ifeelbetter | Come On (Break Another Piece of My Heart)

Title: Come On (Break Another Piece of My Heart)
Author:

ifeelbetter
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Apparently angst appears when I try to write from Eames's POV.
Word Count: 1,980
Disclaimer: I own nothing of value, especially not Inception.
Summary: Five times Eames offered and one time Arthur said yes.
Notes: Written for this prompt in the second round of

inception_kink's kink_meme. The title comes from Janis Joplin.

I.

The record clicked as it finished the final gasp of silence. It clicked again, the needle circling purposelessly.

Arthur pushed himself up into a sitting position and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His movements were mechanical and his face was grim.

He looked over his shoulder but Eames pretended he was asleep, pretended he didn't know he was being watched.

Arthur nodded, like he was glad Eames was following the program, and stood.

The record kept clicking into the silence. Arthur dressed to its beat like it was a metronome.

Click. He stepped into the trousers. Click. One arm through the shirt. Click. The other arm slid through. Click. Each button in its place. He never mis-buttoned his shirt, no matter how dark it was. Click. The vest next, tugging it into perfect place. Click.

Eames breathed to the beat of the circling record, knowing the steps to Arthur's program. He wondered, to the beat, what else he could do.

Click. He could roll over, push up on his elbows, and leer. Arthur would come back to the bed then, right? Click. Or he could offer something. He'd make promises, Arthur would laugh. Click. He could make smalltalk. Click. Make a joke? Click. He could say something honest.

Click.

Arthur picked the record's spindle off the circling record.

Eames rolled over and sat up.

"You could stay," he said even though honesty was never his strong suit.

Arthur frowned, disappointed at the deviation from routine. Like he didn't understand the offer.

"Or you could go," Eames said. He sank back against the sheets.

Arthur closed the door gently behind him. He always did because Eames always pretended to sleep and he did it now because he liked routine.

II.

"Why is it always snowing in your dreams?" Arthur grumbled.

The snow clung to Eames's eyelashes. It made Arthur look smudged, like he was a photograph that Eames couldn't quite recall.

"You musn't be afraid of a little snow, darling," he teased. He liked the blossom of pink in Arthur's cheeks. It made him more human.

"I didn't say I was afraid," Arthur bristled. He shivered, grimacing.

"Next time, I'll build us a house," Eames promised. "With a roaring fire and a bearskin carpet. We'll drink hot toddy and let the mark go fuck himself outside."

Arthur tilted his head, frowning slightly.

"You'd do it, I bet," he said slowly. His frown deepened. "That's not permission. Don't pretend I gave you permission to do that next time. I'm specifically not giving you permission."

Eames left his smile in place.

"I know, darling."

III.

"I used to think you were following Cobb," Eames said quietly. "I don't know what you're chasing now."

Arthur didn't look him in the eye. He was watching something out the window of the car, something distant.

"I'm just keeping busy," he said.

Eames gripped the wheel tighter, his knuckles going white.

"There's busy and then there's busy," Eames said.

"It's such a clear day," said Arthur. "You can see for miles."

A light fog was curling around the mountain in the early morning light. It didn't obscure, it just painted the landscape a hazy and light blue.

"I think we were here before," Eames said. "Back in '98?"

Arthur nodded. "With Mal. Cobb got food poisoning from the shrimp."

"And that girl on the bridge. With the yellow dress."

Arthur's mouth tilted slightly, almost a smile. "You caught her, though."

Eames smiled. He glanced across at Arthur's profile. He looked young in that blue haze.

"I've been--" Arthur started to say and then realized Eames was watching him, "--watch the road--I keep thinking."

There was a long enough pause that Eames wondered if that was all he was going to get. Yes, darling, I know you think. I know all about that.

He didn't say anything, though, just let the silence unfold.

"It's the plan, right?" Arthur said, unable to leave the silence hanging between them. "I keep waiting for a good finale. Something I could walk away with."

"We don't get arcs, darling. You just fold your cards at some point and leave the table."

Arthur made a sound that could have been an agreement or not.

"I might," Eames said, finally. Arthur looked at him then. "Walk away."

"You're still the best," Arthur said, as if that was why Eames would walk away. As if he had stayed at the top for anything other than Arthur's call, the order to report to some city and do the job in front of him.

He had always known Arthur would stop calling if someone was better than him.

"I could be a home you came back to," he said bluntly. He was getting too old to mince his words.

Arthur's eyes were sad then, disappointed.

Eames shrugged. "This offer doesn't expire."

Arthur opened his mouth to say something but closed it without making a sound.

Eames wondered when he became a man who counted the words not spoken as a victory.

IV.

Arthur sent him a letter from Naples. It had a return address on it, which surprised Eames.

He ripped the envelope open. There was only one small sheet of paper inside.

One last job? it said. It had a price attached, six digits Arthur thought he was waiting for.

He had to search through three rooms to find a pen.

Generally I avoid temptation unless I can't resist it, he wrote. He chewed the end of the pen thoughtfully for a moment.

He found he had to add the postscript because it was always between the lines with him and Arthur and, if his response was only one line, it had to hover somewhere under it.

