[ As soon as Eames puts that hand on his knee, he jerks away violently, so unused to the familiarity of it all. They've been touchy here and there, but it's normally on shoulders or elbows, places totally normal to touch an associate. If he's ever felt a bit warm from it, he doesn't let on since that's dumb and he's a grown ass adult.
Who totally has never had a crush on Eames. Ever.
Arthur's kept that tidbit to himself for years and he doesn't see the point in indulging even if this job is forcing the pieces to fit. Sighing, he tucks his phone in his pocket, eyeing the man across from him coolly. ]
A little concentration here, Eames. How soon is soon?
[ Carefully, he looks away, passes a cursory glance to the picture frames with well forged photos. He makes a note to replace a couple with some from his own collection. Because while most of them will hold up under scrutiny, there's a few he won't be able to fib through if he's grilled. ]
[ When Eames gets up, Arthur automatically tenses, feeling a bit like some sort of prey being circled. He knows Eames doesn't necessarily mean to give that vibe, but he's touchy. ]
Contrary to what people might think of Americans, I don't know shit about our version of football.
[ Meaning if someone asks, he's going to flounder through an explanation. ]
I played hockey– I'll get you a photo.
[ And there it is, a small portion of his past given up. This isn't normal for them. Because while he knows how Eames likes his coffee (prefers tea), his sleeping habits, how much bullshit he tolerates on a job, they don't share their personal lives. It's always been about living in the current, not the past.
Somehow, he gets the feeling that this job is going to change that drastically. When Eames sets his hands on him, he freezes and then rolls his shoulders forward, ducking out from under the contact.
(Though truthfully he could use the massage, he's fairly sure his muscles have locked up enough to rival rebar at this point). ]
[He can almost feel the reluctant release of the information on Arthur's past, and despite trying to be friendly, he feels victorious, elated. He certainly doesn't want to make Arthur uncomfortable, but every little piece of the puzzle is so interesting. There's a hunger in him that wants to devour every little bit of information he can.
What happens then, though? When has Eames ever gotten to know someone that well? And yet, the desire is still there.
Arthur ducks forward, and Eames can't help but be a little insulted, confident smirk going stiff.]
Believe it or not, Arthur, we're going to have to touch for a job that requires us to be a couple.
[He tries to gather his composure and moves to sit beside him on the end of the chaise lounge. He raises a brow.] Practice is in order, I think.
[ The air around them goes a little tense and he sits up straighter, immediately sensing it.
Eames goes to sit next to him and for a moment, Arthur doesn't make eye contact, just tries to digest the words. He's not wrong. At all. And he knew that going into this, which is half the reason he's so damn jumpy. All at once, it's like he's 20 again, heart caught in his throat when it came to the forger, words escaping his mind like sand in a sieve.
He thought years would temper the emotion, but clearly he was wrong. So he's pushing back in the only way he knows how– being brusque, cold attitude sharp and unmoving. ]
I know that, I'm– [ What, he's what? God, why did he agree to this? ] Fuck, I'm not built for this.
[ Miserably, he scrubs a hand down his face. ]
Can I take a rain check on that? [ Ugh, that sounds like a total cop out. So he amends: ] Until tomorrow, I mean. I think I need to decompress.
[ He needs to get his fucking act together, but Eames doesn't need to know that. ]
[All insult, hurt, and humor drain from Eames' face when Arthur starts having trouble with words. It almost physically hurts to know that he's having this effect on him, because he thinks it's bad, that he's making him that uncomfortable. He is, of course, but in a different kind of way.
He goes quiet, and is having trouble keeping the disappointment from his expression. What is Eames, eighteen? Might as well be, with the way he's acting. Like he's hoping that if he and Arthur just kiss, if he really feels what it's like to be with Eames, that he'll change his mind about him. It's ridiculous, and he saves his expression from falling too far, trying to smile casually.]
Of course. [He stands, moving toward the kitchen.] Want a cuppa?
[ Chancing a look, he shifts his gaze to Eames, face carefully neutral.
What he doesn't expect to see is disappointment.
