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OKAY SO I COME BEARING DOMESTICVERSE THINGS. The first is the floorplan for their house in South Pasadena, which I've been wanting to draw up forever. BE ADVISED: I COMPLETELY HALF-ASSED THIS BECAUSE THE SOFTWARE I WAS USING HATED MY GUTS, AND SO I STOPPED LIKE...ADDING FURNITURE AFTER THE KITCHEN AND THE BED. Also, ignore ALL of the dimensions on this thing, I am *not* good at that kind of thing and didn't even guess as much as I like. Just drew it how I thought it would look without consideration of size. BUT:



OKAY SO. Things I didn't include--that kitchen counter that juts out past the wall of the master bath has stools on the far side. There is an actual table in the dining room-ish area, but they almost never eat there. Those French doors in the back open onto their porch, which doesn't have much but a couple of lounge chairs on it, despite Eames' push for a hot tub. YES, THE LIVING ROOM IS BIG ENOUGH TO FUCKING FENCE IN, but it wouldn't look that big if I could have put the furniture in or figured out how to add the like...one separating wall without making it look ridic. Arthur bought the house in part because of all the picture windows and big open spaces. Ten foot ceilings were also a large part of that. SOME OF THE THINGS THAT ARE IN THE LIVING ROOM THAT I DIDN'T INCLUDE: that wall along Arthur & Eames' offices is lined with built-in bookshelves, and obviously there's like, a TV and a couch and a coffee table, and a coat tree in their foyer, and again I left out a separating wall, but YES, VERY LOOSELY AND ALLOWING FOR MY FAIL, THIS IS WHERE THEY LIVE.

Secondly, I...uh...wrote a domesticverse fic. Only this is this new thing I've been wanting to try for ages now: a domesticverse sidestory. These are basically going to be shorter stories that aren't in order with the master timeline/aren't as important to the ongoing plot as the main stories are/are too ridiculous to work into a bigger story. Basically they're little moments as opposed to...you know...plot builders. I'm still angsting over how the hell to tag them on Ao3, but this is the first one.

This particular story is Arthur & Eames' first New Year's Eve as a...couple type thing :D That means that, timeline wise, this is set in between "between my reflex & my resolve" and "this life looks good on you."

Happy New Year, guys! ♥

Title: so this is the new year
Rating: PG/PG-13
Wordcount: ~2550
Summary: On the one hand, they've been…whatever they are…for six whole months, which is probably long enough to trust that Arthur means it when he says Eames can go. On the other hand, it's only been six months, which is not nearly long enough for Eames to take it on faith that Arthur isn't testing him somehow.



Arthur, Eames has discovered, is more or less impervious to reasoned arguments.

That's not entirely true--when it comes to arguments about how they're going to carry off a job, for example, he's more than capable of hearing a sane point of view. "Arthur, perhaps we should consider going in through the air vent," or "Arthur, have you thought about having Ariadne build another passage in, just here," -- things like this are received with the utmost reasonability. He'll even do charts.

However, statements like, "Arthur, Christ, we're alone in the bloody warehouse, it's New Year's Eve, for fuck's sake, let it go," are met with less sanity.

"Too much to do," Arthur advises him, not looking up from his files. "You can go if you want to."

Eames gives Arthur's back a considering look. On the one hand, they've been…whatever they are…for six whole months, which is probably long enough to trust that Arthur means it when he says Eames can go. On the other hand, it's only been six months, which is not nearly long enough for Eames to take it on faith that Arthur isn't testing him somehow.

On the third hand (Eames is sure he's got one tucked away somewhere), it's New Year's Eve, and the line of Arthur's back is so tight it's almost painful.

"Right," Eames says, shifting uncomfortably, "well then. I'll just be going then, shall I?"

"Whatever works," Arthur says. "Lock the door behind you."

"You're welcome to come back to mine," Eames offers. "When you're done here, I mean."

