I hate you,” Arthur said, a little half-heartedly.
“Mm-hm,” Eames had Arthur's belt off, he went upwards from there, rucking up Arthur's T-shirt, and digging his fingertips in, pressing against ribs and the soft skin of his belly too hard and uncompromising. Arthur wished he didn't like it, he wished he didn't like being shoved up against the table, didn't like the rough drag of Eames unshaven jaw against his own.
“I really love how easy you are,” Eames murmured, stroking Arthur's stomach, “I didn't even have to bring the wine, really did I?”
Arthur tightened his fingers around Eames' shoulders and enjoyed the resistance of thick muscle, hard beneath soft skin. Eames drew back and smiled; to make a point, Arthur released him and fumbled for his wineglass, downing half of it in one go.
“Hah,” Eames exhaled, leaning into lick back into Arthur's mouth, all damp and red with wine. Eames dragged his rough fingertips down the dip of Arthur's spine, down until he could tuck it into his pants, the hot crease of his ass. Arthur groaned and dropped his head back- letting Eames rub the sting of stubble down his bare throat, then soothe that with the slick cushion of his lips. He dug both thumbs into Arthur hips, braced them and dragged the waistband of his pants down, enough that his dick was the only thing holding them up. Eames laughed, Arthur just grunted, frustrated.
“Okay, okay,” Eames said, and dropped onto his knees far too eagerly, “but only if you promise to put it to good use later.”
“Ugh,” Arthur resisted the urge to shut him up with a mouthful of cock. “I'm not going to- ah-”
He got a little lost there, but only because Eames was panting on his erection through the thin fabric of his pants.
“I'm not negotiating over sex positions with you,” Arthur managed finally, his voice rather thin. Eames moved his thumbs, drawing the waistband out, freeing Arthur's dick. It smacked up against his belly and he made an embarrassing, frustrated noise.
“You can't have your cake and eat it, Arthur,” Eames purred, close enough that the words practically curled out around Arthur's erection. He hesitated, probably because he could, then he swallowed Arthur down, making a happy little noise he did. He was such a cock-hungry slut, and Arthur shuddered, his hands spasming around the table rim.
The thing was- sex with Eames really was like having his cake and eating it. Arthur wished it wasn't, because Eames made him feel contrary, because he hated that they worked so well together, he hated that they fucked so well together.
Eames had flattened his tongue against the base of Arthur's cock and he was really going for it, rubbing his nose against the hair of Arthur's belly as he bobbed up and down. Arthur couldn't really keep a coherent string of thoughts together; everything was rapidly dragging down to a single point of contact: Eames' lips around his dick. They really hadn't done this in a long time- and at that moment, with Eames fucking his mouth onto Arthur's dick- Arthur couldn't think of a single reason why they didn't do it more often.
Eames pulled off, letting his bottom lip drag right on the head of Arthur's cock- a tiny, gentle sensation. It was almost too much for Arthur who was so sensitive that his rucked up T-shirt felt like a sandpaper straightjacket around his arms.
“Nuh-uh,” Eames said, looking at Arthur's dick. Why wasn't he sucking it? Arthur couldn't figure it out. He was making a lot of noise he realised, his breath coming in ragged pants.
“Far too quick darling,” Eames said, actually fucking standing up and moving away. Arthur let go of the table and nearly fell over his feet. His pants were tangled around his knees, he kicked them off and dragged the shirt off too. Eames was stripping off completely.
“Excuse me?” Arthur was outraged.
“I take it you don't fuck anyone in between,” Eames said, stroking his hand from his chest to his stomach, showing off. He looked like he did it without thought really, but he knew how much Arthur liked to look at him. He had to know what sort of effect it had.
“In between what?”
“Well- in between us.”
Arthur's jaw dropped. It wasn't that they had- well nothing had certainly been decided, and he hadn't set out not to hook up with anyone else, but then why would he? Arthur was busy, he worked.
“Do you?” he asked, and Eames' jaw set in a way that very clearly meant yes. Arthur was surprised how angry that made him; but then it worked better for them when he was angry. He stepped away from the table and pushed Eames, hard. Eames staggered back one step, but he quickly got with the program, and when Arthur shoved again, he melted back onto the bed in a graceful sprawl. Arthur kicked at his legs as he walked past to rummage through the discarded jacket. Surprise, surprise Eames had come prepared. Arthur resisted the urge to toss the slick at his head.
