hackthis_archive | Inception - si vis pacem, para bellum (Arthur/Eames, NC-17)

Three stories in one week. This is unprecedented for me. Someone please come and pry this Kool-Aid away from me ~~over my dead body~~ ~~and see what happens~~.

This is for

fahye,

foxxcub,

polaris_starz and

maurheti, who each helped make this come to life.

Inception
Arthur/Eames
NC-17

si vis pacem, para bellum

Mal meets a forger in Madrid.

According to her, he's dashing and smart and has the most charming style. She takes Dom and Arthur into a dream to show them an approximation of how Mr. Eames caught her eye.

Her enthusiasm is infectious. Even Arthur is intrigued -– right until one of Mal's projections tries to accost Arthur and he shoots it in the face.

Mal frowns at him. "You shot Eames."

It's hot in Venezuela all the fucking time. Arthur's concession to the heat is a pale blue linen shirt that he keeps unbuttoned to the second button and the khakis that he rolls up to his knees when they're working in the warehouse.

Mal is scandalized when she sees the paleness of his exposed legs.

"I can only conclude that you're a vampire," a third voice agrees.

Arthur looks up from studying his own ankles. "Did I ask for your opinion?"

"Of course you did," a very familiar man says. "That's why I'm here, isn't it?"

Arthur's mouth quirks at the corners. "You must be Eames."

Eames blows up a warehouse full of Arthur's projections in their first shared dream.

It's rather impressive.

Arthur looks over at Eames' mussed hair and ripped collar. His lip is split and his chest is heaving from running from Arthur's peeved subconscious.

"I like your style," Arthur says.

Eames' chuckle is throaty. "Have you ever thought of taking up T'ai Chi? I feel as though you have some issues which you could stand to sort out."

Arthur bites his bottom lip, because there's a smile threatening to escape. Instead, he raises his Walther to Eames' chest. "There might be an issue or two," he admits.

He's not expecting the Luger Eames is pointing at his head.

"Yes," Eames agrees. "I think there might be."

Arthur is a professional. Professionals do not celebrate a job well done before the job by taking a three minute test of a newly cleaned PASIV device –- new infusion lines, a new bottle of saline wash, a freshly tweaked Somnacin compound courtesy of a chemist Eames swears by –- by dragging their co-workers into specifically dreamed up supply closets and sticking their tongues down each others' throats.

Arthur is ignoring that memo.

Judging by the way Eames' eyes narrow when Arthur pulls back and stares at his slick mouth, Eames isn't into adhering to corporate scripture either.

Eames' fingers tangle in Arthur's belt loops; his teeth are sharp at Arthur's jawline. The noises he makes when Arthur's thigh presses against his groin are so obscene they're probably outlawed in all of North America and most of South America, too.

Eames pushes Arthur away with a hand to his chest and Arthur takes an appropriate step back.

His body does not approve.

"Is this your way of making sure I'm ready for the job?" Eames says.

Arthur can feel the stubble burn on his chin. He rubs at the tingle with his thumb. "Something like that. You do have a reputation."

"I always deliver."

"So I've heard."

Eames licks his lips. "Your professionalism is impressive."

"I do what I can," Arthur says before they're pulled back to reality.

Eames leaves Caracas an hour after the job is done. It works for Arthur.

Arthur likes Holland. The Dutch are a lovely people, very attached to the color orange and aphorisms about cows. He has some qualms about their dependency on bicycles, but their parks are gorgeous.

Arthur's sitting on a bench in one of said parks, flipping through the pages of NRC Handelsblad, when the bench shifts with the additional weight of a visitor.

"If you haven't invited me here to do copious amounts of weed and engage in spectacularly dirty sexual acts under the influence, I'm going to be very put out."

Arthur folds the paper up and turns toward his guest. "Hello, Eames."

Eames is wearing a gray shirt and a blindingly bright orange scarf. His eyes are hidden behind large black sunglasses. Arthur reaches out and pulls the sunglasses down. Eames' eyes are bloodshot and puffy.

