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azuremewTitle: So Give Me Something to Believe
Word Count: 2325
Pairing: Arthur/Eames/Fischer, Arthur/Fischer only in this part
Rating: NC-17, briefly
Warnings: fluff <3
Summary: After Driven by Impulse - Arthur returns home.
Author's Note: Fluff, h/c, terribly sweet compared to what I normally write. But it was requested alongside more depth on how this pairing came to be. Title is from The Bravery's “Believe”.
Quiet shudders tell him I'm awake. Deep breathes. Inhale. Exhale. Phlegm tainted air sounds wretched, sickly, only to further such in a wave of coughs. I cover my mouth until it passes, a moan slipping from the dull ache all over my body. There is not a muscle that does not feel right then, and all I want is numb, bittersweet detachment. Reaching out, I see a wrist snag my own before the scattered pills can be collected in handfuls and swallowed dry. “Damn you,” I groan. “Let go of me.”
“Shh . . .” he coos, breathing soft puffs of cool air along my balmy skin. Shivering, I am certain hairs are standing on edge, tiny bumps erect from him. “Promise me,” he murmurs, pulling me back to him. His heart is pounding into my back. “Promise that you won't do anything rash because of what Eames said.”
I blink, knowing what he means, and twist to look into those deep, dark brown eyes. They are flecked in red, his face worn with dried, salty streaks. Tired, so tired, I withhold my urge to touch his cheek in fear of reopening the wounds Eames and I managed to tear open. “No, never.”
Swallowing thickly, he nods, “I was worried. When I came upstairs, you were asleep. There was a bottle of vodka on the bed stand. And your medication. It was spilled open. I counted them, one by one, before calling the ambulance to confirm you had not overdosed, but Robert . . . “ he reaches across and kisses my forehead, lips trembling and cooler than they should be. “Now that you are awake, we should take you to a doctor. You have a fever. There might be an infection. There's a twenty-four hour clinic . . .”
“No,” I tell him. “No doctors.” My voice is startled at the thought of being committed, too unstable for this, for Arthur. I am breathing heavier, my heart racing at an equal, elevated pace to his. “Please, Arthur . . .”
He pulls me close, my head buried into his chest. Fingers come through the dark mess of hair to calm me, an once I can hear beyond the thunder, I realize it is raining. Droplets hit, and I try to calm down, to tell him, “It's the flu. I caught it while walking the day after you left. I . . .” laughter catches this part before I can finish, “I did not want to worry you.”
Arthur laughs, “Is that all?”
I nod. That's all.
A warm bath is prepared while I continue to lie in bed. The scent of eucalyptus and lavender trails from the steam, summoning deep breaths through the mucus and ache in my lungs. I sigh and rise, donning a robe for the short walk down the hall.
Arthur is siting on the rim of the tub, checking the temperature with his fingers inches deep into the clear water. His sleeves are rolled up, although he has not found the reason yet to dress in his full attire. It looks good. Casual, almost, and fitting with the disheveled hair and still weary eyes. Even splashed with cold water, he looks drained. Sick.
Breathing in again, I ask, “What's all this?”
“This is a bath,” he points out, knowing I'm too sick to laugh at his teasing to push him in. “It's menthol and a few other oils to help clear up your lungs long enough to eat something before going back to bed.”
“Menthol?” As in the stuff Uncle Peter used to rub on my chest when I was sick, but I avoid that for something equally raw. “Did you call Yusuf?”
Arthur shakes his head, reaching out to grab my hand. “Yusuf might be a chemist, but he doesn't own a shop anywhere near here, Robert.” Gently, he slips his finger through the knot that ties my robe to release it. “I found it at CVS with some medicine and called in a favor for antibiotics after dinner.”
I stand frozen, stunned, “All while I was sleeping?”
A kiss presses along my bare shoulder to confirm. “The promise is for the future. As I said, I counted the medication. You took the dose your psychiatrist prescribed and a analgesic for the pain, nothing more, nothing less . . .” he pauses, and I reach up to touch his hand, rubbing the knuckles with the pad of my thumb. “What did you plan? To sleep until morning?”
