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The job was going awful, to put it nicely. To put it not-so-nicely – the job was a fucking mess, piles and piles of mess and it wasn’t even Arthur’s fault. Which was the worst, because it meant he couldn’t do anything about it.
Eames called it quits sometime yesterday, and for all Arthur knew he was tanning his ass somewhere in the southern hemisphere. At least he hoped – Eames was surprisingly the most competent part of the entire affair, which happened more often that Arthur was ready to admit. Eames called it quits and Arthur called it off – and now he had spent the entire day cleaning shit up and Eames was probably doing whatever Eames usually does after work, which was none of Arthur’s business frankly. He squashed the ugly feeling of jealousy at its root and buried it deep down. He had no right.
This could be why he found himself in one of those shabby little bars, dimly lit and hidden away, scattered across various cities, in numerous countries where being queer wasn’t something to shout from the roof about. It suited Arthur just fine – the discretion, the password at the entrance, the men-only rule. No one here pretended to be anything else, to want anything more than his body. Honestly, it was refreshing to be standing on solid ground after that trainwreck of a job.
The air around him was buzzing with energy, bodies warm and close, gin and tonic slowly starting to kick in. His hands drifted toward his neck, as if to loosen a tie, a tie that he was not wearing right now, having gone rather for jeans and t-shirt to blend in more. He tilted his neck, a gesture in part to regain his balance, in part to sweep his surroundings. He felt vividly out of place and uncomfortably out of control here – even if losing control was one of the reasons he came here in the first place, along with fucking Eames out of his system.
Eames with his playful smiles, plump lips, flirtatious remarks leading to nothing – Arthur had spent half of the job semi-hard in his trousers and Eames had just left. And now Arthur was nursing his second drink feeling like an absolute fool. He entertained the thought of leaving – going back into his hotel room, catching a few hours of sleep before his early flight. He downed his drink in one smooth motion, putting it down with a soft clunk, when he felt someone’s eyes on him.
There was a man sitting at the other end of the bar, sipping beer – a rather handsome one, the type that Arthur usually went for: significantly bigger than him, with bright eyes and dark hair. The man smiled at him and licked his lips – red and slightly glistening in low lights, darting his eyes towards the back, the invitation loud and clear. Images flashed behind Arthur’s eyes – of taking the man to the back, putting his hands into his hair, pushing him down to his knees, parting his lips with his fingers, with his cock, fucking his mouth, painting his lips with his come, lips that looked like Eames’, and Eames wasn’t there–
But Arthur was here, and he was here for a reason. He made eye contact with the man, his eyes dark and intent, leaning in slightly and watching his chest rising, breath hitching slightly. Arthur smiled, predatory and confident and was half out of his seat when someone clasped a warm hand on his shoulder.
“Fancy seeing you here,” said a distinctly British voice, cutting right through the local chatter – a voice that Arthur was intimately familiar with.
He turned around with a glare.
“Eames,” he said in lieu of a greeting. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Could ask the same of you.” He was sporting the same playful smile as always, and Arthur tried to keep his rage at bay.
“I–” he started, taking a deep breath. It seemed to amuse Eames even more. “The job was a fuck-up. A fuck-up that needed a clean-up. A clean up that someone had to do.”
“Still.” Eames leaned in, tracing a small circle on Arthur’s knee. “It doesn’t explain what you are doing here, in a hidden gay bar, dressed so – indecently,” he finished with a wink. “Been planning to seduce the local gay scene with your yankee accent and suspiciously convenient language barrier?”
“Eames.” He let out an exasperated laugh. “I speak Polish. Besides, half of those people speak better English than you.” Eames put on a mock-offended expression, surely ready to say something like ‘Darling, you wound me,’ but Arthur cut him off. “And I bet most of them write better too.”
“Touché.” Eames’ fingers left his knee and Arthur shivered at the loss.
“Still,” Arthur said, half-mocking. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“Some unfinished business. Tying up a few loose ends, here and there.” The tone of Eames’ voice falled flat, with the undertone of ‘that’s none of your concern’ crystal clear.
