Fic: I Light Up When You Call My Name
Title: I Light Up When You Call My Name
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC17
Warning: SEXY TIMES
Word Count: I honestly don't know! I posted it directly to the kink meme...maybe...somewhere between 1000--2000 words?
AN: I don't think I ever posted this fic to this community...don't ask me why I'm doing it now-I found it when I needed a break from all the angst I'm attempting for the ae_match...apologies if you've read it before (also, this is the first time I had attempted to write straight up sex....yikes)...written for this prompt:
Feverish sex. Slow, aching, gentle, h/c-ish. Parched, dry skin, hot mouth, chapped lips, too-hot inside and out.
Prefer bottom Arthur (don't we all love him on his back with Eames rutting between his slender thighs???) but anything will do, seriously.
(Title stolen from the song "Fever" by Peggy Lee)
It’s hot. It is so, so hot. He can feel himself steaming, dripping, cocooned in sticky blankets. He struggles, twisted, his legs and arms reaching out for cool air. He aches. He drifts in and out of sickly dreams, all of them burning, all of them glimpses of Eames, his eyes, his mouth, his body hard, pressing him down, his fingers reaching out and trailing down, and pushing in, and Arthur burns. He burns for him. He wakes again, and he feels his muscles tense, his dick hard and heavy in between his legs. He gasps. He arches. He needs…he needed…he just needs…needs-
***
Four days. Four days they’ve been here. When Arthur told him about his mountain retreat, all Eames could think about was weeks alone with him, exploring whatever they had begun in Madrid before the job. Time exploring every inch of Arthur’s body, skin he had only just discovered, wrapped in white sheets, drenched in Spanish sun when he woke one morning and Arthur was still there, and he stayed and stayed and never left. He imagined a wooden cabin, and Arthur in the firelight, and moving slowly together, languid on soft furs and knitted blankets, and mapping Arthur like he was an explorer and Arthur was the New World.
He hadn’t imagined that their architect would turn on them. He hadn’t imagined that they would wake up to loaded guns. He hadn’t imagined that they would steal a car with a shitty transmission, and that it would last only until they were in the middle of nowhere. He hadn’t imagined there would be a five-hour walk in the driving snow. And he definitely hadn’t imagined that Arthur’s hideaway, when they finally found it, would become a prison. Would become a sanatorium, a sick-house, would slowly break them down, Arthur’s body and Eames’ mind.
Arthur had fallen sick after the first day. There had been no fucking that first night, only a desperate relief that they had made it. That they had survived. The next morning, Eames struggled to wake Arthur up, his eyes opening sluggishly, his skin hot to the touch. He hadn’t been able to get a coherent word out of him since. The worry, the silence, the isolation, the slow creeping fear that they needed help and had no way to get it--it was slowing driving him insane.
He steps into the cabin from the outside, wood in his arms, whirling snow following him, pressing against the door as he tries to pull it shut, wind so strong he has to drop the wood to force it closed with both hands. When it slams shut, he rests his forehead against it for a minute, breathing in and out, forcing that panic down deep into himself until he feels himself settle.
He slowly picks up the wood, the warmth of the room seeping back into him, exhaustion slowing his movements down to a crawl. He hasn’t slept much since that first night. Every day, every night he sits and watches Arthur. He places his hands gently on his feverish skin and feels him breathe. For whatever reason, Eames can’t calm, can’t find his own breath unless he sees that Arthur is okay.
He builds the fire in the wide hearth back up. The cabin is really just one large room: small kitchen tucked into the corner, stacks of dusty canned food, fireplace, twin overstuffed chairs, towering pile of musty books, and massive dark mahogany bed dominating the room, red sheets glowing warm in the firelight. Eames looks at the bed now and mourns what would have been, what should have been, what might be if Arthur can kick this thing. Arthur, ever the perpetual boy scout, had a first aid kit at the cabin, but they were almost out of antibiotics and Arthur still shakes with chills, still burns with fever, still wheezes, still breathes in gasps, and wracking coughs.
He hears a shifting behind him, and turns to look. And there he is, propped against pillows piled high behind him, sheets shoved aside, pale, glistening with sweat, and he should look like the ailing corpse-like images painted in times of plague and pestilence, but instead he looks like a reclining nude from the Renaissance period, limbs supple, lax, body lush and flickering golden in the warm light. Eames wants to paint him. Eames wishes he could just reach out and touch him, but he hasn’t be able to be close for days, forced to flicker near and then away, knowing one of them has to be healthy, has to get water from the river and firewood. He has to be well so he can take care of Arthur.