That more than anything sends him reeling. He's seen Eames with virtually every other expression on his face, but this, this is the one that hurts the most. Arthur swallows carefully, pushes all the nerves down. Because of course Eames is disappointed; he can't be a professional about something so important to their job. It feels and tastes like failure to live up to the reputation he's built for himself.
It doesn't bode well for the rest of things.
Blowing out a sigh and giving Eames a wan smile, he nods. ]
Alright, yeah. Kettle looked like it was in the cabinet left of the stove, drinkware in the one next to that.
[ Arthur had given the kitchen a cursory glance, but his memory for details was good. Dependable.
The complete opposite of his ability to cope with his own emotions, which'll either collapse this job or collapse their working relationship. He's not thrilled to find out which happens first. ]
Edited (who drinks hot tea out of a glass, no one) 2018-06-01 06:13 (UTC)
[Something about Arthur's expression doesn't sit with him well... but he nods with a terse 'thanks' and moves quickly into the kitchen, out of sight. He allows himself one minute. He has one minute to be sad.
One minute where he lets himself think about how long he's wanted Arthur. More than just wanting, really, but it wouldn't do to examine that too hard. He clamps his hands on the edge of the sink and breathes out hard. It's going to be torture to see him like this, like he lives here, like he's with Eames. It's everything he ever wanted, and it's not real.
He takes in a calming breath then, because his minute is up, and then he goes to work fixing their tea. He loves making tea in a kettle. The proper way to do it, really. It's calming too, though, and while he's at it, he digs around and finds where Arthur hid some biscuits. The kettle starts whistling, and he turns it down, pouring them each a cup (not a mug, a proper teacup like Eames loves) .
He takes it all out on a tray, setting it down on the coffee table.]
There we are.
[He can't quite bring himself to look at Arthur, afraid at what Arthur might see in his own eyes.]
He keeps an ear out for a change in the actions, but the background noise of Eames puttering around puts his nerves at ease a bit. Without the forger so close, he can clear his head, focus on all the things they'll need to accomplish in this next week. First, he pulls his computer bag closer, fishing out the slim laptop and propping it on his knees. It doesn't take him that long to pull up a photo of his hockey days from an archived site. He sticks it in a folder on the desktop, carefully encrypts it out of habit.
Looking up, he scans the photos around again, eventually sliding the computer off his lap and setting it on the side table. Arthur pulls one of the frames down from a section of bookshelf, tilting it so the light doesn't obscure the image in a glare. It's the two of them, from a job a while ago. Before Mal killed herself—in fact, he's pretty sure that's who had taken it. She'd been their chemist on site, a rarity, and had this quirk of attempting to take his picture whenever she could.
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth from the memory. They both look so much younger; part of that is due to him laughing openly. Eames is leaning in close, head tilted up and a smirk written all over his face. He remembers he'd been imitating the mark's particular cadence, telling dirty jokes in a put upon flat voice. Slowly, he sets it back on the shelf, turning to look at Eames as he's set the tray on the table. ]
I can't believe you still had a copy of this.
[ The photo, obviously.
Arthur walks back over, picks up his cup from the tray, and tries not to stand too close or too far from the other man. Even though it's tempting, so tempting, to step closer and breathe in the subtle cologne he sometimes favors. ]
[Eames comes out of his own desperation long enough to glance at the picture, and he smiles softly, picking up his own teacup.]
Of course I do. Remember that mark? What was his name... Something with a B?
[He steps closer to Arthur than Arthur had intended, smiling down at the photo.]
Christ, we look young. [He looks up at Arthur, grinning, immediately going to exactly that voice he'd used way back then.] What's the difference between me and eggs? Eggs get laid.
[ Something with a B, he asks, as though Arthur would need prompting to remember. It's still there, filled away in his head. ]
Berendorf. He was cheating on his wife.
[ That wasn't what they'd gone to find out, but it'd been uncovered in the process. Arthur ended up tracking all the purchases he made to a very demanding mistress.
