Total Eclipse of the Heart
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: G
Warnings: Language.
Summary: Arthur somehow manages to invite himself over just before the snowstorm hits.
Author's Notes: Written for snottygrrl for dream_holiday 2011. I know you asked for cuddling, but this ended up as more as pre-slash... >.< Also, the snow is more of a plot device alskdsklmfldkh um, I hope you like it, anyway?????? orz
Edit: Also, OMG, I'm a moron asklskmgd. A billion thanks to my awesome, amazing betas, figletofvenice and takethatsuckah, who pushed me through this no matter how much I whined.
Arthur gets in at the ass crack of dawn, about half an hour after Eames finally manages to kick his jetlag in the face and fall asleep. He pounds on the door like an asshole, and Eames wakes up trying to sit up and aim his gun at the same time, which leads to unhappy things.
"Fuck you," he grumbles crossly when he sees who it is, head still reeling from exhaustion and being dumped unceremoniously onto the floor by his tangled sheets (while holding a loaded weapon, no less). "I could've shot you just now."
All Arthur does is snort and muscle past without so much as a by-your-leave, two neatly packed carry-ons in hand. Eames doesn't know how he got the address for this apartment, which is supposed to be secret. He hasn't even used it since that thing in Bogota five years ago, and then only as a one-night layover. But it's Arthur, so he shoves the thought where all the "How did Arthur know???" questions go and settles on being irritated instead, since Arthur has apparently invited himself over.
"Don't you have a hotel room or something?" he demands, because if Arthur is going to intrude on him at 4:38 a.m. after a fourteen hour flight, he can damn well take a bit of rudeness.
"Didn't have time," Arthur says curtly. He's already dumped his luggage by wall and is slumped over on Eames's bed, wrestling with his cufflinks. "I was indisposed."
Eames squints at him suspiciously. The last time Arthur used words like "indisposed," what he'd really meant was, "Someone shot me and nicked a major artery and also gave me a concussion bad enough to necessitate a medically induced coma."
He looks tired and drawn, but he always looks tired and drawn after terrible jobs. He's bracing himself a little bit, which probably means injuries, but his shirt looks as freshly pressed and finely tailored as usual. There's nothing immediately obvious, so at least he won't be needing any impromptu bathtub field surgery, which, a) never again, and b) Eames is not awake enough for this, nor does he want to be.
"I need a drink," he announces, because he does. The adrenaline is starting to kick in, alertness creeping up on him underneath the bone-deep exhaustion, and that's just not on.
There's some ancient Scotch stashed in the back of the fireplace, and Eames pours himself a little. The burn of it wakes him more going down, but the warmth curls through his limbs in its wake, and he knows it'll dull into lassitude soon enough.
He grudgingly pours a bit for Arthur, as well, since it seems like he could use some alcohol, too, and he doesn't want to be ungracious or anything. When he gets back, Arthur is passed out on top of the covers, having apparently given up the fight with his cufflinks. He's got one shoe off, the other unlaced but still on; his undoubtedly fancy vest is crumpled under him as he snores, face down on Eames's pillow. Eames scowls and fights himself for a moment before deciding that, fuck it, if Arthur wants to be a moron and sleep on top of the covers, he is a grown man, and that is his prerogative. Eames isn't even his friend, much less his nursemaid, and he is not going help him finish undressing or tuck him in like… like Santa or whatever.
He crawls into the other side of the bed, which is freezing, because Arthur is a complete and utter bed-stealing wanker, and vengefully yanks on the available corner of comforter before rolling over and going back to sleep.
--
Two hours later, he's woken again when Arthur steals all the covers again and kicks him in the shin with his still-booted foot. Eames decides to ignore it at first, but it's freezing. Also, Arthur's boot is most definitely dirty, probably bloody, and the sole is hard and uncomfortable and just. Ugh.
He goes to tug the rightful half of his comforter away from Arthur, but Arthur's face is mashed into the edge of it. The shadows under his eyes look even darker, and even in sleep, he seems stressed, the lines around his mouth slack but unhappy.
Eames groans. Arthur is going to owe him. Arthur is going to owe him so many favors.
