fic: buy me an ounce, i'll sell you a pound
Title: buy me an ounce, i'll sell you a pound
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Summary: When Eames barrels into their hotel room wearing shit-eating grin, a bag full of poker chips in his hand, Arthur nearly laughs out loud at the absurdity of it all. A one-shot in which Eames gambles and Arthur feels like the world's biggest idiot.
Word Count: 2,568
Disclaimer: Christopher Nolan is a god and I am not. He owns everything, that's all.
Arthur really should have seen it coming. In fact, he nearly laughs out loud at the absurdity of it all when Eames returns to their hotel room with a bag full of poker chips and a shit-eating grin. Eames is a gambler, of course. Why is Arthur surprised at all? The forger’s totem is a poker chip, for fuck’s sake.
So while Arthur mentally kicks himself and buttons his suit, Eames unceremoniously drops the bag of chipsand tumbles onto the sofa of their suite.
“Darling,” He says with a dramatic yawn. “I’m absolutely beat. I’ll need a gin and tonic and a nap before I hit the tables again.”
“You won’t be hitting the tables again, Eames,” Arthur says as he stalks out of the bedroom, dressed to the nines. He leans over the back of the couch and lets his tie swing down to whack Eames in the nose. “We’re here on business,” He says. “Or did you forget?”
Eames grabs hold of Arthur’s very expensive tie and tugs down so hard Arthur nearly loses his footing. “Well, darling,” He says cheekily. “I suppose that’s why they call it Sin City.”
When Eames kisses him-a sloppy meeting of lips and saliva and a little too much tongue on Eames’ part-Arthur makes a disgusted noise but gives in anyway. Then the sound of three short knocks on the door jolts Arthur back into business mode, and he shoves the forger back onto the couch.
“Business,” Arthur says pointedly. He opens the door and Ariadne and Yusuf barrel in cheerily.
“Now that I’m twenty-one,” Ariadne is saying (no hello for Arthur, of course), “I just feel I’ll appreciate Vegas so much more.”
“I’m cutting you off right now,” Yusuf says with concern.
“But I haven’t even had a drink yet!”
“We’re here on business,” Yusuf says lightly, but he sounds so much like Arthur that there’s a bark of laughter from the couch.
“Well, mates,” Eames says, arching like a cat before jumping to his feet. “Let’s get a move on. I’ve already won a few grand and I plan to earn a whole lot more before the trip’s over.”
Ariadne grins when Eames throws his arm around her shoulder, and she starts whispering something about buying herself a few drinks with her new ID as the duo leaves the room. Eames’ guffaws can be heard all the way down the hall, and Arthur makes a face.
“You picked Vegas,” Yusuf reminds him lightly.
“I was guilted into it,” Arthur grumbles, grabbing his briefcase and his glock. He tosses Yusuf the hotel key and they head down to the lobby.
:::
“Hello, handsome.”
Arthur spares a single glance at the projection of a voluptuous redhead standing next to him at the bar. Her eyes are a bright, twinkling green and she has a dress to match. She smiles, and Arthur rolls his eyes.
“Eames,” He says quietly. “Shouldn’t you be following the mark?”
The redhead frowns. “Every time without fail. Really, darling, I’m impressed.”
Eames’ words coming from the pouty, full lips and the high, clear voice is actually really unsettling; Arthur thinks he’ll never get used to it. He watches Eames go, admiring the woman’s curves, absentmindedly wondering where in the world Eames dreamed her up, or how the forger even knew Arthur had a thing for redheads.
Arthur moves into position and watches Eames work his magic. Since Cobb retired, Eames has taken over the job of extractor and forger, a difficult balance, but somehow Eames makes it work. He watches the flurry of red hair move across the casino with the mark and thinks Eames would make a very irresistible woman if he could keep his mouth shut.
Eames enters the elevator, and Arthur knows they’re now on a time crunch. He watches the elevator reach the fourteenth floor. He waits for five minutes, ten, twenty, and almost a half hour later, the crescendo plays.