He's distracted from recalling the rest, because Eames is suddenly adopting the voice, the dumb joke coming out easily. There's also the matter of him being so close, that smell of his cologne messing all of his senses up at once. No doubt he's blushing, he can feel it crawling up his face and warming his ears. ]
But you're both cracked. [ His jab has no heat, amusement coloring it too much. ]
We were young. That was maybe, what, a year after the military? I was practically a kid to all of you.
[Of course Arthur can produce the name from that brilliant mind of his. His memory is incredible.
It's so nice to see Arthur amused and smiling. He's just... beautiful, and Eames wants more. He outright laughs at Arthur's addition to the joke before listening again, glad they can still do this.
And then he says that, and Eames blurts -] What? God, no. I mean, you were fucking young, but...
[He fades off, feeling embarrassed now.] I mean, I've always thought of you like an equal.
[It's probably the best compliment he's ever given Arthur, so, to soften it, he adds -] Equally as much of a pain in the arse.
Please, you don't need to flatter me. Mal ruffled my hair and Dom even tried to call me sport.
[ Tried, as in he did it twice and after Arthur bodily cringed, he stopped. Mal, however, continued to muss his hair and then carefully finger comb it back into place. Arthur let her. No one's done that to him since then. ]
Look, someone has to keep on everyone's case. I'd be less of a pain if people stayed on track.
[ Not entirely true but here they are. Being a huge pain is practically in his job description. Arthur takes a careful sip of his tea, mulling everything over. There's a weight that still sits in his stomach, a gnawing worry that he's not going to be able to pull this off. That his damnable defensiveness is going to rear up and spoil it all. Because Eames is right, he's shit at touching and affection and anything that veers towards an emotional category. ]
[He smiles behind his tea cup, remembering him. Remembering them. Them has never happened, though. Not the way Eames wants it to. He sighs, sips at his tea.]
I think... we will, if you trust me not to bite, yeah?
[He smiles over at him.] I only bite for special occasions.
Trust you, I mean. If there's a special occasion, just warn me ahead of time, yeah?
[ Maybe that's flirting with some kind of unspoken line, but the words are out and he can't take them back. Hastily, he drains his tea despite it burning a little on the way down. ]
Right, I uh. I'm gonna turn in. [ Very smooth, Arthur. He awkwardly pats Eames on the shoulder as he walks past him to the kitchen, where he sets his teacup in the polished sink.
A few minutes later finds him up the stairs and in the bedroom he'd picked out earlier. It has a good view of the street from the windows, currently blocked by the drawn curtains. Carefully, he sits on the edge of his bed, thinks about the rest of this very long job timeframe, and considers himself completely fucked. He's bad at affection, real or imagined, but more than anything, he's worried about caving. About letting himself get used to it. Because he's not sure he'll want to give it up when everything is said and done.
The two of them have been flirting over the years, tip toeing along the edge of something and he feels like this is just going to tip it into some direction. Whether that will be a good one or not, he doesn't know. Frustrated, he gets ready for bed, lets the small rituals calm his nerves even if his brain is still on overdrive.
Thankfully, he crashes out from the stress close to midnight
When he peels himself out of bed at 8 the next morning, he takes the coldest shower imaginable for reasons, and resolves to leave his personal feelings out of this whole mess. It's a job. He has to focus. True to routine, he makes coffee with the machine on the counter, puts a kettle of water on the stovetop for Eames. He's pouring himself a mug and adding milk when he hears the familiar cadence of the forger's steps down the hall.
(No, it's not weird that he can identify him by how he walks). ]
I boiled water. Not pouring your tea, since I know I fucked it up last time like the dirty American I am.
[Eames has resolved to do the same thing, to focus and keep his personal feelings out of this. He really can't believe how affected he is by this, is terrified to know what touching Arthur casually is like.
Still, he wanders into the kitchen, smiling at Arthur's kind gesture.]
You didn't have to do that.
[He pauses to pat Arthur's shoulder (as awkwardly as Arthur had the night before) before going to the stove to prepare the tea.]
We all have our faults. [He gives him a devious smile before turning back to his tea.] What's on today's agenda?
