Archive of Our Own

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"Ahh, Eames, you rat bastard, were you gonna take our cut and run?"

It was said in jest, and Eames laughed along with the chemist from his team and said, "That's right."

"Always keep an extra eye on you, mate," the chemist said.

When he left—with his cut, and only his cut—he heard the extractor say, "He's the best, glad we got him for this job. Also glad he didn't fuck us over."

They were idiots, but worse, they were hypocrites. They were in extraction for fucksake, acting like they had the moral high ground because they didn't change their skin to get the job done. Eames had a reputation as a swindler because he could forge inside and outside of dreams. But he was too clever to actually dick people over and make enemies. That wasn't how you stayed in the business for as long as he had. People who made a habit of double crossing their teams had a way of disappearing.

He had double crossed people who had crossed him to begin with, and he'd gotten away with it. True. But who in the business (who was still around) hadn't?

He was just so fucking annoyed, as he made his way back to his hotel. Annoyed and disappointed, because he'd done his job, same as he always did, not left a trace behind, and then had been handed some parting shots along with his money. 'Here's your cut. Also, you're a dick.'

Fuck them. See if he was available next time they needed "the best."

Eames got to his hotel room and slid the card key through. He already had his hand on his gun, because he was never distracted enough to turn stupid, especially after a job.

He drew the gun when he saw Arthur in the chair by the bed, attached to the PASIV.

Eames closed the door quietly and scanned the room for movement. Behind the door, behind the curtains, in the closets, under the bed, in the shower. Best to clear the area before checking on Arthur, who might be a decoy. Running straight to Arthur could get them both killed. But there was no one else in the room, nor any evidence of anyone else.

He hurried over to Arthur and checked his pulse. It felt normal. As he dropped Arthur's hand, a slip of paper fell out of it. Eames picked it up and read it.

Enjoy

Just that one word.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit.

Someone had double crossed Arthur and left him here for Eames. Which meant that someone out there thought that he and Arthur were enemies. Which was good in some ways, because if their actual enemies were delivering them up to each other as punishment, that worked out fine for them.

Still, shit. And what a disgusting idea, too. Someone out there was depraved enough to suggest...

No.

Eames tipped Arthur's chair and caught him before he fell.

Arthur flailed awake, arms and legs flying. He always looked like a cat falling off a windowsill when he did that, and usually it made Eames laugh. But not tonight.

"Eames—"

"Tell me everything," Eames said. He didn't holster his gun, just in case it was a double set up, and they were waiting for him to get started before bursting through the door and killing them both.

Get started. Ugh, so fucking repellant.

Arthur sat there looking perplexed, his cheeks slightly pink. "Tell you what?" he asked.

"Who set you up. Who left you here. Goddamnit!" Eames paced the room, mentally going over the list of people he knew hated him, or Arthur, or both. There was Gunther, because of that whole dinosaur incident, but Eames still couldn't see how that had been his fault, since he wasn't the one with the fear of velocoraptors. Arthur had some enemies, but that was mostly because of Cobb. Maybe even Eames's last fucking team, because clearly they didn't like him personally, either.

"No one," Arthur said. "I came here to... I just decided to visit."

Eames turned to him. He had unhooked himself from the PASIV and was spooling the line back up. He looked flushed and angry, though.

"What's going on?" Eames asked. "Arthur, explain it to me. If you're in trouble..."

"I'm not in trouble, Eames." Arthur wouldn't meet his eyes, concentrating instead on wiping imaginary dust or something from the PASIV. "Like I said, it was just a social visit. Don't worry about it. Look, why don't you just give me a call when you're free..."

"Arthur, I'm free now, come on." He took him by the arm just to stop him from fussing around with the PASIV. "Just talk to me. I'm confused."

Arthur pressed his lips together, which was his way of announcing I'm so distressed right now, but in a social embarrassment kind of way, not a murderous way, and not a pain kind of way. Eames knew that exact look, because he'd looked like that for a whole ten days after Ariadne gotten the wrong key and walked in on them rubbing off against each other in their hotel room.

But he still wasn't talking.

Which meant that, whatever was going on, he felt like he couldn't tell Eames. Arthur, who told him about when he'd had his pants stolen after gym class in primary school and had to go to the headmaster's office without them, trying not to cry. Who had told him how he still got choked up when he even thought about the book Old Yeller. Arthur, who had showed Eames the picture from when he was a little boy with long, thick hair, and had let his sister pin it up and put ribbons in it.

