Disclaimer: They're not mine, not at all.
Word Count: 2207
Summary: Arthur wishes that just once, he'd be let to play James Bond instead of just holding the keys for the car.
Notes: Thanks to eppic for the beta. This fic can alternately be titled 'Four Times Eames Played At James Bond & One Time James Bond Wished He Could Be Mr. Eames'.
Arthur is at the casino, easing poker chips over his knuckles like a seasoned pro. He would look like that, seeing as Eames had been the one to teach him these feints of finger and hand. They had spent a good number of hours in a hotel room with Eames’ fingers sliding slowly over Arthur’s palm – his calloused thumb brushing a path on the outer shell and his fingers twining with Arthur’s to show him how his knuckles had to bend.
They had postponed that particular lesson when Eames then took their intertwined hands and pushed them down to Arthur’s cock in order to teach him about why cooperation is always key (so said Eames with a mischievous smirk on his lips).
The croupier turns to Arthur to ask for his bet to place and Arthur appeals the projection with a five hundred dollar bet on red when he catches sight of Eames. It’s a simple job. Cobb is off searching for secrets and Eames’ task is to distract the mark. She’s a young woman stuck in a dreary secretarial job. It’s just that her brother happens to be one of the more promising criminals in the entire country.
Eames is going to play the role he’s best at, luring the mark and distracting her while the real thievery is done elsewhere.
Alexis Alexander has something of a soft spot for old Bond movies. Arthur can’t blame her. He also can’t imagine that her like of them will fade in the face of the presentation Eames is putting on for her. Clad in a tailored tuxedo with his hair slicked back, he descends the stairs into the casino and walks with poise and confidence, only stopping in order to light a cigar.
“Ms. Alexander,” he purrs, voice silky smooth and low with the edges of a Scottish accent rumbling around. He sounds more posh than usual and he’s fitting the role perfectly. “My name is Bond. James Bond. It would be a terrible shame if we both continued this evening alone, me without a lucky charm and you without the opportunity to provide that luck to me.”
She accepts his arm and as Eames leads her away, he leaves Arthur with one last charming wink.
Arthur tries to quell the rise of jealousy that he’s not the one on Eames’ arm.
They pull the job off easily. Arthur’s first out of the dream and he takes great pleasure in kicking Eames’ chair and sending him toppling back onto a cement floor. He’s standing above the man – wearing garish paisley and three-sizes-too-big-trousers – and smirking as he comes to.
“Good job, Mr. Bond,” Arthur sarcastically remarks.
“Couldn’t do it without my Bond girl,” he replies and by the wink he affords to Arthur, he definitely doesn’t mean Alexis Alexander. “C’mon, then, darling, off we go before Ms. Alexander realizes her dashing suitor is...well, actually...if you really think about it, I’m not exactly that far...”
“No MI6 stories,” Arthur gets out with a deadpan as Cobb starts packing up the PASIV and starts urging them towards the door.
Arthur regrets that he’s never the James Bond figure in these scenarios. No matter how many times they slip under the veil of the dream with Somnacin in their veins and Eames as the dreamer, he always wakes to find that he’s not in possession of the suave suit or the cool car. He’s leaning on said car with keys in hand, but he knows that’s not his role to play. There are days, though, when he really and truly does wish for the job.
After all, it does give perks like the car and...
Well, he’ll come back to the car in a moment because Arthur is currently distracted by the girl.
She surfaces from the ocean like Venus personified, if the ancient goddess had the good sense to find herself a white bikini that sinfully and barely hugs every curve. The girl is wet and her ocean-soaked hair clings to golden-tanned skin, curves in all the right places and a sexy smouldering look fits right in on her face. Arthur all but swallows all his coherent words and is left gaping.
She unearths a gun, but from which curve, Arthur will never know. He forces himself to focus on the situation at hand – they are dreaming and there is a mark and they’re only indulging his James Bond fantasy in order to get closer to his secrets. Arthur clenches the keys tighter in his hand, waiting for the mark-as-James-Bond to come along and collect his girl.
“You’re staring,” she accuses playfully, easing closer and lifting a shoulder as she presses in to Arthur, wetting his suit as she presses her breasts right against the silk fabric of his suit.
Arthur takes a deep breath and counts to three.
“Eames,” he grinds out past his teeth on second number three.
Eames pouts coyly, tying the loose strands of hair in a ponytail set just over his shoulder. He flicks stray droplets of water from off his collarbone as he regards Arthur and peers over his shoulder. “Here comes our man,” he purrs in a lilting feminine voice, accent soft and seductive. “Be a good man, Q, and come back for me when you hear the music.”
Arthur still isn’t sure how Eames convinced him to change the countdown to the theme from Goldeneye. He’s sure that he must have agreed under duress – or possibly Eames’ lips pressed on his and encouraging on these silly fantasies.
Though...Arthur is hard-pressed to call it silly as he watches Eames walk away, hips swaying side to appealing side.
Next time when Eames plays the Bond Girl, Arthur is going to insist that he gets the girl at the end of the day.
“You’ll never get away with this,” the mark is struggling against bonds as Eames stands tall and proud, actually twirling a moustache as he looms over Mr. Pietroff, looking resplendent in his pin-striped suit and a nefarious look on his face. The whole situation might be more threatening if Mr. Pietroff didn’t actually get off on this sort of thing and thus was struggling against his bonds half-heartedly, hips thrusting up more than he’s actually trying to free his wrists.
Arthur and Ariadne are playing the henchmen in this particular dreamscape and Ariadne is barely refraining from rolling her eyes. Arthur loosely holds onto Mr. Pietroff’s wrist, trying not to focus on Eames’ slickened helmet of hair, his perfect Russian accent, or the way he fondles the gun in his hands.