He stumbles out of bed and grabs the throw off the couch. And then he digs around until he finds Arthur's boot and yanks it off, taking a sock along with it. The sight of Arthur's bare ankle makes him pause for a moment, but he shoves it back under the covers because it's fucking cold, and Arthur's going to owe him forever.
Eames curls up on the other side of the bed for the second time that night, teeth chattering as he waits for the cold blanket to warm up, and thinks viciously that if anything else wakes him up before twelve hours have passed, he is going to shoot it.
Especially if it's Arthur.
--
The next time Eames opens his eyes, it's four in the afternoon, and there are six inches of snow on the ground.
"Well, fuck me," he says, because they're close enough to the equator that this is a complete surprise.
When he checks the news reports, it seems like the entire city is pretty surprised, too, since it's been completely shut down.
"Well, fuck me," he says again, because he's pretty sure he's just been stranded in a house with Arthur, at least until the roads open back up again.
Arthur, who-the ungrateful sod-is still snoring merrily along, buried so deep in his stolen cocoon that the only visible sign of him is a tuft of black hair.
At least there's food, Eames thinks, giving the freshly sort-of-stocked pantry a critical look. Cereal, instant oatmeal, potato crisps. There might even be some eggs and veggies in the fridge, if he recalls correctly, which he always does. Of course, he hadn't been expecting to put up two people, but hopefully, it'll tide them over long enough.
"Morning, sunshine," he calls out obnoxiously as he throws open the shades. Arthur makes a hurt-sounding noise and mumbles something most likely unflattering into the sheets. When he finally sits up, blinking sluggishly, he frowns at Eames through the dreary grey winter light.
"You shouldn't have let me sleep in my clothes," he says, pulling uselessly at the wrinkled wreckage of his dry-clean-only shirt sleeves.
Eames rolls his eyes. Trust Arthur to think only about the integrity of his wardrobe first thing. "Why, yes, Arthur," he says snidely, "of course not. Next time you grace me with your sudden but very dear presence, I'll be sure to strip you in your sleep and send your effects to the cleaners. Would you like a hot water bottle at the foot of the bed as well, or will a mint on the pillow suffice?"
Arthur looks a little chagrined at that, at least. "Sorry," he says, rubbing his eyes. "It's just. There were some… complications with Kiram, and I didn't get a chance to repack. This is all I've got until I can either buy something new or get to a dry cleaners."
"Well, you'll have to wait for a bit longer," Eames tells him with maybe a hint of sympathy. "The entire city's been snowed in and shut down. Doesn't look like anything's going to open until they can get all this cleared out."
Arthur stares back at him blankly. "What? Aren't we in Georgia?"
Eames shrugs. "Snowpocalypse. See for yourself."
Arthur glances out the window and groans. "So what are we doing with the-"
"I haven't called Marin yet, but I imagine the job's on hold." Eames shrugs again. "It's not like Brandt's going anywhere in this weather."
"I could've been home," Arthur says. It's the closest thing to whining Eames thinks he has ever heard from his general direction. "I could've been not dirty."
"Well," Eames says with a magnanimous wave of the hand. "You're free to use the shower. But if you want to do laundry, you'll have to wash it by hand."
Arthur looks vaguely dismayed. "Oh. Thanks. I, uh… Look, is there. Do you have anything I could borrow? Just for now, at least? Everything I've got is pretty filthy, and I was going to… I didn't exactly pack for this weather, you know?"
"Sure," Eames says. "I'm sure I've got something lying around here."
--
After half an hour of intense searching, Eames digs out an old jumper that his mother sent him for Christmas some years ago. He honestly thought he'd lost it, but now that he looks at it again, he wonders if he'd stashed it here on purpose.
The material is fine cashmere, even though it's cold and a bit stiff and tremendously wrinkled from sitting crumpled in the closet for at least half a decade, but the color is a sickly pea soup sort of green that his mother swears up and down is flattering. Perhaps it is on her pale, aristocratic skin, but on him, it looks like sickly pea soup, and also, there are swooping columns of paisley everywhere. It's not a bad jumper, all told, just… most definitely not Eames's style.