Eames exits the elevator not as the redhead but as himself, just as the music begins to close.
“Couldn’t have been easier,” He says with a grin.
Arthur wants to reply, but the kick lurches them back, and the last thing Arthur sees is Eames’ wink.
They wake up to a quiet room on the fourteenth floor. The mark is still asleep in his stately desk chair, and Yusuf sits over the PASIV with a glass of red wine while Ariadne paces in the corner.
“Ha!” Ariadne says the minute Arthur opens his eyes. “I told you!”
Arthur realizes she’s talking to Yusuf, who looks thoroughly disappointed.
“After all that whining, you’re still right,” Yusuf says. He mutters something else about conniving kids under his breath. “Congrats,” He says to Arthur and Eames as he packs up the PASIV.
When they all file out of the office, Arthur takes a sweep of the room and grabs one of Ariadne’s scarves that she carelessly left draped over a chair. He shuts the door and wads the scarf, tossing it to Ariadne with a scolding look.
She blushes and mumbles an apology.
“Oh, come on, Arthur. A job well done calls for celebration,” Eames says, pulling Ariadne to his side with a pat on the back. “Who wants to hit the tables?”
“Yusuf is taking me to dinner,” Ariadne says with a smile. “He promised.”
“No, I lost a bet.”
“Same thing-”
“I’ll go with you,” Arthur says reluctantly. He tries to wave off Eames’ proffered hand, but the forger grabs hold and he can’t shake loose. “I’m not gambling.”
“Of course you’re not,” Eames says, tugging Arthur towards the elevators. “You’ll be my good luck charm.”
:::
Eames doesn’t even need good luck. He wins round after round of black jack, hopping to different tables like a little kid at a carnival. With every win, he takes a shot and kisses Arthur full on the mouth. After the tenth shot and a very slobbery kiss, Arthur is ready to go back to the room, and Eames is muttering under his breath as the dealer throws cards.
“Eames,” Arthur pauses, leaning closer to listen. He smells the alcohol on the forger’s breath, can see the beginning of stubble on his chin, can hear Eames muttering number after number as cards are delt, and Jesus Christ.
In his peripheral vision, he sees the dealer press a button on the walkie-talkie, sees other dealers at other tables look up, sees three very large men in black suits attempting to look casual as they stalk towards the table.
Arthur pulls the forger from his stool and says very sharply to the dealer, “He folds.”
He grabs the chips from the table and practically drags Eames in the direction of the hotel elevators, and all the while Eames is slurring, “Darling, darling, I was winning, I was… I was winning, darling.”
“Shut up,” Arthur snaps as they rush through the crowd. He cuts through the slots, past elderly people and blank stares, the men in the black suits not far behind. One of them shouts something, and another black suit jumps into Arthur’s path.
Arthur doesn’t even hesitate to swing his hand into the man’s neck and steps over the unconscious body, ignoring the surprised cries from other patrons. He pulls Eames to a sharp right and then a sharp left and through a door that says employees only.
It’s a long empty hallway, the fluorescent lights overhead giving it an odd yellow glow that makes Arthur uncomfortable. He shoves Eames forward, attempts to get him to walk on his own, and tries to pick up the pace. They pass several other long empty hallways, and Arthur thinks the odds are against them because he has no fucking clue where they are.
The door swings open behind them, and the black suits are there, this time with guns drawn. They shout a warning once, twice (Arthur ignores them), and a shot is fired.
“Shit,” Arthur mutters. He pulls his glock from his waistband, and several other shots echo in the hallway. He shoots blindly behind him as he shoves Eames further down the hall. Arthur manages to drop one black suit; that leaves two.
“Arthur,” Eames manages to walk on his own, the gunfire sobering him up a little. “Where’s my gun?”
Arthur rolls his eyes and shoves Eames into the alcove with an elevator. “Now is really not the time.”
“Fuck’s sake, Arthur, I can help!”
