fic: Look at the stars, look how they shine for you
Title: Look at the stars, look how they shine for you
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG
Word Count: approx. 3,000
Summary: In which Arthur gets beautifully drunk and wonders about a lot of things and then feelings happen (or: alcohol-induced love confessions)
A/N: written for 33flavored , who won me in round one of helpthesouth and wanted some Arthur/Eames. so I sat down with a mission and started writing and when I began writing this, the plan I had in mind consisted of: "make Arthur drunk. silly and/or sexy shenanigans ensue." the sexy didn't end up happening and I kept staring at the screen wondering when one of our boys would just make a move already, but then feelings started happening instead and I thought, "oh well that's just as good. A+ job, boys."
Title borrowed from Coldplay.
Arthur isn’t quite sure how he got talked into this in the first place. He’d originally been planning to do as he always does after a job well done, namely, go back to his hotel, take a nice, long shower, and burn any evidence that might connect any of them to the job (though he doesn’t admit it often, burning all the papers they’ve used for the job is something he takes a lot of satisfaction in; it’s a good feeling, getting rid of all of that). Perhaps it was because Mal had smiled at him particularly sweetly today (he’s always had a soft spot for her), or because Dom had assured Arthur time and time again that they were safe; they didn’t need to flee right this instant. Or maybe (probably, most likely, definitely) because Eames had slid up next to him after they’d finished the job and murmured, “Nice work today, Arthur.”
So now Arthur finds himself in some nameless bar on the outskirts of Lisbon, surrounded by his drunken colleagues, and okay, maybe he’s had a bit to drink himself, but he’s nowhere near as trashed as Mal, who’s flushed and bright eyed and babbling away nonsense words that are part English, part French, and part, Arthur thinks, Dutch. Dom is looking at Mal far too fondly and also looks like he might pass out at any moment, and Eames, Eames is grinning at all of them over his glass of scotch, looking all too amused.
“What’re you so smiley about?” Arthur asks Eames, and okay, maybe he’s really fucking drunk himself, because his words are slurring together and his vocabulary has been reduced to that of a teenager.
Eames considers Arthur for a moment and Arthur thinks it’s a little unfair that Eames seems so much more competent than the rest of them at this point, but that’s probably because, unlike the rest of them, Eames exercised some form of self-control today and didn’t drink himself silly. It’s not Eames’ fault, really, that everyone else is drunker than him but Arthur still hates him a little for it. Mal starts to tip over and Eames reaches out to steady her so she won’t fall. It takes a minute too long for Arthur to realize that Eames had very pointedly ignored his question, but then the moment’s passed, and Arthur feels strange about asking it again.
“Perhaps the two of you should be heading back to the hotel,” Eames suggests to Mal and Dom. “I think you’ve had enough to drink for one night.”
Mal reaches out and probably means to caress Eames’ cheek softly, but she’s not quite coordinated enough for that, so she ends up clumsily petting Eames’ face instead.
“You have brilliant ideas,” she says, sounding pleasantly surprised.
Eames laughs and helps her up. “Come on now, you two; off we go,” he says. As he leaves the table they’re all situated at, he looks at Arthur very sternly and says, “Stay.”
Arthur frowns. “I’m not a dog,” he says petulantly.
Eames smiles. “Of course not,” he says, and goes to help Mal and Dom to the door. He watches them walk off for a moment, as if to make sure they’re not going to fall over at any given moment, before he returns, still grinning a little to himself. He slips back into his seat and knocks back the rest of his drink, eying Arthur contemplatively. “I think you’ve had enough to drink as well. I’m cutting you off.”
Arthur’s eyes widen. “No!” he gasps. He really wanted another beer. He realizes maybe a second too late that he’s having a hard time controlling what he says, because he hears his own voice ringing in his ears.
Eames laughs. “You’re really quite cute, you know that?” Eames says, smile warm and easy.
