Fic: Walsingham (2 of 5)
Title: Walsingham
Authors: agaryulnaer86 and myself
Pairing/Character(s): Arthur/Eames, and Ariadne
Rating: R
Warnings: Graphic violence and disturbing imagery, the foulest of language, adult situations and sexual content, and an adorable kitten. But just the one.
Summary: Ariadne, Eames and Arthur work a job over the holidays. Hijinks ensue, including but not limited to: chicken soup, a stray kitten, avoidance of the casting couch, a clown, and a job gone a bit sideways. Also, Chrismukkah.
Author's Notes: Written for the prompts exploring dreamshare and canonverse and messy blowjobs :)
master post
part one
----
The next day goes exactly as Arthur had expected: Eames shows up with the kitten, early in the morning, both of them looking well-rested (not surprising, since Eames had woken up some time late in the evening the day before, bundled the kitten back up in his coat, and left to for his hotel room, where they'd both gone back to sleep). Ariadne takes one look at Wally and her voice immediately goes up about an octave. It's about two minutes before both Eames and Ariadne are sitting on the floor again, playing keep-away with the feather toy and an extremely excited- and much cleaner than yesterday (suggesting a bath had happened)- Wally. The kitten falls over more than he manages to stay upright, flailing around wildly in his attempts to get the thing, and both Ariadne and Eames are borderline giggling.
It doesn't take any convincing at all on Eames' part to get Ariadne to agree to watch over Wally while Eames goes to his interview today. She looks more likely to steal the kitten than turn down a chance to play with it all day. "He's so cute," she coos, for probably the eightieth time, which Eames doesn't seem to mind at all. She waves the feather in front of the kitten's nose, and he makes a wild swipe at it and promptly falls over. "Don't expect to get him back."
"Don't think I won't fight you for him," Eames says cheerfully, poking at the kitten's back and getting swiped at in response; Wally tries to get him, but ends up just rolling over into Eames' leg. "I've already risked life and limb for him the once."
Ariadne sighs. "Really, though, Wally?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. "It's not a very... kitten-like name."
Eames makes a face. "Obviously it's short for Walsingham. He looks like a Walsingham. You would understand if you'd ever met the bloke."
Ariadne blinks. "That is actually even less kitten-like."
"Walsinghams are cross-eyed and waddle?" Arthur interjects despite himself. He looks amused as he walks in, having only heard the last part of the conversation. Ariadne appears to be completely enamored with the kitten, and Arthur has to fight back a bit of protectiveness, despite the fact that he's completely against this pet idea in general. Ariadne would be a much better cat owner than he himself or Eames; at least she stays in one place. They can't be dragging a kitten all over the world with them.
But his thoughts are derailed as he walks around them a bit, to get to his desk, and sees Eames from the front. He had indeed gone to get that haircut this morning, and he's wearing a charcoal suit and a blue shirt, with a coordinating tie and... Arthur just stops for a moment, staring.
"So Eames looks nice today." Ariadne's voice jolts him out of his lusting, and he blinks down at her. She's smirking up at him, and he scowls, mumbling something about it being acceptable and returning to his desk posthaste. Eames will be gone for his interview soon enough, and Arthur will no longer have to resist the temptation to fuck him in that suit.
Ariadne turns her smirk on Eames, who smiles beatifically at her. He knows very well how nice he looks, and he also knows how much Arthur appreciates a good looking man in a good suit. That would be why he wore it here instead of changing here, or after he left. Not that he'd say that aloud- it really is more convenient not to have to carry another set of clothes around- but that's the real reason. He's sure Arthur knows it, too. After all, just because Eames agreed to this (ludicrous) no-sex on the job rule doesn't mean that he's going to play nice about it. He's not a no-sex sort of person. Arthur's frankly lucky he hasn't thrown a full-scale fit. But then, it's only been two days. A day and a half.
"Thank you, sweet," he says, to what she'd said, even if she'd only been harassing Arthur at the time.
"You're just tormenting him, aren't you?" she asks quietly once Arthur is out of earshot, and it's only nominally a question. Ariadne might not know about the rule specifically, but she is well acquainted with the dynamic between Arthur and Eames.
Eames smiles, poking at Wally and making the kitten flail, trying to attack his finger, while Eames looks anything but innocent. "I would never. I have an interview."
"Mmm." Ariadne scoops Wally up in one hand, interrupting his attack; he struggles, but she cradles him against her chest, in the crook of her elbow, and starts to scratch his back gently. Immediately he flops, boneless, and starts to purr like he has a miniature diesel engine in his belly.
She stands carefully, making shooing motions at Eames. "You'd better get going, then. I'll be here, stealing Wally away from you." She grins at him, and adds loudly enough that Arthur can hear, "Don't be lured onto the casting couch."
Eames rolls his eyes, standing after a moment with a sigh. He doesn’t believe that she could steal Wally away from him, for the simple reason that he would fight her for the kitten. Indeed he would go to great lengths to keep that particular kitten to himself. Well, himself and Arthur. Whether Arthur likes it or not. But mostly him, since Arthur is doing his very best to be annoyed by the poor kitten’s presence.
Ariadne may babysit, and she may love Wally all she wants. But she is not going to take that cat from Eames and that is a fact. Eames is rather fond of Ariadne, but he has no scruples about hitting a woman when said woman has stolen his adorable little kitten. That goes without saying, though, so he lets it go for now, brushing off his coat and the shirt beneath it before pulling on his winter coat over it all.
“Oh, don’t worry, sweet,” he says offhandedly, and quite loudly enough to be heard by all present. “I know my way around the casting couch, but I’ve learned to resist its lure.” He winks at her then before slipping on a pair of glasses (fake, of course, his eyesight is perfectly fine) to complete the ensemble. Posture already much more upright than usual, Eames nevertheless flashes a grin at Ariadne and Wally before calling out to Arthur, “Cheers, pet!” and heading out.
Arthur debates yelling something in response, but he refrains on the grounds that it would be juvenile and obnoxious. He does, however, stare at Eames' ass in that outfit, and he does a bit of a double-take at the glasses.
It's always a treat to watch Eames shed his skin for another, not that he'd ever admit it. He gets up and carries his coffee over to the window, staring out and definitely not watching as Eames goes out the front door and strides off down the sidewalk towards the subway. Definitely, definitely not ogling. Nope.
And then, as he sees the black wool coat disappearing down the steps at the end of the block, he pauses, turning to stare at Ariadne, who has Wally up on her shoulder and purring like a mini motorboat. Wide-eyed, he says slowly, "Casting couch?" It's not quite a question, but not a statement, either. He wants to ask if she thinks Eames was being serious, not that it would matter if he was, but he won't, because asking would be losing face somehow, even if it's all only in his head.
Dragging her attention away from the kitten, Ariadne turns to look up at Arthur, eyebrows raised. It’s so hard to pay attention to any conversation when you have a kitten purring on your shoulder, but she does enjoy teasing Arthur. And Eames, but Eames is gone, and Ariadne has a good idea of why the two of them have two separate rooms for the duration of the job, and an equally good idea that Eames had nothing to do with that.
“Yeah, you know,” she says nonchalantly. “The mark’s a movie writer, right? So it only stands to reason people want in on any job to do with it… they might have to prove their skills in other ways. I was just saying he should avoid it. But I guess he’s been there, done that.” She pauses, seemingly considering, and then goes back to petting Wally and cooing. “Not surprising if he goes to all his interviews looking like that, right Wally?”
She's obviously talking to the cat, so Arthur doesn't respond beyond a shrug, moving away from the window and back to his desk. It's not his problem; obviously he trusts Eames not to do something stupid, and they haven't really discussed exclusivity, anyway. Just because Arthur's been operating that way himself doesn't mean Eames is, and that doesn't bother him.
Obviously.
And really, Ariadne's right- no one could resist the man, looking like that. Not that Arthur finds him resistible the rest of the time, no matter what he's wearing (or not wearing, as the case may be), but that suit... well.
"He can do what he wants," he says a moment too late. "He'll get the job done. Hopefully without making any pornos." And... it's not like he actually thinks Eames is going to sleep with this guy. He doesn't think Eames has slept with anyone else. Thus, it's stupid to be so fucking antsy. Pushing his chair back from his desk, he grabs his phone. "I need to make a call. After lunch, we should go over what ideas you've come up with for the levels." A subtle hint to get her butt in gear. He walks into the next room over and shuts the door before she can respond.
It's a few hours later and nearing dark when Eames returns to the building, tired and eyeing the sky warily. It's darker than it ought to be, and the clouds are threatening snow. Normally, Eames would like snow, but in the city, you don't really get the snow. You get the slush it turns into once it hits the dirty streets and is run over by speeding cars for eight hours. Eames is not looking forward to that. So he hurries inside, amazed that he made it back before the snow, and hurries up the stairs to regenerate some body heat. It's damn cold out. If Eames didn't produce about twice as much body heat as necessary, he'd be an icicle by now.
Fortunately, he's not frozen, just borderline uncomfortably cold, and so by the time he makes his way into the office space, Eames is much better off without the wind. He's not surprised to find the place still inhabited, either; it's only about four, after all. He's been gone an entire workday, more or less, but extraction isn't exactly a nine-to-five sort of job. Sadly, neither is his new job as a PA. Eames doesn't have a lot of off time to look forward to for the rest of this job, but that's all right. Less time to himself means less time left alone to come up with ways to amuse himself that are not having sex with Arthur. Although he does have Wally now, and playing with a laser pointer and the kitten can amuse Eames for hours.
He can hear Ariadne's headphones as he passes the little cubicle she'd claimed, and he knows Wally will be in there with her, but Eames makes his way to Arthur's area first, pulling the glasses off as he pokes his head around the corner. He's tired from the all the rubbish he'd had to fit into his brain the last few days to prepare and now today when he finally got the job, but his brain is racing anyway, and Eames' day is far from over. A forger's work is never done, even when he's not forging so much as running a regular old con. The smile Arthur receives is therefore more subdued than usual, somewhere between passive, professional PA and the forger's usual pleasant smiles. He'll need some coffee before he can get to work again, and some time before he's more Eames than the part he's been playing all day. "I trust everything has somehow held together in my absence."
Arthur has not reached the point of stacking all of his printouts and research into neat piles (a point he reaches several times throughout the day when he comes out of his working zone and looks around himself, realizing exactly how bad a mess he's made), so there are papers with his notes and charts and memos and emails scattered over his desk, and he looks up from the middle of the debris, smiling back when he sees Eames.
"Hey," he says absently, pushing his chair away from his laptop and stretching before hauling himself to his feet. And then he remembers, after a pause, that Eames had actually said something. Something Arthur should probably respond to. He's distracted, it's not a crime. "Yeah, we did." He's still smiling, and he'd feel like an idiot but Eames' expression has warmed a few degrees, too.
And then he realizes that he's still standing awkwardly in front of his chair- it hadn't really been awkward until he'd realized this, it had sort of been nice, but standing and staring while not saying anything is pretty much the definition of creepy, so. "We watched some of what Ariadne calls the 'relevant' scenes from Quinn's movies. I assume you got the job?"
He'd figured, anyway, when Eames hadn't returned. And now he's thinking it might be a good plan to order food, if the tiredness in the other man's face is any indication. "Without the casting couch?" Totally, entirely teasing; he smiles, just so Eames knows.
Although he is oddly unconvinced by that particular smile, Eames doesn't know why Arthur would think there was ever any danger of the casting couch actually being involved in this, so he answers normally as he carefully tucks the glasses away in his pocket. "No casting couch," he says, faking indignation. "Have you not seen my resume?" And his suit, although he's fairly certain the man's agent is more or less straight. "I could get a job as a Senator. Not that I'd want to. The point being that I am well beyond the casting couch by this point. I do not struggle to break into the business. I kick the bloody door down. The business will be lucky to survive me." Which does sort of imply that he was lured there in days of yore, but seeing as that's more or less the truth, Eames doesn't mind admitting it. The point is that he hadn't been today, wouldn't have been, and was in no way intending to be anywhere near it.
Eames smiles a little, tiredly, looking over Arthur's not entirely tidy workspace and the man himself (who is smiling, and standing close enough that Eames really wishes he wasn't being professional right now) before realizing he probably ought to continue. "Unfortunately, though, I've yet to be admitted into the man himself's presence. It's been his agent all day. I should be starting tomorrow with the writer. Apparently he's still in his locked office and he'd have a fit if I showed up today, but someone has to make sure he eats tomorrow or he might waste away into nothingness." And then it would be terribly difficult to extract anything from him.
So Eames is to be babysitter, more than actually assistant, he's gathered. He doesn't mind, though. What he does mind is movie-watching going on without him. He perks up a bit, even as he looks hurt. "Relevant scenes? Here you two are, having movie dates while I slave away. If you had popcorn I may cry."