But whatever was going on here, now, whatever Arthur needed from him, he couldn't tell him. Didn't trust him enough to tell him.

"Right," Eames said. "No, of course. I didn't mean to pry."

Arthur must have heard something in his tone, because he sat heavily on the edge of the bed with a sigh, and facepalmed. That was a thing Arthur actually did, he literally facepalmed when he was exasperated.

"Look, I just thought it would be fun, that's all. No big deal."

Eames sat next to him. Of course their non-work visits were fun. They spent most of their time humping, sure, but they also talked a lot between all the humping. It was brilliant. But Arthur had been sitting there in the chair, fully dressed, and dreaming.

"What would be fun?" Eames asked.

"Just like, if you would just come in and find me like that, you know? You could... Do whatever you wanted and I'd be down in the dream. Like a... like a fantasy."

Trust Arthur to get stuck on the word fantasy like it was so alien to his vocabulary.

Wait.

Eames thought of the note in Arthur's hand. 'Enjoy.'

He got up from the bed and turned to face Arthur. "You think that's my fantasy? Doing--" he waved his hands around in a completely non-descriptive way--"things to you while you're asleep? Without your participation?" What kind of a pervert did Arthur think he was? Well, Eames was a very accomplished pervert, that was true, but he liked his sex partners to be conscious. It was actually a stipulation of his.

"Not your fantasy, asshole, mine." Arthur huffed and pretended to be annoyed instead of embarrassed. "Jesus."

Eames stared at him, shocked. He looked at Arthur's stupid, blushing face, which now looked like it was about to break into a smirk, as much as he tried to hide it. Eames pointed his finger at that pink little face and said, "You're a kinky little fucker, you know that?"

"Are you judging me?" Arthur said. "Are you actually fucking judging my one lousy kink? I've seen the porn on your hard drive, Eames, so you can shut the fuck up. If you really want me to put candle wax on your ass I will, but don't you dare judge me."

Now Eames was blushing. He'd shown Arthur that porn, but that had been for laughs, it wasn't like he wanted-- Mostly for laughs, obviously he would try anything once with Arthur, but still.

"I don't want it on my arse," Eames said. His voice sounded small and ridiculous in his own ears. He was acutely aware, suddenly, of how outrageous this conversation had become. "On my back would do, or... or the chest area." There was no way to sound dignified while saying any of that, so he gave up.

Arthur ducked his head, but it was clear that he was laughing. Which made Eames laugh, too. Just a little.

"I've never told that to anyone."

"Yeah, well," Arthur said, "I've never set myself up with the PASIV in hopes of being ravished in my sleep, so we're kind of even."

Eames sat down next to him again and looked him over. Arthur's hair was slightly damp and smelled like mint and rosemary, or some froofy bullshit that he always used because hotel shampoo was not good enough for his special hair follicles. No but actually, Eames loved Arthur's stupid, froofy hair. He'd thought that it would be silky and shiny when he washed the gel out, but it wasn't. It was wavy, sometimes downright curly, and felt coarse and thick between his fingers.

And his skin was clean and moisturized, too. Arthur had taken a shower before setting himself up. He was extremely fastidious like that, he liked to be clean before sex, which Eames found very thoughtful of him.

"Is that what you want?" Eames asked, leaning closer. "To be ravished?"

"Yes," Arthur said, still defensive. "Are you smelling me?"

He pressed his nose to Arthur's neck. "You always smell lovely." Well, not always. Arthur hadn't smelled lovely after they'd had to hide in a car in the forest for six hours in August. He hadn't smelled lovely that time the Somnacin had made him puke his guts out for a few days.

Arthur turned to him, seeking his mouth, cupping his jaw with one hand. "You smell good, too."

"It's aftershave," Eames said. "Amouage Die Pour Homme."

"Shit, that's nice," Arthur said, and kissed him.

They made out like that for a while, slow and easy, in their comfort zone. Arthur started kissing down his neck, which made him hard almost immediately. When he reached down to feel Arthur up, Arthur slapped his hand away and said, "Save it." But then Arthur wrapped both hands around the back of his neck and kissed a line down the front of his throat.

