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Arthur is sitting cross-legged in one of Cobb's basement rec-room chairs watching the latest Disney DVD with the kids. He's secretly relieved at being able to relax now that he'd finally let Eames persuade him to change into his ratty old Army sweats after dinner.
Before they'd left the house that morning, Eames had mocked Arthur for showing up to babysit in what amounted to business casual attire. But Arthur had insisted that one of them had to look trustworthy and authoritative on the off chance that something went wrong while Cobb was out for the night.
"If anyone needs stitches or an intervention with the neighborhood's security guards, I don't want to have to bother Cobb when he's hopefully getting laid for the first time in longer than bears thinking about too hard. That's why he asked us to spend the night, not some neighbor girl."
"Poor bastard," Eames had said.
Arthur glances over at Eames, who is sprawled sideways across the adjacent chair. For the past half hour, he's been ever-so-slowly slouching down in his seat, moving his feet closer and closer to Arthur's personal space. It's something he seems to do unconsciously whenever they're safe enough that they don't have to pretend they're just colleagues. Not the feet specifically, of course, just the endless gravitating closer and closer until Arthur can't help but reaching out to touch him.
Eames is wearing yoga pants, tennis socks and a zip-up ski sweater, because, as he'd said that morning "if I'm going to spend all day chasing Cobb's sprogs around, I might as well be comfortable and unconcerned about proximity to juicebox spills." But as is often the case with Eames's at-home clothing choices, there's something borderline obscene about the ensemble. Arthur's pretty sure he saw a ski instructor character wearing close to this exact outfit in the opening scene of a hot-tub-centric 90s porn film. Honestly, could Eames expect a pediatrician to take him at all seriously in that getup?
The kids are curled up on the floor, absorbed in the DVD. Hopefully the lack of fidgeting means that they're settling in and getting sleepy, so bedtime won't be a fight. Much to his own surprise, Arthur is a giant softie when the James and Phil get upset. He looks at their tiny anguished faces and can't stop seeing the tidbits of Mal scattered here and there in their features. It's nearly impossible to deny them anything. Luckily Eames grew up with two younger half-siblings and one younger step brother and brooks no dissent from their charges.
If someone had told Arthur before they looked after the kids the first time that Eames would end up being the disciplinarian and he the pushover, he would have laughed in that person's face. Cobb still doesn't believe it. After the shorter, afternoon-long babysitting gigs they'd done in the past when Cobb needed some uninterrupted work time, Cobb had always credited Arthur with the success of their outings. No amount of protesting would convince him that Eames was by-and-large responsible for keeping the ship righted.
Arthur caresses the arch of one of Eames's socked feet, which has come close enough to rest on the arm of his chair. Eames smiles and makes a contented little hum, as if he honestly had no idea Arthur would start massaging his feet at some point before the end of the movie. Possibly he didn't, to be honest, because that's just how he is with Arthur.
It's how he used to be with everyone. Starting with their first job together--extracting an account number in Geneva--Arthur had noticed how physical Eames was with nearly everybody. He touched hands during one-on-one conversations with team members; he ran his arm along the chair-back of the person sitting closest to him in meetings; he tucked stray hairs and shirt collars into their proper places without even asking the other person's permission first.
And it hadn't stopped right away when Eames and Arthur were first sleeping with each other, either. Of course, by that point Arthur was so accustomed to Eames's mannerisms that it had never occurred to him to be jealous. It was months later when Arthur noticed that at some point the full-force of Eames's casual handsy-ness had become directed at him and him alone. After mulling this observation over for several days, Arthur had realized that he was probably in love with Eames. But it had still taken him another three agonizing weeks to get the courage to tell Eames how he felt.
One of Eames's best features, as far as Arthur is concerned, is his near-unparalleled ability to convey his thoughts non-verbally. Arthur isn't always very good at "talking about things," in a relationship sense, and Eames is great at demonstrating his feelings in a way that Arthur will eventually pick up on and discuss at his own pace. Sometimes he thinks Eames is playing him like a violin. Others he thinks it's all subconscious on Eames's part. The truth is probably somewhere in the middle.