Arthur should have been concerned. He should have dug deeper, should have pressed Eames, threatened him until he finally gave in, or better yet, gotten the fuck out of here before Eames’ mess would become Arthur’s problem. But Arthur was so fucking tired, a week of stress, undersleeping, putting up with his idiots of coworkers, and of Eames’ relentless flirting, promises without a follow-up, of doing everything he could and not getting anything out of it.
Arthur was too worn out to care.
“Am I clear?” he said instead. “Cause I swear to God, if you bring any of it on my doorstep–”
“I would never.” Eames’ eyes were suddenly scarily solemn and focused on him, none of that playful glint left. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“Good.” Arthur swallowed loudly, his hand looking for something to drink, only to find his glass already empty.
Eames ducked his head, turning to flag the bartender down and order them another round, in hushed voice and overexaggerated accent. Arthur rolled his eyes – turned out he was also too exhausted to be angry. Eames tended to have that effect on him.
Eames cleared his throat, ripping him out from his thoughts, back into the steady hum of the crowd, and slid another gin and tonic towards him (this time, however, it was pink, Arthur noticed with fondness). He watched steadily as Eames took a large gulp of his beer, watched his mouth open and his throat constrict. Arthur spotted a stray drop of liquid sliding from Eames’ mouth down his chin and had an insatiable urge to lick it right off. His lips parted slightly, tongue darting to wet his upper lip, and Eames’ eyes locked in on the movement, following it with blown pupils. All of sudden, fucking Eames out of his system with someone else was no longer an option. Why bother with a knock-off when the real thing was right there.
He waited for something – a cocky smile, an innuendo, a witty opening – but got nothing. Only Eames staring at him with unknown intensity. Arthur frowned – and that seemed to break him out of it, a coy smile returning to his face. Huh, Arthur thought, he is nervous. But because the idea of Eames being nervous sounded so absurd, he broke out laughing, exposing the lines of his throat, and he definitely sounded like a lunatic to anyone with a functioning brain. Clearly, Eames’ brain wasn’t functioning properly, because he didn’t make any remarks, any comments, just zeroed back in on Arthur’s neck and oh – the newfound knowledge made Arthur’s skin tingle with possibilities.
“Look–,” he started, waiting for Eames to come back from wherever his head was at the moment. He shook it off and looked up, meeting Arthur’s eyes. His were dark, a little hazy and he looked drunk on more than alcohol. Arthur felt shivers down his spine, but put himself together and finished, “I came here with a clear purpose in mind.”
“Oh yeah?” Eames put his hand on Arthur’s thigh, suddenly in control of his body again, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
“Yeah.” Arthur stalled for the moment, brushing his finger on Eames’ collar, watching his chest rise in not-so-steady breaths. “I came here to fuck someone’s pretty mouth, and if you are not interested, I’m pretty sure that guy over there would be more than willing.” He raised his chin pointing behind him, although he was fairly certain that the man sitting there was long gone.
Eames didn’t seem to notice. Arthur patted his chest one last time before taking his hand away. Eames bit his lip, barely stopping a pained sound from escaping his mouth. Arthur knew exactly how the rest of the evening was going to go, and the confidence made his head swim. He felt himself getting hard already and shifted in his seat. Eames followed the movement with a sly grin on his lips.
“Mind if we go somewhere more– private?” Eames asked, his eyes skipping towards the corridor behind their back, regaining his footing for a bit – Arthur hoped that not for long.
“But our drinks–” He smiled, feigning innocence, letting himself draw it out for a little bit longer. No fun in instant gratification.
When he looked up, meeting Eames’ gaze, so full of desperation and hunger, he felt like making an exception.
“I think we both had enough,” Eames said, low and dangerous, licking his lips.
Arthur nodded shortly, squeezing Eames’ thigh one last time, looking straight into his eyes with a silent question. Eames nodded too, sharply, his eyes never leaving Arthur, even when he stood up, heading towards the back. He passed the darkrooms, listening to the unmistakable sounds and decided that the bathroom would suit them better. He simply didn’t like to share.