“Now you're really angry,” Eames said, rolling onto his stomach. He looked over his shoulder, the muscles of his back were all drawn tight in some, filthy feat of natural engineering. The way they drew taut down into the hollow of his lower back– the dim hotel lights were enough still to cast deep shadows under the cut lines of his shoulder blades and the dimples of his ass.
“Yeah,” Arthur climbed over him, distracted, but still angry. He pressed one hand against the curve of Eames' ass, enjoying the resistance of muscle where it met thigh, and softness beyond, his fingers pressing easily into the shadow of Eames' crack. His balls were pushed against the comforter, Arthur slid one hand under to stroke them as he used his other to push Eames' back down- arching it further.
“Oh god,” Eames groaned. “Come on then, don't make me wait.”
Arthur intended to make him wait. Anger steadied his hand as he slicked up his fingers. Apparently Eames had been fucking his way around the world since they last hooked up, so it wasn't as if he needed warming up, but Arthur was annoyed, and he settled down, propping himself up on one elbow, absently rubbing his own erection against the bed as he pushed in slowly, one finger first, then two.
“Uh,” Eames said, dropping his forehead down. Arthur smiled. He and Eames were of a height, Arthur a bit taller maybe, but Eames had pounds of muscle on Arthur and Arthur could still render him completely useless with the curl of two little fingers.
“Arthur,” he said eventually. He had that irritated, too-little-stimulus flush about him, like arousal white noise. He was never going to get off while Arthur played about with his ass like that, but his dick didn't know that. It wanted to go for gold. “Arthur please, fuck me, please.”
“Hm,” Arthur said, pulling out and wiping his fingers on Eames ass. His hips canted up as Arthur drew away and he made a irritated noise. While Arthur rolled the condom on and slicked up, he didn't touch Eames at all, and he could see how that felt from the way Eames' shoulders shook with tension. He was waiting.
Finally Arthur had had enough. His own arousal was almost painful, pressing hot against his skin, his mouth dry. He pushed Eames' cheeks apart and stroked a slick thumb over the edge of his hole, wet enough to catch the light. He fucked in gently because he knew that would piss Eames off more than playing rough.
“God, fucking, fucking finally,” Eames groaned as Arthur pushed in. As usual, it felt for a second like Arthur had been punched in the gut. Arthur knew scientifically that Eames didn't have a better asshole than other men, but it felt like that anyway. Eames made some pornstar noises as Arthur found the right position, then they had it, a rhythm that was slower than either of them wanted it to be, but Arthur was punishing Eames, and possibly punishing himself.
“Oh come, on come on,” Eames said after a while of that, sounding really pushed to frustration. “Ugh - harder Arthur, I know you want to.”
“You,” Arthur panted, nearly all of his control gone. One of his hands was fisted in the comforter by Eames' head, the other had a vice grip on his shoulder, keeping his back arched. “You can't have your fucking cake and eat it.”
He fucked him harder anyway. Eames pushed his forehead down into the bed and just writhed beneath Arthur, all his words melting into steady grunts. Arthur knew he was on the right track when Eames stopped speaking.
“Ah,” Eames gasped, all the muscles in his shoulders bunching tight. Arthur could feel him shuddering; he was very, very close. Arthur dug his nails in at Eames' neck. He didn't have enough leverage to drag him up and give him the reach around, and he was disinclined to anyway. All he could think about was how he hoped that every time Eames picked anyone else up he would think back to this hotel room, this fuck, and compare them very unfavourably to Arthur.
The thought made Arthur grin, baring his teeth. He fucked Eames viciously, giving him what he wanted, because he always did in the end. It barely took thirty seconds after that for Eames to come, shouting into the comforter, his whole body going rigid for two, three more thrusts, before he melted around Arthur's dick like every muscle in his body was liquid.
“Oh god,” he groaned, vowels long and drawn out. Sweat prickled on Arthur's skin, he felt like every pant was condensing around him in a hot cloud of arousal. He was close but it wasn't enough.
“Knees up,” he said, pulling back, and Eames just did as he was told, so that Arthur could fuck him harder, digging the tips of his fingers in hard enough to feel the edges of muscle drawn over sharp hipbone. Eames shuddered at every thrust, too sensitive, but he didn't complain- he just made hiccuping noises of pleasure and let Arthur push himself to climax- hands clenching so hard it was painful, his body curling up almost double- practically pressing his forehead to Eames' back. Everything in the room rushed away for one beautiful moment, including any and all reasons why he would be angry with this man, this fucking amazing, brilliant man.