But now, for the first time in days, Arthur opens his pale, peeling lips and speaks. Says “Eames.” And he can’t stop his feet from moving, can’t stop himself from sitting next to him and pushing his damp hair from his face. Arthur moans low in his throat and turns his head into the touch. His skin is on fire, and Eames feels his heart lurch. He stands, he needs something to cool him down, but when he moves away Arthur whines, and it is so needy and vulnerable that it stops him in his tracks.
He has never heard Arthur sound like that. They have been fucking for years, and even though now it is becoming more then that, Madrid made it more then that, he has never seen Arthur undone like this, completely out of control, and he has never asked Eames for anything with such yearning defenselessness. But now Arthur is pleading, “Eames, please…please…” and when he turns back to him, he is reaching out for him, grasping blindly.
Eames quickly grabs onto his suspended hand, and asks him, low,
“What is it?” And Arthur arches on the bed, his head lolling to the side to look at him, and Eames feels his breath catch in his throat. There is hunger in his eyes, desire burning through him like the fever and Eames can see it in him when he looks at him, and he is drawn closer like a magnet.
“I need…need…” Arthur moans, and writhes on the bed, and Eames feels hypnotized.
“What do you need Arthur?”
Arthur is moving without his usual sharpness, and when he moves his unoccupied hand to his chest it is lethargic and sluggish, but so very sensual, fingers stroking down his chest, his stomach, and Eames can see now that he is hard.
“Please,” he whispers, and starts stroking himself, his hips rolling upwards, fucking into his own fist, a slow, undulating movement. Eames realizes he’s not breathing, and chokes in air, allowing Arthur to draw him closer with sudden, inexplicable strength.
“Eames please,” He says again, stronger this time, and when Eames feels his knees hit the side of the bed, Arthur is suddenly grasping him, pulling him in, fingers frantic, clutching at the flannel of his shirt.
“I need…please Eames I need you to,” and Eames knows what he needs, and he thinks for a split second about contagions, and the fire, and the wind howling outside, before he loses himself in Arthur’s heavy lidded eyes, and lifts his body up and over, settling above Arthur.
Arthur, as though sensing the shift in mood, becomes frenzied, hips thrusting up, up, looking for friction, for contact. He is gasping through the cloying wetness of his lungs, his hands clawing, clutching, pushing, and Eames feels the hysteria building in Arthur, and spreading to himself. He looks down at him, and sees the sickness taking over, and puts a stop to it.
He takes hold of Arthur’s wrists and forces them down on either side of his head. Arthur struggles for a minute, and whines, and curves his body upwards, but Eames remains unmoving, steady, strong. Finally he sees Arthur calm, feels him sink deep into the bed below him, breath a little clearer. His eyes widen for a moment, sharpen, look up at Eames, and his pupils dilate. Eames feels something between them calm, come together, and he lowers himself down to Arthur, their hips making contact as their mouths do.
Arthur’s lips are dry, chapped, but his mouth is burning, tongue a smoldering heat when he licks inside. They move together like that for a few lingering moments, mouths moving in tandem, burrowing softly deeper into one another. Eames slips one thigh in between Arthur’s long legs, and presses down in a gentle roll, and Arthur makes a quiet moaning sound into his mouth, and Eames feels it all at once, recognizing the sharp shock of arousal he had felt when Arthur first opened his mouth and said his name. Arthur, in his illness, in his vulnerable desperation had intoxicated him, and it hit him now in a roaring rush. He feels his heart stutter in his chest. He pulls back and Arthur follows his mouth, chasing the kiss and moaning slightly when Eames holds him firmly down on the bed.
“Stay.” He says. Arthur nods, and when Eames releases him, he remains limp on the bed, eyes following him as he gets up and rummages through his discarded clothing. Eames is a boy scout of his own creation, always prepared in his own way. He tosses the found lube and condoms down on the bed, and steps out of his jeans, pulls his shirt over his head. Arthur, eyes fixed on him, moans again, and reaches out trembling fingers. Eames crawls on top of him again, and allows him to touch, Arthur’s long, tapered hands running over tattooed muscles, his eyes glinting, glazed with sickness and lust and something Eames can quite name, but feels in his own heart as well.