Arthur narrows his eyes at Eames. “I’m not cute,” he says, poking Eames’ cheek for emphasis, and Arthur’s drunk enough that the full impact of what Eames just said doesn’t quite hit him.
“Mhmm,” Eames hums, helping Arthur up so he can take him back to the hotel they’ve been staying in for the duration of the job.
“I’m not,” Arthur insists as he stumbles along beside Eames. Eames’ arm is wrapped tightly around Arthur’s waist and it’s quite likely that Arthur wouldn’t have been able to support his own weight without Eames’ help, but Arthur’s more focused on putting one foot in front of the other without tripping at the moment.
Somehow, mostly thanks to Eames, they make it back to their hotel and to Arthur’s room. Eames sticks Arthur’s key card into the slot and pushes the door open; and how exactly does Eames always manage to steal Arthur’s things without Arthur noticing? It should be illegal. Actually, it is illegal - stealing, that is - and Arthur says as much, very indignantly, and Eames just laughs.
“Our entire lives are illegal, darling,” Eames says. “I highly doubt a little petty thievery every now and again is really that damning.”
“This isn’t your room,” Arthur points out as Eames walks Arthur to his bed.
Eames hums in acknowledgement as he sits Arthur down on the edge of the bed and starts helping him undo his tie. “Noted,” Eames says. “However, I’m not quite sure you’re to be trusted on your own in this state, so I’m going to make sure you’re safely tucked in before I leave.”
“I’m not a baby,” Arthur protests, clumsily trying to shove Eames’ hands out of the way so he can do it himself. “I don’t need your help.”
Eames takes Arthur’s hands and gently sets them down before getting back to work on Arthur’s tie and shirt. Arthur lets him for a moment before giggling. Eames arches an eyebrow at Arthur.
“Are you trying to seduce me?” Arthur says, giggling some more.
Eames laughs, and his expression looks a touch too fond. “If so, then this is by far the shittiest job I’ve ever done at it,” Eames says. He pushes Arthur’s shirt off his shoulders and then sets to work easing Arthur’s shoes off his feet.
Arthur stares at Eames for a moment, at the way Eames’ nimble fingers untie Arthur’s shoes, at the planes of Eames’ face, highlighted by the warm glow cast by the bedside lamp. Eames looks nice, Arthur decides, beautiful even, and really, if Eames wanted to, he wouldn’t even have to try to seduce Arthur, Arthur suddenly realizes, because Eames is pretty damn irresistible.
“That’s a lie,” Arthur blurts out.
Eames looks up at Arthur. “Oh?” he says, peeling Arthur’s socks off next.
Arthur wiggles his toes and nods with conviction. “You’re really pretty,” Arthur says firmly, as if this explains everything, and Eames chuckles.
“I’m flattered,” Eames says. “Trousers next.”
Arthur manages to wiggle his way out of his pants and he watches with wonder as Eames goes and hangs up Arthur’s suit properly in the closet so it won’t wrinkle, and Arthur feels something pull in his chest. It’s then that he realizes that perhaps he’s been a little slow on the uptake; perhaps he’s been a little dense like Mal always says about him. He realizes that maybe what he’d assumed to be shameless flirting on Eames’ part was actually expertly concealed affection, maybe the only reason Eames came off as that aloof was because he thought Arthur wouldn’t give him the time of day. And maybe, just maybe, Arthur thinks, maybe he’s just a little bit in love with this brilliant, cunning forger. The realization hits Arthur full force and he flops back on the bed, more than a little surprised at himself.
When exactly, he wonders, did this happen? Was it in Moscow, where they first met; Shanghai, where Eames had gunned down their pursuers as Arthur somehow, somehow managed to drive them to safety through the insane rush hour traffic; Paris, where Mal and Dom got married; or somewhere in between? Arthur’s nearly lost count of how many times he’s worked with Eames over the years, and he’s not quite sure when he started thinking of Eames less as just another colleague and more as someone he can sit down and have a real conversation with, someone who sometimes brought him coffee in the morning just how he likes it without even having to ask, someone he can trust. Arthur purses his lips. He wonders how many people he can really say that about. He could probably count the number on one hand.
