Fic: Call in the Cleaners
Title: Call in the Cleaners
Author: sparrow_hubris
Team: All the Cries // Angst
Prompt(s): Blood
Word Count: 1,390
Rating: PG-13
Beta: the_ragnarok
Warnings: Mentions of killing, blood, violence
Summary: Sometimes, clean up is part of the job.
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This is the problem when you don't plan ahead, Eames thinks as he unbuttons the front of his white dress shirt. He tugs at the sleeves, pulling the garment off with effort; it's wet and clinging to his skin. Looking down he notices that his undershirt is soaked through as well and he mutters curses under his breath. The back door opens, barely audible over the low hum of the floor fan. Footsteps shuffle lightly across the floor and Eames holsters the gun he's drawn when he recognizes the gait.
"For fuck's sake, Eames," Arthur groans when he comes into view from the hall, black duffel hanging in one hand, Glock held low in the other. His face is pinched with irritation at the sight he’s walked in on. Eames doesn't say anything, just continues stripping off his soiled shirt, skin breaking into goose-flesh on contact with the chilled evening air. He pretends he doesn't see the flash of heat break through the annoyance in Arthur's eyes.
Arthur holsters his gun but doesn't move from his spot, still gripping the duffel at his side. Eames wipes his torso with his balled-up shirt before tossing it to the floor. Arthur shifts uncomfortably on his feet but Eames ignores him, trying to find a calm place in his mind. On most occasions he would revel in the opportunity to catch Arthur in a moment like this, to needle a reaction out of him, but his adrenaline is wearing off and the injury to his knee is starting to throb in increasingly powerful pulses of pain. He can taste the sour-sweet of his own blood on his lips.
Eames feels himself coming down, feels his mind start to cloud, sharpened senses dulling now with no threat present. "Orson's man," he says roughly, voice like ground glass due to his trachea nearly being crushed. Eames clears his bruised throat, gesturing to the body on the floor. Arthur hums in response, dropping the duffel to the floor and bending down to open it. He pulls out rubber gloves, plastic sheeting, hydrogen peroxide, bleach and towels.
“Help me with the body,” Arthur says after laying the plastic out and moving to the man’s feet. Eames bends to lift the shoulders. With effort they heave the body onto the sheeting and wrap it up. Arthur seals off the ends with twist-ties, folding them over and tying them again to prevent leakage. Eames rubs the junction of his shoulder, digging his fingers into the soft flesh between his chest and arm. The tendon is sore, but not ripped; his chest and shoulder are going to hurt for a while though, with the way his arm was twisted.
Arthur starts to work after they move the body near the door. He pours the peroxide onto the carpet. It foams violently upon contact with the blood. Eames’ nose wrinkles at the smell of the antiseptic, unpleasant childhood memories swimming to the surface of his thoughts, but he bends down to help. Scrubbing with the towels, they try to soak up as much blood as possible.
“You had to kill him in the one place we can’t abandon?” Arthur’s question is sarcastic, annoyed, bordering on angry. His fingers dig into the carpet, turn white as he wipes circles over the carpet fibers again and again.
“Rather him than me, no matter the setting, Arthur. Should I have asked him politely to change venues? I do apologize for inconveniencing you,” Eames snipes back. He’s not in the mood. He hurts, he’s tired, and they still have a body to dispose of. Arthur’s scowl deepens but he doesn’t snap back.
After an hour of scrubbing the carpet is nearly clean, leaving only a faint peach tinge to the fibers that were stained with blood. Arthur uncaps the bottle of bleach and pours it over two fresh towels, handing one to Eames. “Careful, it’ll get hot,” he says.
Eames bloody well knows that it will get hot, he’s not a bloody amateur. He scrubs, circling the stain, alternating gloved hands to avoid the exothermic reaction. Occasions like this are the only time Eames is thankful that Americans remodel their homes in white: white carpet, white walls, white picket fence. The bleach doesn’t show, not if you aren’t looking for it. The walls are easy to wipe down. You can’t bleach away stains on printed wallpaper and colored carpets.
Eames’ shoulder progressively gets more sore as he scours and he has to switch arms. He’s going to feel like shit tomorrow. That was close. There were a few moments there where he thought, this is it, this is how I die. Used to be that he thought he was invincible. A few bullets and at least four long hospital stays had taught him otherwise.
“Hey, you ok?” Arthur’s hand brushes his arm. Eames hadn’t realized Arthur had stopped, too lost in his thoughts, mesmerized by the monotonous task.
“M’fine,” Eames replies easily, though he has to switch arms again. Arthur grimaces, unconvinced, but doesn’t comment. They take the body out into the desert and don’t bother to bury it. They’re far enough out that it won’t be found for days at least. Even if, by some miracle, someone could tie them to it, they’d be out of the country by then. It’s unlikely though, with the sort of men Orson hired, and the amount of misdirection Arthur is able to achieve with their records.
When they get back to their hotel, Eames fakes inebriation, walking in a wide swath, lilting back and forth and slurring, “you should … that guy, I … I took care of him. He never had a chance.” Arthur doesn’t miss a beat, wrapping an arm around his waist to steady him and shooting an I’m also annoyed with this, sorry about the disturbance glance to the receptionist. The hotel staff won’t think twice about a drunk with a split lip and other injuries boasting of winning a bar fight.
Immediately upon entry to the room, Eames sheds the clean shirt that Arthur brought for him and ducks into the shower. The heat of the water feels amazing, and he presses his forehead to the tile with eyes closed, relaxing under the spray. The water only runs pink for a minute, most of the blood soaked in the shirt he and Arthur burned along with the hotel towels they had used to clean the carpets with. He stays there for a while, until his skin starts to prune and he feels like he’s going to collapse.
He turns off the water and dries with the only towel left in the bathroom. Arthur always asks for extra when they first check into a room. Eames is happy that Arthur remembered to leave at least one behind. They don’t usually need them, and the towels sit in the closet until they check out, but on occasions like this extra towels come in handy. Eames is never unimpressed by Arthur’s preparation skills.
After brushing his teeth carefully as to not re-split his lip, Eames collapses onto the bed and buries his face into the bleach-white linen of the pillows. He hears Arthur typing on his laptop, obviously already hard at work finding information on the dead man and wiping any links he may have to them, their mark, or their client. He’s too tired to track Arthur’s movements around the room like he usually does as he ebbs in and out of light sleep so when, an indeterminable time later, a hand brushes lightly up his spine, he startles a little.
“Shhh,” Arthur says, his hand continuing to rub along Eames’ skin. Eames doesn’t even attempt to complain about the massage, too sore and tired to fuss about not being a baby. It feels good, and he knows he should let Arthur do this more often, but intimacy was never his strong suit, not when he isn’t forging. Arthur’s fingers work at the knots near his spine then they climb upwards towards his neck. Delicately Arthur kneads Eames’ sore shoulder, careful not to press too hard. For all that Eames observes people, it’s Arthur who always knows just what someone needs. Slowly Eames drifts back to sleep with Arthur’s hands still moving over his body.