He pushes the blankets completely out of the way, and gently pushes Arthur’s legs apart, limbs heavy and relaxed. He settles in between them and runs his hands up the threaded muscle of his thighs. Sweat has pooled in between his legs, and under his arms, and above his lips, but Eames presses him mouth to him over and over again, relishing in the sickly sweet smell of him, heady and musky and raw. Arthur twists and pushes up to meet him, and Eames hums softly at him, calming him with his palms, gentle strokes up and down his torso, his arms, his legs.
When Arthur settles, he slicks up is fingers, and rubs carefully over his entrance. He looks up, and Arthur is watching him, eyes dark and hot, and he spreads his legs wider, rasping,
“Please Eames.” And that’s all he can take. He pushes inside, and Arthur whines, pressing down, searching for more. Eames works him, in and out, before adding another finger and prying him slowly open. The room is quiet, so quiet, except for the snap of burning firewood and Arthur’s thready sighs, and gasps, and growling moans. When his body begins to move more desperately, Eames slows his rhythm, presses wet, open mouthed kisses on the soft wet skin of his thighs, or licks up the line of his hard cock, sliding his mouth leisurely over the head and sucking tightly back up until he settles down.
“Enough,” Arthur finally rasps out, his hands clenching in his hair, moving spasmodically over Eames’ face, tracing his eyes, lips, down the bridge of his nose, as though he’s memorizing and filing it away in his impossible brain. Eames is more then happy to oblige him now, his own cock heavy and swollen from where it’s been pressing into the mattress. He scrambles to his knees and opens the condom, rolling it on, and then he’s pulling Arthur’s legs up over his shoulders, and slowly, oh so slowly, pressing inside, and it’s agonizing and tight and so hot, and Eames has to pause and catch his breath, or he thinks he might come right there.
Arthur is pulling at him, and so he bends him forward, and slowly fucks deeper, and deeper, and when he’s fully inside, and they’re pressed together skin to skin, they cry out in harmony, and press their lips together to stifle the sound. Eames starts to move, long, deliberate strokes, and Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, his mouth hanging open, small groans rolling between his perfect lips. He pulls Eames impossibly closer, fingers digging into the muscle of his arms, and whispers,
“Come on, come on,” and so Eames quickens his pace, thrusting harder, and the bed creaks and almost moves with them, and they breath together, panting, moaning when he pushes deeper, and they both feel it, and it’s so, so good. Eames bites and mouths messy and wet at Arthur’s jaw and down his neck, sucking his earlobe into his mouth, then biting down, and Arthur pushes up next to his head, and groans delirious, incoherent, deliciously sexy things until it’s all Eames can hear, a mantra thrumming through his head to the pulse and beat of their hearts and bodies as they move together.
Everything is unbelievably hot, Arthur is burning, inside and out, and he can feel them both pull towards the finish, something hooked deep within them. He manages to hold out until Arthur arches, lets out an aching, lusty moan and comes and comes, spilling in between them, without a single touch to his cock. Eames follows him quickly, and it is almost too much, ripping through him, tearing him apart, and he sees white for a moment before opening his eyes again, his body sagged against Arthur’s, the two of them twisted together, no space, no air between them, one ending where the other begins, unending, becoming for a moment, one.
***
He opens his eyes. He had fallen asleep with the solid, heavy weight of Eames pressed on top of him, and he felt pinned to the world, grounded, even though his mind was floating away in a glowing haze. He woke briefly to Eames smoothing handfuls on snow down his body, and he felt himself cool, settle, whitewashed, like a rebirth, and his addled mind saw Eames as his confessor, his savior, and his body worshiped him. He might have said as much, and he cringes when he thinks about it now.
Currently, Eames is sitting in the chair by the fire, one of Arthur’s books open on his lap. He is wearing torn, white long johns, his days of scruff are growing into a full beard, and with this hair in disarray, he looks like a tattooed Jeremiah Johnson. Arthur still can’t help but think he’s the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.
Eames eyes flicker up to him, and when he catches him looking, he’s immediately on his feet.
“Hey there,” he says, smoothing a hand over Arthur’s forehead, and smiling when he feels how cool it is. Arthur can feel it too. The fever’s broken. He gazes up at Eames, and looks past the lush mouth folded into a fond smile and sees the exhaustion, the tired lines in his face, the black smudges under his eyes. He sits up and pulls Eames down, settles him in the bed next to him, pulling the blankets up around them. Eames stretches out and stifles a yawn, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s waist, and peering up at him with blood shot eyes.
“What’s this now?” Arthur smiles down at him and slides his fingers through Eames’ hair, watching with satisfaction as his eyes flutter shut in pleasure.
