Title: The Wingman
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~3300
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Eames' wingman is his dog. [AU]
Author's Note: Written for this prompt on inception_kink: Arthur has a morning jog every day and recently something has appeared to ruin his routine which would be Eames and his dog who seems to like Arthur as much as Eames does. Cue Eames trying to get Arthur to see him outside of his 'daily routine' and getting treated like a weirdo. Would love to see a make out scene in the mud (yup...mud, sorry...) and you'd make my day if they went back and actually had sex at home (on the living room floor, in the shower whatever you like!)
I was feeling sad about having to end the Bad Dream series, so I went shopping for a prompt and ended up writing ~3000 words of MINDLESS, UNADULTERATED FLUFF. Sadly I could not fit any sexing in.
Part one of the Wingman verse.




Arthur loves routine.

Every morning is like clockwork: He gets up at five o'clock, dresses, and leaves for his morning jog. He's back by six, whereupon he showers, dresses for work, makes coffee, eats breakfast, and is out the door in a timely fashion for the long commute to his respectable white-collar job which he's had for three years.

This is the routine, rain or shine, and this is the reason why even a small disturbance throws his whole morning off balance, even if only by a minute or two.

He's just about to round the block, same route he jogs every morning, when a noisy bark splits the calm morning and Arthur's legs are immediately molested.

“Whoops,” says the stranger facing him blithely.

Arthur scrambles backward in an undignified retreat just as the stranger gives the leash in his hand a tug, and the assailant at the end falls back. It's a dog.

“Sorry about that.” The man is broad and scruffy. He's smoking a cigarette and surveying Arthur under hooded eyes. His voice is an English drawl. “He must like you.”

Arthur is completely thrown. He knows the dogs in this neighbourhood; they keep to themselves, and there aren't that many. His surprise makes him rude: “I don't know you.”

“Nope, just moved here. Still jet-lagged. What's your excuse for being up and about at arse o'clock in the morning?”

“I'm jogging,” Arthur says, instantly rankled. “I always jog at this time.”

“Christ,” says the stranger. “What a shame, I'd enjoy the view at a more decent time.”

Arthur has no time to register that he is being potentially hit on, by a man before the dog comes sniffing forward, nosing at his runners. He recoils. The man smiles, and there's something smoky and dark in his lazily hooded eyes.

“This is Sam,” he says. “Fresh out of quarantine. He won't give you foot-and-mouth, if that's what you're worried about.”

“I don't like dogs,” says Arthur. Then he starts jogging away.

“I'm Eames,” the stranger calls after him. He pretends not to hear.

Now his whole day is out of kilter. Great.


+
The next day he's jogging past a long row of hedges when, approaching the house that has been up for sale for over a year, the dog bursts into his path.

Arthur jumps, and bristles. The dog stands and wags. It's a weird-looking dog, he thinks. It's beagle-like, white and brown with long, floppy ears, but the white fur on its chest is bristly and its muzzle is absurdly tufted and whiskery, giving it a seal-like, laughing face.

Eames is leaning on the railing of the porch, smoking.

“If it isn't the gorgeous jogger,” he says.

“Could you please control your dog,” says Arthur sharply.

“He fancies you.”

“Don't be ridiculous. It's a dog. And a boy,” Arthur adds.

“What, dogs can't be gay?” says Eames, grinning. “America! Honestly.”

Arthur doesn't move until Eames snaps his fingers and the dog turns and trots back through the gate toward him.

“Have a nice jog.” Eames waves. Arthur doesn't look back.


+
Sam -- the dog -- greets Arthur at the gate of Eames' property every morning that week.

“Still jet-lagged, would you believe?” says Eames, draped lazily over the porch, invariably with a cigarette dangling from his fingers. “Otherwise we'd be in bed.”

Arthur doesn't really want to admit the truth -- that he's too wary to make his way around the dog until Eames calls it off. For this reason, he also doesn't cross over to the other side of the street, which would be admitting defeat. They seem to sense it, though, both Eames and the dog, because its seal face lifts with laughter whenever Arthur has to slow to a reluctant halt in front of it, and Eames takes a little longer every morning to recall it.

One morning, the dog's face isn't laughing. Its forehead is wrinkled entreatingly, and it comes tottering around the gate with one leg hugged up to its chest. Arthur frowns, inching closer despite himself. Probably it's been running loose around the neighbourhood and gotten itself injured because Eames is too lazy and irresponsible to close his gate or leash it, the asshole. Arthur doesn't even know what he's doing with a dog in the first place.

