Eames is curled up on the bed trying--and thus far failing--to create a proper cocoon out of some throw blankets without wrinkling the duvet.
This is what happens when neither he nor Arthur has worked for weeks at a stretch. Eames starts being social again, going out and catching up with friends, rather than just holing up and being domestic. And then eventually he finds himself home from brunch, drunk and dozing at half two in the afternoon, while Arthur is off doing God knows what, but probably something productive.
When Eames and Arthur reunite after working separate jobs, they spend days lazing about in bed, cooking elaborate meals together and watching films while having a cuddle on the sofa. Eames never even tells anyone else that he's home for at least a fortnight, except perhaps Dominic if he needs help with the sprogs. If he's feeling generous.
Eames finally gets cozy inside the blanket and is possibly minutes away from nodding off. He considers having a wank. Memories of their most recent reunion sex after Arthur finished the Prague job flit through his mind, along with visions of a particularly favourite shower scene from their stash of naughty films under the bed. But Arthur might be home at any moment and that could lead to something much better. Eames decides to hold off for a bit.
Another downside of Eames's renewed social life is that they haven't found time for sex in several days. Eames would hate to waste an opportunity by tossing off and dropping into a drunken sleep before his husband returns.
He and Arthur work together rarely these days. It's usually only the most difficult gigs--the ones where Eames wouldn't trust anyone else to have his back but Arthur, nor anyone else to have Arthur's but himself. Afterward they go into hiding somewhere warm for a few weeks. It's crucial for their safety, of course, but it's also important for the health of their marriage.
The tension of their frequent planning-stage arguments over strategy, combined with the necessity of pretending they're nothing more than bickering colleagues, usually comes to a head minutes after meeting up at the rendezvous. It's bloody difficult, actually, pretending that Arthur isn't the single most important thing in his life for days, if not weeks on end. Doubly so considering that these situations are usually a knife's edge of danger and fear to start. And this frustration can run over into their real lives together if they're not careful. That's why Eames prefers not to work together unless their safety is truly at risk. Fortunately, Arthur concurs.
Arthur is a man of many rules. One is that if either of them has any lingering issue or frustration with each other about the job, they must have it out before relaxing into their cover as an ordinary couple on holiday. This means that occasionally their safe house reunions start with shouting followed by not-so-gentle snogging and nearly dry handjobs. Of course, these inevitably slow into tender caresses and lingering kisses as they ease out of the facade of barely tolerating each other and into being husbands again. Other times they have nothing to work out verbally and arrive at the rendezvous so desperate for each other's touch that they can hardly remove their kit before it's all already over. Both scenarios are torturous in their own way.
Returning home together from a holiday in hiding is an entirely different experience to coming back from a job with Arthur eagerly awaiting him. Eames always finds himself immediately put to work on a long list of house maintenance and improvement tasks. No lounging around in the sunshine. No marathon sex. Hand-stirred arboreal rice and delicate pastry-wrapped beef are replaced by Chinese takeout and deli sandwiches. Any remaining hours are spent getting back into shape after weeks of terrible nutrition while on the job and too much alcohol while lying low.
Eames always complains about forced labour, but deep down he feels a sense of satisfaction that comes from owning something and taking proper care of it--as opposed to treating it as a hideout or a rest stop, like he used to do when he was on his own. He knows Arthur's mind equates the effort of keeping their shared properties up to code and looking lovely with the necessity of keeping their relationship shipshape. And, honestly, Eames's own mind is starting to agree.
Still hovering on the edge of sleep, Eames thinks about the dark year when Arthur had fucked off to follow Cobb around the globe--risking life and limb with hardly a "thank you very much" from his own best mate. Dominic hadn't known about their relationship back then. Arthur insisted it was for Eames's safety, but Eames had been more wounded than he cared to admit by the secrecy. In petty revenge, he'd allowed all the plants in Arthur's downtown Los Angeles condo to die and cobwebs to accumulate in his Paris flat, preferring to vacillate between sulking in Kenya and sulking in Thailand. Today, however, even the worst fight wouldn't provoke such behavior from Eames--not even at the Paris flat, which is now technically half his as well.
Which reminds him, he must tell Arthur about the beautiful farmhouse sink he saw the other day while walking home from the wine shop. It would be absolutely perfect for their Paris kitchen. He'd like to try his hand a building an enormous butcher's block to go alongside it as well. Arthur would have to help, of course. He's vastly more skilled at that sort of thing. But they have the space to do it in their garage here, then ship it across the Atlantic to make another of their homes just bit nicer and more of a reflection of the life they're building together.
Eames's thoughts are drifting between hopes of an as-yet-undiscovered talent for woodworking and fantasies of Arthur bending him over the as-yet-unacquired sink, when he's partially roused by the sound of keys in the door.
Arthur appears next to the bed, Starbucks cup in hand, smiling indulgently.
"Have a nice brunch?" he asks, voice a singsong of barely concealed amusement.
"Lovely darling," Eames gives Arthur a sideways glance as he nuzzles into the pillow. He sees that Arthur is also carrying a canvas bag with the shopping for tomorrow's planned lunch date with the Cobb family.
"Roger and Matthew say hello," he rolls onto his back and gazes up with what he knows is a dazed expression. "What are your plans?"
"I've got to call my mother about Thanksgiving. I've been putting it off for far too long. Get started on dinner, because it has to simmer for hours. Maybe try to repair the heating element in the guest bath towel rack. Why?"
"Have a kip with me?" Eames wheedles.
Arthur appears to be considering the offer.
"Let me put the groceries away."
But as Arthur turns to go, Eames reaches out and touches his arm gently.
"I'll be right back Drunky Brewster. You'll probably be out like a light before I even make it to the kitchen."
"I don't understand your joke Arthur ... And I don't think I really want to sleep."