“You are not handling a gun when you can’t even walk straight!” Arthur snaps, leaning out to fire a few times. He hits another black suit in the leg, watches him fall, ducks back as a bullet whizzes past.
The gunfire stops, and it’s silent, apart from Arthur’s quickened breathing and the barely audible steps of the final black suit. Twenty feet away, fifteen feet away, ten, five; Arthur waits until he can hear the man’s breathing.
He steps out into the hallway and is face to face with a young man with a boyish face, wearing a black suit. The black suit raises his gun but Arthur’s faster, and he knocks it to the ground. The black suit throws a well-aimed punch to Arthur’s mouth and the point man staggers backwards a foot or two.
Arthur is tired and pissed, and he looks at this, this kid playing grown-up in a cheap suit at a casino in Vegas and thinks, fuck this. He slams his fist into the black suit’s throat and the kid falls to the ground with a strangled cry.
The black suit reaches for the walkie talkie on his waistband, but Arthur slams his pistol across the kid’s face. He turns around and brushes past Eames to press the up arrow button beside the elevator.
Arthur steps inside quickly, wiping blood from his mouth. Eames stumbles in beside him.
The doors shut, and then it’s just them, just Arthur and Eames, safe. The point man allows himself to breathe for just a second.
“Darling,” Eames slurs after a moment. “You’re bleeding-”
Arthur can’t even think. “Just shut up. Do you have any idea how stupid you are?”
“You worry too much-”
“You were counting cards!” He explodes. “I saw you! Don’t lie because I watched you, and you have got to be the biggest fucking idiot. How many drinks did you have? You are so stupid. I mean, Christ, counting cards? Do you know they would have done to you? You’re so goddamn lucky, I swear-”
“So lucky.”
Arthur stops, raises his eyebrows and says, “What?”
Eames looks at him, all puppy-dog eyes and mussed up hair, and the lazy smile that he always reserves just for Arthur appears. He’s leaning against the wall, practically propped up at the rate he’s been drinking. He reaches out and Arthur’s there, taking his hand, folding their fingers together, and Eames leans into him, pressing his face into the spot between Arthur’s neck and shoulder.
“I am,” He mumbles against Arthur’s skin. His voice sounds hoarse, and he swallows once before saying, “I am so lucky. To have you, I mean.”
Arthur doesn’t know what to say, so he settles on resting his cheek against Eames’ stupid, unruly hair that smells like cheap gel and shampoo and something else that is entirely Eames. They stay like that until they reach their floor, and when the elevator opens, Eames presses a solid kiss on Arthur’s throat before attempting to stumble into the hallway.
“You’re a wreck,” Arthur says, swinging an arm around the forger’s shoulders to steer him in the right direction.
“And you’re a broken record, love,” Eames hums, leaning into Arthur’s touch. He lifts a hand and looks startled to see the bag of poker chips clutched in his fingers. “I won, didn’t I?”
Arthur rolls his eyes as he unlocks their room and flicks on the light. “You cheated.”
“You’re too good for me,” Eames says, dropping the bag of chips and pressing close to Arthur. “You’ve got a conscience; what’s that like?”
Arthur walks Eames backwards towards the bedroom until the forger’s knees hit the bed and he tumbles onto the mattress. “I worry a lot,” He says, bending down to yank off Eames’ shoes (he ignores the periwinkle and yellow argyle socks).
“About me?” Eames asks like a child.
“Yes,” Arthur says begrudgingly.
“Darling, I’m touched.”
“Shut up and take off your jacket.”
Eames does as he’s told, albeit slowly and clumsily. When he’s down to his boxers and an undershirt and those stupid argyle socks, Arthur throws the duvet over him and heads for the living area.
“Not coming to bed?” Eames sounds small, unsure, strange.
“Not yet,” Arthur replies because he isn’t. His mind is racing and he has to call Yusuf about plane tickets back to L.A. just in case Eames’ escapade was caught on tape. He flicks off the bedroom light and settles onto the couch in front of the TV and whips out his phone.