“Alone, yes,” I murmur. Quiet for a moment, my underwear is shed, and he guides me into the warmth, the bottom slick from the oils. I bite back a hiss and exhale, surprised at the heat.
My surprise is nothing to his response: “Eames called me.”
Logical, yes, since he is here, but nevertheless feeling irrational, “Eames? Why would that bastard contact you?” Such questions allow me to forget that my skin is turning red from being boiled. I settle in.
“Then why did you take something that would knock you out if you thought he's a bastard?” Arthur questions. From next to me, he picks up a wash cloth and soaks it. “Same reason – we are all troubled. I just . . .” it passes over my shoulder, lightly across the scar that no longer stings as prominently as it did before. I still shiver. “I wish that I noticed before, but as he's told me, I was never good at reading people.”
“Tell me, then, why did this happen so that I might try and forgive him,” I say, my voice flat, eyes closing to feel him near me, to move passed the smell that suddenly threads into the air.
He does not for a moment, and I am trapped in menthol cigarettes and alcohol. “We are in love, as much as Yusuf and Eames are. It started before the inception, after a mission that ended with Yusuf telling us to stop this bloody foolishness and fuck already. We laughed, tensely, and it was just as uncomfortable the first time, in the beginning, until we felt just how good we were together. I learned soon after that he was not interested in anything exclusive.”
It subsides with each, passing word. “I was uncomfortable, always. We argued and broke off completely until you were brought up. It was when I read your files that I understood how it felt, and after the plane touched ground, I was reunited with Eames sexually. He said that it was the best fuck ever and thought that it was from our success, the adrenaline, but after that ended, he realized something changed me. You.”
My eyes open, and I twist my head to look at him, “Arthur . . .”
He cups my cheek, and we are pulled together into a deep kiss despite what is ravaging my body. It is too late for him to not catch it, so I let his hand dip into the water, soaking his rolled up, white sleeve to move between my legs. A finger presses pass the tight ring, allowed in only because of the water to lubricate him. My body does otherwise, clenching as I moan, “Arthur.”
“Shh . . .” he murmurs, kissing the side of my neck. His other hand slides down my back, the softness coaxing my body's surrender into his finger that thrusts inward. Sliding in a second, my hands dart out of the water, splashing him as I cling to his body for some support. “I love you,” he whispers into my ear and hooks his fingers. I dig into his clothes, taking fistfuls of fabric. He bites, and I moan louder.
Another wave as I rise up, his fingers catching me, continuing to fuck me while I pull out of the water and on top of him. He lets go only to help me shed his trousers off completely, dark spots covering his clothes. Kisses taste like menthol, but his coffee breath is more potent. Sounding another tell of how exquisite this moment is, I bite his lip.
Arthur opens the small door behind us and fumbles through the toiletries to find lubricant, his body turning and ass rising so that his tailbone rubs up against my hardness. Grabbing a hold of him, I stroke him, whispering, “Any longer and I'm going to come on your back.”
That provides sudden awareness at the thought of explaining the dry, caked sustenance to the cleaners. I am smiling as the oily, clear liquid touches my cock, hissing again from the cold that quickly shifts into a long groan with the first stroke. Fingers dig into his hips, leaving bruises to compliment the ones on my neck. I only get a few passes before, “Oh fuck, Arthur . . .”
Dinner is chicken soup from a can, crackers, and ginger ale. There is tea as well, but I have never been fond of it. My spoon swirls a few noodles with the carrots while he sits across from me to catch up on the news. “So . . . “
“So?” he asks, lowering the paper.
“So your explanation does not quite explain why the Eames went bat shit on me after a few drinks.” I tell him, quieter than the last attempt to understand. A portion of the crackers are crumpled and mixed.
