[Fic] Hand in hand is the only way to land, pt. 5
Title: Hand in hand is the only way to land
Author/Artist: sirona_gs and red_rahl
Team: ROMANCE!
Prompt: Overwhelmed
Word count: ~2,900 this part
Rating: R!
Warnings: A touch of angst, more fluff than you can shake a stick at.
Summary: In which there is a kind-of-date.
Notes: This story is a WIP collaboration, and will post once a week so that both red_rahl and me can polish our bits (so to speak). Title from The Cure's Lovecats.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
[art] by red_rahl
[text] by sirona_gs
It's ten minutes to five. Arthur checks his hair in the mirror for the thousandth time in the past hour, smooths a hand down his mint-green button-down shirt -- the colour reminds him of Eames' eyes, and okay, he's getting beyond pathetic already, god, it's just finding Pepper a better home--isn't it? And spending time with Eames outside of either of their stores, and getting a chance to talk, and get to know each other better, his pesky subconscious reminds him. Arthur flattens both his hands on top of his dresser to stop their shaking.
This is absurd, to be so nervous about nothing more than an outing with a (gorgeous, lovely) pleasant man his age, who likes animals and superheroes and, apparently, Arthur himself. Arthur watches a flush tinge the tops of his reflection's cheekbones light pink, makes an exasperated face at himself and marches out into the hallway, pushes his feet into his boots and trots down the stairs that lead into the shop. His flat is one store above, which is pretty convenient for all those times when 6am is not at all early for his first patient of the day. He likes living above his charges -- stops him fretting when there's a sick one that needs checking, and he can come down with a cup of tea and do the rounds any time he likes.
He had always loved animals, since the very start on his parents' farm -- playing with kittens and puppies, and lambs and kids while he was at it; watching a difficult calf birth, or nursing a sick duckling to health. He'd been nine and a half when his father had died in a freak accident that involved a hitherto undiscovered brain aneurysm and a combiner, to fatal effect. His mom had not had any living relatives, and his dad's sister, Aunt May, had known nothing about farming. And so they had sold the farm for a tidy sum and moved to the city, where the only green patches were the city parks, and the animals Arthur had grown up with had become a fond memory as he'd made his way through school, and later college. By that time it was almost taken for granted that he'd study veterinary medicine, and his mom had supported him all the way. Arthur could not imagine doing anything else with his life, not having that small circle of friends, human and animal, around him.
He looks at all the creatures surrounding him, absorbs the faint noises that are as familiar to him as breathing -- the flap of wings from Patrick's enormous cage, the faint whines from the bunnies' box, the chirping of the canary that the Hobbs family brought in yesterday for treatment, the rustling as the hamsters woke for the night. It's soothing, and it grounds him in the here-and-now, helps him from worrying about the hypothetical. From all he's learned of Eames from their brief meetings, he knows enough to see that Eames is someone he can trust, someone who won't just take what he wants and leave him behind. He's someone Arthur wants to know better, wants to spend time with -- as much time as he can get.
Arthur tries not to fidget, but if he doesn't find something to do with his hands sharpish he's liable to start fussing with the food containers again, and the last thing he wants is for Eames to come in and find him elbow-deep in hamster feed. Christopher chooses that moment to poke his head out of his makeshift enclosure within his tank, and crane his neck to look up at Arthur.
"Hey, you," Arthur coos, knowing he's only got a few minutes left until Eames arrives, so he might as well spend them fussing with Christopher as anything else. The tiny turtle always manages to calm him down a treat when he's worried.
Right on the dot of five o'clock there's a knock on the wooden frame of the door, and Arthur looks away from feeding Christopher a grape leaf from the batch he'd purchased the day before at the local market. And stares.
Eames is wearing a lovely button-down shirt, a mix of blue and lilac and purple, which hugs his broad shoulders to perfection. His jeans are classic blue and slightly worn at the knees and hips, and the shirt is tucked neatly inside the waistband. He's not wearing a tie, and the top three buttons are open at his throat, showing a tantalising peek of smooth, tanned skin and the hint of black ink curling over his collarbone.