"Look, Arthur," Eames says as he tosses it over. "Your favorite pattern."
Arthur's expression is blank, but Eames has known him long enough that he can see the long-suffering sigh begging for an exhale. "Thank you," he says gravely instead. Eames is about 68% sure that there's a bit of glee in there, because Arthur really does love paisley. You wouldn't think it to look at him and his perfectly coordinated palette, but Arthur quite loves patterns. They tend to be hidden, intricate little things that take a bit of staring to pick out, but once in awhile, he'll bring out the flashier prints as accents. Eames loves teasing him about them, because the very first time they ever met, Arthur had cast a solid look of disdain towards Eames's favorite tweed jacket, and Eames will never forgive him for it.
Also, paisley.
(He'd never say so out loud because Arthur doesn't need a bigger ego, and everyone is probably already thinking it, anyway, but sometimes when he's drunk or really tired, Eames admits to himself that he's also never quite seen anyone else make paisley look half as classy… and then immediately unthinks the thought.)
As it is, Arthur comes out of the shower wearing the jumper-which is two sizes too large for him and hangs awkwardly off his narrow frame-and a pair of beautiful but mismatched navy silk pajama bottoms-the only concession to physical luxury he's willing to lug halfway around the world-and completely product-less hair.
Eames is delighted. Delight may be an understatement.
"Will you look at that!" he coos. "Waves! Oh, Arthur, I never knew you had such charming qualities beneath all that pomade."
"Shut up," Arthur snaps grumpily, but he looks a little better, at least, still tired but flushed with steam heat and happier for it. "I hate my hair like this."
Eames grins and ruffles it just because he can now without getting flakes of gel all over his palm.
"I think it looks darling." He throws in bit of eyelash batting for effect, but Arthur just shoves him away, unimpressed.
--
Eames calls Marin to check in and lets her spew invectives against the weather, global warming, and SUV-driving assholes for twenty minutes.
"So the job's on hold, then?" he asks finally, when Marin seems to feel a bit better about the unexpected change in schedule.
"Yes," she says. "Let Arthur know, will you? I haven't heard from him yet. He hasn't died, has he?"
"Oh, I'm sure he's alive and kicking," Eames says as casually as possible. "He's a tough little bastard. I'll let him know if I see him first."
--
"The job's on hold," he says five minutes later, when Arthur walks into the kitchen, looking, presumably, for food. Eames tips the box of corn flakes at him. "Cereal?"
Arthur wrinkles his nose and goes to poke through the refrigerator instead. He comes up with a handful of eggs and bacon and doesn't say anything when Eames promptly begins to steal from his plate.
--
Sometime in the evening, Arthur really does attempt to wash some of his laundry by hand. Eames had been joking, but… Well. Arthur and his clothing. He should've known better.
It's an arduous process that takes Arthur the better part of three hours: crouching by the bath tub and rubbing crumbly hotel soap into designer wool and then carefully rinsing it all out again. There are a couple of bloodstained things that Eames privately thinks must be unsalvageable, but Arthur has always seemed to have miracle cure for such things.
When he's finished, he hijacks all of Eames's hangers and also the entire counter top. He isn't sure how Arthur manages to find the space, but there are one coat, two shirts, two vests, three suit jackets with matching trousers, nine pairs of socks and boxer briefs, and five shirts laid out neatly all over the bathroom. Naturally, everything matches everything else; it's a little disgusting.
"So," Eames says, just to be a dick, "how are we supposed to shower?"
"I'll move it," Arthur responds vaguely, already sprawled back over Eames's bed and dropping off to sleep. It's a little odd, since Arthur is usually like the goddamn Energizer bunny, but Eames is still feeling the jetlag himself. Between the traveling and the Somnacin, actual sleeping gets a bit difficult, and Arthur does still look kind of peaky. Eames shrugs and leaves him to it.
--
He's not sure how, but Arthur manages to hide the gunshot wound and subsequent bandages for a day and a half before Eames catches him changing the dressing.