"Not going to be able to save it if you keep doing that," Eames said. "Sorry to disappoint."

Arthur backed off and sat there looking at him with his dark eyes, his red mouth parted, tongue licking his white teeth. He looked predatory sometimes when he did that. It gave Eames a little thrill when Arthur looked dangerous and savvy like that. He was so clever, articulate and deadly, so competent--

"You're the hottest guy I've ever made out with in my life," Arthur said. "I wish I could go back in time and show my high school self a picture of you. I'd never stop jerking off."

"Stop talking," Eames said, and kissed him again.

Arthur broke away from the kiss and said, "So is it okay? Can we still do that? The thing with the PASIV and... and the ravishing. We don't have to do anything you don't want," he hastened to add.

Normally Eames would jump at any scenario involving him and Arthur and sex, but he gave this some thought. Arthur would be down there in the dream. The feelings would be muted, but prolonged.

"Is it safe?" Eames asked.

"Yeah. I asked Cobb."

"Ugh," was Eames's involuntary reaction. Somewhere out there, Cobb knew that Arthur wanted to try this, with Eames, and maybe he even pictured it. Fuck, they had discussed it. And Cobb had given an answer, which meant that he knew, which meant...

Eames stopped that train of thought right there.

This was something Arthur wanted. Quite a lot, it seemed.

"Yeah, all right," Eames said. "Let's give it a go. I've got some stipulations."

"Of course you do," Arthur said. He retrieved the PASIV and started to unspool a line for himself.

"If you seem to be in distress, I'm waking you up."

"Yeah, pretty sure I won't be. Anything else?"

"Yes. Set the perimeters. Tell me what you want me to do, and what you don't want me to do."

Arthur looked at him over his shoulder and said, "Anything. Just do whatever you want. That's the idea."

"You probably won't feel it as much as if you were awake."

"I'll still know," Arthur said. "That's the part I want. Not that I'm going to feel every little thing, but just knowing that there's nothing I can do... That you're up there doing anything that comes to mind."

And that I can't tell you to stop, was the unspoken end of that. Arthur would be completely helpless.

"One question," Eames said. "How long have you wanted to do this?"

Arthur laughed and sat back in the chair he'd been in when Eames came into the room. "Since the beginning. I mean, everyone's thought about it, probably. It's just, I have the balls to ask."

Eames took a second to think that over. Arthur had always thought about this, but he'd never asked anyone else.

He knelt in front of Arthur and drew him down for another kiss. "I'll give you anything you want," he said.

Arthur sat back in the chair, looking satisfied (self-satisfied, really,) and hooked himself up to the PASIV.

"Don't you want to get undressed? Get onto the bed?"

"Nope," Arthur said. "You put me however you want me. You take my clothes off. That's part of it."

The idea of it went straight to his dick. Regardless of Arthur's belief that everyone was as perverted as he was, this was something Eames had never thought about before.

Arthur settled his hands on the arms of the chair and shut his eyes. "Go on. Press the button."

Eames did. Arthur's head tipped back against the chair as he went under. He was still smiling.

For a few seconds, Eames just looked at him. The only sounds were Arthur's and his soft breathing, and the whir-hiss-hiss of the PASIV as it kept Arthur under. Eames had often thought about the vulnerability that this machine induced in anyone who used it. A light enough compound, and you'd wake pretty quickly, but those hardly ever accomplished anything. You had to be dead enough to the world to get your work done. Without a good point man, or woman, your enemies could cut your throat while you slept. Your teammates could betray you. People could watch you, look at your face, steal your wallet. Touch you.

He reached out and touched Arthur. He figured he'd better hurry, before Arthur got bored down there, shot himself awake, and told Eames to get a fucking move on. So Eames came up onto his knees and swept Arthur's hair behind his ears, like he always enjoyed. The position was uncomfortable. He couldn't really reach Arthur from here. Trust Arthur to make Eames haul him around.

He stood up and gently slid his arm under Arthur's back, pulling him forward. He moved slowly enough to not jostle him awake as he maneuvered him into a position where Eames could lift him. It was awkward as hell, because he had to keep the PASIV line in his wrist, too. Arthur was such a pain in the arse sometimes. Just as gently, he lay Arthur on his back on the bed.

"I'm not sure where to start, darling," he told him. But maybe he did, because he was already petting down the front of Arthur's waistcoat, feeling the buttons beneath his palm.