Arthur knew, without turning, that Eames would follow him. He cut the corner, opening the bathroom door, the anticipation rising in his gut. The bathroom was dark and sleek, with full-length mirrors covering half of the walls, which raised some delicious possibilities; possibilities that Arthur didn’t have time to dwell on, because Eames chose exactly that moment to slide in, locking the door behind himself. They stood perfectly still for a moment, restless energy buzzing between them, waiting for the other one to crack first – and Arthur knew that it wouldn’t be him.
Sure enough, when Arthur took a step back, resting his back on the mirrored wall, Eames surged towards him with unexpected desperation. His lips on Arthur’s were soft but unrelenting, his hands on Arthur’s body warm and exploring, sliding underneath his shirt. Arthur deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue into Eames’ soft and giving mouth, his hand traveling up Eames’ back, before resting on Eames’ head, cupping his cheeks. He tugged and pulled Eames towards him, until they were flushed against each other, until he felt his tongue sliding even deeper, until he felt an outline of Eames’ already hard cock through his jeans.
Eames rolled his hips against him, once, twice, experimentally, and Arthur’s breath hitched, as he chased after Eames’ mouth with a newfound desperation, his hands tangling in Eames’ hair, fingers scraping lightly at the scalp, before tugging softly at first, then harder. Eames instantly went slack in his embrace, breaking the kiss, and for a second Arthur thought he hurt him – pulled too hard, reignited some old injury – but then Eames broke the kiss, leaning back slightly and his face was flushed red, lips parted slightly, still glistening with saliva, eyes dark and half-closed and hungry.
“Oh,” Arthur said eloquently, his hand still in Eames’ hair.
“Yeah, oh,” Eames repeated, slightly embarrassed, trying to turn his head away from Arthur’s gaze, but stopping with a firm pull of Arthur’s hand.
Arthur watched, almost in slow motion, the exact moment Eames realized that he was not in control anymore – eyes snapping open, his chest rising heavily, pupils blown, meeting Arthur’s eyes in a silent challenge.
“I think I’ve heard you mentioning my mouth.” Eames smiled lazily, clearly going for flirty and unaffected, but his voice came out breathy and little raspy – Arthur wondered if he would sound like that after having his throat fucked thoroughly, if the raspiness would still be there the next day, the telltale sign of his activities.
“I think you need to shut up,” Arthur barked out, and it came a little too harshly, but Eames seemed to like it, along with Arthur’s fingers on his scalp – again not one of the things that Arthur expected, but he could improvise. He excelled at improv.
He tightened his grip in Eames’ hair and yanked, pulling his head away, throat exposed – he wanted to lick it, map the plane of Eames’ neck with his tongue, swallow every little desperate sound that he was making right from the source – but then Eames let out a strangled moan and slid down to his knees. Arthur’s hand stayed in place, still gripping tightly, the other hovering awkwardly now, but then Eames looked up, caught his gaze and oh-so slowly licked his lips. And then again, getting them even wetter and even redder.
Arthur halted his breath, watching the pink tip of Eames’ tongue darting out of his mouth, over and over. Eames noticed that and bit his lower lip, the bastard. Arthur’s free hand came flying to Eames’ face, desperate to touch, to replace Eames’ teeth with pads of his fingers. Without thinking he swept his thumb over Eames’ lower lip – and he opened his mouth, almost involuntarily, licking the pad of Arthur’s finger – and Arthur watched, transfixed, as his thumb disappeared in the sweet, wet heat of Eames’ mouth. He added a second finger, then a third, pressing down, making his jaw fall even more open – as if to accommodate, Arthur’s imagination added unprompted – saliva dripping out from the corners of Eames’ mouth, glimmering on his chin in the half-light.
Arthur made a tentative movement with his hand, in and out, slowly, testing – but Eames’ eyes snap shut, his mouth closing on Arthur’s fingers and sucking, licking between them. He felt his cock, hot and heavy, leaking in his trousers, but it didn’t matter at that moment. He thought he could come from just that – watching Eames sucking on his fingers, getting them nice and wet, letting Arthur fuck his mouth with his hand. But then Eames made a pained noise in the back of his throat, pulling away – Arthur fixated on a string of spit still connecting his fingers to Eames’ lips – and his attention snapped back to his own, still clothed cock, to Eames’ one in similar state, and he remembered that they were having a quick dirty blowjob in the bar bathroom. Right.