"I feel as though you've already sampled plenty of Amsterdam's offerings."

"I'm sure there's something I've missed."

Arthur licks his lips. "Have you ever gone under when you're stoned before?"

Eames raises an eyebrow. "Why, Arthur, I had no idea you were such a naughty boy."

Arthur's mouth is very close to the shell of Eames' ear when he says, "You'd be surprised."

Eames is naked.

Arthur is wearing his favorite pearl gray three-button Dior suit

Eames is naked and standing in front of a mirror that's eight feet tall and four feet across.

The mirror's frame is an exquisitely etched silver, polished to a high sheen. The mirror itself is flawless and leaning against the wall in a room that seems to be all walls and no ceiling. There are no lamps, but the room is bright, airy. The space is empty except for the mirror, Arthur, Eames and the filth that's falling from Eames' lips as Arthur jerks him off.

Arthur is plastered to Eames' back, one hand wrapped around Eames' waist and the other wrapped around Eames' cock.

His thumb keeps rubbing Eames' foreskin, spreading precome, his fingers stroking the underside of Eames' cock.

Arthur's thigh is pressed between Eames' spread legs and Eames keeps pushing back against him. Against Arthur's erection which is rubbing against Eames' bare ass through an extraordinarily fine wool-silk blend.

Arthur's chin is resting on Eames' shoulder. The sweat from Eames' body is permeating his suit.

Eames' temple is pressed against Arthur's cheek; his right hand wrapped around the hand on his cock in a vise grip and his left hand firmly clamped to Arthur's ass, holding him close, making it easier for Eames to rock back and forth in his grip.

Right now Eames is promising Arthur the Mona Lisa from the fucking Louvre as long as Arthur keeps touching him. As long as Arthur does that thing with his thumb again. As long as Arthur doesn't stop.

Please god.

Don't stop.

Apparently using the PASIV while stoned is a good idea.

There is a robbery at the Vincent van Gogh museum ten days after Arthur and Eames arrive in Amsterdam. The police are utterly baffled. It could have been one robber or it could have been a dozen. There is no trace of the theft apart from the stolen painting. Then again one stolen painting is one too many to the insurance underwriters.

No one wants to write an insurance check for seventy-seven million dollars.

Two days later, Arthur is back in Paris collecting payment for an excellent copy of Van Gogh's Sunflowers. In fact, the copy is so good, it may even be the original.

Of course when Sunflowers is discovered in the cellar of the museum in another day or so, that won't matter.

Eames' forgery skills really are second to none.

A week later, the same thief -- or thieves -- who stole from the Van Gogh Museum steal the Mona Lisa from the Louvre. Considering the painting is hidden behind six inches of plexiglass, that is a serious accomplishment. French outrage covers the pages of Le Monde and Le Figaro.

That afternoon a large painting-sized box is delivered to Arthur's pied-à-terre in Île de la Cité.

He's afraid to open the box.

Inside are a hundred lithographs of the Mona Lisa.

Arthur's never been so relieved in his entire life.

There's a mobile phone in the box with the paintings.

Arthur calls the only number programmed in.

"Did you get my gift?"

Arthur shifts the phone from one ear to the other. "I did."

"And what did you think?"

"I thought you were going to get me the real thing."

"I did."

Arthur takes a sharp inhale. "Eames."

"If you want it, you'll have to come and get it."

Arthur looks at the dozens of Mona Lisas on his floor. "Are we talking about the painting?"

"I don't know, you tell me."

Arthur's still staring at the phone after Eames hangs up, but seconds later a text comes through:

25° 48' N 80° 16' W

Miami is sweltering; at some point Arthur's going to have to lodge a complaint about the tropical climates. In the meantime, he wears a faded shirt and cotton trousers to the beach. The sand is hot between his toes and there are glistening bodies everywhere; Arthur is not impressed.

