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charybdisSometimes I have to give myself a little time before I'm ready to attach my name to something that I wrote. That's my excuse for not posting this when I finished it this past summer.
Title: Acutus Id Verberat
Characters: Arthur/Eames
Summary: Assassins and thieves aren't supposed to fraternize. Written for this prompt on the kink meme. NC-17, 6,500 words.
Notes: "Acutus id verberat" is the the Thieves' Guild motto and translates to "Whip it quick", meaning to steal something. If you're curious, the Assassins' Guild motto is, "Nil mortifi sine lucre" -- "No killing without payment". Hover cursor over asterisks for footnotes.
The guards weren't too troublesome, though he did have to deal with one rather sharply on his way through the antechamber. Hopefully that little bump won't put too much of a blot on his reputation -- it isn't as if he inhumed the bloke, at least.
Once he gets into the lord's bedchamber, it's an easy job, one good, swift pass of the knife for the client, and his employer's calling cards neatly on the nightstand. He'll leave the gambling token as well, he decides. This contract is certainly high-profile enough to warrant it, even if it is a bit of a cakewalk.
Only when he opens the door to the client's bedchamber, there's already someone there, moving about the room with silent and stealthy grace that only comes from long training.
When he enters, the housebreaker glances up. His movements are elegantly lithe, but he's dressed from head to toe in shades of grey and brown, not at all flattering and hardly stylish, not to mention that his entire visage is smeared with soot. Not a rival Assassin, then. The client is still slumbering away, snoring rather loudly.
"Who are you?" he whispers, under the noise of the client sleeping.
The figure, nearly invisible in the darkness, flashes a Thieves' Guild badge, and a grin that could launch a thousand cons. Then he slinks over to the bureau, and picks the lock on the top drawer with admirable speed. The entire glimmering contents of the drawer disappear with one pass of the Thief's gloved hands. He closes the drawer and carefully scratches out a receipt for the take. There's a very soft clink of something metallic dropping from his sleeves to the belted body of his shirt as he reaches up to fasten the official receipt to the wall over the bureau.
The client is still snoring away when the Thief swarms out of the window, dropping over the edge at a pace that would be worrying if he wasn't already worried about how the contract will turn up. It's the work of a moment to inhume the client and arrange his employer's card properly, but he decides against leaving his token, just in case the coincidence of the theft and the inhumation might be detrimental to his career.
***
By day, the Assassin lets sharply stylish rooms near the University, going by the name of Eames. He's well-liked by the neighbors, who view his profession as something like respectability. They appreciate that he's not one of the scholarship cases, and that makes them comfortable, as though he is something tame. He is charming, always kind, and unfailingly thoughtful.
Today, however, he's walking down a very disreputable street in his least stylish clothes. A keen observer might notice that the disrepute of his clothing is more in the suggestion of his movement and posture than in anything about the garments themselves.
He arrives at the Thieves' Guild unmolested even by Beggars, which is a feat in and of itself. He reaches the Guild receptionist in good order, though the yard and halls throng with back-alley toughs and young pickpockets. All around him, greedy eyes bulge as he puts down a heavy purse on the desk. The gamine young lady behind the desk raises her eyebrows coolly -- he'd be willing to bet that she has just flicked a switchblade open out of his line of sight. He ignores that.
"I want the name of the Thief who robbed Lord -----'s home last night."
She shrugs and doesn't make a move towards the money; he admires her restraint. "Coulda been anyone. We don't work on contract like you Assassin types."
He leans forward a little, lets the posh accent slip. "Come on, love. I'm looking for a top-story man, slim, about my height. Clever enough to write his own receipts, even."
"Alright, maybe I know a couple of guys," she admits. "But I don’t see what business it is of yours."
He leans in further, this time to invite confidence rather than to threaten. "Last night, I went to inhume a client, professional as you please, and one of your top-story men was already there, robbing him blind."
"Top-story men don't 'rob people blind'," Eames hears, "They 'extract items of value'. What are you here for, Assassin?"
Eames turns around slowly, so as to allow his suspicions proper time to simmer before the identity of the speaker is revealed. Sure enough, it's the thief.
He's standing at the door, flanked by two huge thieves, lurkers, by the look of them. He's wearing a suit, the sort of thing that a rich merchant might wear, but dressed up with the Guild coat of arms pinned to his lapel, and a large, curving knife in one hand.* One of the lurkers is carrying a large bag, on which are the printed letters, 'Protection Fee’ as well as the Guild coat of arms.
In the Guild's reception room, surrounded by hulking extortion artists and unkempt pickpockets, he looks smaller than Eames remembers, thin instead of lithe, and rather unappealingly sallow. But the daylight catches on the elegant angles of his face, and finds bronze lights in his dark hair. He's not smiling, though. Pity -- Eames would rather like to see it again.
Right now, the thief is waiting for an explanation, one brow raised. Eames can but oblige him.
"I'm just investigating an irregularity," Eames says. "We do not expect to meet a member of the Thieves' Guild in the course of our work. The Seamstress' Guild, perhaps, but they are rarely in the process of extracting anything but- well, I'm sure you understand," he concludes when the girl at the desk snickers.
"Why don't we discuss this further in private," the thief says, gesturing towards the stairs that lead to the Guild quarters, where members can rent rooms. His expression is unreadable -- Eames would call it irritation, but there's something about the slight raise of his eyebrows that looks more like amusement.
"Wot about this lot, guv?" the receptionist calls after them.
"It's a bribe, Sylvie," the thief says, over his shoulder. "Fifty percent goes to the Guild."
Eames notices that he doesn't mention where the rest of it goes, but he can guess by the grin that spreads across Sylvie's face.
He pauses in front of an unremarkable door, and offers his hand to Eames.
"You can call me Arthur."
Eames makes a show of counting his fingers after his hand is released. Arthur rolls his eyes and looks more annoyed by the moment.
There are an alarming number of traps on the door to Arthur's room, but, Eames notices, no lock. Arthur disarms all of the traps with startling speed. "Keeps the unskilled out," Arthur says, as he works, "And there's nothing of value here, anyway."
Eames looks around the room, and feels inclined to disagree with that statement. There's a mirror propped over the wash basin, large enough that Eames can see his entire head and shoulders -- good for practicing expressions in, and a mirror like that doesn't come cheap. There's only one knife on a rack clearly intended to hold several blades -- it's a short thing, small enough to easily slip into a sleeve, sharp enough to shave with.
Arthur sees him inspecting the room, and makes no protest when Eames takes the small knife off of the rack to test the balance. It's weighted for fighting, the balance resting nicely on his first two fingers as he fits his hand to the hilt. The wrapping is new, almost completely unworn, though the blade is dark with age and clearly well-used.
After Arthur has put away his official things -- the receipt book, the big knife, which on closer inspection is dull and too unwieldy to use, and the thieves' license -- he leans against his wardrobe, arms crossed.
"Why are you really here?" he asks. "No one comes to the Guild out of simple curiosity. Unless you're an idiot, of course. I'd believe that."
Eames can only shrug. Arthur is right -- most assassins would've sent a runner or something to do the investigation, if they hadn’t reported the incident directly to the Assassins' Guild council and promptly forgotten about it.
Arthur looks him up and down critically, and then he says, “I see.”
Eames has a line that he uses to enthrall prospective lovers in polite conversation. Anyone who doesn't take him up on it isn't wild enough to be his lover. You smell lovely -- something sweet and something sharp, like a rose that's already drawn blood.
Arthur would have laughed at his conceit, Eames is sure of it. But he thinks that Arthur wouldn't have stopped at laughter. Arthur would have let his smile slip away, leaned in and said confidentially, "Blood isn't what I want to draw from you tonight," into the crook of Eames' neck, clear and brazen.
He wonders if Arthur has a line. “We can't fuck here,” seems to have worked well on Eames; perhaps it works well on the sort of people Arthur likes to bed. Certainly, it worked on Eames.