After the movie, they split up bedtime duty. Eames carries an already sleeping James upstairs to help him into pajamas and tuck him under the covers; Arthur walks an increasingly resistant Phil around the house, as she selects all the books and stuffed animals she claims she'll need to survive until morning.
By the time Arthur makes it to their guest room, Eames is lying flat on his stomach facing the foot of the bed, nose buried in a novel--the kind with no violence and no sex, which Arthur can't even understand the point of reading for fun. He's swapped out the ski sweater for an old baseball shirt of Arthur's from college. Cobb had awkwardly told them to sleep fully clothed, because at least one of the kids was liable to join them in the middle of the night.
Arthur tries not to think about how it will work if Cobb and his date keep seeing each other and she starts spending nights over at his place. Or even if they don't and Cobb goes out with other women instead. Either way, Arthur and Eames aren't going to come over and help out every time Cobb wants a piece of ass.
Arthur settles against the headboard to read the paper on his iPad, one hand resting lightly on the back of Eames's thigh. Several articles later he realizes that Eames is oh-so-subtly grinding down into the mattress, causing Arthur's palm to slip back and forth along the fabric of his yoga pants. Again, he can't tell whether the movement is intentional, or perhaps the result of something in Eames's book--unlikely, but Eames can pretty much get turned on by anything, so who knows.
Arthur says nothing and lets it carry on for a bit, trying to gauge whether Eames is actually trying to seduce him or just doing so accidentally. In the meantime, he considers the logistics of their realistic options for sex under the circumstances.
Eames is pretty much ready for sex at any given moment, all Arthur has to do is make a move. But he's also more than happy to let it go without a second thought if Arthur's mind is elsewhere when Eames initiates. It had actually been their biggest stumbling block when they became an official couple. Years of Army life had taught Arthur to compartmentalize sex into something very separate from pretty much every other aspect of his life, and learning how to negotiate access to that chamber with a long-term partner whose desires he couldn't control had been tough for him.
Slowly, slowly Arthur moves his hand up Eames's leg until it's resting just under the curve of his luscious ass. He surreptitiously watches Eames over the top of his tablet. But Eames is too clever to fall for Arthur's ruse of pretending to read. He peeks over his shoulder, looking pointedly at Arthur's wayward hand.
"Reading something juicy?" Arthur asks, cocking one eyebrow and returning the stare.
"Not particularly, no."
"Any other reason you were practically humping the duvet then?"
"I was thinking about your hands on my feet downstairs and how utterly right they felt there. Then I wondered if I had a previously undiscovered foot fetish. Then I thought about sex. Then I remembered that your hands feel rather sure and perfect on every part my body, so I decided I'd see if you'd like to put them there right now."
Arthur laughs, delighted with Eames's logic.
He rolls off the bed and beckons the other man into the en suite bathroom. Once inside, he pushes Eames against the wall across from the dual-vanity sink and says, "you have absolutely got to be quiet, OK."
"One of those kids could show up here any minute," he continues. "So we're going to take turns. You first. If we hear a tiny intruder outside, then whomever is on the receiving end stays inside and finishes himself off, while the other goes and takes care of whatever it is. Got it?"
"Darling, I do so love it when you put your brilliant tactical mind to use for sex."
Arthur leans forward and kisses Eames, who has already forgotten the quiet rule and moans into his mouth.
"Dammit, Eames! I don't want to inadvertently scar one of these children for life."
"Sorry, sorry. Won't happen again."
Arthur looks pointedly at Eames, turns around to grab the hand lotion dispenser from it's place on the sink and places it on the floor. Then he looks back at Eames as he sinks to his knees. The excited flare in Eames's eyes tells Arthur that his message was clear: Be good and you get to have a little something extra.
He tugs Eames's yoga pants down and circles his cock with two fingers and a thumb, stroking slowly and peeling the foreskin back. He knows they don't have time for teasing, but he can't help taking a moment to admire it before opening his mouth and sucking it down.
