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Inception Fic: having let go forever the fallacy of ever being alone [2/2], Arthur/Eames, NC-17
Please see Part One for additional info.
They have dinner at Cobb's house, because it's something they've just started…doing. Arthur isn't sure how or when it began, but the whole team gathers there at least once a week now, usually to watch Cobb grill things while the kids shriek with laughter. It should be weird--he and Eames had known Cobb before Mal happened, and Ariadne and Yusuf hadn't, and both sides of that equation should make the whole thing awkward.
It isn't, though. Instead it's…fun, calming even. Arthur standing with Cobb as he grills steaks and shrimp skewers, chatting with him idly about the new client, while Ariadne helps James rebuild the sand castle he accidentally knocked down. Yusuf and Eames are playing with Phillipa, who is currently on Eames' shoulders.
"This is nice," Cobb says, grinning almost shyly at him.
"You say that every week," says Arthur, laughing. "What are you, afraid we're not going to come back?"
"Don't mock a man for his unreasonable fears," Cobb says, lightly enough. Then: "Eames is looking better."
Arthur glances over at him. It's been a month now, and his face is starting to lose some of that hollowed-out look. His bruises have faded entirely, except for that really persistent one under his shirt, and he's gaining weight--slowly, but he's gaining it. Phillipa is yanking on his hair, and he's grinning.
He sees Arthur looking, ratchets his grin up a notch, and says "Wave to your Uncle Arthur, sprog."
Phillipa grins and waves. Arthur returns both in kind.
"Is she doing better with the kids at school?" he asks Cobb when they've turned around. "I know you were worried about that one girl--"
"Apparently they're best friends now," Cobb says, rolling his eyes. "I'm wondering when is too young to start telling her to go to Araidne with this kind of thing. Even women under the age of ten are incomprehensible to me."
"You're not bad with women," Arthur protests. "You'd never have landed Mal if you were."
He fights the urge to tense up after he says it, because he's not sure--he's not sure if Dom's in a place yet to talk about her without it hurting, if he'll ever be in that place . But after a second he smiles, wistful but not pained.
"Mal had terrible taste in men," he says, flipping one of the steaks. "It was practically public record."
Arthur laughs. "She used to say mine was worse."
"Well, it's not like that's hard," Cobb says, looking pointedly at where Eames is holding Phillipa upside down. He raises his voice and calls out, "Hey, careful with that!"
"Sorry!" Eames calls back, not sounding sorry at all.
"My point," Cobb says.
"Yeah, he's pretty terrible," Arthur agrees, and if he's grinning a mile wide, Cobb is good enough not to mention it.
"She'd be glad to see you guys together," Cobb admits. "It used to drive her crazy, watching you dance around."
Arthur remembers. She'd pushed hard for them, pushed Arthur to get off his ass and do something about feelings he'd only admitted to her. He wishes, with the dull pang of a wound that's mostly healed over, that she'd lived to see them work their shit out.
"Do you ever think about," Arthur says, instead of any of this, but he stops himself from finishing the thought. Cobb smiles anyway.
"Getting back out there?" he asks. "Yeah, sometimes. When the kids are a little older, I think. I'm pretty happy as I am for now, but…someday, maybe. I think she'd have wanted that."
"Yeah," Arthur says. "Yeah, she would have. I'm glad you're happy, though."
Cobb looks out at the yard--at James and Ariadne, at Phillipa, who is now running back and forth between Yusuf and Eames, apparently playing some variant on tag.
"I am," he says, and sounds like he means it.
Arthur would continue that line of thought, but he hears Eames say "Hold on, Philly, my mobile's ringing."
"Uncle Arthur!" Phillipa yells, aggrieved. "You said you'd make him stop calling me that!"
"Stop calling her that, Eames," Arthur says obediently. Eames nods, distracted, peering down at his phone with his brow furrowed in confusion.
"Hullo?" he says, answering it. He's silent for a second, and then his face changes; it's shock or something like it. "You're kidding. Are you okay?"
Another long pause. Then: "Well, of course we're not going to sue you--yes I know this is Los Angeles, lovely, but honestly, we're not--no, no, please, that's not--yes. Yes, we'll be right there, thank you for calling."
He crosses the yard quickly. Arthur raises his eyebrows.
"Sorry, love," he says, "but we've got to go."
"Who was that?"
"Mrs. Hugener, next door," Eames says. He pinches the bridge of his nose and Arthur narrows his eyes, concerned.
"Your neighbors have you cell numbers?" Ariadne asks, walking over and sounding amused.
"We let her dog out when she goes out of town," Arthur says distractedly. "What happened?"
"Well," Eames sighs, "you remember the black walnut in her driveway?"
"The one with the rot damage I've been trying to tell her about for a year?" Arthur asks, feeling dread well up in his stomach. "Oh, god, tell me it didn't--"
"She backed into it with her car," Eames says, "which was apparently the fatal blow."
"Is she alright?" Arthur says, because he has to ask that question, even if he does know full well what's coming.
"She's fine," Eames replies. "Our bedroom ceiling, however--"
"Oh, fuck," Arthur says, and then remembers the kids and says, "shit, sorry--sorry."
"It's fine," Cobb says. "They didn't hear you. We'll see you guys later?"
"I guess so," Arthur says, already headed for the car, Eames hot on his heels.
"Good luck!" Yusuf calls.
"Call if you need anything," Cobb adds.
"Thanks!" Eames yells back, clicking the button to unlock the doors. They're down the driveway and speeding home in the next minute.
--
"I just," Arthur says, standing in their bedroom door and staring. "I mean, really, what."
The tree has gone clean through their ceiling and is currently protruding several feet into their bedroom, where, among other things, it clashes horribly with the decor. These are the kinds of things Arthur is thinking right now: that tree doesn't go well with the wallpaper. That tree is going to seriously fuck with my morning routine. Eames is not going to appreciate it when that tree pokes him in the ass mid-coitus.
The overwhelming thought, of course, is There is a motherfucking tree in my motherfucking house, but Arthur has rehashed it so many times already that it's beginning to feel a bit redundant.
"Not doing anything for the overall look of the place, is it," Eames murmurs behind him. He steps in and wraps his arms around Arthur's waist, and Arthur leans back into him, still staring.
"Not particularly, no," he says faintly, because what the hell else do you say?
Eames is silent for a minute. Then Arthur hears him make a small noise, and he twists his head around a little and discovers that the bastard is stifling laughter.
"What the hell is so funny?" Arthur demands.
"The joys of home ownership," Eames snickers. Arthur stares at him, agape, for maybe fifteen seconds, and then Eames lets out an actual howl of mirth and drops his forehead onto Arthur's shoulder, shaking with it.
After a second, Arthur is laughing too. It is, all things considered, pretty fucking hilarious.
"Tree," Eames gasps, "in our fucking bedroom, how is this reality--"
"I checked already," Arthur tells him, trying to breathe through his own amusement. This just sets Eames off further, and he points at the bedroom and guffaws, apparently too far gone to even form sentences.
"I'm going to have to--contractors--" Arthur tries.
"How will we sleep?" Eames puts in. "We'll have to--oh god, the warehouse, lawnchairs."
"Help me get the mattress out here, come on," Arthur manages. He's still chuckling and Eames' face is bright red, but they wrestle it out into the living room and drop it on the floor.
They stare at each other over it for a second, breathing hard. Then both of them move at once.
"Couch," Arthur gasps into Eames' mouth, "couch, there could be--bugs on the fucking sheets, I'll have to--"
"Couch," Eames agrees, letting Arthur push him back into the brown leather expanse of it. "Completely bloody ridiculous, can't believe--"
"I know," Arthur says, his hands roving to undo Eames' belt, "I fucking know, what the fuck."
"At least we weren't in there," Eames points out, his breath hitching. "That would have been jarring."
"Oh my god, can you imagine, if we'd been fucking--"
Eames lets out a peal of hysterical laughter again. "That might have been worth it for the look on your face--"
"Oh, fuck you," Arthur says, good-naturedly enough.
"That could be--"
"No," Arthur says, "no, screw that, I'm in the mood to--"
"Well by all means," Eames says, gesturing. Arthur slides down low onto the floor and pulls Eames' dick out of his boxers. He gives him a quick, messy blow-job, the kind of blow-job you give when your house has been hit by a tree and you need to work off some steam. When he comes, hot and sticky down Arthur's throat, Eames growls and pushes Arthur back onto the floor, leaving him spread-eagled across it while he receives the same treatment.
"Potato bug," Arthur chokes out, appalled and a minute away from coming, when he sees one out of the corner of his eye.
Eames pulls away from him and raises an eyebrow. His lips are swollen, and Arthur is so hard he could almost come just from looking at them. "That is not the endearment I would have chosen to start out with, pet."
"What?" Arthur asks, taking a second to catch on. "Oh--oh god, Eames, no, ew, I saw one, don't be stupid. Why the fuck have you stopped--"
Eames grins at him and rolls his eyes, bending down to finish him off. After he's swallowed he pushes himself up just enough to rest his head on Arthur's stomach, licking his lips. Almost unconsciously, Arthur's hand drifts down into his hair. He rubs absently, coming down from his orgasm.
"Well," Eames says after a minute, "I don't know about you, but I feel considerably better."
"Yeah," Arthur laughs, "yeah, right there with you. Fuck, I have to find us a contractor."
"We might as well change the wallpaper in there, while we've got a crew in," Eames says. "It's starting to peel under the window."
"I thought maybe we'd get a skylight put in too," Arthur murmurs. "Ceiling's fucked to shit anyway, and I've always kind of wanted one."
"We could just leave the hole," Eames suggests, laughing. Arthur grins and yanks on his hair a little.
"Very helpful," he sighs. Eames kisses him, pressing his lips against the exposed patch of skin where Arthur's untucked shirt had ridden up.
"We should probably get up," he says.
"Yeah," Arthur agrees. "In a minute."
"Mmm, okay."