***
They make their way to Eames' rooms by way of Broad Way. Once they leave the Thieves’ Guild, Eames straightens his shirt, standing his collar up properly, and contriving to look more purposely rumpled. Arthur doesn't have to change a thing about his appearance.
"What have you been up to, dressed like that?” Eames asks. “Extracting items of value from obscenely rich men, again?"
"You could say that. I was making appointments with Guild clients this morning -- collecting fees, writing receipts -- just administrative stuff," Arthur tells him. Eames can't put a finger on his accent. It's sharp vowels, hacked up fine, and mashed into a slurry of consonants. Eames has never heard anything like it.
"Doing paperwork for nobs?" Eames says. "I'd have thought you were threatening to gut them, considering that knife you had, and the two blokes you were with."
For a moment, Arthur looks sheepish. He rubs the back of his neck, and says, "They could use the overtime -- lurkers don't get a lot of daytime work, and they've got families to provide for, you know. The rich like the added drama."
Eames laughs and walks a little nearer to Arthur, so that their shoulders brush with every step. This close, Arthur smells of dust and the lingering hint of perfume, like he's been thieving, breaking into some rich noble's home in the middle of the day. Eames loves it.
Arthur, it turns out, is a lot more than just a top-story man. He manages to spirit away every one of Eames' stylish rings before they make it back to his rooms. This impressive and a little frustrating, as Eames can't seem to catch Arthur in the act.
It's Eames' fault, really. He starts the whole thing by informing Arthur that he used to be a bit of a pickpocket in his youth. He only says it to get Arthur to smile -- it’s true enough, but hardly the sort of thing that an aspiring assassin likes to admit to.
Then Arthur challenges him to pick his pockets. They’re simple, unfastened, and he keeps his purse in an outside pocket, as if he’s some careless, rich foreigner, to whom an Ankh-Morpork dollar is worth less than a loaf of bread. He smiles, all dimpling challenge, and Eames can do absolutely nothing but oblige him.
When he withdraws, Arthur tips his head back into the afternoon sun, so that the light spills down his face and lights up his brown eyes with startling clarity, and he says, smiling, "You'll do." And the next time Eames checks, Arthur's purse is back in its proper place, and his ruby ring is on Arthur's finger.
He says nothing, but when he tries to pick the purse again, still carelessly in the outside pocket of Arthur's jacket, Arthur catches hold of his wrist right there in the main thoroughfare and shakes a finger in his face, as if he is a naughty child.
"Doesn't count if you get caught, Mr. Eames."
Eames notices that the finger in his face is wearing his emerald ring. The firm press of Arthur's hand around his wrist is odd and comfortable, as if it is meant to be there. Arthur's smile is both lovely and wicked.
***
By the time they get back to Eames' rooms, he’s all but dying to discover what other feelings Arthur's deliciously clever fingers can draw from his body.
Arthur pulls the door shut behind him and catches hold of Eames' wrist again, as soon as the latch clicks shut. Eames is pressing him against the door in an instant.
Arthur tastes like weak coffee and rich biscuits. Arthur smells like a gentleman, and moves like a killer who knows his work. Underneath his gentleman-thief's disguise, Arthur’s bare skin smells like silk and metal, and a little like a whetstone, steel and earth. Eames runs his hands through Arthur's slicked-back hair, and it comes undone, falling around his face, softening the angles of his expression, transforming him into a sweet, innocent young thing, untouched by corruption and deceit. Eames kisses him because he simply can’t restrain himself.
"Assassins and thieves aren't supposed to fraternize," Eames manages, breathlessly. "Surely you know that."
Arthur shoves them around, displaying astonishing strength for his slim build, so that Eames ends with his back to the door. "I'm a top-story man, Mr. Eames. I take what I want."
He uses his whole body to pin Eames against the door, grabs Eames' wrists in one hand, fingers sure and strong.
Usually Eames would protest being pressed up against his own door and ravished, but Arthur is doing such a wonderful job of it, all lips and teeth and hot mouth. There's a moment of awkwardness when Arthur finds the knife that Eames had hidden under his shirt. Eames starts to say something, but he stops when Arthur slides to his knees and proceeds to find every last concealed weapon, and he lets each one fall to the floor around them, tangled with their clothing. His hands move blurred-quick across Eames' body, light as air, and Eames breathes in the scent of him, pressed so close.
"Gods, you're beautiful," Eames says. He runs his hands up Arthur's back, the lean, muscled curve of his spine. He palms Arthur's arse, eliciting a groan of desire.
"Come on, come on," Arthur says, and Eames lets himself be pulled forward and all but thrown across the room, onto the bed. Arthur is there like a spell has summoned him, holding Eames down by his hips and shoulders, sudden, immediate.
"You're going to fuck me, right," he demands, not a question, and Eames can only stare for a moment, caught between relief and surprise. That is not where he thought this was going. "You better be going to fuck me," Arthur says, when he doesn't respond, "Or I came here for nothing."
That gets Eames moving, and he grabs Arthur's arse, hard this time, pulling him close. "How can I resist this?" so that Arthur drops his head to Eames' shoulder and groans.
It does not, however, look much like Arthur wants it, as he's still got Eames pressed to the bed, biting bright marks on Eames' throat, across his collarbone. "I just -," Arthur says. "You. You're too godsdamn cocky to be worried about fucking a top-story man."
Eames doesn't quite know if he's supposed to apologize for that, but Arthur adds, "You're perfect." and Eames says, instead, "Arthur, Arthur," when he mouths at Eames' nipple, sucking on it, grazing it lightly with his teeth.
Arthur moves like he wants to own every inch of Eames, all broad, sweeping touches. He runs his hands down Eames sides, sinking is fingers into his hips, hard. He licks a long, wet trail from thigh to throat, leaving behind a cool line. Eames lets Arthur wash over him, a little desperate, little rough, and it isn't until he growls, "Come on, assassin," that Eames gets it.
Arthur doesn't want someone to lie back and make sweet love to him. Arthur wants a godsdamn cocky assassin. Eames wraps a hand around the back of Arthur's neck, pulling him in for a kiss, holding on to him when he tries to break it, and when he goes up on his knees, Eames takes advantage, flipping them so that he ends on top, straddling Arthur's body. Underneath him, Arthur jerks hard enough to break the kiss, but he grabs onto Eames' hips and performs a positively filthy grind.
Eames can hear him breathing in short, hard pants, making ridiculously hot noises, sharp, like they are being punched out of him. His pupils are blown, his lips are parted softly, and his hair is splayed across Eames' pillow. The sheer want in his expression makes Eames heart stutter and pound.
"Like that, darling?" Eames says right into Arthur's ear, playing up his most sophisticated accent. "You can’t make me to roll over for you, love."
He pushes down harder with his hips, gets a knee in between Arthur's legs and shoves them apart, half-surprised when he doesn't have to fight for it.
Arthur kisses him thoroughly, as deft with his tongue as he his with his fingers. He writhes like a snake, so strong and lithe; he makes Eames grab his wrists and force them against the mattress, lest he be flipped again. Eames is certain that the only reason he's successful in keeping Arthur pinned is that Arthur is exactly where he wants to be.
Eames breathes him in and lets Arthur twist his hands away, captivated by the economical turn of his wrists. He’s never encountered anything more lust-inducing than the coil of Arthur's body underneath him, dangerous and full of secrets. He's distracted from his admiration by Arthur pressing a vial of oil into his hand and contriving to twist around. Suddenly, Eames' cock is pressed to the perfect curve of Arthur's arse.
Arthur says, "Eames, fuck me," hoarsely, like he can't wait, and Eames obliges him, slicks his fingers and slowly works two of them into the grasping heat of Arthur’s body, working him open.
Eames doesn't think Arthur’s nearly ready when he pulls away, but Arthur clearly disagrees, reaching for Eames' cock and positioning it just so, leaning back on it. Eames gasps as the head slips into Arthur's body, hot and too tight, but Arthur just keeps pushing back. His shoulders shake under the strain of his control, he breathes hard, as if in the grip of some powerful emotion. And when his arse settles on Eames' thighs at last, he edges his knees just a bit wider and lets out a great sigh.