To say that Arthur is enthralled would not be too much of an understatement.
He watches Eames shift from foot to foot, those firm, toned thigh muscles straining against the fabric, and it takes him a moment to lift his eyes to Eames' face -- which sports a day's worth of stubble, and Arthur has a sudden, intensely vivid image of Eames rubbing his chin over Arthur's naked inner thighs, Arthur's body arching desperately under him as he tries to direct those lips to where he really wants them. It's so blindsiding, so stunningly visual, that you could have knocked Arthur over with a feather where he stood, trying his utmost not to get hard in the middle of his shop.
He swallows dryly, aware that his mouth is hanging open and there's a strange look on Eames' face, uncertainty and a touch of trepidation as Arthur does no more than stand there, staring. It punches Arthur in the gut, that Eames could be afraid of him, that Arthur has the power to hurt this amazing man that he's only just getting to know. It's horrible. Arthur never wants to see that look on Eames' face again.
"I'm so sorry," he babbles as he rushes to open the door and meet Eames at the threshold. "I completely zoned out, god, how rude of me."
Eames smiles, and that look fades from his eyes until they're shining with warmth. "That's okay," he says, smiling widely, eyes crinkling in the corners until he looks so fond it's almost unbearable. "Are you ready to go?"
"You bet," Arthur grins back, staring into Eames' beaming face for a long moment before shaking himself.
He fishes the keys from his pocket and locks the door, sets the alarm system to the shop just in case they're not back until late (if at all, flits through his head; he firmly squashes the tantalising thought until it's where it belongs, at the back of his mind).
There's a moment of indecision as they argue which car to take; in the end Arthur wins, because he's driving a hatchback, and there's plenty more space in the back than Eames' Ford allows. Unfortunately, Arthur doesn't remember until it's far too late that the last patient he'd transported had been a very ill, very elderly cat that he'd promised to drop off home for its owner. The smell in the car is, frankly, distressing. Eames has just climbed in on the other side when he freezes, eyes watering a little and nose twitching. Arthur flushes bright red.
"On second thought, we should probably take your car," Arthur wheezes as he thumbs the electric windows open as fast as they'll go.
He watches as Eames stares out of the front shield, while in his head he's calling himself ten kinds of idiot for forgetting, oh god, how could Eames possibly find him attractive now; the nose is the most sensitive organ, the sense of smell is so evocative that anything a person smells stays with them, and more importantly, the circumstances in which they'd encountered the smell in question stay fixed in the mind, and oh jesus, now Arthur will always be associated with old Marcus' weak bladder--
Eames makes a choked sound, and god, Arthur wants to die of embarrassment. He's already screwed this up, before it even had the chance to start. He wants to thump his head on the wheel, wishes the metal would open and swallow him whole. He closes his eyes, preparing himself for Eames to make his (very polite, very British) excuses and run the hell away--
Wait. Was that-- Yep, there's no mistaking it, that was most certainly a giggle, choked as it was, and Arthur dares to look sideways at Eames, and then more fully as it dawns on him that Eames' shoulders are shaking, and there are tears in the corners of his eyes as he bites into the knuckle of the hand he's slapped over his mouth. When he sees Arthur watching, it's obvious that he tries to stop, but it's stronger than him -- and then it comes out, slides around teeth sunk into flesh and fills the car, a sound of pure amusement as Eames stares into Arthur's eyes.
Arthur... doesn't know what to do. Is Eames upset? Hysterical? Should Arthur wait him out or kick him out of the car in a fit of irritation?
In the end, he does neither -- because there's something infectious about Eames' laugh, something joyous and tempting, something that makes Arthur look around and see the two of them, sitting in a smelly car, all notions of nerves about what he's pretty sure is their first date gone without a trace in the face of the near-sentient odour permeating every surface. He starts grinning.