Yusuf is almost in hysterics by the time Arthur’s clued him in, and Arthur does not appreciate this fact. He tells Yusuf to shut up and reschedule the flight and to let Ariadne know, and then the point man hangs up.
Arthur makes a few other calls regarding casino cameras and pays off security detail to erase a few tapes. By the time he’s finished cutting corners and jumping through hoops, it’s nearly two in the morning, and Eames has been snoring loudly for the past two hours.
The sound isn’t so much annoying as it is alluring. Arthur is drawn to the bed, kicking off his shoes and yanking off clothes along the way. He strips down to his briefs (because boxers-just the thought of wearing them gives Arthur chills) and climbs into bed.
Automatically, Eames smashes his freezing toes against Arthur’s legs and lets out a low hum. Arthur shifts until he’s pressed up against Eames, has an arm under the forger’s pillow, and he closes his eyes.
“I meant it,” Eames mumbles suddenly; Arthur’s eyes shoot open. The forger’s facing Arthur, but his eyes are closed. His lips are parted just slightly, and Arthur wants to kiss him but knows Eames will want more (and Arthur’s just too exhausted, even for that).
“About being lucky,” The forger continues, smacking his lips a few times. “To have you.”
“Mmm,” Arthur hums in reply and pushes Eames’ hair back from his face only to have it fall forward again. He swipes his hand upward once more and has the same result, so he continues the motion until it becomes a sort of pattern. Eames sighs like a cat.
“I guess,” Arthur says softly, feeling too uncomfortable in his own skin (Eames has a way of doing that to him; he isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to it). “If I had to say it, I’m pretty damn lucky to have you too.”
“Shucks, darling,” Eames replies, his lips curving up into a sleepy smile. “You’re making me blush.”
Arthur rolls his eyes despite Eames’ not being able to see it and mutters, “Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”
Eames releases a throaty, exhausted chuckle, and Arthur watches him fall asleep. When the point man’s eyes begin to droop, he feels Eames’ fingers hook with his above their heads, and Arthur doesn’t mind that they fall asleep holding hands.
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Summary: When Eames barrels into their hotel room wearing shit-eating grin, a bag full of poker chips in his hand, Arthur nearly laughs out loud at the absurdity of it all. A one-shot in which Eames gambles and Arthur feels like the world's biggest idiot.
Word Count: 2,568
Disclaimer: Christopher Nolan is a god and I am not. He owns everything, that's all.
Arthur really should have seen it coming. In fact, he nearly laughs out loud at the absurdity of it all when Eames returns to their hotel room with a bag full of poker chips and a shit-eating grin. Eames is a gambler, of course. Why is Arthur surprised at all? The forger’s totem is a poker chip, for fuck’s sake.
So while Arthur mentally kicks himself and buttons his suit, Eames unceremoniously drops the bag of chipsand tumbles onto the sofa of their suite.
“Darling,” He says with a dramatic yawn. “I’m absolutely beat. I’ll need a gin and tonic and a nap before I hit the tables again.”
“You won’t be hitting the tables again, Eames,” Arthur says as he stalks out of the bedroom, dressed to the nines. He leans over the back of the couch and lets his tie swing down to whack Eames in the nose. “We’re here on business,” He says. “Or did you forget?”
Eames grabs hold of Arthur’s very expensive tie and tugs down so hard Arthur nearly loses his footing. “Well, darling,” He says cheekily. “I suppose that’s why they call it Sin City.”
When Eames kisses him-a sloppy meeting of lips and saliva and a little too much tongue on Eames’ part-Arthur makes a disgusted noise but gives in anyway. Then the sound of three short knocks on the door jolts Arthur back into business mode, and he shoves the forger back onto the couch.
“Business,” Arthur says pointedly. He opens the door and Ariadne and Yusuf barrel in cheerily.
“Now that I’m twenty-one,” Ariadne is saying (no hello for Arthur, of course), “I just feel I’ll appreciate Vegas so much more.”
“I’m cutting you off right now,” Yusuf says with concern.