"Oh," Arthur says, looking up for a second, slightly flushed. "I thought--uh, nevermind. I--yeah, yours is…or I might. Uh. I'll call you when I wrap up here, I guess."

"Sure," Eames says. Arthur's face flashes with an expression Eames can't quite decipher--disappointment, maybe, or hurt, but it's gone so fast it's hard to tell. And Eames…well. Eames has been in love with Arthur for considerably longer than six months, it has to be said, but he's never understood him particularly well. He tries, god knows, but the man had spent years--literally years--running from him, only to turn around and want something that is starting to look and feel very much like a full-fledged relationship.

Not that Eames is complaining, mind. Far, far from it. It's just that it's hard to be sure, with Arthur, how long it'll be before he changes his mind.

"Happy New Year," Arthur says to the table. His shoulders are, impossibly, hunched even tighter than they were before, and Eames sighs and goes over to him, leans down across the desk.

"Give us a kiss, then," he says, barely checking the urge to reach out and cup Arthur's jaw. "Tradition and all, even if we're a bit early."

"Oh," Arthur says, "right."

He pushes up a little from his chair, balancing one elbow on a particularly well-placed stack of files, and meets Eames halfway. He hums a little into Eames' mouth, a habit of his that Eames has come to realize means he's exhausted or starved for contact or both, and sighs when Eames threads a hand through his hair. It occurs to Eames as he pulls back that he doesn't have anywhere he wants to be, that there's no one he wants to spend the evening with, that he would happily actually sit here in the warehouse if it meant starting his year with Arthur.

But that's deeply terrifying on a number of levels, and he's already laid the groundwork for leaving, so he can't exactly back out now.

"I'll see you later," is what he says, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything more, and heads for the door.

He lights a cigarette. He tightens his coat against the wind. He makes it six whole blocks before he says, "Right, bugger this," and ducks into the nearest convenience store. Then, armed with a bottle of cheap champagne and another pack of smokes, he turns around.

--

Arthur has not moved an inch. Not a single inch. It's actually kind of appalling, the degree to which he hasn't moved. Eames knows he's been gone for half an hour or more--the line at the store had been fifteen minutes at least--and he'd actually kind of been looking forward to seeing what Arthur was like in the warehouse on his own. He'd had visions of loud music and boxers, although he recognizes that he'd probably based that guess on the time he'd shown up at Arthur's house in South Pasadena only to find him doing the dishes in his underwear.

Arthur is…surprising like that, sometimes. When he'd caught Eames that day, staring at him open-mouthed from the doorway, he'd just laughed and crossed to him, twisting his hands into Eames' lapels.

"This is why I resisted giving you a key, you overly-punctual ass," he'd murmured, all bare skin and smirking confidence, and then he'd let Eames fuck him across the counter.

The point being, the thought of Arthur almost-naked in the warehouse has gotten Eames through a number of lonely evenings, wondering if Arthur really meant it when he said he had to work. The reality--Arthur in his button-down, his jacket tucked neatly over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up and tense all over--is far less exciting.

"I thought you left," Arthur says, without turning around. "Forget something?"

"In a manner of speaking," Eames replies. He shuts the warehouse door behind him, crosses the room to stand behind Arthur and put the champagne on the desk.

Arthur sighs. "Eames, I'm really--"

"You're busy," Eames says. "I know."

"Then what are you--" Arthur starts, but then he trails off in favor of freezing completely as Eames rests his hands on his shoulders. Not entirely sure if this is something he has permission to do and not particularly caring, Eames tightens his grip, kneading his thumbs into the base of Arthur's neck.

"You know," he murmurs, "they say whatever you're doing on New Year's is what you'll be doing the rest of the year. Your being this tense doesn't set a particularly optimistic precedent, does it?"

"No," Arthur says warily, "no, I guess not."