Eames takes that as his cue to give up, removes his hand, throws back his head and laughs, a full belly laugh that Arthur really has no choice but be hopelessly enchanted by, even as tears leak out from behind Eames' thick eyelashes pressed together in hilarity. Seeing Eames like that, letting go so completely, sharing this side of himself with Arthur, trusting him with it -- there is no way, no way that Arthur won't reciprocate. Soon enough they're choking and wheezing and bracing themselves on each other, Arthur leaning an arm on one of those thighs he'd so admired earlier and Eames listing to the side, propping himself up on Arthur's shoulders.
"What... by everything holy, what is that smell?" Eames demands, in between unrestrained guffaws.
"I'm sorry," Arthur wheezes again, wiping his eyes, "I forgot. It was Mrs Potter's cat, he's been sick--"
"Oh dear god, it's appalling, I don't think I've ever smelled anything worse in my life, and I've been a student at Oxford--"
"Do I even want to know?" Arthur demands hysterically.
"No," Eames yells, and collapses against Arthur's side, clutching at his arm.
It's tension breaking into pieces, all the barriers falling, all that time Arthur had spent fretting gone without a trace. He's never felt so comfortable with anyone, ever, and that includes Dom and Ariadne, the people he considers his closest friends.
Eventually they calm. When Arthur has the wherewithal to look, Eames' face is red and blotchy, lips still twitching, pale green eyes dancing enticingly when they land on Arthur, and Arthur can barely breathe for how much he wants to kiss him. It would be so easy, lean just a touch closer, fist his hand in Eames' shirt and draw him nearer, press his mouth to those plush lips, kiss them and kiss them until they open for him, until Arthur can slip his tongue between them and taste.
Eames is watching him fondly, grin slipping into something smaller, more intimate. "Shall we?" he says, voice low and caressing, a little rough from their shared hysterics, but no less warm.
Arthur shakes himself. This isn't how he wants their first kiss to happen, even if the smell has abated somewhat with the air circulating freely through the car.
"Yes. Yes, let's."
They drive off with the windows wound all the way down, even though it ruffles Arthur's carefully styled hair. He finds he doesn't care all that much, not anymore.
The store is situated about eight miles away, on the outskirts of the city not far from the bordering farmlands. It's enormous, and stuffed full of every single thing a pet owner could possibly want. Arthur knows exactly where he's going, knows this shop like the back of his hand, since it's his primary supplier.
Knows its owner pretty well, too, and for the first time considers the prudence of bringing Eames here, especially since they both look like they've made an effort.
"Arthur! I didn't know you were coming to see me!"
Oh, well. Too late to do anything about it now. Ariadne closes the distance between them at a jog, wavy brown hair bouncing loose over her shoulders, and Arthur prepares to be mauled by one of Ariadne's famous rib-crushing hugs. Worryingly, she stops a few feet away, and he watches her eyes running over the two of them.
"I'm so sorry, where are my manners. Ariadne Fairbank, I run this store."
"Joe Eames," Eames replies, shaking the hand she sticks out at him. "I go by Eames, though."
"We need a gerbil tank, Ariadne," Arthur says, trying to direct her attention away from its current victim. She gives in, visibly reluctant.
"Well, you know your way around. Yell if you need anything," she says, still eyeing Eames up and down with an alarmingly sly grin on her face. When they turn to go, she sends Arthur a quick wink and a thumbs up. "You'd better call me later," she mouths at him.
Arthur nods; he knows better than to skip that particular step, not after he's been waxing lyrical to her about Eames so often recently.
The tank is found and bought without fanfare; Eames is obviously relieved and happy to have someone there that knows what they're doing, and he doesn't argue once about what Arthur deems appropriate. Arthur likes the way Eames trusts his judgement enough not to question it; likes even more the interest he sees in Eames' eyes, and the attention he pays to anything Arthur says. He doesn't even get distracted when Arthur gets carried away a little explaining about the advantages of each material that makes up the cages. Arthur knows he could get annoyingly specific, but not once does Eames show signs of boredom. Arthur won't lie -- it's flattering as hell.