"There's plenty more," Arthur offers. "Blast o' Butter, even. Ariadne picked." As though that isn't obvious. Arthur is a fan of the sweet butter popcorn, but even more so of the kind that has no butter at all, and only low sodium and some spices. It's about as close to eating nothing as it's possible to get. Ariadne says he has a sickness, but that is clearly not true, since he's sure he's much healthier than she is, tiny or not.
He shrugs in reference to the movies. "By relevant parts I mean we watched everyone die, because she is a bloodthirsty little pixie. I'm sure we can watch them again, she was very excited to show me all the death scenes." He pauses, turning slightly back to his laptop, and eyes Eames. "Chinese? You look like you need a pick-me-up. No offense."
Perhaps strangely, Eames’ smile warms a bit at that, and right on cue, he has to cover a yawn. His smile turns a bit wry, then. “You don’t say,” he says flatly, but the amusement is obvious in his eyes. He supposes it’s his own fault; Eames has a terrible habit of forgoing sleep when he’s on a job. Where Arthur is unfailingly thorough and single-minded while on a job, Eames is driven and obsessive. Worse, he has a kitten this job, which means he keeps telling himself he’ll go to sleep in ten minutes… and two hours later, when Wally falls asleep, exhausted, Eames realizes he hasn’t showered or pressed his suit.
And then the next day he’s fine because the bloke he’s pretending to be is always fine, but once he’s Eames again, the tiredness inevitably catches up. And he still has work to do, because he won’t be able to nap with his mind still so very awake.
“Chinese sounds wonderful,” he agrees, fiddling with the buttons on the jacket of his suit (the wool coat has already been thrown over a chair). “But don’t think I won’t be having popcorn while I wait.” And maybe an infusion of coffee and sugar.
"I did get the sweet corn," Arthur says while he types, ordering Eames' spicy beef and his own chicken and snow peas. Much more loudly, he yells, "Ariadne, what do you want from Master Wok?"
She might be wearing those enormous Bose earphones, but if food is involved he has no doubt that she'll hear him. Sure enough, a few seconds later she bellows, far louder than necessary, "KUNG PAO CHICKEN, THANKS! SHAME ON YOU, ARTHUR, YOU WOKE WALLY!"
"Because it really wasn't you hollering at all," Arthur mumbles. But quietly, because he suspects Ariadne could hear him, even with the headphones on, and he doesn’t want to be smacked.
Eames snickers a little even as he sends Arthur a thankful look. Those headphones are about twice the size of Ariadne’s head, but somehow still oddly cute. Probably because Ariadne is tiny, and everything about her is oddly cute. Which is how she then takes one by surprise by being so damned clever, and really not particularly cute in personality.
But there is one person here who is always cute, even in personality. Or rather, one kitten. Eames is glad Arthur and/or Ariadne shouting woke him. “Right then, a cuddle will wake me right up,” he says, mostly to himself, and since cuddling of any sort with anyone else who may be nearby is forbidden, Eames heads to Ariadne’s cubicle to pick up the kitten, who makes a tired little mewl upon being removed from the bed he’d made of Ariadne’s coat, but immediately begins purring when Eames moves on to petting him.
Arthur definitely does not snap another picture of them with his phone while Eames is distracted; never has turning off the camera sound on his Blackberry been so helpful as in the past few days, and his is a profession revolving around sneaky information-gathering, so that's saying something.
While Eames is busy with the kitten and with catching up with Ariadne, Arthur sticks some of the butteriest popcorn in the microwave, busying himself with making a fresh batch of espresso and filling the tiny little cups for each of them. If Ariadne doesn't want hers, he's sure Eames will drink it, and it's haughtily European enough that hopefully Eames will just toss it back and not whine about the lack of tea.
He's not surprised to see the forger standing behind him when he turns around, the kitten purring in his arms and getting tan-colored hair all over his black shirt. Still, they make a very nice picture, and Arthur finds himself staring again, amazed at how Eames can still stop him in his tracks even while looking as though he's been hit by a truck... that backed up over him a few times for good measure.
The staring only lasts a few seconds, which is good, because the other man might be distracted by the kitten, but that won't last forever. Luckily, the microwave beeps, making him spin around to pull the bag out and grab a bowl, burning himself with the steam in his hurry to open the paper container and dump out the steaming mass of cholesterol. "I feel for your arteries," he says, turning back to Eames and holding it out. "Also, there's espresso. Expressed caffeine, don't bitch."
Shifting Wally to his shoulder (he fits on Ariadne’s shoulder, and can practically lie down on Eames’ and stretch out), Eames takes the bowl gratefully, looking up at Arthur with nothing short of wonder. Terrible popcorn, the kind Arthur thinks is insanity to eat because it’s so bad for you, and caffeine. Eames is still too weary to come up with a fitting quip in response. Bitching about the caffeine wouldn’t even have occurred to him right now if Arthur hadn’t said it. Yes, it’s not tea, but he hardly ever gets proper tea, and he’s starving and tired and this is amazing.
“You,” he says after a moment’s thought, looking down at the bowl of popcorn in his hands, “are wonderful, Arthur.” This is, of course, a very uncommon thing for Eames to say, at least when he’s not drunk-dialing Arthur, but the forger doesn’t seem to notice, because Wally chooses that moment to perk up a bit and peer down into the bowl, interested. Eames smiles, also without seeming to notice that he’s doing it. “Can cats have popcorn?”
"Not that popcorn," Arthur says immediately, reaching for the cat before Wally can make the dive he's clearly contemplating, right down into the popcorn bowl.
Eames looks amused by his too-quick response, and Arthur huffs. "Look, I don't want to have to find an emergency vet at this time of day. Or deal with him getting sick all over the place." Despite this, his grip is gentle as he holds the kitten in one long-fingered hand, his thumb stroking the little head. Eames' grin is widening, and Arthur scowls. "Go eat and have your caffeine, and put one of the movies on." He'll find Wally's little blanket-lined box, before he makes any more trouble.
Eames’ smile grows proportionally to Arthur’s scowl, but even Eames knows when to leave Arthur alone in order to avoid being hit. He takes the popcorn and caffeine and makes himself scarce, only glancing over his shoulder the once to watch Arthur holding Wally. This, as far as Eames can tell, is the first time Arthur has held the kitten. And whether Arthur knows it or not, he’s being gentle and petting him carefully, and in general being severely adorable.
Eames is still smiling when he sinks down into the same couch he’d fallen asleep in the other night and turns on the television, completely intending to watch the entire movie and eat all of this popcorn by himself before Ariadne even knows it exists. It’s only fair.
The next morning, before Eames leaves for his new job, Arthur hands him a small neoprene case. "It's a portable hard drive. There's a USB cord already attached. As soon as you can, I need what's on his hard drive."
Eames looks less than awake, and Arthur raises his brows, a bit worried. "Do you need directions? I can write some out." He's actually not being condescending for once as he fills a little bowl with the kitten-specific enriched milk (that he definitely did not make a special trip out to buy) and sets it down in Wally's little box for when the kitten wakes up, along with another little bowl of dry food. Eames is staring at him when he looks back up, and he scowls, starting his own little cup of espresso. This machine is bad; he's going to live on the stuff, at this rate. "What?"
“Nothing,” Eames says quickly, absolutely not smiling at all at seeing Arthur taking care of Wally. Nope. Not smiling. He knows very well that Arthur is not interested in a kitten. Wally is only a burden to Arthur. Eames knows that.
So he moves on to the case Arthur had given him, tucking it carefully into his briefcase. “No,” he says tiredly, rubbing at his eyes. Espresso seems like a good idea. He might follow Arthur’s example, despite it once again not being tea. Eames considers this for a moment before coughing a bit and continuing. “I’ve done that before. I can handle copying files.” Eames is not well known for being particularly technologically capable (what real-life forgery requires aside), but when it’s just copying files, he can do it. And he’s certainly been given more difficult tasks before. “What if he’s got it protected?” Thievery, Eames can do with great ease. Hacking, however, is not one of his many skills.
"You should still be able to copy the files. If you can't even get into it, then I'll find a way to break in another time." Arthur yawns. "Tomorrow or tonight. Doesn't he ever go out?" He's one to talk, of course, workaholic that he is, but still, their mark, Walker, is even worse than he is, and that's saying something.
He starts another little cup of espresso, tossing back the one he'd made first, and when it finishes he offers it to Eames. "If you don't want it, I'll drink it." He smirks slightly. "I've come to appreciate the sensation of my hands shaking and my heart fluttering."
Eames’ smirk doesn’t quite match Arthur’s. “There are other ways to get that sort of feeling, darling,” he assures Arthur sotto voce. Of course, such things are forbidden and besides, Eames has places to be. Quite sadly, because Wally isn’t even awake yet, and Eames hardly feels as though he’s awake, but off he goes anyway.
He takes the espresso from Arthur, for both his sake and the sake of keeping Arthur from going mad with caffeine, and says nothing. Of course, the expression of highbred distaste on his face leaves nothing to be said. After all, he can’t let it go twice in a row, Arthur will start to get confused. “He does go out, but he’s in a fit of inspiration. I hear it can go on a week or more, but he’ll leave once his muse departs.” He shrugs. “With luck, I’ll pry him out of there today.”
Arthur nods, sending Eames a dirty look in response to the look the other man had given the wonderful, caffeine-bringing coffee, but he doesn't stop Eames when he heads out the door, much as he might want to.
It's not that he doesn't want to have sex. Good God, he has a sex drive, and he's not giving himself a case of the blue balls just for kicks. He needs to be focused, to refrain from distractions, which is why he's sleeping on the pull-out in his cubicle, most nights, not even in his hotel room. He works until he can't stay awake, and then he sleeps for a few hours and wakes up to do it all again.
Now, he's reminded as a small mewl comes from the cardboard box, with a feline companion.
It could be worse.
---
Eames and Walker turn off the midway, ducking around the burlap sack slide, which is swaying dangerously. They bolt in what Eames at least knows is the direction of the manhole, the entrance to the second maze, where they can, with luck, avoid Walker's projections. As they pass a darkened game booth, however, a high, childlike voice calls out, "Balloon animal?"
Walker stops moving, pulling Eames nearly to a halt as well, and stares at the clown, smiling delightedly. It waves to them, smiling back, and then opens its mouth... revealing teeth as sharp as the old fortune-teller's.
Walker starts to walk towards the clown, mumbling something about wanting a giraffe, and it holds out the balloon it had already finished, smiling with teeth that appear to be dripping blood. "I saw your friend," it says in its child's voice, faded rainbow wig sliding sideways on its white skull. "Causing trouble. Being naughty. You're not naughty, are you?"
“Walker,” Eames hisses before he can answer. If Walker gets killed, Eames will have to off himself so he can warn Ariadne, they’ll have to drug him again, to start over- “Walker, don’t-“
Except the writer is reaching out to take the balloon animal, looking like a kid in a candy shop, and Eames feels ill staring at that clown. He’s never had a fear of clowns, but then again he’s never seen the sense in them, either, and at this point he is absolutely certain he will never see them the same way again. But this is the way it’s supposed to be, sort of, a frightening carnival, Ariadne designed it that way. But Walker isn’t frightened, far from it, he’s… Eames doesn’t know what he is.
The clown doesn’t rip off Walker’s hand when he takes the balloon from it; it just smiles at him, all sharp teeth and dripping blood. Eames has frozen, waiting for something to happen… and when it doesn’t, he snaps out of it, lunging forward to grab Walker again… just in time for the clown to turn and look at him.
"Hello Greggie," it says, its voice suddenly adopting an accent similar to Eames' own. "Care for a balloon, yourself?" Another completed animal appears in its hand, and it holds it out for Eames, who makes no move to reach for it. It doesn't appear to matter to the clown, however, because it suddenly closes its hand, clenching needle-like nails on the balloon, which immediately pops, with a sound like a gunshot. "You don't get a balloon, Greggie. Naughty boys don't get balloons."
The clown's smile widens, showing bloody teeth again. "Naughty boys are punished. Come take your medicine, Greggie."
It’s fair to say Eames has never been so threatened by a clown, but on the other hand, he’s rather used to dealing with odd situations. And for some reason it’s reassuring to know this is definitely Walker’s projection, since it thinks his name is Greg. Or “Greggie.” Which just sounds quite silly to be calling a grown man, but that’s the least of his worries. At least he knows that Walker is the psychotic one, and not him. Or Arthur. But he hadn’t really expected either of them to bring their own projections into this. They’re professionals, unlike some people.
Eames is thinking about this as the clown leers at him, teeth dripping blood, and begins to take a step in his direction. It is easily the creepiest thing Eames has seen in a long time, disregarding perhaps the zombie ponies. He’s sure if he had his own dreams naturally, he’d be having nightmares tonight. Especially with Walker standing there, giggling and generally looking like a deranged ten-year-old.