The dog is making these ridiculous sad eyes at him, even more seal-like for the way its ears are folded back, and Arthur is just starting to stoop down when he hears a burst of laughter. Eames is leaning over the gate.

“He's a funny bugger, isn't he? He did this for two weeks last time he saw my suitcase come out. He likes the attention.”

Sam puts his paw down and his face immediately splits into its usual grin, like he's in on the joke and just couldn't be more tickled that Arthur fell for it. Arthur straightens up stiffly.

“Surely you're not still jet-lagged.”

“Well, no,” Eames admits easily, shrugging, “but now you've got this one all excited to see you in the morning, he won't give me any peace.”

“That's absurd.”

“He wants to go jogging with you.”

“No, he does not.”

“Yes. He said so himself.”

“There are leash laws,” says Arthur impatiently. He starts walking away. “Walk your own dog, Mr. Eames.”

Eames shrugs again and turns away, strolling up the path to his own house. But he doesn't call the dog, and when Arthur hears the click of nails on the sidewalk, he realizes the stupid thing is following him.

Fine. He starts jogging. It'll probably lose interest and wander back to the house or off to sniff a mailbox in a minute.

But it doesn't. It keeps pace right alongside him in a steady trot.

Eames' house is five minutes away from Arthur's and he jogs for an hour every morning. The dog completes the whole jog with him. Every time a car or a truck rumbles past them, he half expects the dog to dart out into traffic or something, but it never does. It trots at his heel like a professionally-trained show dog and doesn't waver from his side. They meet only one other jogger, who doesn't even give them a second glance.

Passing Eames' house on the way back, Sam turns in at the gate and vanishes up the path to the porch, where Eames inclines a steaming mug in Arthur's direction.

“Cheers,” he calls.

Arthur just bristles and keeps going.


+
Sam jogs with him every day after that.

The sun comes up earlier, the weather gets warmer, and he starts meeting more people on his route, fellow joggers and dog-walkers. Once upon a happy time he lived a nice, anonymous lifestyle in this neighbourhood. Now, to his horror, he finds his identity caught in a bizarre transition from anonymous jogger to Sam-And-Sam's-Dad.

“He's not my dog,” he has to tell everyone who asks, at first. But soon they get used to the sight of Eames strolling around with the easily-recognizable dog at his heels, and then Arthur becomes Sam-And-Sam's-Dad's-Boyfriend.

Which is so, so much worse.

Not that he can shake them, because Sam is a slut for attention from anyone who'll give it to him. Not as much from females, though he'll flash them his happiest grin and wag at them; but for men, Sam will wriggle and jump and roll onto his back for belly-rubs.

He's a slut and he ruins Arthur's whole morning routine. Now he's expected to talk to other people and exchange pleasantries, like he's been accepted into some fraternal fold of dog-walkers; like he cares what Frodo-And-Frodo's-Dad are up to today.

He switches his jogging route, one day, so that he deliberately doesn't pass Eames' house. But it's harder than he thought it would be (his routine), and then he runs into Katy-And-Katy's-Mom who wants to know if Sam is sick and why Arthur's left him at home; and the next day Sam's expression of disappointment is second only to Eames'.

“We were worried sick, darling,” he says, and the endearment, darling, makes Arthur scowl. “Sam thought you'd forgotten about us.”

“Why don't you walk your own dog?” Arthur demands.

“I told you,” says Eames, spreading his hands. “He's hopelessly in love with you. If I started taking away from his time with you he'd never recover. He'd never love again. Would you, old chap?” he asks Sam, who laughs and wags.

“You are ridiculous,” Arthur seethes. “I don't want to walk your dog. I'm tired of people asking me what his name is and what breed he is, like I know or care. He's not my dog. I don't even like dogs.”

“Well,” says Eames, leaning down and scratching Sam behind the ear, “I got him from a shelter, so I can't be certain, but they reckoned he was some sort of beagle-Jack Russell cross, which I'd call an educated guess.”

“I don't care!” Arthur bursts out. “I don't like your dog! Keep him on your property before I call Animal Control to make you lock him up!”

He doesn't jog past their house the next day, nor the next, and consequently, doesn't see them again. Good riddance.


+
He's gardening one evening a couple weeks later and a shadow falls over his petunias. He frowns and squints up. It's Eames.

“Where's Sam?” he asks sardonically.

“At home, in bed,” says Eames, leaning over the fence. “He's still a bit distraught. But I'll tell him you asked after him, that'll make his day.”