Arthur smirks, but he does set down his cup and the shopping.
"Is that so?"
Eames tries his best to make sex eyes, but they likely just look sleepy. He was three-quarters gone when Arthur arrived, after all. So he arches his shoulders ever so slightly against the bed and parts his legs in invitation, just to make certain his message is clear.
Arthur leans forward so he's looming over Eames's entire field of vision.
"What exactly did you have in mind?"
But before Eames can answer, Arthur's mouth is pressed against his. Eames wriggles out of his blanket cocoon as Arthur crawls up onto the mattress, pressing his hands into either side of the pillow. Eames's body responds immediately, rousing entirely from sleep and already feeling almost breathless with desire. He hooks his legs behind Arthur's knees and pulls him down into the embrace.
After a few minutes of snogging, Arthur moves away.
"Tell me what you want, baby," he whispers.
"I want you to fuck me. Please."
"You sure?" Arthur asks, reaching down to grope Eames's prick through his pyjamas, wordlessly asking if he wants to get off first.
"God yes," Eames responds, aching for it. "As soon as possible."
Arthur pulls his shirt off and reaches over to the nightstand for the slick, trapping Eames against the mattress in the process. He grinds upward against Arthur's body, eliciting a tiny gasp of pleasure. Arthur responds with a deep kiss. Just as Eames is losing himself again, Arthur moves away, unceremoniously tugging Eames's pyjamas and pants down, and pushing his knees up so his feet are flat on the bed.
Eames's heart is racing before Arthur's first finger is even halfway in. "Please, please," he pants, not even sure what he's asking for, just knowing that he needs this with every fibre of his being. "Arthur, please."
"What do you need, baby? What can I do?"
"Just this. Fucking hell, I want you so badly."
Arthur pushes Eames's shirt up to his collarbone. Eames knows it's so Arthur can see his body without breaking away to remove any more clothing and he loves that Arthur still likes the look of him after all their years together.
"God, you're so hot." Arthur breathes out, peppering Eames's chest with kisses, pausing to lick his nipples into peaks.
Eames moans when Arthur adds a second finger, curling both digits simultaneously to hit him exactly right. Sometimes he feels utterly loud and wanton in comparison with Arthur's much more quietly stoic responses. But damn it, he can't help himself. He never learned, as Arthur had been forced to in his Army days, to be reserved about his own pleasure.
By the time Arthur has three fingers inside him, Eames is writhing around, pulling the sheets out from under the mattress and groaning like a two-bit whore.
"I'm ready, I'm ready. Oh please, Arthur."
"You don't need to tell me twice," Arthur quips, but his voice is too strained for humour. "How do you want it?"
"I don't care, just please ... I want to feel you properly. However you like."
"Like this then," Arthur says, unbuttoning his jeans and pushing them down off his hips with one hand, while the other encourages Eames's legs to wrap around his waist.
Seconds later Arthur is pushing in and Eames throws the pillow from beneath his head, so he can crane his neck back as far as it can reach. He's gulping deep breaths, repeating the word "good" over and over like a bloody broken record.
It takes a couple of minutes to adjust. Eames's arse may be greedy, but he's always been a bit tight at the start--not that he's ever had any complaints about that from Arthur, or anyone else for that matter. When he's ready, he arches his back and bears down as hard as he can, their private signal to progress.
And, oh, it's bliss the way Arthur moves inside him. He seems to know every angle, every nook, every movement necessary to take Eames apart.
"Kiss me darling," Eames begs and Arthur obliges, although he's just gone enough for it to be messy and unfocused--more panting and licking than proper snogging. Eames doesn't mind. He loves knowing that he can make his husband feel as lost in pleasure as Arthur does him.
They find a rocking sort of rhythm--Arthur breathing heavily, Eames panting and moaning. Every stroke hits Eames just right and he loses his sense of the surrounding world. He clings to Arthur's shoulders like a drowning swimmer and cries out when Arthur changes the angle even slightly.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Arthur gasps suddenly and pulls back. "I can't. Oh fuck. Turn over. Let me use my mouth. It's too fast. Too fast."
"It's all right, Arthur. Come back. Please. I'm so close. Don't stop."
Eames lifts himself up just enough to gain some leverage over Arthur's cock when he squeezes it and Arthur lets out a breathy sigh in response.
Arthur repositions Eames's legs so he can lean against them as he thrusts, freeing his hands to reach for Eames's prick. And if it was bliss earlier, then this is like a hot knife through butter, just slicing Eames open and laying his desire bare. From this position Eames can use his feet to push back against each stroke, maximizing his pleasure and drawing quiet grunts out of Arthur on every movement.
"Darling, you're so good. So close. Treat me so right. There's nothing like this. Please don't stop," Eames babbles semi-coherently as the cliff's edge of his orgasm fast approaches. "I love you. I love you. You're the best ever. The best, Arthur. Oh God, Arthur!"
And then he's falling into pure sensation, language lost. Dimly he feels Arthur coming inside of him seconds after his own cock starts pulsing onto his stomach.
The instant his mind is clear, Eames reaches out and tangles his fingers in Arthur's sweaty hair.
"That was bloody well amazing," he says, voice hoarse from shouting.
Arthur leans his full weight on Eames's legs and grins boyishly. He looks absolutely edible--cheeks pink and eyes bright.
"I came pretty goddamn close to losing it for a second there, but that turned out pretty fucking sweetleaf, didn't it?"
Eames laughs. He so loves it when Arthur reverts to the bizarre expressions of his Midwestern youth.
"Where are we? In Iowa?" he teases. "Did you fuck me back to 1995?"
Arthur laughs and swats Eames's calf as he pulls out. Then he collapses on the bed, jeans still clinging to his thighs.
"I believe you said something about a nap?" he asks.