http.com/watch?v=x6zMwGkY7z4&feature=related Bad Romance

http.com/watch?v=3otUlQ4wvLY&NR=1 La Valse à Mille Temps

http.com/watch?v=jtYfs4NlQWM&feature=related Natural Woman

http.com/watch?v=izhqLe-8ABA&NR=1 Express Yourself

http.com/watch?v=ZawVNKJdSD0&NR=1 Live on the Moon


Title: On the Moon

Rating: PGish

Warning(s): Fluff, a singing Arthur, THE GAGA.

Summary: In which Arthur can sing and Eames finds out. Inspired by the links at the top XD


It didn't happen during every job, Eames mused, watching Arthur pack his things and leave before everyone else. Before everyone else, he thought again to himself, waving out the match that lit his cigarette. This was so unlike the point man, really. He generally was the last one to leave, if he left at all. Eames couldn't count how many times he'd come into a warehouse or a hotel or wherever it was they were set up in the mornings to find Arthur surrounded by a mountain of Styrofoam coffee cups, pencils worked down to the nub.

But occasionally there would be a job - usually when they were in America, he reflected - where Arthur would get into the habit of leaving early. His work wouldn't suffer, of course, as he was always the first one back at their hideaways, but just watching him leave so soon...

Eames pursed his lips thoughtfully as the door banged shut with Arthur's departure. His previous attempts at following the man had led him in dizzying circles and had given him a ridiculous headache. He still wondered if Arthur had known he'd been trailing him, but the point man had never mentioned it and Eames was fairly certain that something would've been said. If he was honest, he'd been hoping for some sort of mention of events, just so he could question Arthur about his jaunts.

It wasn't meant to be, obviously, and his questions would just have to remain unanswered. He retrieved a folder out of his stack, a smile curving his lips. For now, anyway. His Arthur musings had been distracting him from his own work and, really, he needed to be able to forge the mark's niece properly. He couldn't very well do that without having seen the girl. So with a list of her usual hangouts, Eames waved a fond farewell to the extractor (who rolled his eyes) and the architect (who waved back, grinning over the shoulder of their chemist), and strode out.

It took him two hours and seven clubs to finally find the nineteen-year-old and she was cozied up at the bar next to... next to Arthur. Arthur who was sitting on the bar with a guitar in his lap. He was still in his suit, even, but his white undershirt had the sleeves rolled up and his jacket was nowhere to be seen. And the girl - Katie, he recalled - wasn't exactly next to him, so much as on the edge of a stool with her cheek practically mashed to his thigh. And he was smiling at the little tart.

Jealousy sprang up in him, unbidden and unfamiliar. He startled to feel it, felt his jaw unhinge as he heard something. His eyes snapped from Arthur's face to his hands and Eames watched as he expertly tuned the guitar. Arthur nudged Katie out of the way and she pouted prettily, scooting a stool down as the standing mic was set just about where she'd been sitting. Arthur snagged the mic stand and nestled the long stem between his thighs and what sprang up in Eames then was irrevocably lust.

He leaned into the mic and spoke. "Now I'm about to make it worth it." A cheer went up and some people catcalled. "This is about to be worth you all sitting and hearing me tune my fucking guitar." There was laughter and more catcalls that made it obvious that this wasn't Arthur's first time at this bar.

Eames found himself sinking into a chair at the only empty table in the place and forgot all about observing Katie because now Arthur was strumming the guitar as if he did it every single day and then, to Eames's complete amazement, he opened his mouth and sang. "I want your ugly; I want your disease..."

The rest was drowned out on a resounding cheer and Eames was openly gaping now as Arthur's voice once again became distinguishable. "...as long as it's free, I want your love." People joined in for the next words (Love! Love! Love!) and Eames dearly wished they would shush themselves because this was... This was the most incredible thing he'd ever seen in his life.

Because Arthur was into it. His hips gyrated on the bar, mic swaying as it was clamped between his thighs. He would smile inbetween words and phrases and all the while, his fingers worked the strings of his guitar like magic.

His voice went low and smoky suddenly, the sound going directly to Eames's groin. "You know that I want you. And you know that I need you. And I want it bad. Bad romance!" And then it was back to the chorus, the lust not lessening in the least.

He played with his guitar, tilting it up and playing it sideways, sending a cocky look out into the crowd. They encouraged him with lifted glasses and whoops. Eames no longer heard the crowd, his attention focused entirely on the point man. "Ra ma ooh la la!"

"Now for those still doubting the artistic integrity of Lady Gaga," more laughter from the crowd, "this next verse has three Hitchcock references and the use of the word 'schtick.'" Yes, Eames mused, Arthur did love the use of odd words. "Pretty good," Arthur continued and the forger didn't hear whatever was said next as a couple of girls strode past him, giggling.

"I'm so glad he's back! This is the best place since he's been in town."

"Right? And he's sexy as hell... And that voice..."

"And those suits... I want to take his suits off with my teeth."

"Yessss."

In full agreement with the women, Eames turned his attention back to the singing point man just in time to see Arthur's eyes closed and from years of watching musicians in order to forge them, Eames knew that Arthur was lost in the song. "I want your love! And your lover's revenge. You and me could write a bad romance." The line was repeated and Eames wondered, with another flare of jealousy, just who was in Arthur's mind as those words were channelled. "Whoa-oh-oh-oh-ohhh! Caught in a bad romance!"