Ariadne shoos away the clerk manning the check-out and rings them up herself, smiling all the time.
"You two have fun now," she chirps, smiling sweetly. Arthur wants to bang his head against something. With friends like these, and all that.
Eames looks a little bemused. but shakes it by the time they're out in the parking lot again. Arthur opens all the car doors to let some air in while they fit the cage in the back, and they make their way back into town in silence -- the radio is broken, and Arthur never really got round to fixing it. He tells Eames this when Eames starts fidgeting with it.
"How can you drive in silence?" Eames asks, forehead scrunched endearingly. "I'd go mad."
Arthur shrugs. "I kind of like it? It's soothing, and I don't really spend all that much time in my car, anyway."
"Huh. Well, next time we're taking my car."
Next time, Arthur thinks, and smiles to himself.
Pepper, when they wrestle the large tank out of the back and into the bookshop, loves her new home. Eames lowers her gently inside, and she takes off running to every single corner, jumping over the straw and cardboard on the bottom and burrowing happily into the dirt. Eames leaves some nibbles for her in one corner and fits the cover on, settling the tank in the corner behind the till.
"I'll find a spot for her tomorrow," he says, looking at Arthur, who's leaning on the counter and enjoying the view of those muscles bunching under the clothes.
He pushes those thoughts away when Eames looks apprehensive again.
"What would--I mean. Would you like to, uh. Go for a drink or something?"
Eames looks so appealing, standing there all but shuffling his feet and wringing his hands, that this time Arthur can't push back the urge to reach out a hand and take one of Eames' in his own. It's soft and firm at the same time, and Arthur wants to feel it everywhere.
"I know a great Italian restaurant just down the block," he offers, heart beating fast, hoping like hell he hasn't read this whole thing disastrously wrong, especially when Eames' fingers flutter a little in his grasp.
"I love Italian," Eames smiles shyly, hand closing around Arthur's.
Oh, god. Arthur is a goner.
Part Six
Author/Artist: sirona_gs and red_rahl
Team: ROMANCE!
Prompt: Overwhelmed
Word count: ~2,900 this part
Rating: R!
Warnings: A touch of angst, more fluff than you can shake a stick at.
Summary: In which there is a kind-of-date.
Notes: This story is a WIP collaboration, and will post once a week so that both red_rahl and me can polish our bits (so to speak). Title from The Cure's Lovecats.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
[art] by red_rahl
[text] by sirona_gs
It's ten minutes to five. Arthur checks his hair in the mirror for the thousandth time in the past hour, smooths a hand down his mint-green button-down shirt -- the colour reminds him of Eames' eyes, and okay, he's getting beyond pathetic already, god, it's just finding Pepper a better home--isn't it? And spending time with Eames outside of either of their stores, and getting a chance to talk, and get to know each other better, his pesky subconscious reminds him. Arthur flattens both his hands on top of his dresser to stop their shaking.
This is absurd, to be so nervous about nothing more than an outing with a (gorgeous, lovely) pleasant man his age, who likes animals and superheroes and, apparently, Arthur himself. Arthur watches a flush tinge the tops of his reflection's cheekbones light pink, makes an exasperated face at himself and marches out into the hallway, pushes his feet into his boots and trots down the stairs that lead into the shop. His flat is one store above, which is pretty convenient for all those times when 6am is not at all early for his first patient of the day. He likes living above his charges -- stops him fretting when there's a sick one that needs checking, and he can come down with a cup of tea and do the rounds any time he likes.
He had always loved animals, since the very start on his parents' farm -- playing with kittens and puppies, and lambs and kids while he was at it; watching a difficult calf birth, or nursing a sick duckling to health. He'd been nine and a half when his father had died in a freak accident that involved a hitherto undiscovered brain aneurysm and a combiner, to fatal effect. His mom had not had any living relatives, and his dad's sister, Aunt May, had known nothing about farming. And so they had sold the farm for a tidy sum and moved to the city, where the only green patches were the city parks, and the animals Arthur had grown up with had become a fond memory as he'd made his way through school, and later college. By that time it was almost taken for granted that he'd study veterinary medicine, and his mom had supported him all the way. Arthur could not imagine doing anything else with his life, not having that small circle of friends, human and animal, around him.
