Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eames is full of contradictions. He’s a hypocrite, he knows this. Oh, he’s perfectly aware of this little flaw, intimately aware even. At the end of the day, pretending to be someone else for a living leaves you with a certain degree of distance. Necessary distance – to his own self, to the people around him, and to whatever unnecessary mess of situation he put himself in this time. Eames is capable of looking at himself as if he is just another mark. It’s a very useful skill.

So, Eames is aware. Still, this doesn’t explain what he is doing here.

Here being the hotel room bed, with Arthur, undressing him from the confinement of the probably very expensive three-piece suit, licking into his mouth with the desperation he’s surprised at executing.

Because Eames doesn’t sleep with his coworkers. No, scratch that – Eames doesn’t sleep with coworkers that he’s planning on working with in the future. And Arthur – if it depended on Eames, he would work every fucking job with him, because no matter how much their visions differ, Arthur is simply the best. And Eames deems himself good enough to only work with the best.

In his experience, sleeping with people can either greatly improve the working relationship or complicate it beyond repair. Eames suspects that Arthur falls into the second category.

Which is why he hasn’t anticipated this – the dimly lit hotel room, Arthur’s mouth on his, Arthur’s fingers quickly getting through the buttons of his shirt. Eames finds himself surprised – he has been surprised ever since Arthur joined him for a drink in the lobby, sliding right next to Eames’ seat with a tired sigh and a promise of a warm body. This feeling doesn’t leave him when Arthur puts his hand on his knee, when he leads them to his room, when Eames’ knees hit the bed frame, when Arthur pushes him down on the mattress. Slowly, surprise  morphs into wonder, with every kiss, with every piece of clothing removed. 

“I don’t usually sleep with people I work with,” he tells Arthur now, one sock off, boxers mid-thigh.

Arthur just looks at him, brows furrowed, for long enough that Eames thinks he misstepped, crossed some imaginary uncrossable line. But then – but then Arthur starts laughing.

“That’s my line,” Arthur says, catching his breath.

Eames looks at him – fully looks for the first time – because he has never heard Arthur laugh. He’s not sure if he has ever seen him smile, not like that – warm, full, with coffee stained teeth, laughter lines around his eyes. Eames can’t stop looking.

Something shifts. Because Arthur is straddling his hips, naked save for socks, and he is laughing, and Eames can’t stop looking. 

Faced with such a revelation, Eames does what he does best – he ignores it, pushes it away for later, preferably for never. Instead, he pulls Arthur towards him, swallows the laughter and the smile and lies to himself that this won’t change anything. 

***

“What happened to ‘every man to himself’ and ‘I’m getting the fuck out of here?’” are the first words out of Arthur’s mouth when Eames removes the gag. Arthur coughs, swaying on the chair he is currently bound to. 

“I was expecting a more enthusiastic reception, darling.” Eames cuts the ropes binding Arthur’s arms and legs, reaching a hand to help him stand.

Arthur ignores it, standing wobbly on his own, kneading out his wrists.

Eames takes a step back, assessing damage. Arthur looks – frankly he looks like shit . Eames thought he had already seen Arthur at his worst – sleep deprived, stressed out by a job going awry, malnourished from eating only tinned fish that one time in Finland – but nothing could compare to what a few days of good old torture and isolation can do. Even being shot falls short, and Eames had seen Arthur being shot. He had not seen him covered in bruises, lips crusted with blood, with broken nails. 

“Yours words exactly.” Arthur tries to shrug, but a grimace of pain crosses his face. Eames wraps his hand around Arthur’s torso, keeping him stable. This time he doesn’t protest. “I recall the last time we saw each other, you fucked off in the middle of the job, calling me an incorrigible twat.”

“Because you were.” Eames lets Arthur lean on him, slowly leading them out of the room, maneuvering between the dead bodies as best as he can.

“Which begs the question – what are you doing here?” Arthur continues as if he hasn’t heard him, genuine bewilderment in his voice. As if Eames would just let him die in some hole in the middle of nowhere. 

“Y’know, been in the neighborhood; couldn’t just let you die like that – who would shut down my every idea like you, darling,” he jokes, hoping that Arthur will let it go. 