"Gods, yes," Arthur whispers, and Eames can't help wrapping his arms around him, securing Arthur to him, impaled on his cock.
The skin of Arthur’s back shifts hypnotically over his whipcord muscles, slick with sweat. Eames waits until he feels Arthur opening around him, his body welcoming, before he starts rocking into him. He can see the way Arthur’s hands scrabble for purchase on his smooth bedclothes, digging in for leverage so that he can push back to meet every one of Eames’ thrusts in a steadily building rhythm until they’re crashing together, even as Arthur grits out, “You can- oh fuck- Harder, dammit,” and Eames strives to obey, saying, “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” even though he knows that it’s probably just an assumed name, meaningless.
Eames drags Arthur upright into his lap and the weight of Arthur’s body pushes him a fraction deeper, and fuck, it’s so good. He hooks an arm across Arthur’s chest grabbing onto his shoulder, and slams into him, too desperate even to say his name, and oh gods, he desperately wants to hold off, wants to feel Arthur’s body shake and clench around him while Eames fucks him through his orgasm, but then Arthur reaches back and locks his arm around the back of Eames’ neck, and Eames’ world explodes as he comes, spilling hot into Arthur’s body, barely aware when Arthur cries out and arches back hard, grabs his own cock, jerks once, twice, and comes with a choked-off shout, all over Eames’ sheets.
Breathless and spent, Eames rests his forehead between Arthur’s shoulder-blades for a minute, trying to gather the energy to move. Arthur makes a soft noise when he pulls out, almost a whimper, and slumps forward onto the mattress, stretching out slowly. He looks utterly debauched, loose-limbed and pleased — there’s a trickle of come on the inside of his thigh — and when Eames catches his eye, he smiles broadly.
Eames settles down on the bed next to him, cuddling close. The last things he sees as he slips into sleep are his rings, lined up on the nightstand, right in front of his face. He doesn’t even know when Arthur put them there, and he’s too sated to bother about it.
Eames is roused, just barely, by Arthur getting out of bed, getting dressed in complete silence.
Arthur leaves without ceremony, pressing a kiss to Eames' temple and closing the door gently behind him, before Eames even wakes up enough to frame a protest. He only dreams Arthur saying softly, "We'll do this again," as he slips out.
***
After about a week, Eames stops thinking about it all the time. He finds a nice, complex contract and concentrates on his job, instead of remembering the way Arthur pushed back on his cock, eager, but never easy, wanting Eames, and wanting to fight for every moment of it.
The contract is good for him, keeps him occupied, instead of continually looking for a certain top-story man. Except that he does far more preliminary work than the contract really needs, finding every excuse to wander about the richest neighborhoods in Ankh-Morpork. Except for the way he leaves every single one of his rings lined up neatly on the nightstand; ruby, gold, emerald, onyx, sapphire, marcasite.
But he's not really thinking of Arthur all that much, so when he comes back to his rooms and finds Arthur already there, Eames pauses by the door in surprise. Arthur is idly cleaning his nails with a small knife, back against the headboard and legs sprawled in front of him on Eames' bed. He glances up when Eames comes in, and the knife vanishes.
"What's this?" Eames says, after a moment, when his heart has slowed somewhat and he is able to ease his hand away from the hilt of his own knife. He catches sight of Arthur’s boots, set neatly next to the bed, and for some reason, that sets him at ease more than anything else.
Arthur just stares at him, as if he's waiting for Eames to decipher the obvious. Finally, he says, "I said we'd do it again, last time." He frowns abruptly, as though something has just occurred to him. "Do you not want to?"
"No, no," Eames hastens to assure him, "I want to, right enough." He quickly strips off his belt and various attached knives and poisons and small crossbow bolts. Arthur smiles his lock-picking, safe-cracking smile, and Eames goes to him at once, utterly charmed.
This time, Arthur barely lets Eames lay a hand on him, laughing and sliding away from every touch, like smoke. He pushes Eames down on the bed, more gently than Eames would have thought possible, and he rides him, slowly, slowly, kissing him like the fucking is secondary to mapping out the inside of Eames' mouth.
Afterwards, he gets out of the bed and dresses, slicks his hair back and straightens his collar while Eames watches, silent, from the bed.
Before he goes, he kisses Eames and says clearly, "We'll do this again," like he's bestowing a gift, like a promise.
***
Arthur returns often, no pattern that Eames can divine, though he rarely comes less than twice each month. Eames just opens the door, and Arthur is there, or he isn’t. Arthur never brings anything; he never takes anything. (Though he always checks his pockets before he goes, leaving whatever small bauble inadvertently ended up in his possession on Eames’ nightstand).
On the night that Arthur discovers Eames’ hand-drawn deck of Caroc cards, Eames is at work, inspecting a poisoned crossbow bolt, buried in a client’s neck, feeling for a pulse, to ensure quality execution of a contract. By the time he gets back to his rooms, he’s half-frozen, because it’s late autumn, and he’s spent a good hour skulking through the moonlit alleys of the city in the middle of the night.
"These are amazing," Arthur says, when Eames comes in. He has the Caroc cards spread out on the polished wooden floor. Eames notices that he's placed them in neat lines, but roughly in the order that Eames drew them, instead of by value or suit. This is impressive, because Eames didn't draw them in any kind of order, just drew as the fancy struck him, until he had one of each.
The first card was Death, the most beloved card in any Assassin's deck. Eames keeps meaning to go back and redo that one; it’s old and amateurish compared to the rest, but he’s never quite gotten around to it.
"You did all these?" Arthur murmurs. He flips them over to observe the kite-and-dart designs on the back, running his fingers over the intricate tiled patterns, each one subtly different. "You must be out of your mind.” But he says it in muted tones, awed.
He gathers up the deck and shuffles it. Nothing too showy, but he watches Eames’ face instead of his hands as he does it.
The one thing that Eames keeps as a reminder of his childhood is his mother's little charm that she gave him. It's only a mangled little ha'penny on a string, not valuable in and of itself. But she braided the cord herself, and Eames likes to remember her under the glass ceiling of the solar, sunlight gleaming off her auburn hair, gilding her eyelashes as she braided yards and yards of lovely cord.
He thinks he’ll remember Arthur like this, soft, hooded gaze and lean, moonlit lines, his hands full of Eames’ Caroc cards, more beautiful and more dangerous than an exquisitely-crafted blade.
Arthur flicks the cards back and forth, doing slight of hand tricks with an absent air that most people have while twiddling their thumbs. The Knave of Octograms disappears to be replaced by Death, and Eames can feel the surprise stretch across his face, right where Arthur can see. But Arthur frowns a little, and looks down at his hands like he had forgotten what he was doing.
"You don't like card tricks?" he asks. Eames just shakes his head and waves the question away.
"Never mind. Let's get to bed, hmm? It's bloody cold tonight."
Arthur shuffles the deck back together and lays it on top of Eames nightstand without another word, but his touch is strange when he slips under the covers, conciliatory, welcoming instead of demanding. Eames could remember Arthur like this, warmth and peace and home, only he doesn’t know how he’d ever let go.
***
Arthur is very pale, a creature that rarely sees sunlight. The only proof that he is not a vampire is his pulse under Eames' fingers. Thin scars crisscross the backs of his hands, the sort of marks that knife-fighters often collect, and Eames can't stop looking, cataloging the history of Arthur's body, all of the scars old, but some unbearably strange, like the little round ones on his right bicep. Arthur just watches him, silent and unashamed, while he touches all of them with a kind of reverence.
Eames wants to break him down, take him apart and tear strips from him until all his mysteries are exposed, until he can gather up the pieces and turn them into something that makes sense. But Arthur keeps evading him, better than the most complex contract he's ever taken, more exciting than a fortress full of guards. He wants to pin Arthur down and solve him. He wants to spend the rest of his life mystified and fighting an illusion.