“I– I need your– fuck,” Arthur stuttered out, words leaving him at the sight of Eames’ hungry gaze on his straining dick. “I want to feed you my cock and watch you swallow it.” He yanked his head higher, meeting his eyes and for a moment he thought he overstepped – Eames was looking back at him with widened eyes.
“I didn’t know you had it in you,” Eames laughed breathlessly and Arthur understood. It wasn't shock – it was awe.
He surged to action then, unzipping his trousers in one swift motion, Eames’ eyes never leaving his fingers, eyes dark and needy, licking his lips absently, and Arthur had to stifle a moan. He caught Arthur’s eyes, a silent question in them loud and clear. Arthur nodded sharply, turning his head away, putting his cheek on the cold mirror. Eames surged forward – his hands scraping to tug his trousers down his thighs, forehead resting on Arthur’s abdomen, nuzzling his face in the crook of Arthur’s hip, mouthing the already wet spot on Arthur’s boxers. His hands traveled upwards, probably planning to pull them all the way down, but Arthur tsked at him, pulling his head away.
“No hands, just your mouth,” he said, astounded by the waver in his voice.
He knew something was wrong – Eames wasn’t like that, didn’t usually slide to his knees willingly, staring at Arthur’s cock like a starved man, they weren’t like that – but Eames clearly wasn’t okay, and Arthur was willing to give him what he needed – even if that thing was his cock in Eames’ mouth and a steady hand.
Eames, slowly, very slowly, took his hands away, putting them on his knees, never breaking eye contact. Arthur put his thumb under the band of his boxers, to pull them all the way down, but Eames beat him to it – bowing his head and catching the material between his teeth, fumbling for a bit with unwavering enthusiasm, before yanking them down, leaving a wet patch. Arthur had never been more turned on in his entire life.
His cock sprung free, hot and leaking already, and Eames stared at it with single-minded focus, breathing heavily, lips parted. Arthur felt his hips twitching mindlessly and watched enthralled as the bead of precome dripped from the tip.
“So wet…” Eames whispered, before darting his tongue out and licking at the slit.
Arthur’s cock throbbed, as Eames opened his mouth slightly, planting wet and sloppy kisses on the head, until his lips were cloudy with precome, then licking, sucking, never taking more than just the tip – not because of the lack of enthusiasm, but because of Arthur’s hand keeping him firmly in place. Arthur wondered how long he could keep him like this, or how long he could keep himself – not caring about time, not caring about place – but then Eames grew impatient, straining at the grip and licking down the shaft – blowing those thoughts right out of Arthur’s head, leaving nothing but the promise of that hot, hot mouth. He rubbed the head of his cock on Eames’ still open lips, for good measure, watching his eyes grow even darker, before giving in, fucking into the wet heat, making Eames swallow him down whole, until his nose was buried in pubic hair.
They were perfectly still for a moment – Arthur’s breathing heavy, all his attention focused on Eames, on his knees in a random club’s bathroom, with Arthur’s cock down his throat and his hands still on his lap. Eames might have been not the only one in awe in that scenario – but then Eames made a sound, half choking, opening his jaw even more – and Arthur was gone, hips twitching helplessly, fucking into Eames’ soft mouth sloppily, his movements erratic and hasty. He felt Eames’ throat get more and more lax, taking him deeper. He followed, intoxicated, the trail of spit and precome leaking out of the corner of Eames’ mouth, dripping steadily into his lap, seeping into his trousers, making a mess. Such a mess.
He knew he wasn’t going to last long – knew that from the moment he heard Eames’ low voice behind his back. Still, he tried to give Eames some warning, yanking his head back, but then Eames leveled him with a heated gaze; looking as if swallowing Arthur’s cock like a proper whore was more a need than a want, like breathing was entirely optional and less preferable than taking whatever Arthur was going to give him – and Arthur came right there, half in Eames’ mouth, half spilling on Eames’ red, putty mouth, on Eames’ slick chin, some streaks making it to his hairline. He was half-way into opening his mouth to apologize, but Eames just smiled loopily and leaned in to lick him clean.