In fact, Eames wasn’t anywhere nearby – he had been half a world away, chilling in Buenos Aires, when he felt the hunch. The hunch started when he hadn’t heard from Arthur for a good few weeks, no job proposition, no low rumors circulating through his contacts. After that, it was easy – hopping on a plane to fly to Bangkok, tracking down everyone who worked on their previous job, identifying the rat – it was Ravi, the chemist – and paying him a not-so-friendly visit. The trails of crumbs then led even further – wronged ex-employers, shady local gangs, and desperate men. Fortunately, Eames was also desperate – desperate enough to burn through his contacts and favours, desperate to get his hands dirty.

Arthur gives him a long look, but finally lets it go, focusing instead on the bodies lying on the floor. Eames sees him do the math in his head.

“Oh fuck, the chemist from that last fuck-up of the job, he–,” Arthur grunts through his teeth, patting his trousers, probably in search for his phone. Not like it would be possible to take a man with just a phone, but Eames believes that Arthur could in fact achieve this. 

“Dead.” He vividly remembers putting a knife in the bloke’s chest, not a single regret in his mind. 

“What about that asshole that paid him for it–”

“Also dead.” He sees Arthur’s eyes grow wide. Eames knows how this looks – it’s sloppy, it’s unnecessary, it’s desperate. It’s the human equivalent of flopping on the back and showing his belly. But when presented with a choice between dead Arthur and alive Arthur – well, there was only one solution to this equation. 

Arthur falls silent as they reach the end of the hallway, brows furrowing. Eames fears what will come out of his mouth next.

“Why?” he asks, when Eames opens the door, sunlight illuminating every bruise, gash and scrape on Arthur’s face. 

Eames’ first instinct is to deflect – throw some ‘I kinda like working with you’ or ‘would be a shame if that pretty face of yours got beaten up too badly’ – but he can’t. Words get stuck in his throat, because in daylight Arthur looks fragile. Eames could have been too late. He wasn’t, but –

“You would do the same for me,” he says instead. It’s as close to the truth as he is capable of being. He hopes that Arthur will understand. 

Arthur is strangely silent for a minute, looking straight at Eames, through Eames, eyes calculating. 

“I would,” he says finally and it feels like a confession. 

***

“I don’t really do relationships,” says Eames, licking a strip down Arthur’s throat, tasting salt. 

Humid and hot Mombasa air sticks to his lungs. It’s early in the afternoon, but Arthur’s face is partially covered in shadows, strips of sunlight dancing on his bare chest. Eames keeps the old, blue shutters closed most of the time – it keeps the flat at some manageable temperature. 

“Mmm, sure you don’t,” Arthur answers, a knowing look in his eyes, playful smile on his lips.  Like he knows, like he understands that whatever Eames says he doesn’t really mean it, not when it comes to Arthur. 

Eames just hums noncommittally instead of replying. 

Because Arthur is right. Eames’ Mombasa flat stopped being just his the moment Arthur stepped through the door – handful of clothes thrown into the carry-on, wool suit soaked through with sweat, sunglasses resting on his nose. Since then Arthur ditched the suit in favor of linen shirts and shorts. Eames had never seen him showing this much skin, and he made a personal challenge to commit it to his memory as much as he could.

Soon, the carry-on bag found its permanent place in the back of Eames’ closet. The rest of Arthur’s things followed – from his toothbrush on the bathroom sink, his laptop on the coffee table, his boxers mixing with Eames’ in the same drawer. Arthur’s things seemed to grow and expand, filling every nook of Eames’ already cluttered space – a moka pot on the kitchen counter, new books on the shelfs, a decorative quilt thrown on the sofa.

Until one morning Eames opened the drawer and loudly asked which socks were his and which were Arthur’s.

“Doesn’t matter,” Arthur answered then, drinking coffee in a kitchen. “We’ll put them in the laundry together anyway.”

Now, Arthur just smiles, pulling Eames towards him. Eames closes his eyes, nuzzling his face into Arthur’s neck and listens – to Arthur’s steady heartbeat, to the cacophony of sounds from the street, to the leaking tap in the bathroom, to the shouts of their neighbor next door – she tends to have an argument with her husband every day around the same time, the intensity of which suggests it ending with flying pans. Three, two, one…

“And… now,” Arthur whispers, grinning, as they hear the loud crash, presumably some kitchen appliance flying out of the window. 