“You alright there, Arthur?” Eames asks lightly.
Arthur blinks. Eames is standing over him, smiling just a little down at him, and Arthur is suddenly struck by how intimate this feels. He isn’t sure when the last time he let someone see him like this was.
“Let’s get you tucked in then, shall we?” Eames says, helping Arthur up again so he can lift up the comforter. He tries to ease Arthur into bed, but Arthur holds on tight, or as tightly as he can in the state he’s in.
“You should stay,” Arthur says, his voice coming out softer than he means it to.
Eames laughs, and for a moment, Arthur doesn’t quite know what it is he’s seeing in Eames’ eyes. And then he realizes with a shock that it’s hesitation, indecision. He wants to ask why, because he’s never, never seen Eames hesitate before, but he can’t quite find the words, and then Eames smiles and it passes.
“I don’t think I should,” Eames says. He makes Arthur sit down on the bed again, because Arthur may or may not be swaying a bit.
Arthur pouts and crosses his arms. “Why not?” he whines.
“Because,” Eames says, and the way his voice curls around the vowels in his words makes Arthur’s stomach clench in ways he’d rather not think about at the moment, “Because I rather like my face the way it is and would rather not have it rearranged in the morning when you wake up and realize what’s transpired.”
Eames eases Arthur under the covers and pulls the comforter up over Arthur. Everything about Eames screams of a sort of tenderness Arthur has never seen from the man, and it’s a little bit unnerving and a whole lot endearing at the same time.
“Please stay,” Arthur says, and his voice sounds so, so small, even to his own ears. Arthur wonders when the last time he said please and actually meant it was.
Eames sighs but can’t fight the weary smile on his face, and Arthur can tell he’s won this round. “Alright,” Eames concedes and taps the tip of Arthur’s nose once. “But only because you asked so nicely.”
Arthur grins to himself as his eyes slip shut, and he thinks he hears Eames making up the couch so he can sleep on it, but he passes out before he can really think about it too much.
---
Arthur wakes sometime in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and then stumbles back to his bed and fumbles with the small travel-sized bottle of painkillers that he finds by his bed, swallowing two pills to preemptively stave off the impending hangover and drinking the entire glass of water that’s conveniently sitting on the nightstand next to the painkillers, before passing out again. He doesn’t really find anything strange about this, even though he definitely does not remember setting out the water or the pills, or at least, he doesn’t find anything strange about it until morning, when he wakes up, tangled in the sheets and, miraculously, not hungover. He feels a little bit queasy, and he could probably sleep for another six hours straight, no problem, but otherwise he feels fine, so he considers that a victory.
It takes Arthur all of three minutes before he decides that he feels disgusting and needs a shower. He swings his legs over the side of his bed and he means to stand and make his way over to the bathroom to shower, he really does, but he’s distracted by a note scribbled hastily on a scrap of paper being held in place at the corner by the refilled glass of water on the nightstand. Arthur frowns at the paper and has a moment’s worth of internal debate before reaching over and snatching it up.
Be back soon. Went out to pick up some coffee. I know how you get when you don’t get your daily caffeine fix. -E
Arthur rereads the note more times than is necessary, trying to decide whether or not he thinks Eames is forging someone else’s handwriting here or if it’s something entirely his own. It really could go either way with Eames, and just as Arthur gives up and decides to just go take a shower like he’d originally planned, the door opens and Eames walks in, humming softly to himself. He’s carrying two cups of coffee in his hands and has a newspaper tucked under his arm.
“Ah!” he says when he sees Arthur, and maybe Arthur’s just making things up, but he thinks Eames’ expression lights up a bit. “You’re finally awake, I see.” (Arthur glances at the clock and realizes it’s late in the day, almost too late for this to be considered morning, actually) “I brought you coffee.”