“What,” Mr. Pietroff begs, a twisted grin on his lips, “what are you going to do to me, Mr. Case?”
“I’m going to make you realize, Mr. Bond, that you’ve been a very, very bad boy.”
“I am never letting Eames convince me to work on one of his kinds of jobs ever, ever again,” Ariadne announces in an almost fearful deadpan to the sound of Mr. Pietroff’s moans, the riding crop Eames has unearthed, and the writhing that Arthur puts silence to with a simple stomp on Mr. Pietroff’s foot.
Arthur agrees without saying a single word and at least takes solace in the fact that he’s going to net six figures for a billionaire’s secret wet dream.
If Eames makes a sexy Bond girl, he makes a devastating and absolutely perfect sexy villain. Arthur knows that this had been a bad idea to mention, but he just couldn’t help himself and he’d mentioned something about wanting to play out his fantasy in which Eames, as the sexy Bond girl villain, tied him up.
So this is what’s led to Eames wearing a lithe little brunette with a short bob and far too much black eyeliner. She’s clad in skintight leather and is poking a sword to Arthur’s tuxedo-clad chest.
“Well, Mr. Bond?” Eames is French for this one and he plays the accent perfectly. Arthur’s no better than Mr. Pietroff at this point. He’s bound to a bed with silk ties and his hips are arching up to demand some kind of release. “Would you like to take the hard way out? Or perhaps I give you a little death?”
Eames hasn’t changed his lips and so when Arthur lets his gaze slip down to those luscious and gorgeous things, he lets out another moan.
“I do not think,” Eames murmurs against Arthur’s ear, accent still in play, “that this is what the Army had in mind when they put you together with a little old MI6 agent for training purposes.”
“Thief,” Arthur accuses with a brazen grin. “Con artist. Grifter. Forger,” he gets each of the words out sharply, laughing breathlessly as Eames discards the sword in favour of running small hands down his body and nudges inside the waistband of the trousers. “You conned your way into MI6 and they kicked you out the minute they figured out you preferred to forge Van Goghs than enforce the rules of government.”
“C’est une verité mauvaise,” laments Eames and Arthur lets out a heady groan to the ceiling. Eames knows how French gets Arthur going and here he is blatantly showing off. Eames takes his time unnecessarily lifting up his miniskirt and straddles Arthur by the hips. “I’m going to do very, very wicked things to you, Arthur,” he warns.
The Army’s done worse in the past, Arthur supposes, than turn out two men like them.
The two Walther-PPK guns in Eames’ hands belong to Arthur. Well, not exactly. They were a gift, from Arthur to Eames on his twenty-fifth birthday when they were both working for the Army and playing fast and loose with the institutions’ ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ rules. Eames has unearthed them from the inside of his suit jacket after their high speed pursuit through the streets of Los Angeles has come to this standoff.
“You kept them,” Arthur murmurs breathlessly, only pausing a moment to get out of the car, slam the door shut, and hurry his way around to take cover behind the doors with Eames, popping up to fire two rounds at their would-be-pursuers. “Assholes,” he mutters as he slides back down the car and reloads.
“I named them, you know,” Eames remarks with a bright and sunny grin. “Arthur and Eames, partners in crime,” he continues cheekily, leaning over and pressing his lips to Arthur’s cheek, lips pressed firmly against smooth skin. “C’mon, darling, what say we give them something to write home about?”
The Porsche they’ve stolen is shot to pieces, but Arthur isn’t of much mind to care. After all, it belonged to a very bad man and it let him watch Eames hotwire a very nice car.
They sit there, counting seconds, and waiting for the temporary pause in the rain of bullets. Arthur rocks back and forth as he keeps count, waits for them to reload. Arthur takes just a moment to study Eames in his perfectly tailored suit (another gift, this time for his most recent birthday) and leans over for a searing, biting, brutal kiss.
“Don’t you dare die, Eames,” he commands.
Eames just flashes a bright grin at him, lips still pink and slightly swollen from the kiss. “With a kiss like that for luck?” he remarks, listening as the last of the bullets rain down. “Time to go.”
Arthur almost pities the men sent after them. Instantly, they rise from behind the car with fully loaded guns and instinct drives him to press his back to Eames’. They align perfectly, being the same height and Arthur feels Eames’ shoulderblades digging in against his as they take it in turns firing.
“Two at four o’clock!” Arthur shouts and Eames deals with them.
“Possible sniper at eleven,” Eames calls back and they pivot forty-five degrees to the right in a perfect circle until Arthur (the better sight of the both of them when they’re both using the same kind of gun) has a chance to take him down, toppling him down from his bird’s nest above them.
“One more!” Arthur shouts. “Eames!”
“On it!” he assures, silencing the last of their would-be-assassins with a shot between the eyes.
It’s not raining quiet yet, but the sky is grey and overcast and threatens to bring a downpour with it. If they linger any longer in the open, they’re going to be soaked. They take their time collecting their breath and Arthur doesn’t back away from Eames, but Eames doesn’t back away from Arthur either. They stand there, back to back, and feeling each breath the other takes.
“You know, Arthur,” Eames murmurs, just before the rain begins to come down, “I don’t think our dear Mr. Bond has ever been so lucky as to have a man like you in his life.”
Arthur likes to think it’s why James Bond would envy the likes of Mr. Eames. But then, Arthur’s not entirely intent on sharing and so Mr. Bond can keep his shiny cars, beautiful women, and intricate gadgets to himself.
He’s got Mr. Eames all to himself.