#arthur is secretly the funniest person i will die on this hill

[mister-eames]

You really do be out here blessing us with all your headcanons 🥺 I’m thinking though... what about the first time Arthur and Eames make each other laugh? I am literally so about all those small and seemingly inconsequential moments that lead to the ‘oh’ moment 🥰

The Snort.

It's been an hour. A whole goddamn hour of listening to Edmund the Extractor droll on about their planned heist, circling around and paraphrasing it in so many different ways and Eames has had enough.

"...and so, if we can just reiterate the outline..."

That's it, he's zoning out.

Settling back in his chair he allows his gaze to roam around the rented office space. He catches Arthurs eye from across the room, who, if possible, looks even more bored than Eames does. At least it's not just Eames then. He tilts his head towards Egghead Edmund and makes a face, crossing his eyes and scrunching up his nose.

Arthur's lips purse as he supresses a smile, but his cheek indents, giving him away. Then, while Edmund is turned away, Arthur raises two fingers to his temple and mimes shooting himself, tongue lolling out for a moment as he plays dead, only to straighten when Edmund turns back.

The playfulness catches Eames so off guard he can't help the snort that escapes his nose.

The dirty stare that their extractor sends him is worth it.

2. The Snicker.

Generally speaking, Arthur believes in just desserts. He doesn't hold egregious grudges and tries not to interfere in matters of revenge too much. People who deserve it will get what's coming to them.

Except, Arthur also happens to have an inner thirteen year old that is not above petty pranks in the name of being the arbiter of said karmic justice - and Eames, that thief, that fucker, has been riling Arthur up all job. Little things here and there, stealing his pens, his keys, standing in front of the coffee pot in the kitchen and refusing to move when Arthur wants to make a coffee -- and on one memorable occasion, sketching dicks all over his paperwork. Dicks on his dossier.

Eames does this all the while looking at Arthur with an infuriating expression that somehow managed to be both blank and smug.

Well, that's it. Arthur has had it. He doesn't know how Eames manages to be so annoying to the point of Arthur breaking his composure, but he's achieved it.

The opportunity for a bit of pay-back comes at the end of long day, near the end of the job. It's only them and the architect left in the warehouse.

Eames goes to sit but Arthur, seeing the opening, kicks out at the base of the chair at the last second, wheeling it away. Eames drops to the floor with a heavy thud.

The startled look at his face is hilarious.

Arthur looks down at Eames with the same smug look he'd received these last few weeks.

"Messing with a mans chair," Eames grumbles, getting up, rubbing his rear with his hand as he does so. He nods Arthur. "I'm going to get you back for that, just you wait."

"You've got dust on your ass," Arthur says politely.

Eames looks back and down at his slacks, the dark fabric indeed imprinted with dust. Then he shrugs and jauntily walks away, hips swaying with an exaggerated swagger, the dusty handprint shifting with the bounce of his derrière. The architect barks a laugh at the sight.

Jesus.

Arthur swivels his chair around so Eames can't see him snickering into his palm.

3. The Giggle.

This has been the most boring job in the history of jobs.

They've been stood upon this rooftop observing the dreamscape for snipers and other assassins for hours. Worse, Eames isn't even here in the dream to forge, to be an acteur, he's here because Arthur called him and asked if he would like something to do and Eames was stupid enough to say yes. This mans mind is 'mildly' militarised, in Cobbs words, hence the need for extra manpower. At least Arthur is with his to keep him company.

It hasn't been all bad though. The boredom, after several hours, has clearly gotten to Arthur too.

"That projections' name is Brenda," Eames says. "She looks like a Brenda."

They've been playing this game for the last thirty minutes.

Arthur peers over the ledge at the projection, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, brushing shoulders with Eames to get a better look. Arthur nods, continuing their game.

"She works as a corporate receptionist by day."

The projection walks down the pavement in a respectable two-piece, talking on her phone. Eames asks, "and by night?"

"She works at a strip club."

"Oh, how saucy."

Arthur adds, "Also as a receptionist."

"Do strip clubs have receptionists?"

"The classy ones do."

"You would know, would you?"

Arthur shrugs. "It's how I got through senior year of high school."

The mental image of a barely-legal Arthur sat in the shady shrouds of a subterranean strip-club sends Eames mind to a strange place. The moment is silent, pensive. Arthur's face is solemn, like he's stuck in an awful memory, brow furrowed, lips twisted in consternation.

"You wouldn't believe how out of order their taxes were," Arthur says suddenly, shaking his head in disgust.

An embarrassing wheeze-giggle expels itself from Eames chest.

He thumps it with his fist when Arthur turns to him with a surprised smile, cheeks creasing with dimples Eames has yet to see up this close.

Oh Arthur, he thinks, grinning back as butterflies swarm in his belly, never change.

4. The Regular Laugh.

The email catches Arthur off guard. For one, it's delivered to his personal email address, the one he's had since the internet was a thing (arthur_is_king69) and secondly, it comes in the midst of a drought of work. A drought so severe that Arthur has been stuck home so long that indubitably become domesticated.

The email is brief.

at a bar for my mates 30th. they have a drink here called the king arthur. reminded me of when i stumbled across this e-male addy of urs LOL. embarrasing.

Attached is a picture. It's Eames, holding up an actual goblet and pointing to it proudly, like he's just caught a big fish. He's grinning widely, all-teeth, his eyes hazy with intoxication and good cheer.

He looks loose and happy and so dumb.