“Let me take care of you for a while.”
END.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC17
Warning: SEXY TIMES
Word Count: I honestly don't know! I posted it directly to the kink meme...maybe...somewhere between 1000--2000 words?
AN: I don't think I ever posted this fic to this community...don't ask me why I'm doing it now-I found it when I needed a break from all the angst I'm attempting for the ae_match...apologies if you've read it before (also, this is the first time I had attempted to write straight up sex....yikes)...written for this prompt:
Feverish sex. Slow, aching, gentle, h/c-ish. Parched, dry skin, hot mouth, chapped lips, too-hot inside and out.
Prefer bottom Arthur (don't we all love him on his back with Eames rutting between his slender thighs???) but anything will do, seriously.
(Title stolen from the song "Fever" by Peggy Lee)
It’s hot. It is so, so hot. He can feel himself steaming, dripping, cocooned in sticky blankets. He struggles, twisted, his legs and arms reaching out for cool air. He aches. He drifts in and out of sickly dreams, all of them burning, all of them glimpses of Eames, his eyes, his mouth, his body hard, pressing him down, his fingers reaching out and trailing down, and pushing in, and Arthur burns. He burns for him. He wakes again, and he feels his muscles tense, his dick hard and heavy in between his legs. He gasps. He arches. He needs…he needed…he just needs…needs-
***
Four days. Four days they’ve been here. When Arthur told him about his mountain retreat, all Eames could think about was weeks alone with him, exploring whatever they had begun in Madrid before the job. Time exploring every inch of Arthur’s body, skin he had only just discovered, wrapped in white sheets, drenched in Spanish sun when he woke one morning and Arthur was still there, and he stayed and stayed and never left. He imagined a wooden cabin, and Arthur in the firelight, and moving slowly together, languid on soft furs and knitted blankets, and mapping Arthur like he was an explorer and Arthur was the New World.
He hadn’t imagined that their architect would turn on them. He hadn’t imagined that they would wake up to loaded guns. He hadn’t imagined that they would steal a car with a shitty transmission, and that it would last only until they were in the middle of nowhere. He hadn’t imagined there would be a five-hour walk in the driving snow. And he definitely hadn’t imagined that Arthur’s hideaway, when they finally found it, would become a prison. Would become a sanatorium, a sick-house, would slowly break them down, Arthur’s body and Eames’ mind.
Arthur had fallen sick after the first day. There had been no fucking that first night, only a desperate relief that they had made it. That they had survived. The next morning, Eames struggled to wake Arthur up, his eyes opening sluggishly, his skin hot to the touch. He hadn’t been able to get a coherent word out of him since. The worry, the silence, the isolation, the slow creeping fear that they needed help and had no way to get it--it was slowing driving him insane.
He steps into the cabin from the outside, wood in his arms, whirling snow following him, pressing against the door as he tries to pull it shut, wind so strong he has to drop the wood to force it closed with both hands. When it slams shut, he rests his forehead against it for a minute, breathing in and out, forcing that panic down deep into himself until he feels himself settle.
He slowly picks up the wood, the warmth of the room seeping back into him, exhaustion slowing his movements down to a crawl. He hasn’t slept much since that first night. Every day, every night he sits and watches Arthur. He places his hands gently on his feverish skin and feels him breathe. For whatever reason, Eames can’t calm, can’t find his own breath unless he sees that Arthur is okay.
He builds the fire in the wide hearth back up. The cabin is really just one large room: small kitchen tucked into the corner, stacks of dusty canned food, fireplace, twin overstuffed chairs, towering pile of musty books, and massive dark mahogany bed dominating the room, red sheets glowing warm in the firelight. Eames looks at the bed now and mourns what would have been, what should have been, what might be if Arthur can kick this thing. Arthur, ever the perpetual boy scout, had a first aid kit at the cabin, but they were almost out of antibiotics and Arthur still shakes with chills, still burns with fever, still wheezes, still breathes in gasps, and wracking coughs.
He hears a shifting behind him, and turns to look. And there he is, propped against pillows piled high behind him, sheets shoved aside, pale, glistening with sweat, and he should look like the ailing corpse-like images painted in times of plague and pestilence, but instead he looks like a reclining nude from the Renaissance period, limbs supple, lax, body lush and flickering golden in the warm light. Eames wants to paint him. Eames wishes he could just reach out and touch him, but he hasn’t be able to be close for days, forced to flicker near and then away, knowing one of them has to be healthy, has to get water from the river and firewood. He has to be well so he can take care of Arthur.