True to his word, Eames doesn't make a peep as Arthur bobs his head and swirls his tongue. He uses every bit of privileged information about Eames's cock that he has stored away in his brain--the rhythm he likes, how hard to grip his base, where to press his tongue flat and where to curl it into a half moon.
When Arthur peeks up and sees Eames's hands balled into into white-knuckled fists, he reaches behind him and finds the hand lotion. It's not his favorite sort of lube, but he knows what Eames wants and it will get the job done.
Arthur loves the feeling of having Eames's body encased around his fingers. He's silky smooth and hot inside and so damned responsive to even the slightest movement. He writhes silently against the wall as Arthur curls his fingers and then scissors them quickly, followed by a hard twist.
Before long Eames is shaking from what seems like a combination of arousal and staying quiet. Arthur knows he should be making this as fast as possible, given the circumstances, but oh how he wants to give Eames everything.
Arthur jumps to his feet and sidesteps so that he can push Eames up against the vanity and then move around behind him. He leans forward and whispers in Eames's ear, "I love you, baby."
Eames shivers.
Arthur knows Eames wishes he'd say it more frequently. He tries. He really does. Luckily Arthur isn't afraid of showing Eames how he feels in oh so many ways, from doing taxes for Eames's local legit alias to sinking to his knees and unceremoniously sticking his tongue into Eames's ass.
Eames jolts and pitches forward. Arthur rubs his cheek affectionately across the back of Eames's thighs to sooth him and then dives back in, licking softly at Eames's rim.
He knows Eames won't last long like this, staring at his own face in the mirror while Arthur shows his ass no mercy. And sure enough, the very second Arthur reaches around to palm the head of Eames's dick, his hand is covered with spurts of warm come.
A quick washcloth cleanup later and Arthur is the one leaning against the sink, knees slightly bent, while Eames has his ridiculously plush lips fastened around Arthur's dick, sending white-hot shocks of pleasure shooting through his limbs. His hands are tangled loosely in Eames's hair, not tight enough to control his movement--Eames is an artist at cocksucking and needs no input from Arthur--but simply to feel the motion of his head, and to have another point of connection between them.
Then over the thudding of his heart, Arthur hears the door to the bedroom creak open and a tiny voice calls out "Uncle Arthur? Uncle Eames?"
Fuck!
Eames pulls off, shoots a quick glance at Arthur and responds, "Phillipa is that you, luv?"
"I woke up and now my head is too full of thoughts to go back to sleep," she says. "Can I have another bedtime story?"
"Of course you can, sweetheart. Can you just give your Uncle Eames a moment in the toilet first? Be a good girl and go back to your room and wait for me. I'll come out and make up a brand new fairy story just for you, yeah. Can you do that for me Phil?"
"OK Uncle Eames. Don't take too long though."
Arthur hears the door close in the other room. He reaches down and offers Eames a hand up, before his boyfriend gets the crazy idea of finishing him off first. Eames pouts but stands, then leans over to take a swig of water from the sink.
He points for Arthur to get behind the shower curtain, which is smart. Arthur would never forgive himself if Eames opened the door to a disobedient Phillipa and he was standing there, pants around his ankles, hard cock still glistening with his boyfriend's saliva. But the coast must have been clear, because Arthur hears the outer door open and close as soon as Eames leave the bathroom.
Fuck, but he wishes he'd come before they'd been interrupted. If he'd been faster, this wouldn't have happened. Of course, if he'd been faster, he would have missed Eames's clenched fists shaking with need against the wall, he wouldn't have felt that lurch when he actually managed to surprise Eames with his mouth for once. The memory is enough to push all other thoughts out of his mind as Arthur takes himself in hand and jerks off as quickly and breathlessly as he can.
When he's done tidying both himself and the bathroom, Arthur tiptoes out into the hallway and presses against the wall outside Phil's room.
He can hear Eames's voice spinning a story that seems to be about a princess with a magical glass bowl that can give any fish the power of speech when placed inside. She wants to use knowledge gleaned from the sea creatures to save her kingdom from a scheming warlock on a nearby island, one determined to knock out her city by the sea with a magical tidal wave.
