Title: Bites, Never Eats
Fandom: Inception
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Arthur/Eames
Warning(s): possessiveness, general movie spoilers, unbeta'd prompt (tense may be wobbly, sorry)

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Eames didn't know what possessed him to think it'd been a good idea in the first place. The day hadn't been particularly trying in any sense but it had dragged on, and on. Everyone who had anything to do was busy, active but those left to their own devices were left to drift aimlessly around the vacant warehouse.

Adrianne was at her desk, hunched over massive rolls of crisp white paper furiously tracing rulers, her pert nose wrinkled in her concentration. Yusuf was off who-knows-where under the pretense of making some local connections to keep them well supplied. Eames doubted this because he was sure the bastard had found himself a Parisian girlfriend. The how he wasn't too sure on but the who and where and when he was damn aware of.

As for Cobb, the man sat with Arthur in the back room the point man had claimed for himself. Eames hated it back there. It was full of stacks of paper, different from the artistic chaos of Adrianne's workspace and not nearly as cool, mad scientist-like as Yusuf's.

Whatever the two old friends had been doing back there, it hadn't involved much talking beyond the occasional shuffle and near-silent, smooth step of Arthur's leather shoes. Cobb was always all out of sorts but lately the degree of it had been something teetering between madness and a liability. Eames was, unlike many refused to accept, a rather tact man and had wisely kept his mouth shut.

By the end of the day he had successfully: sat on his ass, read the same file on Fischer sixteen times (and memorized it backwards), played solitaire with deck that had too many kings, and counted all the windows and doors in the entire warehouse. It was as much as a waste of his life as getting married had been, lacking only the humiliation and drama to make it remotely interesting.

He hadn't even realized that it was finally, blessedly time to leave the bloody hell-hole and into the arms of freedom and a hacked unlimited payperview porn in his hotel room.

"Eames," Arthur's voice broke the silence of the warehouse and brought with it the most anticlimactic end to his day. Eames swiveled in his chair to face the other man, who stood straight backed as always in his dark suit and regarded him impassively. "You're still here."

"Thank you, Arthur, for yet another firm grasp of the obvious," Eames drawled as he rolled his head on his shoulders and pursed his lips. Arthur's expression shifted at his words but it was only ever so slightly, perhaps invisible any other time if not for the single band of light hitting his face from the window high above (ten feet to the left, twenty feet from the nearest rafter, Eames' mind uselessly supplied).

It brought out everything beautiful and ugly in Arthur in that brief second of emotion burning into existence before dying out but not without the flickering stubbornness of any fire. Eames saw it just the same and it, somehow in his brain driven mad by idleness, brought out the words that fell out of his mouth.

"Why don't we get a drink, hm?" he asked suddenly enough to startle them both. Arthur blinked and settled his weight on the balls of his feet, rocking slightly backwards, dark eyes squinting in the sun. Eames wondered why he just didn't move and then reminded himself he had an ass to save: his own. "It'd be a beautiful nightcap to this day of excitement."

Eames expected a lot of things in this moment to occur, a whole series wrought with rejection and flavored subtly with Arthur's scorn. He watched Arthur's chest swell with the deep breath he took in, disturbing the dust motes floating in the sunbeam that made him look a Baroque painter who got too happy with tenebrism.

"Sure, why not," Arthur exhales finally.

The awareness of a Bad Idea should have become apparent to Eames long ago back even before Arthur had told him it was time to leave, back when he first realized he was going crazy with boredom. He was gone now, anyway, and there was no going back from this one. Their bar of choice wasn't anything special. It was, in fact, the one Eames spent most of his time in when he felt the need to get drunk in public while in Paris.

It was not the kind of bar Eames had ever pictured Arthur standing in. It was a pub created by those who'd come from England but just couldn't get the idea of what living in Paris meant (or did and rejected it, depends on your perspective). While not of "dive" quality it was very much not like the slim, modern bars that dominated most of Paris' nightlife.

Arthur didn't stand out like a sore thumb, as there were a few others in suits nearly as nice as his, but he did look awkward as always. It wasn't drawing them much attention, so Eames didn't mind as he wandered up to the bar to slide easily onto a slightly crooked stool. The bartender was a slim blonde wisp of a woman and too damned far away. He stared at her with the reproach rightful to any parched man.

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur sat on the bench beside him, sharp elbows coming up to rest on the smooth surface of the bar top. He, unlike every other man connected to the bar, did not slouch over but instead stared up at the rows of liquor occupying the back wall of the bar.

"What can I do you for?" the light voice of a woman broke his thoughts and he turns, giving the woman a charming smile.

"Whatever guinness you've got on tap," he replied smoothly.

Beside him Arthur did lean forward, "I'll have a Grey Goose and tonic, thanks."

The woman nodded, gave them both a crooked smile and got to their drinks. Eames sat back and looked at Arthur. The younger man looked back, eyebrow twitching upward. "Could you just attempt to break free of the cliché you've squared yourself into?"

Their drinks clinked down in at their elbows before he can get an answer and simultaneously they both reached for them. Eames takes a good long sip, eyes never leaving Arthur, who went as far as to down his glass in one go. Arthur's empty glass met the wood with a hard clunk and the bartender was already there, looking pleased as piss as she took the empty tumbler.

Before she could properly open her trap, Arthur's was already speaking, "Grey Goose martini, extra dirty." Eames watched Arthur's mouth shape around the words (especially 'extra' and 'dirty) and imagined the feel more than he intended, his tongue dragging heavy across his lower lip. Arthur looked back at him then, eyes almost smiling at him in stubborn challenge.