It makes him furious. Not that Arthur got shot, which is really par for the course, considering how many stupid jobs he's willing to pull for people who really aren't worth his time or affections-seriously, extraction takes five minutes while all parties are asleep, it really shouldn't get so messy so often-but that Arthur can't act like a normal person and just ask for some help when he could really use it. Like, for instance, when he's trying to surreptitiously change the bandages up for a five-day old hole in his chest with the first aid box balanced precariously on his piles of drying laundry.
Eames isn't a civilian. He used to be in the SAS for Christ's sake; he's not going to run screaming from a little blood and gore. He's also not going to judge Arthur for anything. This is how their lives work out sometimes, and he knows that, and Jesus, he'd guessed that Arthur had been injured, but there is legitimately a hole in his chest.
"Give me that," he says, all but snatching the roll of gauze from Arthur's hands.
"I can do it myself," Arthur protests.
Eames glares at him. "Of course you can," he snarls, "Super overachiever Arthur can do anything, even when he should be backing out of the job-"
"Well, that's why I didn't say anything!" Arthur says. "I'm fine! I just need a little rest."
"Yeah, okay, and if there hadn't been six inches of snow outside in a state where no one owns snow tires?" Eames demands. "What then? Would you have even bothered to tell the team? And how about the fact that using Somnacin would be a fucking stupid idea right about now? Would you have bothered to explain that you shouldn't be going under? Or would you have volunteered to be the guinea pig, you masochistic son of a-"
"Oh, my god, Eames, this is exactly why I didn't say anything, this moment right here. Look, I appreciate you being a good teammate and looking out for me and everything, but I know my own limits-"
"Oh, you have limits! Are you going to be human next? Do tell."
"And I will be fine," Arthur continues, jaw clenched. "Eames, I am a grown fucking man, and you're not my mother!"
"I would also prefer for you to not be dead!" Eames yells back. "I'm sure she would prefer for you to not be dead also!"
"Quit being such a drama queen! For the last time, I'm fine!"
Eames stares at Arthur incredulously before jabbing him in the ribs and watching as he turns white and doubles over, wheezing for breath.
"Right," he says, point made. "Yeah. Fine."
--
Arthur understandably refuses to talk to him for the rest of the day and camps out in the kitchen instead, typing furiously on his laptop. Eames doesn't regret it, but the frigid silence gets awkward, especially when he makes himself processed bangers and instant mash for lunch. There's only the banging of pans and the hissing of the stove, but Eames can feel Arthur's eyes drilling into his back.
He starts feeling mildly guilty around six o'clock, because Arthur is still glowering at his screen, huddled in his chair in a puddle of abjectly miserable pea soup cashmere, even though surely some of his own things are dry by now. As far as he knows, Arthur hasn't gotten up to eat a single thing, all day, even though he is sitting three steps from all the food.
Out of the kindness of his heart, he heats up the only can of chicken noodle soup left and tosses in some canned carrots and rice. It's thin and weak, but it's better than nothing.
"Here," he says, sliding a bowl in front of Arthur.
Arthur stares at him for a moment, lips pursed. "You're still a dick," he says.
"And you still should've said something," Eames counters. He slumps into the other chair, almost toppling little as it rocks back on uneven legs, and slides his own bowl around the wood table top. "You're the point man. It's not just your life on the line here."
"My mother's Jewish," Arthur says. "Don't try to guilt me."
Eames stabs into a clump of rice with his spoon. "Do you think I'm joking?"
"I think you're being a good teammate, and I appreciate it," Arthur says. "But I also need you to trust that I can handle myself."
"And I need you to trust that I can help you. That I would help you."
Arthur looks up from his soup, a surprised arch to his brow. "Eames," he says, "why else would I come here?"
Eames stops, because he hasn't quite thought about it that way: that maybe Arthur came to him on purpose instead of just dropping by because he lived closest to the airport. Maybe Arthur is sitting in his kitchen, eating shitty canned soup and wearing a terrible paisley-patterned sweater because he doesn't mind Eames seeing or knowing.
"Eames," Arthur says again, slowly, carefully, looking him steadily in the eye. "Thank you."
The words unlock a breath Eames didn't even realize he'd been holding. He blinks once and sits up straighter, a warm curl of brightness in his chest that feels a lot like satisfaction.