Mi casa es su casa, he added.

The letter came back with an "Address Unknown" a week later.

V.

When Arthur kissed him, it was desperate. He dived into it and breathed into Eames's mouth, pausing only the gasp for breath.

Eames never moved with such purpose these days. It shocked him to be pushed into such urgency.

Arthur's hands wandered over him like they couldn't find purchase, like every piece of Eames was clamoring for attention and Arthur couldn't prioritize.

Eames took Arthur's face in his hands and held him still.

"Calm down, duckling," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

But Arthur's hands couldn't be stilled, couldn't be satisfied. Eames had to be swept along, had to rush the caresses he wanted to linger for years over.

Arthur had a huge bruise across his ribs and a new scar across his back, looping around his shoulder. He could feel the ridge of it under his fingers and knew, he could just see it, how Arthur must have gritted his teeth and dealt with it himself instead of going to a hospital.

Eames tried to leave the offer in Arthur's skin. He tried to make the tenderness on offer, the devotion, the exhalation, the everything he had into the way he touched Arthur, into the breath of him.

But he woke the next morning to his empty house and the early morning light coming through his familiar paisley curtain.

I.

Eames only got called in when Arthur's new team had exhausted the other options. They cycled through the list of contacts they trusted and recognized and who were still alive; they didn't even know to contact him.

But they'd called Ariadne. She was a bit of a legend those days.

She just shook her head when they explained the situation. Then she wrote Eames's name and address on a post-it note and pushed it across the table to them.

The kid who showed up at his door looked too young by far. Eames felt old just looking at him. He refused, on principle, to learn their names.

"It's been getting harder to wake him up for ages," the kid explained. "Mr. Smith said it was because he was getting acclimated or something." The kid looked uncomfortable with the length of the word and Eames was strongly tempted to smack him across the face.

"He's in a coma?" he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wondered why Arthur didn't let the children know his real surname. Mr. Smith. It was so impersonal.

"Yes and no," the kid hedged. "He's, like, still in the dream. And it's like his subconscious won't let him out of it."

Arthur's team always set up shop in sleek buildings. Everything was clean and tidy, none of the muss that Cobb had encouraged. Arthur was laid out on a barren cot. It looked entirely comfortless, another thing Cobb wouldn't have compassed.

Eames hooked himself in and sat on the floor next to Arthur's bed as he drifted to sleep.

Inside Arthur's dream, he found himself standing on a snowy mountaintop. He stretched, feeling skills he hadn't used in years flex like old friends under his skin. He knew, without checking, that he could have been anyone.

The world was coated in snow but he didn't feel cold, not even in his linen shirt and jeans. When he walked, the snow melted gingerly under his feet.

He cupped his hands around his mouth and called, as loud as he could, "Arthur!"

The word reverberated through the snowy landscape, sending a dusting of snow down from a nearby tree.

He felt a movement behind him and he spun around.

Arthur wasn't looking at him. His back was turned to Eames and he was looking out, away from the mountain. Eames moved to stand next to him, also staring out into the snowy valley.

"I thought you didn't like snow," he said.

Arthur sighed. "That's why I did it. I thought, if I don't like it, I won't get stuck in it." He crossed his arms. "I was trying to prevent this," he admitted.

"I know, pet."

"I've never heard of this happening before," Arthur said, frowning. "It's a question of science. The kick should have worked. It should have always worked."

"Your team of babies told me," Eames said. Then he smiled. "Mr. Smith."

"It's about order," Arthur said, stiffly. "I want them disciplined. They have to respect me." Still, he smiled as he spoke. "I knew you'd laugh." He rubbed his face.

"Arthur, darling," Eames said. He stepped in front of Arthur so he had to look him in the eyes. "You've got to come home with me now."

Arthur blinked. "I thought they explained, I can't--"

"Don't start with me," Eames said firmly.

"I'm not but I really can't--" Arthur started to protest but Eames kissed him firmly. Arthur resisted but finally opened, sighed into it.

Eames pulled back only far enough to press their foreheads together, his hands pressed against the sides of Arthur's head.

"You and me, darling," he said. "There's nothing we can't do."

"I always thought you'd, I don't know, move on or something," Arthur said, his eyes closed. "Get tired of waiting." He opened his eyes, watching the edges of Eames's face, unwilling to look him in the eye, mercurial. Shifting, like always. "I'm tired, Eames."

"I know," Eames said. "Come home with me."

"You always want unreasonable things from me," Arthur complained.

"I know," Eames repeated. "One last jump and you're home."

"What if I end up in limbo instead?" Arthur asked, his eyes wide and frightened.

"I'll come find you," Eames insisted. "Look at me, darling." Arthur did, finally, looking right into Eames's eyes. "Come home with me and be mine." Eames couldn't keep anything out of his voice though he never wavered.

This time, if he said no, this time would break them both.

"One last jump," Arthur said slowly.

"Come home with me and be mine," Eames repeated. He took Arthur's hand and held it tightly.

When they jumped, they jumped in the same breath.