He liked Arthur's clothes, the way they fit him, tucked at the waist, tight around the thighs and arse. He liked the way Arthur moved in them, and the way he obviously felt confident dressed like that. And he liked when Arthur crowded up against him in hidden places and let Eames put his hands and body all over his clothes, mussing him up.

Eames stretched out on top of him, nudging his legs apart with his thigh, and ran a hand down his side. His hips were moving against Arthur's and he could feel him harden, a little, under his trousers. He kissed and licked just above the collar of his shirt, gripping Arthur's wool-clad hip for leverage.

When he moved up and kissed Arthur's mouth, he got nothing in return except for a light exhale from his weight shifting on Arthur's ribs. He nipped a little at Arthur's sulky bottom lip, licked underneath the bow of his upper lip, and still Arthur didn't respond.

Eames pretended for a moment that this wasn't hot.

"Mm," he said to Arthur's slack mouth, "suppose you want me to get you out of these clothes."

He pulled away from the heat of Arthur's body, started tipping the buttons free, and parted Arthur's waistcoat. He stopped there, and smoothed his shirt down, just to feel the material. Then he untucked it from his trousers and got to work on those buttons, too. When he pushed the sides of Arthur's shirt apart, he found himself just staring for a few seconds at the rise and fall of his chest. Arthur looked peaceful. He always looked like this when he was asleep. The tension that sometimes seemed to hold him together unfurled, the frustrated little line between his brows smoothed out. He looked childlike and sweet, not at all like someone who used fire escapes to run from things other than fires, who kicked everyone's arse at the firing range, or who hid in closets with his guns, waiting to ambush his mark.

Eames placed his hand on his chest, petting gently before curling it around his ribs. Arthur's skin was so soft here.

He hurried to get his cufflinks undone and then slipped both garments off his shoulders, lifting him slightly, slowly, to tug them down his arms.

When he got to his belt, he hesitated. Arthur was unresponsive – he'd never done anything even close to this before. He pulled the belt free and then started on the button of his trousers. He stopped here too, and just cupped Arthur's groin, rubbing gently through the fabric. Arthur wasn't fully hard yet. He knew that was because the compound was muting his reactions, but it didn't feel right.

It was hot, just being allowed like this, being invited in – but it didn't feel right.

Eames leaned over him and kissed his belly as he undid his flies and pulled his trousers down.

"Oh, right," he stated, sounding dumb even to himself, as he remembered about his shoes and socks. He scooted down and removed those, too, and then tugged Arthur's trousers the rest of the way off.

Naked Arthur was something that he always enjoyed. He loved naked Arthur because it meant fucking, getting fucked, and skin and sweat and strong arms and long legs wrapped around him. But he also loved naked Arthur in a way that was similar to how he loved "Starry Night" and Syria's Krak de Chevaliers, Barcelona and the coast of Wales. And that was how he felt just then: like a spectator to something beautiful rather than a participant.

He clambered off the bed and shut Arthur's PASIV line. Then he climbed back up, straddling Arthur, lifted him by the shoulders and dropped him back down.

Arthur came awake with a gasp and said, "Jesus, Eames, what?"

"I need to make sure you're enjoying yourself," Eames said. "You have to give me something, Arthur. I'm not seeing a lot from up here, so I have to know. Tell me what it feels like."

Arthur sighed, so put-upon, and rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. "It's nice," he said. "I haven't felt much yet. I think you touched me a few times but honestly, you haven't really done anything so it's hard to tell. I'm aware of you, though. I kind of know what's going on and I can tell when you're close to me. I could tell when you were on top of me, and I really liked that. And I knew when you were taking my clothes off."

"What was it like?"

"It was good," Arthur said. He shrugged and looked away, at the wall. "It felt kind of comforting. Safe, or something."

It did sound nice, when he put it that way. But still... "You're not really turned on," Eames said, glancing down.

"You haven't put my cock in your mouth yet."

When he said it, Eames felt him twitch under him, sudden interest that wasn't there before.

"I kind of want you to get me hard," Arthur said in no more than a whisper, still staring at the wall. "I want you to do it."

"I can do that," Eames said. He picked up Arthur's hands and toyed with his fingers, stroking them a little, squeezing. "Just how far do you want me to go?"

