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velleites2012-01-26 04:22 am
boudour.livejournal.com) wrote in velleites2012-01-26 04:22 am
Entry tags:
i will raise you from your sleep
[ Arthur/Eames | PG | ~1000 words | h/c, first time, forced proximity ]
summary: Arthur has trouble sleeping, it's Eames' fault. But then again, maybe not.
a/n: written a while ago for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pjvilar's kissing party and samescenes' prompt: "I will come to you at night time, I will raise you from your sleep." Hunters & Collectors - Throw Your Arms Around Me. Edited version. (also on AO3: 
)
His eyes fly open of their own volition and it takes Arthur a confused heartbeat caught between the eddies of a fading dream and his sleep-muffled senses to realize what interrupted his sleep.
The room is quiet around him, the hum of the city life mutted behind the drawn curtains, only the faintest ray of sunlight filtering through. Arthur listens to the sound of his breathing, the slow controlled breaths that feign deep sleep, and blinks blearily at the wall - once, twice, and then again - before facing the other side of the bed.
Eames doesn't stir or otherwise react, just keeps on staring at the ceiling, the white of his eyes a glimmer in the half-light, visible for too long periods of time in between blinks.
Sleep disorders are par for the course for people in their line of work. Arthur has been plagued by nightly terrors, he has experienced the debilitating fear that came with dreams that escaped his control, has felt the constant thrum of dread shadowing the idea of being at the mercy of more than his own subconscious.
Like all the others, he's learned to control the worse of it over the years - he wouldn't still be in the business, much less sane otherwise - but he's still prone to bouts of insomnia when his own psyche gives shape to his darkest fears, leaving him reeling and itching to get out of his own skin as he awakes panting, hand reaching for the gun that would liberate him.
Arthur keeps his Glock out of immediate reach, in the night table's drawer.
He knows he should be grateful not to have been woken up by some sudden outburst after the day from hell - days in the not reality that is their reality - they've had, but if the irony isn't lost on him, the exhaustion dragging at his limbs makes it difficult for Arthur to appreciate that it is Eames' silence that woke him, the absence of his deep, regular breaths and light snoring that stole him from the arms of Morpheus.
Arthur knew knew knew with the sense of unease that comes from a visceral certainty that this was a bad idea. So, probably, did Eames. And yet they hadn't exchanged a word before sharing the one bed at their disposal, both unwillingly recognizing their absolute need to rest now or burn out.
There is a peculiar intimacy to sharing natural sleep, even if they routinely traipse around each other's subconscious: bodies lying close together, prone and defenseless in mimickry of sleep. Particularly because of that.
Arthur feels like trespassing by witnessing this moment of vulnerability, intruding where he doesn't belong, uninvited but unable to turn away from the way the muted light casts soft shadows and creases on Eames' face.
He tries though, shuts his gritty eyes and tries to stop seeing the remanent image of Eames on his closed lids, rolls his shoulders and wills his body to relax back into sleep, but he only gets wound tighter for each moment that passes where Eames remains awake, unmoving and quiet.
Arthur feels his frustration flare.
'Go to sleep, Mr Eames' he snaps. or means to, but with his voice rough with disuse, what comes out is a rugged murmur, syllables softened by the expanse of comforter separating them.
Eames doesn't startle -- probably knew the second Arthur came awake -- and keeps staring at the ceiling.
'Am afraid you tucking me in won't work this time' he answers in a mumble, his attempt at a smirk falling pathetically short.
Arthur wishes, not for the first time, that he could just disconnect his brain sometimes. Sighing, he turns fully towards Eames, noting the red of his eyes, how they flickered in his direction for a moment but never quite made contact.
'Eames' he starts, clears his throat and tries again.
'Eames --'
It wasn't real. I'm the one who died a gruesome death, he wants to say. Caught between the inane and the petty, he falters.
'Eames' he adds in a breath. and is reminded of the litany of "Arthur Arthur Arth-" that had made his way to him through the haze of pain, before the blessedly cool muzzle of a gun had pressed to his temple, the blood trickling down his throat and drowning his lungs turning his words into a wet gurgle.
Arthur swallows hard and slides over, holding himself above Eames on one elbow while he gently grabs his chin between his fingers, tilting his head so that Eames' gaze meets his. Eames starts slightly but only grits his teeth and brings his eyes level with some point just below Arthur's eyes, looking so openly weary that it makes Arthur ache.
There is nothing Arthur could say to erase the vivid memory, he can't offer the mercy of a quick death, knows all too well how meaningless words are in these moments. What he finds himself doing is pressing his mouth to Eames' forehead, feeling the perspiration beneath his lips, trailing his mouth down to an eyelid in a what is a caress more than a kiss, his hand tracing a cheekbone. His breath catches and he watches, mesmerized by the feel, Eames' eyelashes brush his finger as Eames opens his eyes and looks at him.
There are dark shadows under his bloodshot eyes but wonder has chased the weariness and it's with a firm hand on Arthur's nape that he guides their mouths together, Arthur's dry lips sliding on Eames' lush mouth, the barest hint of teeth opening it up until, body betraying him, Arthur's elbow gives out under him and he faceplants on Eames' pillow.
Arthur gives up on trying to sum up the energy to be disgruntled when Eames puffs an amused breath in his ear, simply smiles against his neck and throws an arm around him, reveling in the way Eames rolls into him until their bodies are neatly fitted together, warmth seeping through, Arthur's leg caught between two strong thighs and Eames' breath ghosting on Arthur's cheek with each exhalation.