Eames grins back and kisses him, because of course Arthur knows that, just like Eames knows exactly what the rest of their day will look like. He will lick into Arthur’s mouth, mumbling something about round two, feeling his cock stiffen. Later, when the worst sun will pass, Arthur will make them coffee in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, biting into fresh mango, juice dripping down his fingers. Maybe Eames will lick them clean, tasting the sweetness. Maybe Arthur will lick them himself, chasing the droplets with the tip of his tongue. Maybe he will lean over and kiss Eames, letting him taste it all anyway. 

They have time. Eames tries not to think about the emails piling in Arthur’s inbox. Or about the tickets sitting in his desk drawer – there are two of them, from Mombasa to London Heathrow. Eames’ mother keeps asking if he will come for Christmas this year.

So maybe he will tell Arthur about the tickets. Maybe he will take him to dinner, watch him until this version of Arthur – loose, with tanned skin and curls in his hair – stays on the back of his eyelids. Then, he can take Arthur back to bed, take him into his mouth, just to remember the taste.

A loud crack shakes Eames out of his thoughts. He feels a cool breeze on his skin, goosebumps on his arms. He’s alone in the kitchen – Arthur’s opening the shutters. Tomorrow morning he will close them again, Eames is sure of this. He throws a shirt on his back and follows the noise – dinner doesn’t sound that bad, and tickets can wait. 

***

One of Eames’ rules, rules that let him thrive in dreamscape for so long, is “do everything in your power to avoid limbo.” Don’t take jobs with people with history of big fuck-ups. Don’t take jobs with people with history of being properly fucked up in the head. And never, ever drop into limbo out of your own free will.

Which is why it makes perfect sense that Eames is in limbo now. Out of his own free will. His parents always viewed him as a rulebreaked, a black sheep – so here he is now, breaking the rule that he set for himself. How fitting.

The memories of Ariadne calling him a fucking idiot, of promising Arthur to never, ever follow him down there if push came to shove. He’s fairly certain that those moments were separated by some degree of time, but he’s not sure by how much.

Come to think of it – he’s not so sure of anything right now, similar landscapes blurring together, no projections in sight, the beginning of his journey seeming as far as the ending. He passes abandoned buildings, unfinished bridges, polished, but soulless cities. It’s all very Arthur-like; every piece is perfect, but not perfect enough. With every mile he crosses, the architecture grows more chaotic, more ambitious, more hostile. With every building he passes, Eames is getting more and more confident. 

Because deep down Eames is sure of three things: he’s dreaming, he’s in limbo, and he needs to find Arthur. Even if Arthur doesn’t want to be found, Eames will do it. Even if he promised him not to – well, that’s about time for Arthur to learn that Eames is a thief, and a liar. 

He finally finds him – a man sitting on the porch of a small, wooden cottage. He doesn’t look like Arthur; he looks more like Arthur than an upside version ever could. The man sitting on the porch looks simultaneously younger than real Arthur – eyes shining bright – and older – silver peeking through his dark hair. Eames approaches him with his hand outstretched.

“Arthur,” he says, looking for recognition in the man’s eyes.

He takes a step forward when he gets none.

“Arthur, please let’s go home,” he tries again, this time getting Arthur to frown. It’s a step in some direction at least. 

“Arthur, I love you,” he says finally, because he has nothing else left. If he can’t get Arthur out of here – Eames’ mind refuses to acknowledge this possibility. He was always a master of ignoring ill-fitting parts. 

Miraculously, it works – just like in some children’s tale – Arthur’s eyes widen in recognition.

“I forgot to close the shutters,” is what comes out of Arthur's mouth. Eames is so relieved he wants to cry – or to laugh hysterically. He wants to shake Arthur and call him a bloody idiot. He wants to kiss him and never, ever let him go. He might do all of those things. 

But right now Eames reaches his hand out and Arthur takes it. 

“Let’s go home,” he says, voice raspy. 

When they wake up, Eames expects a certain reaction out of Arthur – anger, why would you do it, you fucker, even a slap to his face would be fine – he deserved it. 

But when Arthur wakes up, he’s strangely silent – eyes empty, staring at an empty wall. Ariadne quickly reads the signs and leaves them be. Smart girl.

As soon as she leaves, Arthur starts crying. He goes from completely still to crumbling in the matter of seconds, folding like a piece of paper, hands covering his face. Eames freezes – he has never seen Arthur cry – not like that, not the full body sobs, not the splotches of red on his face. 