Eames looked properly debauched – drying spunk painting his face, hair sticking out, lips shining red, eyes dreamy. Arthur made a whiny sound and slid down to the floor, grabbing Eames by the lapels of his shirt and tugging him close, needing to taste himself on his tongue, to lick into his mouth, to swallow every little sound. His hands drifted towards Eames’ lap, willing to return the favor – only to find Eames already fucking himself in speedy strokes, hands trembling. Arthur’s thumb grazed the head of his cock, just once; Eames spilled right in Arthur’s hand, come dripping through the fingers mixing with saliva and sweat.
Eames broke the kiss, dropping his head into Arthur’s chest and breathing heavily, before putting himself together, moving away. Arthur watched him lick the rest of the come from his mouth and chin, putting a carefully blank expression, his eyes suddenly empty, looking around, probably for tissues.
Arthur didn’t need more context clues to figure it out – Eames got what he needed, time to pack it up and leave.
“You could–” he started, then stopped, abruptly.
Because what could he say? You could come to my hotel room? Let’s catch a plane together in the morning? You’re not okay and it buggers me not to know why? He would sound like a sentimental fool. No matter how he would end this sentence, it would imply the existence of we and there was no we.
“We don’t do that,” Eames remarked softly, knowingly, as if he could read the turmoil behind Arthur’s eyes.
“No, we don't,” Arthur agreed quietly.
***
Arthur usually wasn’t the one to fuck up – which is why he knew that this time, he fucked it up badly. The Excel spreadsheets, tabs open, endless lists and plan Cs – nothing prepared him for this, standing in the middle of Eames’ trashed hotel room, staring blankly at the bloody stain on the carpet.
Sure, the chances were that the blood wasn’t Eames’, but Arthur wasn’t a gambler and he didn’t like the odds very much. A steady lithany of fuckfuckfuckfuck sang heavy in the back of his mind.
The facts slowly clicked into place – Eames’ sudden disappearance, then even more sudden reappearance, the way he acted, the desperation in his hands – Arthur realized with growing dread that yesterday wasn’t just a change of mind; it was a goodbye.
He sprung into action then, desperation gripping tightly at his throat, limbs moving of their own accord – looking for anything, any sign, anything that he could’ve left behind, jesus christ Eames –
Something caught his eye, a flicker of white under the sink – an envelope, taped securely to the cabinet shelf. He already knew who was the intended recipient, and Arthur had no intention of opening it. That bastard knew – he knew and said nothing. Arthur stared at the white paper, at a simple A. scribbled in Eames’ flourish handwriting.
“Eames, you fucking idiot.” He scowled, before putting the unopened letter into his pocket. “I’m never working with fucking Russians ever again,” he muttered to the empty room.
Then he got to work – the list of Eames’ enemies was long and convoluted, but usually the simplest solution was the right one. Something clearly went wrong on this particular job.
Tailing their mark to their apartment was easy enough.
Putting a knife under the man’s ribs was even easier.
Europeans might have been onto something with the whole gun control thing.
***
Eames woke up – or at least it felt like waking up. Everything was fuzzy in the darkness, the timeline a little foggy, the lines between dream and reality blurred at best.
He woke up because he heard footsteps. Footsteps he was intimately familiar with, footsteps he had heard already. Eames opened his eyes and stared at the clean shine of Arthur’s shoes.
Ahhh, still dreaming then, he thought, because admitting to hallucinations would do him no good. He actually didn’t know if he was dreaming or not, the people that took him could have had PASIV. For all he knew, he could be plugged in right now – he didn’t remember. It’s not like it was going to change anything. He raised his head, suppressing a hiss of pain and smiled at Arthur standing in front of him.
Arthur visited him often. Eames wasn’t sure if he was a projection, a scarily good forge or just a figment of his imagination – he desperately hoped for the latter, the thought of someone knowing him that well, to use Arthur against him –
“You’re awfully quiet,” said Not-Arthur, because that was the only thing that Eames knew – this Arthur wasn’t real, because the real Arthur wasn’t there; he was on the plane, somewhere far and safe; the real Arthur was safe and he was alive. Eames made sure of that.