He finds Eames by the phoenix tattooed on his back; Arthur's gotten somewhat acquainted with it.

He drops down on the blanket beside Eames and looks out at the flawless blue water. "Did you really steal the Mona Lisa for me?"

"You'd like to think so, wouldn't you?"

Arthur looks over at Eames' profile. He's shaved his head. He's shirtless and sweaty. Arthur would be happy to fuck him right here. "It is missing," he says.

"Perhaps someone put it in the cellar," Eames says thoughtfully.

Arthur makes a noncommittal noise. "It's hot out here."

"It's the beach."

"I can think of better ways to work up a sweat."

Eames turns and looks at him. "With the PASIV device?"

Arthur frowns. "I thought it might be good to try it in reality for a change."

Eames licks his lips. "We could do that."

Arthur brushes a bit of sand from Eames' shoulder. "We can do anything," he says.

Eames' eyes crinkle when he smiles. "I thought you'd never ask."

Arthur hates to be repetitive, but the fucking is fucking spectacular. Eames has got the sort of ass that most people would steal the Mona Lisa to get a shot at and Arthur gets to have it bent over a truly appalling zebra print duvet cover.

Not only is Eames' ass a thing of beauty, but the noises he makes when Arthur's got three fingers deep inside him are glorious. They're sort of noises that Arthur feels should be rewarded. So Arthur rewards him by replacing his fingers with his mouth.

Rimming really is a win-win situation.

Arthur gets Eames trying to fuck himself on Arthur's tongue, and Eames -- Eames gets Arthur licking him open and promising to make him scream.

It turns out Eames doesn't scream, but he does yell very loudly.

According to the red LED lights of Eames' alarm clock it's 3:18 in the morning.

The neon signs of Miami's night life are casting pink and blue halos through the hotel room's window. Arthur is tangled up in leopard print hotel sheets and Eames' arms and legs. Every time he tries to extract himself a new leg or arm appears; finally he rolls over and finds Eames smiling at him bleary-eyed.

"Yes?" Arthur says, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice.

Eames' hair is plastered to his forehead and he's got a scratch on his jaw. The scratch was a mistake -– Arthur got a little carried away when Eames had him against the wall.

Yes, against the wall.

"Going somewhere?" Eames voice is gravelly. Endearing.

"The thought had occurred to me," Arthur says.

Eames makes a disapproving noise. "I'm sure you can have more mutually beneficial thoughts that those," he says, rubbing his nose against Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur looks down at the crown of Eames' head. "Maybe I can."

Eames presses a kiss to Arthur's shoulder. "Do you want to see the Mona Lisa?"

Arthur sits up in bed and nearly knocks Eames off the mattress. "It's here? Have you lost your mind?"

"Of course it's not here. It's at the Louvre in Paris."

"No, it's not. The papers said--"

"— it's much easier to forge newspapers than it is to steal the Mona Lisa, Arthur." Eames' smirk is destroyed by a yawn.

Arthur punches him in the chest.

Eames gapes at him, his hand going the spot where Arthur struck him. "That hurt."

"It was supposed to."

It turns out there is no job to be had in Miami, but there is a lot of sweaty, athletic sex on truly appalling animal print sheets. Arthur can't complain.

According to Dom, there is, however, a job in Hong Kong.

When Arthur asks when Dom and Mal are coming in, Dom says they're not. That they're taking a break.

Arthur's used to their breaks. They're married; they have children.

Arthur is free to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and he loves Hong Kong. They have the best bespoke on that side of the planet.

Not only does Hong Kong have Arthur's favorite tailor, it also has Eames' favorite tattoo artist.

Arthur studies his reflection in the mirror. He's looking over his shoulder at his back and every time he looks away, looks at Eames' reflection watching him, he gets distracted. And then his eyes go back to the fresh black ink that runs along his shoulder blade and it's new all over again.

"You're gorgeous," Eames says quietly.

