Work Text:
“My next-door neighbor is clearing the snow from his drive with a flamethrower,” Yusuf tells him. They never exchange customary greetings but this is a new one. “D’you think I should check it out?”
Eames pulls back the curtains in the sitting room with two fingers and looks out at the colossal snow banks, streets cleared then blanketed then cleared again like a bizarre game of one-upmanship between nature and the city of Fargo. And there’s no fucking end in sight.
“Your neighbor with the toupée and five cats, or your neighbor with the arse of a Greek god? Don’t lie to me. Our relationship thrives on trust.”
Yusuf sighs through the phone, long-suffering. “I’m putting in a transfer request when we get back.”
“Ah, idle threats, my friend,” Eames murmurs. Friend is a funny word, the sort of word that wears irony well, particularly in their line of work, but Yusuf resides in that fuzzy gray area where he’s gone against orders to save Eames’s arse – and for all Eames has long accepted a short stark life expectancy, he likes showing his appreciation once in a while. “So which is it then? Out with it.”
“Fuck, you are so irritating. Get over here then,” Yusuf says, then rudely hangs up.
Turns out, it is the neighbor with the arse sculpted by a benevolent higher power. Who’s still methodically melting down his drive, having taken the necessary safety precautions by wearing goggles and heavyweight gloves.
“A variant of the M-97, isn’t it? Technically not illegal in these parts.” Eames peers out the window while Yusuf scrolls through their intel on his iPad.
“Not coming up as a person of interest. Maybe it’s what Americans do out here. There’s nothing but flat bloody fields, isn’t there? Enough to make anyone a little unhinged,” Yusuf says all the while sounding like even he’s not buying it, and neither does Eames. His instinct is telling him there’s something amiss about this particular American, and it’s this instinct that’s catapulted him up the ranks in spite of his proclivity for going off the books and rumored fondness for getting shit blown up.
“I’ll be a good neighbor and go introduce myself. Make a friend.”
Which is, indirectly, how he ends up on his back at the foot of the American’s drive with his breath knocked out of him, thinking it’d be hilarious if this was how he snuffed it. His report would read: died in the line of duty (slippery road, crack to the head).
‘Shit, are you okay?”
He blinks rapidly, seeing dark eyes clouded with concern, pale cheeks stung pink by the chill, and a pouty mouth, sharp and insolent, no doubt.
“You took a pretty hard knock.”
Eames sits up slowly, nearly braining himself again when his elbow slips, and hears opportunity knocking.
“I was on my way to say hello, I’ve just moved in next door,” Yusuf will forgive him; Yusuf puts up with his shit, knowing he always gets the job done. “Didn’t go exactly to plan seeing as I’ve just made a complete arse of myself. Ah – feeling a bit woozy.”
He clutches at the American’s shoulder, pressing the heel of his other hand to his temple. He suspects he’s dealing with a good Samaritan, not a sucker, but he can work with that. He’d be a shoo-in for Most Versatile in the Field if the agency gave out real commendations rather than a pat on the back and the occasional ‘job well done’ when they’re feeling particularly effusive.
“Okay, neighbor, let’s make sure you don’t have a concussion,” the American says, hauling him up. “I’m Arthur.”
Eames brushes off his trousers and thinks this Arthur looks just as lovely from this angle.
He thinks, I hope I don’t have to kill you, and then gives his most heartfelt smile.
“Eames.”
Arthur picks up his flamethrower on the way, depositing it in the garage – rather bare, evidently not a hoarder – before leading Eames inside.
“If you don’t mind taking your shoes off – ”
“Yea, course not,” Eames says, surveying the foyer and then the kitchen as Arthur goes to retrieve an ice pack from the deep freeze.
There’s no clutter to speak of. No stray dish in the sink or book splayed on the table, half-read. No decorations, personal touches, save for a small painting of a stormy sea that probably has more character than the rest of the house put together. So Arthur’s not a hot-blooded American who hangs the heads of animals he’s shot and killed on his walls, for all his affinity to weapons of destruction. He’s someone who doesn’t leave evidence of life lying about, who can’t be bothered to make a home feel like home, and Eames can’t decide yet if it’s all incredibly suspicious, or just incredibly sad.
“How are you feeling? A little foggy? Nauseous?” Arthur sits down across from him, cheeks still lightly marked from his goggles.
“I’ll be fine. Hard head, my mum always said,” Eames smiles, weighing the ice pack in his hand.
Arthur sits back. “Fargo doesn’t get many foreigners. You moved here for a new job?”
“New life is probably more accurate. Last one didn’t work out so well. Marriage fell apart, got stuck in a routine, you know? The kind that wears on you,” Eames says. He’s always had a knack for telling stories and imagining he had lived them all in one universe or another. That and having a sense for what and how much to tell until people squirm and think it’s too much, too personal.