Eames opens his arms and Arthur falls right into them, burying his face in the crook of Eames’ neck. He lets Arthur cling to his shirt. He puts his hands around him, holding him close, and he doesn’t say anything, because there is nothing left to be said. 

“I love you too,” Arthur says finally, between sobs, voice coarse.

“I know,” Eames says, because he does indeed know. Arthur wouldn’t go with him otherwise. 

***

“Mother, not that I’m not pleased to see you–” Eames starts, startled as his mother pushes through the door. “But what on Earth are you doing here?”

“Can’t I visit my only son once in a blue moon?” He knows that there is no point in stopping her now – his mother is remarkably persistent once she sets her mind on something, even if this time it’s violating Eames’ hard-earned privacy. 

“James not talking to you again? Not that I blame him.” Eames is not her only son. Eames is the second son and third child. But his mother has a magical skill of forgetting that when it serves her purpose, or when James or Sarah do something that embarasses her, which is not as often as Eames – but still. 

His mother just gives him a cold stare, clearly waiting for something. 

He sighs loudly as she takes off her shoes and throws him her coat, trotting into his kitchen with a single-minded focus – probably on vivisecting every inch of Eames’ living space. She has a great experience in this art. 

At least Arthur’s not here, 9 am on Sundays being his preferred morning run time window. So, if Eames is really smart about it and if Arthur chooses to run a little longer–

He loses all hope when his mother spots the coffee machine and flops her ludicrously expensive bag on the kitchen counter (is it Birkin? It’s probably Birkin).

“Why don’t you make your poor mother a cup of coffee?” She has already taken one of his kitchen stools, legs crossed, giving him one of her famous guilt tripping looks. He’s not even angry that it works on him – she does it every damn time, and it works every damn time.

Eames’ not a big fan of fighting already lost battles, so he turns to make his mother a cappuccino. He hopes that at least there is no milk in the fridge, but no – of course Arthur bought it, together with an outrageous amount of fresh vegetables and organic meat. Living with Arthur means that Eames has a better stocked fridge than he has ever had. If he looked closely, there would be a carton of oat milk in the cupboard. Not that he would give it to his mother – none of that fancy stuff for her. 

“So, Ethan–” his mother starts, looking around with a curious gaze. Eames doesn’t like this gaze. “This looks – cozy” He doesn’t like the undertone in her voice even more.

“If you suggest that I keep my flat well furnished only because I’m dating someone–” He knows his mother well. One thing she likes even better than to pick apart Eames’ taste in clothes and interior design is to remind him that all of his siblings are married already. Really, how she never gets bored. 

“Ethan?”

Eames freezes, one hand on the coffee machine. Of course Arthur chose this exact moment to come home. He’s currently leaning over the door frame, a playful smirk on his lips. Oh, Eames’s not going to stop hearing about this. That is, if he survives his mother. Which is questionable. 

Arthur looks utterly delicious in his sweat-soaked t-shirt and leggings accentuating the lovely curves of his arse. If Eames’ mother wasn’t there, he would pull Arthur into a heated kiss, strip him down, leaving a trail of clothes on the floor and maybe suck him off on the kitchen counter, preferably in the exact place that his mother’s bag now sits. Just for fun. 

Maybe he could do it anyway. What a better way to get rid of his mother than to have gay sex right in front of her eyes. What a perfect idea. Eames takes a step towards Arthur, fully committed to the cause.

But it’s already too late. Eames’ mother turns in her seat, taking in a picture in front of her. Eames feels like he’s fifteen again, caught reading some gay magazines he stole from his classmates. 

“And who do we have here? Ethan, darling, why won’t you introduce me to your friend?”

Oh, Eames is fucked. He is so fucked. Suddenly jumping out of the window seems like a really nice option. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Fortunately, Arthur’s already on it.

“I’m Arthur.” He crosses the distance in a few sure steps, stretches his hand and smiles – it’s one of his most charming smiles. It’s the smile that worked on Eames like a charm. Weirdly, it seems to work on his mother too. Maybe they are not that different in the end. 

“Nice to meet you, dear.” She takes his hands, quickly throwing a shady look in Eames’ direction. In his mother language, it means ‘see, this boy has manners, unlike you.’ 

“Will you excuse me for a moment? I think that a shower is in order.” Arthur gives his mother the most apologetic look Eames has ever seen him show, slides right into Eames’ space, wraps an arm around his shoulder and gives him a quick kiss on a cheek, before disappearing into the bathroom. 