The room rushed right back, and Arthur found himself collapsed down on one side, Eames dragged with him. Arthur was still inside him, he pulled out and Eames groaned. They stayed like that, for a while, curled side by side, and Arthur stared at the back of Eames' head and wondered what he was thinking. He was probably falling asleep.
Irritated, Arthur rolled away to toss the condom and scrub some of the sweat from his face and chest with the first thing to hand- Eames's shirt, he noted with satisfaction. Eames didn't make much of an effort to clean up- he scrubbed away the mess on his stomach with the dirty comforter then rolled it off the bed with his knee. On bare sheets he stretched out and closed his eyes.
“You should go,” Arthur said, and he knew the moment he said it Eames wasn't going anywhere. He said it with about one millionth of the strength he had used to ask Eames to pull his knees up.
“You got really jealous,” Eames said finally, peering at Arthur from under his eyelashes. “Do you really think I sleep with other people knowing what it's like to fuck you?”
Arthur just stared at him. Eames reached out a lazy hand and grabbed his wrist, dragged him down to sprawl on the bed too. The room stank of sweat and sex. At some point, one of them must have accidentally knocked the remote, because the TV was on, two analysts talking quietly about the FTSE 100.
“Why would you let me think that?” Arthur asked deliberately jabbing Eames with his elbow as he got more comfortable, “you know I wouldn't assume-”
“Like you said, this works better when you're angry,” Eames reached out and stroked a knuckle across Arthur's eyebrow, as if to soothe him. Arthur wanted to be angry- on some level he still was, because Eames had done what he always did, manipulated and wriggled and deceived his way into getting what he wanted; but actually Arthur didn't feel very angry at all any more.
He got the feeling Eames didn't actually want him to be angry either, but as always with Eames, it was impossible to really tell what he wanted.
“So,” Arthur said eventually, ignoring the way Eames was sifting fingers through his hair. “I know you cut Miranda pretty low, but what are you getting from Tarkon?”
“A significant sum of money,” Eames said, yawning halfway through. “Why?”
“You can pay for room service then,” Arthur sat up scrubbing hand through his sweaty hair. “I'm hungry.”
“Surely you-” Eames struggled to get up, he was heavy eyed- and loose-limbed. Fucked-out. Arthur felt pleased with himself. “Couldn't we just lie very still and quietly in the dark?”
“I want a shower and a steak,” Arthur headed to the bathroom. “You spend far too much time sleeping anyway.”
“Oh ha ha!” he heard Eames say, but any further complaint was cut off by the rush of shower water.
--
Arthur was beginning to reach the end of his patience. It wasn't that the team were bad particularly; Johnson was a well rounded extractor, and she knew her limits. Their chemist was a good balance of intelligent and realistic- it was a solid combination of team players.
It was just that their architect was the most boring man Arthur had ever, ever met.
“Did you know that this entire building was designed and given the go-ahead and at the last moment they realised that the B support steels were three millimetres too wide to provide adequate support?” he said, horribly earnest.
“Really,” Arthur had a crossword in front of him, mostly in the hope that it would make him a little less inviting to conversation. Unfortunately Warren, who had a long career in dreamshare architecture and was very talented at his work, was absolutely useless at recognising any kind of social cue.
“Yes, it was almost a disaster – it cost the development of the project priceless months-”
“Oh look,” Arthur said, spotting their mark. They were sitting in a hotel lobby and it gave them a perfect view of the park opposite. The mark stopped, stretched then continued on his run. Arthur filled the time into the empty squares of his crossword.
“You know what I found out the other day?” Warren began again, undaunted. Arthur focused on the steady pace of the mark and tried to let all the words wash over him. This job was going to be unbearably long.
--
On the second last day Arthur got a text from Eames. It was a just a series of numbers, but when Arthur investigated further he realised it was QRCorps plummeting stock value. Arthur decided not to reply, which obviously disappointed Eames because he sent another message twenty minutes later that simply read na na na na na :).
When they were finished and wrapping up, Arthur took Warren aside.
“You said you were looking for work in Europe?” Arthur said, “Call this guy, he's always got something on the go.”
“He won't mind?” Warren took the card. Arthur had actually gone to the length of having some cards printed up with Eames' personal number on them. It was far too useful.
“Not at all- he'll help you out- since you're a friend of mine.”
When he got back to his hotel room, everything packed up to leave, he texted Eames.
got you an architect for that Berlin job, thank me later.
Arthur had decided, next time, he wasn't going to let Eames wind him up.