All in a Day's Work

Arthur sighs as he slouches down into the chair behind his desk. He rubs his eyes tiredly and stares lazily around his study, wanting, more than anything, to just go to bed, but he knows he can’t. He’s got too much research to do, work that needs to be completed before he and his current partner can pursue their next mark.

This is a problem Arthur has, this obsession with ensuring that he knows everything possible about their mark before they actually go forward with the job, but he can’t help it. As far back as he can remember, ever since he was a child, he’s always had this need for attention to detail, which is probably why his mother had suggested that he be an architect – not that he wasn’t a sort of architect now, just probably not the kind she was thinking about when she’d first brought it up. Ever since he entered this business, it’s only gotten worse, because he knows he has to be careful, as this work isn’t, strictly speaking, legal.

Arthur’s habit of meticulously studying his mark before going on with the job, while ensuring that he gets the job done almost one hundred percent of the time, tends to get on people’s nerves, so he hasn’t had a steady partner to work with for quite some time now. Most of his partners put up with him for maybe one or two jobs, but after that, they get fed up and leave to find someone new to work with. But it’s alright. It’s never too difficult for Arthur to find a new partner. After all, Arthur is the best at what he does.

His newest partner is a man who goes by the name of Eames, and so far working with him has been… difficult, to say the least. Eames is impatient with Arthur; he doesn’t care much for such detailed planning, preferring to just improvise as they go instead. But Eames is new to this profession, and he knows that, until he has built up something of a reputation for himself, he’ll just have to let Arthur call the shots.

They’ve already completed a few jobs together, and each was a fantastic success; that is, of course, without taking into consideration the countless inappropriate comments Eames made about almost every of Arthur’s features – his hair and arms and hands and legs and mostly, surprise, surprise, his ass – and Eames’ irritating habit of calling Arthur just about every pet name he can think of. Arthur is pretty sure Eames’ gets a kick out of watching Arthur get worked up and that’s why he keeps doing it even though Arthur has asked numerous times for Eames to stop. He tries not to let his irritation show, but, more often than not, he ends up snapping at Eames and threatening to shoot him. He never does, of course, as he needs Eames around in the dreams to finish the job, but it’s the thought that counts.

The jobs they’ve completed together have almost been too easy in Arthur’s opinion. He likes something of a challenge, but he gets paid extremely well for finishing the jobs so quickly and with such ease, so he can’t really complain all that much. The two have already landed another job, and, of course, that means that instead of falling to the exciting world of dreams as they’d done not too long ago, it’s back to the more tedious stuff – paperwork and tests and research.

There’s one advantage to having Eames as his partner that no other partner has been able to give Arthur before. Eames, Arthur has discovered, is an excellent forger. He can wiggle his way into nearly anywhere, arrange an appoint with nearly anyone – in the real world, of course; in dreams, it’s a different kind of forgery that Eames does, namely that of forging new appearances for himself – and all this makes Arthur’s work much easier, though he’s still staying up to the wee hours of the morning trying to get it all done.

Arthur glances at the clock set on the desk, groaning when he sees that the numbers read two-forty-nine. Eames went to bed almost three hours ago, and Arthur probably should have too, but his compulsion to dig up all he can on his mark has kept him up. He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes for a moment, his eyes burning with relief as his eyelids flutter shut.

He almost falls asleep then, he’s so tired, but he catches himself just in time and forces his eyes open again. He has to finish, he tells himself, he has to get this done tonight. If he takes too long with all of this, his employer might get impatient and turn to someone else. Arthur doesn’t want that.

Perhaps a cup of coffee would help, he thinks, standing and walking out to the kitchen of the temporary apartment he and Eames are staying in. It’s not big, just two bedrooms and a small, cramped home-office along with the usual living space, but it’s enough to house them until their job is done and they move on to elsewhere – that is, if Eames decides to stay Arthur’s partner. A part of Arthur hopes that Eames will continue to work as his partner, despite how annoying the forger can be, because he’s never managed to pull off completing a job so efficiently before.