As soon as the door closes behind Arthur, his mother turns to him with a predatory gaze. 

“He seems nice.” She leans back, sipping her coffee. 

“He is nice, mother,” he sighs, considering putting something stronger in his coffee. And maybe in Arthur’s, too. God knows he’s going to need it. 

“Good,” she says and stays silent this time. No unsolicited advice, no complaints about how Eames could have chosen better. So unlike his mother.

Maybe there was something in that milk, he would have to ask Arthur. 

“No complaints this time? He’s not too American, too thin, too tall or has slightly crooked teeth?” He hears the bitter note in his voice, but he doesn’t care. There is a reason he’s never brought anyone home. No one was good enough for him, but no one was also not an acceptable option. 

“You look happy. Happier than when I saw you last time,” his mother states simply and this time it’s Eames’ turn to stay silent, because that is not something his mother would say. But also – come to think of it – he is happy now, happier than he was before. Maybe happier than he ever was. And maybe, in spite of all her flaws, his mother cares about him. A little. 

Arthur emerges out of the bathroom, hair slightly damp and curling, dressed in a Louis Vuitton cream turtleneck, paired with washed jeans and merino wool socks. Which is a good choice – Eames’ mother looks at him, clearly impressed. 

“At least one person in this relationship knows how to dress,” she says, with appreciation in her voice.

Arthur laughs at that, accepting a cup of coffee out of Eames’ hands. 

“I’m working on it, but I’m afraid he’s irreformable.” He slides into the seat next to Eames’ mother, all charming and smiling. Eames’ transformation into his embarrassed teenage self has been officially completed. “Lovely bag, by the way.” 

Eames can practically see his mother ruffling her feathers. She’s too predictable.

“Oh, this old thing? Perfect for shopping.” She smiles, leaning towards Arthur. “My late husband gave it to me back in ‘97. Those things were fairly cheap back then.” 

In this exact moment Eames knows that he hasn’t lost the battle – he had lost the entire war. Because now, he is not his mother’s favourite child; even James and Sarah have lost their places. Right now his mother has a new favourite child, and it’s Arthur. 

“Ethan has never brought anyone home, you know,” his mother says, putting her hand on Arthur’s shoulder. He lets her. “I wonder why that is.”

“Maybe the right person hadn’t entered his life before.” Arthur says with the most boyish, charming smile known to man. Even Eames, standing on the opposite side of the room, is affected. 

“You must be right, darling.” She pats his shoulder, before glancing at her watch (is it a Rolex? It’s probably a Rolex). “Oh, look at the time, I must get going.” She stands up far more dramatically than necessary. 

Of course, before she leaves, she must kiss Arthur on both cheeks (and make him promise to visit her soon, or maybe we could get brunch, all three of us!), hugs Eames tightly (whispering congratulations in his ear), and silently threatens to kill him if he doesn’t call her on her birthday (she hasn’t said anything, but her eyes speak loud enough). 

When the hurricane that is his mother has finally left their flat, Eames lets out a long sigh, resting his forehead on the cool, marble tabletop. 

“I’m so sorry you had to experience this, darling,” he tells Arthur, who stands right behind him, finishing his already cold coffee. 

“She’s not that bad,” Arthur replies, leaning over, kissing the top of his head. 

“Really, I don’t think you get a say in it, you’ve just met her.” Eames shuffles away, ready to be outraged. “Besides, she already likes you more than me.” 

“She cares about you. Sure, in her own, slightly weird and overprotective way, but the principle stands.” Arthur puts his hands on him, pulling him close, a knowing look in his eyes. 

“Huh.” Maybe Arthur is right. Just a little. As a treat. 

“Yeah, huh.” Arthur grins. 

“I wanted to fuck you on the kitchen counter the moment you stepped into the room,” Eames blurts out.

“Hmm, let’s see what we can do about it–” Arthur grins and kisses him, hungrily. “–Ethan.” 

Eames wants to argue, even for the principle of it – but then Arthur’s hands are on him, under his shirts, down in his trousers. The need to argue suddenly deflates. 

“You’re never going to let it go, are you?” he asks with an aura of defeat.

When Arthur smiles this time, it’s sly and predatory, teeth visible.

“No, Ethan,” he says, unzipping his jeans. 