He folds his distraction and lays it on his lap, folding his fingers to possibly crack them or do something to relieve the pressure. I swallow a chewed piece of chicken, and it goes down thick enough to need a sip. While the rim touches my lips, he finishes. “I should have realized sooner that Eames would figure it out, but I thought not, that I could keep this aside and return when I was done making sure you were fine, maybe have a one-night stand even. He did and told me that I should stay behind, watch in the distance, and he would report what happens because my emotions would cloud my logic. I knew then that he knew, but I never thought that he was jealous.”
“He thinks that our connection is stronger than his and yous?” I try to connect the dots, and he nods, opening yet another question: “Is it true? Should he be jealous?”
Arthur gets up then, crosses the short space to lie his hand on my shoulder. “Do you remember when you beat the snot out of me? I could have thought back, but I didn't. I couldn't.” He leans in and kisses the top of my head.
“And I guess that is why I went to the hospital. Learning you were the one that was worried about me . . .” I smile. “Such a rare thing.”
It reminds him, and he steps back, face serious, “Are you sure that you don't want x-rays? I understand perfectly well if you don't want to get Eames into trouble, but he can handle himself, and we could tell them that you were mugged.”
I snort and cover my mouth to cough. Once it simmers down, a simple answer explains, “Arthur, I was beaten up more severe in school, and all my father ever did was give me two Tylenol and tell me to go to my room and work on my homework.”
He frowns, “Fair enough.”
“What about you? You've been snuggling with someone that is quite contagious for at least a few hours. Shouldn't you be --” he stops me with a lift of a half-full glass of orange juice and I mirror his depressed mood. “Not good enough. Eames, sure, the idiot deserves it, but --”
Another time, I am cut off, but it is his finger upon my lips. “I got the vaccination, Robert. Something that you should have thought of.” A smile, then a kiss. :”As well as Eames. There was a message before that he's curled in bed in Mombasa with a fever.”
“Karma,” I mutter.
He chuckles, “Finish up and meet me in bed, will you? I need to make sure the job went through.”
Thirty minutes later, I take off my clothes and put them in the hamper. Arthur is lying in bed already, catching up on some light reading. It is closed and put in the bed stand's drawer. “One more thing.”
From it, an orange bottle is brought out, uncapped, and two pills land on his palm. “Take these, and whatever your heart desires, I'll answer.”
I do and slide beneath the covers. The lamp is turned off, and he joins me, facing each other before I can ask, “Does Eames give a shit about me at all?”
Arthur sighs, “He does. In his own way. You're just complicated, much like I am, and he is. We all have difficult histories that rub against each other, revealing more secrets that unnerve us. Eames, he had a rough childhood, so seeing what Peter Browning did . . .” his lips press. “He cares, else he would have not continued until it broke him. I have never seen such anger in him, such distaste because of what a man did to someone, such passion to find revenge. It scares me, his emotions, but . . . .” he shrugs, and I nod, kissing him.
Others follow, soft, tentative brushes, brief connections one after the next until he grabs a hold of me and rolls onto his back. Laughter fills my lungs, and I think I have to be delirious from the fever.
Word Count: 2325
Pairing: Arthur/Eames/Fischer, Arthur/Fischer only in this part
Rating: NC-17, briefly
Warnings: fluff <3
Summary: After Driven by Impulse - Arthur returns home.
Author's Note: Fluff, h/c, terribly sweet compared to what I normally write. But it was requested alongside more depth on how this pairing came to be. Title is from The Bravery's “Believe”.
Quiet shudders tell him I'm awake. Deep breathes. Inhale. Exhale. Phlegm tainted air sounds wretched, sickly, only to further such in a wave of coughs. I cover my mouth until it passes, a moan slipping from the dull ache all over my body. There is not a muscle that does not feel right then, and all I want is numb, bittersweet detachment. Reaching out, I see a wrist snag my own before the scattered pills can be collected in handfuls and swallowed dry. “Damn you,” I groan. “Let go of me.”
“Shh . . .” he coos, breathing soft puffs of cool air along my balmy skin. Shivering, I am certain hairs are standing on edge, tiny bumps erect from him. “Promise me,” he murmurs, pulling me back to him. His heart is pounding into my back. “Promise that you won't do anything rash because of what Eames said.”