They lay there like that for a bit and then Arthur sighs and pushes himself up on his arm. "Okay, okay, get off. I've got to start tracking on this if we want our bedroom back any time soon."
"Spoilsport," Eames says lightly, but he rolls off and stands, dragging Arthur up with him. "You want dinner?"
"Assuming our fucking kitchen hasn't blown up," Arthur mutters. Eames laughs.
"Well, you haven't set foot in there today, so I imagine we're probably safe." He kisses Arthur at the corner of his mouth and ambles away, and Arthur goes into his office and starts making calls.
He's got a lead on someone reliable when Eames comes in, hands him a plate, listens to his end of the conversation for a second, and leaves again, making a number of hand gestures that mean "Don't hang up, it's fine." It's almost another hour before Arthur's got everything in place--a contractor with a good reputation, a loose estimate that's subject to change once he's actually seen the damage, and a lot of flack for calling so late.
When he comes back out into the living room, he discovers that Eames has changed the sheets on the mattress and angled it so it's facing the television. He's also stripped down to his boxers, and is sprawled out on top of the blankets, watching a movie. He looks like he's at least half asleep.
"It's not even ten," Arthur laughs, taking off his tie and starting in on the buttons of his shirt. "You're getting old."
"I'll have you know that a tree fell on my house today," Eames says, blinking blearily up at him. "Takes a lot out of man."
"I know how that is," Arthur deadpans. He slides out of his own pants and slips into bed. "Scoot over, and give up the remote."
"I like this movie," Eames protests.
"Uh-huh," says Arthur. "What movie is it?"
"…." says Eames. Then: "You know me far too well, darling."
"Isn't that the truth," Arthur sighs. He snatches the remote and flips through their DVR, which is always full, because they've both taken to recording things on absent whims when insomnia gets the better of them. "You recorded Van Helsing? Eames, what the hell."
"Did I really?" Eames says, glancing up. "Huh. Well, that'd be more embarrassing if I hadn't seen Thirteen Going on Thirty in the queue the other day."
"Ariadne did that!" Arthur snaps at once. She'd made him watch it with her, too, the shameless bitch. Arthur had wanted to gouge his eyes out.
"Mmmhmm," Eames laughs, putting his head back down. "Of course she did. And I imagine she was the driving force behind Love, Actually as well?"
"No, that one was me," Arthur admits. "It looked interesting."
"You know," Eames says, "there was a time when I actually found you mildly intimidating. I can't imagine why."
"I'm no less capable of killing you than I was when you met me," Arthur points out.
"No," Eames says cheerfully, "that's true, you're actually probably more skilled in the art of cold-blooded murder these days. It's just that now I know you wouldn't."
"Don't be so sure," Arthur warns, but he can't even muster a little bit of ire. Eames just laughs and throws an arm across him, his breath hot against the back of Arthur's neck.
"Pick something, darling," he says. "I'm dying of suspense over here."
Arthur rolls his eyes and settles on The Shawshank Redemption, which earns him a noise of quiet approval from Eames. And maybe they're both getting old, because Arthur drifts awake sometime later to the sound of Eames snoring lightly and a glowing blue screen.
He sighs, flicks the television off, and goes back to sleep.
--
Their contractor, Joey, promises them both that the project will take two weeks tops. Because of the basic rules of construction, it ends up taking five.
Arthur and Eames live like heathens throughout, ordering too much takeout and swearing at the various crew members who tramp through their living room while they're asleep. They spend three days sleeping in Cobb's guest bedroom just to remember what a real bed is like, and another two on Yusuf's futon by accident. Eames comes up with ridiculous names for each of the construction workers, and Arthur supervises their every move with such severity that they start calling him Stalin behind his back.
It's worth it, though, for the Thursday afternoon when Arthur hands over Joey's check and they clear out, leaving them to get to know their gaping-hole-free bedroom. The skylight pleases Arthur more than it really should, and allowing Eames to choose the wallpaper had not, in fact, been as drastic a mistake as Arthur had feared. They'd had new light fixtures put in too, and they spend most of Friday morning and all of Friday night taking advantage of their re-discovered privacy.
They wake up late on Saturday morning, yawning and lazy. Arthur's still pleasantly sore from the previous evening and Eames has a series of bite marks running down his chest, which he grins down at delightedly.
"You're a filthy slut," he tells Arthur cheerily. When Arthur doesn't reply, he adds, "Also, I'm going to get a glass of water."
"Mmmph," Arthur responds, because he's not really awake yet.
Eames gets up, and Arthur considers going back to sleep. He's thirsty, though, so he decides to hold on that until Eames comes back with the water. He can steal some and then sleep. Plan. Yes.
However, Eames is gone for what feels like an inordinate amount of time. Arthur scowls sleepily at nothing, figures Fuck it, and closes his eyes.
Of course, this is when Eames calls out "Darling, can you come in here for a second?"
Arthur pops an eye open, glares at the wall, and seriously considers ignoring him. He decides against that, though, and sighs, dragging himself upright. He's naked, so he grabs a towel and wraps it around his waist. He tries tucking it in place, but it doesn't want to stay, and Arthur's maybe 80% sure that that's because his hands aren't exactly working right just yet. He ends up just holding it and shuffling into the kitchen, bleary-eyed.
Eames is standing at the sink, staring at it with his head cocked.
"What," Arthur mumbles. "What'm I looking at?"
Eames turns around, and the puzzled expression on his face morphs quickly into soft amusement. He looks like he's trying very hard not to laugh.
"Oh, love," he says, "you're really not at your best in the mornings, are you?"
"Knew that," Arthur mutters. Eames comes over to him and runs a hand through his hair, and Arthur realizes belatedly that it's probably sticking up everywhere. He ducks his head a little and lets Eames do whatever he's doing, because it feels good and he's tired.
"Good morning," Eames says, tilting his chin up and kissing him lightly. "Think you can spare some higher brain function for a small housekeeping problem?"
Arthur yawns. "Yeah, 'kay," he murmurs. "What?"
Eames steps over to the sink. With a flourish, he reaches out and turns the tap.
Nothing happens.
"There's," Arthur says, "there should be water coming out of that."
"You are brilliant," Eames laughs.
"I--coffee," Arthur mumbles. "Can there be coffee?"
"There can indeed be coffee," Eames says. He takes the pot into the bathroom and fills it from the tap in there, and Arthur sits down on the counter and leans his head against on of their cabinets, maybe drifting off a little. Eames comes back and makes the coffee, drumming his fingers lightly against Arthur's thigh until it's done. He fills a mug and hands it over, and Arthur takes several long, scorching sips.
"Mmm," he says, blinking as the taste of it hits him. "'S good, thanks."
"Any time," Eames says easily, pouring a cup for himself and adding sugar. "Can we talk about the sink now?"
"You think it's busted?"
"Well," Eames drawls, "it's certainly not performing the function for which it was designed."
"Fuck," Arthur says, hopping off the counter. "Can you fix it?"
"I was hoping you could," Eames says. "I really don't want--"
"Anyone else in here for at least a week, yeah, me neither," Arthur sighs. "Why is everything breaking lately? Did you incur some kind of ancient curse in Poland?"
"I think that's the only thing I didn't do in Poland," Eames says, smiling faintly. "Maybe someone's got it out for you. You did threaten that barista at Starbucks last week."
"She put soy milk in my coffee," Arthur protests. "She deserved it."
"Be that as it may," Eames says, "we're still out a working sink."
"I seriously would rather go all week without water than call a fucking plumber," Arthur mutters.
"I quite agree," Eames says. "We could always try fixing it ourselves. We're able-bodied, after all."
"I'm sure there are tutorials on the internet," Arthur adds. "How hard could it possibly be?"
--
The answer to that question turns out to be: very hard. Six hours later, Arthur and Eames have denigrated into snapping at each other more times than Arthur can count, been completely drenched twice, and, in one moment of terrible, terrible agony, been sprayed with the entire contents of their garbage disposal. There are tools strewn across the floor, the sink is undoubtedly worse off than it was before they started, and Arthur is feeling the beginnings of a serious headache.
The tap, of course, has yet to produce a single drop of water.
"I think we're going to have to admit defeat, darling," Eames says. "This sink is clearly smarter than us."
"More evil, at the very least," Arthur sighs. He's wearing a t-shirt and a pair of Eames' least attractive jeans, because they are disgusting and his own are far too nice to risk. Miraculously, the jeans had not actually been marred at all in any of the various disasters, which is just another nod to the diabolical nature of the enemy. If the stupid sink had seen fit to damage them, Arthur could have thrown them out.
Eames grins at him. He himself is in a pair of soccer shorts and a beater, his various tattoos peeking out from underneath. Even covered in unpleasant substances, the look is more than mildly appealing.
"I will say, it was worth it to see you in my pants," he says, leering.
"I'm in your pants on a nightly basis, Mr. Eames," Arthur returns. "And don't look at me like that, I'm not having sex covered is disposal goo. Also, I'm fucking starving."
"Your sense of adventure is seriously lacking," Eames tells him sternly, but his stomach growls as he says it. Arthur looks at it pointedly.
"Fine, fine," Eames says, laughing. "Go wash, I'll start dinner and shower once it's the oven."
"Okay," Arthur agrees. He goes to the bathroom, and Eames follows him. Arthur turns and raises his eyebrows.
"Well, I have to wash my hands, pet," Eames says. "I can't exactly do it in the kitchen. And I need to put on a different shirt, I think, the smell of this is putting me off."
"Fair enough," Arthur says. He strips out of his clothes and turns the shower on as Eames scrubs his hands. He bends over to adjust the temperature, and Eames makes a strangled kind of noise.
"Food," Arthur says firmly. "Stop oogling my ass, Eames, it's gauche."
"You are the most dreadful tease in the history of the world," Eames informs him. Arthur just rolls his eyes and gets in the shower, and a minute later he hears the sink shut off and the door close softly.