“But I haven’t even had a drink yet!”
“We’re here on business,” Yusuf says lightly, but he sounds so much like Arthur that there’s a bark of laughter from the couch.
“Well, mates,” Eames says, arching like a cat before jumping to his feet. “Let’s get a move on. I’ve already won a few grand and I plan to earn a whole lot more before the trip’s over.”
Ariadne grins when Eames throws his arm around her shoulder, and she starts whispering something about buying herself a few drinks with her new ID as the duo leaves the room. Eames’ guffaws can be heard all the way down the hall, and Arthur makes a face.
“You picked Vegas,” Yusuf reminds him lightly.
“I was guilted into it,” Arthur grumbles, grabbing his briefcase and his glock. He tosses Yusuf the hotel key and they head down to the lobby.
:::
“Hello, handsome.”
Arthur spares a single glance at the projection of a voluptuous redhead standing next to him at the bar. Her eyes are a bright, twinkling green and she has a dress to match. She smiles, and Arthur rolls his eyes.
“Eames,” He says quietly. “Shouldn’t you be following the mark?”
The redhead frowns. “Every time without fail. Really, darling, I’m impressed.”
Eames’ words coming from the pouty, full lips and the high, clear voice is actually really unsettling; Arthur thinks he’ll never get used to it. He watches Eames go, admiring the woman’s curves, absentmindedly wondering where in the world Eames dreamed her up, or how the forger even knew Arthur had a thing for redheads.
Arthur moves into position and watches Eames work his magic. Since Cobb retired, Eames has taken over the job of extractor and forger, a difficult balance, but somehow Eames makes it work. He watches the flurry of red hair move across the casino with the mark and thinks Eames would make a very irresistible woman if he could keep his mouth shut.
Eames enters the elevator, and Arthur knows they’re now on a time crunch. He watches the elevator reach the fourteenth floor. He waits for five minutes, ten, twenty, and almost a half hour later, the crescendo plays.
Eames exits the elevator not as the redhead but as himself, just as the music begins to close.
“Couldn’t have been easier,” He says with a grin.
Arthur wants to reply, but the kick lurches them back, and the last thing Arthur sees is Eames’ wink.
They wake up to a quiet room on the fourteenth floor. The mark is still asleep in his stately desk chair, and Yusuf sits over the PASIV with a glass of red wine while Ariadne paces in the corner.
“Ha!” Ariadne says the minute Arthur opens his eyes. “I told you!”
Arthur realizes she’s talking to Yusuf, who looks thoroughly disappointed.
“After all that whining, you’re still right,” Yusuf says. He mutters something else about conniving kids under his breath. “Congrats,” He says to Arthur and Eames as he packs up the PASIV.
When they all file out of the office, Arthur takes a sweep of the room and grabs one of Ariadne’s scarves that she carelessly left draped over a chair. He shuts the door and wads the scarf, tossing it to Ariadne with a scolding look.
She blushes and mumbles an apology.
“Oh, come on, Arthur. A job well done calls for celebration,” Eames says, pulling Ariadne to his side with a pat on the back. “Who wants to hit the tables?”
“Yusuf is taking me to dinner,” Ariadne says with a smile. “He promised.”
“No, I lost a bet.”
“Same thing-”
“I’ll go with you,” Arthur says reluctantly. He tries to wave off Eames’ proffered hand, but the forger grabs hold and he can’t shake loose. “I’m not gambling.”
“Of course you’re not,” Eames says, tugging Arthur towards the elevators. “You’ll be my good luck charm.”
:::
Eames doesn’t even need good luck. He wins round after round of black jack, hopping to different tables like a little kid at a carnival. With every win, he takes a shot and kisses Arthur full on the mouth. After the tenth shot and a very slobbery kiss, Arthur is ready to go back to the room, and Eames is muttering under his breath as the dealer throws cards.
“Eames,” Arthur pauses, leaning closer to listen. He smells the alcohol on the forger’s breath, can see the beginning of stubble on his chin, can hear Eames muttering number after number as cards are delt, and Jesus Christ.