“So you chose Fargo? Did you close your eyes and throw a dart at a map?” Arthur’s mouth twitches but his eyes slide over Eames’s face, canvassing for the truth.
“Not the biggest fan of Fargo, are we?” Eames deflects easily.
Arthur shrugs. “I grew up here and couldn’t wait to get out. Moved back about a year ago to take care of my grandma.”
“Your parents still live around here?”
“No.” Arthur’s eyes stop searching and still. “They’re dead.”
Eames pauses before offering, “Mine, too,” and then they sit in a rather companionable silence for a moment, Arthur turning to study the snowy tableau out the window and Eames studying Arthur, imagining first that Arthur’s a threat and second that he’s beautifully ordinary.
Then Arthur stands up and says, “I can make some coffee.”
Which is when Eames’s mobile buzzes in his pocket.
Mom
The roses need pruning.
Well, shit. At least Yusuf could’ve waited until after the coffee was served.
Eames pushes his chair back and starts walking over to where Arthur’s measuring out the grounds.
“Tell me, Arthur,” he says casually, “why have you been lying to me all this time? Not very neighborly – ”
Arthur’s bloody quick, Eames’ll give him that. He gets in a jab between the ribs before Eames catches his left hook and lands his own punch, sending Arthur stumbling back against the fridge only to launch himself towards Eames a split second later.
It doesn’t come as a surprise that Arthur fights neat, the same way he keeps house, body compact and fluid, blocks decisive, strikes like a snake bite. His technique is exquisite, and Eames would pause to say as much if they weren’t busy trying to tear each other’s throats out. It’s an uncivilized business he’s in, but someone has to do the dirty work.
They smash their way past the foyer to the living room, which is where Eames sends Arthur flying onto the coffee table, shattering the tempered glass, then presses him down against the pieces, straddling his hips with a forearm against his throat. Eames approximates several bruised ribs, one loose molar, and a sprained wrist, but Arthur looks slightly worse off, if only because he crashed through a table and at the very least has glass in his arse.
“Where are your friends? What do you have planned? Suicide bombing? Hostages? You’ve got three seconds before I crush your windpipe.”
“I’m going to tell you,” Arthur grits his teeth, “fuck all.”
He spits blood in Eames’s face and turns the tables before Eames can blink twice, pulling a gun from somewhere on his person – jeans clearly not as tight as Eames had assessed them to be – and setting the muzzle under Eames’s chin while thumbing the safety off. Eames goes perfectly still, staring at Arthur’s face, the blooming bruises, the split lip, dark eyes harboring dark secrets, until Arthur shifts against him and he lets out a grunt that sounds more like a moan and Christ – he’s hard, they both are. Arthur stills then, passing a tongue over his lower lip to lap up the residual blood, looking at Eames’s mouth like he wants to lap at that too.
Eames drops his eyelids and smirks. “Kiss me or kill me, darling. I can tell you which I prefer.”
Arthur digs the gun in deeper and says, “Kill him and that’ll be the last thing you see. And do you really want that? His ugly mug haunting your afterlife?”
“Wait, what?” Eames blinks, which is when Yusuf walks into his line of sight.
Arthur freezes above him, then slowly sets his gun down. “If you kill me, you’ll be hunted in 124 countries for the murder of a federal officer. I can grant you immunity if you give me what I want.”
“Wait, what?” Yusuf blinks, then recovers. “Someone tell me what the fuck is going on.”
“We’ve – shit. We’ve made a mistake,” Eames sighs. It happens once in a while; it’s bound to when you’re dancing on a high wire for days, weeks on end. Luckily this one didn’t end with someone plummeting to their death – only a few hard knocks and minimal property damage. “British intelligence, at your service.”
Arthur stares down at Eames’s extended hand and says, “Wait, wh – okay, is this some kind of fucking joke.”
Eames moves that hand to rub at his eyes. “The group camped out here tried to recruit British citizens in London two months ago. Tried and succeeded and blew up a bus with 53 passengers on board. We’ve been tracking them ever since.”
“Yea, I know,” Arthur says, then pauses, jaw clenching. “I worked with the CIA on it until we got intel that three of them crossed the border.”
“And you thought you’d, what, dazzle them with your flame-throwing technique?” Yusuf says.
Arthur shrugs. “Got your attention, didn’t I?”
Eames slides his eyes from the curve of Arthur’s jaw to the hollow of his throat, then down to his thighs, still warm and heavy against Eames’s hips.
“Ah,” Eames says, nodding at their general position, “perhaps we could – rearrange ourselves and have a civilized conversation about all this.”
When Arthur scrambles up, clumsy, plainly mortified, cheeks coloring, Eames smiles, thinking that Fargo’s starting to greatly exceed expectations.
Yusuf, because he’s worked with Eames for too long to let anything slip under his radar, says, “Bloody Fargo.”