He closes his eyes and lets the water run over him, shampooing his hair slowly, enjoying the way he is starting to smell less like old food. When he feels like he's reached an acceptable level of clean he shuts off the water, toweling himself dry and pulling the jeans back on, because they're still clean and, you know, right there. He walks into the bedroom and pulls on a sweater, and then moves toward the living room holding the towel to his hair, rubbing at it.
He happens to glance up when he gets to the doorframe, and what he sees stops him in his tracks.
Eames is standing in the middle of the living room. The news is on, playing low, and there must have been a story on that he wanted to watch; he's staring at the television, his head slightly cocked. He's still in the stupid soccer shorts, but he's put on a cleaner tank top, and there's an eight inch santoku knife hanging almost idly from his hand. He's dirty--his hair is sticking up everywhere and there's a streak of grease across his cheek, right above the scar he'd brought home with him from Poland.
And, see, this isn't the first time Arthur has been stopped dead by the sight of Eames standing in the middle of the living room. He does actually remember coming home soaking wet and staring at him like this, tracing the contours of his arms as he stared down at an M-24. But the thing is, that had been years ago, and…
And it had been Arthur's living room then, Arthur's house that Eames had quietly moved into while neither of them was paying much attention. It had been Eames in the middle of Arthur's things, Eames in the middle of Arthur's life, and the staring had been as much about realizing how much he fucking wanted that as anything else. But this time--this time there are shitty dogeared paperbacks Arthur wouldn't be caught dead reading piled on the coffee table, and half-finished crosswords tucked into the bookshelves, and the far wall is hung with that tapestry they'd bought in a shit part of London on a whim. This time they've spent all day fixing their sink and there's a mug of yesterday's tea sitting on top of the television and it's not just Arthur's living room at all.
Eames hasn't seen Arthur, possibly because Arthur is standing stock-still in the doorframe. He taps the knife against his leg absently and mutters "Bloody Americans," under his breath, and Arthur can't even move. He knows the pattern of every tattoo and he knows every fucking line of Eames' body, still thinner than it should be, and he never, ever wants to be anywhere else.
Eames shakes his head at the television and wanders back into the kitchen. Arthur follows, transfixed, dropping the towel to the floor, and arrives just in time to see Eames toss a lemon up in the air. He follows the trajectory of it with his eyes, and in the process he catches sight of Arthur, and smiles.
"Hello, love," he says, grabbing the lemon as it falls and driving the knife into the rind, "that was fast. I didn't even hear the shower go off."
"Eames," Arthur chokes out, "Eames, Jesus Christ, I am so fucking in love with you."
Eames' jaw drops, and he slices his damn hand open.
"Fuck," he says dazedly, blinking at Arthur. Then the pain of it--of the injury and the lemon juice dripping into it--hits him, and he raises his voice. "Bloody bleeding fuck, fucking ow, Christ, goddamn it--"
"What the fuck did you just do to yourself?" Arthur yells, as Eames jumps to the sink, twists the tap, and swears when he remembers nothing is going to come out. He makes a strangled sound and runs towards the bathroom, even as Arthur snaps, "You fucking idiot, what the fuck--"
"Don't move!" Eames calls, over the sound of running water, "give me a bloody second, Arthur--shit--don't you dare move--"
"There's blood on the fucking floor!" Arthur shouts back, as he hears the water cut off. "I can't believe you did that, Eames, what the hell--"
And then Eames comes back into the room, a washcloth balled in his fist to staunch the bleeding. He doesn't say anything, just shoves Arthur into the counter and slams their mouths together, kissing him fiercely.
"Emergency room," Arthur gasps, pulling away. "You asshole, we have to get you to the--"
"In a minute, darling, shut up," Eames murmurs, and kisses him again. Arthur is distracted for a split second, and then he comes back to himself and shoves Eames off.
"Not in a minute," he says, "right now. Right now."
"You're ruining our moment," Eames says, still sounding a little dazed.
"No," Arthur snaps, "that was you. Jesus, Eames, you're bleeding through the fucking washcloth, can you just--just hold you hand in the air, god, while I find--"
He breaks off and starts rummaging around in drawers until he unearths a clean dishtowel. Muttering darkly under his breath, he yanks Eames' arm down and pulls the washcloth away, revealing the wound underneath.
"I can't believe you said it," Eames says, quiet and stunned, while Arthur wraps the towel around his hand and knots it.
"See if I ever do again," Arthur growls. "You're going to need stitches, you stupid bastard."
"Worth it," Eames murmurs.
Arthur can't even begin to dignify that with a response. "Come on, you idiot, let's go."
--
The chairs in the emergency room are really very uncomfortable. Arthur doesn't have any choice but to sit in one, though, because Eames had quietly but firmly led him away when he started actually yelling at the nurses, apologizing for him over his shoulder.
Horrifyingly, one of them had given him a look that said, very clearly, that she thought he was adorable. Arthur is going to need to spend some time working on his delivery.
There's a spot of blood on Eames' cheek, because he kept forgetting about his fucking hand on the drive over and reaching up to do things. It's making Arthur feel a little sick, looking at it, so he reaches up and rubs at it with his thumb to get it off.
"You love me," Eames says, grinning like an asshole.
"I will neither confirm nor deny that statement," Arthur snaps, "as the consequences are apparently considerably more far-reaching than I ever anticipated."
"You love me," Eames repeats, undetered.
"You knew that," Arthur growls. "You didn't need to go and slice yourself open about it."
"Careful, pet," Eames laughs. "Don't say that too loud, they'll send me to the psych ward."
And it's a joke. Arthur knows it's a joke. But suddenly he's not in an uncomfortable chair in the emergency room--he's half asleep in Dom and Mal's guest bedroom, wandering towards the kitchen for coffee. He's stopping in the doorway and staring, because Mal is sitting at the table cradling a kitchen knife between her hands, and Dom is standing behind her, terrified, taking it away.
He'd gone out there to get the pitch for the latest job, and until that moment--until he'd seen Mal look at that knife like it was her only escape--he hadn't realized he'd been asked to go to Dom because Dom was afraid to leave. But he'd stood there and felt terror well up in his chest, and still--still!--when Dom had told him to go get Eames, he'd told himself it would be fine. He'd told himself that she would pull through it, because she was strong and vital. Because she was Mal, and he loved her, and she couldn't die.
He'd said things to Dom after she passed, after she started drifting into their dreams and slaughtering them, about getting it together. He'd said things about letting go and moving on and getting us all killed, you lunatic, you're completely out of control, and he hadn't--he hadn't understood. Because Eames had hurt himself by accident and Arthur can't bear to look at the blood on his cheek, and Eames had come back from Poland bruised but breathing and Arthur had wanted to kill something.
And fuck, fuck, fuck, he can't imagine it--if he woke up one day to a world where Eames didn't think he belonged, where Eames thought death was the only way out. He doesn't know what the fuck he would do if Eames died, but he knows none of it would involve letting go and moving on and being in control.
"Darling?" Eames asks. Arthur shakes himself out of it and meets Eames' eyes, warm and concerned. "You alright?"
"Yeah," Arthur says slowly, "yeah, I just--"
"Mr. Eames?" a nurse calls. Eames waves cheerfully. "The doctor will see you now."
Eames nods and stands; Arthur gets up too, but Eames smiles at him and shakes his head.
"Arthur, love," he says, "it's not that I don't find your type A personality deeply endearing--I do, I really do--but I doubt the doctor will appreciate it if you backseat-suture."
"I can--"
"Go have a smoke," Eames says, his voice kind. "I'm fine, I'll be done before you know it, you're only going to end up in a fight if you come back with me."
Arthur is, in all honesty, kind of in the mood to get in a fight. He swallows despite this and nods, and Eames kisses him briefly and then strolls over to the nurse, his bloodied hand held in front of him like a beacon.
Arthur sits in the uncomfortable chair for a minute. Then he decides that the suggestion of having a smoke hadn't been a bad one, and goes outside. He's a few drags in when, almost unconsciously, he pulls out his cell and calls Cobb.
"Hey," Cobb answers, "what's up?"
And Arthur should really, you know, offer some kind of preamble, but he's having some trouble controlling his impulses tonight. "I'm sorry if I was ever a shitty friend to you," he blurts out, and then winces, appalled at himself.
There is a silence. Then Cobb laughs, a little nervously, and says, "Arthur, what are you--is this some kind of Yom Kippur thing? I thought that was in the fall."
"It is," Arthur says. "I just. I, uh. Thought I should--fuck, Dom, I don't know, pretend I didn't say that."
"You were never a shitty friend to me," Cobb says gently. "I don't know what the hell this is about, but you followed me around the world when I'd lost my mind, Arthur. Whatever you're worrying about, stop."
Arthur wants to say a lot of things--about exactly what he means, about how he hadn't understood, about how much better he could have done. But he can't say those things to Eames most of the time, and Eames quite literally spends most days trying to demonstrate to Arthur that it's okay if he does.
He's saved from having to respond at all when an ambulance tears by, sirens blaring and deafening. Arthur winces at the sound and, nonsensically, leans away from it a little. When he can hear again, what filters through is Cobb's voice.
"Hey," he's saying, "where are you?"
"Oh, I'm at the emergency room," Arthur sighs. "Eames is a fucking idiot."
"Is he okay?"
"He's fine, he cut his hand making dinner," Arthur says. That's mostly the truth. "They're stitching him up now."
"And you're talking to me?" Cobb asks, sounding amused. "I would have thought you'd be back there yelling at anyone who would listen."
"Eames wouldn't let me go back with him," Arthur admits. "He said I would backseat-suture."
"He knows you, I'll give him that," Cobb says, laughing.
"Yeah," Arthur says, smiling slightly. "Hey, look, I should probably go back in and see if he's done, but--thanks?"
"Sure," Cobb says easily. "Least I can do, really. It's not like I ever thanked you for--"
"Don't," Arthur says quickly. "Definitely don't, Dom, it was nothing."
"It wasn't," Cobb says, "but I'll let you go. Tell Eames I said he should stop giving you heart palpitations."
"No," Arthur snaps. Cobb just laughs and says goodbye, hanging up, and Arthur goes back inside.