Eames gingerly hands Arthur the cup, and Arthur takes it gratefully from him, sighing contently as he sips at it. It’s hot, just on the right side of too hot, and strong, with sugar and just a splash of cream, just how Arthur likes it. Arthur still wonders how Eames knows how Arthur takes his coffee, because it’s not exactly something Arthur brings up in daily conversation.
“Breakfast?” Eames suggests, reaching for the phone to call room service.
Arthur hums noncommittally and Eames rattles off an order to the room service staff before hanging up and unfolding his newspaper to scan the headlines as he sips all too casually at his coffee. Arthur almost feels like Eames is waiting for him to say something, but he isn’t quite sure what, so Arthur just drinks his coffee and mulls over the events of last night that he can remember all too clearly until he can’t take it anymore, and then he says the first thing that comes to mind, which, admittedly, sounds a little silly when he says it out loud.
“You think I’m cute?” Arthur says suddenly.
Eames looks up from his newspaper and shrugs, hiding a smile behind the rim of his coffee cup. “You think I’m pretty,” Eames points out very helpfully. The tips of Arthur’s ears turn ever so slightly pink with embarrassment. He still can’t quite believe he actually said that out loud. This, Arthur thinks, is why he doesn’t drink very often. Eames grins, “I think we’re even.”
Arthur frowns at his coffee. “I’m not cute,” he mumbles.
Eames laughs and folds his newspaper before setting it down on the coffee table. He sounds a little tenser than he did the night before, but Arthur doesn’t call him out on it.
“I know,” Eames says, crossing the room to sit at the end of the bed. “You made it a point to make that very clear to me last night.”
Eames has an amused twinkle to his eye, and Arthur forces himself to relax. This is just Eames, he reminds himself. They’ve known each other for years; no need to get all worked up now. Except for Arthur’s only just come to terms with the fact that he might actually be a little bit in love with Eames, and that’s not exactly something Arthur’s very used to dealing with. Feelings, that is. Love.
Luckily, or maybe not so luckily, depending on how you look at it, a knock sounds then, and a voice calling “room service!” comes through the door. Eames goes to answer the door and comes back with a tray heaped high with food.
He sets it on Arthur’s lap and orders, “Eat.”
Arthur opens his mouth to protest that he doesn’t need to be told these things and he most certainly does not need to be taken care of like this (he’s not a child, for fuck’s sake), but his stomach beats him to the punch and growls audibly. Eames chuckles and lifts his coffee to his lips again, and Arthur just scowls.
“So,” Eames says after Arthur has made his way through a good portion of the food. He pauses like he’s giving this some serious deliberation before continuing with his train of thought. “Are you in any hurry to go anywhere?”
Arthur chews thoughtfully on his waffles for a moment before swallowing and saying, “Not particularly.” He narrows his eyes at Eames. “Why?”
Eames shrugs, so casually that Arthur suddenly realizes Eames is nervous. “I was thinking of heading to Prague,” Eames says. He looks at Arthur from under his lashes and says, “Perhaps you’d consider joining me?”
And okay, Mal was totally right; Arthur is quite possibly the densest person on the face of the earth, because he definitely did not see that coming. It throws him off balance a little bit, the thought that Eames could possibly be interested in him the way he’s maybe interested in Eames, but he steadies himself in time to pull a smirk onto his face.
“Don’t most people usually go for dinner and a movie for a first date?” Arthur asks.
The tension leaves Eames’ shoulders then, and he laughs easily. “Is that a yes?” Eames asks, mostly for the sake of asking.
Arthur shrugs, just to tease Eames a little. “Maybe,” he says, grinning far too widely.
Eames narrows his eyes at Arthur, all playful smirks and casual innuendo now, perfectly at ease. “You’re terrible,” he says.
Arthur just smiles.
END.