“That’s because I have nothing important to say, darling.”
Eames knew that the Arthur that visited him wasn’t real. His shoes were too clean for a dirty warehouse, the cuffs of his shirt were always white, even when he put his hands in Eames’ hair, or on Eames’ cheek. His hands were never covered in blood, even though there should be blood, lots of it – Eames knew he was bleeding out, was faintly aware of the gash on the back of his head, of the serrated wound in his stomach.
Eames knew he was dying. The people that took him – they asked questions, asked for names of former acquaintances, about the long-forgotten jobs, about the money that was no longer in his accounts. They promised to help him; first to take him to the doctor, to give him something for the pain, then when that didn’t work they promised to make it quick – but Eames knew he was going to die, so he gave them nothing.
“Your head – you’re bleeding,” said Not-Arthur, frowning slightly. Even the frown was not right; merely a bleak impression of the real thing; because the real Arthur wouldn’t frown, leaning over Eames, face furrowed in concern; instead he would – he would –
It seemed like even the imagination left him. Not-Arthur also seemed to understand that, leaving his line of sight, running gentle fingers through his hair.
“Go to sleep, Mr Eames,” said Not-Arthur and Eames let the darkness take over.
***
Next time he woke up to someone screaming. Someone that wasn’t him, which was already new. Usually, it was Eames screaming out of pain, with a boot pressing into his abdomen or blunt finger digging into his wounds.
For a moment, he thought that maybe that was that – he died and now he was in some sort of fucked up version of the afterlife – but then he saw Arthur coming through the door and no, no God would be that cruel.
This time something was different – this version of Arthur was different – covered in blood, red soaking through the sleeves of his shirt; his shoes dirty, mud clinging to the leg of his trousers; hair sticking out in every direction. And the eyes – there was something haunted in the way Arthur was looking at him. He was holding a knife in his hand – a knife that clearly had been used, and he would find it insanely hot if not for the, well, circumstances.
“You look as if you saw a ghost, darling,” Eames said, good-naturedly, because even if this time his mind dreamed a different version of Arthur, it still would be a shame if he left. Eames preferred not dying alone to the other possibility.
He expected some snide remark, maybe a smirk, or even a gentle joke – all the things that the Arthur in his head would say, his own subconscious trying to cheer him up – but he did not get that. Instead, the Arthur in front of him made a pained sound – something that sounded like his name – the knife dropping down to the floor, crossing the room in a few rushed steps and sliding down on his knees in front of Eames.
His hands on Eames were frantic; sliding under his clothes, checking for injuries, sliding down his chest, cupping his cheeks, smearing blood all over. Not that Eames minded – Arthur touched him almost as if he couldn’t believe he was real, as if he had taken his hands off of Eames, he would disappear – and real Arthur had never touched him like that, and never will. Because Eames was going to die in some abandoned warehouse in Poland of all places. Still, he could be grateful that his own mind decided to make this experience a little more pleasant.
In the meantime, Arthur had seemingly found the wound on his head and was holding his fingers in front of him, asking Eames how many of them he was seeing.
“Five,” he answered, slurring slightly. He was getting so, so tired. “Although the bigger problem is that I’m seeing you at all. When did hallucination get so convincing?”
Arthur’s hands stilled on him. He leaned back, confusion clearly visible in his eyes. Eames just smiled at him.
“What,” Arthur asked, brows furrowed. And this time, Eames thought, he got it right.
“It’s alright, it will be over soon,” he said, voice reassuring more to his own benefit than Arthur’s.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Arthur’s frown deepened, eyes hot and searching on Eames’ face.
Eames just kept on smiling, as he watched the realization dawn on Arthur’s face; the way his brows relaxed, mouth going slack, eyes getting from heated and feral to shocked, painfully blank, before turning soft, full of concern and affection. Even his hands left Eames’ body, leaving only his left fingers hovering near Eames’ cheek.
And that was it, wasn’t it? Eames’ body and mind gave him clear signs that he was dying, right in that moment. He closed his eyes, nuzzling his cheek into Arthur’s warm hand, waiting for the world to go black once again.