[ Arthur shrugs, as if it explains everything. He didn't have to do it, but he went ahead with it anyway. Last night they left on somewhat tense terms. In a way, it's like an olive branch. Something to try and smooth over the rocky path.
The biggest improvement, though, is that he doesn't flinch when Eames pats him on the shoulder. Maybe it's because the kitchen is a little smaller, or the fact that they're close– he'd seen the motion coming and told himself to chill out. He sips his coffee and leans against the counter, watches Eames as he pours water and makes his tea. A small part of him notes the prep; three teaspoons of sugar, a dash of milk. He's a bit enamored with the motions of his hands that he almost misses the question. ]
Some back end prep, but mostly getting information without making contact. And um.
[ Jesus, why does this make him so nervous? ]
We should work on that thing you mentioned yesterday.
Back end prep, [he repeats, trying to fight the smile that Arthur can't see right now. But his hands pause at that last part. He's not going to let Arthur notice, though, so he hurries to pick up his tea and rub at his eyes, sleepy despite the fact that his shower should have woken him up.]
We should. Um... Let's make some breakfast first and work on it, hm?
[He's moving closer now, trying to get Arthur used to him being in his space.] What would you like this morning?
[He holds his hand up, slowly, so Arthur can see what he's doing, and moves to brush back a piece of Arthur's hair.]
[ Arthur barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. Of course he'd make that joke. Of course. He smiles a bit into his coffee. ]
Well, after I finished my requisite three cups, I was going to make eggs. [ Please help him he has a caffeine problem. Though from how awkwardly he slept last night, he's really going to need it to be awake today.
Though he does notice Eames shift a little closer, their shoulders nearly touching at the bit of counter they're both occupying. Part of him bristles, but he ignores it. Then there's the light brush of fingers, pushing some of his non-gelled hair away from his face. At the contact, his mind goes a bit blank, mouth dry. He shouldn't have this much power, not with something seemingly insignificant.
Yet, with all of his pushing away and his contact issues, he wants nothing more than to press the side of his face into Eames' palm.
Carefully, he pulls away instead, a light flush appearing along his cheeks. ]
[He feels hot under the collar when his fingers brush Arthur's skin. He's holding his breath, and then Arthur pulls away, and Eames blinks back into the moment. His own cheeks feel a little flush, and he's just hoping Arthur didn't notice anything strange.]
You need to lean into it. Not pull away.
[He clears his throat, tries to look unimpressed, because maybe he can egg Arthur on in this.]
Anyway, I know you're fighting your instincts but you're going to have to do better than that
[ He does, he really does. And he'd been so tempted to do just that a second ago. Truthfully, the temptation remains even now. More than part of him wonders what it would be like to lean into Eames, to nose right in under his jaw. Would he smell like soap and warmth? Or that aftershave he uses sometimes?
For a second, he frowns, mouth turning down at the corners from the response. It sounds like he's being egged on. ]
Eames.
[ It comes out a bit sharp, a warning. But then, isn't he supposed to be learning from this? Arthur breathes out a sigh, expression relaxing away from its severity, shoulders dropping as he forcefully drains the tension. ]
[He gives him a sheepish smirk; It was worth a shot, at the very least, but at least Arthur's trying again.]
Oh. Right, yes. [It takes a minute for Eames' mind to catch up with all this, but then finally he reaches up and trails his fingers over his cheekbone, hardly daring to breath.]
[ Eames tosses him that sheepish look and he has to stop himself from grabbing hold of his chin and kissing him. It's stupid and overwhelming, the urge, because as much as he wants it, he's worried about it at the same time.
Thankfully, Eames takes that possibility out of his hands for a second, the light touch another try. This time, he caves with increments, first turning his cheek into his palm. The forger's hands are big and warm, fingertips a little calloused from working with them as much as he does. Arthur catches his eyes sliding shut as he leans into it more, but doesn't fight it. ]
[It feels like all the breath's been punched out of him when Arthur leans into the touch. This is good; this is what they've wanted. He should be pleased. Instead, he feels heartsick, wanting so badly what he shouldn't.