---
feedback/concrit is always very welcome and appreciated! (anon comments too!)
thank you for reading :D
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG
Word Count: approx. 3,000
Summary: In which Arthur gets beautifully drunk and wonders about a lot of things and then feelings happen (or: alcohol-induced love confessions)
A/N: written for 33flavored , who won me in round one of helpthesouth and wanted some Arthur/Eames. so I sat down with a mission and started writing and when I began writing this, the plan I had in mind consisted of: "make Arthur drunk. silly and/or sexy shenanigans ensue." the sexy didn't end up happening and I kept staring at the screen wondering when one of our boys would just make a move already, but then feelings started happening instead and I thought, "oh well that's just as good. A+ job, boys."
Title borrowed from Coldplay.
Arthur isn’t quite sure how he got talked into this in the first place. He’d originally been planning to do as he always does after a job well done, namely, go back to his hotel, take a nice, long shower, and burn any evidence that might connect any of them to the job (though he doesn’t admit it often, burning all the papers they’ve used for the job is something he takes a lot of satisfaction in; it’s a good feeling, getting rid of all of that). Perhaps it was because Mal had smiled at him particularly sweetly today (he’s always had a soft spot for her), or because Dom had assured Arthur time and time again that they were safe; they didn’t need to flee right this instant. Or maybe (probably, most likely, definitely) because Eames had slid up next to him after they’d finished the job and murmured, “Nice work today, Arthur.”
So now Arthur finds himself in some nameless bar on the outskirts of Lisbon, surrounded by his drunken colleagues, and okay, maybe he’s had a bit to drink himself, but he’s nowhere near as trashed as Mal, who’s flushed and bright eyed and babbling away nonsense words that are part English, part French, and part, Arthur thinks, Dutch. Dom is looking at Mal far too fondly and also looks like he might pass out at any moment, and Eames, Eames is grinning at all of them over his glass of scotch, looking all too amused.
“What’re you so smiley about?” Arthur asks Eames, and okay, maybe he’s really fucking drunk himself, because his words are slurring together and his vocabulary has been reduced to that of a teenager.
Eames considers Arthur for a moment and Arthur thinks it’s a little unfair that Eames seems so much more competent than the rest of them at this point, but that’s probably because, unlike the rest of them, Eames exercised some form of self-control today and didn’t drink himself silly. It’s not Eames’ fault, really, that everyone else is drunker than him but Arthur still hates him a little for it. Mal starts to tip over and Eames reaches out to steady her so she won’t fall. It takes a minute too long for Arthur to realize that Eames had very pointedly ignored his question, but then the moment’s passed, and Arthur feels strange about asking it again.
“Perhaps the two of you should be heading back to the hotel,” Eames suggests to Mal and Dom. “I think you’ve had enough to drink for one night.”
Mal reaches out and probably means to caress Eames’ cheek softly, but she’s not quite coordinated enough for that, so she ends up clumsily petting Eames’ face instead.
“You have brilliant ideas,” she says, sounding pleasantly surprised.
Eames laughs and helps her up. “Come on now, you two; off we go,” he says. As he leaves the table they’re all situated at, he looks at Arthur very sternly and says, “Stay.”
Arthur frowns. “I’m not a dog,” he says petulantly.
Eames smiles. “Of course not,” he says, and goes to help Mal and Dom to the door. He watches them walk off for a moment, as if to make sure they’re not going to fall over at any given moment, before he returns, still grinning a little to himself. He slips back into his seat and knocks back the rest of his drink, eying Arthur contemplatively. “I think you’ve had enough to drink as well. I’m cutting you off.”
Arthur’s eyes widen. “No!” he gasps. He really wanted another beer. He realizes maybe a second too late that he’s having a hard time controlling what he says, because he hears his own voice ringing in his ears.
Eames laughs. “You’re really quite cute, you know that?” Eames says, smile warm and easy.