Eames is not, in fact, done yet, which leaves Arthur alone in the waiting room. He really doesn't like hospitals, because they smell bad and they're full of people screaming about their problems and crying on each other and arguing. They remind him, oddly, of his family.
And he's still in Eames' too-big jeans, because he hadn't thought to change in the haste to get Eames out the door, and the sleeves of his sweater keep slipping down, and his hair is loose, still a little damp from his shower. He's out of place and out of sorts, and in trying to avoid thinking about Mal he thinks about Eames instead.
What he thinks, despite his best efforts not to, is: Fucking fuck, had he honestly been surprised?
When Eames finally emerges, there's gauze wrapped around his hand and he is, predictably, flirting with the nurse. Arthur walks over to him and he must be looking pretty severe, because Eames raises his eyebrows.
"Only four stitches, darling," he says at once.
Arthur turns his gaze to the nurse, who rolls her eyes and, fondly enough, says, "Six, actually. And the mouth on this one, you wouldn't believe it."
"I assure you, I would," Arthur says dryly. She laughs and sends them on their way, Eames clutching his sample packet of Vicodin like a talisman in his good hand. In the car, Eames attempts to light a cigarette three different times--because he'll smoke in Arthur's car, that's not a problem, it's just the Lotus that's sacred--and pulls at his stitches with every try. After the third time he swears and tosses the lighter down, and Arthur pulls over to the side of the road and cuts the engine.
Eames raises his hands in the air. "Before you kill me, please recall that I am already suffering."
And what Arthur intends to say, what he means to say, is something about how fucking stupid Eames is being. Instead, he opens his mouth, shuts it, and opens it again.
"Did you really not know?" he asks. It comes out wrong, quiet and unsure and almost scared, and Arthur regrets it the second it comes out of his mouth. "Oh fuck, Jesus, nevermind--"
"Arthur," Eames says quietly. He palms Arthur's cheek, forces Arthur to look at him. "Don't be completely ridiculous. Of course I knew."
Arthur lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, and he's starting to feel a little better when Eames, damn him, continues.
"I was just surprised," he admits. "I'd gotten used to the idea of never--" and Arthur's face must change for all he's trying to keep it neutral, because Eames' eyes go soft and furious at once.
"No," he says fiercely, "no, Arthur, don't do that to yourself, don't be an imbecile. I wouldn't have cared if I never heard you say it. It's not like you don't show me."
Arthur is really going to have to check the water supply for strange chemicals, because his complete loss of anything approaching control over his own speech is starting to freak him out. All in a rush, he says "I mean, look, I know I'm kind of an asshole and I'm not--I'm not good at this, but you have to know that--"
"Come on, Arthur," Eames interrupts, warm and kind and so fucking honest that Arthur could die. "Do you think I don't know you at all?"
"Could you just let me fucking--" Arthur snaps, because he's frustrated and nothing if not stubborn. "I just, I fucking love you, okay? And I may be crap at telling you but I do, I really do."
"I know, Arthur," Eames says, and whatever he was going to say next is swallowed when Arthur pushes him against the seat of the car and kisses him.
It's hot and slick and perfect for a second, Eames moaning and pushing into it, Arthur breathing Eames' air because his own seems kind of dangerous right now. Then Eames reaches up his bad hand to run through Arthur's hair, because he's an idiot, and hisses out a sharp, pained breath as he pulls at his stitches for the fourth time.
"Asshole," Arthur growls, pulling away and punching him lightly in the shoulder. "Could you try not to hurt yourself for five fucking minutes here?"
"That's how," Eames says, which doesn't even make sense.
"That's how what?"
"That's how I knew," Eames says, like he's talking to someone stupid. Arthur resents this, even if he does feel like he's missing something important. "Because of shit like that."
"What, because I punch you?" Arthur asks. "That's kind of fucked up, Eames."
"No, you twat, don't be deliberately thick," Eames snaps. "Because you worry about me and yell at me when I hurt myself and send me emails about the bloody weather and take care of me, Arthur. Because you love me. I'm not blind."
"Oh," Arthur says, blinking. Eames shakes his head and kisses him again, soft against his mouth.
Then, in a considerably more hopeful tone, he adds, "Ah, and also because you take me home when I need a large bucket of ice and possibly some of that Vicodin, yes?"
"You are the biggest idiot I've ever met," Arthur says, but it comes out warm and fond, and he can't help but smile as he says it. He turns the car back on and Eames lets out a relieved sigh and settles back against the seat. After a moment of consideration, Arthur puts a hand on Eames' wrist, feels his pulse pounding against his fingers, and Eames grins at him, nearly blinding even in the darkness.
They don't talk much for the rest of the drive, but Arthur doesn't move his hand, and Eames doesn't ask him to.
--
Arthur orders a pizza while Eames showers, because they're obviously not going to consume the blood-spattered meal that Eames had been halfway through making before disaster struck. Arthur throws that away--all of it, including the pan--and scrubs the reddish-brown stains off the floor, because it's disgusting and a health hazard and not at all because looking at it makes him angry.
They eat the pizza in bed, in their freshly-redone bedroom, with a shitty horror movie playing on the flatscreen Eames'd had the construction crew install as part of his bizarre campaign to have televisions all over the house. Arthur gets Eames an icepack that Eames actually manages to keep on his hand, and lets him take the Vicodin once he's got food in his stomach.
Then he slides down under the covers and gives Eames a slow, lazy blowjob, just because. He pulls himself off while he does it, because he has some suspicions about what Eames will be like on painkillers.
They prove to be unerringly correct.
"Darling," Eames slurs, "'m feeling…strange."
"But I bet your hand doesn't hurt anymore," Arthur says, amused.
"I have a hand?" Eames asks. Arthur picks up the one closest to him and waves it in front of Eames' face, and Eames beams at it.
"Well, hullo!" he says.
Arthur honestly cannot control his laughter at this point. Eames is too out of it to mind in any case, his eyes wide and unfocused, and so he lets himself shake a little with mirth.
"What's funny?" Eames asks.
"You," Arthur says, as solemnly as he can manage. "You are very funny."
"R'gular comedian," Eames agrees cheerfully. "Hilarious, 's what I am."
"You have no idea," Arthur tells him. "I'm really, really tempted to take video, Eames. Really tempted."
"Tempting," Eames mumbles. "You're a. Tempt. What?"
"Oh, god, you're too far gone to even make innuendo, what has the world come to?"
Rather than responding, Eames peers up at him and pokes him gently in the cheek, right in the place Arthur suspects the dimples Eames keeps claiming he has tend to show. He furrows his brow and tries to stop smiling, with very limited success.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
"Ummm," Eames says. "Uh, I. Arthur."
"Yes?"
"Your face," Eames says helplessly. Arthur finds this highly comical, because Eames' own face is in something of a state right now, all slack and vacant like that.
"In all honesty, Eames," he says, "I'm trying not to mock you because you're in pain and everything, but really, really, your face."
"Alright," Eames agrees easily. "My face, then."
"You need to go to sleep," Arthur says. "You're only embarrassing yourself."
"Y'know what I hate?" Eames replies, apropos of nothing. "Lemons. Right little buggers, aren't they?"
"Is this about the lemon from earlier," Arthur asks, "or lemons in general?"
"What're you talking about?"
"…lemons?"
"What's a lemon?"
"Alright," Arthur says, laughing again, "that's about enough out of you, I think. C'mere."
"Yeah," Eames sighs. He shifts, and because he's lying down and Arthur is propped up against the pillows, he ends up with his head mostly in Arthur's lap. Arthur runs his knuckles up and down Eames' arm until Eames huffs and butts his head against Arthur's wrist, and then he sighs and switches to running his fingers through Eames' hair.
"That," Eames says. "'Comfortable."
"Mmmhmm," Arthur murmurs, low, as soothingly as he can.
Eames, apparently by way of response, producing an odd smacking noise. "Mouth feels funny."
"Does it?"
"Yup," Eames says cheerfully, and follows this up with a loud snore.
Arthur laughs at him quietly for a minute, and then rescues the remote from underneath Eames' ass and channel surfs for awhile. He is willing to concede that putting a television in here wasn't such a bad idea after all when he finds Vertigo playing on Turner Classic.
Arthur to Ariadne, 10:24 PM PST
You were right. The Hitchcock marathons on TCM kick ass.
Ariadne to Arthur, 10:29 PM PST
Right? Yusuf and I are all over it. He talked to Cobb btw, wants me to ask whether or not Eames really cut his hand. You can tell us if you stabbed him, we wouldn't blame you at all.
Arthur to Ariadne, 10:31 PM PST
Nope, entirely self-inflicted. Kind of wanted to stab him for doing it, though, does that count?
Ariadne to Arthur, 10:34 PM PST
You guys are hilarious. Is he okay?
Arthur to Ariadne, 10:36 PM PST
Yeah, he's fine. Got stoned on Vicodin and then passed out.
Ariadne to Arthur, 10:40 PM PST
LOL. Bet that was funny. Tell him hi for us when he wakes up?
Arthur to Ariadne, 10:43 PM PST
I'll pass it along. Have a good night, guys.
Ariadne to Arthur, 10:45 PM PST
You too!
Arthur smiles and puts his phone on the side table. He keeps playing at Eames' hair, for all Eames is far, far too out to notice, and watches the end of Vertigo and most of North by Northwest before he's too tired to keep his eyes open.
He rescues the icepack, pretty much entirely thawed by now, from under Eames' hand, drops it indelicately onto the floor. Then, awkwardly, he pushes Eames up by the shoulder and rolls him over, just enough that Arthur can actually manage to lay down.
Eames is back in a second, though, nuzzling his face into Arthur's neck and making a soft snuffling noise. "Darling," he mumbles, entirely asleep.
"Right here," says Arthur, even though Eames can't hear him, even though it's really pretty stupid.
Worth reiterating, though, he thinks to himself, and falls asleep grinning.