Needless to say, by this point, Eames has had quite enough of this dream, and of clowns. This bloke is psychotic, and his psychotic clown is about to try something, and Eames does not have time for this rubbish.
“No, thank you,” Eames says quite calmly, before his Browning appears seemingly from nowhere as always, its weight in his hand comforting in this madhouse. There is a moment, during which the clown just grins madly at him, and then Eames shoots it through one crazed eye. When he turns to Walker, the writer looks downright upset by this development as he watches the brightly-colored clown fall to the ground, wig falling off of its head. Eames scowls. No use keeping quiet, all of the bloody projections clearly know where he is already. And the shot, he hopes, will be enough to alert Arthur to the fact that something is going not quite according to plan.
Walker opens his mouth; Eames’ scowl deepens, and he hurries over to grab the man’s wrist again. “Come on,” he grumbles, distinctly less Greg-like with his Browning in hand and his thoughts running at top speed, suspicions turned on Walker’s subconscious and its obvious madness. This job is not going as planned, and while Eames can handle this horror-film rubbish, his gut is telling him that he and Arthur need to get out of here fast. Sharing a dream with a lunatic is never, ever safe. “You’re having the time of your life, I see that, but we’ve got to get out of here, Mr. Walker. Please, your Agent is waiting.” Obviously pleading with him to leave because of the frightening nature of the place isn't going to cut it; Eames is a better con man than that. But leading him in another, understandable direction has a better chance. All Eames has to do is distract him long enough to keep them both alive until Arthur gets what they need.
---
It’s barely more than a full eight hours later when Eames returns to the office space in Queens, which considering how long it takes to get to the mark’s house and back on the metro is a bit of a shock. It hadn’t been a bad first day, at least not the first half; after the initial shock of suddenly having a PA, Walker had been gracious enough. Eames suspects he had been told many times that he was going to have a new PA, but had totally ignored his agent, which is why the agent himself had been there this morning to introduce him.
Walker had been displeased to be disturbed from his work, but after Eames had left him alone the rest of the morning and gone about his own work on the man’s living room couch, setting up his schedule, going through his fan mail and emails, updating his website, and even cleaning up the room a bit, Walker had warmed considerably to him. Eames will admit that his making the man lunch had probably also factored into that.
If there’s one thing Eames knows, it’s how to read a person, and he knew just how to handle Walker from the first. After all, at heart, a writer is just another type of Artist, and Eames certainly knows how to handle those, being one himself. And it doesn’t hurt that Eames was unerringly polite, quiet, totally capable of just listening, and just this side of flirting. By two, he’d convinced Walker that he ought to eat and take a nap, since he’d hit a rough spot in the script and that was the best time to sleep, let his mind rest and come back refreshed. Worked like a charm of course, and within fifteen minutes Eames had all the bloke’s hard drive copied and the external hard drive stowed safely again.
Two hours later, Walker woke to find Eames back in the living room with a list of questions about what is all right for him to touch in the apartment- specifically in the office. He’d known the man would be touchy about it, and so had asked permission first. More brownie points for that, but it had been ten minutes before Walker had pointed out that Eames (or polite, demure assistant Greg) was doing more coughing than talking. Half an hour later, when Eames had nearly fallen asleep on his laptop and had stripped down to just his shirt due to the heat, Walker had insisted he go home for the day and take some medicine, and if he wasn’t feeling better tomorrow, to not bother coming or else Walker would fire him.
Eames had fought him a bit before he’d tiredly realized that Greg would not do any such thing, and that more than anything had led him to realize that perhaps Walker was right. Eames never lets a character slip.
And so here he is, back early and wishing he’d stopped to find some Kleenex. Or orange juice. Or a bucket of ice. Or a shovel to hit himself over the head so he could pass out. Alas, he has none of these things. But he does have an external hard drive for Arthur. But not before he pulls off his coat and the jacket underneath it again. He has suspenders on today, done entirely to bother Arthur. Too bad he would rather sleep than have sex right now anyway. Shockingly, he finds Arthur in his cubicle. As always. “D’you ever leave?” he mutters, holding out the case Arthur had given him that morning. “Got the files and whatnot. Everything seemed unprotected, but…” he trails off, waves a hand vaguely, and gives up trying to hold this conversation. He doesn’t have the brainpower. He doesn’t even seem to realize he still has Greg’s glasses on. “I dunno. Here you go.”
Rolling over to the doorway of his cubicle, Arthur takes the drive, eyeing Eames warily. "You look like shit. Again." There's not even a quip about flattery, only a cough, and Arthur's brow furrows. "Eames."
He stands, putting a hand against the other man's forehead before Eames can avoid it, and he pulls it back almost immediately, startled. "You're burning up. Have you been like this all day?" He's also shivering, and Arthur swears under his breath, pushing him out of the doorway and in the direction of the couches and the television. And the PASIV, but that's not important right now. "You're lying down."
“Funny, I thought I was standing,” Eames mutters, but it’s not nearly as quippy as usual, and the cough at the end of it isn’t very convincing, either. He lets Arthur shove him in the direction of the couches, thankfully not stumbling, even in his stupidly slippery dress shoes. Vaguely, he figures it makes sense that he should be burning up. He’d thought it was a bit ridiculous to be hot while it’s snowing outside, and Arthur doesn’t look like he’s hot.
Well, literally speaking, anyway. The thought amuses Eames a little, but he just smiles a bit to himself right before Arthur half-shoves him onto the couch. “I haven’t been like this all day, I’ve been Greg all day.”
"Yes, because the artiste clearly is only sick when he's not acting," Arthur shoots back, moving over to the cupboard. There's nothing suitable, no soup or anything else, and he makes a small face. Ariadne had gone out to get some more materials for the dream level (apparently she's really going to town on this job), and so after some brief consideration, he goes to fetch Wally and deposits him on Eames' lap.
"You can babysit. I'll be back," he says, not waiting for Eames' response before pulling on his coat and slipping out the door. When he returns with cough and flu medicine and a paper bag full of groceries, he finds the other man conked out, and he smiles slightly, seeing Wally chewing industriously on one of Eames' shirt buttons.
Because he's always been an over-achiever, he puts the can of Campbell's chicken noodle to the side in case Eames wakes up, and starts on the good, from-scratch stuff for dinner. It'll be done in a few hours, and he swears, the same way his mom always has, that it actually does have healing powers.
By the time Eames does stir on the couch, Ariadne is kitten-sitting by the TV, and the entire place smells like homemade chicken noodle soup, three bowls of which are steaming on the scuffed particleboard surface of the coffee table. Arthur sits down in the old recliner with his laptop in his lap, letting Eames keep possession of the couch.
"I found something interesting," he says, glancing over at Eames. "Soup has to cool, but there's medicine for you, and juice."
“Huh?” Eames mumbles, loquacious as always. Something about soup and juice. He’s not sure. In fact, Eames is only mostly sure of where he is at the moment, and when he tries to rectify this by sitting up and looking in Arthur’s direction, the room starts to spin around him and sets him off into a fit of coughing.
When he finally manages to sit up, Eames realizes several things: he’s cold, maybe shivering, but he’s also sweating, and he’s wearing glasses. “Christ,” he mumbles, yanking the glasses off and half-throwing them on the coffee table, away from the soup. “Bloody awful timing, isn’t it.” It’s not really a question, and he’s not really speaking to either of them, but he does spy the juice and medicine, and feeling like he’s moving through molasses, takes as much cough medicine as he thinks he can get away with before following down the terrible taste with juice. He can’t remember the last time he was sick like this. It can’t have been less than a few years.
He wishes, quite suddenly, that he had a blanket, a fire instead of a telly, and tea with honey. But he’s in an office building in America, where they are incapable of making tea, and he can hardly sit up, let alone get a blanket. He’s trying not to mutter such things, because he’s not a child, when he spots the soup. He stares at it for a long moment, as though he can’t quite figure out what it is, before slowly looking at Arthur. “Did you make soup?”
"I did," Arthur says carefully, not sure, from the very distant expression on Eames' face, if this is appreciated or not. He supposes it will be, when Eames can think coherently, but at the moment he's obviously out of it. Not that Arthur made the soup in order to earn Eames' appreciation- he'd only wanted to help. But he does hope it tastes good.
"Smells awesome," Ariadne interjects, holding up the kitten, who is attempting to both bat at and eat her hair. "Wally hopes you feel better. You were wheezing in your sleep. He didn't like that so much."
Arthur snorts. "I did get you Lemsip," he offers on the heels of the kitten actually catching a strand of her hair in his little claw and making her yelp. Serves her right for teasing him with it. "It's the store brand, but I found it tucked in a corner of the shelf at Shop-N-Save."
Eames can’t help the tired, almost childlike smile that appears on his face after all of this (and another fit of coughing). Lemsip and soup. Soup which it seems Arthur had just… gone and… made. Made himself. Arthur made him soup, and Wally is right there, being adorable and eating Ariadne’s hair, and suddenly Eames feels a bit stupid for wishing he was in London with tea. In fact he feels so stupid and mean about it that he has to fight to keep from bursting into tears.
It’s at about this time that Eames realizes that he is very sick.
“You made me soup,” he finally manages, sounding somewhere between amazed and totally unaware of where he is.
"I did," Arthur agrees, nodding and fighting back a smile. He's trying not to be heartwarmed, if that's even a thing. It's difficult not to be, though. Sick Eames is actually a rather sweet Eames. Arthur gets up to make the Lemsip, with the actual teapot since Eames refuses to heat the water in the microwave (Arthur can't tell the difference, but apparently one has to be British in order to do so). When he carries the mug back over to the couch, he almost expects Eames to be asleep, but he's still awake, and Arthur hands him the Lemsip carefully, noting the shivering.
Having done all he can for the moment (it remains to be seen how he's going to get both a sick forger and a kitten back to the hotel for the night, but he'll deal with that later), he sits back down with his laptop and starts over, talking mostly to Ariadne since Eames will undoubtedly not remember a lot of this. "So I found a bunch of scripts on Walker's laptop. Six of them, actually, none of which have ever been published or filmed. They're a lot more gruesome than the ones we've watched, and grittier, more realistic."
He arches a brow, handing the computer down to her. "I'll send you copies. I thought if we used some ideas from these, maybe they'll ring a bell with him. It seems like he's gotten a lot of his ideas for his later scripts from these, but he's always changed them before he sends them off."
Ariadne takes his computer carefully after plopping Wally down behind her on the couch next to Eames, who looks down at the (mildly confused) kitten as though he has no idea how it got there. Ariadne ignores them both, glancing through the files and then opening one to inspect it. Scripts he’s never used… interesting.
“That’s a good idea,” she says, thoughtfully. After all, what does a horror writer have nightmares about? Surely his own movies don’t scare him the way they scare other people, but things he’s never shared with anyone… after a moment, she hands it back to Arthur. “More gruesome is good.”
Behind her, Eames speaks up, seeming to have heard part of the conversation, at least. “Walker is so pleasant, but there is so much gruesome in his brain,” he says, sounding rather far away. He’s got Wally in his lap and is petting him with one finger even as he shivers a bit. He might not even notice he’s shivering. “Just like you’re so violent, but so bloody little.” He is obviously not speaking to Wally, who has moved on to biting at his finger. The noise Eames makes in response may actually be a giggle, until it turns into a hacking cough.
Ariadne blinks at him. Her silence is loud enough that Eames even looks at her after a moment. Then, unaware of the danger of calling Ariadne little, he just stares at her blankly and adds, perfectly seriously, “Arthur called you a bloodthirsty pixie.”
"That is taken out of context," Arthur says immediately when Ariadne rounds on him. He holds up his hands. "Completely, completely professional context."
Ariadne's eyes have narrowed. "Exactly what sort of 'professional context' was it in, then, Arthur?" She makes the air quotes where necessary.
"Er..."
"Because I find it hard to believe that calling me a pixie could be anything but you talking about me behind my back." Her narrowed eyes have definitely moved into scowling territory. Arthur manages to outwardly retain his cool.
"Obviously I was referring to your Halloween costume, next year. What it should be. Since you enjoy horror movies so much. You should be a bloodthirsty Tinker Bell." He smiles, trying so very hard to avoid his fate. "You know. With bloody wings, or something. Blood dripping from your mouth. Definitely fake blood, though, not my blood, since I find you interesting, well-paying jobs and buy you unhealthy popcorn."
“Uh-huh,” Ariadne says, slowly. She obviously does not buy any of this at all. And, judging by the state Eames is in, she doesn’t doubt that the conversation had happened. It’s just Arthur’s explanation she doubts. “I can completely see how being Tinker Bell at Halloween is a professional context.”
“Hey,” Eames says slowly, as though he’s having a very difficult time both speaking and following this conversation, “you can’t have any of Arthur’s blood. He needs it. In him.”
Ariadne sighs. “Eames,” she says slowly, “shut up and eat your soup.”