He looks at all the creatures surrounding him, absorbs the faint noises that are as familiar to him as breathing -- the flap of wings from Patrick's enormous cage, the faint whines from the bunnies' box, the chirping of the canary that the Hobbs family brought in yesterday for treatment, the rustling as the hamsters woke for the night. It's soothing, and it grounds him in the here-and-now, helps him from worrying about the hypothetical. From all he's learned of Eames from their brief meetings, he knows enough to see that Eames is someone he can trust, someone who won't just take what he wants and leave him behind. He's someone Arthur wants to know better, wants to spend time with -- as much time as he can get.
Arthur tries not to fidget, but if he doesn't find something to do with his hands sharpish he's liable to start fussing with the food containers again, and the last thing he wants is for Eames to come in and find him elbow-deep in hamster feed. Christopher chooses that moment to poke his head out of his makeshift enclosure within his tank, and crane his neck to look up at Arthur.
"Hey, you," Arthur coos, knowing he's only got a few minutes left until Eames arrives, so he might as well spend them fussing with Christopher as anything else. The tiny turtle always manages to calm him down a treat when he's worried.
Right on the dot of five o'clock there's a knock on the wooden frame of the door, and Arthur looks away from feeding Christopher a grape leaf from the batch he'd purchased the day before at the local market. And stares.
Eames is wearing a lovely button-down shirt, a mix of blue and lilac and purple, which hugs his broad shoulders to perfection. His jeans are classic blue and slightly worn at the knees and hips, and the shirt is tucked neatly inside the waistband. He's not wearing a tie, and the top three buttons are open at his throat, showing a tantalising peek of smooth, tanned skin and the hint of black ink curling over his collarbone.
To say that Arthur is enthralled would not be too much of an understatement.
He watches Eames shift from foot to foot, those firm, toned thigh muscles straining against the fabric, and it takes him a moment to lift his eyes to Eames' face -- which sports a day's worth of stubble, and Arthur has a sudden, intensely vivid image of Eames rubbing his chin over Arthur's naked inner thighs, Arthur's body arching desperately under him as he tries to direct those lips to where he really wants them. It's so blindsiding, so stunningly visual, that you could have knocked Arthur over with a feather where he stood, trying his utmost not to get hard in the middle of his shop.
He swallows dryly, aware that his mouth is hanging open and there's a strange look on Eames' face, uncertainty and a touch of trepidation as Arthur does no more than stand there, staring. It punches Arthur in the gut, that Eames could be afraid of him, that Arthur has the power to hurt this amazing man that he's only just getting to know. It's horrible. Arthur never wants to see that look on Eames' face again.
"I'm so sorry," he babbles as he rushes to open the door and meet Eames at the threshold. "I completely zoned out, god, how rude of me."
Eames smiles, and that look fades from his eyes until they're shining with warmth. "That's okay," he says, smiling widely, eyes crinkling in the corners until he looks so fond it's almost unbearable. "Are you ready to go?"
"You bet," Arthur grins back, staring into Eames' beaming face for a long moment before shaking himself.
He fishes the keys from his pocket and locks the door, sets the alarm system to the shop just in case they're not back until late (if at all, flits through his head; he firmly squashes the tantalising thought until it's where it belongs, at the back of his mind).
There's a moment of indecision as they argue which car to take; in the end Arthur wins, because he's driving a hatchback, and there's plenty more space in the back than Eames' Ford allows. Unfortunately, Arthur doesn't remember until it's far too late that the last patient he'd transported had been a very ill, very elderly cat that he'd promised to drop off home for its owner. The smell in the car is, frankly, distressing. Eames has just climbed in on the other side when he freezes, eyes watering a little and nose twitching. Arthur flushes bright red.
