Arthur waits for more, for a smirk or a laugh or even a dumb eyebrow waggle - fucking anything. Anything. Some sort of sign that this is just another Eamesian joke, because he doesnât think he can survive the embarrassment of assuming sincerity and taking this seriously only to find out that such feelings are merely one-sided.Â
Heâs reminded with a visceral jolt of their first time together - or rather, within the minutes preceding, the exact moment he stared at Eames and realized the thiefâs nonchalance, so direly at odds with his own jittery, chattering nerves.Â
How is it that he, at thirty-six, after over fifteen years of being so utterly and unwaveringly capable that he basically has what is as close to fucking tenure as one can get in dreamshare, is still susceptible to feeling horribly naked before the eyes of this one, singular man.
âWhere would we even get married?â Arthur blurts out before his (over)thinking induces an aneurysm. âI mean, the practical benefits of marriage require at least some level of permanent residence in the country in which the marriage license is obtained; half the point of getting married is the legal rights that come with it - and this doesnât even touch on the nightmare of navigating the fucking mess of fake identities we both have and making sure we get married under ones that arenât wanted in more than four - no, three - countries,
âUnless you want to use our real ones, which -â would mean that this is real, that this isnât a joke, and that this is happening. That they have just or are currently, in this exact moment proposing to each other in their own bizarre, incomprehensible ways.Â
Arthur looks hopelessly at Eames.Â
âAre we really doing this? Right now?âÂ
Arthur thinks, and Eames waits, and he thinks he just might explode into flames. Heâs not usually the type to get nervous or anxious or anticipatory -- whatever will happen will happen, and heâll deal with it. Thatâs how he usually handles things. But this? This isnât like any situation heâs ever encountered, and Arthur has always been his weak point. Arthur, Eames canât read. So heâs left struggling in the silence, just waiting, wondering if heâs made one of the largest mistakes in his life.
Then Arthur speaks, but it doesnât serve to ease Eamesâ worries. He blinks and frowns; thatâs Arthurâs response? Heâs worried about where theyâll get married? Of all the responses heâd expected, that wasnât one of them. Arthur starts droning on, and Eames fights the urge to sigh. He suddenly feels fidgety; frustrated. He shouldnât have gone here; Arthurâs made that clear. Of all the things to worry about... Normally Arthurâs ramblings are adorable or endearing, but now? A perfect indicator of how badly heâs fucked up.
But then... Then, Arthur looks at him, hopelessness in his eyes. Eames realizes with a sudden jolt, that for once in his life, Arthur doesnât know what heâs doing. And neither does Eames. Theyâre in this boat together. Except... Except Eames has always had Arthurâs surety to lean on, and now he has none.Â
Are we really doing this? Right now? He wants to say no. He wants to take the easy out, and tell Arthur to forget it, and he wants to continue on like nothing has happened. But heâs never been a fan of backing down, and now that the thoughtâs in his head, he wonât be able to shake it out.
So he takes a step forward, steels himself, and gives Arthur perhaps the most honest look heâs ever given him as he stands no more than a foot or two away, taking one of Arthurâs hands in his.
âYes,â he says, utterly confident, despite the hammering of his heart in his chest. âIs it really such a crazy idea?â To Eames, nothing sounds crazy. Not with the lives they lead. âTell me...â Eames says, and suddenly his voice grows quieter, more intimate, light gaze studying Arthurâs face closely. âTell me that if everything could work out perfectly, itâs not what youâd want, and Iâll forget about it right here and now.â He tilts his head. âBut if it is what youâd want, then... Donât we deserve to give it a chance?â A smirk tugs onto his face then. âYouâve taken plenty of chances on me before. How many of those have you regretted?âÂ