In his peripheral vision, he sees the dealer press a button on the walkie-talkie, sees other dealers at other tables look up, sees three very large men in black suits attempting to look casual as they stalk towards the table.
Arthur pulls the forger from his stool and says very sharply to the dealer, “He folds.”
He grabs the chips from the table and practically drags Eames in the direction of the hotel elevators, and all the while Eames is slurring, “Darling, darling, I was winning, I was… I was winning, darling.”
“Shut up,” Arthur snaps as they rush through the crowd. He cuts through the slots, past elderly people and blank stares, the men in the black suits not far behind. One of them shouts something, and another black suit jumps into Arthur’s path.
Arthur doesn’t even hesitate to swing his hand into the man’s neck and steps over the unconscious body, ignoring the surprised cries from other patrons. He pulls Eames to a sharp right and then a sharp left and through a door that says employees only.
It’s a long empty hallway, the fluorescent lights overhead giving it an odd yellow glow that makes Arthur uncomfortable. He shoves Eames forward, attempts to get him to walk on his own, and tries to pick up the pace. They pass several other long empty hallways, and Arthur thinks the odds are against them because he has no fucking clue where they are.
The door swings open behind them, and the black suits are there, this time with guns drawn. They shout a warning once, twice (Arthur ignores them), and a shot is fired.
“Shit,” Arthur mutters. He pulls his glock from his waistband, and several other shots echo in the hallway. He shoots blindly behind him as he shoves Eames further down the hall. Arthur manages to drop one black suit; that leaves two.
“Arthur,” Eames manages to walk on his own, the gunfire sobering him up a little. “Where’s my gun?”
Arthur rolls his eyes and shoves Eames into the alcove with an elevator. “Now is really not the time.”
“Fuck’s sake, Arthur, I can help!”
“You are not handling a gun when you can’t even walk straight!” Arthur snaps, leaning out to fire a few times. He hits another black suit in the leg, watches him fall, ducks back as a bullet whizzes past.
The gunfire stops, and it’s silent, apart from Arthur’s quickened breathing and the barely audible steps of the final black suit. Twenty feet away, fifteen feet away, ten, five; Arthur waits until he can hear the man’s breathing.
He steps out into the hallway and is face to face with a young man with a boyish face, wearing a black suit. The black suit raises his gun but Arthur’s faster, and he knocks it to the ground. The black suit throws a well-aimed punch to Arthur’s mouth and the point man staggers backwards a foot or two.
Arthur is tired and pissed, and he looks at this, this kid playing grown-up in a cheap suit at a casino in Vegas and thinks, fuck this. He slams his fist into the black suit’s throat and the kid falls to the ground with a strangled cry.
The black suit reaches for the walkie talkie on his waistband, but Arthur slams his pistol across the kid’s face. He turns around and brushes past Eames to press the up arrow button beside the elevator.
Arthur steps inside quickly, wiping blood from his mouth. Eames stumbles in beside him.
The doors shut, and then it’s just them, just Arthur and Eames, safe. The point man allows himself to breathe for just a second.
“Darling,” Eames slurs after a moment. “You’re bleeding-”
Arthur can’t even think. “Just shut up. Do you have any idea how stupid you are?”
“You worry too much-”
“You were counting cards!” He explodes. “I saw you! Don’t lie because I watched you, and you have got to be the biggest fucking idiot. How many drinks did you have? You are so stupid. I mean, Christ, counting cards? Do you know they would have done to you? You’re so goddamn lucky, I swear-”
“So lucky.”
Arthur stops, raises his eyebrows and says, “What?”
Eames looks at him, all puppy-dog eyes and mussed up hair, and the lazy smile that he always reserves just for Arthur appears. He’s leaning against the wall, practically propped up at the rate he’s been drinking. He reaches out and Arthur’s there, taking his hand, folding their fingers together, and Eames leans into him, pressing his face into the spot between Arthur’s neck and shoulder.