If Arthur laughs and saves the picture, well, no one is around to see it.

5. The Full-Body, Belly Laugh.

The couple next door have been going at it for an hour and Arthur is starting to get seriously pissed off.

Not that he would begrudge anyone a sex life and honestly, besides criminal activity, that's mostly what he assumes these motels are made for, but it's two in the morning and Arthur is tired, alright, he's been up for forty hours thanks to a job gone bad and has to lie low, has to share a room with Eames who snored the last two nights and it's two in the fucking morning.

"Yeah, baby," a woman moans through the wall, "so good. You fuck me so good."

Arthur stares in disbelief across the room at the other twin bed as the sounds of mattress springs squeaking rises in volume. Eames, tucked under the covers, is staring right back at him.

"How is this our life?"

"Better question is how are they still going?" Eames mumbles into his hand, eyes wide. He looks as traumatised as Arthur feels.

"Fuck yeah, slap my ass!"

Their eyes widen in unison as the headboard begins pounding against their shared wall. They say nothing for a long time, listening to the occupants next door having the most enthusiastic intercourse he has ever heard. If only the motel had working had working hot water, god, he'd get in the shower and try and drown himself - at least he wouldn't have to listen to this or Eames' snoring ever again.

"Do you think they're using a condom?" Arthur wonders idly, his will to live wilting at a rapid pace.

"Probably not, given the squelching."

A man grunts, "Oh, oh!"

For some reason that makes Eames snicker. "Fucking hell. Did you hear that bloke?" He imitates the sound. Arthur cringes at the accuracy.

"Stop."

"Fuck my ass," Eames says breathily, snickering when again when Arthur throws a pillow at him.

Arthur purses his lips together when they threaten to spread wide in amusement. "She said 'slap my ass', not fuck."

"Oh, did she?"

"Yeah."

"An important distinction, my liege."

The moans next door escalate in pitch, getting more excited and loud until its a cacophony of passionate screaming and wall-banging. There's a wailing crescendo as the occupants seem to reach completion and then --

Finally.

Silence. His shoulders relax and he slowly removes the hands that have somehow made their way to cover his ears during the climax. It's quiet. It's blissfully fucking quiet.

And then--

"Oh yeah," Eames whisper-moans, high and feminine, a grin on his stupid face.

It bubbles up and erupts unbidden. Arthur can't help it - he's so fucking tired and Eames is so annoying. He throws the duvet over his head to muffle his laughter, Eames' wheeze-laugh setting him off all the more, his stomach muscles straining with unbridled mirth.

+1. Laugh so hard they cry.

The next morning they leave their room at the exact same moment the couple next door appear to be checking out.

The woman with the mutant lung capacity steps out first, slinging a duffle over her shoulders. She's very pretty - tall, leggy and blonde who looks like she's got every inch of beauty sleep, amongst other things, that he and Arthur did not.

It's the man the steps out afterwards that has them all pausing.

He hates this man. He hates him so much he didn't think he could hate him any more before last night. A quick glance at Arthur's rigid posture, fists balled at his sides, would suggest the same sentiment.

"Edmund!" Eames greets, smiling brightly. "What a coincidence."

The extractor seems to shrivel into himself upon sighting them, as if sensing this. His fair-faced paramour has no such instinct, affectionately winding her arm around his waist.

Edmund clears his throat. "Arthur, Eames," he returns the womans embrace. "We work together," he explains to her.

"Oh, at the MoMA?" The woman looks impressed.

"And who are you?"

"I'm Brenda."

Out the corner of his eye, Arthur stills.

"What do you do for work, Brenda?"

"I'm a receptionist."

Eames bows his head, looking down at his feet, jaw positively burning with how hard he's clenching it to suppress his laughter.

"We gotta to check out," she says, disentangling herself and heading to the front office, waving. "It was nice meeting you!"

As soon as she disappears through the doors Arthur, who has not slept more than twenty minutes of microsleep in the past two days, plants his hands on Edmunds chest and shoves him, hard.

"Arthur---what??"

"If I ever have to hear you fornicating like a wild animal again I am going to shoot you. In the dick."

Fornicate, Eames recites internally, slapping a hand over his face as a hysterical snort escapes his nose.

"Wait--"

"Go."

Eames looks up just as Edmund skedaddles, sneakers squealing against the pavement in his hasty departure.

"And have some fucking decorum!" Arthur snaps after him. He turns to Eames, hands on his hips once Edmund is out off earshot. "Jesus."

Decorum. At this point his shoulders are shaking with laughter. Arthurs face.

"Brenda--" he wheezes helplessly, losing the words to laughter.

Arthur's whole body crumple into laughter at the same time Eames' does. And he doesn't know if it's the exhaustion, the situation or the utter delight of Arthur's disarming sense of humour, or all of it, but Eames can't help but follow, loud, braying guffaws breaching the containment of his body and out of his mouth, eyes burning.

Even through his tears Arthur looks both pleased and hysterical, even as he attempts to compose himself and Eames finds himself utterly charmed, stomach swooping, by the wrinkles pleating at the corner of Arthur's eyes as he fails to control his smile.

They head to breakfast once the laughter has petered out into the odd snicker. Noisy neighbours and jobs gone wrong aside, Eames is going to miss the easy camaraderie of the last few days once this is all over, if he must admit it.

In the meantime, he observes the fellow patrons at the diner whilst they're in the long line to order and starts making stories about them.

Arthur grins openly, leaning into him.