"You're welcome," he says.
Rating: G
Warnings: Language.
Summary: Arthur somehow manages to invite himself over just before the snowstorm hits.
Author's Notes: Written for snottygrrl for dream_holiday 2011. I know you asked for cuddling, but this ended up as more as pre-slash... >.< Also, the snow is more of a plot device alskdsklmfldkh um, I hope you like it, anyway?????? orz
Edit: Also, OMG, I'm a moron asklskmgd. A billion thanks to my awesome, amazing betas, figletofvenice and takethatsuckah, who pushed me through this no matter how much I whined.
Arthur gets in at the ass crack of dawn, about half an hour after Eames finally manages to kick his jetlag in the face and fall asleep. He pounds on the door like an asshole, and Eames wakes up trying to sit up and aim his gun at the same time, which leads to unhappy things.
"Fuck you," he grumbles crossly when he sees who it is, head still reeling from exhaustion and being dumped unceremoniously onto the floor by his tangled sheets (while holding a loaded weapon, no less). "I could've shot you just now."
All Arthur does is snort and muscle past without so much as a by-your-leave, two neatly packed carry-ons in hand. Eames doesn't know how he got the address for this apartment, which is supposed to be secret. He hasn't even used it since that thing in Bogota five years ago, and then only as a one-night layover. But it's Arthur, so he shoves the thought where all the "How did Arthur know???" questions go and settles on being irritated instead, since Arthur has apparently invited himself over.
"Don't you have a hotel room or something?" he demands, because if Arthur is going to intrude on him at 4:38 a.m. after a fourteen hour flight, he can damn well take a bit of rudeness.
"Didn't have time," Arthur says curtly. He's already dumped his luggage by wall and is slumped over on Eames's bed, wrestling with his cufflinks. "I was indisposed."
Eames squints at him suspiciously. The last time Arthur used words like "indisposed," what he'd really meant was, "Someone shot me and nicked a major artery and also gave me a concussion bad enough to necessitate a medically induced coma."
He looks tired and drawn, but he always looks tired and drawn after terrible jobs. He's bracing himself a little bit, which probably means injuries, but his shirt looks as freshly pressed and finely tailored as usual. There's nothing immediately obvious, so at least he won't be needing any impromptu bathtub field surgery, which, a) never again, and b) Eames is not awake enough for this, nor does he want to be.
"I need a drink," he announces, because he does. The adrenaline is starting to kick in, alertness creeping up on him underneath the bone-deep exhaustion, and that's just not on.
There's some ancient Scotch stashed in the back of the fireplace, and Eames pours himself a little. The burn of it wakes him more going down, but the warmth curls through his limbs in its wake, and he knows it'll dull into lassitude soon enough.
He grudgingly pours a bit for Arthur, as well, since it seems like he could use some alcohol, too, and he doesn't want to be ungracious or anything. When he gets back, Arthur is passed out on top of the covers, having apparently given up the fight with his cufflinks. He's got one shoe off, the other unlaced but still on; his undoubtedly fancy vest is crumpled under him as he snores, face down on Eames's pillow. Eames scowls and fights himself for a moment before deciding that, fuck it, if Arthur wants to be a moron and sleep on top of the covers, he is a grown man, and that is his prerogative. Eames isn't even his friend, much less his nursemaid, and he is not going help him finish undressing or tuck him in like… like Santa or whatever.
He crawls into the other side of the bed, which is freezing, because Arthur is a complete and utter bed-stealing wanker, and vengefully yanks on the available corner of comforter before rolling over and going back to sleep.
--
Two hours later, he's woken again when Arthur steals all the covers again and kicks him in the shin with his still-booted foot. Eames decides to ignore it at first, but it's freezing. Also, Arthur's boot is most definitely dirty, probably bloody, and the sole is hard and uncomfortable and just. Ugh.
He goes to tug the rightful half of his comforter away from Arthur, but Arthur's face is mashed into the edge of it. The shadows under his eyes look even darker, and even in sleep, he seems stressed, the lines around his mouth slack but unhappy.
Eames groans. Arthur is going to owe him. Arthur is going to owe him so many favors.