"You'd have fit right in with the assassins."
Arthur moves away from him then, casually picks up one of Eames' discarded knives and flicks it into the air, sending it in a tumbling arc, before he catches it again, practiced. "What do you think I did before I came to Ankh-Morpork?" he says.
"Then why did you join the Thieves’ Guild?" Eames asks.
This time, Arthur throws the knife at the door and it sticks in the latch, more effective against thieves than any lock. "I guess I don't like killing people for money," he replies. He shrugs, and Eames notices again that his shoulders are terribly thin — it always surprises him.
Eames tries not to think about the assassins who are in the business because they like killing for fun and the Guild is the only respectable way to go about it — or worse, the ones who are in the business because they just don’t know how to stop. "That's not really an answer."
And then Arthur is rolling onto him, bare skin everywhere, licking and biting a trail up his chest. He breathes hot air against the side of Eames' neck, making him shiver, as he says, "It's all the answer you're going to get. I hope you're not too disappointed."
But how can Eames be disappointed when Arthur is straddling his hips and pushing back against his cock like he'll die if he doesn't get fucked in the next ten seconds?
Afterwards, Eames is languid, loose-limbed, inclined to be generous towards the entire world. Arthur pulls off of Eames and rolls them over, ignoring Eames' half-hearted protests. He wraps himself around Eames and seems to be settling in for a nap. Something distant in Eames' mind crows in triumph, but mostly he's just happy to sink into the warmth of Arthur in his bed and go to sleep.
***
"What're you thinking about?" Arthur asks, rolling onto his side to look at Eames. He smiles the way he always does, as if he used to run cons, easy and bright, with a practiced tilt to his head, both inviting and irresistible.
Eames would do anything for that smile, and for the first time, he understands why assassins and thieves aren’t supposed to fraternize.
"You ever run any cons?" Eames asks — if it wasn’t what he was thinking before, it is now.
A flicker of coldness passes over Arthur's countenance. "Yeah, a few,” he says tersely. “The guys I worked with last mostly did cons. A little bit of housebreaking and assassination on the side." In this moment, his expression is all angles, sharp and too dangerous, and Eames has the disconcerting feeling that Arthur's hiding far more then he’d ever guessed.
He wonders who Arthur ran those cons for, whether he was coerced by threats or by his own sense of responsibility. He can only imagine Arthur walking into a bank, bold as you please, all professional merchant angles, except for his winsome smile, delivered just often enough to send every clerk in the place to fawning at his feet. Eames feels suddenly, irrationally jealous.
He says, "I'm sure you were magnificent," and lets the matter drop.
***
The year passes.
Eames has seen Arthur in spring, wrapped in a trenchcoat against the rain, a ridiculously stylish hat pulled low over his eyes, looking for all the world like an assassin, except for the guild pin on his lapel and the wicked, useless knife in his hand. He's unwrapped each damp layer, made Arthur come in out of the rain, run his lips over the wet, slick stretch of Arthur's throat.
Eames has seen Arthur in the summer, dressed in a pale linen suit, crisp and fresh, smelling of ginger, like he's just come from a garden party. He has licked sweat from the shaded hollows of Arthur's hips.
He's picked flame-bright leaves from the crease of Arthur's collar. If Arthur had been wearing a hat, Eames would have tucked the leaves into the band, in place of a feather. Instead, Eames does everything Arthur asks of him, fucks him open while he writhes on Eames' sheets, his dark hair wild across the pillow.
Eames has seen Arthur at a Hogswatch party, wrapped up warm and too formal, all the edge gone. He hadn't realized that there was any difference between the gentleman-thief uniform and a usual formal suit. But Arthur looks easy like this, strange and tame. Afterwards, he appears at Eames' window, slips in and rips off his clothing at the first opportunity, becoming dangerous again.
It's been a year, so Eames thinks it will be alright if he asks; he thinks he must be entitled at this point.
"Are you coming back, Arthur?"
Arthur glances at him, just for a moment, and he says curtly, “Of course.”
The real question is, Are you going to stay? Eames isn’t certain enough of the answer to ask, not yet, but the way the tips of Arthur’s ears go pink makes Eames feel delighted and distressed.
Assassins and thieves aren’t supposed to fraternize.*
It's not just that he'd do whatever Arthur asked him; that's part of it, but there's something else.
Arthur never makes any promises that he cannot keep, never commits to anything more than one more time, but he always turns up. And he treats Eames like he's the most valuable thing in the world. This is what makes them so dangerous. Not just that Eames could whatever Arthur asked, but that Arthur would do anything to keep Eames.
Thieves have to be able to turn over their take to the guild, to fence valuables and melt down even the loveliest jewels. Instead, Arthur comes to Eames like a supplicant, like an owner, like a lover, with his hands full of greed and worship and desire.
Eames still doesn't know the first damn thing about Arthur's character, about who he used to be, before he came to the city, before he took up thieving like some kind of hobby or something. Before he learned to smile like life was a con. Eames gets the ring made anyway.
The ring is gold, the band made up of a hundred delicate wires, wrapped around an uncommonly perfect tiger-eye stone, polished to a high shine, striated brown and gold. He gives it to Arthur with nothing more than a bow and a grin.
"I could have any one of your rings in ten seconds," Arthur says, turning the bit of jewelry over and over in his hands.
"This one is a gift," Eames says. "It matches your eyes."
Arthur scoffs, but he puts the ring on. It fits him perfectly, and he stares at it.
"Oh darling. Surely this isn't the first time you've worn such a fine jewel," Eames says, when Arthur doesn't speak.
"It's just that I usually have to steal it first," Arthur replies. The words are right, but he sounds stunned. He turns the ring around on his finger, slowly, as though he can feel the fineness of the metal against his skin.
"You stole my heart long ago," Eames murmurs. There, he's said it. No taking it back now.
Arthur's sharp gaze shifts from the ring to Eames. He is silent for a long moment, assessing. Eames can feel his pulse speed up, knowing that this is the moment of decision.
Then Arthur smiles his bright liar's smile, the one that Eames is coming to recognize as the perfect cover for the truth, and he says, "Acutus Id Verberat, Mr. Eames. I've never stolen anything so valuable before."
That's all but a declaration, from Arthur, and Eames goes to him, kisses him.
Arthur lets Eames slide down and suck him off, finger him open gently, sweet and slow. He gasps, says, "Can I- I want to- Eames," and runs his hands through Eames hair, not grabby at all. And he comes down Eames' throat, rubs his thumb along the corner of Eames' mouth, the curve of his lips and says, "Your mouth, gods."
He lets Eames fuck him, feeling every inch. And he hangs on, lissom and pliant, and he watches Eames all the time. It's not surrender; Arthur doesn't have surrender in him. But it's trust, and Eames can't quite take it. His heart races with something like fear and he has to close his eyes, bent forward with Arthur's legs wrapped around his waist, with Arthur's hips thrusting to meet him. It's all too much. He can't possibly remember Arthur like this -- it would kill him.
Then Arthur reaches up, puts a hand on his cheek, strokes along his cheekbone, says, "Eames, open your eyes," too tender to be a command, and Eames does it, and there he is, falling.
He says, "Oh," and Arthur kisses him once, hard, and sudden warmth flows through Eames' body, and he presses deeper into Arthur, fucks him as sweetly as he can manage, until Arthur's hips settle into a slow roll against his, easy. "Yes," Arthur breathes. He comes suddenly, with a surprised gasp, holding hard onto Eames' arms, fingers sinking into his muscle hard enough to bruise, needing an anchor. Eames own orgasm builds up gradually, washes over him, powerful as midnight, leaving him wrung out, replete.
Afterwards, Arthur wriggles under the covers and pulls Eames in close, resting their foreheads together. He says, "Yeah," and "Thanks," and "Unfortunately I have nothing to give you to symbolize my undying love, so I guess you'll have to settle for just knowing you've got it."
Eames smiles helplessly, kisses Arthur on the mouth, on the forehead, then settles back, and they fall asleep like that, bodies curving in towards each other, not quite touching, with the whole world in the space between them.