Soon their breathing evens out.
They dream.
----
all feedback welcome :)
summary: Arthur has trouble sleeping, it's Eames' fault. But then again, maybe not.
a/n: written a while ago for
pjvilar's kissing party and samescenes' prompt: "I will come to you at night time, I will raise you from your sleep." Hunters & Collectors - Throw Your Arms Around Me. Edited version. (also on AO3: )His eyes fly open of their own volition and it takes Arthur a confused heartbeat caught between the eddies of a fading dream and his sleep-muffled senses to realize what interrupted his sleep.
The room is quiet around him, the hum of the city life mutted behind the drawn curtains, only the faintest ray of sunlight filtering through. Arthur listens to the sound of his breathing, the slow controlled breaths that feign deep sleep, and blinks blearily at the wall - once, twice, and then again - before facing the other side of the bed.
Eames doesn't stir or otherwise react, just keeps on staring at the ceiling, the white of his eyes a glimmer in the half-light, visible for too long periods of time in between blinks.
Sleep disorders are par for the course for people in their line of work. Arthur has been plagued by nightly terrors, he has experienced the debilitating fear that came with dreams that escaped his control, has felt the constant thrum of dread shadowing the idea of being at the mercy of more than his own subconscious.
Like all the others, he's learned to control the worse of it over the years - he wouldn't still be in the business, much less sane otherwise - but he's still prone to bouts of insomnia when his own psyche gives shape to his darkest fears, leaving him reeling and itching to get out of his own skin as he awakes panting, hand reaching for the gun that would liberate him.
Arthur keeps his Glock out of immediate reach, in the night table's drawer.
He knows he should be grateful not to have been woken up by some sudden outburst after the day from hell - days in the not reality that is their reality - they've had, but if the irony isn't lost on him, the exhaustion dragging at his limbs makes it difficult for Arthur to appreciate that it is Eames' silence that woke him, the absence of his deep, regular breaths and light snoring that stole him from the arms of Morpheus.
Arthur knew knew knew with the sense of unease that comes from a visceral certainty that this was a bad idea. So, probably, did Eames. And yet they hadn't exchanged a word before sharing the one bed at their disposal, both unwillingly recognizing their absolute need to rest now or burn out.
There is a peculiar intimacy to sharing natural sleep, even if they routinely traipse around each other's subconscious: bodies lying close together, prone and defenseless in mimickry of sleep. Particularly because of that.
Arthur feels like trespassing by witnessing this moment of vulnerability, intruding where he doesn't belong, uninvited but unable to turn away from the way the muted light casts soft shadows and creases on Eames' face.
He tries though, shuts his gritty eyes and tries to stop seeing the remanent image of Eames on his closed lids, rolls his shoulders and wills his body to relax back into sleep, but he only gets wound tighter for each moment that passes where Eames remains awake, unmoving and quiet.
Arthur feels his frustration flare.
'Go to sleep, Mr Eames' he snaps. or means to, but with his voice rough with disuse, what comes out is a rugged murmur, syllables softened by the expanse of comforter separating them.
Eames doesn't startle -- probably knew the second Arthur came awake -- and keeps staring at the ceiling.
'Am afraid you tucking me in won't work this time' he answers in a mumble, his attempt at a smirk falling pathetically short.
Arthur wishes, not for the first time, that he could just disconnect his brain sometimes. Sighing, he turns fully towards Eames, noting the red of his eyes, how they flickered in his direction for a moment but never quite made contact.
'Eames' he starts, clears his throat and tries again.
'Eames --'
It wasn't real. I'm the one who died a gruesome death, he wants to say. Caught between the inane and the petty, he falters.
'Eames' he adds in a breath. and is reminded of the litany of "Arthur Arthur Arth-" that had made his way to him through the haze of pain, before the blessedly cool muzzle of a gun had pressed to his temple, the blood trickling down his throat and drowning his lungs turning his words into a wet gurgle.
Arthur swallows hard and slides over, holding himself above Eames on one elbow while he gently grabs his chin between his fingers, tilting his head so that Eames' gaze meets his. Eames starts slightly but only grits his teeth and brings his eyes level with some point just below Arthur's eyes, looking so openly weary that it makes Arthur ache.
There is nothing Arthur could say to erase the vivid memory, he can't offer the mercy of a quick death, knows all too well how meaningless words are in these moments. What he finds himself doing is pressing his mouth to Eames' forehead, feeling the perspiration beneath his lips, trailing his mouth down to an eyelid in a what is a caress more than a kiss, his hand tracing a cheekbone. His breath catches and he watches, mesmerized by the feel, Eames' eyelashes brush his finger as Eames opens his eyes and looks at him.
There are dark shadows under his bloodshot eyes but wonder has chased the weariness and it's with a firm hand on Arthur's nape that he guides their mouths together, Arthur's dry lips sliding on Eames' lush mouth, the barest hint of teeth opening it up until, body betraying him, Arthur's elbow gives out under him and he faceplants on Eames' pillow.
Arthur gives up on trying to sum up the energy to be disgruntled when Eames puffs an amused breath in his ear, simply smiles against his neck and throws an arm around him, reveling in the way Eames rolls into him until their bodies are neatly fitted together, warmth seeping through, Arthur's leg caught between two strong thighs and Eames' breath ghosting on Arthur's cheek with each exhalation.
Soon their breathing evens out.
They dream.
----
all feedback welcome :)
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