They have dinner at Cobb's house, because it's something they've just started…doing. Arthur isn't sure how or when it began, but the whole team gathers there at least once a week now, usually to watch Cobb grill things while the kids shriek with laughter. It should be weird--he and Eames had known Cobb before Mal happened, and Ariadne and Yusuf hadn't, and both sides of that equation should make the whole thing awkward.
It isn't, though. Instead it's…fun, calming even. Arthur standing with Cobb as he grills steaks and shrimp skewers, chatting with him idly about the new client, while Ariadne helps James rebuild the sand castle he accidentally knocked down. Yusuf and Eames are playing with Phillipa, who is currently on Eames' shoulders.
"This is nice," Cobb says, grinning almost shyly at him.
"You say that every week," says Arthur, laughing. "What are you, afraid we're not going to come back?"
"Don't mock a man for his unreasonable fears," Cobb says, lightly enough. Then: "Eames is looking better."
Arthur glances over at him. It's been a month now, and his face is starting to lose some of that hollowed-out look. His bruises have faded entirely, except for that really persistent one under his shirt, and he's gaining weight--slowly, but he's gaining it. Phillipa is yanking on his hair, and he's grinning.
He sees Arthur looking, ratchets his grin up a notch, and says "Wave to your Uncle Arthur, sprog."
Phillipa grins and waves. Arthur returns both in kind.
"Is she doing better with the kids at school?" he asks Cobb when they've turned around. "I know you were worried about that one girl--"
"Apparently they're best friends now," Cobb says, rolling his eyes. "I'm wondering when is too young to start telling her to go to Araidne with this kind of thing. Even women under the age of ten are incomprehensible to me."
"You're not bad with women," Arthur protests. "You'd never have landed Mal if you were."
He fights the urge to tense up after he says it, because he's not sure--he's not sure if Dom's in a place yet to talk about her without it hurting, if he'll ever be in that place . But after a second he smiles, wistful but not pained.
"Mal had terrible taste in men," he says, flipping one of the steaks. "It was practically public record."
Arthur laughs. "She used to say mine was worse."
"Well, it's not like that's hard," Cobb says, looking pointedly at where Eames is holding Phillipa upside down. He raises his voice and calls out, "Hey, careful with that!"
"Sorry!" Eames calls back, not sounding sorry at all.
"My point," Cobb says.
"Yeah, he's pretty terrible," Arthur agrees, and if he's grinning a mile wide, Cobb is good enough not to mention it.
"She'd be glad to see you guys together," Cobb admits. "It used to drive her crazy, watching you dance around."
Arthur remembers. She'd pushed hard for them, pushed Arthur to get off his ass and do something about feelings he'd only admitted to her. He wishes, with the dull pang of a wound that's mostly healed over, that she'd lived to see them work their shit out.
"Do you ever think about," Arthur says, instead of any of this, but he stops himself from finishing the thought. Cobb smiles anyway.
"Getting back out there?" he asks. "Yeah, sometimes. When the kids are a little older, I think. I'm pretty happy as I am for now, but…someday, maybe. I think she'd have wanted that."
"Yeah," Arthur says. "Yeah, she would have. I'm glad you're happy, though."
Cobb looks out at the yard--at James and Ariadne, at Phillipa, who is now running back and forth between Yusuf and Eames, apparently playing some variant on tag.
"I am," he says, and sounds like he means it.
Arthur would continue that line of thought, but he hears Eames say "Hold on, Philly, my mobile's ringing."
"Uncle Arthur!" Phillipa yells, aggrieved. "You said you'd make him stop calling me that!"
"Stop calling her that, Eames," Arthur says obediently. Eames nods, distracted, peering down at his phone with his brow furrowed in confusion.
"Hullo?" he says, answering it. He's silent for a second, and then his face changes; it's shock or something like it. "You're kidding. Are you okay?"
Another long pause. Then: "Well, of course we're not going to sue you--yes I know this is Los Angeles, lovely, but honestly, we're not--no, no, please, that's not--yes. Yes, we'll be right there, thank you for calling."
He crosses the yard quickly. Arthur raises his eyebrows.
"Sorry, love," he says, "but we've got to go."
"Who was that?"
"Mrs. Hugener, next door," Eames says. He pinches the bridge of his nose and Arthur narrows his eyes, concerned.
"Your neighbors have you cell numbers?" Ariadne asks, walking over and sounding amused.
"We let her dog out when she goes out of town," Arthur says distractedly. "What happened?"
"Well," Eames sighs, "you remember the black walnut in her driveway?"
"The one with the rot damage I've been trying to tell her about for a year?" Arthur asks, feeling dread well up in his stomach. "Oh, god, tell me it didn't--"
"She backed into it with her car," Eames says, "which was apparently the fatal blow."
"Is she alright?" Arthur says, because he has to ask that question, even if he does know full well what's coming.
"She's fine," Eames replies. "Our bedroom ceiling, however--"
"Oh, fuck," Arthur says, and then remembers the kids and says, "shit, sorry--sorry."
"It's fine," Cobb says. "They didn't hear you. We'll see you guys later?"
"I guess so," Arthur says, already headed for the car, Eames hot on his heels.
"Good luck!" Yusuf calls.
"Call if you need anything," Cobb adds.
"Thanks!" Eames yells back, clicking the button to unlock the doors. They're down the driveway and speeding home in the next minute.
--
"I just," Arthur says, standing in their bedroom door and staring. "I mean, really, what."
The tree has gone clean through their ceiling and is currently protruding several feet into their bedroom, where, among other things, it clashes horribly with the decor. These are the kinds of things Arthur is thinking right now: that tree doesn't go well with the wallpaper. That tree is going to seriously fuck with my morning routine. Eames is not going to appreciate it when that tree pokes him in the ass mid-coitus.
The overwhelming thought, of course, is There is a motherfucking tree in my motherfucking house, but Arthur has rehashed it so many times already that it's beginning to feel a bit redundant.
"Not doing anything for the overall look of the place, is it," Eames murmurs behind him. He steps in and wraps his arms around Arthur's waist, and Arthur leans back into him, still staring.
"Not particularly, no," he says faintly, because what the hell else do you say?
Eames is silent for a minute. Then Arthur hears him make a small noise, and he twists his head around a little and discovers that the bastard is stifling laughter.
"What the hell is so funny?" Arthur demands.
"The joys of home ownership," Eames snickers. Arthur stares at him, agape, for maybe fifteen seconds, and then Eames lets out an actual howl of mirth and drops his forehead onto Arthur's shoulder, shaking with it.
After a second, Arthur is laughing too. It is, all things considered, pretty fucking hilarious.
"Tree," Eames gasps, "in our fucking bedroom, how is this reality--"
"I checked already," Arthur tells him, trying to breathe through his own amusement. This just sets Eames off further, and he points at the bedroom and guffaws, apparently too far gone to even form sentences.
"I'm going to have to--contractors--" Arthur tries.
"How will we sleep?" Eames puts in. "We'll have to--oh god, the warehouse, lawnchairs."
"Help me get the mattress out here, come on," Arthur manages. He's still chuckling and Eames' face is bright red, but they wrestle it out into the living room and drop it on the floor.
They stare at each other over it for a second, breathing hard. Then both of them move at once.
"Couch," Arthur gasps into Eames' mouth, "couch, there could be--bugs on the fucking sheets, I'll have to--"
"Couch," Eames agrees, letting Arthur push him back into the brown leather expanse of it. "Completely bloody ridiculous, can't believe--"
"I know," Arthur says, his hands roving to undo Eames' belt, "I fucking know, what the fuck."
"At least we weren't in there," Eames points out, his breath hitching. "That would have been jarring."
"Oh my god, can you imagine, if we'd been fucking--"
Eames lets out a peal of hysterical laughter again. "That might have been worth it for the look on your face--"
"Oh, fuck you," Arthur says, good-naturedly enough.
"That could be--"
"No," Arthur says, "no, screw that, I'm in the mood to--"
"Well by all means," Eames says, gesturing. Arthur slides down low onto the floor and pulls Eames' dick out of his boxers. He gives him a quick, messy blow-job, the kind of blow-job you give when your house has been hit by a tree and you need to work off some steam. When he comes, hot and sticky down Arthur's throat, Eames growls and pushes Arthur back onto the floor, leaving him spread-eagled across it while he receives the same treatment.
"Potato bug," Arthur chokes out, appalled and a minute away from coming, when he sees one out of the corner of his eye.
Eames pulls away from him and raises an eyebrow. His lips are swollen, and Arthur is so hard he could almost come just from looking at them. "That is not the endearment I would have chosen to start out with, pet."
"What?" Arthur asks, taking a second to catch on. "Oh--oh god, Eames, no, ew, I saw one, don't be stupid. Why the fuck have you stopped--"
Eames grins at him and rolls his eyes, bending down to finish him off. After he's swallowed he pushes himself up just enough to rest his head on Arthur's stomach, licking his lips. Almost unconsciously, Arthur's hand drifts down into his hair. He rubs absently, coming down from his orgasm.
"Well," Eames says after a minute, "I don't know about you, but I feel considerably better."
"Yeah," Arthur laughs, "yeah, right there with you. Fuck, I have to find us a contractor."
"We might as well change the wallpaper in there, while we've got a crew in," Eames says. "It's starting to peel under the window."
"I thought maybe we'd get a skylight put in too," Arthur murmurs. "Ceiling's fucked to shit anyway, and I've always kind of wanted one."
"We could just leave the hole," Eames suggests, laughing. Arthur grins and yanks on his hair a little.
"Very helpful," he sighs. Eames kisses him, pressing his lips against the exposed patch of skin where Arthur's untucked shirt had ridden up.
"We should probably get up," he says.
"Yeah," Arthur agrees. "In a minute."
"Mmm, okay."
They lay there like that for a bit and then Arthur sighs and pushes himself up on his arm. "Okay, okay, get off. I've got to start tracking on this if we want our bedroom back any time soon."
"Spoilsport," Eames says lightly, but he rolls off and stands, dragging Arthur up with him. "You want dinner?"