He stumbles out of bed and grabs the throw off the couch. And then he digs around until he finds Arthur's boot and yanks it off, taking a sock along with it. The sight of Arthur's bare ankle makes him pause for a moment, but he shoves it back under the covers because it's fucking cold, and Arthur's going to owe him forever.
Eames curls up on the other side of the bed for the second time that night, teeth chattering as he waits for the cold blanket to warm up, and thinks viciously that if anything else wakes him up before twelve hours have passed, he is going to shoot it.
Especially if it's Arthur.
--
The next time Eames opens his eyes, it's four in the afternoon, and there are six inches of snow on the ground.
"Well, fuck me," he says, because they're close enough to the equator that this is a complete surprise.
When he checks the news reports, it seems like the entire city is pretty surprised, too, since it's been completely shut down.
"Well, fuck me," he says again, because he's pretty sure he's just been stranded in a house with Arthur, at least until the roads open back up again.
Arthur, who-the ungrateful sod-is still snoring merrily along, buried so deep in his stolen cocoon that the only visible sign of him is a tuft of black hair.
At least there's food, Eames thinks, giving the freshly sort-of-stocked pantry a critical look. Cereal, instant oatmeal, potato crisps. There might even be some eggs and veggies in the fridge, if he recalls correctly, which he always does. Of course, he hadn't been expecting to put up two people, but hopefully, it'll tide them over long enough.
"Morning, sunshine," he calls out obnoxiously as he throws open the shades. Arthur makes a hurt-sounding noise and mumbles something most likely unflattering into the sheets. When he finally sits up, blinking sluggishly, he frowns at Eames through the dreary grey winter light.
"You shouldn't have let me sleep in my clothes," he says, pulling uselessly at the wrinkled wreckage of his dry-clean-only shirt sleeves.
Eames rolls his eyes. Trust Arthur to think only about the integrity of his wardrobe first thing. "Why, yes, Arthur," he says snidely, "of course not. Next time you grace me with your sudden but very dear presence, I'll be sure to strip you in your sleep and send your effects to the cleaners. Would you like a hot water bottle at the foot of the bed as well, or will a mint on the pillow suffice?"
Arthur looks a little chagrined at that, at least. "Sorry," he says, rubbing his eyes. "It's just. There were some… complications with Kiram, and I didn't get a chance to repack. This is all I've got until I can either buy something new or get to a dry cleaners."
"Well, you'll have to wait for a bit longer," Eames tells him with maybe a hint of sympathy. "The entire city's been snowed in and shut down. Doesn't look like anything's going to open until they can get all this cleared out."
Arthur stares back at him blankly. "What? Aren't we in Georgia?"
Eames shrugs. "Snowpocalypse. See for yourself."
Arthur glances out the window and groans. "So what are we doing with the-"
"I haven't called Marin yet, but I imagine the job's on hold." Eames shrugs again. "It's not like Brandt's going anywhere in this weather."
"I could've been home," Arthur says. It's the closest thing to whining Eames thinks he has ever heard from his general direction. "I could've been not dirty."
"Well," Eames says with a magnanimous wave of the hand. "You're free to use the shower. But if you want to do laundry, you'll have to wash it by hand."
Arthur looks vaguely dismayed. "Oh. Thanks. I, uh… Look, is there. Do you have anything I could borrow? Just for now, at least? Everything I've got is pretty filthy, and I was going to… I didn't exactly pack for this weather, you know?"
"Sure," Eames says. "I'm sure I've got something lying around here."
--
After half an hour of intense searching, Eames digs out an old jumper that his mother sent him for Christmas some years ago. He honestly thought he'd lost it, but now that he looks at it again, he wonders if he'd stashed it here on purpose.
The material is fine cashmere, even though it's cold and a bit stiff and tremendously wrinkled from sitting crumpled in the closet for at least half a decade, but the color is a sickly pea soup sort of green that his mother swears up and down is flattering. Perhaps it is on her pale, aristocratic skin, but on him, it looks like sickly pea soup, and also, there are swooping columns of paisley everywhere. It's not a bad jumper, all told, just… most definitely not Eames's style.