Arthur sinks to the floor, listening as the tale unfolds. He wonders how on earth he got so lucky as to have won the heart of a guy who can be on his knees in a bathroom one minute and tucking a little girl into bed the next, while never seeming anything less than himself. Not to mention the ease with which he tolerates Arthur's hangups and need for control. And there's no one on earth Arthur would rather have his back in a fistfight, or a fire fight for that matter.
The story winds back on itself, lacking a natural ending, because the only possible conclusion is Phillipa finally falling asleep. By the time Eames eases the door closed behind him, Arthur's mind is racing and his heart is thudding in his ears. He stands so quickly that his head swims, then presses Eames against the wall to gently kiss his eyelids, earlobes, his temples and the tip of his nose.
"You know the princess in my story wasn't actually based on you, don't you Arthur?" Eames whispers
Arthur comes dangerously close to laughing out loud.
He leads Eames by the hand back into their guest room and pushes him against the door.
"I know we can't do that again in the bathroom, but I really, really wish we were at home right now," he whispers in Eames's ear. "If we were, I would throw you on the bed and fuck you hard and fast. Selfish, I know, because you like to start out slow and easy. But I'd make you burn inside and gasp for air. I'd keep it just brutal enough that you couldn't get off before I would fill you up with my own come. But it would be worth it, because then I'd flip you over and lower myself slowly, slowly, ever so slowly onto your cock. I'd hold you down and ride you with excruciatingly minute movements until you would be screaming with frustration and you'd very nearly pass out when I finally let you come."
Arthur doesn't ask Eames to fuck him very often. In fact, it's something he'd only ever done twice before they became an item. Eames has never asked, but is always willing to oblige Arthur's whims in bed. As a result, it's taken on a special status in their lives, reserved for nights with overwhelming emotion or we-almost-died adrenaline for Arthur--nights he needs to be physically reminded of Eames's presence in his life. Here, Arthur hopes it serves as a shorthand for letting Eames know how he's feeling right now.
"Christ, Arthur, you're telling me all this as part of a comment on how you can't fuck me right now? You're a right sadistic bastard, you know that?"
"I'm sorry baby. I am. But I just--I couldn't stop thinking about how lucky I am and I needed you to know."
"You're going to be the death of me, Arthur, I swear to God. These are your idea of chaste bedtime sweet nothings? One more word and I'm going to have to take a moment to myself in the toilet," he says. But Arthur can see the pleased smile that's spread across his face and the happy glow in his eyes.
Arthur waits a good 15 minutes after they've crawled under the covers before he curls up behind Eames and circles his waist. He doesn't want to push Eames over the edge into actually needing to get off alone in the bathroom and he knows all too well how easily that can happen. Once they're pressed comfortably together, Eames nuzzles his head into the pillow and mumbles, "goodnight princess." Arthur suppresses the urge to hit him with a pillow.
___
Eames is roused out of a rare deep sleep when what feels like a golden retriever jumps on his chest and wriggles its way to the middle of the bed.
Hold on a tick, when did he and Arthur acquire a dog?
Is he asleep? Bugger it all to hell. If someone has put him under against his will, Eames will make them pay until they're weeping blood. He knows how to do that.
No. No, wait. They're minding Dom's children.
He turns and opens a bleary eye to see Phillipa making an "H" between his and Arthur's bodies.
Christ, Arthur is going to put her in some sort of choke hold if she kicks him in the balls while he's sleeping. His friendship with Dom would likely never recover. As tempting as that may sound to his sleep-addled mind at the moment, Eames is pretty sure that an absence of Dom in his life would make Arthur miserable. And Eames never wants Arthur to be miserable. No, he prefers Arthur dimpling and delighted with laughter, or sweaty and panting with lust. And he mustn't leave stone-faced and deadly off the list of his favorite Arthurian expressions, either.
So he scoops Phillipa up into his arms and moves her to his edge of the bed, where she won't bother Arthur.