Arthur's eyes slip closed, and Eames feels brave like this] Good. So good.
[He licks over his bottom lip nervously, his voice quiet but so close.] I'm going to kiss your cheek.
[And then he's leaning in to do so, lips soft and warm on Arthur's cheek, if Arthur lets him. He's so close to him that he can smell him, scents he recognizes from the shower, and he looks far too attractive all put together. It's hard not to just give in to these wants.]
[ Over time, they've grown to trust each other. It had been a pleasant surprise, really, since dreamshare is so rife with drama and double crossing. Inconsistent people. But Eames, despite all of his attempts to look fickle, to look untrustworthy, he could be the exact opposite.
And here, there's another level they're stepping up to. Arthur keeps his eyes closed, knowing the forger isn't going to do anything he'd hate. Or if he does, he can tell him and he won't get pressed about it.
A warm rush slides down his spine at the praise, enough that there's a minute shudder. They shouldn't be so powerful, not with how mundane it is, how odd it is to be called good for such a small action.
(Then again, he rarely hears compliments or praise. And if he does, he doesn't normally take them to heart).
He stays still, heart beating loud enough he thinks Eames might be able to hear it. Especially when he feels the kiss, just a light pressure. It feels like something inside him collapses; his stubbornness, maybe. Before he can doubt his decision, he pulls away slowly, sets his mug on the counter as an absent second-thought. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Who totally has never had a crush on Eames. Ever.
Arthur's kept that tidbit to himself for years and he doesn't see the point in indulging even if this job is forcing the pieces to fit. Sighing, he tucks his phone in his pocket, eyeing the man across from him coolly. ]
A little concentration here, Eames. How soon is soon?
[ Carefully, he looks away, passes a cursory glance to the picture frames with well forged photos. He makes a note to replace a couple with some from his own collection. Because while most of them will hold up under scrutiny, there's a few he won't be able to fib through if he's grilled. ]
Is that one supposed to be football practice?
no subject
Probably within the week. And yes, it is. Problem?
[He lets his hands move to Arthur's shoulders, to rub gently (and test a theory).]
I thought I did rather well.
no subject
Contrary to what people might think of Americans, I don't know shit about our version of football.
[ Meaning if someone asks, he's going to flounder through an explanation. ]
I played hockey– I'll get you a photo.
[ And there it is, a small portion of his past given up. This isn't normal for them. Because while he knows how Eames likes his coffee (prefers tea), his sleeping habits, how much bullshit he tolerates on a job, they don't share their personal lives. It's always been about living in the current, not the past.
Somehow, he gets the feeling that this job is going to change that drastically. When Eames sets his hands on him, he freezes and then rolls his shoulders forward, ducking out from under the contact.
(Though truthfully he could use the massage, he's fairly sure his muscles have locked up enough to rival rebar at this point). ]
What. Are you doing?
no subject
What happens then, though? When has Eames ever gotten to know someone that well? And yet, the desire is still there.
Arthur ducks forward, and Eames can't help but be a little insulted, confident smirk going stiff.]
Believe it or not, Arthur, we're going to have to touch for a job that requires us to be a couple.
[He tries to gather his composure and moves to sit beside him on the end of the chaise lounge. He raises a brow.] Practice is in order, I think.
no subject
Eames goes to sit next to him and for a moment, Arthur doesn't make eye contact, just tries to digest the words. He's not wrong. At all. And he knew that going into this, which is half the reason he's so damn jumpy. All at once, it's like he's 20 again, heart caught in his throat when it came to the forger, words escaping his mind like sand in a sieve.
He thought years would temper the emotion, but clearly he was wrong. So he's pushing back in the only way he knows how– being brusque, cold attitude sharp and unmoving. ]
I know that, I'm– [ What, he's what? God, why did he agree to this? ] Fuck, I'm not built for this.
[ Miserably, he scrubs a hand down his face. ]
Can I take a rain check on that? [ Ugh, that sounds like a total cop out. So he amends: ] Until tomorrow, I mean. I think I need to decompress.