"Look, Arthur," Eames says as he tosses it over. "Your favorite pattern."
Arthur's expression is blank, but Eames has known him long enough that he can see the long-suffering sigh begging for an exhale. "Thank you," he says gravely instead. Eames is about 68% sure that there's a bit of glee in there, because Arthur really does love paisley. You wouldn't think it to look at him and his perfectly coordinated palette, but Arthur quite loves patterns. They tend to be hidden, intricate little things that take a bit of staring to pick out, but once in awhile, he'll bring out the flashier prints as accents. Eames loves teasing him about them, because the very first time they ever met, Arthur had cast a solid look of disdain towards Eames's favorite tweed jacket, and Eames will never forgive him for it.
Also, paisley.
(He'd never say so out loud because Arthur doesn't need a bigger ego, and everyone is probably already thinking it, anyway, but sometimes when he's drunk or really tired, Eames admits to himself that he's also never quite seen anyone else make paisley look half as classy… and then immediately unthinks the thought.)
As it is, Arthur comes out of the shower wearing the jumper-which is two sizes too large for him and hangs awkwardly off his narrow frame-and a pair of beautiful but mismatched navy silk pajama bottoms-the only concession to physical luxury he's willing to lug halfway around the world-and completely product-less hair.
Eames is delighted. Delight may be an understatement.
"Will you look at that!" he coos. "Waves! Oh, Arthur, I never knew you had such charming qualities beneath all that pomade."
"Shut up," Arthur snaps grumpily, but he looks a little better, at least, still tired but flushed with steam heat and happier for it. "I hate my hair like this."
Eames grins and ruffles it just because he can now without getting flakes of gel all over his palm.
"I think it looks darling." He throws in bit of eyelash batting for effect, but Arthur just shoves him away, unimpressed.
--
Eames calls Marin to check in and lets her spew invectives against the weather, global warming, and SUV-driving assholes for twenty minutes.
"So the job's on hold, then?" he asks finally, when Marin seems to feel a bit better about the unexpected change in schedule.
"Yes," she says. "Let Arthur know, will you? I haven't heard from him yet. He hasn't died, has he?"
"Oh, I'm sure he's alive and kicking," Eames says as casually as possible. "He's a tough little bastard. I'll let him know if I see him first."
--
"The job's on hold," he says five minutes later, when Arthur walks into the kitchen, looking, presumably, for food. Eames tips the box of corn flakes at him. "Cereal?"
Arthur wrinkles his nose and goes to poke through the refrigerator instead. He comes up with a handful of eggs and bacon and doesn't say anything when Eames promptly begins to steal from his plate.
--
Sometime in the evening, Arthur really does attempt to wash some of his laundry by hand. Eames had been joking, but… Well. Arthur and his clothing. He should've known better.
It's an arduous process that takes Arthur the better part of three hours: crouching by the bath tub and rubbing crumbly hotel soap into designer wool and then carefully rinsing it all out again. There are a couple of bloodstained things that Eames privately thinks must be unsalvageable, but Arthur has always seemed to have miracle cure for such things.
When he's finished, he hijacks all of Eames's hangers and also the entire counter top. He isn't sure how Arthur manages to find the space, but there are one coat, two shirts, two vests, three suit jackets with matching trousers, nine pairs of socks and boxer briefs, and five shirts laid out neatly all over the bathroom. Naturally, everything matches everything else; it's a little disgusting.
"So," Eames says, just to be a dick, "how are we supposed to shower?"
"I'll move it," Arthur responds vaguely, already sprawled back over Eames's bed and dropping off to sleep. It's a little odd, since Arthur is usually like the goddamn Energizer bunny, but Eames is still feeling the jetlag himself. Between the traveling and the Somnacin, actual sleeping gets a bit difficult, and Arthur does still look kind of peaky. Eames shrugs and leaves him to it.
--
He's not sure how, but Arthur manages to hide the gunshot wound and subsequent bandages for a day and a half before Eames catches him changing the dressing.