Arthur narrows his eyes at Eames. “I’m not cute,” he says, poking Eames’ cheek for emphasis, and Arthur’s drunk enough that the full impact of what Eames just said doesn’t quite hit him.
“Mhmm,” Eames hums, helping Arthur up so he can take him back to the hotel they’ve been staying in for the duration of the job.
“I’m not,” Arthur insists as he stumbles along beside Eames. Eames’ arm is wrapped tightly around Arthur’s waist and it’s quite likely that Arthur wouldn’t have been able to support his own weight without Eames’ help, but Arthur’s more focused on putting one foot in front of the other without tripping at the moment.
Somehow, mostly thanks to Eames, they make it back to their hotel and to Arthur’s room. Eames sticks Arthur’s key card into the slot and pushes the door open; and how exactly does Eames always manage to steal Arthur’s things without Arthur noticing? It should be illegal. Actually, it is illegal - stealing, that is - and Arthur says as much, very indignantly, and Eames just laughs.
“Our entire lives are illegal, darling,” Eames says. “I highly doubt a little petty thievery every now and again is really that damning.”
“This isn’t your room,” Arthur points out as Eames walks Arthur to his bed.
Eames hums in acknowledgement as he sits Arthur down on the edge of the bed and starts helping him undo his tie. “Noted,” Eames says. “However, I’m not quite sure you’re to be trusted on your own in this state, so I’m going to make sure you’re safely tucked in before I leave.”
“I’m not a baby,” Arthur protests, clumsily trying to shove Eames’ hands out of the way so he can do it himself. “I don’t need your help.”
Eames takes Arthur’s hands and gently sets them down before getting back to work on Arthur’s tie and shirt. Arthur lets him for a moment before giggling. Eames arches an eyebrow at Arthur.
“Are you trying to seduce me?” Arthur says, giggling some more.
Eames laughs, and his expression looks a touch too fond. “If so, then this is by far the shittiest job I’ve ever done at it,” Eames says. He pushes Arthur’s shirt off his shoulders and then sets to work easing Arthur’s shoes off his feet.
Arthur stares at Eames for a moment, at the way Eames’ nimble fingers untie Arthur’s shoes, at the planes of Eames’ face, highlighted by the warm glow cast by the bedside lamp. Eames looks nice, Arthur decides, beautiful even, and really, if Eames wanted to, he wouldn’t even have to try to seduce Arthur, Arthur suddenly realizes, because Eames is pretty damn irresistible.
“That’s a lie,” Arthur blurts out.
Eames looks up at Arthur. “Oh?” he says, peeling Arthur’s socks off next.
Arthur wiggles his toes and nods with conviction. “You’re really pretty,” Arthur says firmly, as if this explains everything, and Eames chuckles.
“I’m flattered,” Eames says. “Trousers next.”
Arthur manages to wiggle his way out of his pants and he watches with wonder as Eames goes and hangs up Arthur’s suit properly in the closet so it won’t wrinkle, and Arthur feels something pull in his chest. It’s then that he realizes that perhaps he’s been a little slow on the uptake; perhaps he’s been a little dense like Mal always says about him. He realizes that maybe what he’d assumed to be shameless flirting on Eames’ part was actually expertly concealed affection, maybe the only reason Eames came off as that aloof was because he thought Arthur wouldn’t give him the time of day. And maybe, just maybe, Arthur thinks, maybe he’s just a little bit in love with this brilliant, cunning forger. The realization hits Arthur full force and he flops back on the bed, more than a little surprised at himself.
When exactly, he wonders, did this happen? Was it in Moscow, where they first met; Shanghai, where Eames had gunned down their pursuers as Arthur somehow, somehow managed to drive them to safety through the insane rush hour traffic; Paris, where Mal and Dom got married; or somewhere in between? Arthur’s nearly lost count of how many times he’s worked with Eames over the years, and he’s not quite sure when he started thinking of Eames less as just another colleague and more as someone he can sit down and have a real conversation with, someone who sometimes brought him coffee in the morning just how he likes it without even having to ask, someone he can trust. Arthur purses his lips. He wonders how many people he can really say that about. He could probably count the number on one hand.