Only that didn’t happen. What happened was Arthur’s mouth on him, hot and steady, licking into his mouth. Arthur kissed him with deadly focus; he kissed him as if he was starved, as if breathing was secondary to kissing Eames. Arthur kissed him as if he was real. Eames’ eyes snapped open.
“Oh.” He broke the kiss, pushing his forehead against Arthur’s. “You are really here.”
Something ugly and wet came out of Arthur’s mouth, his hands cradling Eames’ head, gently, planting wet kisses on Eames’ forehead.
Things came back to him slowly: the warehouse, cold, his injuries, pain, Arthur’s hands on him – Arthur’s here; Arthur’s real – there was blood, so much blood –
“The– Are you hurt?” Eames asked, suddenly panicked, because if both of them are injured, then their chances of getting out alive were slimmer that he thought, and he needed–
But Arthur just let out a bitter laugh, his eyes frenzied for a moment, before setting into something more serious.
“It’s not mine.” he said, voice clipped.
“Ah–” With the first wave of panic subdued, another, bigger one followed, because they weren’t safe, were they? Eames’ perpetrators could still come back, or call for backup; a backup that would be quite difficult to get rid off, with one injured man and the other one armed with just a knife. He tried to communicate that to Arthur with a frenzied nod to the door. Arthur’s eyes followed his, reluctantly peeling away from his face. His expression changed then – to something resolute and finite.
“All dead,” Arthur said quietly, and Eames didn’t have to ask if he was sure.
Arthur was sporting a face of a man who did get his hands dirty and got the job done. Eames felt a shiver going down his spine – he knew that Arthur had his hang-ups about doing those sorts of things topside. Before he could voice any objections – or lack thereof in this case – Arthur was once again on his knees, plastering himself to his chest, burying his head in Eames’ shoulder. He only realized that Arthur was speaking when he felt something wet on his collarbone.
“–and I would do it again, and again and again, over and over, until you– until I–” Arthur seemed to have broken down, fingertips sliding over Eames’ face, eyes hazy.
“Shhh, darling, I know,” Eames tried, putting his hand in Arthur’s hair, prying him away.
“No, you don’t.” Arthur scoffed, back to normal, except for a feral look on his face. “ I don’t know what I would do if you–”
“But I didn’t. We didn’t– we are alive, at least –” he flinched, as the adrenaline slowly started to wear off, replaced by dull pain, “–for now,” he finished, smiling with gritted teeth.
Arthur seemed to get the memo, grudgingly standing up, peeling himself off of Eames, but his hands never left Eames’ skin, reassuring.
“Can you stand up?” Arthur asked, reaching his arms out, wrapping them around him.
“I think so.” Eames willed his muscles to work, standing up shakily before collapsing into Arthur’s open arms.
“Can you walk straight?” Arthur’s eyes on him were concerned, voice soft.
“Darling, I can’t even think straight. The reason –” He gave Arthur his brightest smile, aiming for playful, but falling, met with Arthur’s clearly unimpressed face.
“If you finish that sentence, I’m shooting you in the leg.” Ah, and there was the old, reliable Arthur, good at keeping you on your feet.
Eames wanted to deflect, to counter with “just in the leg, darling? almost like you care,” but the gash under his ribs decided to remind him of its existence, a sharp jolt of pain bending him in half. He didn’t hit the floor solely because of Arthur’s strong arms around him, the thing coming out of his mouth resembling more a shout than a coherent sentence.
Arthur hauled him up, arms under his, legs keeping him upright, ragged breathing keeping him grounded. While Arthur led them through dark corridors and open doors, Eames focused solely on moving his feet, one at the time. He didn’t ask about the bodies – the ones they passed had their throats slashed, in one clean line, blood pooling under them – and Arthur steered them around, gently, hands warm on Eames’ body.