Eames stares at her for a long moment, and then looks down at the table. Sure enough, there is soup. He seems surprised by this, and a bit delighted. Again. Ariadne rounds on Arthur again, pointing. “Don’t think you won’t pay,” she says calmly, and then turns primly back around and goes about her business eating her own soup, perfectly calm. Which is, of course, completely terrifying.
Arthur spends a moment trying to tell himself that he's not actually nervous about the tiny brunette's inevitable vengeance, but he's not in the habit of lying to himself (much), and so he gives up. He is.
Still, it seems safer not to respond, and so he doesn't, setting his laptop aside and picking up his own bowl, saying nothing more and eating his dinner.
Although the chicken soup is a big hit, Eames looks just as sick by the time he passes out after dinner. Arthur wakes him up enough to get his coat on and drag him back to the hotel, along with a kitten in a box (helpfully carried by Ariadne) and all of his own work, as well as the PASIV in its briefcase since he's hardly going to let it sit in an unguarded office space for however long.
He settles Eames into his own hotel bed and lets Wally out to scamper around and play, settling on the couch, himself, in the large room's living area, prepared to spend the night working. The only thing he'll miss is the espresso machine, but he figures Eames' bill can stand a little room service.
Of course, what actually ends up happening is he spends the evening reading through the scripts, trying to choose the best one... and playing 'catch the shoelace' with Wally, because really, playtime is important for kittens. It helps them exercise and gain control of their reflexes, and to practice socializing. Wally needs someone to play with him, and Arthur is happy to further his physical and social development. You know.
It's the middle of the night the next time Eames wakes up, more stumbling upon wakefulness than anything. He's pretty sure he'd coughed himself awake, and seriously considers putting another pillow under his head because he remembers something about elevating your head when you're coughing, but that seems like too much work. So instead, he lies there, head half-covered by the blankets on the hotel bed, and watches blearily as the clock on the other side of the room turns from 3:14 to 3:15, and then from 3:33 to 3:34. Eames spends a moment trying very hard to understand what's wrong with that picture, can't, and then finally pulls himself out of bed with a mumble to shamble into the bathroom.
It's only after he convinces himself that falling asleep in the bathroom with his head resting on the counter next to the sink is a poor idea that Eames comes back out, and it's only then that he notices Arthur sitting on the couch with Wally flopped out next to him, sleeping peacefully in such an odd position that it kind of makes Eames' back hurt just looking at the kitten. Eames stares at this scene for a moment, not wanting to disturb them as he tries to recall how on earth he got back to this room and when it happened (it must have been Arthur?), before another fit of coughing totally ruins any chance of being quiet and not disturbing them. Arthur looks up, proving that he was indeed at least partially awake, and Eames continues coughing until he finally leans against the bed.
"You sh'd go to sleep," he suggests, blearily. The room is doing that spinning thing again that it does when he sits up or down or moves or does anything, really. Eames squeezes his eyes shut for a minute until it stops before falling back a little, head against the wall as he watches Arthur with only partially-aware eyes. "You'll get sick too." Sick as he is, the idea is very distressing to Eames. He doesn't want to get Arthur sick. Arthur can't be sick, he's Arthur, it doesn't make any sense for Arthur to be sick.
"I've probably already been exposed," Arthur says blearily, sitting up the rest of the way and closing his laptop. Next to him, Wally stirs and rolls over, curling up into a little ball without ever opening his eyes. Just in case, though, Arthur puts him down on a pillow on the floor, so he won't accidentally roll off the couch in his sleep. And then, to be even safer, he puts the pillow beneath the coffee table so no one will inadvertently step on the little kitten.
Safety first, of course.
He yawns, covering his mouth with a fist, and standing, eyeing Eames. Still adorable in his pajamas and sick off his ass, it's true, and it is a sign of how half-awake Arthur is that he'd actually thought the word adorable in reference to Eames, completely seriously.
And Eames does have a point. Arthur briefly weighs the benefits of getting REM sleep and recharging his body, hopefully preventing illness, versus sharing a bed with a sick person, and finally decides he doesn't care, kicking off his remaining shoe and stripping out of everything but his undershirt and his boxers. He slides beneath the covers on his side of the bed; Eames has only slept on his own designated side, presumably out of habit, and hopefully the germs won't be all over this pillow. All the same, Arthur turns it over to the fresh side, just in case. "Sleep sounds good," he mumbles.
And then he turns to look at Eames, still standing there and staring at him with little comprehension on his face. "What, you think I'm going to ravish you when you're half-dead? Get in here."
No argument comes to mind even while Eames stares down at Arthur for half a minute, so in the end the forger just climbs into bed, too. Well, more falls than climbs, but he manages to get into bed is the point. And to pull the blanket mostly over himself. He knows there is a reason he should not be in bed with Arthur, and it has something to do with not wanting to get him sick, but right now that is much too inviting for Eames to argue. He feels awful, and disgusting, and a bit like bursting into tears every time he starts hacking up a lung, but somehow sleeping with Arthur will make it better. He's sure of it.
He knows he should make some sort of remark about not minding being ravished, but he can't think of one. So instead he just lies there, the room spinning a bit again because he'd dared to lie down. In an effort to stop it, Eames clenches his eyes shut and rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow and promptly falling into a fit of coughing. He has work tomorrow... Greg would go to work even sick... but Walker told him he'd fire him if he went and was sick... but the job has to keep going without him, and he needs more time with Walker, he needs to go...
Eames isn't aware of the time that passes while he's frustrated about this, or of the fact that he's mumbling about it to himself. But after some time, he is aware that Arthur is there next to him, and that Arthur had gotten him back to his room, to bed... and he is in pajamas somehow so Arthur must have done that, as well. Considering all of this makes Eames forget about the job, briefly, as he realizes that Arthur has been taking care of him. He's sick as hell and Arthur is taking care of him. Eames has to fight the urge to burst into tears again when another fit of coughing takes up a minute or two. Apparently being sick makes him as weepy as Ariadne watching Dirty Dancing, which would be perfectly okay if he wasn't a thirty-four year old man. "Thank you for the soup," he says (totally disregarding the fact that Arthur may, in fact, be asleep) once the coughing subsides, a sentiment which is related to everything he's been thinking in a way that is makes perfect sense to Eames. "You're wonderful. Who just makes soup, that's not a thing. You're my favorite person. Much better than Lady Gaga." Sudden panic hits him on the heels of that sentiment, and he looks like he's trying to make himself alert. Or at least to sit up. Neither is particularly successful. "Where's Wally?"
Rolling over, not really awake, Arthur blinks blearily at him. "Asleep," he says around a yawn, and then hears the sound of little claws scratching on the carpet, speeding around the room. "Or not anymore, apparently." It would be cute if he was awake enough to appreciate it. The sound won't keep him awake, though, and he sincerely doubts it will Eames, either, and he'd rather not have to keep the kitten permanently in a box, so.
"Just watch where you step if you get up," he advises, flopping onto his back and yawning again.
He's not sure how long he'd slept; it had been nearly midnight by the time they'd gotten back here, and... oh, ok, so probably six hours. Maybe. Four since he'd gotten into bed.
The rest of what Eames had said hits him, and he blinks, a moment too late. "You like me better than Lady Gaga? I didn't think that was possible." Pause. "You're welcome."
"Well, she's never made me soup," Eames points out, sensibly he thinks. He has no idea what time it is, or if he'd woken Arthur up, but it does occur to him that sleeping in the same bed with him while he hacks up a lung is probably not helping the other man's sleep.
Still, he's selfish enough not to care, because he wants Arthur to sleep there. And he's been trying to be quiet. And when Arthur assures him that Wally is all right, Eames relaxes a little, lying back down to look over at Arthur. Arthur looks very tired, which isn't surprising, considering how much Eames knows he isn't sleeping. If he were in his right mind, Eames might take this moment to ask why, exactly, Arthur is trying to kill himself more than usual with this job, but Eames is not in his right mind, and now all he can think about are comparisons between the point man and Lady Gaga. "I like you better than everyone, Arthur," he says, with more honesty than he would normally impart to any sentence, let alone that sort, which would normally be interpreted as teasing. Then he starts coughing again. "I don't think... I'm allowed to go to work today. He said he'd fire Greg if he came in sick." More coughing. "Greg can't be fired. I left his glasses somewhere. Bloody Christ, I'm dying, but I'm so young and sexy, I can't-- I can't die." This is said quite pitifully, from underneath Eames' pillow, where he has buried his head in a misguided attempt to stop coughing. "Neither can Greg." Needless to say, this last comes out a bit muffled. Maybe they'll be reincarnated as kittens when they die, him and Greg. And then he can play with Wally...
"You and Greg will be fine," Arthur says, accepting Eames' identifying himself and his con character as separate people with unusual grace. This probably has a lot to do with what Eames had said just before that.... "You're not dying, and you already got the job. A day or two of antihistamines and you'll be fine."
His smile is crooked and half-asleep, but it's there. "And that's not even taking the magical healing powers of chicken soup and Lemsip into account."
"Bugger Greg, he doesn't even like tea," Eames mumbles into the bed (and with a cough or three). But even so, one feverish-looking eye appears from underneath the pillow, at that. Eames eyes Arthur for a moment, wondering if he's being serious. Well, not serious, since he can't actually believe in magical healing powers, but... you know. If Arthur says soup and Lemsip have magical restorative properties, it must be true. And besides, Eames wouldn't know, about the soup, anyway. He's not sure he's ever had homemade chicken soup. Certainly not when he's sick. And if Arthur finding Lemsip in the store isn't a sign, Eames doesn't know what is. Good news, that. That and Arthur's assuring him he won't die.
"If I'm reincarnated as a kitten, would you please adopt me?" he asks after a minute of blessedly cough-free quiet. He doesn't actually believe in reincarnation, but that doesn't stop him wondering about it. And preparing for every eventuality. "I want to play with Wally. Also, I'd be bloody adorable."
"If I say anything about you being adorable now, you'll hit me," Arthur says dryly. "Not that I have a tendency to think things are adorable, but apparently kittens and illness-stricken ex-pats are the exception to that rule. You're not going to die."
He doesn't even add the customary 'asshole' to the end of that, partially because he's only half awake and partially because Eames looks so pathetic at the moment.
"I'd say you could play with Wally right now, but you don't look like you're steady enough to sit up, so maybe tomorrow." Arthur, on the other hand, can and does sit up. "Do you want some tea? I can raid your stash."
Eames is silent for a moment, all arguments about being not adorable right now dying with the idea of tea. He’s reluctant to stop complaining, but very interested in tea. Although, them being in a hotel room means that it’ll have to be microwaved, which is awful and uncouth. But beggars can’t be choosers, and also, his throat is kind of killing him from coughing so much. Which is annoying, because his throat was about the only thing that wasn’t hurting when all of this started.
“Yes, please,” he finally mumbles, somewhere between thankful and grudging, then changes his mind, throwing an arm around Arthur’s middle before he can go, which is quite a feat when Eames can barely move without getting dizzy, and his head is half hidden under his pillow. “No, don’t go.”
Arthur sighs and doesn't move for a minute, in no hurry to get out of bed, but finally he puts both hands on Eames' arm, squeezing gently and then shifting it away. "I'll be back in a minute," he says, only letting himself sound so gentle because he's pretty sure Eames isn't really awake. "It's painful listening to you."
And he manages not to step on Wally, returning a moment later with a hot mug, teabag steeping inside, which he sets on the nightstand next to Eames. It's Lemsip again, but he doesn't think Eames will mind.
He turns on the TV and flips to TV Land, sliding back beneath the covers with another sigh. "You should try a hot shower tomorrow. The steam will help."
In this time, Eames has slowly come out from underneath his pillow, at least mostly, so that now his head is more or less on Arthur’s side of the bed. He’s not too close, though, because he really doesn’t want to get Arthur sick. That’s the one thing he seems to be able to remember consistently, that getting too close to Arthur will get him sick.
Eames spends a moment eyeing the television with only partial understanding of what’s going on on the screen. He’s mostly just staring at it because it’s there. Slowly, the concept of a shower sinks into his brain. A shower would be nice, he thinks, because he’d be clean for a little while, before he started to feel horrific and disgusting again. Except no way he could stand right now. And steam would make him pass out. Also, it’s far away. Much like the tea, which is about a foot away on the nightstand, but for all Eames can sit up right now, it might as well be in another country.
He’s just about to apologize for waking Arthur up, which he’s fairly certain he did, when another fit of coughing hits him. Then he forgets about it, instead closing his eyes and just lying there. “I’m not adorable,” he finally says, in response to what Arthur had said at least a few minutes ago. “I’m languishing. The shower is very far away. I think I’ll just stay here forever.”
Arthur yawns, sliding back down under the covers so that they're nearly up to his chin. "Okay," he says tiredly, smiling despite himself. Ridiculous, this man. Utterly ridiculous. "You languish. I'm going back to sleep. Wake me up if you need anything."