He's only able to doze off in fits and starts, however, because it's like trying to sleep while cuddled up with a blasted moray eel. How can someone so small possibly take up so much space? Then at half five, he feels another small body crawling over his legs and curling up at their feet. Fucking hell! He is pinned to the bed by two children. This is madness. He will never, ever do it again. Dom can become a monk for all he cares. And if Arthur ever utters the word adoption, he can fuck right off, thank you very much.
Not that he ever would, regardless. Eames is fairly certain that their current arrangement--sharing houses in Los Angeles and Mombasa and having access to each other's flats in London and Paris--represents the limit of Arthur's domestic inclinations. And that's fine, really. Eames is happy with things how they are.
Eames knows Arthur loves him--probably knew it before the man did himself. Eames also knows Arthur's loyal to a fault and would probably die to protect him in a fight--not that Eames would ever allow that to happen, of course. Arthur has an exquisitely dry wit and a fierce intelligence. He'll accompany Eames to art films and modern dance performances, even though it's perfectly obvious to everyone that he hates them both. And he still wants Eames, even after three years of not fucking anyone else--possibly longer. Eames has never really asked about what went on in that period between their first time and the night they decided to make things official. There are things he'd rather not know, thanks.
The light is just barely filtering through the cracks in the blinds when James sits up and announces to the world that he's hungry. Arthur groans in response. Eames actually considers whether he could locate Dom's old PASIV and hook himself up for five minutes, just to get some sleep inside the dream.
Eames's head is aching as he stirs a pot of oatmeal on the cooker, eagerly watching Arthur tinker with Dom's supposedly defunct espresso machine. He's certain Arthur will have it fully functional sharpish. The man has a gift for speaking with machines. He's good with his hands in general, actually.
At that though, Eames recalls the previous evening's events and shivers. He wants nothing more in the world right now than to go back to bed and sleep until the cobwebs are cleared, then wake Arthur up with the blow job he wasn't able to finish giving him last night. Walking out of that room with Arthur in such a state had been agonizing.
"Uncle Eames, can I have bananas in my oatmeal?" James interrupts his thoughts.
"Yes James, you may have bananas. You may also have strawberries, if you'd like."
"No, just bananas. I hate strawberries."
"Right-o. No strawberries then. Phillipa, what will you have?"
"I don't want oatmeal. I want doughnuts."
"Yeah, me too, doughnuts!"
"First of all, we don't even have any doughnuts. And secondly, even if we did, you wouldn't get to have one for breakfast. They're terrible for you. Now maarusi, hurry up, it's going to be ready soon."
"I want cocoa in mine. When Mona took care of us, she let me put cocoa in my oatmeal."
"When Mona looked after you, your brother ended up with five stitches in his arm. Try again."
"Raisins then."
"Lovely."
Eames smiles at Arthur in silent thanks for staying quiet during that little confrontation. The man is such a mug when it comes to these two. Sometimes it amazes Eames that Arthur can be a total hard-ass with him at home about any little thing being left out of its proper place, and a ridiculous soft touch with James and Phillipa. Maybe he's that way with all children; Eames really wouldn't know. The only other child he's seen Arthur interact with is his sister Gemma's son, Geoff, a tiresome brat if there ever was one.
"Now does anyone want a scramble to go with their oatmeal?"
"Me, me, me, Uncle Eames. I love eggs. They're yellow."
"Can I have cheese in mine?"
"Yes, you may have cheese in yours. I will put cheese in all of them. Now, I know your Uncle Arthur would like some toast. Would anyone like to make some for him? I'm sure he'll be ever so grateful."
Dom arrives just as they're finishing the washing up. A full-bellied Phillipa hadn't even protested too much about having to dry the dishes. But it all comes apart when they hear the jangle of their father's keys in the hall. She sets down her tea towel and starts nonchalantly playing with her hair.
"Daddy, daddy, you're home!"