And Eames was tired. The adrenaline was the one thing keeping him up, but now it was seeping out of his body, pain taking over, first sharp and focused, then dull and all-encompassing, swallowing him whole. He wanted to sleep; to close his eyes and let the pain take over, just for a moment, just for a little while. He closed his eyes, ignoring Arthur’s panicked protests, waiting for the relief of unconsciousness; except there was something nagging at the back of his mind, something important; something that he had forgotten, maybe if he focused, just enough–
“Did– the envelope–” he tried, slipping away from Arthur’s arms, his head hitting the concrete wall.
Arthur froze, looking at him as if he grew a second head. And who knew, maybe he did.
Arthur’s expression was split in half; a mix between alarmed and irritated. It was a new one; Eames had never seen Arthur make such a face; he tried smiling, cataloguing it for later.
“If you thought that I read that piece of paper, you are sorely mistaken,” he spat, but without the bite, voice tinted with dread.
He ran his fingers through Eames’ hair and stared in terror when they came out bloody. Something tilted then – annoyance bleeding out, leaving only utter fear. Arthur was scared.
And Eames – Eames couldn’t find it in himself to care.
He closed his eyes again, head lolling to the side, drifting away. The last thing he heard was Arthur’ frantic No, no no, fuck, Eames, no, fuck–
***
Eames woke up – he seemed to do that often recently – in an unknown bed, with a thumping headache and panic in his throat. He tried to get up – the memories slowly trickling in, of cold floors, blood on his fingers, of Arthur’s pained face, Arthur – he felt his throat constricting, someone’s firm hand (Arthur’s hand) pulling him down. Eames tried to ask, about where, about how, but his mouth was dry, a question falling silent between them.
“Safe,” Arthur answered, short and sure. “You– We– are safe.” His hands cradled Eames’ head, pulling him up, slowly putting a glass of water to Eames’ mouth, letting him drink, slipping a tab into his hand, probably a painkiller. Eames could have asked what was in it. He could have.
“Ketoprofen, sorry. It’s the strongest thing I could get over-the-counter here. I wasn’t really prepared for forging prescriptions,” Arthur explained anyway, shrugging, taut lines of weariness in his shoulders.
“It’s fine,” Eames said, his voice still hoarse. “I’m fine,” he insisted, but to his own ears it sounded more like a question. His hand started drifting toward his stomach, only to be catched by Arthur’s.
“I patched it up.” He pulled away the sheets to show Eames, fingers grazing on the dressed wound, reassuring. “You will be fine.” Arthur’s voice was quiet, disbelieving, as if he couldn’t quite grasp it himself.
Then it hit Eames all at once – Arthur was exhausted, Arthur could have been hurt, Arthur could have been dead – all because Eames couldn’t quite quit the bad habit of making impossible promises to possibly too dangerous people. People that were still out there – this time not only after Eames, but after Arthur too.
“Don’t.” Arthur’s voice was low and dangerous. “If you think that man isn’t swimming six feet deep in the Warta river, you don’t know me too well.” He stood up, circling the desk, opening himself a bottle of water. “Your enemy list is longer than the list of countries I would be prosecuted upon entering. Going through it will take me some time,” he said with a deceptively calm voice, as if clearing out every person that did Eames wrong was just a thing he did now. And maybe it was. Maybe this Arthur, with his warm hands and concerned frowns did that.
“Hope you put him with something heavy, those things tend to float.” It was a terrible joke, and it shouldn’t work, but then Arthur smiled, the tension bleeding away from his face, as he shifted, turning towards Eames. And that’s when he saw it – the white envelope, lying on the desk.
“You didn’t – It’s unopened,” Eames remarked, confused.
Arthur turned his gaze, looking at the letter as if it had just materialized before them, slightly surprised. Then he looked back at Eames, weighting something before settling, eyes steady.
“Is there anything in that letter that I didn’t already know?” Arthur asked, picking up the envelope.
“No.” Honesty had never felt that good in Eames’ mouth – maybe Arthur was not the only one who had changed.
“Good.”
Eames watched, mesmerized, as Arthur put the letter in the paper shredder, his eyes never leaving him, hot and possessive. Eames swallowed, watching Arthur follow the movement.
“Come here,” he choked, and Arthur did – with his warm hands, soft lips and blood under his fingertips.
Eames could manage.
Maybe they both could.