Arthur looked up at him, smirking. "You mean like, bases? Aren't we already at third?"

"Arthur."

Arthur sighed, and squirmed away. He reached over his head and opened the drawer next to the bed. On top of the Gideon Bible was a packet of lube. He tossed it to Eames, who caught it out of midair.

"Yes, Eames, I want it all. I want you to put my cock in your mouth and I want your fingers in me, I want to know what that feels like when I'm under. I want you to climb on top of me and fuck me. I'm not going to be awake. I'm not going to kiss you back or put my legs around you or tell you to go harder or faster or... But I want all of that. If you can't do it..." He stopped, got up onto his knees and took Eames's face between his hands. "If you can't do it, hey, that's all right. Don't worry about it. I'm just curious."

"It means something to you," Eames said.

"It's not that important. It's just something I always wondered about and then, when we started this, I just figured, 'hey, great, I'll ask Eames someday.' Because I know you wouldn't hurt me." He laughed a little. "It's weird. I guess I'm asking you because I know you're the one guy who's going to wonder if it's okay, who's going to be a pain in the ass and wake me up to sign a consent form or something."

Arthur's hands felt good on his face, so he covered them with his own. "I'll draw up the paperwork, then."

"You really don't have to do this if it freaks you out."

Eames leaned forward and kissed him, just a brief, reassuring touch. "I think I'll manage. I just needed to know what it felt like."

Arthur grinned, all dimples and crinkled eyes. "Come on, hook me back up." He hopped back down onto the bed. Eames took a moment to watch him stretch his arms above his head, so high that his spine popped, before settling back down.

Christ.

He slid the needle back into Arthur's vein, fastened the cuff, and kissed the soft patch of skin over it. Then he reached down and pressed the button.

Eames looked at the sprawl of him on the bed and suddenly felt like the world's luckiest explorer.

He wrapped his hand around Arthur's ankle, running his thumb over the prominent bones, feeling the texture of his hair. It was strange, he knew Arthur was asleep and there was no one around to judge him—and even awake, Arthur would probably just go with it—but he still felt shy when he leaned down and kissed the top of Arthur's foot. It wasn't that he had a thing for feet, or ankles or anything. He just had a thing for Arthur.

He closed his eyes and licked the knobby bone on the inside of Arthur's ankle before knocking his leg to the side and kissing his way up.

Christ, this had gotten so good for him so quickly. He wondered what it was like down there in the dream, when he got to the inside of Arthur's thigh and bit gently at the soft skin. He pushed Arthur's thighs apart. Arthur was flexible as hell when he was awake. Asleep, his legs just splayed so wide and relaxed that it looked obscene. Eames kissed up the join of his thigh and hip, stroking down Arthur's thighs before finally taking him in his mouth, and swallowing him down.

He breathed through his nose, inhaling the scent of his skin, as Arthur hardened to fill his mouth. Eames hummed around him. Finally, finally, evidence that there was some joy in this for Arthur, something physical that he could feel down in the dream. He wondered what it was like, as he sucked and stroked, petting his hips.

When he pulled away, Arthur was hard and wet, and he made a tiny, aggrieved noise in his sleep.

"Hush," Eames told him, and kissed up his belly and chest. "Well get back to that."

He ran his palms lightly over Arthur's nipples, the barest of touches. He could see Arthur's heart beating faster, could hear it too, when he bent down over him to touch his tongue lightly to one nipple, and then the other.

"So sweet," he said, between kisses. Sweet like he had never felt before, so overwhelming for a moment that he had to stop and sit up. Being given Arthur's body like this, having trust just handed over to him... And Arthur was so small beneath him, so profoundly helpless to anything Eames wanted to do, that all he could possibly do was worship. He drank in the sight of smooth, olive skin, a sparse dusting of dark hair on his chest, freckles and imperfections, a dimpled scar on his shoulder from where someone had hurt him once.

Arthur was the least vulnerable person he knew. But Eames wanted to break the hand that had put that scar there.

He leaned down, nudged Arthur's face to the side, and kissed his neck for a while. God, Arthur's neck, he could stay there all day just sucking at the skin over his tendons, over his pulse. Arthur hadn't said anything about not leaving marks, the crazy bastard. He should expect it.

