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SPAM POST
- anything goes!
- HAD LUNCH? let's hear about it
- FASTING? let's hear about it
- .GIF DUMP? have at it
- PICK-UP LINE YOU'VE NEVER HAD THE OPPORTUNITY TO USE? let 'em loose
logging: off!
AND GO.
logging: off!
AND GO.
logging: off!
AND GO.
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Arthur is sleepy after a hard day of research and just wants to curl up with Eames and pet him. (OR THAT ONE WHERE
IARTHUR GREATLY APPRECIATES EAMES' CHEST, NECK, ARMS AND HANDS.)People sometimes forget that Arthur isn't the same fresh-faced 20-year-old boy who thought dreamsharing was so fucking fantastic he would do anything to be a part of it. Which was apparently including hack, which he hadn't done since The Incident. And The Other Incident. Anyway, point is, Arthur isn't twenty anymore.
Arthur is in fact, thirty. Arthur is thirty, and there are aches and pains that he didn't have when he was twenty. When pulling month-long jobs on three-hour naps was dude, no sweat and not fuck you, find someone else.
And Cobb is just a total dick, really, for making him take this job. Like it's Arthur's fault Cobb can't go home. Like it's Arthur's fault Cobb is on America's Most Wanted. Fuck that.
Now Eames was someone who got it. Either because Eames himself remembers what it was like to be twenty with the energy to be up for anything, but knows he isn't twenty anymore and therefore, just has to deal, or because Eames is actually A Good Person and sympathizes.
Not that Arthur cares. No, honestly.
This has nothing to do with the fact that Eames is letting Arthur lie on top of him and is running a soothing a hand through Arthur's hair, tugging each strand loose with an almost identical careful precision that Arthur had taken to keep them slicked back.
Arthur sighs in contentment, nosing at the fabric of Eames' shirt, letting himself fall into the warmth of Eames' body, relaxing into gentle lilt of his voice.
He runs a hand down Eames' side, smiling to himself as he relearns every curve of muscle, every dip of bone. He grins when Eames hums with a purr and moves up to swipe a thumb across the long line of Eames' neck.
When Eames settles his hands against Arthur's waist, Arthur practically melts into it. They feel inexplicably large, even through the layers of Arthur's vest and button-down, and he will never forget the strength that lies in them. He knows every callous and every knuckle and could probably draw out every line of Eames' palm, if he had to.
His headache is almost entirely gone now, and the smooth back-and-forth of Eames' thumbs against the small of his back are doing wonders for his mood. Arthur doesn't feel so frustrated anymore. He's not exactly happy yet, but he's getting there.
He feels his eyes slipping shut with every steady rise and fall of Eames' chest, and that's when he moves to touch Eames' arms, just to feel the flex of muscle beneath the soft skin.
"There you are," Eames says, even though Arthur doesn't really hear it. His voice is low, words barely there on the roll of his tongue, and Arthur sinks into it, closing his eyes.
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