It's somehow jarring to see Eames, here, at Arthur's own house, not in the morning. His routine feels disrupted all over again. He wipes his hands off on his jeans and looks up at Eames.

“How did you know where I live?”

“I asked the dog-walkers,” says Eames. “They agree with my assessment that Sam's been depressed since you stopped coming round. He wishes you'd come and at least visit us. He worries.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” says Arthur brusquely, going back to his flowers.

“It's true.” Eames unlatches the gate and strolls onto Arthur's property. “Very intelligent animals, dogs. Sam can sense that there's something missing from your life.”

“Oh?” says Arthur frostily, refusing to look up, even though he knows Eames is hovering right beside him. “Like what?”

“A boyfriend,” says Eames.

Arthur nearly chokes. “Oh, really? And how does Sam know I haven't got a girlfriend at home?”

“Sam's got an impeccable gaydar,” says Eames smugly.

“I'm not interested in dogs.”

“How d'you feel about rakishly charming Englishmen?”

“Get off my property,” says Arthur.

Eames does, but not before asking him out for coffee. Arthur virtually ejects him through the gate.


+
He infiltrates Arthur's life slowly: standing behind him at the grocery store, waiting to pump gas. He makes Arthur feel constantly wrongfooted and inexplicably nervous for their next encounter.

When he keeps refusing to jog past Eames' house, Eames takes offensive action. He starts walking Sam past Arthur's house right at six o'clock every morning. Sam goes positively mental with delight when he sees Arthur. Arthur ignores them both.

They don't take this lying down. Just as it starts to turn a bit brisker out in the mornings, he finds Eames leaning against his fence with a steaming cup of coffee and a donut in hand and Sam sitting faithfully at his side.

“I don't eat donuts,” Arthur says, sidling dismissively around them to get through his gate.

“That's for Sam, silly,” says Eames, and offers the coffee. “This is for you.”

“No, thank you.” Arthur shuts the gate and latches it.

He feels like Eames is teasing him, and it drives him crazy. It never occurs to him that Eames -- burly, masculine Eames who looks impossibly buff in a rugby jersey -- might actually be showing genuine interest in him. This is just a game: he pounced on that first opportunity to make Arthur uncomfortable with the dog, and wants to keep pushing him. To what purpose, Arthur doesn't know.

One morning when he jogs, the sky is heavy and almost black overhead, unwilling to let the sun peek out. The clouds are an ominous ceiling and the threat of rain hangs over him for the whole hour. Nonetheless, Eames and his contant companion are loitering outside Arthur's house when he returns. He accepts the cup of coffee Eames holds out to him with a knowing gleam in his eye, because it's early and he's tired, and goes inside without saying anything.

The rain holds off all day but when he's driving home from work, the heavens open up and it's pouring by the time he pulls in front of his house. The phone is ringing when he enters. He hastily strips off his wet jacket and shoes and dashes into the kitchen to answer.

“Hello?”

“Oh, darling.” Eames' voice is unexpected and totally unwelcome. “So glad I've got the right number. Look, I needed to ask you--”

Arthur hangs up and grinds his teeth. He doesn't know how Eames got his phone number -- he doesn't want to know. He's so sick of Eames' games. He puts the kettle on to make tea and turns the TV on, listening to the rain hammer the windows and feeling very glad to be indoors.

Eames is on his doorstep five minutes later, holding an umbrella, but sodden wet anyway.

“What do you want?” Arthur asks.

“Your help,” says Eames. He looks just sincere enough, shivering and dripping on the doormat that Arthur restrains himself from shutting the door right away. “I was throwing a ball around for Sam earlier, before the rain started, and we heard thunder. He's got -- well -- a bit of a phobia of thunderstorms.”

“I see,” says Arthur, who senses that he's being played again.

“He ran off. I've been searching up and down the neighbourhood for two hours now and ... I still don't know it very well. I just wondered if you might help me look.”

“Uh-huh,” says Arthur. “Is Sam's thunderstorm phobia anything like Sam's imaginary leg injury?”

Eames looks quite dumbstruck for a moment. “Of course not,” he says. It hits Arthur that Eames seems different right now, all the usual swagger and buoyancy about him evaporated. He looks like a man who's very concerned for his dog. “I just thought ... you know the area pretty well ...”

Arthur is very, very close to saying no, but there's something pathetic about how sad and wet Eames is right now, so he just turns and digs up a coat and shoes and switches the TV off regretfully.