He wanted his skin all over Arthur's, and his clothes felt too hot, too constricting. He kneeled up and hurried out of his shirt, keeping one hand on Arthur's hip, just to let him know he was still there. And as he undid his trousers, he braced himself on one hand so he could bend over and lick at Arthur's lips. Wiggling out of his trousers and pants, he pressed himself up against Arthur's side and threw his clothes to the floor.

The back of Arthur's neck. He wanted that, too. So he climbed over, lifted Arthur's shoulder and hip so that he could turn him on his side, and fitted himself behind him, so that he was spooning him, curled around his back. He pressed his face into Arthur's damp hair and breathed. But Eames's bottom hand wasn't free like this, and he wanted to touch everywhere.

He rolled them both over so that he was on his back, with Arthur lying against his chest. This way, he could run his hands up and down Arthur's front, all over his skin – soft here, dry there, the ridges of his ribs, the hair under his arms and on his chest. He could go mad with all of these textures and scents.

Arthur's head fell back over Eames's shoulder, and Eames kissed his neck, his ear, the hinge of his jaw. His own hands felt like they were out of control, stroking up Arthur's stomach and chest to gently tweak his nipples again, up to his throat, and back down. He pulled Arthur tight against him and slipped himself between his thighs, gently rutting up against him from behind. When he reached down and took Arthur's cock in his hand, it was wet and full, and Arthur's breath sped up. Eames let his free hand travel to Arthur's throat, where he could feel his pulse throb faster. His hips moved both of them, as his hand stroked Arthur firmly.

Arthur would be disappointed if Eames ended this too soon. It was hard for him to slow down, hard to stop. But he did, and contented himself with sweeping his hand over Arthur's forehead, brushing his hair back while he caught his breath and gathered his wits.

He eased Arthur off of him and sat up beside him. Arthur looked flushed and damp, color high in his cheeks and his shoulders.

"Christ," Eames said, rubbing a hand down his own face. "Christ Arthur, what you do to me, you make me insane, you're so--" He didn't know what he was going to say, and it was pointless to continue. Sometimes a compound left you open to hearing noises topside. It was one that Arthur used on jobs sometimes, but Eames didn't know if he was using it now.

"Right, then," he said. "Let's get to what you want."

Leaning over the bed, he searched around for his trousers, found his wallet, and pulled out a strip of condoms. He carried those around because Arthur had a way of turning up sometimes when they were on separate jobs, hooking himself up to PASIVs and holding notes asking to be ravished.

He took his position once again between Arthur's thighs (seriously, his actual favorite place in the world,) and tore open the packet of lube that Arthur had so thoughtfully brought along. He slicked up his fingers. Strange, without Arthur encouraging him.

Bending Arthur's leg, he hooked a hand under his knee and slipped his other hand down, slicking Arthur up and just testing, gently. Arthur was already so relaxed from sleep, Eames was able to slip one finger in with no resistance.

He couldn't stop watching Arthur's face for the most minute change, the tiniest reactions. Eames pressed his finger in and out, turning his palm up, searching. This part was easy, because he'd made it his mission, early on, to learn Arthur's body. When he found that delicate little clutch of nerves and pressed up, Arthur's tongue darted out to lick at his bottom lip. The gesture was so familiar to Eames; it was what Arthur usually did at that point. When it got really intense, he'd start biting his bottom lip.

God, Eames wanted to feel that.

He leaned forward—Arthur was flexible enough so that Eames could press his knee to the bed—and dipped his tongue into Arthur's open mouth. He crooked his finger inside Arthur again, pressing, rubbing. Arthur flicked his tongue again, this time against Eames's. It wasn't a kiss, it was a reaction, one that he was eliciting. The next time he did it, Eames licked deeper into his mouth.

He was going to come all over Arthur like a teenager if he kept at this. The idea was appealing, but not what Arthur wanted. He backed off, giving them both space to breathe, and eased in another finger, working him open.

"What does that feel like, I wonder?" he said aloud. "You'll have to tell me. You'll have to let me try, next time. Maybe it will be different for me. What are you doing down there, love, hmm? Are you dreaming of long, slow sex? Is it with me?" A third finger, and Arthur gasped, licking at his lips again. "Of course it's with me," Eames said. "You wouldn't have asked me if you were going to dream up someone else. I'm so... I'm... I want..."