But now, for the first time in days, Arthur opens his pale, peeling lips and speaks. Says “Eames.” And he can’t stop his feet from moving, can’t stop himself from sitting next to him and pushing his damp hair from his face. Arthur moans low in his throat and turns his head into the touch. His skin is on fire, and Eames feels his heart lurch. He stands, he needs something to cool him down, but when he moves away Arthur whines, and it is so needy and vulnerable that it stops him in his tracks.
He has never heard Arthur sound like that. They have been fucking for years, and even though now it is becoming more then that, Madrid made it more then that, he has never seen Arthur undone like this, completely out of control, and he has never asked Eames for anything with such yearning defenselessness. But now Arthur is pleading, “Eames, please…please…” and when he turns back to him, he is reaching out for him, grasping blindly.
Eames quickly grabs onto his suspended hand, and asks him, low,
“What is it?” And Arthur arches on the bed, his head lolling to the side to look at him, and Eames feels his breath catch in his throat. There is hunger in his eyes, desire burning through him like the fever and Eames can see it in him when he looks at him, and he is drawn closer like a magnet.
“I need…need…” Arthur moans, and writhes on the bed, and Eames feels hypnotized.
“What do you need Arthur?”
Arthur is moving without his usual sharpness, and when he moves his unoccupied hand to his chest it is lethargic and sluggish, but so very sensual, fingers stroking down his chest, his stomach, and Eames can see now that he is hard.
“Please,” he whispers, and starts stroking himself, his hips rolling upwards, fucking into his own fist, a slow, undulating movement. Eames realizes he’s not breathing, and chokes in air, allowing Arthur to draw him closer with sudden, inexplicable strength.
“Eames please,” He says again, stronger this time, and when Eames feels his knees hit the side of the bed, Arthur is suddenly grasping him, pulling him in, fingers frantic, clutching at the flannel of his shirt.
“I need…please Eames I need you to,” and Eames knows what he needs, and he thinks for a split second about contagions, and the fire, and the wind howling outside, before he loses himself in Arthur’s heavy lidded eyes, and lifts his body up and over, settling above Arthur.
Arthur, as though sensing the shift in mood, becomes frenzied, hips thrusting up, up, looking for friction, for contact. He is gasping through the cloying wetness of his lungs, his hands clawing, clutching, pushing, and Eames feels the hysteria building in Arthur, and spreading to himself. He looks down at him, and sees the sickness taking over, and puts a stop to it.
He takes hold of Arthur’s wrists and forces them down on either side of his head. Arthur struggles for a minute, and whines, and curves his body upwards, but Eames remains unmoving, steady, strong. Finally he sees Arthur calm, feels him sink deep into the bed below him, breath a little clearer. His eyes widen for a moment, sharpen, look up at Eames, and his pupils dilate. Eames feels something between them calm, come together, and he lowers himself down to Arthur, their hips making contact as their mouths do.
Arthur’s lips are dry, chapped, but his mouth is burning, tongue a smoldering heat when he licks inside. They move together like that for a few lingering moments, mouths moving in tandem, burrowing softly deeper into one another. Eames slips one thigh in between Arthur’s long legs, and presses down in a gentle roll, and Arthur makes a quiet moaning sound into his mouth, and Eames feels it all at once, recognizing the sharp shock of arousal he had felt when Arthur first opened his mouth and said his name. Arthur, in his illness, in his vulnerable desperation had intoxicated him, and it hit him now in a roaring rush. He feels his heart stutter in his chest. He pulls back and Arthur follows his mouth, chasing the kiss and moaning slightly when Eames holds him firmly down on the bed.
“Stay.” He says. Arthur nods, and when Eames releases him, he remains limp on the bed, eyes following him as he gets up and rummages through his discarded clothing. Eames is a boy scout of his own creation, always prepared in his own way. He tosses the found lube and condoms down on the bed, and steps out of his jeans, pulls his shirt over his head. Arthur, eyes fixed on him, moans again, and reaches out trembling fingers. Eames crawls on top of him again, and allows him to touch, Arthur’s long, tapered hands running over tattooed muscles, his eyes glinting, glazed with sickness and lust and something Eames can quite name, but feels in his own heart as well.