Title: Acutus Id Verberat
Characters: Arthur/Eames
Summary: Assassins and thieves aren't supposed to fraternize. Written for this prompt on the kink meme. NC-17, 6,500 words.
Notes: "Acutus id verberat" is the the Thieves' Guild motto and translates to "Whip it quick", meaning to steal something. If you're curious, the Assassins' Guild motto is, "Nil mortifi sine lucre" -- "No killing without payment". Hover cursor over asterisks for footnotes.
The guards weren't too troublesome, though he did have to deal with one rather sharply on his way through the antechamber. Hopefully that little bump won't put too much of a blot on his reputation -- it isn't as if he inhumed the bloke, at least.
Once he gets into the lord's bedchamber, it's an easy job, one good, swift pass of the knife for the client, and his employer's calling cards neatly on the nightstand. He'll leave the gambling token as well, he decides. This contract is certainly high-profile enough to warrant it, even if it is a bit of a cakewalk.
Only when he opens the door to the client's bedchamber, there's already someone there, moving about the room with silent and stealthy grace that only comes from long training.
When he enters, the housebreaker glances up. His movements are elegantly lithe, but he's dressed from head to toe in shades of grey and brown, not at all flattering and hardly stylish, not to mention that his entire visage is smeared with soot. Not a rival Assassin, then. The client is still slumbering away, snoring rather loudly.
"Who are you?" he whispers, under the noise of the client sleeping.
The figure, nearly invisible in the darkness, flashes a Thieves' Guild badge, and a grin that could launch a thousand cons. Then he slinks over to the bureau, and picks the lock on the top drawer with admirable speed. The entire glimmering contents of the drawer disappear with one pass of the Thief's gloved hands. He closes the drawer and carefully scratches out a receipt for the take. There's a very soft clink of something metallic dropping from his sleeves to the belted body of his shirt as he reaches up to fasten the official receipt to the wall over the bureau.
The client is still snoring away when the Thief swarms out of the window, dropping over the edge at a pace that would be worrying if he wasn't already worried about how the contract will turn up. It's the work of a moment to inhume the client and arrange his employer's card properly, but he decides against leaving his token, just in case the coincidence of the theft and the inhumation might be detrimental to his career.
***
By day, the Assassin lets sharply stylish rooms near the University, going by the name of Eames. He's well-liked by the neighbors, who view his profession as something like respectability. They appreciate that he's not one of the scholarship cases, and that makes them comfortable, as though he is something tame. He is charming, always kind, and unfailingly thoughtful.
Today, however, he's walking down a very disreputable street in his least stylish clothes. A keen observer might notice that the disrepute of his clothing is more in the suggestion of his movement and posture than in anything about the garments themselves.
He arrives at the Thieves' Guild unmolested even by Beggars, which is a feat in and of itself. He reaches the Guild receptionist in good order, though the yard and halls throng with back-alley toughs and young pickpockets. All around him, greedy eyes bulge as he puts down a heavy purse on the desk. The gamine young lady behind the desk raises her eyebrows coolly -- he'd be willing to bet that she has just flicked a switchblade open out of his line of sight. He ignores that.
"I want the name of the Thief who robbed Lord -----'s home last night."
She shrugs and doesn't make a move towards the money; he admires her restraint. "Coulda been anyone. We don't work on contract like you Assassin types."
He leans forward a little, lets the posh accent slip. "Come on, love. I'm looking for a top-story man, slim, about my height. Clever enough to write his own receipts, even."
"Alright, maybe I know a couple of guys," she admits. "But I don’t see what business it is of yours."
He leans in further, this time to invite confidence rather than to threaten. "Last night, I went to inhume a client, professional as you please, and one of your top-story men was already there, robbing him blind."
"Top-story men don't 'rob people blind'," Eames hears, "They 'extract items of value'. What are you here for, Assassin?"
Eames turns around slowly, so as to allow his suspicions proper time to simmer before the identity of the speaker is revealed. Sure enough, it's the thief.
He's standing at the door, flanked by two huge thieves, lurkers, by the look of them. He's wearing a suit, the sort of thing that a rich merchant might wear, but dressed up with the Guild coat of arms pinned to his lapel, and a large, curving knife in one hand.* One of the lurkers is carrying a large bag, on which are the printed letters, 'Protection Fee’ as well as the Guild coat of arms.
In the Guild's reception room, surrounded by hulking extortion artists and unkempt pickpockets, he looks smaller than Eames remembers, thin instead of lithe, and rather unappealingly sallow. But the daylight catches on the elegant angles of his face, and finds bronze lights in his dark hair. He's not smiling, though. Pity -- Eames would rather like to see it again.
Right now, the thief is waiting for an explanation, one brow raised. Eames can but oblige him.
"I'm just investigating an irregularity," Eames says. "We do not expect to meet a member of the Thieves' Guild in the course of our work. The Seamstress' Guild, perhaps, but they are rarely in the process of extracting anything but- well, I'm sure you understand," he concludes when the girl at the desk snickers.
"Why don't we discuss this further in private," the thief says, gesturing towards the stairs that lead to the Guild quarters, where members can rent rooms. His expression is unreadable -- Eames would call it irritation, but there's something about the slight raise of his eyebrows that looks more like amusement.
"Wot about this lot, guv?" the receptionist calls after them.
"It's a bribe, Sylvie," the thief says, over his shoulder. "Fifty percent goes to the Guild."
Eames notices that he doesn't mention where the rest of it goes, but he can guess by the grin that spreads across Sylvie's face.
He pauses in front of an unremarkable door, and offers his hand to Eames.
"You can call me Arthur."
Eames makes a show of counting his fingers after his hand is released. Arthur rolls his eyes and looks more annoyed by the moment.
There are an alarming number of traps on the door to Arthur's room, but, Eames notices, no lock. Arthur disarms all of the traps with startling speed. "Keeps the unskilled out," Arthur says, as he works, "And there's nothing of value here, anyway."
Eames looks around the room, and feels inclined to disagree with that statement. There's a mirror propped over the wash basin, large enough that Eames can see his entire head and shoulders -- good for practicing expressions in, and a mirror like that doesn't come cheap. There's only one knife on a rack clearly intended to hold several blades -- it's a short thing, small enough to easily slip into a sleeve, sharp enough to shave with.
Arthur sees him inspecting the room, and makes no protest when Eames takes the small knife off of the rack to test the balance. It's weighted for fighting, the balance resting nicely on his first two fingers as he fits his hand to the hilt. The wrapping is new, almost completely unworn, though the blade is dark with age and clearly well-used.
After Arthur has put away his official things -- the receipt book, the big knife, which on closer inspection is dull and too unwieldy to use, and the thieves' license -- he leans against his wardrobe, arms crossed.
"Why are you really here?" he asks. "No one comes to the Guild out of simple curiosity. Unless you're an idiot, of course. I'd believe that."
Eames can only shrug. Arthur is right -- most assassins would've sent a runner or something to do the investigation, if they hadn’t reported the incident directly to the Assassins' Guild council and promptly forgotten about it.
Arthur looks him up and down critically, and then he says, “I see.”
Eames has a line that he uses to enthrall prospective lovers in polite conversation. Anyone who doesn't take him up on it isn't wild enough to be his lover. You smell lovely -- something sweet and something sharp, like a rose that's already drawn blood.
Arthur would have laughed at his conceit, Eames is sure of it. But he thinks that Arthur wouldn't have stopped at laughter. Arthur would have let his smile slip away, leaned in and said confidentially, "Blood isn't what I want to draw from you tonight," into the crook of Eames' neck, clear and brazen.
He wonders if Arthur has a line. “We can't fuck here,” seems to have worked well on Eames; perhaps it works well on the sort of people Arthur likes to bed. Certainly, it worked on Eames.
***
They make their way to Eames' rooms by way of Broad Way. Once they leave the Thieves’ Guild, Eames straightens his shirt, standing his collar up properly, and contriving to look more purposely rumpled. Arthur doesn't have to change a thing about his appearance.