James goes careening out of the kitchen, leaving a trail of water in his wake that Arthur is on his knees tidying up when Dom rounds the corner, smiling like the cat that ate the canary. Honestly, Eames thinks he would be at least a little abashed in the same circumstances: Allowing his children to cock block his best friend and then rubbing it in everyone's face that he'd spent the night unencumbered and freely engaging in adult activities.
"Everything go OK?"
"No problems," Arthur answers. "I'm just going to run upstairs and get our stuff."
"You can stay and hang out. Maybe make a little breakfast?"
"We ate," Eames replies. "And we're exhausted. Not a terribly restful night with these two squirming around like eels."
He ruffles Phillipa's hair affectionately, so she knows he's not mad and bounds upstairs on Arthur's heels.
When they return with their things, Phillipa is regaling her father with tidbits from Eames's story the night before.
"Honey can you give me a moment with your uncles? You too James."
What's this then? Dom has that look on his face that he used to get during a stressful extraction--the one that makes it clear he's the boss and they're to do as they're told. Eames steels himself for an argument, just on principle at this point. They're not Dominic's employees, they're his bloody friends. Beside him, Eames can sense Arthur's anger warring with his need to please.
"Guys, Phillipa told me she couldn't find you last night when she woke up. What's going on? I ask you to do this instead of hiring a regular sitter because I believe you can keep my kids safe. But you can't really do that if you're not around to watch them."
Arthur opens his mouth to yell, but Eames cuts him off. This type of scenario is really more his specialty anyway.
"We did not abandon your children, Dominic. Arthur was outside smoking a cigarette."
"Smoking? I thought you quit," Dom turns to Arthur with an accusatory look in his eye.
"Well babysitting is stressful," Arthur shrugs, not missing a beat.
"I'm not going to begrudge a man a moment to unwind, are you Dom?" Eames adds. "Anyway, being the responsible adult that he is, Arthur walked down the block for his indulgence, so that neither James nor Phillipa could see him out their windows if they were awake. I'm sure you can appreciate that."
"Arthur is this true?"
Eames doesn't even have to turn to look at his boyfriend's face. He knows that what ever Dom may believe, Arthur's loyalty to him is greater than it is to his former partner.
"Fine. Smart thinking, I guess. Although you really ought to just quit already. What about you, Eames? Were you off on his smoke break with him?"
"Extend me at least a little credit Dominic."
Dom gives him a pointed look and Eames--brilliant actor that he is--manages to look abashed and distinctly uncomfortable. He gives Dom a moment to start worrying about what he doesn't know. Then just as the other man opens his mouth, Eames steps behind Arthur and covers his boyfriend's ears with his hands, marking the answer as a secret between he and Dom alone.
"I was in our washroom when Phillipa woke up, having some ... erm ... intestinal difficulties, you understand?"
Dom's mouth hardens into a straight line. Eames knows Arthur must be wondering what the hell he's telling Dom, but he trusts him not to make a fuss.
"When your darling daughter knocked, I asked her to kindly wait for me to finish up and was in her room tucking her back into bed fewer than five minutes later. Honestly Dominic, you're a single father father, do you not have to use the toilet on occasion? What is it that you would have had me do? Open the door and invite her in to join me?"
Dom considers this quietly. Then he gives Eames a tiny smile, which opens up into a quiet chuckle.
"You guys have been together how many years now and you can't tell him when you have the runs, Eames? That's freaking ridiculous."
"Laugh it up Dom. I guarantee you would feel differently if 85 percent of your love life revolved around your own arse."
Dom's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. Ha! Eames had managed to surprise him with that little tidbit. He'd probably be thinking about it all day. Straight men always assumed things worked the other way around between them, just because Eames's shoulders were broader and Arthur's hips were a little more lithe and slender. The fools.
Eames uncovers Arthur's ears and presses a quick kiss to head.
"Sorry darling."
Arthur shrugs in response and hefts his duffle bag.
"Let's hit the road. James! Phil! We're leaving! Come say goodbye to your favorite uncle and his boyfriend!"
"Yeah, keep telling yourself that," Eames responds.
