by your name

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by your name
by templemarker

Notes: Many moons ago, or earlier this year, I read tequilideas’s wonderful series of thirty Inception vignettes. I got hopelessly stuck on #24, and asked if I might take it a bit further; to my utter relief and gratitude, I was allowed, and thus this fic. With massive thanks to sorrynotsorry and mementis for emergency ninja beta skills. Arthur/Eames, NC-17.

***

When Eames and Arthur first met, it was all, “Good morning, Captain Eames,” and “Captain Eames, please stop asking me out to dinner, I’ve said no twice and there’s this little thing called DADT,” and “Captain Eames, I told you if you touched my ass again,” while Eames looked up at him in a lust-addled daze from the floor.

After the last one, he just became “Captain.”

Eames never could get Arthur to call him by his given name, which was just as well since Eames didn’t particularly fancy it himself. But it would’ve been a sight better than the impersonal “Captain” said with downcast eyes whenever they were thrust into a room together. Even when they were “participating in a top-secret experimental exercise” and Arthur was hauling him out of the way of a maniacal dream-jihadist’s excessively large RPG, it was still only, “Stay the fuck down, Captain, that fucker’s got a heat-seeker.”

Eames only ever referred to Arthur as Arthur, never bothered with Lieutenant or his surname, if only because it caused such a lovely little bend of frustration in Arthur’s brow. And Eames had found that the only source of real entertainment in this American bunker of utter blandness was Arthur and Arthur’s irritation.

When they both escaped the military (at different times) for bigger, better (and more illegal) prospects, they kept in touch by virtue of Eames’ exemplary stalking skills and Arthur’s grudging admiration of Eames’ various talents. Then, Eames became only “Eames,” the touch of familiarity in the delivery the only variation on impersonality. He was “Mr. Eames” when he did something particularly good, or particularly bad (that was quite confusing and conflicting for a great deal of time); “asshole” when he neglected to recall the exact specifications of Arthur’s coffee order or forgot to imagine the correct amount of ammunition they would need for a job; “fucking bastard” when Eames changed Arthur’s carefully developed thirty-point plan.

That carried them through a good two years of working alongside or in counterpart, and in one memorable case, in opposition to each other. And then Arthur finally tripped himself up and on to Eames’ cock, and Arthur’s names for him became far more interesting. “God” was a leading favorite (Arthur riding him, head tipped back and hair disheveled, watching his own pretty flush in the mirror), followed closely by “More, take it, yes, you” (Arthur fucking him in the shower with steam clouding his vision) and dogged a bit by “Eames,” said in that particular breathy fashion (Eames humming on Arthur’s dick, watching his mouth fall open and eyes dilate).

Lovely years, those. However, even when they’d spent most nights during a job’s prep tangled in a sweaty mess in a non-descript hotel room, and even a week or two after the job was complete, pretending they could bear the other’s company for longer than it took to find a new gig, Eames would hardly call what they had a proper relationship. Eames knew at least two of the people Arthur also fucked about with, had even met Aislin once before and approved heartily of her general ability to take Arthur lightly.

So, although Eames went through every endearment he could successfully lob at Arthur, it was only part of their little dance, some extension of that irritation he had found so delightful in Arthur all those many years ago. Well, that and his arse, which had never ceased to engage. Arthur, in his own fashion, returned the endearments, with his particular emphasis on Eames’ name, with “Mr. Eames,” with his “asshole” and “fuckwad” and “dicksmack.” They provided a counterbalance to Eames’ “dear,” “darling,” “petal.”

And they were never once kind, except in the fashion that they were.

All these things swirl about in Eames’ head, because at this very moment, Arthur is breaking all the rules.

They’re on a job in Germany, one of Eames’ least favorite countries not only because he was arrested that one time for taking a drunken and ill-advised piss on the Brandenburg Gate. Ariadne is there, doing her best to shore up her reputation post-education before venturing out on her own. Eames is in his more frequent role as extractor, no need yet to forge, and Arthur is the point man who put it all together. Cobb is providing a brief period of consulting, primarily readying their counteroffensive on sub-security; the chemist is mail-order only. And so it is their rather familiar, tight-knit group, pulling secrets from the German Defense Minister. Someone has become quite deeply invested in knowing whether he is a plagiarist after all.

Eames would be the first to admit that he is being a bit of a twat, but honestly, the job is dismally easy and he’s too bored to keep from bothering Arthur. Arthur, bent over his drafting table in a rather fetching shade of blue, is organizing things into his folio. Eames has been edging Arthur’s files away from his fingertips for the past twenty minutes, delighting in that self-same quirk of brow Arthur never grew out of, even as a young Second Lieutenant pushed above his rank on a top-secret intra-governmental project. Eames loves that frustrated crease; he’s been idly thinking of what name he’d give it when Arthur snaps, turns his head to Eames, and says completely seriously, “Baby, just hand me the fucking file!”

Silence rings throughout the condo they’re using to plot their work.

Cobb lets out a strangled noise Eames has only previously heard from disgruntled cats.

“–Mr. Eames,” Arthur says quickly, a look of panic overtaking his face, a blush staining his skin, “Mr. Eames, hand me the file. Please.”

“File,” Eames says, hand going of its own volition to cover his mouth in a kind of horrified glee.

Arthur composes himself, somehow, and says “Yes,” as if he hasn’t just blown nearly a decade’s worth of tradition in one hilarious misstep.

Of course, the moment is ruined as soon as he frowns in that mobile way he has. “And don’t act like this is any worse than you calling me ‘darling’ all over the place, this is your fault.”

“‘Darling’ is one thing,” Eames protests, because, really, it is, “but ‘baby’–”

“File,” Arthur says, holding out his hand for the file Eames is holding dumbly in his hands as though it will protect him from Arthur’s newfound familiarity. Eames hands him the file. He finds he is still a bit in shock, but manfully recovers.

“I just didn’t know you cared, Arthur,” Eames says, because what use is Arthur’s little Freudian slip if Eames can’t use it to torment him for the next decade of their companionship? Arthur looks murderous. It’s a bit sad that such a visage makes Eames’ cock jump. “I also didn’t know that you, apparently, use the word ‘baby,'” he continues.

Cobb makes his strangled cat noise again, but Eames refuses to divert his attention from the remarkable shade of red Arthur continues to turn; he assumes Ariadne will see to him.

Arthur is fixed on his folio, rearranging his notes though he clearly put them in order only moments before. Eames is–well, he’s now quite horny, and will likely drag Arthur to the bedroom in short form, and honestly he wants to see if he can get Arthur to say “baby” in bed the way he calls Eames “fucker” when Eames rims him senseless or if it’ll be in a different way. So he digs his hands into his pockets to hopefully obscure the line of his erection in his trousers and says, as smoothly as he can manage, sotto voce, “It’s kind of a turn-on.”

The line of Arthur’s back straightens as if he’s been given an electric prod. Eames dimly hears Ariadne dragging Cobb from the condo and the faint click of the front door. When Arthur turns to look at him, it’s with a hot, slightly ashamed look in his eyes. Eames wonders if Arthur is worried that he’s revealed too much of himself to Eames, too much depth of feeling.

Eames will never tell him he already knew.

Later on, Eames learns that Arthur will indeed call him “baby,” in bed, only when he’s been driven too far out of his mind to notice the words spilling out of his mouth. With every thrust, Eames takes it as a prize, and mouths “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” into his skin.

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