[ He needs to get his fucking act together, but Eames doesn't need to know that. ]
no subject
He goes quiet, and is having trouble keeping the disappointment from his expression. What is Eames, eighteen? Might as well be, with the way he's acting. Like he's hoping that if he and Arthur just kiss, if he really feels what it's like to be with Eames, that he'll change his mind about him. It's ridiculous, and he saves his expression from falling too far, trying to smile casually.]
Of course. [He stands, moving toward the kitchen.] Want a cuppa?
no subject
What he doesn't expect to see is disappointment.
That more than anything sends him reeling. He's seen Eames with virtually every other expression on his face, but this, this is the one that hurts the most. Arthur swallows carefully, pushes all the nerves down. Because of course Eames is disappointed; he can't be a professional about something so important to their job. It feels and tastes like failure to live up to the reputation he's built for himself.
It doesn't bode well for the rest of things.
Blowing out a sigh and giving Eames a wan smile, he nods. ]
Alright, yeah. Kettle looked like it was in the cabinet left of the stove, drinkware in the one next to that.
[ Arthur had given the kitchen a cursory glance, but his memory for details was good. Dependable.
The complete opposite of his ability to cope with his own emotions, which'll either collapse this job or collapse their working relationship. He's not thrilled to find out which happens first. ]
no subject
One minute where he lets himself think about how long he's wanted Arthur. More than just wanting, really, but it wouldn't do to examine that too hard. He clamps his hands on the edge of the sink and breathes out hard. It's going to be torture to see him like this, like he lives here, like he's with Eames. It's everything he ever wanted, and it's not real.
He takes in a calming breath then, because his minute is up, and then he goes to work fixing their tea. He loves making tea in a kettle. The proper way to do it, really. It's calming too, though, and while he's at it, he digs around and finds where Arthur hid some biscuits. The kettle starts whistling, and he turns it down, pouring them each a cup (not a mug, a proper teacup like Eames loves) .
He takes it all out on a tray, setting it down on the coffee table.]
There we are.
[He can't quite bring himself to look at Arthur, afraid at what Arthur might see in his own eyes.]
no subject
He keeps an ear out for a change in the actions, but the background noise of Eames puttering around puts his nerves at ease a bit. Without the forger so close, he can clear his head, focus on all the things they'll need to accomplish in this next week. First, he pulls his computer bag closer, fishing out the slim laptop and propping it on his knees. It doesn't take him that long to pull up a photo of his hockey days from an archived site. He sticks it in a folder on the desktop, carefully encrypts it out of habit.
Looking up, he scans the photos around again, eventually sliding the computer off his lap and setting it on the side table. Arthur pulls one of the frames down from a section of bookshelf, tilting it so the light doesn't obscure the image in a glare. It's the two of them, from a job a while ago. Before Mal killed herself—in fact, he's pretty sure that's who had taken it. She'd been their chemist on site, a rarity, and had this quirk of attempting to take his picture whenever she could.
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth from the memory. They both look so much younger; part of that is due to him laughing openly. Eames is leaning in close, head tilted up and a smirk written all over his face. He remembers he'd been imitating the mark's particular cadence, telling dirty jokes in a put upon flat voice. Slowly, he sets it back on the shelf, turning to look at Eames as he's set the tray on the table. ]
I can't believe you still had a copy of this.
[ The photo, obviously.
Arthur walks back over, picks up his cup from the tray, and tries not to stand too close or too far from the other man. Even though it's tempting, so tempting, to step closer and breathe in the subtle cologne he sometimes favors. ]
no subject
Of course I do. Remember that mark? What was his name... Something with a B?
[He steps closer to Arthur than Arthur had intended, smiling down at the photo.]
Christ, we look young. [He looks up at Arthur, grinning, immediately going to exactly that voice he'd used way back then.] What's the difference between me and eggs? Eggs get laid.
no subject
Berendorf. He was cheating on his wife.
[ That wasn't what they'd gone to find out, but it'd been uncovered in the process. Arthur ended up tracking all the purchases he made to a very demanding mistress.