He relaxes inch by inch, his muscles loosening as Eames gets more confident that he's not going to get shot for this. After a few minutes he lets out a strangled, relieved kind of noise and gives up entirely, going pliant under Eames' hands.

"Feels amazing," he admits, arching a little as Eames digs into a stubborn knot. He rests his head in his hands and rolls his shoulders back, releasing the word "Fuck," on a long, low exhale.

"You could tell me," Eames says, hating the hesitance in his own voice and increasing the pressure in his hands to make up for it. "What it is that won't keep 'til morning, I mean."

"Oh," Arthur says, like that honestly hadn't occurred to him. Then he sighs and says, "It's the Barrigan job, actually."

"You're kidding. That's the most cut-and-dry thing we've taken in ages."

"I know," Arthur sighs, tensing a little again. Eames frowns, and rubs harder. "Except that it's not, I don't think--I was looking over the files earlier and I think we missed something."

"A set-up?" Eames asks, lightly enough.

"That or I've fucked up the research again," Arthur mutters. "Which, considering how that went last time--"

"Ah," Eames says, before he can help himself. "So half paranoia and half self-flagellation, then."

He stills, then, expecting Arthur to bristle. Instead, Arthur huffs out a faint laugh and shrugs under Eames' palm.

"Probably," he admits. "But I'd rather be ridiculous about it then have anyone end up completely fucked, you know?"

"You want me to take a look?" Eames asks, picking up with the backrub again. "Another set of eyes, you know. Might help."

"Mmmm," Arthur agrees, soft. "In a minute, yeah."

Eames takes this to mean that Arthur doesn't want him to stop just yet, and smiles to himself. He works Arthur's back over, lingering in the worst spots and probably ruining the line of his shirt. Arthur doesn't protest, though, just murmurs encouraging noises and slides lower on the table. When Eames reaches around and loosens his tie Arthur lets him, lets him undo the top two buttons of his collar and slide under the shirt to work out the kinks in his arms.

"Enough," he sighs, after maybe ten minutes. "You're killing my focus."

"Can't have that," Eames says lightly. Arthur snorts but doesn't tense back up, and when Eames moves away to pull a chair around to the other side of the desk, Arthur smiles at him.

Arthur has a number of smiles in his arsenal--nearly all of them are variants on the mocking and condescending option. This one is open, warm, the one Eames has only lately started feeling like he doesn't have to earn every time.

"Thanks," Arthur says, handing Eames a file. Their fingers brush and Arthur's smile mutates into an outright grin, even if it's directed at the table. "I appreciate it."

"You know what's funny," Eames says conversationally, flipping the file open and scanning the first page, "is that I'd do it even if you didn't."

"Even if I didn't what?"

"Appreciate it," Eames says, shrugging. He's careful not to look up from the document, because for all his voice is casual, he's not quite brave enough to see how Arthur's reacting to this. "You can ask for things, you know. Need things from me. I…I'm not trying to impress you, Arthur, not at this point."

"Aren't you?" Arthur asks. He sounds indifferent enough, but when Eames chances a glance up his eyes are probing, far too sharp.

"Well," Eames says hastily, looking back down, "I mean, obviously, darling, I'm never really trying to impress anyone, because I am so deeply impressive all on my own--"

"Eames," Arthur says, suddenly very serious. Eames lifts his eyes again and Arthur is still staring, viciously inquisitive.

"No," Eames admits. "I'd rather you be happy with me than impressed, if I'm entirely honest about it."

Arthur blinks at him, opens his mouth, and closes it. And Eames isn't sure if he's done well or is about to be chucked, honestly, when Arthur's phone vibrates, lets out a tinny beeping noise.

"Five minutes to midnight," Arthur says, glancing down at it. "Huh. Thought it was earlier."

"You set an alarm," Eames realizes, surprised. "I wouldn't have pegged you for caring about this kind of thing."