"What have you been up to, dressed like that?” Eames asks. “Extracting items of value from obscenely rich men, again?"
"You could say that. I was making appointments with Guild clients this morning -- collecting fees, writing receipts -- just administrative stuff," Arthur tells him. Eames can't put a finger on his accent. It's sharp vowels, hacked up fine, and mashed into a slurry of consonants. Eames has never heard anything like it.
"Doing paperwork for nobs?" Eames says. "I'd have thought you were threatening to gut them, considering that knife you had, and the two blokes you were with."
For a moment, Arthur looks sheepish. He rubs the back of his neck, and says, "They could use the overtime -- lurkers don't get a lot of daytime work, and they've got families to provide for, you know. The rich like the added drama."
Eames laughs and walks a little nearer to Arthur, so that their shoulders brush with every step. This close, Arthur smells of dust and the lingering hint of perfume, like he's been thieving, breaking into some rich noble's home in the middle of the day. Eames loves it.
Arthur, it turns out, is a lot more than just a top-story man. He manages to spirit away every one of Eames' stylish rings before they make it back to his rooms. This impressive and a little frustrating, as Eames can't seem to catch Arthur in the act.
It's Eames' fault, really. He starts the whole thing by informing Arthur that he used to be a bit of a pickpocket in his youth. He only says it to get Arthur to smile -- it’s true enough, but hardly the sort of thing that an aspiring assassin likes to admit to.
Then Arthur challenges him to pick his pockets. They’re simple, unfastened, and he keeps his purse in an outside pocket, as if he’s some careless, rich foreigner, to whom an Ankh-Morpork dollar is worth less than a loaf of bread. He smiles, all dimpling challenge, and Eames can do absolutely nothing but oblige him.
When he withdraws, Arthur tips his head back into the afternoon sun, so that the light spills down his face and lights up his brown eyes with startling clarity, and he says, smiling, "You'll do." And the next time Eames checks, Arthur's purse is back in its proper place, and his ruby ring is on Arthur's finger.
He says nothing, but when he tries to pick the purse again, still carelessly in the outside pocket of Arthur's jacket, Arthur catches hold of his wrist right there in the main thoroughfare and shakes a finger in his face, as if he is a naughty child.
"Doesn't count if you get caught, Mr. Eames."
Eames notices that the finger in his face is wearing his emerald ring. The firm press of Arthur's hand around his wrist is odd and comfortable, as if it is meant to be there. Arthur's smile is both lovely and wicked.
***
By the time they get back to Eames' rooms, he’s all but dying to discover what other feelings Arthur's deliciously clever fingers can draw from his body.
Arthur pulls the door shut behind him and catches hold of Eames' wrist again, as soon as the latch clicks shut. Eames is pressing him against the door in an instant.
Arthur tastes like weak coffee and rich biscuits. Arthur smells like a gentleman, and moves like a killer who knows his work. Underneath his gentleman-thief's disguise, Arthur’s bare skin smells like silk and metal, and a little like a whetstone, steel and earth. Eames runs his hands through Arthur's slicked-back hair, and it comes undone, falling around his face, softening the angles of his expression, transforming him into a sweet, innocent young thing, untouched by corruption and deceit. Eames kisses him because he simply can’t restrain himself.
"Assassins and thieves aren't supposed to fraternize," Eames manages, breathlessly. "Surely you know that."
Arthur shoves them around, displaying astonishing strength for his slim build, so that Eames ends with his back to the door. "I'm a top-story man, Mr. Eames. I take what I want."
He uses his whole body to pin Eames against the door, grabs Eames' wrists in one hand, fingers sure and strong.
Usually Eames would protest being pressed up against his own door and ravished, but Arthur is doing such a wonderful job of it, all lips and teeth and hot mouth. There's a moment of awkwardness when Arthur finds the knife that Eames had hidden under his shirt. Eames starts to say something, but he stops when Arthur slides to his knees and proceeds to find every last concealed weapon, and he lets each one fall to the floor around them, tangled with their clothing. His hands move blurred-quick across Eames' body, light as air, and Eames breathes in the scent of him, pressed so close.
"Gods, you're beautiful," Eames says. He runs his hands up Arthur's back, the lean, muscled curve of his spine. He palms Arthur's arse, eliciting a groan of desire.
"Come on, come on," Arthur says, and Eames lets himself be pulled forward and all but thrown across the room, onto the bed. Arthur is there like a spell has summoned him, holding Eames down by his hips and shoulders, sudden, immediate.
"You're going to fuck me, right," he demands, not a question, and Eames can only stare for a moment, caught between relief and surprise. That is not where he thought this was going. "You better be going to fuck me," Arthur says, when he doesn't respond, "Or I came here for nothing."
That gets Eames moving, and he grabs Arthur's arse, hard this time, pulling him close. "How can I resist this?" so that Arthur drops his head to Eames' shoulder and groans.
It does not, however, look much like Arthur wants it, as he's still got Eames pressed to the bed, biting bright marks on Eames' throat, across his collarbone. "I just -," Arthur says. "You. You're too godsdamn cocky to be worried about fucking a top-story man."
Eames doesn't quite know if he's supposed to apologize for that, but Arthur adds, "You're perfect." and Eames says, instead, "Arthur, Arthur," when he mouths at Eames' nipple, sucking on it, grazing it lightly with his teeth.
Arthur moves like he wants to own every inch of Eames, all broad, sweeping touches. He runs his hands down Eames sides, sinking is fingers into his hips, hard. He licks a long, wet trail from thigh to throat, leaving behind a cool line. Eames lets Arthur wash over him, a little desperate, little rough, and it isn't until he growls, "Come on, assassin," that Eames gets it.
Arthur doesn't want someone to lie back and make sweet love to him. Arthur wants a godsdamn cocky assassin. Eames wraps a hand around the back of Arthur's neck, pulling him in for a kiss, holding on to him when he tries to break it, and when he goes up on his knees, Eames takes advantage, flipping them so that he ends on top, straddling Arthur's body. Underneath him, Arthur jerks hard enough to break the kiss, but he grabs onto Eames' hips and performs a positively filthy grind.
Eames can hear him breathing in short, hard pants, making ridiculously hot noises, sharp, like they are being punched out of him. His pupils are blown, his lips are parted softly, and his hair is splayed across Eames' pillow. The sheer want in his expression makes Eames heart stutter and pound.
"Like that, darling?" Eames says right into Arthur's ear, playing up his most sophisticated accent. "You can’t make me to roll over for you, love."
He pushes down harder with his hips, gets a knee in between Arthur's legs and shoves them apart, half-surprised when he doesn't have to fight for it.
Arthur kisses him thoroughly, as deft with his tongue as he his with his fingers. He writhes like a snake, so strong and lithe; he makes Eames grab his wrists and force them against the mattress, lest he be flipped again. Eames is certain that the only reason he's successful in keeping Arthur pinned is that Arthur is exactly where he wants to be.
Eames breathes him in and lets Arthur twist his hands away, captivated by the economical turn of his wrists. He’s never encountered anything more lust-inducing than the coil of Arthur's body underneath him, dangerous and full of secrets. He's distracted from his admiration by Arthur pressing a vial of oil into his hand and contriving to twist around. Suddenly, Eames' cock is pressed to the perfect curve of Arthur's arse.
Arthur says, "Eames, fuck me," hoarsely, like he can't wait, and Eames obliges him, slicks his fingers and slowly works two of them into the grasping heat of Arthur’s body, working him open.
Eames doesn't think Arthur’s nearly ready when he pulls away, but Arthur clearly disagrees, reaching for Eames' cock and positioning it just so, leaning back on it. Eames gasps as the head slips into Arthur's body, hot and too tight, but Arthur just keeps pushing back. His shoulders shake under the strain of his control, he breathes hard, as if in the grip of some powerful emotion. And when his arse settles on Eames' thighs at last, he edges his knees just a bit wider and lets out a great sigh.