----
part three
Authors: agaryulnaer86 and myself
Pairing/Character(s): Arthur/Eames, and Ariadne
Rating: R
Warnings: Graphic violence and disturbing imagery, the foulest of language, adult situations and sexual content, and an adorable kitten. But just the one.
Summary: Ariadne, Eames and Arthur work a job over the holidays. Hijinks ensue, including but not limited to: chicken soup, a stray kitten, avoidance of the casting couch, a clown, and a job gone a bit sideways. Also, Chrismukkah.
Author's Notes: Written for the prompts exploring dreamshare and canonverse and messy blowjobs :)
master post
part one
----
The next day goes exactly as Arthur had expected: Eames shows up with the kitten, early in the morning, both of them looking well-rested (not surprising, since Eames had woken up some time late in the evening the day before, bundled the kitten back up in his coat, and left to for his hotel room, where they'd both gone back to sleep). Ariadne takes one look at Wally and her voice immediately goes up about an octave. It's about two minutes before both Eames and Ariadne are sitting on the floor again, playing keep-away with the feather toy and an extremely excited- and much cleaner than yesterday (suggesting a bath had happened)- Wally. The kitten falls over more than he manages to stay upright, flailing around wildly in his attempts to get the thing, and both Ariadne and Eames are borderline giggling.
It doesn't take any convincing at all on Eames' part to get Ariadne to agree to watch over Wally while Eames goes to his interview today. She looks more likely to steal the kitten than turn down a chance to play with it all day. "He's so cute," she coos, for probably the eightieth time, which Eames doesn't seem to mind at all. She waves the feather in front of the kitten's nose, and he makes a wild swipe at it and promptly falls over. "Don't expect to get him back."
"Don't think I won't fight you for him," Eames says cheerfully, poking at the kitten's back and getting swiped at in response; Wally tries to get him, but ends up just rolling over into Eames' leg. "I've already risked life and limb for him the once."
Ariadne sighs. "Really, though, Wally?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. "It's not a very... kitten-like name."
Eames makes a face. "Obviously it's short for Walsingham. He looks like a Walsingham. You would understand if you'd ever met the bloke."
Ariadne blinks. "That is actually even less kitten-like."
"Walsinghams are cross-eyed and waddle?" Arthur interjects despite himself. He looks amused as he walks in, having only heard the last part of the conversation. Ariadne appears to be completely enamored with the kitten, and Arthur has to fight back a bit of protectiveness, despite the fact that he's completely against this pet idea in general. Ariadne would be a much better cat owner than he himself or Eames; at least she stays in one place. They can't be dragging a kitten all over the world with them.
But his thoughts are derailed as he walks around them a bit, to get to his desk, and sees Eames from the front. He had indeed gone to get that haircut this morning, and he's wearing a charcoal suit and a blue shirt, with a coordinating tie and... Arthur just stops for a moment, staring.
"So Eames looks nice today." Ariadne's voice jolts him out of his lusting, and he blinks down at her. She's smirking up at him, and he scowls, mumbling something about it being acceptable and returning to his desk posthaste. Eames will be gone for his interview soon enough, and Arthur will no longer have to resist the temptation to fuck him in that suit.
Ariadne turns her smirk on Eames, who smiles beatifically at her. He knows very well how nice he looks, and he also knows how much Arthur appreciates a good looking man in a good suit. That would be why he wore it here instead of changing here, or after he left. Not that he'd say that aloud- it really is more convenient not to have to carry another set of clothes around- but that's the real reason. He's sure Arthur knows it, too. After all, just because Eames agreed to this (ludicrous) no-sex on the job rule doesn't mean that he's going to play nice about it. He's not a no-sex sort of person. Arthur's frankly lucky he hasn't thrown a full-scale fit. But then, it's only been two days. A day and a half.
"Thank you, sweet," he says, to what she'd said, even if she'd only been harassing Arthur at the time.
"You're just tormenting him, aren't you?" she asks quietly once Arthur is out of earshot, and it's only nominally a question. Ariadne might not know about the rule specifically, but she is well acquainted with the dynamic between Arthur and Eames.
Eames smiles, poking at Wally and making the kitten flail, trying to attack his finger, while Eames looks anything but innocent. "I would never. I have an interview."
"Mmm." Ariadne scoops Wally up in one hand, interrupting his attack; he struggles, but she cradles him against her chest, in the crook of her elbow, and starts to scratch his back gently. Immediately he flops, boneless, and starts to purr like he has a miniature diesel engine in his belly.
She stands carefully, making shooing motions at Eames. "You'd better get going, then. I'll be here, stealing Wally away from you." She grins at him, and adds loudly enough that Arthur can hear, "Don't be lured onto the casting couch."
Eames rolls his eyes, standing after a moment with a sigh. He doesn’t believe that she could steal Wally away from him, for the simple reason that he would fight her for the kitten. Indeed he would go to great lengths to keep that particular kitten to himself. Well, himself and Arthur. Whether Arthur likes it or not. But mostly him, since Arthur is doing his very best to be annoyed by the poor kitten’s presence.
Ariadne may babysit, and she may love Wally all she wants. But she is not going to take that cat from Eames and that is a fact. Eames is rather fond of Ariadne, but he has no scruples about hitting a woman when said woman has stolen his adorable little kitten. That goes without saying, though, so he lets it go for now, brushing off his coat and the shirt beneath it before pulling on his winter coat over it all.
“Oh, don’t worry, sweet,” he says offhandedly, and quite loudly enough to be heard by all present. “I know my way around the casting couch, but I’ve learned to resist its lure.” He winks at her then before slipping on a pair of glasses (fake, of course, his eyesight is perfectly fine) to complete the ensemble. Posture already much more upright than usual, Eames nevertheless flashes a grin at Ariadne and Wally before calling out to Arthur, “Cheers, pet!” and heading out.
Arthur debates yelling something in response, but he refrains on the grounds that it would be juvenile and obnoxious. He does, however, stare at Eames' ass in that outfit, and he does a bit of a double-take at the glasses.
It's always a treat to watch Eames shed his skin for another, not that he'd ever admit it. He gets up and carries his coffee over to the window, staring out and definitely not watching as Eames goes out the front door and strides off down the sidewalk towards the subway. Definitely, definitely not ogling. Nope.
And then, as he sees the black wool coat disappearing down the steps at the end of the block, he pauses, turning to stare at Ariadne, who has Wally up on her shoulder and purring like a mini motorboat. Wide-eyed, he says slowly, "Casting couch?" It's not quite a question, but not a statement, either. He wants to ask if she thinks Eames was being serious, not that it would matter if he was, but he won't, because asking would be losing face somehow, even if it's all only in his head.
Dragging her attention away from the kitten, Ariadne turns to look up at Arthur, eyebrows raised. It’s so hard to pay attention to any conversation when you have a kitten purring on your shoulder, but she does enjoy teasing Arthur. And Eames, but Eames is gone, and Ariadne has a good idea of why the two of them have two separate rooms for the duration of the job, and an equally good idea that Eames had nothing to do with that.
“Yeah, you know,” she says nonchalantly. “The mark’s a movie writer, right? So it only stands to reason people want in on any job to do with it… they might have to prove their skills in other ways. I was just saying he should avoid it. But I guess he’s been there, done that.” She pauses, seemingly considering, and then goes back to petting Wally and cooing. “Not surprising if he goes to all his interviews looking like that, right Wally?”
She's obviously talking to the cat, so Arthur doesn't respond beyond a shrug, moving away from the window and back to his desk. It's not his problem; obviously he trusts Eames not to do something stupid, and they haven't really discussed exclusivity, anyway. Just because Arthur's been operating that way himself doesn't mean Eames is, and that doesn't bother him.
Obviously.
And really, Ariadne's right- no one could resist the man, looking like that. Not that Arthur finds him resistible the rest of the time, no matter what he's wearing (or not wearing, as the case may be), but that suit... well.
"He can do what he wants," he says a moment too late. "He'll get the job done. Hopefully without making any pornos." And... it's not like he actually thinks Eames is going to sleep with this guy. He doesn't think Eames has slept with anyone else. Thus, it's stupid to be so fucking antsy. Pushing his chair back from his desk, he grabs his phone. "I need to make a call. After lunch, we should go over what ideas you've come up with for the levels." A subtle hint to get her butt in gear. He walks into the next room over and shuts the door before she can respond.
It's a few hours later and nearing dark when Eames returns to the building, tired and eyeing the sky warily. It's darker than it ought to be, and the clouds are threatening snow. Normally, Eames would like snow, but in the city, you don't really get the snow. You get the slush it turns into once it hits the dirty streets and is run over by speeding cars for eight hours. Eames is not looking forward to that. So he hurries inside, amazed that he made it back before the snow, and hurries up the stairs to regenerate some body heat. It's damn cold out. If Eames didn't produce about twice as much body heat as necessary, he'd be an icicle by now.
Fortunately, he's not frozen, just borderline uncomfortably cold, and so by the time he makes his way into the office space, Eames is much better off without the wind. He's not surprised to find the place still inhabited, either; it's only about four, after all. He's been gone an entire workday, more or less, but extraction isn't exactly a nine-to-five sort of job. Sadly, neither is his new job as a PA. Eames doesn't have a lot of off time to look forward to for the rest of this job, but that's all right. Less time to himself means less time left alone to come up with ways to amuse himself that are not having sex with Arthur. Although he does have Wally now, and playing with a laser pointer and the kitten can amuse Eames for hours.
He can hear Ariadne's headphones as he passes the little cubicle she'd claimed, and he knows Wally will be in there with her, but Eames makes his way to Arthur's area first, pulling the glasses off as he pokes his head around the corner. He's tired from the all the rubbish he'd had to fit into his brain the last few days to prepare and now today when he finally got the job, but his brain is racing anyway, and Eames' day is far from over. A forger's work is never done, even when he's not forging so much as running a regular old con. The smile Arthur receives is therefore more subdued than usual, somewhere between passive, professional PA and the forger's usual pleasant smiles. He'll need some coffee before he can get to work again, and some time before he's more Eames than the part he's been playing all day. "I trust everything has somehow held together in my absence."
Arthur has not reached the point of stacking all of his printouts and research into neat piles (a point he reaches several times throughout the day when he comes out of his working zone and looks around himself, realizing exactly how bad a mess he's made), so there are papers with his notes and charts and memos and emails scattered over his desk, and he looks up from the middle of the debris, smiling back when he sees Eames.
"Hey," he says absently, pushing his chair away from his laptop and stretching before hauling himself to his feet. And then he remembers, after a pause, that Eames had actually said something. Something Arthur should probably respond to. He's distracted, it's not a crime. "Yeah, we did." He's still smiling, and he'd feel like an idiot but Eames' expression has warmed a few degrees, too.
And then he realizes that he's still standing awkwardly in front of his chair- it hadn't really been awkward until he'd realized this, it had sort of been nice, but standing and staring while not saying anything is pretty much the definition of creepy, so. "We watched some of what Ariadne calls the 'relevant' scenes from Quinn's movies. I assume you got the job?"
He'd figured, anyway, when Eames hadn't returned. And now he's thinking it might be a good plan to order food, if the tiredness in the other man's face is any indication. "Without the casting couch?" Totally, entirely teasing; he smiles, just so Eames knows.
Although he is oddly unconvinced by that particular smile, Eames doesn't know why Arthur would think there was ever any danger of the casting couch actually being involved in this, so he answers normally as he carefully tucks the glasses away in his pocket. "No casting couch," he says, faking indignation. "Have you not seen my resume?" And his suit, although he's fairly certain the man's agent is more or less straight. "I could get a job as a Senator. Not that I'd want to. The point being that I am well beyond the casting couch by this point. I do not struggle to break into the business. I kick the bloody door down. The business will be lucky to survive me." Which does sort of imply that he was lured there in days of yore, but seeing as that's more or less the truth, Eames doesn't mind admitting it. The point is that he hadn't been today, wouldn't have been, and was in no way intending to be anywhere near it.
Eames smiles a little, tiredly, looking over Arthur's not entirely tidy workspace and the man himself (who is smiling, and standing close enough that Eames really wishes he wasn't being professional right now) before realizing he probably ought to continue. "Unfortunately, though, I've yet to be admitted into the man himself's presence. It's been his agent all day. I should be starting tomorrow with the writer. Apparently he's still in his locked office and he'd have a fit if I showed up today, but someone has to make sure he eats tomorrow or he might waste away into nothingness." And then it would be terribly difficult to extract anything from him.
So Eames is to be babysitter, more than actually assistant, he's gathered. He doesn't mind, though. What he does mind is movie-watching going on without him. He perks up a bit, even as he looks hurt. "Relevant scenes? Here you two are, having movie dates while I slave away. If you had popcorn I may cry."