Insane for you, in love with you, want you all the time, you turn me into a babbling idiot... All the things he was afraid to say.

He slipped his fingers free and rolled a condom on. When he pushed Arthur's other knee back, and sank down into him, Arthur actually groaned – and there was the lip biting that Eames loved so much.

"Oh, that's it, sweetheart," he said. Arthur was used to his talkative nonsense topside; Eames wondered how it would translate in the dream. "So lovely, so pretty, Arthur, if you knew how I..."

He bit his own lips this time, because it was too easy to say everything when Arthur wasn't staring up at him, when Arthur wasn't going to answer.

"Is this what you wanted?" he said, leaning forward onto his hands and working his hips harder. "You wanted to feel it, Arthur, Arthur, you'll have to tell me..."

No, apparently he wasn't going to stop talking as long as he wasn't kissing or biting, so he shut himself up against Arthur's mouth again.

Arthur was noisy in sleep, as he was when he was awake. He was moaning on every thrust now. Eames took Arthur's hands and pulled his arms above his head, stretched out on top of him, and held him down. Then he wrapped his arms around Arthur and pulled him up close, leaning his cheek against his shoulder, hot and slick. And then he pulled back again just to watch. Arthur's body was still completely relaxed, moving along with Eames's movements, graceful even without control.

Arthur liked to be touched while they were fucking; he liked to come with Eames's hand on his cock. Eames took hold of him again and started stroking, quick and firm. Awake, Arthur had all the control in the world. Asleep, not so much.

With a noise of surprise, Arthur came quickly, slicking Eames's hand and his own stomach.

His eyes flew open and fixed directly on Eames.

"Oh," Arthur said, panting, still looking shocked. "Oh, oh, wow..." His hands were shaking as he reached down to still Eames's hips.

Frustrated, Eames stopped himself from moving and bowed his head against Arthur's chest, just breathing. Arthur ran his fingers through Eames's sweaty hair.

"Huh," he said. "Orgasm kicks you awake."

Which was all very interesting and Eames would be sure to write a thesis about that later, but... "Arthur, I need..."

"No, I know. Come on, get off."

"Wish I could," Eames said, letting Arthur nudge him (quite cruelly,) away from him.

"Don't be stupid, I want to show you something."

He still looked so flushed and lovely, panting and loose-limbed. But his arms were as strong as ever when he pushed Eames onto his back and leaned over him. He stripped the condom off, tied it, and stuck it back into the wrapper. Efficient as always.

"Oh," Eames said, "are you going to blow me?" He hoped so, and soon. "Delightful."

Laughing, Arthur removed the cannula from his wrist and held it up to Eames. "Wanna try?"

There was always a method to Arthur's particular brand of sadistic madness. It usually ended in orgasms. Eames should really have learned by then to hear him out.

He held out his wrist.

Arthur hooked him up, smiling that little self-satisfied smile of his, close-lipped and confident. He actually gave a saucy little toss of his hair as he said, "Ready, Mister Eames?"

"Any time you please," Eames gritted out.

The last thing he felt was Arthur kissing him sweetly.

When he opened his eyes, he was looking up at a blue sky, naked, under the hot sun. He felt himself rocking slowly, and looked down to find that he was on on some kind of raft, floating at the shore of the ocean. On the beach, a group of people milled around. Some of them caught his eye and stared at him. He was burning up, hard as hell, waiting, dying.

"I know you can hear me..." Arthur's disembodied voice floated out over the gentle waves. That was creepy as fuck, actually. Eames didn't get what was so enjoyable about that. "Because I could hear you." He sounded distant, and there was a delay between each word, each sentence.

"Advice," Arthur said. "Get rid of the projections, unless you like the idea of being watched."

Eames closed his eyes, concentrated on being alone, and then opened them again. The projections were gone. Easy enough.

"When I was under," Arthur's voice said, "you started to say something."

Eames tried to think back, but that was ridiculous, he couldn't remember the things he'd been saying, and anyway he was never to be held accountable for anything that came out of his mouth when he was inside of Arthur.

He couldn't tell him that, but – Oh, Jesus fuck, a wet, tight heat enveloped him then. It was focused on his cock, but suffused every cell, the heat radiating up to his chest, his neck, down his arms and legs. The waves rocked him harder, lapping over the side of the float, licking at him, and the water felt like fire. His hands clenched into fists and his toes curled.