“I am,” He mumbles against Arthur’s skin. His voice sounds hoarse, and he swallows once before saying, “I am so lucky. To have you, I mean.”
Arthur doesn’t know what to say, so he settles on resting his cheek against Eames’ stupid, unruly hair that smells like cheap gel and shampoo and something else that is entirely Eames. They stay like that until they reach their floor, and when the elevator opens, Eames presses a solid kiss on Arthur’s throat before attempting to stumble into the hallway.
“You’re a wreck,” Arthur says, swinging an arm around the forger’s shoulders to steer him in the right direction.
“And you’re a broken record, love,” Eames hums, leaning into Arthur’s touch. He lifts a hand and looks startled to see the bag of poker chips clutched in his fingers. “I won, didn’t I?”
Arthur rolls his eyes as he unlocks their room and flicks on the light. “You cheated.”
“You’re too good for me,” Eames says, dropping the bag of chips and pressing close to Arthur. “You’ve got a conscience; what’s that like?”
Arthur walks Eames backwards towards the bedroom until the forger’s knees hit the bed and he tumbles onto the mattress. “I worry a lot,” He says, bending down to yank off Eames’ shoes (he ignores the periwinkle and yellow argyle socks).
“About me?” Eames asks like a child.
“Yes,” Arthur says begrudgingly.
“Darling, I’m touched.”
“Shut up and take off your jacket.”
Eames does as he’s told, albeit slowly and clumsily. When he’s down to his boxers and an undershirt and those stupid argyle socks, Arthur throws the duvet over him and heads for the living area.
“Not coming to bed?” Eames sounds small, unsure, strange.
“Not yet,” Arthur replies because he isn’t. His mind is racing and he has to call Yusuf about plane tickets back to L.A. just in case Eames’ escapade was caught on tape. He flicks off the bedroom light and settles onto the couch in front of the TV and whips out his phone.
Yusuf is almost in hysterics by the time Arthur’s clued him in, and Arthur does not appreciate this fact. He tells Yusuf to shut up and reschedule the flight and to let Ariadne know, and then the point man hangs up.
Arthur makes a few other calls regarding casino cameras and pays off security detail to erase a few tapes. By the time he’s finished cutting corners and jumping through hoops, it’s nearly two in the morning, and Eames has been snoring loudly for the past two hours.
The sound isn’t so much annoying as it is alluring. Arthur is drawn to the bed, kicking off his shoes and yanking off clothes along the way. He strips down to his briefs (because boxers-just the thought of wearing them gives Arthur chills) and climbs into bed.
Automatically, Eames smashes his freezing toes against Arthur’s legs and lets out a low hum. Arthur shifts until he’s pressed up against Eames, has an arm under the forger’s pillow, and he closes his eyes.
“I meant it,” Eames mumbles suddenly; Arthur’s eyes shoot open. The forger’s facing Arthur, but his eyes are closed. His lips are parted just slightly, and Arthur wants to kiss him but knows Eames will want more (and Arthur’s just too exhausted, even for that).
“About being lucky,” The forger continues, smacking his lips a few times. “To have you.”
“Mmm,” Arthur hums in reply and pushes Eames’ hair back from his face only to have it fall forward again. He swipes his hand upward once more and has the same result, so he continues the motion until it becomes a sort of pattern. Eames sighs like a cat.
“I guess,” Arthur says softly, feeling too uncomfortable in his own skin (Eames has a way of doing that to him; he isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to it). “If I had to say it, I’m pretty damn lucky to have you too.”
“Shucks, darling,” Eames replies, his lips curving up into a sleepy smile. “You’re making me blush.”
Arthur rolls his eyes despite Eames’ not being able to see it and mutters, “Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”
Eames releases a throaty, exhausted chuckle, and Arthur watches him fall asleep. When the point man’s eyes begin to droop, he feels Eames’ fingers hook with his above their heads, and Arthur doesn’t mind that they fall asleep holding hands.