"There's plenty more," Arthur offers. "Blast o' Butter, even. Ariadne picked." As though that isn't obvious. Arthur is a fan of the sweet butter popcorn, but even more so of the kind that has no butter at all, and only low sodium and some spices. It's about as close to eating nothing as it's possible to get. Ariadne says he has a sickness, but that is clearly not true, since he's sure he's much healthier than she is, tiny or not.
He shrugs in reference to the movies. "By relevant parts I mean we watched everyone die, because she is a bloodthirsty little pixie. I'm sure we can watch them again, she was very excited to show me all the death scenes." He pauses, turning slightly back to his laptop, and eyes Eames. "Chinese? You look like you need a pick-me-up. No offense."
Perhaps strangely, Eames’ smile warms a bit at that, and right on cue, he has to cover a yawn. His smile turns a bit wry, then. “You don’t say,” he says flatly, but the amusement is obvious in his eyes. He supposes it’s his own fault; Eames has a terrible habit of forgoing sleep when he’s on a job. Where Arthur is unfailingly thorough and single-minded while on a job, Eames is driven and obsessive. Worse, he has a kitten this job, which means he keeps telling himself he’ll go to sleep in ten minutes… and two hours later, when Wally falls asleep, exhausted, Eames realizes he hasn’t showered or pressed his suit.
And then the next day he’s fine because the bloke he’s pretending to be is always fine, but once he’s Eames again, the tiredness inevitably catches up. And he still has work to do, because he won’t be able to nap with his mind still so very awake.
“Chinese sounds wonderful,” he agrees, fiddling with the buttons on the jacket of his suit (the wool coat has already been thrown over a chair). “But don’t think I won’t be having popcorn while I wait.” And maybe an infusion of coffee and sugar.
"I did get the sweet corn," Arthur says while he types, ordering Eames' spicy beef and his own chicken and snow peas. Much more loudly, he yells, "Ariadne, what do you want from Master Wok?"
She might be wearing those enormous Bose earphones, but if food is involved he has no doubt that she'll hear him. Sure enough, a few seconds later she bellows, far louder than necessary, "KUNG PAO CHICKEN, THANKS! SHAME ON YOU, ARTHUR, YOU WOKE WALLY!"
"Because it really wasn't you hollering at all," Arthur mumbles. But quietly, because he suspects Ariadne could hear him, even with the headphones on, and he doesn’t want to be smacked.
Eames snickers a little even as he sends Arthur a thankful look. Those headphones are about twice the size of Ariadne’s head, but somehow still oddly cute. Probably because Ariadne is tiny, and everything about her is oddly cute. Which is how she then takes one by surprise by being so damned clever, and really not particularly cute in personality.
But there is one person here who is always cute, even in personality. Or rather, one kitten. Eames is glad Arthur and/or Ariadne shouting woke him. “Right then, a cuddle will wake me right up,” he says, mostly to himself, and since cuddling of any sort with anyone else who may be nearby is forbidden, Eames heads to Ariadne’s cubicle to pick up the kitten, who makes a tired little mewl upon being removed from the bed he’d made of Ariadne’s coat, but immediately begins purring when Eames moves on to petting him.
Arthur definitely does not snap another picture of them with his phone while Eames is distracted; never has turning off the camera sound on his Blackberry been so helpful as in the past few days, and his is a profession revolving around sneaky information-gathering, so that's saying something.
While Eames is busy with the kitten and with catching up with Ariadne, Arthur sticks some of the butteriest popcorn in the microwave, busying himself with making a fresh batch of espresso and filling the tiny little cups for each of them. If Ariadne doesn't want hers, he's sure Eames will drink it, and it's haughtily European enough that hopefully Eames will just toss it back and not whine about the lack of tea.
He's not surprised to see the forger standing behind him when he turns around, the kitten purring in his arms and getting tan-colored hair all over his black shirt. Still, they make a very nice picture, and Arthur finds himself staring again, amazed at how Eames can still stop him in his tracks even while looking as though he's been hit by a truck... that backed up over him a few times for good measure.
The staring only lasts a few seconds, which is good, because the other man might be distracted by the kitten, but that won't last forever. Luckily, the microwave beeps, making him spin around to pull the bag out and grab a bowl, burning himself with the steam in his hurry to open the paper container and dump out the steaming mass of cholesterol. "I feel for your arteries," he says, turning back to Eames and holding it out. "Also, there's espresso. Expressed caffeine, don't bitch."
Shifting Wally to his shoulder (he fits on Ariadne’s shoulder, and can practically lie down on Eames’ and stretch out), Eames takes the bowl gratefully, looking up at Arthur with nothing short of wonder. Terrible popcorn, the kind Arthur thinks is insanity to eat because it’s so bad for you, and caffeine. Eames is still too weary to come up with a fitting quip in response. Bitching about the caffeine wouldn’t even have occurred to him right now if Arthur hadn’t said it. Yes, it’s not tea, but he hardly ever gets proper tea, and he’s starving and tired and this is amazing.
“You,” he says after a moment’s thought, looking down at the bowl of popcorn in his hands, “are wonderful, Arthur.” This is, of course, a very uncommon thing for Eames to say, at least when he’s not drunk-dialing Arthur, but the forger doesn’t seem to notice, because Wally chooses that moment to perk up a bit and peer down into the bowl, interested. Eames smiles, also without seeming to notice that he’s doing it. “Can cats have popcorn?”
"Not that popcorn," Arthur says immediately, reaching for the cat before Wally can make the dive he's clearly contemplating, right down into the popcorn bowl.
Eames looks amused by his too-quick response, and Arthur huffs. "Look, I don't want to have to find an emergency vet at this time of day. Or deal with him getting sick all over the place." Despite this, his grip is gentle as he holds the kitten in one long-fingered hand, his thumb stroking the little head. Eames' grin is widening, and Arthur scowls. "Go eat and have your caffeine, and put one of the movies on." He'll find Wally's little blanket-lined box, before he makes any more trouble.
Eames’ smile grows proportionally to Arthur’s scowl, but even Eames knows when to leave Arthur alone in order to avoid being hit. He takes the popcorn and caffeine and makes himself scarce, only glancing over his shoulder the once to watch Arthur holding Wally. This, as far as Eames can tell, is the first time Arthur has held the kitten. And whether Arthur knows it or not, he’s being gentle and petting him carefully, and in general being severely adorable.
Eames is still smiling when he sinks down into the same couch he’d fallen asleep in the other night and turns on the television, completely intending to watch the entire movie and eat all of this popcorn by himself before Ariadne even knows it exists. It’s only fair.
The next morning, before Eames leaves for his new job, Arthur hands him a small neoprene case. "It's a portable hard drive. There's a USB cord already attached. As soon as you can, I need what's on his hard drive."
Eames looks less than awake, and Arthur raises his brows, a bit worried. "Do you need directions? I can write some out." He's actually not being condescending for once as he fills a little bowl with the kitten-specific enriched milk (that he definitely did not make a special trip out to buy) and sets it down in Wally's little box for when the kitten wakes up, along with another little bowl of dry food. Eames is staring at him when he looks back up, and he scowls, starting his own little cup of espresso. This machine is bad; he's going to live on the stuff, at this rate. "What?"
“Nothing,” Eames says quickly, absolutely not smiling at all at seeing Arthur taking care of Wally. Nope. Not smiling. He knows very well that Arthur is not interested in a kitten. Wally is only a burden to Arthur. Eames knows that.
So he moves on to the case Arthur had given him, tucking it carefully into his briefcase. “No,” he says tiredly, rubbing at his eyes. Espresso seems like a good idea. He might follow Arthur’s example, despite it once again not being tea. Eames considers this for a moment before coughing a bit and continuing. “I’ve done that before. I can handle copying files.” Eames is not well known for being particularly technologically capable (what real-life forgery requires aside), but when it’s just copying files, he can do it. And he’s certainly been given more difficult tasks before. “What if he’s got it protected?” Thievery, Eames can do with great ease. Hacking, however, is not one of his many skills.
"You should still be able to copy the files. If you can't even get into it, then I'll find a way to break in another time." Arthur yawns. "Tomorrow or tonight. Doesn't he ever go out?" He's one to talk, of course, workaholic that he is, but still, their mark, Walker, is even worse than he is, and that's saying something.
He starts another little cup of espresso, tossing back the one he'd made first, and when it finishes he offers it to Eames. "If you don't want it, I'll drink it." He smirks slightly. "I've come to appreciate the sensation of my hands shaking and my heart fluttering."
Eames’ smirk doesn’t quite match Arthur’s. “There are other ways to get that sort of feeling, darling,” he assures Arthur sotto voce. Of course, such things are forbidden and besides, Eames has places to be. Quite sadly, because Wally isn’t even awake yet, and Eames hardly feels as though he’s awake, but off he goes anyway.
He takes the espresso from Arthur, for both his sake and the sake of keeping Arthur from going mad with caffeine, and says nothing. Of course, the expression of highbred distaste on his face leaves nothing to be said. After all, he can’t let it go twice in a row, Arthur will start to get confused. “He does go out, but he’s in a fit of inspiration. I hear it can go on a week or more, but he’ll leave once his muse departs.” He shrugs. “With luck, I’ll pry him out of there today.”
Arthur nods, sending Eames a dirty look in response to the look the other man had given the wonderful, caffeine-bringing coffee, but he doesn't stop Eames when he heads out the door, much as he might want to.
It's not that he doesn't want to have sex. Good God, he has a sex drive, and he's not giving himself a case of the blue balls just for kicks. He needs to be focused, to refrain from distractions, which is why he's sleeping on the pull-out in his cubicle, most nights, not even in his hotel room. He works until he can't stay awake, and then he sleeps for a few hours and wakes up to do it all again.
Now, he's reminded as a small mewl comes from the cardboard box, with a feline companion.
It could be worse.
---
Eames and Walker turn off the midway, ducking around the burlap sack slide, which is swaying dangerously. They bolt in what Eames at least knows is the direction of the manhole, the entrance to the second maze, where they can, with luck, avoid Walker's projections. As they pass a darkened game booth, however, a high, childlike voice calls out, "Balloon animal?"
Walker stops moving, pulling Eames nearly to a halt as well, and stares at the clown, smiling delightedly. It waves to them, smiling back, and then opens its mouth... revealing teeth as sharp as the old fortune-teller's.
Walker starts to walk towards the clown, mumbling something about wanting a giraffe, and it holds out the balloon it had already finished, smiling with teeth that appear to be dripping blood. "I saw your friend," it says in its child's voice, faded rainbow wig sliding sideways on its white skull. "Causing trouble. Being naughty. You're not naughty, are you?"
“Walker,” Eames hisses before he can answer. If Walker gets killed, Eames will have to off himself so he can warn Ariadne, they’ll have to drug him again, to start over- “Walker, don’t-“
Except the writer is reaching out to take the balloon animal, looking like a kid in a candy shop, and Eames feels ill staring at that clown. He’s never had a fear of clowns, but then again he’s never seen the sense in them, either, and at this point he is absolutely certain he will never see them the same way again. But this is the way it’s supposed to be, sort of, a frightening carnival, Ariadne designed it that way. But Walker isn’t frightened, far from it, he’s… Eames doesn’t know what he is.
The clown doesn’t rip off Walker’s hand when he takes the balloon from it; it just smiles at him, all sharp teeth and dripping blood. Eames has frozen, waiting for something to happen… and when it doesn’t, he snaps out of it, lunging forward to grab Walker again… just in time for the clown to turn and look at him.
"Hello Greggie," it says, its voice suddenly adopting an accent similar to Eames' own. "Care for a balloon, yourself?" Another completed animal appears in its hand, and it holds it out for Eames, who makes no move to reach for it. It doesn't appear to matter to the clown, however, because it suddenly closes its hand, clenching needle-like nails on the balloon, which immediately pops, with a sound like a gunshot. "You don't get a balloon, Greggie. Naughty boys don't get balloons."
The clown's smile widens, showing bloody teeth again. "Naughty boys are punished. Come take your medicine, Greggie."
It’s fair to say Eames has never been so threatened by a clown, but on the other hand, he’s rather used to dealing with odd situations. And for some reason it’s reassuring to know this is definitely Walker’s projection, since it thinks his name is Greg. Or “Greggie.” Which just sounds quite silly to be calling a grown man, but that’s the least of his worries. At least he knows that Walker is the psychotic one, and not him. Or Arthur. But he hadn’t really expected either of them to bring their own projections into this. They’re professionals, unlike some people.
Eames is thinking about this as the clown leers at him, teeth dripping blood, and begins to take a step in his direction. It is easily the creepiest thing Eames has seen in a long time, disregarding perhaps the zombie ponies. He’s sure if he had his own dreams naturally, he’d be having nightmares tonight. Especially with Walker standing there, giggling and generally looking like a deranged ten-year-old.
Needless to say, by this point, Eames has had quite enough of this dream, and of clowns. This bloke is psychotic, and his psychotic clown is about to try something, and Eames does not have time for this rubbish.