The night progressed from there. They both drank nothing beyond their first three glasses and enjoyed a tenuously formed companionable silence, only occasionally broken when Eames had an amusing comment to share about someone else in the bar. It wasn't until around midnight that things had taken a turn for the worse.

Eames had noticed the guy come in an hour earlier. He had taken a seat at the opposite end of the bar, right in Eame's line of sight over Arthur's shoulder. It wasn't until about forty minutes later when Eames managed to get a loud bark of startled laughter from Arthur that the guy took notice of them, or more specifically, of Arthur.

At first it was just annoying. The man was staring, completely harmless and just bothersome to Eames, who had finally gotten Arthur to turn slightly on his stool to face him better. But then Arthur started getting drinks. He'd sat back on his stool to stare at the martini, made from cheap enough vodka that Eames could ismell/i it but he shrugged despite and took a sip. Eames held back the need to scoff. Who the fuck did this guy think he was? Arthur was obviously with—Eames' mind ground to a halt immediately. Obviously with what? He wasn't really sure and it made his head awash with a fresh wave of irritation.

It took ten minutes after that for the man to finally show his ugly face up close. Eames felt the man come to stand beside him before he saw him and Arthur was already turning around by that time, brow furrowed.

"Did you enjoy the martini?" the man asked and Eames placed his accent to be east German. He was, by all appearances, a completely normal guy. From the looks of it, Eames was even comfortable guessing the guy was here on a business trip. None of that accounted for the anger steadily building in his gut.

"You sent it then," Arthur said in his typical fashion, always looking to clarify the facts. The German smiled and bobbed his head in a way that looked more like a bow than a nod. Arthur didn't seem annoyed and huffed out a breathy, small laugh even. "Thanks…?"

"Erich," the man hastily supplied, smiling back in return of Arthur's misplaced indulgence. Erich moved from foot to foot, looked Arthur up and down, and then smiled wider. "I was wondering if you wanted to—"

"He doesn't want to," Eames cut in abruptly, exasperated that this was even being allowed to perpetuate this far. Erich's gaze snapped to Eames as if he was seeing Eames for the first time.

"Pardon, just who are you?" Erich had the audacity to ask. Beside Eames, Arthur sighed. "I was not asking you—"

"D'you think I care who you were asking?" Eames snapped back.

"Eames, back the fuck off," Arthur said with great patience. Eames jerked back to give the point man an incredulous look. He was met with a gaze equal parts irritation and equal parts that if Eames continued, he was sorely going to regret it for a long time.

He shut his mouth and slid off the stool, standing to his full height and shrugging his shoulders. "Sure, whatever," he growled, moving past Erich and heading towards the loos. In the bathroom he splashed some water on his face, talked himself down from this ridiculous anger and stared at his reflection for a good two minutes straight. It didn't help much but at least he didn't feel like grinding his teeth together any longer.

Of course, he should have realized the night was still doomed for disaster. Eames walked out of the bathroom. He hadn't noticed how much the crowd had thinned out in the bar, now, lurking somewhere between one and two in the morning. Anyone left was self absorbed and paid Eames no mind. That was until he had to go and punch Erich in the jaw.

What really possessed him to do it is debatable. Whether it was the slimy git's hand on Arthur's waist, Arthur's pained expression of tolerance, or just the fucker in general, even Eames didn't know. All he knew was that one second he was nodding at the bartender and the next he was yanking Erich away from Arthur by his shirt collar and then his fist connected with jawbone.

Erich went stumbling backwards and landed on his skinny ass in a heap. Eames stared down at him, shoulders heaving up around his ears and his left hand still clenched in a tight fist. Arthur was still sitting in his seat, a shocked expression obvious on his face as he stared at Eames. Their eyes met and something clicked into place in Arthur and the man propelled himself upward onto his feet, expression bordering on dangerous.

Arthur didn't yell, didn't bitch or complain just helped Erich, apologized, took his jacket off the back of the stool and left. Eames watched the entire time, oblivious to the bartender's jerking motions and loud 'get out of here, prick' before he was in motion, following Arthur out the door.

The night was stuffy and it was dark on the deserted street. Arthur hadn't gotten very far, jacket on his hunched shoulders as his long legs moved him quickly with each long stride. Eames was out of breath by the time he caught up and Arthur didn't stop.

"Arthur," Eames hissed, breath not coming fast enough. Arthur's gaze flicked briefly in his direction. "I'm sorry, goddamnit, but the asshole deserved—"

Arthur drew abruptly to a stop then. Eames almost tripped in his hurry to do the same, suddenly feeling the fatigue of the day all too much.

"I don't know or ever want to know what it is that goes through your head before you pull shit like this," Arthur began and Eames is almost relieved to hear how loud it is. "I don't need you to come and rescue me like—like some fucking damsel or fuck, I don't know—" Arthur stopped with a frustrated noise, a hand jerkily pushing through his hair and setting it awry. "Eames."

"Arthur," Eames replied, very obtusely as he took an anything but subtle step forward.

The point man just shook his head, holding his palm up at Eames. "Just, let's go back to the hotel," he said, again with great patience. "I'm not going to sleep with you tonight—" Eames made some sort of sound at this point, a mixture of alarm and disappointment, "not when I'll regret it in the morning."

Eames took a step back feeling his shoulders again draw taught. Arthur rolled his eyes. Rolled. His. Eyes.

"I didn't say I'd regret sleeping with you tomorrow night," Arthur snapped, patience wearing thin.

A grin broke out on Eames face, wide enough it felt like it could split his face in half. Arthur again, rolled his eyes (the poor kid must be tired, Eames mused) and began walking again but at a more reasonable pace.

"I was right though, wasn't I?" Arthur glanced at Eames. "He wasn't your type at all."