I blink, knowing what he means, and twist to look into those deep, dark brown eyes. They are flecked in red, his face worn with dried, salty streaks. Tired, so tired, I withhold my urge to touch his cheek in fear of reopening the wounds Eames and I managed to tear open. “No, never.”
Swallowing thickly, he nods, “I was worried. When I came upstairs, you were asleep. There was a bottle of vodka on the bed stand. And your medication. It was spilled open. I counted them, one by one, before calling the ambulance to confirm you had not overdosed, but Robert . . . “ he reaches across and kisses my forehead, lips trembling and cooler than they should be. “Now that you are awake, we should take you to a doctor. You have a fever. There might be an infection. There's a twenty-four hour clinic . . .”
“No,” I tell him. “No doctors.” My voice is startled at the thought of being committed, too unstable for this, for Arthur. I am breathing heavier, my heart racing at an equal, elevated pace to his. “Please, Arthur . . .”
He pulls me close, my head buried into his chest. Fingers come through the dark mess of hair to calm me, an once I can hear beyond the thunder, I realize it is raining. Droplets hit, and I try to calm down, to tell him, “It's the flu. I caught it while walking the day after you left. I . . .” laughter catches this part before I can finish, “I did not want to worry you.”
Arthur laughs, “Is that all?”
I nod. That's all.
A warm bath is prepared while I continue to lie in bed. The scent of eucalyptus and lavender trails from the steam, summoning deep breaths through the mucus and ache in my lungs. I sigh and rise, donning a robe for the short walk down the hall.
Arthur is siting on the rim of the tub, checking the temperature with his fingers inches deep into the clear water. His sleeves are rolled up, although he has not found the reason yet to dress in his full attire. It looks good. Casual, almost, and fitting with the disheveled hair and still weary eyes. Even splashed with cold water, he looks drained. Sick.
Breathing in again, I ask, “What's all this?”
“This is a bath,” he points out, knowing I'm too sick to laugh at his teasing to push him in. “It's menthol and a few other oils to help clear up your lungs long enough to eat something before going back to bed.”
“Menthol?” As in the stuff Uncle Peter used to rub on my chest when I was sick, but I avoid that for something equally raw. “Did you call Yusuf?”
Arthur shakes his head, reaching out to grab my hand. “Yusuf might be a chemist, but he doesn't own a shop anywhere near here, Robert.” Gently, he slips his finger through the knot that ties my robe to release it. “I found it at CVS with some medicine and called in a favor for antibiotics after dinner.”
I stand frozen, stunned, “All while I was sleeping?”
A kiss presses along my bare shoulder to confirm. “The promise is for the future. As I said, I counted the medication. You took the dose your psychiatrist prescribed and a analgesic for the pain, nothing more, nothing less . . .” he pauses, and I reach up to touch his hand, rubbing the knuckles with the pad of my thumb. “What did you plan? To sleep until morning?”
“Alone, yes,” I murmur. Quiet for a moment, my underwear is shed, and he guides me into the warmth, the bottom slick from the oils. I bite back a hiss and exhale, surprised at the heat.
My surprise is nothing to his response: “Eames called me.”
Logical, yes, since he is here, but nevertheless feeling irrational, “Eames? Why would that bastard contact you?” Such questions allow me to forget that my skin is turning red from being boiled. I settle in.
“Then why did you take something that would knock you out if you thought he's a bastard?” Arthur questions. From next to me, he picks up a wash cloth and soaks it. “Same reason – we are all troubled. I just . . .” it passes over my shoulder, lightly across the scar that no longer stings as prominently as it did before. I still shiver. “I wish that I noticed before, but as he's told me, I was never good at reading people.”
“Tell me, then, why did this happen so that I might try and forgive him,” I say, my voice flat, eyes closing to feel him near me, to move passed the smell that suddenly threads into the air.