Arthur drives. Eames is too exhausted for their usual bickering about who gets to be behind the wheel. He just wants to fall into their bed and pass out. Enacting Arthur's fantasy scenario of the night before will have to wait until he can keep his eyes open without pinching himself.
"What did you tell Dom to get him off our case?"
"Oh, the stupidest thing. I said I was sick to my stomach and didn't want you to know, because I was worried you'd think I was less desirable."
"And he seriously believed you?"
"He laughed at me, but he bought it. Anyway, I'm not entirely sure I wasn't partially telling the truth. I mean not the part about what actually happened, obviously, but that I'd try to keep such a thing private from you if it did."
"Eames, I've seen your guts hanging out of your stomach after a grenade attack. I don't think anything about you could gross me out after that."
"Yeah, well, I guess time will tell, darling. Hopefully later, rather than sooner."
Arthur rolls his eyes in mock annoyance, but Eames can see his dimples.
The drive from Hancock Park to Venice is uncharacteristically quiet for them. Eames is too tired to discern whether Arthur is working over something in his mind, or simply focused on staying alert.
Eventually, he reaches over and takes Eames hand, lacing their fingers together.
"When do you go to New York for that inheritance gig?"
"Friday after next, why?."
"Would you mind if I joined you? Not on the job, obviously, just for the trip."
"Saves me from missing you, but I probably won't have a lot of free time. Should we stay in the same hotel? What are your plans?"
"I'll stay out of your way during the gig. No need arousing suspicion. But I was thinking that afterward maybe could stay for a while ... "
"All right. I doubt there will be much need to flee the scene on this one, thankfully."
"... and get married."
Eames mouth actually drops open, leaving him looking like cod out of water. Arthur has managed to utterly gobsmack him for perhaps only the second time in their relationship--the original was when he came on to Eames in the first place.
"It's ... if you don't want to ... I know it's a bit out of left field."
"Arthur forgive me, I still don't entirely understand baseball metaphors, but I think this is from much, much further out than left field. It's from the bleachers. No, from the bar next door. What brought this on?"
"I was just thinking last night while you were telling that story about how lucky I am and how much I want you to know that I think you're perfect."
"Remember than next time I fail to put my dishes in the sink."
"Eames, I'm being serious here. Are you ... do you think this is a bad idea? I kind of thought you'd be happier."
"I'm thrilled, Arthur," he punctuates this with a kiss to each of Arthur's fingers, letting things get a little sloppy as he progresses. "Does it have to be New York?"
"You want your family there?"
"No ... well maybe. I'm not sure yet. But I was just thinking that it would be good if there wasnn't any paperwork tracking us back to being there together, just in case things go south down the road with the heist, if you know what I mean. I'd hate to drag you into a legal difficulty when you won't have done anything but spend time with me while I committed a crime. I don't think they'd let us share a cell, Arthur, even if we were married."
Arthur considers this, clearly relieved to be on a more logistics-oriented footing.
"We could rent a car and drive down to DC. It's a short trip. But if you want your family there, then obviously that might complicate things."
"Nah. It will only raise so many questions in their minds. We'll probably have to do it with my Charles Robinson alias, since he already shares your address. Although I could whip up some fake documentation using my real name, if it's important to you. Anyway, about the family, it will be much easier to preserve the charade of our true lifestyle if we meet them on their territory. Maybe we can go for a visit in a month or so and take them all out for an elaborate celebratory dinner. Gemma and George will be miffed, but they'll get over it."
"So ... this is happening. You actually want to marry me? Please don't say so unless you're really sure. I can wait. It's OK."
"Arthur, I absolutely will marry you. It would be my honor. I already knew that this between us was the proverbial it for me. I won't say I wasn't surprised by your proposal, I guess you could call it, but I also can't say I'm not delighted and even more impossibly in love with you than ever. So yes. Yes, let's get married."
Arthur pulls the car over on the side of the road and practically climbs over the gearshift to kiss Eames, who feels himself melting into the sensation. Arthur. His perfect, clever, funny, deadly, sexy Arthur. His husband-to-be Arthur. The entire world feels right as rain and light and fluffy as a cloud.