"There's Benson," Eames says one day when they're heading back to their hotel room. "He wants to fuck you," he elaborates at Arthur's questioning look. "You could go for that."
Arthur's on the verge of snapping something inexcusable before he realizes Eames isn't being vicious. Eames sounds entirely matter-of-fact, actually, and Arthur can't find the merest hint of an act about it.
"If I did," Arthur says, although it's purely fucking hypothetical, "wouldn't you mind?"
"'Course not." Eames actually smiles at him, warm and sweet. "I mean, I'd expect you to use protection. But I like you to enjoy yourself."
Arthur shakes his head, exasperated. "Yeah, that's not gonna happen. The guy's a headcase."
"Really," Eames drawls. "I'd say I'm better qualified than you to say otherwise, love."
"Oh, he'll be fine in a professional setting," Arthur amends. "Mostly. But trust me, I know the type. I'm not letting him near me when I'm not armed."
"So that shouldn't be a problem, then," Eames says. When Arthur laughs, it's at least half in relief.
Unfortunately, the universe has a way of proving Arthur right in the worst fucking way possible.
The projections were supposed to catch up to Arthur. He was the goddamned decoy, that was to be expected. He also figured they were going to try to kill him in the most painful way that occurred to them. That was par of the course.
What was not supposed to happen, and did, was Arthur losing his gun and being unable to kick himself out of the dream.
He finally hears gunshots and groans in the anticipation of relief, but it's the projections being shot, not him. Arthur tries to yell at whoever it is that this is fucking inefficient when the last of the projections falls and Benson is crouched down next to him.
Well, fuck.
He can't really move, being as most his limbs are broken in at least one place. He can whisper "Fucking kill me already, Jesus," and he does. He might as well not have, for all the good that does him.
Benson isn't saying or doing anything, just looking at Arthur and breathing hard. Arthur knows better than to look at the man's crotch, if only because he's pretty sure turning his head will cause at least one open scalp wound to rub against the asphalt.
They stay like that, Arthur trying to will his body to die already, Benson obviously restraining himself from taking his dick out and jerking off all over Arthur's bloody face, until Arthur hears Eames growl "Fucking hell," and finally, finally everything goes black.
Arthur starts the cleaning-and-packing parts of the job as soon as he's awake, but he manages to catch the deeply disturbed looks Eames gives Benson as soon he wakes up.
They finish clean-up and leave. Arthur hands Benson his part of the pay, successfully avoiding any kind of physical contact.
"So," Benson says.
"We'll call you if anything comes up," Arthur says, perfunctory and final.
Of course, Arthur's 'This conversation is over' tone doesn't work. It never does, on the likes of Benson.
"I wanted to ask." Benson shifts awkwardly. "How do you feel about going out for a drink?"
"About the same as I feel about bloody, painful death," Arthur says. "Which is to say, no fucking way," he adds, because Benson has the audacity to look hopeful.
Re: Allowed [inception, Arthur/Eames, 7/?, nc-17]
Arthur's on the verge of snapping something inexcusable before he realizes Eames isn't being vicious. Eames sounds entirely matter-of-fact, actually, and Arthur can't find the merest hint of an act about it.
"If I did," Arthur says, although it's purely fucking hypothetical, "wouldn't you mind?"
"'Course not." Eames actually smiles at him, warm and sweet. "I mean, I'd expect you to use protection. But I like you to enjoy yourself."
Arthur shakes his head, exasperated. "Yeah, that's not gonna happen. The guy's a headcase."
"Really," Eames drawls. "I'd say I'm better qualified than you to say otherwise, love."
"Oh, he'll be fine in a professional setting," Arthur amends. "Mostly. But trust me, I know the type. I'm not letting him near me when I'm not armed."
"So that shouldn't be a problem, then," Eames says. When Arthur laughs, it's at least half in relief.
Unfortunately, the universe has a way of proving Arthur right in the worst fucking way possible.
The projections were supposed to catch up to Arthur. He was the goddamned decoy, that was to be expected. He also figured they were going to try to kill him in the most painful way that occurred to them. That was par of the course.
What was not supposed to happen, and did, was Arthur losing his gun and being unable to kick himself out of the dream.
He finally hears gunshots and groans in the anticipation of relief, but it's the projections being shot, not him. Arthur tries to yell at whoever it is that this is fucking inefficient when the last of the projections falls and Benson is crouched down next to him.
Well, fuck.
He can't really move, being as most his limbs are broken in at least one place. He can whisper "Fucking kill me already, Jesus," and he does. He might as well not have, for all the good that does him.
Benson isn't saying or doing anything, just looking at Arthur and breathing hard. Arthur knows better than to look at the man's crotch, if only because he's pretty sure turning his head will cause at least one open scalp wound to rub against the asphalt.
They stay like that, Arthur trying to will his body to die already, Benson obviously restraining himself from taking his dick out and jerking off all over Arthur's bloody face, until Arthur hears Eames growl "Fucking hell," and finally, finally everything goes black.
Arthur starts the cleaning-and-packing parts of the job as soon as he's awake, but he manages to catch the deeply disturbed looks Eames gives Benson as soon he wakes up.
They finish clean-up and leave. Arthur hands Benson his part of the pay, successfully avoiding any kind of physical contact.
"So," Benson says.
"We'll call you if anything comes up," Arthur says, perfunctory and final.
Of course, Arthur's 'This conversation is over' tone doesn't work. It never does, on the likes of Benson.
"I wanted to ask." Benson shifts awkwardly. "How do you feel about going out for a drink?"
"About the same as I feel about bloody, painful death," Arthur says. "Which is to say, no fucking way," he adds, because Benson has the audacity to look hopeful.