Arthur looks at his new tattoo. "It's nice work, isn't it?"

"I wasn't talking about the tattoo."

Arthur blinks at their reflections. "Oh."

Eventually the Eames in the mirror reaches out and turns Arthur back around. Turns Arthur so he's facing the mirror and Eames can reattach the bandage that has to be taped over Arthur's tattoo for another few hours.

In the mirror, Eames kisses the side of Arthur's neck.

Arthur turns away from their reflections and kisses the real thing.

Eames goes back to London. Arthur goes back to Paris. It turns out Eurostar has some sort of Frequent Travelers card. Arthur gets one. He gets one for Eames as well.

Arthur likes Sundays in Green Park. He likes the tuna and cucumber sandwiches, Galaxy bars and Lucozade in red bottles that Eames insists are a perfectly acceptable breakfast. He likes the part where Eames buys every newspaper and then proceeds to use The Daily Telegraph as something to wipe his feet on. He suspects his favorite part, however, is the one where, when they're sprawled out on the grass, Eames uses Arthur's thigh as a pillow to prop his head up while he reads out loud the latest salacious excuse for news from The Sun.

"Have you ever thought of living in London?"

Arthur's clock tells him it's... 4:29 in the morning.

Arthur is not awake enough for conversation right now.

In the dark, he burrows deeper into his pillow.

Eames' mouth is right at the nape of his neck. "Arthur."

Arthur makes a noise in the back of his throat.

"Arthur." Eames' lips are brushing against Arthur's neck, his shoulder. Arthur shudders. At this point Eames has discovered every place that makes Arthur twitch, shiver, moan or just fall apart completely.

Eames' cock is pressing against the curve of Arthur's ass. Arthur pushes back. Eames pushes forward.

"Come to London," Eames says. "Please." His voice should be loud in the silence, but it's not. Arthur can barely hear him over the pounding of blood in his brain.

He shifts away from Eames, groping blindly for the nightstand. His fingers scrabble over his Sig, Eames' Glock, a plastic die, and finally Arthur feels a slick wrapper. He grips it with all five digits of his right hand.

He moves back to his place, presses back against the solid presence Eames provides and holds the condom over his shoulder for Eames to take. "I've always wanted to live in Maida Vale," he says into the dark.

Arthur has books. A lot of books. Eames has promised to build him all the bookshelves he could possibly want. He's promised bookshelves in the kitchen and the sitting room and the guest bathroom if that's what Arthur wants. Arthur is pretty sure he has what he wants, but Eames doesn't need to hear that yet. Plus, if he can't figure it out with Arthur moving to another country then they have bigger communication issues.

He's packing up his fifth box when the phone rings in the other room. Eames answers in perfect unaccented French. Arthur is only half listening until he realizes Eames has switched to English. He gets to his feet and stubs his toe on his hardback copy of Ender's Game.

Eames meets him in the doorway.

"That was Dom," he begins.

Arthur doesn't remember anything about the flight from de Gaulle to LAX. He doesn't remember anything about the funeral. Eames takes care of that. Arthur takes care of Dom. Arthur takes care of the kids. After one week, Eames is ready to go home. After two weeks, he asks Arthur to come with him.

"I can't leave them," Arthur says, sitting on the bed in Mal's -– Dom's -– someone's -- guest room and watching Eames pack.

"They're not your children," Eames says, folding up a maroon cardigan that Arthur bought him from the Camden Market.

It was supposed to be a joke. Eames loves it.

"They were her children."

"They have their grandparents. And they have their father."

"Who's wanted for murder," Arthur retorts.

"Do you think he did it?" Eames shoots back

Arthur inhales sharply. "No. Of course not."

"So why are you staying?"

Arthur gets to his feet. "I thought you would understand," he says.

Eames shakes his head. "I thought you would understand," he says.

Two weeks are three weeks are four weeks.

Arthur's broker in Paris has rented his apartment. The tenants are moving in at the end of next month.