Arthur shrugs. "I thought I'd go up on the roof," he says, pushing back from his chair. "It's a thing I do--a couple minutes under the stars, instead of watching that stupid ball drop. You should come. If you want to, I mean."

"I want to," Eames confirms. He stands himself and grabs the champagne, reaching into his pocket for his Swiss. He works the cork out on the stairs, and the resulting spray barely misses Arthur, who just raises his eyebrows and continues. Eames is fairly certain he's cocked up--Arthur's not tensed again, exactly, but he's awkward, glancing back at Eames every couple of seconds. He keeps opening his mouth and closing it again, like there are things he wants to say but can't quite figure them out.

Probably wouldn't break up with me on a roof on New Year's, though, Eames reasons to himself, mildly panicked. Even Arthur's not that much of a bastard, not once you get to know him.

He takes a swig of the champagne to steady himself, and then Arthur snatches the bottle and pulls back a gulp, and then they're pushing out onto the rooftop. Arthur makes a beeline for the edge, leaning against the sidewall with the bottle still caught between his fingers. Figuring he might as well take his chances, considering, Eames steps in behind him, rescuing the bottle from him.

To his--well, it's not surprise as much as mind-blowing shock, really--Arthur leans back against his chest, doesn't object to the arm Eames hesitantly rests across his stomach.

"Not that many stars," Eames comments, and promptly wants to smack himself in the face.

"Yeah," Arthur sighs. "L.A. will be L.A. But it's--I don't know. It's just a thing I've been doing since high school. My sister said it was a good time for remembering your own insignificance."

"I didn't know you had a sister," Eames murmurs, pulling another sip from the bottle.

"Three, actually," Arthur tells him. "Two older, and then Rachel, my twin."

"You're a twin?" Eames demands, choking. Arthur wrenches around in his arms a little bit and scowls up at him.

"If you're thinking about a threesome, it's not going to happen," he warns. "That's disgusting."

"I wasn't," Eames protests at once. "I just--didn't know that."

"Yeah," Arthur says. "Yeah, I know you didn't. I don't really like talking about my family."

"We don't…have to," Eames hazards. He's not entirely sure where Arthur is going with this. Honestly, he's not sure where Arthur is going nearly half of the time, which is part of the appeal of Arthur. "If you don't want to."

"I don't," Arthur confirms. "But I--fuck."

"What?"

"I'm glad you came back," Arthur says, after a long pause. He's turned around again, is looking out at the city lights, but his back is still warm and solid against Eames' chest. "I wanted to--ask you to, or really to, I don't know, to not be here, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong in that file and then I just. Didn't, I guess."

"I'm glad I came back too," Eames says slowly, "but I have to admit, I'm not entirely what you're driving at here."

Arthur spins around then, so they're face to face and a hair's breadth apart, and turns his head before Eames can kiss him. He steals the champagne bottle and tilts it back to take a pull that seems to go on forever, and then he reaches behind him to rest it on the ledge.

"I guess," he says, letting his eyes meet Eames' again, "well, I guess I'm not trying to impress you either."

Eames stares. Arthur is Arthur, and so there's nothing betraying his nervousness except for how his jaw is working, and even that would look like anger to anyone else. But Eames has been cataloguing Arthur for some time now, and he knows nerves when he sees them.

Oh, Eames thinks. And then, almost giddy with it, he smiles.

"To not being impressive, then," he offers, not bothering to reach for the champagne. "I think I could sustain being less than impressive all year."

"I'll drink to that," Arthur mutters. But he doesn't drink to it--he closes the distance between them instead, reaching a hand up to slide into Eames' hair as their lips meet. Eames, high on the moment, gives in to the desire to cup Arthur's jaw, and Arthur shifts in a little closer, so they're pressed together completely, drawing each other's breath.

Somewhere in the distance, there are screams, horns beeping. Midnight, Eames thinks, and doesn't move--he figures he's started the year about the way he'd like to end it, all things considered, and he sees no reason to stop now.