“If I help you,” he says, before joining Eames on the doorstep, “I want you to make me a deal that you'll leave me alone after this. No hanging around my yard with coffee in the morning. No calling my house ever again.”

Eames looks stung. He waits to see if Arthur is serious, then sighs and says, “If you find my dog, I suppose I'll do about anything.”

“Fine,” says Arthur. They shake on it.

A minute later he's drenched to the bone and they're wandering the neighbourhood like a couple of assholes looking for a dog who's probably halfway back to England by now, if the volume of the thunder that peals overhead is anything to go by.

“Thanks for this,” says Eames, shivering and offering the umbrella to Arthur for the third time. He refuses stubbornly. “I'm worried he's got himself hit by a car or something, you know? He's pretty road-safe, but he might not expect the traffic to be coming from the wrong direction.”

“Right,” says Arthur, who's always been bemused at the way Eames talks about the dog, like it's an intelligent person.

They check Eames' house, in case Sam is hiding out on the porch or something, and start heading to the park where the dog first ran off. Arthur's freezing and ready to go home within fifteen minutes. He's pretty sure he's going to get struck by lightning out here and die. Or he's going to develop trenchfoot, stomping around in this mud. Or-- The potential for disaster is just endless, when his routine is interrupted.

And he feels like a jackass calling Sam's name.

“You really want me to leave you alone?” Eames asks, when they regroup to start looking somewhere else. “Why didn't you ever just ask?”

“As if that would have made you stop?” says Arthur incredulously.

“Arthur, I'm persistent, but I'm not a criminal stalker.”

“I thought the point was to annoy me.”

Eames snorts with laughter. “No, you twat,” he says, and allows, “well, yes. But the point was also to get you on a date.”

“I thought you were making fun of me,” says Arthur, teeth chattering, staring fixedly ahead. Eames grabs him by the arm and swings him around.

“Making fun of you?”

“For ... you know,” says Arthur uncomfortably. “Liking ... other men. With your gay dog, and all ...”

“Christ Almighty,” says Eames, shaking his head patiently. He grabs Arthur and pulls him into a kiss. Arthur barely stops himself from squeaking with shock, it's that unexpected. This is like nothing he's ever done before -- he likes everything to be so precise and ordered, reassuring and predictable -- this has completely turned him upside down.

Before he even knows how he feels about it, Eames is pulling away and saying with delight, “Look who it is!” and Arthur turns to see Sam galloping towards them, tail between his legs, eyes wide in his whiskery seal face. Eames stoops down to meet him but Sam doesn't stop once he reaches them; he springs into Eames' arms and clambers up to his chest. The umbrella snags on the ground and is blown away as Eames hits the ground with a huff, attempting to cradle the dog.

“Alright, alright,” he murmurs with a smile of relief, soothing the frightened dog. Sam licks at his face frantically, as though trying to lap all the rain away.

Arthur watches this and feels something strange for Eames, all of a sudden, the man who barges through life in a haphazard, chaotic way, but loves his dog so plainly. And suddenly, for once in his life, Arthur feels the urge to do something impulsive. He drops to his knees, pushes Sam out of the way, shoves Eames into the mud and kisses him. It's possibly the most spontaneous thing he's ever done in his entire life.

It feels pretty good.

He kisses Eames fiercely, and he even manages not to care about the rain or the mud or anything, until Sam is squirming in between them and licking their chins. Eames grins and pushes the dog's muzzle aside.

“He doesn't like to share,” he says, and shakes his head. “Don't you know he's mad about you, Arthur?”

“Too bad,” says Arthur, sitting back. Eames is covered in mud, totally covered, and that means Arthur probably is too. “We need to shower.”

“All three of us,” Eames agrees ruefully.

“Not at the same time.”

“Maybe two of us at the same time,” says Eames.

“If you're talking about you and Sam, by all means,” says Arthur.

“Except that I'm talking about you and me showering together.”

“No.”

“Yes,” says Eames, grinning again.

For a second Arthur gets a flash that this will be what his life is going to be like from now on, wet dogs and scruffy Englishmen who don't ever listen to a word he says, ever, but then Eames pulls him down for another kiss, and Arthur realizes with a resigned sort of sigh that, actually, he suddenly can't predict the future at all. And it feels pretty good.




A/N: I considered Sam as a Coton de Tulear, but when I googled "beagle mix", look what appeared! Just what I pictured! Besides, Eames seems like the kind of guy who'd adopt from a shelter, and not own a little fluffy French breed unless to be ironic.


sequel