He does not for a moment, and I am trapped in menthol cigarettes and alcohol. “We are in love, as much as Yusuf and Eames are. It started before the inception, after a mission that ended with Yusuf telling us to stop this bloody foolishness and fuck already. We laughed, tensely, and it was just as uncomfortable the first time, in the beginning, until we felt just how good we were together. I learned soon after that he was not interested in anything exclusive.”
It subsides with each, passing word. “I was uncomfortable, always. We argued and broke off completely until you were brought up. It was when I read your files that I understood how it felt, and after the plane touched ground, I was reunited with Eames sexually. He said that it was the best fuck ever and thought that it was from our success, the adrenaline, but after that ended, he realized something changed me. You.”
My eyes open, and I twist my head to look at him, “Arthur . . .”
He cups my cheek, and we are pulled together into a deep kiss despite what is ravaging my body. It is too late for him to not catch it, so I let his hand dip into the water, soaking his rolled up, white sleeve to move between my legs. A finger presses pass the tight ring, allowed in only because of the water to lubricate him. My body does otherwise, clenching as I moan, “Arthur.”
“Shh . . .” he murmurs, kissing the side of my neck. His other hand slides down my back, the softness coaxing my body's surrender into his finger that thrusts inward. Sliding in a second, my hands dart out of the water, splashing him as I cling to his body for some support. “I love you,” he whispers into my ear and hooks his fingers. I dig into his clothes, taking fistfuls of fabric. He bites, and I moan louder.
Another wave as I rise up, his fingers catching me, continuing to fuck me while I pull out of the water and on top of him. He lets go only to help me shed his trousers off completely, dark spots covering his clothes. Kisses taste like menthol, but his coffee breath is more potent. Sounding another tell of how exquisite this moment is, I bite his lip.
Arthur opens the small door behind us and fumbles through the toiletries to find lubricant, his body turning and ass rising so that his tailbone rubs up against my hardness. Grabbing a hold of him, I stroke him, whispering, “Any longer and I'm going to come on your back.”
That provides sudden awareness at the thought of explaining the dry, caked sustenance to the cleaners. I am smiling as the oily, clear liquid touches my cock, hissing again from the cold that quickly shifts into a long groan with the first stroke. Fingers dig into his hips, leaving bruises to compliment the ones on my neck. I only get a few passes before, “Oh fuck, Arthur . . .”
Dinner is chicken soup from a can, crackers, and ginger ale. There is tea as well, but I have never been fond of it. My spoon swirls a few noodles with the carrots while he sits across from me to catch up on the news. “So . . . “
“So?” he asks, lowering the paper.
“So your explanation does not quite explain why the Eames went bat shit on me after a few drinks.” I tell him, quieter than the last attempt to understand. A portion of the crackers are crumpled and mixed.
He folds his distraction and lays it on his lap, folding his fingers to possibly crack them or do something to relieve the pressure. I swallow a chewed piece of chicken, and it goes down thick enough to need a sip. While the rim touches my lips, he finishes. “I should have realized sooner that Eames would figure it out, but I thought not, that I could keep this aside and return when I was done making sure you were fine, maybe have a one-night stand even. He did and told me that I should stay behind, watch in the distance, and he would report what happens because my emotions would cloud my logic. I knew then that he knew, but I never thought that he was jealous.”
“He thinks that our connection is stronger than his and yous?” I try to connect the dots, and he nods, opening yet another question: “Is it true? Should he be jealous?”
Arthur gets up then, crosses the short space to lie his hand on my shoulder. “Do you remember when you beat the snot out of me? I could have thought back, but I didn't. I couldn't.” He leans in and kisses the top of my head.
“And I guess that is why I went to the hospital. Learning you were the one that was worried about me . . .” I smile. “Such a rare thing.”
It reminds him, and he steps back, face serious, “Are you sure that you don't want x-rays? I understand perfectly well if you don't want to get Eames into trouble, but he can handle himself, and we could tell them that you were mugged.”
I snort and cover my mouth to cough. Once it simmers down, a simple answer explains, “Arthur, I was beaten up more severe in school, and all my father ever did was give me two Tylenol and tell me to go to my room and work on my homework.”