As Arthur waits for the coffee to be ready, he absently tugs his shirt into place, smoothing out the creases in his pants and pushing back his hair, which is beginning to fall into his eyes. This is another habit of Arthur’s; he likes things to be neat, tidy, and in their proper place, and that definitely applies to how he dresses himself. He’s hardly ever caught not wearing one of his nice, expensive suits, and his hair is always slicked back neatly. It’s appalling to him how sloppy Eames is.

The coffee maker makes a soft ding, and Arthur snaps out of his stupor, reaching into the cabinet above the counter for a mug. He pours himself some coffee and then turns to go back to his office – and yes, it’s his even though he shares this apartment with Eames. Behind-the-desk work isn’t really Eames’ thing, so he lets Arthur take care of that, which suits Arthur just fine. He likes it better that way anyways.

He settles back down behind his desk and takes a few sips of coffee before setting his mug down and getting back to work. His eyes scan over the document before him and he circles some important things in a bright red pen. Something he reads catches his eye, and he thinks he might have read something else on that subject sometime earlier tonight. So he reaches his hand out to pick up a stack of folders sitting to his left, but he seems to have miscalculated the distance to the folders he was intending to pick up, for his hand bumps instead into his cup of coffee and knocks the cup to the ground.

The cup shatters on the floor with a loud, ringing crash in the otherwise silent apartment, and Arthur groans in frustration. The coffee is going to stain the carpeting, he knows, but he’s too exhausted to deal with it at the moment. Still, the thought bugs him; well, that and the fact that he no longer has any coffee with him to keep him up and is also too exhausted to go back to the kitchen to get some more.

He rests his elbows on his desk and cradles his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. His head is throbbing and he feels like if he doesn’t get some rest soon, he’ll lose his mind. He hears muffled mumbling from the adjacent room, Eames’ room. The sound of the ceramic mug dropping must’ve woken Eames up, and within the next few minutes, his heavy footsteps fill the air and the door to Arthur’s study is being pushed open. Arthur hears Eames sigh.

“What’re you still doing up, love?” Eames asks in his smooth British accent. “It’s three in the morning.”

Arthur doesn’t look up but manages to reply in his usual brisk tone, “I’m working.”

“Really?” Eames asks, padding with care across the room, avoiding the sharp porcelain shards that litter the floor. “And how is that working for you, darling?”

Arthur is sure he can hear amusement in Eames’ voice and knows that the older man is teasing him, but he still doesn’t look up and he doesn’t reply either. The pounding in his head seems to have gotten ten times worse since Eames’ stepped into the room, and he just wants to be left alone.

Arthur feels a pair of hands on his shoulders, strong, warm fingertips kneading against his shoulder blades to loosen tense muscles. He still doesn’t say anything or move, but he suddenly feels loads better, melting into the magic Eames’ fingers are working into his back.

“I’ve never seen you look so disheveled before,” Eames notes as he continues to massage Arthur’s neck and back.

And it’s true. At the moment, Arthur’s hair is out of its usual, smoothed back style, and strands of his black locks keep falling in his face despite his attempts to push them back. His suit jacket is draped across the back of his chair, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His tie is hanging loosely around his neck and the top couple buttons of his shirt are undone, shirt untucked. This certainly is a messy look for Arthur to be sporting.

“It’s quite nice, actually,” Eames continues. “I like seeing this side of you.”

Exactly how Eames managed to get such a simple, harmless sentence to sound so dirty, Arthur will never know. It’s a talent of Eames’, Arthur has found over the time they’ve worked together, just as forging papers and cheating at poker are.

Arthur still doesn’t say anything; he’s almost afraid to open his mouth. He doesn’t know where Eames learned to do things like this, but wherever that was, he is, undoubtedly, extremely good at it. Arthur is afraid that if he opens his mouth to speak, some less than appropriate noise will escape his throat. So he keeps his mouth shut.