"On second thought, we should probably take your car," Arthur wheezes as he thumbs the electric windows open as fast as they'll go.
He watches as Eames stares out of the front shield, while in his head he's calling himself ten kinds of idiot for forgetting, oh god, how could Eames possibly find him attractive now; the nose is the most sensitive organ, the sense of smell is so evocative that anything a person smells stays with them, and more importantly, the circumstances in which they'd encountered the smell in question stay fixed in the mind, and oh jesus, now Arthur will always be associated with old Marcus' weak bladder--
Eames makes a choked sound, and god, Arthur wants to die of embarrassment. He's already screwed this up, before it even had the chance to start. He wants to thump his head on the wheel, wishes the metal would open and swallow him whole. He closes his eyes, preparing himself for Eames to make his (very polite, very British) excuses and run the hell away--
Wait. Was that-- Yep, there's no mistaking it, that was most certainly a giggle, choked as it was, and Arthur dares to look sideways at Eames, and then more fully as it dawns on him that Eames' shoulders are shaking, and there are tears in the corners of his eyes as he bites into the knuckle of the hand he's slapped over his mouth. When he sees Arthur watching, it's obvious that he tries to stop, but it's stronger than him -- and then it comes out, slides around teeth sunk into flesh and fills the car, a sound of pure amusement as Eames stares into Arthur's eyes.
Arthur... doesn't know what to do. Is Eames upset? Hysterical? Should Arthur wait him out or kick him out of the car in a fit of irritation?
In the end, he does neither -- because there's something infectious about Eames' laugh, something joyous and tempting, something that makes Arthur look around and see the two of them, sitting in a smelly car, all notions of nerves about what he's pretty sure is their first date gone without a trace in the face of the near-sentient odour permeating every surface. He starts grinning.
Eames takes that as his cue to give up, removes his hand, throws back his head and laughs, a full belly laugh that Arthur really has no choice but be hopelessly enchanted by, even as tears leak out from behind Eames' thick eyelashes pressed together in hilarity. Seeing Eames like that, letting go so completely, sharing this side of himself with Arthur, trusting him with it -- there is no way, no way that Arthur won't reciprocate. Soon enough they're choking and wheezing and bracing themselves on each other, Arthur leaning an arm on one of those thighs he'd so admired earlier and Eames listing to the side, propping himself up on Arthur's shoulders.
"What... by everything holy, what is that smell?" Eames demands, in between unrestrained guffaws.
"I'm sorry," Arthur wheezes again, wiping his eyes, "I forgot. It was Mrs Potter's cat, he's been sick--"
"Oh dear god, it's appalling, I don't think I've ever smelled anything worse in my life, and I've been a student at Oxford--"
"Do I even want to know?" Arthur demands hysterically.
"No," Eames yells, and collapses against Arthur's side, clutching at his arm.
It's tension breaking into pieces, all the barriers falling, all that time Arthur had spent fretting gone without a trace. He's never felt so comfortable with anyone, ever, and that includes Dom and Ariadne, the people he considers his closest friends.
Eventually they calm. When Arthur has the wherewithal to look, Eames' face is red and blotchy, lips still twitching, pale green eyes dancing enticingly when they land on Arthur, and Arthur can barely breathe for how much he wants to kiss him. It would be so easy, lean just a touch closer, fist his hand in Eames' shirt and draw him nearer, press his mouth to those plush lips, kiss them and kiss them until they open for him, until Arthur can slip his tongue between them and taste.
Eames is watching him fondly, grin slipping into something smaller, more intimate. "Shall we?" he says, voice low and caressing, a little rough from their shared hysterics, but no less warm.
Arthur shakes himself. This isn't how he wants their first kiss to happen, even if the smell has abated somewhat with the air circulating freely through the car.
"Yes. Yes, let's."