Arthur calls Eames.

"Are you at Heathrow?" Eames says by way of greeting.

"No," Arthur says.

"Gatwick?"

"No."

"De Gaulle?"

Arthur can hear the hope. The frustration. He takes a deep breath. "No, Eames."

"Where are you?"

"I'm still in L.A., I --"

Eames hangs up on him.

Four weeks become eight weeks.

Arthur's broker informs him that his landlady, Madame Lefevre, has put his belongings in storage because there are people trying to move into his apartment.

He deletes her message and calls Eames.

Eames doesn't answer his phone.

Arthur's never wanted to punch himself in the face before, but he presumes it's possible using the PASIV device.

He gives it a try.

Apparently his subconscious is pretty fucking pissed at him, too.

Dom is supposedly lying low in Buenos Aires, but then he gets them a job in Athens. Mal shows up in the first level of the dream and Arthur nearly dies from shock. Literally. They manage to get the extraction done, but Mal stabs Arthur in the kidney.

Arthur is not okay with this.

Dom flees to Monaco and then takes a job in Bangkok. Arthur joins him because that's what he does now. He doesn't plan to do it forever, just for a little while.

This time Mal doesn't even wait for the job. She shows up when they're still working on the dream itself. Arthur shoots himself; he's not doing that again.

He gets Nash's name from a friend of a friend and finds him at some hole-in-the-wall off of Rama IV Road.

It turns out that Nash knows Eames.

Eames is in Mombasa.

It's not Maida Vale.

It's not a lot of things, but Nash has to be better than being filleted by Mal.

When Arthur is wrong, he is really, really wrong.

Arthur's apartment in Paris is occupied by someone else. His belongings are in storage just like his landlady warned. Arthur moves into Jays Paris with six boxes of books and twelve suits. It's only temporary. Until he gets back on his feet. Until he gets his life back together. Until he rebuilds what he lost.

On the day Dom asks him where Eames is, Arthur's heart stops beating in his chest. Just for a moment, just for one fraction of a second. Arthur's breath gets caught in his throat and his vision goes blurry.

And then Arthur opens his mouth and provides an answer.

Over dinner at a small cafe with the best escargot ever, Arthur offers to go to Mombasa. Dom raises an eyebrow. "Why are you offering to go now?" he says. "You could've gone months ago."

Arthur opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

"And why did you stay in L.A.?" Dom presses. "I thought you were supposed to be moving to London. At least that's what Mal said you were doing."

"Mal died," Arthur says as though that explains everything.

A flash of something crosses Dom's face, but he shakes it off. "I know Mal died," he says, "but you didn't." He hesitates for a moment before he adds. "And neither did I."

There are other people involved in this job besides Eames and Arthur. There's Yusuf and Ariadne and Saito. There's Dom.

Arthur put his life on hold for Dom -- for Mal -- and nobody knows it.

That's not true. Eames knows it.

Every time Eames looks at him, Arthur can sense the confusion. The anger. The resignation.

Or maybe he's projecting.

Maybe Arthur just knows how badly he's fucked up.

But that won't get the job done so Arthur presses his lips together, straightens his ties and tries to focus. Tries to listen to what's being said about Fischer Morrow. Except that Eames showed up three days ago wearing a green tweed jacket and pink paisley silk shirt that he bought with Arthur in Hong Kong, and today he's wearing a muted gray and blue shirt that Arthur bought him from Selfridges six months ago.

Eames is clean-shaven and his hair has grown longer. There's a part and pomade. It's like Eames version 2.0.

Arthur presses the tip of his pen against the blank page in his Moleskine and waits for the flash of heat to pass before he says or does anything.

He waits a long time.

His pen bleeds through six pages of his notebook.

And then Eames nearly dumps him on the floor with a tap of his foot.

This, Ariadne, would be a kick.

Then again, Arthur probably deserves it.