Eames’ fingers rub a little harder at Arthur’s clothed back, as if he sensed that Arthur is enjoying himself immensely, and this time, Arthur can’t stop himself. A soft sound somewhere halfway between a contented sigh and a moan whispers out from between his lips, and his eyes fall shut comfortably. This is nice, he thinks to himself, this is really nice.

“Won’t you come to bed now, lovely?” Eames’ voice murmurs by his ear. “Even a pretty little thing like you needs his beauty sleep, I’m sure.”

It’s now three-oh-four, and Arthur is so tired he couldn’t have objected even if he’d wanted too. He feels Eames’ hands slide down his sides to help him up and is vaguely aware that if he’d been fully awake, he probably would have protested against Eames’ being so touchy, but he’s completely worn out and right now, Eames’ warm hands feel nice, so he just goes along with it as Eames guides him out of the room.

Instead of bringing Arthur across the hall to his own bedroom, Eames decides to bring Arthur to his room. Eames knows he probably shouldn’t, but he can’t help it. It’s very rare that Arthur is so willing and compliant, and besides, who in their right mind would turn down an opportunity to cuddle up next to Arthur in bed? Certainly not Eames.

Eames sits Arthur down on the side of the bed and helps him undress, tossing Arthur’s handsome clothing carelessly on the ground until Arthur is down to his boxers. Eames then eases the younger man under the comforters before climbing into bed himself, curling his body around to fit against Arthur’s. He drapes his arm around Arthur’s waist and nuzzles the back of his neck.

“Sweet dreams, Arthur,” Eames murmurs against Arthur’s bare skin.

If Arthur notices the strangeness in any of this, Eames thinks, he does an impeccable job of hiding it. He wonders if Arthur realizes what’s really going on. He wonders if Arthur will throw a fit in the morning. That’d be interesting to see, Eames thinks to himself, chuckling inwardly. It’s very rare that Arthur loses his composure.

But, in fact, Arthur does indeed know what’s going on. From the moment Eames began undressing him, he has been acutely aware of everything that’s happened around him, suddenly wide awake. He has become increasingly aware of how quickly his heart is hammering against his ribcage, how he can’t seem to breathe, and his skin feels like it’s burning wherever Eames is touching him.

And then, for the first time, Arthur remembers all of the smirking, suggestive comments Eames has made about his figure, the millions of pet names Eames has come up with for him; and for the first time, he thinks that maybe Eames actually meant it, all of it. The realization catches him off guard and makes his body tense for a moment, but the more he thinks about it, the more he decides that he’s actually really okay with it – more than okay, actually. He likes it. In some odd, ridiculous way that is so much Eames, it’s actually quite nice.

Arthur has never really given the matter much thought before, but as he reflects over the months they’ve spent together, he realizes that what he feels towards this poorly dressed, flirtatious partner of his is something not unlike affection. He’s grown quite fond of Eames, though he’ll never admit it aloud, even if Eames’ spelling is absolutely atrocious – something that irks Arthur to no end – and he has something of a gambling problem.

“Shh,” Eames’ soothes, having felt Arthur’s body tense up against his, “Relax. I don’t bite, you know.”

Eames begins massaging Arthur’s back again and Arthur can’t stop himself from melting into Eames’ gentle, firm touch, smiling just a bit. Arthur instantly feels so much more comfortable and cuddles into the pillow beneath his head, noticing that it smells just like the cheap cologne Eames is so fond of. They lay in silence for a while, though Eames will swear that he heard another barely audible moan or two from Arthur and Arthur will never admit to it.

He does, however, murmur quietly into his pillow, in affect confirming Eames’ suspicions. “You, Eames, have the most seductive fingers in the world,” he says in a voice muffled by the cushy surface of the pillow.

Eames chuckles softly, fingers never ceasing in their movements. “All in a day’s work, darling,” he replies easily, “All in a day’s work.”

Arthur laughs quietly as well, perfectly content, and falls asleep that night for the first of many times in Eames’ arms, a soft smile on his face.