“You alright there, Arthur?” Eames asks lightly.
Arthur blinks. Eames is standing over him, smiling just a little down at him, and Arthur is suddenly struck by how intimate this feels. He isn’t sure when the last time he let someone see him like this was.
“Let’s get you tucked in then, shall we?” Eames says, helping Arthur up again so he can lift up the comforter. He tries to ease Arthur into bed, but Arthur holds on tight, or as tightly as he can in the state he’s in.
“You should stay,” Arthur says, his voice coming out softer than he means it to.
Eames laughs, and for a moment, Arthur doesn’t quite know what it is he’s seeing in Eames’ eyes. And then he realizes with a shock that it’s hesitation, indecision. He wants to ask why, because he’s never, never seen Eames hesitate before, but he can’t quite find the words, and then Eames smiles and it passes.
“I don’t think I should,” Eames says. He makes Arthur sit down on the bed again, because Arthur may or may not be swaying a bit.
Arthur pouts and crosses his arms. “Why not?” he whines.
“Because,” Eames says, and the way his voice curls around the vowels in his words makes Arthur’s stomach clench in ways he’d rather not think about at the moment, “Because I rather like my face the way it is and would rather not have it rearranged in the morning when you wake up and realize what’s transpired.”
Eames eases Arthur under the covers and pulls the comforter up over Arthur. Everything about Eames screams of a sort of tenderness Arthur has never seen from the man, and it’s a little bit unnerving and a whole lot endearing at the same time.
“Please stay,” Arthur says, and his voice sounds so, so small, even to his own ears. Arthur wonders when the last time he said please and actually meant it was.
Eames sighs but can’t fight the weary smile on his face, and Arthur can tell he’s won this round. “Alright,” Eames concedes and taps the tip of Arthur’s nose once. “But only because you asked so nicely.”
Arthur grins to himself as his eyes slip shut, and he thinks he hears Eames making up the couch so he can sleep on it, but he passes out before he can really think about it too much.
---
Arthur wakes sometime in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and then stumbles back to his bed and fumbles with the small travel-sized bottle of painkillers that he finds by his bed, swallowing two pills to preemptively stave off the impending hangover and drinking the entire glass of water that’s conveniently sitting on the nightstand next to the painkillers, before passing out again. He doesn’t really find anything strange about this, even though he definitely does not remember setting out the water or the pills, or at least, he doesn’t find anything strange about it until morning, when he wakes up, tangled in the sheets and, miraculously, not hungover. He feels a little bit queasy, and he could probably sleep for another six hours straight, no problem, but otherwise he feels fine, so he considers that a victory.
It takes Arthur all of three minutes before he decides that he feels disgusting and needs a shower. He swings his legs over the side of his bed and he means to stand and make his way over to the bathroom to shower, he really does, but he’s distracted by a note scribbled hastily on a scrap of paper being held in place at the corner by the refilled glass of water on the nightstand. Arthur frowns at the paper and has a moment’s worth of internal debate before reaching over and snatching it up.
Be back soon. Went out to pick up some coffee. I know how you get when you don’t get your daily caffeine fix. -E
Arthur rereads the note more times than is necessary, trying to decide whether or not he thinks Eames is forging someone else’s handwriting here or if it’s something entirely his own. It really could go either way with Eames, and just as Arthur gives up and decides to just go take a shower like he’d originally planned, the door opens and Eames walks in, humming softly to himself. He’s carrying two cups of coffee in his hands and has a newspaper tucked under his arm.
“Ah!” he says when he sees Arthur, and maybe Arthur’s just making things up, but he thinks Eames’ expression lights up a bit. “You’re finally awake, I see.” (Arthur glances at the clock and realizes it’s late in the day, almost too late for this to be considered morning, actually) “I brought you coffee.”