They drive off with the windows wound all the way down, even though it ruffles Arthur's carefully styled hair. He finds he doesn't care all that much, not anymore.
The store is situated about eight miles away, on the outskirts of the city not far from the bordering farmlands. It's enormous, and stuffed full of every single thing a pet owner could possibly want. Arthur knows exactly where he's going, knows this shop like the back of his hand, since it's his primary supplier.
Knows its owner pretty well, too, and for the first time considers the prudence of bringing Eames here, especially since they both look like they've made an effort.
"Arthur! I didn't know you were coming to see me!"
Oh, well. Too late to do anything about it now. Ariadne closes the distance between them at a jog, wavy brown hair bouncing loose over her shoulders, and Arthur prepares to be mauled by one of Ariadne's famous rib-crushing hugs. Worryingly, she stops a few feet away, and he watches her eyes running over the two of them.
"I'm so sorry, where are my manners. Ariadne Fairbank, I run this store."
"Joe Eames," Eames replies, shaking the hand she sticks out at him. "I go by Eames, though."
"We need a gerbil tank, Ariadne," Arthur says, trying to direct her attention away from its current victim. She gives in, visibly reluctant.
"Well, you know your way around. Yell if you need anything," she says, still eyeing Eames up and down with an alarmingly sly grin on her face. When they turn to go, she sends Arthur a quick wink and a thumbs up. "You'd better call me later," she mouths at him.
Arthur nods; he knows better than to skip that particular step, not after he's been waxing lyrical to her about Eames so often recently.
The tank is found and bought without fanfare; Eames is obviously relieved and happy to have someone there that knows what they're doing, and he doesn't argue once about what Arthur deems appropriate. Arthur likes the way Eames trusts his judgement enough not to question it; likes even more the interest he sees in Eames' eyes, and the attention he pays to anything Arthur says. He doesn't even get distracted when Arthur gets carried away a little explaining about the advantages of each material that makes up the cages. Arthur knows he could get annoyingly specific, but not once does Eames show signs of boredom. Arthur won't lie -- it's flattering as hell.
Ariadne shoos away the clerk manning the check-out and rings them up herself, smiling all the time.
"You two have fun now," she chirps, smiling sweetly. Arthur wants to bang his head against something. With friends like these, and all that.
Eames looks a little bemused. but shakes it by the time they're out in the parking lot again. Arthur opens all the car doors to let some air in while they fit the cage in the back, and they make their way back into town in silence -- the radio is broken, and Arthur never really got round to fixing it. He tells Eames this when Eames starts fidgeting with it.
"How can you drive in silence?" Eames asks, forehead scrunched endearingly. "I'd go mad."
Arthur shrugs. "I kind of like it? It's soothing, and I don't really spend all that much time in my car, anyway."
"Huh. Well, next time we're taking my car."
Next time, Arthur thinks, and smiles to himself.
Pepper, when they wrestle the large tank out of the back and into the bookshop, loves her new home. Eames lowers her gently inside, and she takes off running to every single corner, jumping over the straw and cardboard on the bottom and burrowing happily into the dirt. Eames leaves some nibbles for her in one corner and fits the cover on, settling the tank in the corner behind the till.
"I'll find a spot for her tomorrow," he says, looking at Arthur, who's leaning on the counter and enjoying the view of those muscles bunching under the clothes.
He pushes those thoughts away when Eames looks apprehensive again.
"What would--I mean. Would you like to, uh. Go for a drink or something?"
Eames looks so appealing, standing there all but shuffling his feet and wringing his hands, that this time Arthur can't push back the urge to reach out a hand and take one of Eames' in his own. It's soft and firm at the same time, and Arthur wants to feel it everywhere.
"I know a great Italian restaurant just down the block," he offers, heart beating fast, hoping like hell he hasn't read this whole thing disastrously wrong, especially when Eames' fingers flutter a little in his grasp.
"I love Italian," Eames smiles shyly, hand closing around Arthur's.
Oh, god. Arthur is a goner.
Part Six