His eyes opened during a little chanted part and Eames could tell, just in the subtle ways Arthur's body language changed, that he had been seen. His back straightened just a bit and his hands seemed to be moving automatically rather than playfully.

There was a brief lull in the lyrics where Arthur caught his breath and Eames felt another spear of lust when Arthur didn't halt the song. Instead, he stared at Eames as it continued. "I want your love, and I want your revenge. I want your love. I don't want to be friends! J'ai ton amour et je veux ton revenge. J'ai ton amour. I don't wanna be friends! No, I don't wanna be friends. Want your bad romance!"

He finished it off, eyes on Eames all the while, and the applause started in earnest when the song ended. Only then did he look away from the forger and Eames realized he'd been holding his breath. He released it slowly and was about to rise and go to the point man when he heard requests being tossed out. And then he heard Arthur laugh, giving him no choice but to stay put and listen to another song.

"This is a song about the only city, for me, that rivals New York." A chorus of woo-hoo's went up, raised with glasses, and then something smooth and unmistakably French was crooned. His gaze made its way back to Eames and was challenging now. As he sang, getting faster as he went, people began to clap along with the beat, getting up to push tables out of the way to create a makeshift dancefloor.

People paired or grouped together, dancing to the guitar and to words no one seemed to know but Arthur and Eames. And wasn't it just astounding that Arthur knew French?

Between songs there was no lull this time, his guitar abruptly switching songs. People followed immediately and Eames felt his jaw dropping again as he recognized the old Carole King song. His mind couldn't quite fathom this. Arthur, stuck-up Arthur, excruciatingly perfect Arthur, all-business and no-nonsense Arthur was singing this song.

By the chorus, Eames was tapping his toes and smiling. Arthur had such a pretty voice that lifted so pleasantly. "You make me feel! You make me feel! You make me feel like a natural woman." And Arthur was smiling through it, dimples flashing. "I want to be close to you! You make me feel so alive," was sung, Arthur's eyes on Eames again.

As this song came to a close, the applause was wild and Arthur strummed idly at his guitar. "How about an original?" he asked and the cheers sprang up again. "Alright. That last one was for the boys; this one's for the girls." His dimples flashed again. "And maybe some boys still."

The appreciative laugh went throughout the opening and everything seemed to fall away but the music for Arthur. They opened at one point and Eames's breath caught when those dark eyes met his across the room. "Long-stemmed roses are the way to your heart, but he needs to start with your head," Arthur sang and slipped back into the music. "If you want it right now, let me show you how. Express what you got. Baby, ready or not."

Someone passed him a bottle of water at the end of this song and he unscrewed the cap, tilted it back and chugged. Eames watched the way his Adam's apple worked as he swallowed and undid the top three buttons on his collar in quick succession. His half-hard state since hearing that first song was full-bloom now and Eames adjusted in his seat to keep the bulge as hidden as possible.

Arthur went through more songs, each one catching Eames off-guard in some way or another. An incredibly romantic tune followed by a raunchy one Eames particularly liked because it had given him rather kinky ideas. There was a bubbly one, a tear-jerking one, and another one that got Eames hard as a rock. And then finally Arthur informed the very disappointed crowd that he had one last song.

He was smiling as he started, completely ignoring their protests, and Eames was surprised when his eyes didn't close. His eyes sought out the forger as they had several times through the evening and the words that slid out hit home hard.

"Well, I'd like to visit the moon... But I'd miss all the places and people I love... I don't want to live on the moon... Well, I'd dance on a moonbeam and then I would make a wish on a star. And I'd wish I was home once again... But I'd miss all the places and people I love, so although I may go I'll be coming home soon. 'Cause I don't want to live on the moon."

Eames felt something constrict in his chest. The song reminded him quite a bit of the dreamstate. As nice as it could be, it couldn't quite replace reality. He'd miss too much. He'd miss the people he cared about. He'd miss... Watching Arthur watching him, Eames nodded as understanding dawned. He'd miss Arthur, Eames realized, and those dimples flashed again.

True to his word, that was the last song and Arthur was hopping off the bar, setting the mic stand aside when it ended. His guitar was slung onto his back and he breezed past people, waving and smiling at them as he made his way to the front door. Eames waited exactly two minutes before following. Arthur was standing beside a small car, arms folded over his chest. The guitar was poking through a back window, though seemed to be in a case now.

"What were you doing there?" he asked and the smiling, singing Arthur was gone and all-business Arthur was back.

Eames only took a moment to mourn the loss before his cocky smile returned. "My job, actually. Or that was the intention. Surely, you recognized the mark's niece? She was half a centimeter from sucking your cock." The flare of jealousy that came to him now was dampened by Arthur's next words.

"Her breasts are too big for me to let that happen." Arthur opened the driver's side door, jerked his head. "Get in the car, Mr. Eames." The dimples were back for the briefest of moments. "Or I'll leave you on the moon."

Their eyes met for a moment and, smiling, Eames got into the passenger's seat. "Whatever you want, Arthur."

The point man lifted a brow, shoving the car into gear. "J'ai ton amour," he sang quietly, "et je veux ton revenge..."

Eames slowly licked his lips and Arthur pretended not to notice it as he drove them to his hotel of choice.