It makes him furious. Not that Arthur got shot, which is really par for the course, considering how many stupid jobs he's willing to pull for people who really aren't worth his time or affections-seriously, extraction takes five minutes while all parties are asleep, it really shouldn't get so messy so often-but that Arthur can't act like a normal person and just ask for some help when he could really use it. Like, for instance, when he's trying to surreptitiously change the bandages up for a five-day old hole in his chest with the first aid box balanced precariously on his piles of drying laundry.
Eames isn't a civilian. He used to be in the SAS for Christ's sake; he's not going to run screaming from a little blood and gore. He's also not going to judge Arthur for anything. This is how their lives work out sometimes, and he knows that, and Jesus, he'd guessed that Arthur had been injured, but there is legitimately a hole in his chest.
"Give me that," he says, all but snatching the roll of gauze from Arthur's hands.
"I can do it myself," Arthur protests.
Eames glares at him. "Of course you can," he snarls, "Super overachiever Arthur can do anything, even when he should be backing out of the job-"
"Well, that's why I didn't say anything!" Arthur says. "I'm fine! I just need a little rest."
"Yeah, okay, and if there hadn't been six inches of snow outside in a state where no one owns snow tires?" Eames demands. "What then? Would you have even bothered to tell the team? And how about the fact that using Somnacin would be a fucking stupid idea right about now? Would you have bothered to explain that you shouldn't be going under? Or would you have volunteered to be the guinea pig, you masochistic son of a-"
"Oh, my god, Eames, this is exactly why I didn't say anything, this moment right here. Look, I appreciate you being a good teammate and looking out for me and everything, but I know my own limits-"
"Oh, you have limits! Are you going to be human next? Do tell."
"And I will be fine," Arthur continues, jaw clenched. "Eames, I am a grown fucking man, and you're not my mother!"
"I would also prefer for you to not be dead!" Eames yells back. "I'm sure she would prefer for you to not be dead also!"
"Quit being such a drama queen! For the last time, I'm fine!"
Eames stares at Arthur incredulously before jabbing him in the ribs and watching as he turns white and doubles over, wheezing for breath.
"Right," he says, point made. "Yeah. Fine."
--
Arthur understandably refuses to talk to him for the rest of the day and camps out in the kitchen instead, typing furiously on his laptop. Eames doesn't regret it, but the frigid silence gets awkward, especially when he makes himself processed bangers and instant mash for lunch. There's only the banging of pans and the hissing of the stove, but Eames can feel Arthur's eyes drilling into his back.
He starts feeling mildly guilty around six o'clock, because Arthur is still glowering at his screen, huddled in his chair in a puddle of abjectly miserable pea soup cashmere, even though surely some of his own things are dry by now. As far as he knows, Arthur hasn't gotten up to eat a single thing, all day, even though he is sitting three steps from all the food.
Out of the kindness of his heart, he heats up the only can of chicken noodle soup left and tosses in some canned carrots and rice. It's thin and weak, but it's better than nothing.
"Here," he says, sliding a bowl in front of Arthur.
Arthur stares at him for a moment, lips pursed. "You're still a dick," he says.
"And you still should've said something," Eames counters. He slumps into the other chair, almost toppling little as it rocks back on uneven legs, and slides his own bowl around the wood table top. "You're the point man. It's not just your life on the line here."
"My mother's Jewish," Arthur says. "Don't try to guilt me."
Eames stabs into a clump of rice with his spoon. "Do you think I'm joking?"
"I think you're being a good teammate, and I appreciate it," Arthur says. "But I also need you to trust that I can handle myself."
"And I need you to trust that I can help you. That I would help you."
Arthur looks up from his soup, a surprised arch to his brow. "Eames," he says, "why else would I come here?"
Eames stops, because he hasn't quite thought about it that way: that maybe Arthur came to him on purpose instead of just dropping by because he lived closest to the airport. Maybe Arthur is sitting in his kitchen, eating shitty canned soup and wearing a terrible paisley-patterned sweater because he doesn't mind Eames seeing or knowing.
"Eames," Arthur says again, slowly, carefully, looking him steadily in the eye. "Thank you."
The words unlock a breath Eames didn't even realize he'd been holding. He blinks once and sits up straighter, a warm curl of brightness in his chest that feels a lot like satisfaction.
"You're welcome," he says.