"Assuming our fucking kitchen hasn't blown up," Arthur mutters. Eames laughs.
"Well, you haven't set foot in there today, so I imagine we're probably safe." He kisses Arthur at the corner of his mouth and ambles away, and Arthur goes into his office and starts making calls.
He's got a lead on someone reliable when Eames comes in, hands him a plate, listens to his end of the conversation for a second, and leaves again, making a number of hand gestures that mean "Don't hang up, it's fine." It's almost another hour before Arthur's got everything in place--a contractor with a good reputation, a loose estimate that's subject to change once he's actually seen the damage, and a lot of flack for calling so late.
When he comes back out into the living room, he discovers that Eames has changed the sheets on the mattress and angled it so it's facing the television. He's also stripped down to his boxers, and is sprawled out on top of the blankets, watching a movie. He looks like he's at least half asleep.
"It's not even ten," Arthur laughs, taking off his tie and starting in on the buttons of his shirt. "You're getting old."
"I'll have you know that a tree fell on my house today," Eames says, blinking blearily up at him. "Takes a lot out of man."
"I know how that is," Arthur deadpans. He slides out of his own pants and slips into bed. "Scoot over, and give up the remote."
"I like this movie," Eames protests.
"Uh-huh," says Arthur. "What movie is it?"
"…." says Eames. Then: "You know me far too well, darling."
"Isn't that the truth," Arthur sighs. He snatches the remote and flips through their DVR, which is always full, because they've both taken to recording things on absent whims when insomnia gets the better of them. "You recorded Van Helsing? Eames, what the hell."
"Did I really?" Eames says, glancing up. "Huh. Well, that'd be more embarrassing if I hadn't seen Thirteen Going on Thirty in the queue the other day."
"Ariadne did that!" Arthur snaps at once. She'd made him watch it with her, too, the shameless bitch. Arthur had wanted to gouge his eyes out.
"Mmmhmm," Eames laughs, putting his head back down. "Of course she did. And I imagine she was the driving force behind Love, Actually as well?"
"No, that one was me," Arthur admits. "It looked interesting."
"You know," Eames says, "there was a time when I actually found you mildly intimidating. I can't imagine why."
"I'm no less capable of killing you than I was when you met me," Arthur points out.
"No," Eames says cheerfully, "that's true, you're actually probably more skilled in the art of cold-blooded murder these days. It's just that now I know you wouldn't."
"Don't be so sure," Arthur warns, but he can't even muster a little bit of ire. Eames just laughs and throws an arm across him, his breath hot against the back of Arthur's neck.
"Pick something, darling," he says. "I'm dying of suspense over here."
Arthur rolls his eyes and settles on The Shawshank Redemption, which earns him a noise of quiet approval from Eames. And maybe they're both getting old, because Arthur drifts awake sometime later to the sound of Eames snoring lightly and a glowing blue screen.
He sighs, flicks the television off, and goes back to sleep.
--
Their contractor, Joey, promises them both that the project will take two weeks tops. Because of the basic rules of construction, it ends up taking five.
Arthur and Eames live like heathens throughout, ordering too much takeout and swearing at the various crew members who tramp through their living room while they're asleep. They spend three days sleeping in Cobb's guest bedroom just to remember what a real bed is like, and another two on Yusuf's futon by accident. Eames comes up with ridiculous names for each of the construction workers, and Arthur supervises their every move with such severity that they start calling him Stalin behind his back.
It's worth it, though, for the Thursday afternoon when Arthur hands over Joey's check and they clear out, leaving them to get to know their gaping-hole-free bedroom. The skylight pleases Arthur more than it really should, and allowing Eames to choose the wallpaper had not, in fact, been as drastic a mistake as Arthur had feared. They'd had new light fixtures put in too, and they spend most of Friday morning and all of Friday night taking advantage of their re-discovered privacy.
They wake up late on Saturday morning, yawning and lazy. Arthur's still pleasantly sore from the previous evening and Eames has a series of bite marks running down his chest, which he grins down at delightedly.
"You're a filthy slut," he tells Arthur cheerily. When Arthur doesn't reply, he adds, "Also, I'm going to get a glass of water."
"Mmmph," Arthur responds, because he's not really awake yet.
Eames gets up, and Arthur considers going back to sleep. He's thirsty, though, so he decides to hold on that until Eames comes back with the water. He can steal some and then sleep. Plan. Yes.
However, Eames is gone for what feels like an inordinate amount of time. Arthur scowls sleepily at nothing, figures Fuck it, and closes his eyes.
Of course, this is when Eames calls out "Darling, can you come in here for a second?"
Arthur pops an eye open, glares at the wall, and seriously considers ignoring him. He decides against that, though, and sighs, dragging himself upright. He's naked, so he grabs a towel and wraps it around his waist. He tries tucking it in place, but it doesn't want to stay, and Arthur's maybe 80% sure that that's because his hands aren't exactly working right just yet. He ends up just holding it and shuffling into the kitchen, bleary-eyed.
Eames is standing at the sink, staring at it with his head cocked.
"What," Arthur mumbles. "What'm I looking at?"
Eames turns around, and the puzzled expression on his face morphs quickly into soft amusement. He looks like he's trying very hard not to laugh.
"Oh, love," he says, "you're really not at your best in the mornings, are you?"
"Knew that," Arthur mutters. Eames comes over to him and runs a hand through his hair, and Arthur realizes belatedly that it's probably sticking up everywhere. He ducks his head a little and lets Eames do whatever he's doing, because it feels good and he's tired.
"Good morning," Eames says, tilting his chin up and kissing him lightly. "Think you can spare some higher brain function for a small housekeeping problem?"
Arthur yawns. "Yeah, 'kay," he murmurs. "What?"
Eames steps over to the sink. With a flourish, he reaches out and turns the tap.
Nothing happens.
"There's," Arthur says, "there should be water coming out of that."
"You are brilliant," Eames laughs.
"I--coffee," Arthur mumbles. "Can there be coffee?"
"There can indeed be coffee," Eames says. He takes the pot into the bathroom and fills it from the tap in there, and Arthur sits down on the counter and leans his head against on of their cabinets, maybe drifting off a little. Eames comes back and makes the coffee, drumming his fingers lightly against Arthur's thigh until it's done. He fills a mug and hands it over, and Arthur takes several long, scorching sips.
"Mmm," he says, blinking as the taste of it hits him. "'S good, thanks."
"Any time," Eames says easily, pouring a cup for himself and adding sugar. "Can we talk about the sink now?"
"You think it's busted?"
"Well," Eames drawls, "it's certainly not performing the function for which it was designed."
"Fuck," Arthur says, hopping off the counter. "Can you fix it?"
"I was hoping you could," Eames says. "I really don't want--"
"Anyone else in here for at least a week, yeah, me neither," Arthur sighs. "Why is everything breaking lately? Did you incur some kind of ancient curse in Poland?"
"I think that's the only thing I didn't do in Poland," Eames says, smiling faintly. "Maybe someone's got it out for you. You did threaten that barista at Starbucks last week."
"She put soy milk in my coffee," Arthur protests. "She deserved it."
"Be that as it may," Eames says, "we're still out a working sink."
"I seriously would rather go all week without water than call a fucking plumber," Arthur mutters.
"I quite agree," Eames says. "We could always try fixing it ourselves. We're able-bodied, after all."
"I'm sure there are tutorials on the internet," Arthur adds. "How hard could it possibly be?"
--
The answer to that question turns out to be: very hard. Six hours later, Arthur and Eames have denigrated into snapping at each other more times than Arthur can count, been completely drenched twice, and, in one moment of terrible, terrible agony, been sprayed with the entire contents of their garbage disposal. There are tools strewn across the floor, the sink is undoubtedly worse off than it was before they started, and Arthur is feeling the beginnings of a serious headache.
The tap, of course, has yet to produce a single drop of water.
"I think we're going to have to admit defeat, darling," Eames says. "This sink is clearly smarter than us."
"More evil, at the very least," Arthur sighs. He's wearing a t-shirt and a pair of Eames' least attractive jeans, because they are disgusting and his own are far too nice to risk. Miraculously, the jeans had not actually been marred at all in any of the various disasters, which is just another nod to the diabolical nature of the enemy. If the stupid sink had seen fit to damage them, Arthur could have thrown them out.
Eames grins at him. He himself is in a pair of soccer shorts and a beater, his various tattoos peeking out from underneath. Even covered in unpleasant substances, the look is more than mildly appealing.
"I will say, it was worth it to see you in my pants," he says, leering.
"I'm in your pants on a nightly basis, Mr. Eames," Arthur returns. "And don't look at me like that, I'm not having sex covered is disposal goo. Also, I'm fucking starving."
"Your sense of adventure is seriously lacking," Eames tells him sternly, but his stomach growls as he says it. Arthur looks at it pointedly.
"Fine, fine," Eames says, laughing. "Go wash, I'll start dinner and shower once it's the oven."
"Okay," Arthur agrees. He goes to the bathroom, and Eames follows him. Arthur turns and raises his eyebrows.
"Well, I have to wash my hands, pet," Eames says. "I can't exactly do it in the kitchen. And I need to put on a different shirt, I think, the smell of this is putting me off."
"Fair enough," Arthur says. He strips out of his clothes and turns the shower on as Eames scrubs his hands. He bends over to adjust the temperature, and Eames makes a strangled kind of noise.
"Food," Arthur says firmly. "Stop oogling my ass, Eames, it's gauche."
"You are the most dreadful tease in the history of the world," Eames informs him. Arthur just rolls his eyes and gets in the shower, and a minute later he hears the sink shut off and the door close softly.
He closes his eyes and lets the water run over him, shampooing his hair slowly, enjoying the way he is starting to smell less like old food. When he feels like he's reached an acceptable level of clean he shuts off the water, toweling himself dry and pulling the jeans back on, because they're still clean and, you know, right there. He walks into the bedroom and pulls on a sweater, and then moves toward the living room holding the towel to his hair, rubbing at it.