“No, thank you,” Eames says quite calmly, before his Browning appears seemingly from nowhere as always, its weight in his hand comforting in this madhouse. There is a moment, during which the clown just grins madly at him, and then Eames shoots it through one crazed eye. When he turns to Walker, the writer looks downright upset by this development as he watches the brightly-colored clown fall to the ground, wig falling off of its head. Eames scowls. No use keeping quiet, all of the bloody projections clearly know where he is already. And the shot, he hopes, will be enough to alert Arthur to the fact that something is going not quite according to plan.
Walker opens his mouth; Eames’ scowl deepens, and he hurries over to grab the man’s wrist again. “Come on,” he grumbles, distinctly less Greg-like with his Browning in hand and his thoughts running at top speed, suspicions turned on Walker’s subconscious and its obvious madness. This job is not going as planned, and while Eames can handle this horror-film rubbish, his gut is telling him that he and Arthur need to get out of here fast. Sharing a dream with a lunatic is never, ever safe. “You’re having the time of your life, I see that, but we’ve got to get out of here, Mr. Walker. Please, your Agent is waiting.” Obviously pleading with him to leave because of the frightening nature of the place isn't going to cut it; Eames is a better con man than that. But leading him in another, understandable direction has a better chance. All Eames has to do is distract him long enough to keep them both alive until Arthur gets what they need.
---
It’s barely more than a full eight hours later when Eames returns to the office space in Queens, which considering how long it takes to get to the mark’s house and back on the metro is a bit of a shock. It hadn’t been a bad first day, at least not the first half; after the initial shock of suddenly having a PA, Walker had been gracious enough. Eames suspects he had been told many times that he was going to have a new PA, but had totally ignored his agent, which is why the agent himself had been there this morning to introduce him.
Walker had been displeased to be disturbed from his work, but after Eames had left him alone the rest of the morning and gone about his own work on the man’s living room couch, setting up his schedule, going through his fan mail and emails, updating his website, and even cleaning up the room a bit, Walker had warmed considerably to him. Eames will admit that his making the man lunch had probably also factored into that.
If there’s one thing Eames knows, it’s how to read a person, and he knew just how to handle Walker from the first. After all, at heart, a writer is just another type of Artist, and Eames certainly knows how to handle those, being one himself. And it doesn’t hurt that Eames was unerringly polite, quiet, totally capable of just listening, and just this side of flirting. By two, he’d convinced Walker that he ought to eat and take a nap, since he’d hit a rough spot in the script and that was the best time to sleep, let his mind rest and come back refreshed. Worked like a charm of course, and within fifteen minutes Eames had all the bloke’s hard drive copied and the external hard drive stowed safely again.
Two hours later, Walker woke to find Eames back in the living room with a list of questions about what is all right for him to touch in the apartment- specifically in the office. He’d known the man would be touchy about it, and so had asked permission first. More brownie points for that, but it had been ten minutes before Walker had pointed out that Eames (or polite, demure assistant Greg) was doing more coughing than talking. Half an hour later, when Eames had nearly fallen asleep on his laptop and had stripped down to just his shirt due to the heat, Walker had insisted he go home for the day and take some medicine, and if he wasn’t feeling better tomorrow, to not bother coming or else Walker would fire him.
Eames had fought him a bit before he’d tiredly realized that Greg would not do any such thing, and that more than anything had led him to realize that perhaps Walker was right. Eames never lets a character slip.
And so here he is, back early and wishing he’d stopped to find some Kleenex. Or orange juice. Or a bucket of ice. Or a shovel to hit himself over the head so he could pass out. Alas, he has none of these things. But he does have an external hard drive for Arthur. But not before he pulls off his coat and the jacket underneath it again. He has suspenders on today, done entirely to bother Arthur. Too bad he would rather sleep than have sex right now anyway. Shockingly, he finds Arthur in his cubicle. As always. “D’you ever leave?” he mutters, holding out the case Arthur had given him that morning. “Got the files and whatnot. Everything seemed unprotected, but…” he trails off, waves a hand vaguely, and gives up trying to hold this conversation. He doesn’t have the brainpower. He doesn’t even seem to realize he still has Greg’s glasses on. “I dunno. Here you go.”
Rolling over to the doorway of his cubicle, Arthur takes the drive, eyeing Eames warily. "You look like shit. Again." There's not even a quip about flattery, only a cough, and Arthur's brow furrows. "Eames."
He stands, putting a hand against the other man's forehead before Eames can avoid it, and he pulls it back almost immediately, startled. "You're burning up. Have you been like this all day?" He's also shivering, and Arthur swears under his breath, pushing him out of the doorway and in the direction of the couches and the television. And the PASIV, but that's not important right now. "You're lying down."
“Funny, I thought I was standing,” Eames mutters, but it’s not nearly as quippy as usual, and the cough at the end of it isn’t very convincing, either. He lets Arthur shove him in the direction of the couches, thankfully not stumbling, even in his stupidly slippery dress shoes. Vaguely, he figures it makes sense that he should be burning up. He’d thought it was a bit ridiculous to be hot while it’s snowing outside, and Arthur doesn’t look like he’s hot.
Well, literally speaking, anyway. The thought amuses Eames a little, but he just smiles a bit to himself right before Arthur half-shoves him onto the couch. “I haven’t been like this all day, I’ve been Greg all day.”
"Yes, because the artiste clearly is only sick when he's not acting," Arthur shoots back, moving over to the cupboard. There's nothing suitable, no soup or anything else, and he makes a small face. Ariadne had gone out to get some more materials for the dream level (apparently she's really going to town on this job), and so after some brief consideration, he goes to fetch Wally and deposits him on Eames' lap.
"You can babysit. I'll be back," he says, not waiting for Eames' response before pulling on his coat and slipping out the door. When he returns with cough and flu medicine and a paper bag full of groceries, he finds the other man conked out, and he smiles slightly, seeing Wally chewing industriously on one of Eames' shirt buttons.
Because he's always been an over-achiever, he puts the can of Campbell's chicken noodle to the side in case Eames wakes up, and starts on the good, from-scratch stuff for dinner. It'll be done in a few hours, and he swears, the same way his mom always has, that it actually does have healing powers.
By the time Eames does stir on the couch, Ariadne is kitten-sitting by the TV, and the entire place smells like homemade chicken noodle soup, three bowls of which are steaming on the scuffed particleboard surface of the coffee table. Arthur sits down in the old recliner with his laptop in his lap, letting Eames keep possession of the couch.
"I found something interesting," he says, glancing over at Eames. "Soup has to cool, but there's medicine for you, and juice."
“Huh?” Eames mumbles, loquacious as always. Something about soup and juice. He’s not sure. In fact, Eames is only mostly sure of where he is at the moment, and when he tries to rectify this by sitting up and looking in Arthur’s direction, the room starts to spin around him and sets him off into a fit of coughing.
When he finally manages to sit up, Eames realizes several things: he’s cold, maybe shivering, but he’s also sweating, and he’s wearing glasses. “Christ,” he mumbles, yanking the glasses off and half-throwing them on the coffee table, away from the soup. “Bloody awful timing, isn’t it.” It’s not really a question, and he’s not really speaking to either of them, but he does spy the juice and medicine, and feeling like he’s moving through molasses, takes as much cough medicine as he thinks he can get away with before following down the terrible taste with juice. He can’t remember the last time he was sick like this. It can’t have been less than a few years.
He wishes, quite suddenly, that he had a blanket, a fire instead of a telly, and tea with honey. But he’s in an office building in America, where they are incapable of making tea, and he can hardly sit up, let alone get a blanket. He’s trying not to mutter such things, because he’s not a child, when he spots the soup. He stares at it for a long moment, as though he can’t quite figure out what it is, before slowly looking at Arthur. “Did you make soup?”
"I did," Arthur says carefully, not sure, from the very distant expression on Eames' face, if this is appreciated or not. He supposes it will be, when Eames can think coherently, but at the moment he's obviously out of it. Not that Arthur made the soup in order to earn Eames' appreciation- he'd only wanted to help. But he does hope it tastes good.
"Smells awesome," Ariadne interjects, holding up the kitten, who is attempting to both bat at and eat her hair. "Wally hopes you feel better. You were wheezing in your sleep. He didn't like that so much."
Arthur snorts. "I did get you Lemsip," he offers on the heels of the kitten actually catching a strand of her hair in his little claw and making her yelp. Serves her right for teasing him with it. "It's the store brand, but I found it tucked in a corner of the shelf at Shop-N-Save."
Eames can’t help the tired, almost childlike smile that appears on his face after all of this (and another fit of coughing). Lemsip and soup. Soup which it seems Arthur had just… gone and… made. Made himself. Arthur made him soup, and Wally is right there, being adorable and eating Ariadne’s hair, and suddenly Eames feels a bit stupid for wishing he was in London with tea. In fact he feels so stupid and mean about it that he has to fight to keep from bursting into tears.
It’s at about this time that Eames realizes that he is very sick.
“You made me soup,” he finally manages, sounding somewhere between amazed and totally unaware of where he is.
"I did," Arthur agrees, nodding and fighting back a smile. He's trying not to be heartwarmed, if that's even a thing. It's difficult not to be, though. Sick Eames is actually a rather sweet Eames. Arthur gets up to make the Lemsip, with the actual teapot since Eames refuses to heat the water in the microwave (Arthur can't tell the difference, but apparently one has to be British in order to do so). When he carries the mug back over to the couch, he almost expects Eames to be asleep, but he's still awake, and Arthur hands him the Lemsip carefully, noting the shivering.
Having done all he can for the moment (it remains to be seen how he's going to get both a sick forger and a kitten back to the hotel for the night, but he'll deal with that later), he sits back down with his laptop and starts over, talking mostly to Ariadne since Eames will undoubtedly not remember a lot of this. "So I found a bunch of scripts on Walker's laptop. Six of them, actually, none of which have ever been published or filmed. They're a lot more gruesome than the ones we've watched, and grittier, more realistic."
He arches a brow, handing the computer down to her. "I'll send you copies. I thought if we used some ideas from these, maybe they'll ring a bell with him. It seems like he's gotten a lot of his ideas for his later scripts from these, but he's always changed them before he sends them off."
Ariadne takes his computer carefully after plopping Wally down behind her on the couch next to Eames, who looks down at the (mildly confused) kitten as though he has no idea how it got there. Ariadne ignores them both, glancing through the files and then opening one to inspect it. Scripts he’s never used… interesting.
“That’s a good idea,” she says, thoughtfully. After all, what does a horror writer have nightmares about? Surely his own movies don’t scare him the way they scare other people, but things he’s never shared with anyone… after a moment, she hands it back to Arthur. “More gruesome is good.”
Behind her, Eames speaks up, seeming to have heard part of the conversation, at least. “Walker is so pleasant, but there is so much gruesome in his brain,” he says, sounding rather far away. He’s got Wally in his lap and is petting him with one finger even as he shivers a bit. He might not even notice he’s shivering. “Just like you’re so violent, but so bloody little.” He is obviously not speaking to Wally, who has moved on to biting at his finger. The noise Eames makes in response may actually be a giggle, until it turns into a hacking cough.
Ariadne blinks at him. Her silence is loud enough that Eames even looks at her after a moment. Then, unaware of the danger of calling Ariadne little, he just stares at her blankly and adds, perfectly seriously, “Arthur called you a bloodthirsty pixie.”
"That is taken out of context," Arthur says immediately when Ariadne rounds on him. He holds up his hands. "Completely, completely professional context."
Ariadne's eyes have narrowed. "Exactly what sort of 'professional context' was it in, then, Arthur?" She makes the air quotes where necessary.
"Er..."
"Because I find it hard to believe that calling me a pixie could be anything but you talking about me behind my back." Her narrowed eyes have definitely moved into scowling territory. Arthur manages to outwardly retain his cool.
"Obviously I was referring to your Halloween costume, next year. What it should be. Since you enjoy horror movies so much. You should be a bloodthirsty Tinker Bell." He smiles, trying so very hard to avoid his fate. "You know. With bloody wings, or something. Blood dripping from your mouth. Definitely fake blood, though, not my blood, since I find you interesting, well-paying jobs and buy you unhealthy popcorn."
“Uh-huh,” Ariadne says, slowly. She obviously does not buy any of this at all. And, judging by the state Eames is in, she doesn’t doubt that the conversation had happened. It’s just Arthur’s explanation she doubts. “I can completely see how being Tinker Bell at Halloween is a professional context.”
“Hey,” Eames says slowly, as though he’s having a very difficult time both speaking and following this conversation, “you can’t have any of Arthur’s blood. He needs it. In him.”
Ariadne sighs. “Eames,” she says slowly, “shut up and eat your soup.”
