[Arthur sports a grin the entire way into the dinning room, wondering what the fuss is about, but finding it amusing as he willingly allows himself to be guided without objection, not bothering to stretch out his arms and feel his way out because he trusts he will get where he's going in one piece.
He can smell the appealing scent of food, mouth watering a little, but what he sees laid out in front of him is the last thing he expects. The grin freezes in place and slowly falters, dropping instead into a soft smile that tugs at the corners of his eyes and lights up his face with a gentle fondness. He can tell that Eames is unsure of how he might react, as if he won't approve of the gesture or appreciate the effort he's clearly gone to, but he does approve and he does appreciate it.]
Eames. [He speaks the name softly, with the tone he might use to call him an idiot, but with a teasing and loving edge.] Eames. [He's laughing softly as he steps over to the chair that awaits him, but before he sits down he stops to press a light hand to
( ... )
[Beaming at him, Eames pushes his chair in a little, watches as Sherlock pads forward to flop down beside his chair. His grin brightens a little at that, leans forward to run his fingers through the back of Arthur's hair for a moment. Then he moves, grabs the wine cooling and already uncorked, filling the two glasses up.] I hope you like this one, I somehow managed to get into a lecture with the bloke down the shop about what wine I had to serve, because I hadn't a notion.
[He leaves his own glass untouched for the moment, gaze drawing back to the kitchen where a warm and wholesome smell drifts back.] Can my boys keep each other company while I get dinner out?
[There's a goofy grin stretched across his face that he doesn't even try to contain as he watches Eames wander around and fuss over the wine, sighing out in a quietly content way. He picks up the glass, holding it properly by the stem so that the heat from his hand won't warm it, and he takes a sip, slapping his lips together as if he's considering it.] The wine is fine, Eames, stop worrying.
[Not that reaching out to touch Eames is something he doesn't usually want to do, but he has a sudden urge to wrap him up in his arms and smother him with kisses. Instead he looks down at Sherlock and scratches him behind the ears, gaining a wag of the tail and a slobber-covered hand.] It'll be touch and go without you to mind us, but somehow we'll manage. [There's a pause and then he quickly adds.] Unless you need help with anything?
If either of you end up eating my fancy napkins I'll be bloody pissed off. [He grins though, and it's kind of a fond, silly little smile as he moves away from the table.] And no, love. You sit here and relax, I'll only be a mo. Sherlock, keep an eye on Arthur for me.
[[Pushing the door to the kitchen open, Eames pauses when it swings shut to breathe, because there's a certain level of nerves coursing through his body because of this. He wants a nice, relaxing evening for his boyfriend, for them to both get something good like this.
Glancing out at the garden and stormy set of clouds brewing, he moves across the room to take his cod stew off the heat, dividing them into bowls of a rich, red colour. He seasons them both, places the garnish on lightly, before picking them up. Navigating his way out, Eames pushes the door open with his hip, fixing Arthur with a smile and setting his before him. He takes the seat diagonally from him, tilting his chair so that he can keep Arthur's gaze, knee nudging his under the table.] Your dinner is
( ... )
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He can smell the appealing scent of food, mouth watering a little, but what he sees laid out in front of him is the last thing he expects. The grin freezes in place and slowly falters, dropping instead into a soft smile that tugs at the corners of his eyes and lights up his face with a gentle fondness. He can tell that Eames is unsure of how he might react, as if he won't approve of the gesture or appreciate the effort he's clearly gone to, but he does approve and he does appreciate it.]
Eames. [He speaks the name softly, with the tone he might use to call him an idiot, but with a teasing and loving edge.] Eames. [He's laughing softly as he steps over to the chair that awaits him, but before he sits down he stops to press a light hand to ( ... )
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[He leaves his own glass untouched for the moment, gaze drawing back to the kitchen where a warm and wholesome smell drifts back.] Can my boys keep each other company while I get dinner out?
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[Not that reaching out to touch Eames is something he doesn't usually want to do, but he has a sudden urge to wrap him up in his arms and smother him with kisses. Instead he looks down at Sherlock and scratches him behind the ears, gaining a wag of the tail and a slobber-covered hand.] It'll be touch and go without you to mind us, but somehow we'll manage. [There's a pause and then he quickly adds.] Unless you need help with anything?
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[[Pushing the door to the kitchen open, Eames pauses when it swings shut to breathe, because there's a certain level of nerves coursing through his body because of this. He wants a nice, relaxing evening for his boyfriend, for them to both get something good like this.
Glancing out at the garden and stormy set of clouds brewing, he moves across the room to take his cod stew off the heat, dividing them into bowls of a rich, red colour. He seasons them both, places the garnish on lightly, before picking them up. Navigating his way out, Eames pushes the door open with his hip, fixing Arthur with a smile and setting his before him. He takes the seat diagonally from him, tilting his chair so that he can keep Arthur's gaze, knee nudging his under the table.] Your dinner is ( ... )
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