Chapter Text

“If you told a version of myself, let’s say, from a year ago, that this is my future–” Arthur declares, standing in front of a mirror. 

Eames’ not entirely sure what he means. Or rather, which part of the situation they are in Arthur means. 

Does he mean the giant inflatable flamingo in the back? Or the Elvis impersonator that is going to marry them together, for better or for worse? Or maybe his little breakdown has more to do with the idea of the Vegas wedding in general? Or even worse – with marrying Eames in the first place?

“Marrying a man? Darling, I thought you were more progressive,” he can’t help but joke, even for the price of earning a deadly stare from Arthur. It’s worth it, it always is. 

“Your mother is going to kill you” Arthur states simply, straightening his already impeccable bow tie. Eames knows him well enough to spot those signs – along with twisting his cufflinks and slicking back his already slicked and perfect hair – Arthur is nervous. They are about to get married and Arthur – always perfect, always put together Arthur – is visibly nervous. Eames lets himself bask in the feeling of being totally and hopelessly in love. Until one stray thought crosses his mind.

“Why just me? Takes two to tango” he asks, leaning over the doorway. Arthur turns to him with a face of a man about to explain what colors are to a preschooler. Eames couldn’t possibly love him more.

“Bridget can’t hate me. Bridget loves me. Bridget would marry me herself if she got the chance. I’m your mother’s favourite son. She told me that herself. You, on the other hand…” he grins, giving Eames a once over. 

“I’m sure my dear mother could restrain herself from stealing her son’s fiance,” Eames says, not totally believing words leaving his mouth. His mother is an unusually persistent creature. 

“Pffft, give Bridget some credit. She can do whatever she sets her mind to.” Arthur chuckles, reaching his arms and pulling Eames towards him. “You should be glad I’m gay. Otherwise, who knows.” He shrugs, a playful smirk on his mouth.

“Yeah lucky me.” Eames rolls his eyes, but lets Arthur throw his arms around him and kiss him, Arthur’s fingers tangling in his hair. 

Just as the kiss is about to get more heated (and possibly make them late to their own wedding), Arthur pulls back, mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Although I admit it would be a shame if my newlywed husband was murdered by his own mother so soon after the wedding,” he says, a warm hand on Eames’ cheek. “That is why I already planned our second wedding, in London.”

Now it’s time for Eames to be genuinely shocked. Because that can only mean–

“My mother already knows, doesn’t she?” he asks, resigned. 

“Not only does she know,” Arthur says, trying not to laugh, “but I also already sent her pictures.”

“What pictures?” Eames asks, dread filling his veins.

Arthur gives up on the idea of pretending that this is not an extremely funny situation. He can’t stop laughing now, his cheeks red, as he fishes out the phone out of his back pocket. 

Eames really doesn’t want to see those pictures, but Arthur practically shoves the screen in his face, still laughing. 

He takes the phone anyway, clicking into Arthur’s conversation with his mother. And there they are – Eames sleeping, drooling on the pillows, Eames brushing his teeth, still half asleep, Eames jetlagged, sleeping in the passenger seat. They are incredibly intimate – taken from up close or weird angles, in the moments Eames wasn’t even aware. They could be considered a teasing joke, and yet – what Eames sees in those photos is a declaration of love. 

“I love you too,” he says simply, giving Arthur his phone back. 

Arthur stops laughing and looks at him with a soft smile. Eames looks back – at now disheveled hair, at his colored cheeks, at the visible dimples, at a slightly crooked bow tie. Eames looks at the man he loves and he can’t stop looking, never could. It’s Arthur who breaks eye contact first, turning his head away, towards the mirror. 

“I don’t usually marry my devilishly handsome coworkers” he says, barely audible. 

“I think this is supposed to be my line,” Eames answers, with a wink. “You look absolutely marvelous in this tux, darling. Although, in my wildest dreams, we get married with you in a dress, a Vera Wang’s one specifically.”

Arthur opens and closes his mouth, brows furrowed, presumably putting together a monologue about the heteronormative roots of Eames’ sexual fantasies. Eames can’t wait to hear it.

“Nah, I think Vivien Westwood is more my style,” he says instead, and looks at the time, cursing. “Fuck, we are late. Next time please share your deepest, darkest wishes a little earlier.” He grabs his coat, turning towards the door.

“As you wish, darling.” Eames grabs a little, velvet box from the nightstand and follows him.