[December 19th] YARNING
YARNING
R
Author : onelittlesleep | Artist : red_rahl
Inside the townhouse, the air is drier. He can hear their voices, the sound of Ariadne's laugh. He limps, following the light, orange and flickering, his arm tucked close to his side, covering.
They're gathered around a fire, sitting on the wood floor on their jackets, talking.
Yusuf sees him first, expression ill at ease. His eyes widen at the shadow, and then he lets out a breath and says "It's you."
Ariadne turns. "Knew he'd be here before Dom."
Eames takes his time, smoking, eyes thinned. He jerks up his chin, says "Arthur," accent musical.
He walks the room, looks on their set-up.
"What are you doing?" Arthur asks frowning, and Ariadne laughs.
"We're yarning, Arthur!" Eames says warmly.
"-Knitting," Ariadne corrects. Eames turns his attention back to the needles in his hand, manipulates them, cigarette sharp in his mouth.
"We have twelve hours, kids," Arthur tells them sardonically.
He finds the bathroom, lit by a candle on the sink. He tests the spigots but they're dry. He undoes his scarf, his jacket, hangs both.
He's bled through his shirt.
The door opens.
"Mm. Lets see it," Eames shuts them in alone, private.
Arthur winces, lifts his arm "How did you know?"
"Arthur," Eames exhales. He peers at the wound, fishes a roll of suture from his coat. "I can always tell when you're stiffer than usual."
Arthur snorts.
"S'quite a feat, really."
On his knees, Eames knits him back together, fingers quick and clever.
"How long?" Arthur asks.
"Mmm, for a while. Since Detroit," Eames murmurs. They're looking at Ariadne, curled asleep under Yusuf's arm, his corduroy jacket tucked around them.
Eames is working with Ariadne's needles again, stripped to his undershirt, thick-armed and tattooed in the firelight. As he knits, his tongue touches his lip, thoughtful.
"Why are you doing that?" Arthur asks.
"Who is to darn your socks, dear heart?" Eames asks enthusiastically.
Arthur watches, heavy lidded, until he dozes, head against Eames's knee.
Original Size
He wakes, lifts up. Eames hasn't slept. He's still hunched in the weak light, knitting, pale. Hands slower, careful. He never sleeps before a job. When Arthur isn't sporting a knife wound, he seldom does either.
It's become a bad habit.
Though the wound is raw, he glances lazily back at Eames from the hall, beckoning.
In the cold bathroom, candle burnt out, Eames loosens Arthur's tie.
"Knifed and still wearing a full-Windsor," Eames laughs. "Only you, Arthur."
Arthur takes his hands, suckles Eames's fingers to their first knuckle, one by one.
"Oh," Eames groans. "lovely dear-"
"-knitting," Arthur huffs. "You're a strange man, Eames."
"You know what's strange?" Eames asks. He goes down on his knees. "You'd let me sew your wounds before you'd ever let me touch your socks."
Arthur jerks as his belt is spread apart. "Yes," he hisses, "but these are angora, Eames."
Eames chuckles, forehead to Arthur's bare cock.
"Come on," Arthur snarls.
And then he tenses, catching the mouth sounds of Eames doing his best work.