He frowns, “Fair enough.”
“What about you? You've been snuggling with someone that is quite contagious for at least a few hours. Shouldn't you be --” he stops me with a lift of a half-full glass of orange juice and I mirror his depressed mood. “Not good enough. Eames, sure, the idiot deserves it, but --”
Another time, I am cut off, but it is his finger upon my lips. “I got the vaccination, Robert. Something that you should have thought of.” A smile, then a kiss. :”As well as Eames. There was a message before that he's curled in bed in Mombasa with a fever.”
“Karma,” I mutter.
He chuckles, “Finish up and meet me in bed, will you? I need to make sure the job went through.”
Thirty minutes later, I take off my clothes and put them in the hamper. Arthur is lying in bed already, catching up on some light reading. It is closed and put in the bed stand's drawer. “One more thing.”
From it, an orange bottle is brought out, uncapped, and two pills land on his palm. “Take these, and whatever your heart desires, I'll answer.”
I do and slide beneath the covers. The lamp is turned off, and he joins me, facing each other before I can ask, “Does Eames give a shit about me at all?”
Arthur sighs, “He does. In his own way. You're just complicated, much like I am, and he is. We all have difficult histories that rub against each other, revealing more secrets that unnerve us. Eames, he had a rough childhood, so seeing what Peter Browning did . . .” his lips press. “He cares, else he would have not continued until it broke him. I have never seen such anger in him, such distaste because of what a man did to someone, such passion to find revenge. It scares me, his emotions, but . . . .” he shrugs, and I nod, kissing him.
Others follow, soft, tentative brushes, brief connections one after the next until he grabs a hold of me and rolls onto his back. Laughter fills my lungs, and I think I have to be delirious from the fever.
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no subject
Date: 2010-12-22 09:37 pm (UTC)I love the interaction between Arthur and Robert here. Robert needs more people to just take care of him sometimes. He really, really deserves the break, and this makes me feel so warm and fuzzy inside, you don't even know.
And the bathtub scene. Mmm. ♥
For a second there, I was hoping Eames would get pneumonia and die, but now with your HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE HINT at the end, I kind of want him to have a chance to redeem/explain himself, lol.
no subject
Date: 2010-12-23 12:21 am (UTC)We do love our bathtubs. <3 And I've been wanting to stain Arthur's suit for ages now. But Arthur, his telling, it was not too much? There's been this desire to explain, since 1st is limited even in the design of scene swapping, but I didn't want him to sound like he's lecturing. Although I admit that even I've learned a few things about this story that was hidden until now, and I'm the writer! lol.
Thank you for sticking around and following the pieces, as vague and complicated and confusing as they might be. :)
no subject
Date: 2010-12-23 02:13 am (UTC)also, lol, i don't know what kirsten is on about, but i myself like seeing Eames sufferrrr.
no subject
Date: 2010-12-23 10:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-27 07:39 pm (UTC)I agree with
Arthur sighs, “He does. In his own way."
OKAY, this line made me sad. It is just like what Browning said in the film when they were talking about Maurice's love for Fischer. Arthur tells him that Eames loves him, but in his OWN WAY. It's depressing, because it's like no one can feel actual love for Robert, that the only way they can love someone that messed up is to love them in your own way. Arthur seems to be the only one who really loves him unconditionally, and doesn't have to pick and choose what he likes. Everyone else has this biased kind of love, loving in their own way, but Arthur seems to be more "pure" (definitely seems that way in comparison to everyone else).
At least I hope that Arthur's love is real. Unless you are intent on making me really upset, then PLEASE let his love be REEEEAL. D:>
I just don't respond well to drama. Ignore me and my immaturity.
no subject
Date: 2010-12-28 06:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-28 07:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-28 07:09 pm (UTC)You will get your elevator porn, damn it! :P
no subject
Date: 2010-12-28 07:15 pm (UTC)You could write Arthur/Fischer elevator porn... you know... instead... obvious hint is obvious