Eames insists their team go to a nearby pub for dinner and drinks to celebrate Arthur’s last day as a free man. He buys a few rounds and Arthur doesn’t even care that he’s being plied with alcohol from all his teammates because they have this thing about wanting to see him drunk, and he doesn’t do that very often, because he’s too busy trying to form a plan of how to get out of this mess.
Arthur knows these things already: Eames will not be swayed by threats, vague promises, sexual favours, bribes, torture, the cold shoulder, arguing, or peer pressure (not that Ariadne, Dom or Yusuf would help him out, anyway). And Eames knows that for all Arthur is a criminal, he’s an honourable man. There is no conceivable way that Arthur can back out of this without losing face and self respect.
“Fuck,” he says eventually.
Ariadne pats his shoulder sympathetically and leaves the lemon wedge she’s just sucked on around her tequila on the table in front of him so she can follow Dom to the bar.
Eames laughs and rests a hand on his thigh under the table, squeezing reassuringly. “Don’t worry, pet. I’m sure you’ll take to it like a fish to water.”
Arthur glares at him and when no one is looking, stabs the lemon wedge, vainly wishing it were a Voodoo doll of his team. Hah, voodoo dolls. Put a bandaid on its mouth and get Eames to shut up. Stab it twice and see how Cobb likes his kneecaps being shot out. Drop it into a cup of water and see how Yusuf likes being doused, nearly drowned when he’s trying to concentrate on a delicate mission. Arthur is maybe a little drunk, but he’s usually not this morbid and vindictive and murderous drunk.
Drunk is supposed to be happy time, not my boyfriend is an evil bastard time. Arthur says as much and Eames laughs again.
“Darling, it can’t possible be as bad as you think it will be. You might even find that you enjoy it,” Eames winks.
~*~*~
Contrary to Eames’ belief, Arthur does not take to his enforced slavery to a fish to water and he doesn’t enjoy it at all. And it his nothing to do with Arthur being a contrary, uncooperative ‘slave’, or being at all unwilling to follow through and finish what he’s started, though he does make mistakes.
The first is when Eames rolls over in bed the next morning and bats vainly at the bright, hot sunlight shining through the window.
“C’rtain,” he mumbles.
“You’re cl’ser,” Arthur argues and shoves his head under his pillow.
They’ve had this same argument six times since starting to work in Australia, and each time before, Eames has bitched and moaned and Arthur has ignored him until Eames has gotten the curtain himself.
Eames sighs, annoyed, before Arthur feels the shape of a smile against his flung-out arm. “Get the curtain, Arthur.”
“You have two legs, get it yourself.” Arthur says and then realises that he has to. “I hate this bet. This was a stupid bet.”
“You’re only saying that because you lost it,” Eames says and then looks smug when Arthur doesn’t have a response other than viciously tugging the curtains closed. He’s about to crawl back into bed and try to sleep as much of this week away as he possibly can, but Eames pokes him gently.
“Make me breakfast,”
Arthur might – no, Arthur definitely will kill him before the week is out.
“Hop to,” Eames grins. “Look happy about it, Arthur!”
When Eames comes into the kitchen for breakfast, he blinks at the poached eggs and baked beans and potatoes and tomatoes and bacon and sausages on his plate and then Arthur and his stained apron.
“Not that this isn’t lovely,” he says. “But cereal would have been fine.”
And this is what Arthur meant about it not being his fault; Arthur is perfectly able and willing to complete the conditions of his bet. He is Eames’ to do as he wishes for an entire week, and he might not be happy about it, he might drag his feet a little, but he’s going to do as he said he would.
The reason that Arthur doesn’t take to it or enjoy it at all is because Eames often gives orders without being specific and this results in miscommunication and confusion and Arthur desperately craving those voodoo dolls.
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OMG IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY. HAPPY BIRTHDAY! <3 HAVE SOME POINTLESS BIRTHDAY FIC. 3
Date: 2011-03-09 10:08 am (UTC)Arthur knows these things already: Eames will not be swayed by threats, vague promises, sexual favours, bribes, torture, the cold shoulder, arguing, or peer pressure (not that Ariadne, Dom or Yusuf would help him out, anyway). And Eames knows that for all Arthur is a criminal, he’s an honourable man. There is no conceivable way that Arthur can back out of this without losing face and self respect.
“Fuck,” he says eventually.
Ariadne pats his shoulder sympathetically and leaves the lemon wedge she’s just sucked on around her tequila on the table in front of him so she can follow Dom to the bar.
Eames laughs and rests a hand on his thigh under the table, squeezing reassuringly. “Don’t worry, pet. I’m sure you’ll take to it like a fish to water.”
Arthur glares at him and when no one is looking, stabs the lemon wedge, vainly wishing it were a Voodoo doll of his team. Hah, voodoo dolls. Put a bandaid on its mouth and get Eames to shut up. Stab it twice and see how Cobb likes his kneecaps being shot out. Drop it into a cup of water and see how Yusuf likes being doused, nearly drowned when he’s trying to concentrate on a delicate mission. Arthur is maybe a little drunk, but he’s usually not this morbid and vindictive and murderous drunk.
Drunk is supposed to be happy time, not my boyfriend is an evil bastard time. Arthur says as much and Eames laughs again.
“Darling, it can’t possible be as bad as you think it will be. You might even find that you enjoy it,” Eames winks.
~*~*~
Contrary to Eames’ belief, Arthur does not take to his enforced slavery to a fish to water and he doesn’t enjoy it at all. And it his nothing to do with Arthur being a contrary, uncooperative ‘slave’, or being at all unwilling to follow through and finish what he’s started, though he does make mistakes.
The first is when Eames rolls over in bed the next morning and bats vainly at the bright, hot sunlight shining through the window.
“C’rtain,” he mumbles.
“You’re cl’ser,” Arthur argues and shoves his head under his pillow.
They’ve had this same argument six times since starting to work in Australia, and each time before, Eames has bitched and moaned and Arthur has ignored him until Eames has gotten the curtain himself.
Eames sighs, annoyed, before Arthur feels the shape of a smile against his flung-out arm. “Get the curtain, Arthur.”
“You have two legs, get it yourself.” Arthur says and then realises that he has to. “I hate this bet. This was a stupid bet.”
“You’re only saying that because you lost it,” Eames says and then looks smug when Arthur doesn’t have a response other than viciously tugging the curtains closed. He’s about to crawl back into bed and try to sleep as much of this week away as he possibly can, but Eames pokes him gently.
“Make me breakfast,”
Arthur might – no, Arthur definitely will kill him before the week is out.
“Hop to,” Eames grins. “Look happy about it, Arthur!”
When Eames comes into the kitchen for breakfast, he blinks at the poached eggs and baked beans and potatoes and tomatoes and bacon and sausages on his plate and then Arthur and his stained apron.
“Not that this isn’t lovely,” he says. “But cereal would have been fine.”
And this is what Arthur meant about it not being his fault; Arthur is perfectly able and willing to complete the conditions of his bet. He is Eames’ to do as he wishes for an entire week, and he might not be happy about it, he might drag his feet a little, but he’s going to do as he said he would.
The reason that Arthur doesn’t take to it or enjoy it at all is because Eames often gives orders without being specific and this results in miscommunication and confusion and Arthur desperately craving those voodoo dolls.