He happens to glance up when he gets to the doorframe, and what he sees stops him in his tracks.
Eames is standing in the middle of the living room. The news is on, playing low, and there must have been a story on that he wanted to watch; he's staring at the television, his head slightly cocked. He's still in the stupid soccer shorts, but he's put on a cleaner tank top, and there's an eight inch santoku knife hanging almost idly from his hand. He's dirty--his hair is sticking up everywhere and there's a streak of grease across his cheek, right above the scar he'd brought home with him from Poland.
And, see, this isn't the first time Arthur has been stopped dead by the sight of Eames standing in the middle of the living room. He does actually remember coming home soaking wet and staring at him like this, tracing the contours of his arms as he stared down at an M-24. But the thing is, that had been years ago, and…
And it had been Arthur's living room then, Arthur's house that Eames had quietly moved into while neither of them was paying much attention. It had been Eames in the middle of Arthur's things, Eames in the middle of Arthur's life, and the staring had been as much about realizing how much he fucking wanted that as anything else. But this time--this time there are shitty dogeared paperbacks Arthur wouldn't be caught dead reading piled on the coffee table, and half-finished crosswords tucked into the bookshelves, and the far wall is hung with that tapestry they'd bought in a shit part of London on a whim. This time they've spent all day fixing their sink and there's a mug of yesterday's tea sitting on top of the television and it's not just Arthur's living room at all.
Eames hasn't seen Arthur, possibly because Arthur is standing stock-still in the doorframe. He taps the knife against his leg absently and mutters "Bloody Americans," under his breath, and Arthur can't even move. He knows the pattern of every tattoo and he knows every fucking line of Eames' body, still thinner than it should be, and he never, ever wants to be anywhere else.
Eames shakes his head at the television and wanders back into the kitchen. Arthur follows, transfixed, dropping the towel to the floor, and arrives just in time to see Eames toss a lemon up in the air. He follows the trajectory of it with his eyes, and in the process he catches sight of Arthur, and smiles.
"Hello, love," he says, grabbing the lemon as it falls and driving the knife into the rind, "that was fast. I didn't even hear the shower go off."
"Eames," Arthur chokes out, "Eames, Jesus Christ, I am so fucking in love with you."
Eames' jaw drops, and he slices his damn hand open.
"Fuck," he says dazedly, blinking at Arthur. Then the pain of it--of the injury and the lemon juice dripping into it--hits him, and he raises his voice. "Bloody bleeding fuck, fucking ow, Christ, goddamn it--"
"What the fuck did you just do to yourself?" Arthur yells, as Eames jumps to the sink, twists the tap, and swears when he remembers nothing is going to come out. He makes a strangled sound and runs towards the bathroom, even as Arthur snaps, "You fucking idiot, what the fuck--"
"Don't move!" Eames calls, over the sound of running water, "give me a bloody second, Arthur--shit--don't you dare move--"
"There's blood on the fucking floor!" Arthur shouts back, as he hears the water cut off. "I can't believe you did that, Eames, what the hell--"
And then Eames comes back into the room, a washcloth balled in his fist to staunch the bleeding. He doesn't say anything, just shoves Arthur into the counter and slams their mouths together, kissing him fiercely.
"Emergency room," Arthur gasps, pulling away. "You asshole, we have to get you to the--"
"In a minute, darling, shut up," Eames murmurs, and kisses him again. Arthur is distracted for a split second, and then he comes back to himself and shoves Eames off.
"Not in a minute," he says, "right now. Right now."
"You're ruining our moment," Eames says, still sounding a little dazed.
"No," Arthur snaps, "that was you. Jesus, Eames, you're bleeding through the fucking washcloth, can you just--just hold you hand in the air, god, while I find--"
He breaks off and starts rummaging around in drawers until he unearths a clean dishtowel. Muttering darkly under his breath, he yanks Eames' arm down and pulls the washcloth away, revealing the wound underneath.
"I can't believe you said it," Eames says, quiet and stunned, while Arthur wraps the towel around his hand and knots it.
"See if I ever do again," Arthur growls. "You're going to need stitches, you stupid bastard."
"Worth it," Eames murmurs.
Arthur can't even begin to dignify that with a response. "Come on, you idiot, let's go."
--
The chairs in the emergency room are really very uncomfortable. Arthur doesn't have any choice but to sit in one, though, because Eames had quietly but firmly led him away when he started actually yelling at the nurses, apologizing for him over his shoulder.
Horrifyingly, one of them had given him a look that said, very clearly, that she thought he was adorable. Arthur is going to need to spend some time working on his delivery.
There's a spot of blood on Eames' cheek, because he kept forgetting about his fucking hand on the drive over and reaching up to do things. It's making Arthur feel a little sick, looking at it, so he reaches up and rubs at it with his thumb to get it off.
"You love me," Eames says, grinning like an asshole.
"I will neither confirm nor deny that statement," Arthur snaps, "as the consequences are apparently considerably more far-reaching than I ever anticipated."
"You love me," Eames repeats, undetered.
"You knew that," Arthur growls. "You didn't need to go and slice yourself open about it."
"Careful, pet," Eames laughs. "Don't say that too loud, they'll send me to the psych ward."
And it's a joke. Arthur knows it's a joke. But suddenly he's not in an uncomfortable chair in the emergency room--he's half asleep in Dom and Mal's guest bedroom, wandering towards the kitchen for coffee. He's stopping in the doorway and staring, because Mal is sitting at the table cradling a kitchen knife between her hands, and Dom is standing behind her, terrified, taking it away.
He'd gone out there to get the pitch for the latest job, and until that moment--until he'd seen Mal look at that knife like it was her only escape--he hadn't realized he'd been asked to go to Dom because Dom was afraid to leave. But he'd stood there and felt terror well up in his chest, and still--still!--when Dom had told him to go get Eames, he'd told himself it would be fine. He'd told himself that she would pull through it, because she was strong and vital. Because she was Mal, and he loved her, and she couldn't die.
He'd said things to Dom after she passed, after she started drifting into their dreams and slaughtering them, about getting it together. He'd said things about letting go and moving on and getting us all killed, you lunatic, you're completely out of control, and he hadn't--he hadn't understood. Because Eames had hurt himself by accident and Arthur can't bear to look at the blood on his cheek, and Eames had come back from Poland bruised but breathing and Arthur had wanted to kill something.
And fuck, fuck, fuck, he can't imagine it--if he woke up one day to a world where Eames didn't think he belonged, where Eames thought death was the only way out. He doesn't know what the fuck he would do if Eames died, but he knows none of it would involve letting go and moving on and being in control.
"Darling?" Eames asks. Arthur shakes himself out of it and meets Eames' eyes, warm and concerned. "You alright?"
"Yeah," Arthur says slowly, "yeah, I just--"
"Mr. Eames?" a nurse calls. Eames waves cheerfully. "The doctor will see you now."
Eames nods and stands; Arthur gets up too, but Eames smiles at him and shakes his head.
"Arthur, love," he says, "it's not that I don't find your type A personality deeply endearing--I do, I really do--but I doubt the doctor will appreciate it if you backseat-suture."
"I can--"
"Go have a smoke," Eames says, his voice kind. "I'm fine, I'll be done before you know it, you're only going to end up in a fight if you come back with me."
Arthur is, in all honesty, kind of in the mood to get in a fight. He swallows despite this and nods, and Eames kisses him briefly and then strolls over to the nurse, his bloodied hand held in front of him like a beacon.
Arthur sits in the uncomfortable chair for a minute. Then he decides that the suggestion of having a smoke hadn't been a bad one, and goes outside. He's a few drags in when, almost unconsciously, he pulls out his cell and calls Cobb.
"Hey," Cobb answers, "what's up?"
And Arthur should really, you know, offer some kind of preamble, but he's having some trouble controlling his impulses tonight. "I'm sorry if I was ever a shitty friend to you," he blurts out, and then winces, appalled at himself.
There is a silence. Then Cobb laughs, a little nervously, and says, "Arthur, what are you--is this some kind of Yom Kippur thing? I thought that was in the fall."
"It is," Arthur says. "I just. I, uh. Thought I should--fuck, Dom, I don't know, pretend I didn't say that."
"You were never a shitty friend to me," Cobb says gently. "I don't know what the hell this is about, but you followed me around the world when I'd lost my mind, Arthur. Whatever you're worrying about, stop."
Arthur wants to say a lot of things--about exactly what he means, about how he hadn't understood, about how much better he could have done. But he can't say those things to Eames most of the time, and Eames quite literally spends most days trying to demonstrate to Arthur that it's okay if he does.
He's saved from having to respond at all when an ambulance tears by, sirens blaring and deafening. Arthur winces at the sound and, nonsensically, leans away from it a little. When he can hear again, what filters through is Cobb's voice.
"Hey," he's saying, "where are you?"
"Oh, I'm at the emergency room," Arthur sighs. "Eames is a fucking idiot."
"Is he okay?"
"He's fine, he cut his hand making dinner," Arthur says. That's mostly the truth. "They're stitching him up now."
"And you're talking to me?" Cobb asks, sounding amused. "I would have thought you'd be back there yelling at anyone who would listen."
"Eames wouldn't let me go back with him," Arthur admits. "He said I would backseat-suture."
"He knows you, I'll give him that," Cobb says, laughing.
"Yeah," Arthur says, smiling slightly. "Hey, look, I should probably go back in and see if he's done, but--thanks?"
"Sure," Cobb says easily. "Least I can do, really. It's not like I ever thanked you for--"
"Don't," Arthur says quickly. "Definitely don't, Dom, it was nothing."
"It wasn't," Cobb says, "but I'll let you go. Tell Eames I said he should stop giving you heart palpitations."
"No," Arthur snaps. Cobb just laughs and says goodbye, hanging up, and Arthur goes back inside.
Eames is not, in fact, done yet, which leaves Arthur alone in the waiting room. He really doesn't like hospitals, because they smell bad and they're full of people screaming about their problems and crying on each other and arguing. They remind him, oddly, of his family.