Arthur was good at giving head no matter what. Down here, he couldn't feel the details. He couldn't feel the drag of his tongue, the tightness of his lips, the clutch of his throat. Just an overall, general sensation that went on, and on, and on in the slowest rhythm.

The sensation ebbed away slowly and Arthur's voice came back. "You should learn to finish your sentences," he said. "What was that going to be? 'You're so, I'm so, I want, if you knew how I...'

Then Arthur's mouth was back again and Eames cried out, wondering vaguely if he had made that sound topside, too.

"If I knew how you what?" Arthur asked. His voice sounded closer, as if Arthur was whispering in his ear now. "Feel?"

He felt hands on him, but couldn't place where they were. Everywhere. His face, his thighs, his arms. Arthur's mouth on his, a tongue on his neck, a hand on his chest. It was everywhere all at once and no specific place at all. Too much and not enough at the same time.

"You'll just have to tell me when you wake up," Arthur's ocean-voice said. "Because I really want to hear it."

And then that tight, hot sensation came back, still not localized, but he knew that Arthur was sucking him down, taking him all the way in. He felt that tense, building sensation at the base of his spine, and it unfurled so slowly that he couldn't breathe, he was going to die, he was no longer floating, but drowning and it was so good, too good, drawing itself out through every muscle, every sinew. He felt himself arching up, writhing.

And then he opened his eyes to see Arthur's dark head bowed over him, moving slowly as he swallowed.

Eames gasped in a lungful of air and gripped Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur sat up, wiped his mouth and said, "Wow, right?"

Eames caught his breath and smiled at Arthur's stupid, bright face. "Yes. Wow. But I still like it better awake."

Arthur shoved him over and crawled up beside him. He threw one arm over Eames's chest and leaned his pointy chin against his shoulder. "I do, too," he said. "But I just wanted to try it, and now I did. Did you... I mean, when I was down there and you were doing, whatever. Was it good?"

"It was good," Eames said. He reached his hand around Arthur's back and twined his fingers in his hair, scratching and tugging. Arthur settled his cheek against his shoulder and let Eames rub the back of his skull. "I missed you though. Even though you were there. Strange."

Arthur hummed, and was quiet for a few seconds. Eames could feel him thinking. If he listened, he could almost hear gears grinding in his skull.

"You were upset when you came in tonight," Arthur finally said.

"Nah."

Arthur just hummed again, indicating that he knew that was bullshit.

"It was nice," Eames said, "to come back and see you here. I mean, after I realized that you hadn't been abducted and dropped off for me to ravage and leave for dead."

"Eames, that's fucking stupid."

It really wasn't, because the generally accepted word was that Eames would betray anyone for a price. But he didn't tell Arthur that, because it didn't matter. Arthur didn't believe that of him, and Arthur was his favorite, therefore, his opinion weighed more.

Arthur leaned up onto his elbow and looked down at him. Eames knew what was coming.

"What were you going to say?" he asked.

Bastard Arthur, always needing answers and absolutes.

"I don't remember," he lied.

"You liar," Arthur said. "I'm the only person you can't bullshit, come on. What is it? That you're in love with me? If that's what it is, you better say it."

Eames shoved at his shoulder. "You say it."

"I'm in love with you," Arthur said, like it wasn't the biggest thing in the room.

Eames just looked at him.

"What?" Arthur said. "Why is that such a weird thing? What are we, fifteen, that we're afraid the other one is going to go 'oh no, you have cooties, get away.' Don't be ridiculous."

"You make me ridiculous," Eames said.

"Whatever," Arthur answered, because that was how he won all minor arguments – if that's even what this was. Then, unfazed, he went back to kissing Eames as if nothing had happened. Arthur touched his mouth to all the little spots that drove Eames crazy – his neck, his jaw, his shoulder - and he did it like it was nothing.

"Of course I'm in love with you," Eames said.

Arthur stopped making out with his collarbone to say, "Was that so fucking difficult, asshole?"

As he did with most questions, Eames thought that one through before answering. If the most paranoid point man in the business found it just a matter of fact to drug himself and leave himself as a present for the least trusted man in the business, then maybe it was that easy.

He pulled Arthur up against him so that he could kiss his pretty, honest, potty mouth.

No, not so fucking difficult at all.

** ** ** **