He's distracted from recalling the rest, because Eames is suddenly adopting the voice, the dumb joke coming out easily. There's also the matter of him being so close, that smell of his cologne messing all of his senses up at once. No doubt he's blushing, he can feel it crawling up his face and warming his ears. ]
But you're both cracked. [ His jab has no heat, amusement coloring it too much. ]
We were young. That was maybe, what, a year after the military? I was practically a kid to all of you.
no subject
It's so nice to see Arthur amused and smiling. He's just... beautiful, and Eames wants more. He outright laughs at Arthur's addition to the joke before listening again, glad they can still do this.
And then he says that, and Eames blurts -] What? God, no. I mean, you were fucking young, but...
[He fades off, feeling embarrassed now.] I mean, I've always thought of you like an equal.
[It's probably the best compliment he's ever given Arthur, so, to soften it, he adds -] Equally as much of a pain in the arse.
no subject
[ Tried, as in he did it twice and after Arthur bodily cringed, he stopped. Mal, however, continued to muss his hair and then carefully finger comb it back into place. Arthur let her. No one's done that to him since then. ]
Look, someone has to keep on everyone's case. I'd be less of a pain if people stayed on track.
[ Not entirely true but here they are. Being a huge pain is practically in his job description. Arthur takes a careful sip of his tea, mulling everything over. There's a weight that still sits in his stomach, a gnawing worry that he's not going to be able to pull this off. That his damnable defensiveness is going to rear up and spoil it all. Because Eames is right, he's shit at touching and affection and anything that veers towards an emotional category. ]
You think we're gonna be able to do this?
no subject
I think... we will, if you trust me not to bite, yeah?
[He smiles over at him.] I only bite for special occasions.
no subject
[ Uh, maybe clarify??? ]
Trust you, I mean. If there's a special occasion, just warn me ahead of time, yeah?
[ Maybe that's flirting with some kind of unspoken line, but the words are out and he can't take them back. Hastily, he drains his tea despite it burning a little on the way down. ]
Right, I uh. I'm gonna turn in. [ Very smooth, Arthur. He awkwardly pats Eames on the shoulder as he walks past him to the kitchen, where he sets his teacup in the polished sink.
A few minutes later finds him up the stairs and in the bedroom he'd picked out earlier. It has a good view of the street from the windows, currently blocked by the drawn curtains. Carefully, he sits on the edge of his bed, thinks about the rest of this very long job timeframe, and considers himself completely fucked. He's bad at affection, real or imagined, but more than anything, he's worried about caving. About letting himself get used to it. Because he's not sure he'll want to give it up when everything is said and done.
The two of them have been flirting over the years, tip toeing along the edge of something and he feels like this is just going to tip it into some direction. Whether that will be a good one or not, he doesn't know. Frustrated, he gets ready for bed, lets the small rituals calm his nerves even if his brain is still on overdrive.
Thankfully, he crashes out from the stress close to midnight
When he peels himself out of bed at 8 the next morning, he takes the coldest shower imaginable for reasons, and resolves to leave his personal feelings out of this whole mess. It's a job. He has to focus. True to routine, he makes coffee with the machine on the counter, puts a kettle of water on the stovetop for Eames. He's pouring himself a mug and adding milk when he hears the familiar cadence of the forger's steps down the hall.
(No, it's not weird that he can identify him by how he walks). ]
I boiled water. Not pouring your tea, since I know I fucked it up last time like the dirty American I am.
no subject
Still, he wanders into the kitchen, smiling at Arthur's kind gesture.]
You didn't have to do that.
[He pauses to pat Arthur's shoulder (as awkwardly as Arthur had the night before) before going to the stove to prepare the tea.]
We all have our faults. [He gives him a devious smile before turning back to his tea.] What's on today's agenda?
no subject
[ Arthur shrugs, as if it explains everything. He didn't have to do it, but he went ahead with it anyway. Last night they left on somewhat tense terms. In a way, it's like an olive branch. Something to try and smooth over the rocky path.