And he's still in Eames' too-big jeans, because he hadn't thought to change in the haste to get Eames out the door, and the sleeves of his sweater keep slipping down, and his hair is loose, still a little damp from his shower. He's out of place and out of sorts, and in trying to avoid thinking about Mal he thinks about Eames instead.
What he thinks, despite his best efforts not to, is: Fucking fuck, had he honestly been surprised?
When Eames finally emerges, there's gauze wrapped around his hand and he is, predictably, flirting with the nurse. Arthur walks over to him and he must be looking pretty severe, because Eames raises his eyebrows.
"Only four stitches, darling," he says at once.
Arthur turns his gaze to the nurse, who rolls her eyes and, fondly enough, says, "Six, actually. And the mouth on this one, you wouldn't believe it."
"I assure you, I would," Arthur says dryly. She laughs and sends them on their way, Eames clutching his sample packet of Vicodin like a talisman in his good hand. In the car, Eames attempts to light a cigarette three different times--because he'll smoke in Arthur's car, that's not a problem, it's just the Lotus that's sacred--and pulls at his stitches with every try. After the third time he swears and tosses the lighter down, and Arthur pulls over to the side of the road and cuts the engine.
Eames raises his hands in the air. "Before you kill me, please recall that I am already suffering."
And what Arthur intends to say, what he means to say, is something about how fucking stupid Eames is being. Instead, he opens his mouth, shuts it, and opens it again.
"Did you really not know?" he asks. It comes out wrong, quiet and unsure and almost scared, and Arthur regrets it the second it comes out of his mouth. "Oh fuck, Jesus, nevermind--"
"Arthur," Eames says quietly. He palms Arthur's cheek, forces Arthur to look at him. "Don't be completely ridiculous. Of course I knew."
Arthur lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, and he's starting to feel a little better when Eames, damn him, continues.
"I was just surprised," he admits. "I'd gotten used to the idea of never--" and Arthur's face must change for all he's trying to keep it neutral, because Eames' eyes go soft and furious at once.
"No," he says fiercely, "no, Arthur, don't do that to yourself, don't be an imbecile. I wouldn't have cared if I never heard you say it. It's not like you don't show me."
Arthur is really going to have to check the water supply for strange chemicals, because his complete loss of anything approaching control over his own speech is starting to freak him out. All in a rush, he says "I mean, look, I know I'm kind of an asshole and I'm not--I'm not good at this, but you have to know that--"
"Come on, Arthur," Eames interrupts, warm and kind and so fucking honest that Arthur could die. "Do you think I don't know you at all?"
"Could you just let me fucking--" Arthur snaps, because he's frustrated and nothing if not stubborn. "I just, I fucking love you, okay? And I may be crap at telling you but I do, I really do."
"I know, Arthur," Eames says, and whatever he was going to say next is swallowed when Arthur pushes him against the seat of the car and kisses him.
It's hot and slick and perfect for a second, Eames moaning and pushing into it, Arthur breathing Eames' air because his own seems kind of dangerous right now. Then Eames reaches up his bad hand to run through Arthur's hair, because he's an idiot, and hisses out a sharp, pained breath as he pulls at his stitches for the fourth time.
"Asshole," Arthur growls, pulling away and punching him lightly in the shoulder. "Could you try not to hurt yourself for five fucking minutes here?"
"That's how," Eames says, which doesn't even make sense.
"That's how what?"
"That's how I knew," Eames says, like he's talking to someone stupid. Arthur resents this, even if he does feel like he's missing something important. "Because of shit like that."
"What, because I punch you?" Arthur asks. "That's kind of fucked up, Eames."
"No, you twat, don't be deliberately thick," Eames snaps. "Because you worry about me and yell at me when I hurt myself and send me emails about the bloody weather and take care of me, Arthur. Because you love me. I'm not blind."
"Oh," Arthur says, blinking. Eames shakes his head and kisses him again, soft against his mouth.
Then, in a considerably more hopeful tone, he adds, "Ah, and also because you take me home when I need a large bucket of ice and possibly some of that Vicodin, yes?"
"You are the biggest idiot I've ever met," Arthur says, but it comes out warm and fond, and he can't help but smile as he says it. He turns the car back on and Eames lets out a relieved sigh and settles back against the seat. After a moment of consideration, Arthur puts a hand on Eames' wrist, feels his pulse pounding against his fingers, and Eames grins at him, nearly blinding even in the darkness.
They don't talk much for the rest of the drive, but Arthur doesn't move his hand, and Eames doesn't ask him to.
--
Arthur orders a pizza while Eames showers, because they're obviously not going to consume the blood-spattered meal that Eames had been halfway through making before disaster struck. Arthur throws that away--all of it, including the pan--and scrubs the reddish-brown stains off the floor, because it's disgusting and a health hazard and not at all because looking at it makes him angry.
They eat the pizza in bed, in their freshly-redone bedroom, with a shitty horror movie playing on the flatscreen Eames'd had the construction crew install as part of his bizarre campaign to have televisions all over the house. Arthur gets Eames an icepack that Eames actually manages to keep on his hand, and lets him take the Vicodin once he's got food in his stomach.
Then he slides down under the covers and gives Eames a slow, lazy blowjob, just because. He pulls himself off while he does it, because he has some suspicions about what Eames will be like on painkillers.
They prove to be unerringly correct.
"Darling," Eames slurs, "'m feeling…strange."
"But I bet your hand doesn't hurt anymore," Arthur says, amused.
"I have a hand?" Eames asks. Arthur picks up the one closest to him and waves it in front of Eames' face, and Eames beams at it.
"Well, hullo!" he says.
Arthur honestly cannot control his laughter at this point. Eames is too out of it to mind in any case, his eyes wide and unfocused, and so he lets himself shake a little with mirth.
"What's funny?" Eames asks.
"You," Arthur says, as solemnly as he can manage. "You are very funny."
"R'gular comedian," Eames agrees cheerfully. "Hilarious, 's what I am."
"You have no idea," Arthur tells him. "I'm really, really tempted to take video, Eames. Really tempted."
"Tempting," Eames mumbles. "You're a. Tempt. What?"
"Oh, god, you're too far gone to even make innuendo, what has the world come to?"
Rather than responding, Eames peers up at him and pokes him gently in the cheek, right in the place Arthur suspects the dimples Eames keeps claiming he has tend to show. He furrows his brow and tries to stop smiling, with very limited success.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
"Ummm," Eames says. "Uh, I. Arthur."
"Yes?"
"Your face," Eames says helplessly. Arthur finds this highly comical, because Eames' own face is in something of a state right now, all slack and vacant like that.
"In all honesty, Eames," he says, "I'm trying not to mock you because you're in pain and everything, but really, really, your face."
"Alright," Eames agrees easily. "My face, then."
"You need to go to sleep," Arthur says. "You're only embarrassing yourself."
"Y'know what I hate?" Eames replies, apropos of nothing. "Lemons. Right little buggers, aren't they?"
"Is this about the lemon from earlier," Arthur asks, "or lemons in general?"
"What're you talking about?"
"…lemons?"
"What's a lemon?"
"Alright," Arthur says, laughing again, "that's about enough out of you, I think. C'mere."
"Yeah," Eames sighs. He shifts, and because he's lying down and Arthur is propped up against the pillows, he ends up with his head mostly in Arthur's lap. Arthur runs his knuckles up and down Eames' arm until Eames huffs and butts his head against Arthur's wrist, and then he sighs and switches to running his fingers through Eames' hair.
"That," Eames says. "'Comfortable."
"Mmmhmm," Arthur murmurs, low, as soothingly as he can.
Eames, apparently by way of response, producing an odd smacking noise. "Mouth feels funny."
"Does it?"
"Yup," Eames says cheerfully, and follows this up with a loud snore.
Arthur laughs at him quietly for a minute, and then rescues the remote from underneath Eames' ass and channel surfs for awhile. He is willing to concede that putting a television in here wasn't such a bad idea after all when he finds Vertigo playing on Turner Classic.
Arthur to Ariadne, 10:24 PM PST
You were right. The Hitchcock marathons on TCM kick ass.
Ariadne to Arthur, 10:29 PM PST
Right? Yusuf and I are all over it. He talked to Cobb btw, wants me to ask whether or not Eames really cut his hand. You can tell us if you stabbed him, we wouldn't blame you at all.
Arthur to Ariadne, 10:31 PM PST
Nope, entirely self-inflicted. Kind of wanted to stab him for doing it, though, does that count?
Ariadne to Arthur, 10:34 PM PST
You guys are hilarious. Is he okay?
Arthur to Ariadne, 10:36 PM PST
Yeah, he's fine. Got stoned on Vicodin and then passed out.
Ariadne to Arthur, 10:40 PM PST
LOL. Bet that was funny. Tell him hi for us when he wakes up?
Arthur to Ariadne, 10:43 PM PST
I'll pass it along. Have a good night, guys.
Ariadne to Arthur, 10:45 PM PST
You too!
Arthur smiles and puts his phone on the side table. He keeps playing at Eames' hair, for all Eames is far, far too out to notice, and watches the end of Vertigo and most of North by Northwest before he's too tired to keep his eyes open.
He rescues the icepack, pretty much entirely thawed by now, from under Eames' hand, drops it indelicately onto the floor. Then, awkwardly, he pushes Eames up by the shoulder and rolls him over, just enough that Arthur can actually manage to lay down.
Eames is back in a second, though, nuzzling his face into Arthur's neck and making a soft snuffling noise. "Darling," he mumbles, entirely asleep.
"Right here," says Arthur, even though Eames can't hear him, even though it's really pretty stupid.
Worth reiterating, though, he thinks to himself, and falls asleep grinning.
no subject
I don't even know what to say to you, dude, because this was SO MOVING that it is actually kind of embarrassing. I literally laughed and literally cried (ONLY A LITTLE, OKAY), the whole shebang. So I hope you are proud of yourself :P
<3<3<3