underfoot

underfoot
by templemarker

Ficlet for skellerbvvt’s Rule Ten. Originally posted here.

***

Arthur is sitting in his office chair, typing away at his laptop. He’s doing something like reporting, or reviewing, or whatever it is he does when he’s not here with Eames. The only reason he’s doing it now is because of some deadline he had to meet; they hadn’t even had dinner together. Eames had come home to a sandwich on the counter and a note beside it, Sorry, have to bill time on the Banks account before end of day, might take a break at nine. –Arthur. Eames had eaten his sandwich and flipped channels for an hour and sketched aimlessly until he couldn’t take it anymore. He clock-watched until 8:55 and then crept down the hall in his socked feet to the door of Arthur’s study.

The door didn’t creak as he slid it open, and there was Verdi or Mozart or something on the hi-fi playing just loud enough to help with Arthur’s concentration. Arthur didn’t look up from his screen, but when Eames shut the door he saw Arthur’s head tilt just so, letting him know he’d been recognized.

"I’m not going to be able to take a break for at least another half hour, Eames," Arthur said absently, fingers clacking away at the keys.

"Don’t mind me," Eames said. "I’m not here to interrupt you."

Arthur snorted a bit; Eames came up beside him, falling silent again, and in one smooth movement fell to his knees and leaned back against the wall, folding his hands in his lap.

The typing stopped. Arthur looked over. "Eames," he said a bit warningly; Arthur’s work wasn’t difficult, but it did require his focus, especially when he was on a deadline. Eames held out both hands in front of him, to ward off Arthur’s protests.

"I’m just going to sit here," he protested. "I’m not gonna say nothing, I’m just going to be quiet and sit here and…"

Arthur’s face softened a bit, and he rested his chin on his hand for a moment. "If you’re quiet," he allowed finally. Eames nodded.

Arthur went back to his work, and Eames was true to his word. But he slunk a bit lower down, cocking his head to get the view he really came in for.

Arthur’s feet. Socked, sure, but Eames could make out the line of his toes through the fabric, and the line of Arthur’s trousers had ridden up enough that Eames could make out the round of Arthur’s left ankle. His heart skipped, in that queer way it did whenever he got something he wanted from Arthur without ever having to ask, and he steadied it in, and out, and in again.

Minutes went by, and Eames was so focused that he didn’t even notice when Arthur stopped typing quite as swiftly. His right foot came up, and with the swell of his big toe he slowly started to push the sock on his left foot down, down, down.

Eames caught his breath, held it in his chest as it became more painful. Arthur’s lovely skin was slowly revealed, a faint smattering of hair visible at the join of leg and foot, a bit more on his toes, long and curved. There was a shadow cast under Arthur’s desk from the LED lamp he used, and it made the fine bones of Arthur’s foot catch the light. Eames let out a careful, shaky breath, so cognizant of being quiet, because that was the condition on letting him sit here, watch this absentminded show of Arthur’s in excruciatingly great detail.

Eames wanted to reach out a hand, a careful finger, and trace the line Arthur’s foot made in the shadow beneath his desk. He didn’t, didn’t even make an abortive move, just thought out every aspect of how it would feel beneath his hand, against his mouth, under his tongue. Arthur’s right foot remained in its sock, but that was almost better, the contrast and restraint all in one. As if Eames had gotten something he wanted, but was still reminded of all the things he couldn’t have.

He watched Arthur’s feet flex and press against the floor, unconscious movements as Arthur did whatever he did up top, and down there beneath his desk were just Eames and this single part of Arthur, only for him, just like this.

Eames didn’t notice the passage of time until Arthur’s feet moved out of immediate view. He looked up and Arthur was stretching in his seat, shirt coming free of his careful tuck in Arthur’s trousers. When his gaze finally rose to Arthur’s face, Arthur was smiling, his deep and pleased smile, the one Eames worked for on his better nights and dreamt of on his worst.

Arthur didn’t say anything, just kept smiling as he lifted his foot from the floor, rolled just a bit closer, and put his foot in Eames’ lap. Eames gaped down, and when Arthur pushed against his cock, he gasped and gasped.

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