They are professionals, but there are no convenient supply closets in this job for Arthur to drag Eames into. No Van Goghs for Arthur to sit in a broken leather chair for hour after hour and watch Eames forge. So he comes in early and stays late. He looks for a chance to take Eames aside and say something, anything, but for seven measly letters, I'm sorry is really hard to say.

They're standing in line for customs at LAX when Arthur finally figures out what he's been trying to say for weeks. What he's been trying to do.

He can't believe he's calling Saito on the phone when he's three lines over.

Eames' luggage arrives before Arthur's at the LAX baggage carousel. Arthur reaches for it automatically, brushing Eames' hand aside.

Eames' mouth quirks at the left corner. "I think I can get my own bag."

Arthur hefts the bag onto his own trolley. "I never said you couldn't."

"That's not my trolley."

"Are you sure about that?"

The PASIV case comes around and Arthur grabs that next. He sets it right on top of Eames' duffel bag.

"You're crushing my bag."

Arthur turns back to the carousel. "Am I?"

He can feel Eames at his shoulder before he actually turns his head and sees him there. In profile, Arthur can relearn the length of Eames' eyelashes.

"You're not very subtle." Eames' tone is dry, but his mouth is amused.

Arthur nods in agreement. "You're right, I'm not."

Eames purses his lips. "There's not enough room on here for your garment bag," he says when Arthur's bag comes around.

Arthur sets his bag on top of the case anyway.

Eames rolls his eyes. "Is that it?"

"No," Arthur confesses. "I left six boxes of books and nine suits in Paris."

Eames blinks at him. "I meant is that it for this trolley?"

"Oh, yeah. Yes."

Eames nods before he turns and pushes the trolley over toward the windows. Arthur watches him walk away, tearing his gaze away briefly to wave goodbye to Dom.

Finally.

The second PASIV case comes around and Arthur hefts it onto Eames' abandoned trolley.

And then he turns around to find Eames watching him, waiting.

Arthur's smile is small, but it grows as Eames pushes his cart in Arthur's direction.

"So, are we going back to yours?" Eames says. His eyes are inquisitive, bright. "I'm desperate for a shag. If you're nice I might even let you do that magic trick with your tongue."

Arthur gives Eames his best apologetic look. "No, actually, we're going back to the Departures area."

Eames nose wrinkles in confusion. "Why?"

"Because we're going home."

"I thought you were home."

"No," Arthur clarifies. "We're going home. To London."

Eames entire face goes slack. "We are?"

"Yeah, we are. I'm sorry about the extended flight but at least Saito is sending us first class."

"You -– Saito –- when did you arrange this?"

"I should've done this months ago."

"That's not an answer."

"No, but it's the best apology I've got."

Arthur lets Eames stare. Lets his eyes rove over Arthur's face looking for gaps and untruths and ulterior motives. He won't find any. There are none.

He can see the change in Eames' demeanor when he realizes this. And then Eames steps in, closing the gap between them. "I'm going to snog you now, so if you have any objections I'm afraid it's too late to voice them."

Arthur stops him with a hand on his chest. "I do object," he says, leaning in and pressing his lips against the corner of Eames' mouth. "I want to kiss you first."

-end-

Facepalming Inception style: This was inspired by an exchange between

fahye and myself about personality types and from a question in that exchange by

polaris_starz. It is also a revamp of a story idea that I threw out to

maurheti who ixnayed it because it was depressing and just not right. And then I was traveling yesterday and it was hot. And I thought I'd do a 1000 word writing exercise. But then it was more than 1000 words. But only by a little bit (like another 100 words) and

foxxcub was like, it's good, go forth. But then I was without wifi and couldn't post and couldn't stop poking at it... and then this happened. Y'all prolly didn't need to know all of that, but I like to place blame, err, give credit where it's due.

So, to those four ladies, thank you for making this possible. And to

maurheti who sits up with me and lets me continually re-run sections by her and who cheerleads and is just damn awesome, thank you. ♥