Eames stares at her for a long moment, and then looks down at the table. Sure enough, there is soup. He seems surprised by this, and a bit delighted. Again. Ariadne rounds on Arthur again, pointing. “Don’t think you won’t pay,” she says calmly, and then turns primly back around and goes about her business eating her own soup, perfectly calm. Which is, of course, completely terrifying.
Arthur spends a moment trying to tell himself that he's not actually nervous about the tiny brunette's inevitable vengeance, but he's not in the habit of lying to himself (much), and so he gives up. He is.
Still, it seems safer not to respond, and so he doesn't, setting his laptop aside and picking up his own bowl, saying nothing more and eating his dinner.
Although the chicken soup is a big hit, Eames looks just as sick by the time he passes out after dinner. Arthur wakes him up enough to get his coat on and drag him back to the hotel, along with a kitten in a box (helpfully carried by Ariadne) and all of his own work, as well as the PASIV in its briefcase since he's hardly going to let it sit in an unguarded office space for however long.
He settles Eames into his own hotel bed and lets Wally out to scamper around and play, settling on the couch, himself, in the large room's living area, prepared to spend the night working. The only thing he'll miss is the espresso machine, but he figures Eames' bill can stand a little room service.
Of course, what actually ends up happening is he spends the evening reading through the scripts, trying to choose the best one... and playing 'catch the shoelace' with Wally, because really, playtime is important for kittens. It helps them exercise and gain control of their reflexes, and to practice socializing. Wally needs someone to play with him, and Arthur is happy to further his physical and social development. You know.
It's the middle of the night the next time Eames wakes up, more stumbling upon wakefulness than anything. He's pretty sure he'd coughed himself awake, and seriously considers putting another pillow under his head because he remembers something about elevating your head when you're coughing, but that seems like too much work. So instead, he lies there, head half-covered by the blankets on the hotel bed, and watches blearily as the clock on the other side of the room turns from 3:14 to 3:15, and then from 3:33 to 3:34. Eames spends a moment trying very hard to understand what's wrong with that picture, can't, and then finally pulls himself out of bed with a mumble to shamble into the bathroom.
It's only after he convinces himself that falling asleep in the bathroom with his head resting on the counter next to the sink is a poor idea that Eames comes back out, and it's only then that he notices Arthur sitting on the couch with Wally flopped out next to him, sleeping peacefully in such an odd position that it kind of makes Eames' back hurt just looking at the kitten. Eames stares at this scene for a moment, not wanting to disturb them as he tries to recall how on earth he got back to this room and when it happened (it must have been Arthur?), before another fit of coughing totally ruins any chance of being quiet and not disturbing them. Arthur looks up, proving that he was indeed at least partially awake, and Eames continues coughing until he finally leans against the bed.
"You sh'd go to sleep," he suggests, blearily. The room is doing that spinning thing again that it does when he sits up or down or moves or does anything, really. Eames squeezes his eyes shut for a minute until it stops before falling back a little, head against the wall as he watches Arthur with only partially-aware eyes. "You'll get sick too." Sick as he is, the idea is very distressing to Eames. He doesn't want to get Arthur sick. Arthur can't be sick, he's Arthur, it doesn't make any sense for Arthur to be sick.
"I've probably already been exposed," Arthur says blearily, sitting up the rest of the way and closing his laptop. Next to him, Wally stirs and rolls over, curling up into a little ball without ever opening his eyes. Just in case, though, Arthur puts him down on a pillow on the floor, so he won't accidentally roll off the couch in his sleep. And then, to be even safer, he puts the pillow beneath the coffee table so no one will inadvertently step on the little kitten.
Safety first, of course.
He yawns, covering his mouth with a fist, and standing, eyeing Eames. Still adorable in his pajamas and sick off his ass, it's true, and it is a sign of how half-awake Arthur is that he'd actually thought the word adorable in reference to Eames, completely seriously.
And Eames does have a point. Arthur briefly weighs the benefits of getting REM sleep and recharging his body, hopefully preventing illness, versus sharing a bed with a sick person, and finally decides he doesn't care, kicking off his remaining shoe and stripping out of everything but his undershirt and his boxers. He slides beneath the covers on his side of the bed; Eames has only slept on his own designated side, presumably out of habit, and hopefully the germs won't be all over this pillow. All the same, Arthur turns it over to the fresh side, just in case. "Sleep sounds good," he mumbles.
And then he turns to look at Eames, still standing there and staring at him with little comprehension on his face. "What, you think I'm going to ravish you when you're half-dead? Get in here."
No argument comes to mind even while Eames stares down at Arthur for half a minute, so in the end the forger just climbs into bed, too. Well, more falls than climbs, but he manages to get into bed is the point. And to pull the blanket mostly over himself. He knows there is a reason he should not be in bed with Arthur, and it has something to do with not wanting to get him sick, but right now that is much too inviting for Eames to argue. He feels awful, and disgusting, and a bit like bursting into tears every time he starts hacking up a lung, but somehow sleeping with Arthur will make it better. He's sure of it.
He knows he should make some sort of remark about not minding being ravished, but he can't think of one. So instead he just lies there, the room spinning a bit again because he'd dared to lie down. In an effort to stop it, Eames clenches his eyes shut and rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow and promptly falling into a fit of coughing. He has work tomorrow... Greg would go to work even sick... but Walker told him he'd fire him if he went and was sick... but the job has to keep going without him, and he needs more time with Walker, he needs to go...
Eames isn't aware of the time that passes while he's frustrated about this, or of the fact that he's mumbling about it to himself. But after some time, he is aware that Arthur is there next to him, and that Arthur had gotten him back to his room, to bed... and he is in pajamas somehow so Arthur must have done that, as well. Considering all of this makes Eames forget about the job, briefly, as he realizes that Arthur has been taking care of him. He's sick as hell and Arthur is taking care of him. Eames has to fight the urge to burst into tears again when another fit of coughing takes up a minute or two. Apparently being sick makes him as weepy as Ariadne watching Dirty Dancing, which would be perfectly okay if he wasn't a thirty-four year old man. "Thank you for the soup," he says (totally disregarding the fact that Arthur may, in fact, be asleep) once the coughing subsides, a sentiment which is related to everything he's been thinking in a way that is makes perfect sense to Eames. "You're wonderful. Who just makes soup, that's not a thing. You're my favorite person. Much better than Lady Gaga." Sudden panic hits him on the heels of that sentiment, and he looks like he's trying to make himself alert. Or at least to sit up. Neither is particularly successful. "Where's Wally?"
Rolling over, not really awake, Arthur blinks blearily at him. "Asleep," he says around a yawn, and then hears the sound of little claws scratching on the carpet, speeding around the room. "Or not anymore, apparently." It would be cute if he was awake enough to appreciate it. The sound won't keep him awake, though, and he sincerely doubts it will Eames, either, and he'd rather not have to keep the kitten permanently in a box, so.
"Just watch where you step if you get up," he advises, flopping onto his back and yawning again.
He's not sure how long he'd slept; it had been nearly midnight by the time they'd gotten back here, and... oh, ok, so probably six hours. Maybe. Four since he'd gotten into bed.
The rest of what Eames had said hits him, and he blinks, a moment too late. "You like me better than Lady Gaga? I didn't think that was possible." Pause. "You're welcome."
"Well, she's never made me soup," Eames points out, sensibly he thinks. He has no idea what time it is, or if he'd woken Arthur up, but it does occur to him that sleeping in the same bed with him while he hacks up a lung is probably not helping the other man's sleep.
Still, he's selfish enough not to care, because he wants Arthur to sleep there. And he's been trying to be quiet. And when Arthur assures him that Wally is all right, Eames relaxes a little, lying back down to look over at Arthur. Arthur looks very tired, which isn't surprising, considering how much Eames knows he isn't sleeping. If he were in his right mind, Eames might take this moment to ask why, exactly, Arthur is trying to kill himself more than usual with this job, but Eames is not in his right mind, and now all he can think about are comparisons between the point man and Lady Gaga. "I like you better than everyone, Arthur," he says, with more honesty than he would normally impart to any sentence, let alone that sort, which would normally be interpreted as teasing. Then he starts coughing again. "I don't think... I'm allowed to go to work today. He said he'd fire Greg if he came in sick." More coughing. "Greg can't be fired. I left his glasses somewhere. Bloody Christ, I'm dying, but I'm so young and sexy, I can't-- I can't die." This is said quite pitifully, from underneath Eames' pillow, where he has buried his head in a misguided attempt to stop coughing. "Neither can Greg." Needless to say, this last comes out a bit muffled. Maybe they'll be reincarnated as kittens when they die, him and Greg. And then he can play with Wally...
"You and Greg will be fine," Arthur says, accepting Eames' identifying himself and his con character as separate people with unusual grace. This probably has a lot to do with what Eames had said just before that.... "You're not dying, and you already got the job. A day or two of antihistamines and you'll be fine."
His smile is crooked and half-asleep, but it's there. "And that's not even taking the magical healing powers of chicken soup and Lemsip into account."
"Bugger Greg, he doesn't even like tea," Eames mumbles into the bed (and with a cough or three). But even so, one feverish-looking eye appears from underneath the pillow, at that. Eames eyes Arthur for a moment, wondering if he's being serious. Well, not serious, since he can't actually believe in magical healing powers, but... you know. If Arthur says soup and Lemsip have magical restorative properties, it must be true. And besides, Eames wouldn't know, about the soup, anyway. He's not sure he's ever had homemade chicken soup. Certainly not when he's sick. And if Arthur finding Lemsip in the store isn't a sign, Eames doesn't know what is. Good news, that. That and Arthur's assuring him he won't die.
"If I'm reincarnated as a kitten, would you please adopt me?" he asks after a minute of blessedly cough-free quiet. He doesn't actually believe in reincarnation, but that doesn't stop him wondering about it. And preparing for every eventuality. "I want to play with Wally. Also, I'd be bloody adorable."
"If I say anything about you being adorable now, you'll hit me," Arthur says dryly. "Not that I have a tendency to think things are adorable, but apparently kittens and illness-stricken ex-pats are the exception to that rule. You're not going to die."
He doesn't even add the customary 'asshole' to the end of that, partially because he's only half awake and partially because Eames looks so pathetic at the moment.
"I'd say you could play with Wally right now, but you don't look like you're steady enough to sit up, so maybe tomorrow." Arthur, on the other hand, can and does sit up. "Do you want some tea? I can raid your stash."
Eames is silent for a moment, all arguments about being not adorable right now dying with the idea of tea. He’s reluctant to stop complaining, but very interested in tea. Although, them being in a hotel room means that it’ll have to be microwaved, which is awful and uncouth. But beggars can’t be choosers, and also, his throat is kind of killing him from coughing so much. Which is annoying, because his throat was about the only thing that wasn’t hurting when all of this started.
“Yes, please,” he finally mumbles, somewhere between thankful and grudging, then changes his mind, throwing an arm around Arthur’s middle before he can go, which is quite a feat when Eames can barely move without getting dizzy, and his head is half hidden under his pillow. “No, don’t go.”
Arthur sighs and doesn't move for a minute, in no hurry to get out of bed, but finally he puts both hands on Eames' arm, squeezing gently and then shifting it away. "I'll be back in a minute," he says, only letting himself sound so gentle because he's pretty sure Eames isn't really awake. "It's painful listening to you."
And he manages not to step on Wally, returning a moment later with a hot mug, teabag steeping inside, which he sets on the nightstand next to Eames. It's Lemsip again, but he doesn't think Eames will mind.
He turns on the TV and flips to TV Land, sliding back beneath the covers with another sigh. "You should try a hot shower tomorrow. The steam will help."
In this time, Eames has slowly come out from underneath his pillow, at least mostly, so that now his head is more or less on Arthur’s side of the bed. He’s not too close, though, because he really doesn’t want to get Arthur sick. That’s the one thing he seems to be able to remember consistently, that getting too close to Arthur will get him sick.
Eames spends a moment eyeing the television with only partial understanding of what’s going on on the screen. He’s mostly just staring at it because it’s there. Slowly, the concept of a shower sinks into his brain. A shower would be nice, he thinks, because he’d be clean for a little while, before he started to feel horrific and disgusting again. Except no way he could stand right now. And steam would make him pass out. Also, it’s far away. Much like the tea, which is about a foot away on the nightstand, but for all Eames can sit up right now, it might as well be in another country.
He’s just about to apologize for waking Arthur up, which he’s fairly certain he did, when another fit of coughing hits him. Then he forgets about it, instead closing his eyes and just lying there. “I’m not adorable,” he finally says, in response to what Arthur had said at least a few minutes ago. “I’m languishing. The shower is very far away. I think I’ll just stay here forever.”
Arthur yawns, sliding back down under the covers so that they're nearly up to his chin. "Okay," he says tiredly, smiling despite himself. Ridiculous, this man. Utterly ridiculous. "You languish. I'm going back to sleep. Wake me up if you need anything."
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part three