The biggest improvement, though, is that he doesn't flinch when Eames pats him on the shoulder. Maybe it's because the kitchen is a little smaller, or the fact that they're close– he'd seen the motion coming and told himself to chill out. He sips his coffee and leans against the counter, watches Eames as he pours water and makes his tea. A small part of him notes the prep; three teaspoons of sugar, a dash of milk. He's a bit enamored with the motions of his hands that he almost misses the question. ]
Some back end prep, but mostly getting information without making contact. And um.
[ Jesus, why does this make him so nervous? ]
We should work on that thing you mentioned yesterday.
no subject
We should. Um... Let's make some breakfast first and work on it, hm?
[He's moving closer now, trying to get Arthur used to him being in his space.] What would you like this morning?
[He holds his hand up, slowly, so Arthur can see what he's doing, and moves to brush back a piece of Arthur's hair.]
no subject
[ Arthur barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. Of course he'd make that joke. Of course. He smiles a bit into his coffee. ]
Well, after I finished my requisite three cups, I was going to make eggs. [ Please help him he has a caffeine problem. Though from how awkwardly he slept last night, he's really going to need it to be awake today.
Though he does notice Eames shift a little closer, their shoulders nearly touching at the bit of counter they're both occupying. Part of him bristles, but he ignores it. Then there's the light brush of fingers, pushing some of his non-gelled hair away from his face. At the contact, his mind goes a bit blank, mouth dry. He shouldn't have this much power, not with something seemingly insignificant.
Yet, with all of his pushing away and his contact issues, he wants nothing more than to press the side of his face into Eames' palm.
Carefully, he pulls away instead, a light flush appearing along his cheeks. ]
no subject
You need to lean into it. Not pull away.
[He clears his throat, tries to look unimpressed, because maybe he can egg Arthur on in this.]
Anyway, I know you're fighting your instincts but you're going to have to do better than that
no subject
[ He does, he really does. And he'd been so tempted to do just that a second ago. Truthfully, the temptation remains even now. More than part of him wonders what it would be like to lean into Eames, to nose right in under his jaw. Would he smell like soap and warmth? Or that aftershave he uses sometimes?
For a second, he frowns, mouth turning down at the corners from the response. It sounds like he's being egged on. ]
Eames.
[ It comes out a bit sharp, a warning. But then, isn't he supposed to be learning from this? Arthur breathes out a sigh, expression relaxing away from its severity, shoulders dropping as he forcefully drains the tension. ]
Alright, let's try that again.
no subject
Oh. Right, yes. [It takes a minute for Eames' mind to catch up with all this, but then finally he reaches up and trails his fingers over his cheekbone, hardly daring to breath.]
no subject
Thankfully, Eames takes that possibility out of his hands for a second, the light touch another try. This time, he caves with increments, first turning his cheek into his palm. The forger's hands are big and warm, fingertips a little calloused from working with them as much as he does. Arthur catches his eyes sliding shut as he leans into it more, but doesn't fight it. ]
no subject
Arthur's eyes slip closed, and Eames feels brave like this] Good. So good.
[He licks over his bottom lip nervously, his voice quiet but so close.] I'm going to kiss your cheek.
[And then he's leaning in to do so, lips soft and warm on Arthur's cheek, if Arthur lets him. He's so close to him that he can smell him, scents he recognizes from the shower, and he looks far too attractive all put together. It's hard not to just give in to these wants.]
no subject
And here, there's another level they're stepping up to. Arthur keeps his eyes closed, knowing the forger isn't going to do anything he'd hate. Or if he does, he can tell him and he won't get pressed about it.
A warm rush slides down his spine at the praise, enough that there's a minute shudder. They shouldn't be so powerful, not with how mundane it is, how odd it is to be called good for such a small action.
(Then again, he rarely hears compliments or praise. And if he does, he doesn't normally take them to heart).
He stays still, heart beating loud enough he thinks Eames might be able to hear it. Especially when he feels the kiss, just a light pressure. It feels like something inside him collapses; his stubbornness, maybe. Before he can doubt his decision, he pulls away slowly, sets his mug on the counter as an absent second-thought. ]
Couch.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)