"Gods, yes," Arthur whispers, and Eames can't help wrapping his arms around him, securing Arthur to him, impaled on his cock.
The skin of Arthur’s back shifts hypnotically over his whipcord muscles, slick with sweat. Eames waits until he feels Arthur opening around him, his body welcoming, before he starts rocking into him. He can see the way Arthur’s hands scrabble for purchase on his smooth bedclothes, digging in for leverage so that he can push back to meet every one of Eames’ thrusts in a steadily building rhythm until they’re crashing together, even as Arthur grits out, “You can- oh fuck- Harder, dammit,” and Eames strives to obey, saying, “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” even though he knows that it’s probably just an assumed name, meaningless.
Eames drags Arthur upright into his lap and the weight of Arthur’s body pushes him a fraction deeper, and fuck, it’s so good. He hooks an arm across Arthur’s chest grabbing onto his shoulder, and slams into him, too desperate even to say his name, and oh gods, he desperately wants to hold off, wants to feel Arthur’s body shake and clench around him while Eames fucks him through his orgasm, but then Arthur reaches back and locks his arm around the back of Eames’ neck, and Eames’ world explodes as he comes, spilling hot into Arthur’s body, barely aware when Arthur cries out and arches back hard, grabs his own cock, jerks once, twice, and comes with a choked-off shout, all over Eames’ sheets.
Breathless and spent, Eames rests his forehead between Arthur’s shoulder-blades for a minute, trying to gather the energy to move. Arthur makes a soft noise when he pulls out, almost a whimper, and slumps forward onto the mattress, stretching out slowly. He looks utterly debauched, loose-limbed and pleased — there’s a trickle of come on the inside of his thigh — and when Eames catches his eye, he smiles broadly.
Eames settles down on the bed next to him, cuddling close. The last things he sees as he slips into sleep are his rings, lined up on the nightstand, right in front of his face. He doesn’t even know when Arthur put them there, and he’s too sated to bother about it.
Eames is roused, just barely, by Arthur getting out of bed, getting dressed in complete silence.
Arthur leaves without ceremony, pressing a kiss to Eames' temple and closing the door gently behind him, before Eames even wakes up enough to frame a protest. He only dreams Arthur saying softly, "We'll do this again," as he slips out.
***
After about a week, Eames stops thinking about it all the time. He finds a nice, complex contract and concentrates on his job, instead of remembering the way Arthur pushed back on his cock, eager, but never easy, wanting Eames, and wanting to fight for every moment of it.
The contract is good for him, keeps him occupied, instead of continually looking for a certain top-story man. Except that he does far more preliminary work than the contract really needs, finding every excuse to wander about the richest neighborhoods in Ankh-Morpork. Except for the way he leaves every single one of his rings lined up neatly on the nightstand; ruby, gold, emerald, onyx, sapphire, marcasite.
But he's not really thinking of Arthur all that much, so when he comes back to his rooms and finds Arthur already there, Eames pauses by the door in surprise. Arthur is idly cleaning his nails with a small knife, back against the headboard and legs sprawled in front of him on Eames' bed. He glances up when Eames comes in, and the knife vanishes.
"What's this?" Eames says, after a moment, when his heart has slowed somewhat and he is able to ease his hand away from the hilt of his own knife. He catches sight of Arthur’s boots, set neatly next to the bed, and for some reason, that sets him at ease more than anything else.
Arthur just stares at him, as if he's waiting for Eames to decipher the obvious. Finally, he says, "I said we'd do it again, last time." He frowns abruptly, as though something has just occurred to him. "Do you not want to?"
"No, no," Eames hastens to assure him, "I want to, right enough." He quickly strips off his belt and various attached knives and poisons and small crossbow bolts. Arthur smiles his lock-picking, safe-cracking smile, and Eames goes to him at once, utterly charmed.
This time, Arthur barely lets Eames lay a hand on him, laughing and sliding away from every touch, like smoke. He pushes Eames down on the bed, more gently than Eames would have thought possible, and he rides him, slowly, slowly, kissing him like the fucking is secondary to mapping out the inside of Eames' mouth.
Afterwards, he gets out of the bed and dresses, slicks his hair back and straightens his collar while Eames watches, silent, from the bed.
Before he goes, he kisses Eames and says clearly, "We'll do this again," like he's bestowing a gift, like a promise.
***
Arthur returns often, no pattern that Eames can divine, though he rarely comes less than twice each month. Eames just opens the door, and Arthur is there, or he isn’t. Arthur never brings anything; he never takes anything. (Though he always checks his pockets before he goes, leaving whatever small bauble inadvertently ended up in his possession on Eames’ nightstand).
On the night that Arthur discovers Eames’ hand-drawn deck of Caroc cards, Eames is at work, inspecting a poisoned crossbow bolt, buried in a client’s neck, feeling for a pulse, to ensure quality execution of a contract. By the time he gets back to his rooms, he’s half-frozen, because it’s late autumn, and he’s spent a good hour skulking through the moonlit alleys of the city in the middle of the night.
"These are amazing," Arthur says, when Eames comes in. He has the Caroc cards spread out on the polished wooden floor. Eames notices that he's placed them in neat lines, but roughly in the order that Eames drew them, instead of by value or suit. This is impressive, because Eames didn't draw them in any kind of order, just drew as the fancy struck him, until he had one of each.
The first card was Death, the most beloved card in any Assassin's deck. Eames keeps meaning to go back and redo that one; it’s old and amateurish compared to the rest, but he’s never quite gotten around to it.
"You did all these?" Arthur murmurs. He flips them over to observe the kite-and-dart designs on the back, running his fingers over the intricate tiled patterns, each one subtly different. "You must be out of your mind.” But he says it in muted tones, awed.
He gathers up the deck and shuffles it. Nothing too showy, but he watches Eames’ face instead of his hands as he does it.
The one thing that Eames keeps as a reminder of his childhood is his mother's little charm that she gave him. It's only a mangled little ha'penny on a string, not valuable in and of itself. But she braided the cord herself, and Eames likes to remember her under the glass ceiling of the solar, sunlight gleaming off her auburn hair, gilding her eyelashes as she braided yards and yards of lovely cord.
He thinks he’ll remember Arthur like this, soft, hooded gaze and lean, moonlit lines, his hands full of Eames’ Caroc cards, more beautiful and more dangerous than an exquisitely-crafted blade.
Arthur flicks the cards back and forth, doing slight of hand tricks with an absent air that most people have while twiddling their thumbs. The Knave of Octograms disappears to be replaced by Death, and Eames can feel the surprise stretch across his face, right where Arthur can see. But Arthur frowns a little, and looks down at his hands like he had forgotten what he was doing.
"You don't like card tricks?" he asks. Eames just shakes his head and waves the question away.
"Never mind. Let's get to bed, hmm? It's bloody cold tonight."
Arthur shuffles the deck back together and lays it on top of Eames nightstand without another word, but his touch is strange when he slips under the covers, conciliatory, welcoming instead of demanding. Eames could remember Arthur like this, warmth and peace and home, only he doesn’t know how he’d ever let go.
***
Arthur is very pale, a creature that rarely sees sunlight. The only proof that he is not a vampire is his pulse under Eames' fingers. Thin scars crisscross the backs of his hands, the sort of marks that knife-fighters often collect, and Eames can't stop looking, cataloging the history of Arthur's body, all of the scars old, but some unbearably strange, like the little round ones on his right bicep. Arthur just watches him, silent and unashamed, while he touches all of them with a kind of reverence.
Eames wants to break him down, take him apart and tear strips from him until all his mysteries are exposed, until he can gather up the pieces and turn them into something that makes sense. But Arthur keeps evading him, better than the most complex contract he's ever taken, more exciting than a fortress full of guards. He wants to pin Arthur down and solve him. He wants to spend the rest of his life mystified and fighting an illusion.
"You'd have fit right in with the assassins."