Eames gingerly hands Arthur the cup, and Arthur takes it gratefully from him, sighing contently as he sips at it. It’s hot, just on the right side of too hot, and strong, with sugar and just a splash of cream, just how Arthur likes it. Arthur still wonders how Eames knows how Arthur takes his coffee, because it’s not exactly something Arthur brings up in daily conversation.
“Breakfast?” Eames suggests, reaching for the phone to call room service.
Arthur hums noncommittally and Eames rattles off an order to the room service staff before hanging up and unfolding his newspaper to scan the headlines as he sips all too casually at his coffee. Arthur almost feels like Eames is waiting for him to say something, but he isn’t quite sure what, so Arthur just drinks his coffee and mulls over the events of last night that he can remember all too clearly until he can’t take it anymore, and then he says the first thing that comes to mind, which, admittedly, sounds a little silly when he says it out loud.
“You think I’m cute?” Arthur says suddenly.
Eames looks up from his newspaper and shrugs, hiding a smile behind the rim of his coffee cup. “You think I’m pretty,” Eames points out very helpfully. The tips of Arthur’s ears turn ever so slightly pink with embarrassment. He still can’t quite believe he actually said that out loud. This, Arthur thinks, is why he doesn’t drink very often. Eames grins, “I think we’re even.”
Arthur frowns at his coffee. “I’m not cute,” he mumbles.
Eames laughs and folds his newspaper before setting it down on the coffee table. He sounds a little tenser than he did the night before, but Arthur doesn’t call him out on it.
“I know,” Eames says, crossing the room to sit at the end of the bed. “You made it a point to make that very clear to me last night.”
Eames has an amused twinkle to his eye, and Arthur forces himself to relax. This is just Eames, he reminds himself. They’ve known each other for years; no need to get all worked up now. Except for Arthur’s only just come to terms with the fact that he might actually be a little bit in love with Eames, and that’s not exactly something Arthur’s very used to dealing with. Feelings, that is. Love.
Luckily, or maybe not so luckily, depending on how you look at it, a knock sounds then, and a voice calling “room service!” comes through the door. Eames goes to answer the door and comes back with a tray heaped high with food.
He sets it on Arthur’s lap and orders, “Eat.”
Arthur opens his mouth to protest that he doesn’t need to be told these things and he most certainly does not need to be taken care of like this (he’s not a child, for fuck’s sake), but his stomach beats him to the punch and growls audibly. Eames chuckles and lifts his coffee to his lips again, and Arthur just scowls.
“So,” Eames says after Arthur has made his way through a good portion of the food. He pauses like he’s giving this some serious deliberation before continuing with his train of thought. “Are you in any hurry to go anywhere?”
Arthur chews thoughtfully on his waffles for a moment before swallowing and saying, “Not particularly.” He narrows his eyes at Eames. “Why?”
Eames shrugs, so casually that Arthur suddenly realizes Eames is nervous. “I was thinking of heading to Prague,” Eames says. He looks at Arthur from under his lashes and says, “Perhaps you’d consider joining me?”
And okay, Mal was totally right; Arthur is quite possibly the densest person on the face of the earth, because he definitely did not see that coming. It throws him off balance a little bit, the thought that Eames could possibly be interested in him the way he’s maybe interested in Eames, but he steadies himself in time to pull a smirk onto his face.
“Don’t most people usually go for dinner and a movie for a first date?” Arthur asks.
The tension leaves Eames’ shoulders then, and he laughs easily. “Is that a yes?” Eames asks, mostly for the sake of asking.
Arthur shrugs, just to tease Eames a little. “Maybe,” he says, grinning far too widely.
Eames narrows his eyes at Arthur, all playful smirks and casual innuendo now, perfectly at ease. “You’re terrible,” he says.
Arthur just smiles.
END.
---
feedback/concrit is always very welcome and appreciated! (anon comments too!)
thank you for reading :D