He pushes the blankets completely out of the way, and gently pushes Arthur’s legs apart, limbs heavy and relaxed. He settles in between them and runs his hands up the threaded muscle of his thighs. Sweat has pooled in between his legs, and under his arms, and above his lips, but Eames presses him mouth to him over and over again, relishing in the sickly sweet smell of him, heady and musky and raw. Arthur twists and pushes up to meet him, and Eames hums softly at him, calming him with his palms, gentle strokes up and down his torso, his arms, his legs.
When Arthur settles, he slicks up is fingers, and rubs carefully over his entrance. He looks up, and Arthur is watching him, eyes dark and hot, and he spreads his legs wider, rasping,
“Please Eames.” And that’s all he can take. He pushes inside, and Arthur whines, pressing down, searching for more. Eames works him, in and out, before adding another finger and prying him slowly open. The room is quiet, so quiet, except for the snap of burning firewood and Arthur’s thready sighs, and gasps, and growling moans. When his body begins to move more desperately, Eames slows his rhythm, presses wet, open mouthed kisses on the soft wet skin of his thighs, or licks up the line of his hard cock, sliding his mouth leisurely over the head and sucking tightly back up until he settles down.
“Enough,” Arthur finally rasps out, his hands clenching in his hair, moving spasmodically over Eames’ face, tracing his eyes, lips, down the bridge of his nose, as though he’s memorizing and filing it away in his impossible brain. Eames is more then happy to oblige him now, his own cock heavy and swollen from where it’s been pressing into the mattress. He scrambles to his knees and opens the condom, rolling it on, and then he’s pulling Arthur’s legs up over his shoulders, and slowly, oh so slowly, pressing inside, and it’s agonizing and tight and so hot, and Eames has to pause and catch his breath, or he thinks he might come right there.
Arthur is pulling at him, and so he bends him forward, and slowly fucks deeper, and deeper, and when he’s fully inside, and they’re pressed together skin to skin, they cry out in harmony, and press their lips together to stifle the sound. Eames starts to move, long, deliberate strokes, and Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, his mouth hanging open, small groans rolling between his perfect lips. He pulls Eames impossibly closer, fingers digging into the muscle of his arms, and whispers,
“Come on, come on,” and so Eames quickens his pace, thrusting harder, and the bed creaks and almost moves with them, and they breath together, panting, moaning when he pushes deeper, and they both feel it, and it’s so, so good. Eames bites and mouths messy and wet at Arthur’s jaw and down his neck, sucking his earlobe into his mouth, then biting down, and Arthur pushes up next to his head, and groans delirious, incoherent, deliciously sexy things until it’s all Eames can hear, a mantra thrumming through his head to the pulse and beat of their hearts and bodies as they move together.
Everything is unbelievably hot, Arthur is burning, inside and out, and he can feel them both pull towards the finish, something hooked deep within them. He manages to hold out until Arthur arches, lets out an aching, lusty moan and comes and comes, spilling in between them, without a single touch to his cock. Eames follows him quickly, and it is almost too much, ripping through him, tearing him apart, and he sees white for a moment before opening his eyes again, his body sagged against Arthur’s, the two of them twisted together, no space, no air between them, one ending where the other begins, unending, becoming for a moment, one.
***
He opens his eyes. He had fallen asleep with the solid, heavy weight of Eames pressed on top of him, and he felt pinned to the world, grounded, even though his mind was floating away in a glowing haze. He woke briefly to Eames smoothing handfuls on snow down his body, and he felt himself cool, settle, whitewashed, like a rebirth, and his addled mind saw Eames as his confessor, his savior, and his body worshiped him. He might have said as much, and he cringes when he thinks about it now.
Currently, Eames is sitting in the chair by the fire, one of Arthur’s books open on his lap. He is wearing torn, white long johns, his days of scruff are growing into a full beard, and with this hair in disarray, he looks like a tattooed Jeremiah Johnson. Arthur still can’t help but think he’s the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.
Eames eyes flicker up to him, and when he catches him looking, he’s immediately on his feet.
“Hey there,” he says, smoothing a hand over Arthur’s forehead, and smiling when he feels how cool it is. Arthur can feel it too. The fever’s broken. He gazes up at Eames, and looks past the lush mouth folded into a fond smile and sees the exhaustion, the tired lines in his face, the black smudges under his eyes. He sits up and pulls Eames down, settles him in the bed next to him, pulling the blankets up around them. Eames stretches out and stifles a yawn, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s waist, and peering up at him with blood shot eyes.
“What’s this now?” Arthur smiles down at him and slides his fingers through Eames’ hair, watching with satisfaction as his eyes flutter shut in pleasure.
“Let me take care of you for a while.”
END.