Arthur moves away from him then, casually picks up one of Eames' discarded knives and flicks it into the air, sending it in a tumbling arc, before he catches it again, practiced. "What do you think I did before I came to Ankh-Morpork?" he says.
"Then why did you join the Thieves’ Guild?" Eames asks.
This time, Arthur throws the knife at the door and it sticks in the latch, more effective against thieves than any lock. "I guess I don't like killing people for money," he replies. He shrugs, and Eames notices again that his shoulders are terribly thin — it always surprises him.
Eames tries not to think about the assassins who are in the business because they like killing for fun and the Guild is the only respectable way to go about it — or worse, the ones who are in the business because they just don’t know how to stop. "That's not really an answer."
And then Arthur is rolling onto him, bare skin everywhere, licking and biting a trail up his chest. He breathes hot air against the side of Eames' neck, making him shiver, as he says, "It's all the answer you're going to get. I hope you're not too disappointed."
But how can Eames be disappointed when Arthur is straddling his hips and pushing back against his cock like he'll die if he doesn't get fucked in the next ten seconds?
Afterwards, Eames is languid, loose-limbed, inclined to be generous towards the entire world. Arthur pulls off of Eames and rolls them over, ignoring Eames' half-hearted protests. He wraps himself around Eames and seems to be settling in for a nap. Something distant in Eames' mind crows in triumph, but mostly he's just happy to sink into the warmth of Arthur in his bed and go to sleep.
***
"What're you thinking about?" Arthur asks, rolling onto his side to look at Eames. He smiles the way he always does, as if he used to run cons, easy and bright, with a practiced tilt to his head, both inviting and irresistible.
Eames would do anything for that smile, and for the first time, he understands why assassins and thieves aren’t supposed to fraternize.
"You ever run any cons?" Eames asks — if it wasn’t what he was thinking before, it is now.
A flicker of coldness passes over Arthur's countenance. "Yeah, a few,” he says tersely. “The guys I worked with last mostly did cons. A little bit of housebreaking and assassination on the side." In this moment, his expression is all angles, sharp and too dangerous, and Eames has the disconcerting feeling that Arthur's hiding far more then he’d ever guessed.
He wonders who Arthur ran those cons for, whether he was coerced by threats or by his own sense of responsibility. He can only imagine Arthur walking into a bank, bold as you please, all professional merchant angles, except for his winsome smile, delivered just often enough to send every clerk in the place to fawning at his feet. Eames feels suddenly, irrationally jealous.
He says, "I'm sure you were magnificent," and lets the matter drop.
***
The year passes.
Eames has seen Arthur in spring, wrapped in a trenchcoat against the rain, a ridiculously stylish hat pulled low over his eyes, looking for all the world like an assassin, except for the guild pin on his lapel and the wicked, useless knife in his hand. He's unwrapped each damp layer, made Arthur come in out of the rain, run his lips over the wet, slick stretch of Arthur's throat.
Eames has seen Arthur in the summer, dressed in a pale linen suit, crisp and fresh, smelling of ginger, like he's just come from a garden party. He has licked sweat from the shaded hollows of Arthur's hips.
He's picked flame-bright leaves from the crease of Arthur's collar. If Arthur had been wearing a hat, Eames would have tucked the leaves into the band, in place of a feather. Instead, Eames does everything Arthur asks of him, fucks him open while he writhes on Eames' sheets, his dark hair wild across the pillow.
Eames has seen Arthur at a Hogswatch party, wrapped up warm and too formal, all the edge gone. He hadn't realized that there was any difference between the gentleman-thief uniform and a usual formal suit. But Arthur looks easy like this, strange and tame. Afterwards, he appears at Eames' window, slips in and rips off his clothing at the first opportunity, becoming dangerous again.
It's been a year, so Eames thinks it will be alright if he asks; he thinks he must be entitled at this point.
"Are you coming back, Arthur?"
Arthur glances at him, just for a moment, and he says curtly, “Of course.”
The real question is, Are you going to stay? Eames isn’t certain enough of the answer to ask, not yet, but the way the tips of Arthur’s ears go pink makes Eames feel delighted and distressed.
Assassins and thieves aren’t supposed to fraternize.*
It's not just that he'd do whatever Arthur asked him; that's part of it, but there's something else.
Arthur never makes any promises that he cannot keep, never commits to anything more than one more time, but he always turns up. And he treats Eames like he's the most valuable thing in the world. This is what makes them so dangerous. Not just that Eames could whatever Arthur asked, but that Arthur would do anything to keep Eames.
Thieves have to be able to turn over their take to the guild, to fence valuables and melt down even the loveliest jewels. Instead, Arthur comes to Eames like a supplicant, like an owner, like a lover, with his hands full of greed and worship and desire.
Eames still doesn't know the first damn thing about Arthur's character, about who he used to be, before he came to the city, before he took up thieving like some kind of hobby or something. Before he learned to smile like life was a con. Eames gets the ring made anyway.
The ring is gold, the band made up of a hundred delicate wires, wrapped around an uncommonly perfect tiger-eye stone, polished to a high shine, striated brown and gold. He gives it to Arthur with nothing more than a bow and a grin.
"I could have any one of your rings in ten seconds," Arthur says, turning the bit of jewelry over and over in his hands.
"This one is a gift," Eames says. "It matches your eyes."
Arthur scoffs, but he puts the ring on. It fits him perfectly, and he stares at it.
"Oh darling. Surely this isn't the first time you've worn such a fine jewel," Eames says, when Arthur doesn't speak.
"It's just that I usually have to steal it first," Arthur replies. The words are right, but he sounds stunned. He turns the ring around on his finger, slowly, as though he can feel the fineness of the metal against his skin.
"You stole my heart long ago," Eames murmurs. There, he's said it. No taking it back now.
Arthur's sharp gaze shifts from the ring to Eames. He is silent for a long moment, assessing. Eames can feel his pulse speed up, knowing that this is the moment of decision.
Then Arthur smiles his bright liar's smile, the one that Eames is coming to recognize as the perfect cover for the truth, and he says, "Acutus Id Verberat, Mr. Eames. I've never stolen anything so valuable before."
That's all but a declaration, from Arthur, and Eames goes to him, kisses him.
Arthur lets Eames slide down and suck him off, finger him open gently, sweet and slow. He gasps, says, "Can I- I want to- Eames," and runs his hands through Eames hair, not grabby at all. And he comes down Eames' throat, rubs his thumb along the corner of Eames' mouth, the curve of his lips and says, "Your mouth, gods."
He lets Eames fuck him, feeling every inch. And he hangs on, lissom and pliant, and he watches Eames all the time. It's not surrender; Arthur doesn't have surrender in him. But it's trust, and Eames can't quite take it. His heart races with something like fear and he has to close his eyes, bent forward with Arthur's legs wrapped around his waist, with Arthur's hips thrusting to meet him. It's all too much. He can't possibly remember Arthur like this -- it would kill him.
Then Arthur reaches up, puts a hand on his cheek, strokes along his cheekbone, says, "Eames, open your eyes," too tender to be a command, and Eames does it, and there he is, falling.
He says, "Oh," and Arthur kisses him once, hard, and sudden warmth flows through Eames' body, and he presses deeper into Arthur, fucks him as sweetly as he can manage, until Arthur's hips settle into a slow roll against his, easy. "Yes," Arthur breathes. He comes suddenly, with a surprised gasp, holding hard onto Eames' arms, fingers sinking into his muscle hard enough to bruise, needing an anchor. Eames own orgasm builds up gradually, washes over him, powerful as midnight, leaving him wrung out, replete.
Afterwards, Arthur wriggles under the covers and pulls Eames in close, resting their foreheads together. He says, "Yeah," and "Thanks," and "Unfortunately I have nothing to give you to symbolize my undying love, so I guess you'll have to settle for just knowing you've got it."
Eames smiles helplessly, kisses Arthur on the mouth, on the forehead, then settles back, and they fall asleep like that, bodies curving in towards each other, not quite touching, with the whole world in the space between them.
