paisleythief | (no subject)

Arthur had attempted to go bed hours ago but it didn't take.

As clearly shown when Eames opened the door to the flat and the dim light over the sink in the kitchen was on, Arthur sitting in one of the chairs at the table, legs pulled up to where his knees were around his chest. He had gone ahead and made Eames' favorite tea, having been told he'd be back around tonight and since he was up anyway...

He knew his lover would probably be wanting a cup after that long drive.

The point man was resting a cheek on one knee, not really seeing that spot on the table, when he heard the key turn in the lock in the silence of the flat and turned his head towards the door. He didn't get up from the chair, finally feeling warm again from curling into himself like he was, but gave a soft, sincere greeting when he finally saw the other man: "Welcome home."

Two steps into the flat, Eames notices the light on in the kitchen, just enough light to see by but not nearly enough to see clearly. He shuts the door with care not to make too much noise, even though he can see when Arthur's moves- acknowledging his presence before he speaks. For once, the sound of the ice maker isn't whirring in the background, and Eames trudges into the kitchen.

"Hey," Eames says by way of greeting, neither the most eloquent or loquacious he's ever been, but he's not worried- at least not about that. The way Arthur scrunches himself up in his chairs is going to get him a pulled muscle one of these days-- whenever age decides to wake up and remember that it applies to Arthur and not just Eames.

Giving Arthur's shoulder an affectionate squeeze, Eames asks, "What're you doing up?"

Arthur can tell by the greeting alone how tired Eames is (and then how stiffly he's holding himself as he gets closer) and he puts his cheek back to a knee at the squeeze, voice still soft, "Couldn't sleep. I made you tea."

(And for the record: as long as Arthur kept up his exercises and body weight, he'd still retain his flexibility for a few more years. Granted, age will eventually catch up to him and his body will slow drastically but then he isn't sure how much longer he will actually live. A part of him is genuinely surprised he has lived to be as old as he is now.)

How he'd missed it on the way in, Eames doesn't know, but his mug is indeed out and the ripped but not yet discarded wrapper is sitting right beside it. The domesticity of it all is a little overwhelming considering he'd expected to come home to Arthur on the couch with his laptop propped up on his knees or some such. He reaches out to touch Arthur's hair as he goes to grab the mug. "That was sweet of you, thank you."

Eyeing the empty kitchen chair, Eames sips from his tea. Its lukewarm, but palatable. "You want to stay up, or give sleep another chance?"

Arthur closes his eyes at the touch to his hair but he opens them again when he speaks, "Was thinking you'd be needing it after that drive." He had already sighed more than once while he had been making it, knowing how domestic it was but he couldn't really bring himself to hate it. It was strange to indulge in it, sure, but it was also calming in its quietness and routine.

It had been a long time since Arthur had felt it with someone else.

He shrugged at the question, "You can heat that back up in the microwave if you need to."

And then, "Are you going to bed?"

"How is it you make a better adult than I do?" Eames asks, taking another sip from the mug and shaking his head no when Arthur mentions the microwave. Even something as simple as heating up a cup of tea seems like a major production at this point.

It isn't that Eames wouldn't have done the same for Arthur (that is to say the equivalent, and actually, Eames wouldn't because that would involve brewing Arthur a cup of coffee after 14 hours on the road- not an advisable move if one wants to get Arthur to sleep before he jumps into his post-job write up) but more that Arthur thinks to do it with so little pomp. The tea is both a large and small gesture, and if Eames were running on more than fumes at the moment, he'd give it some proper thought.

"No need to be nice, I know I look like I got off on the rough end of a scuffle with the sandman." Eames tries for a rueful smirk, but he's worn it thin the past few days and it needs a chance to recharge. He takes another sip, focusing on actually answering Arthur's question instead. "Yeah, I had hoped to head that direction."

Arthur gives a small huff, smiling slightly, amused by the question, even as his cheek is still resting on top of one knee. Hands still pressed between his stomach and thighs he shrugs again as his answer. He's spent plenty of times being a child by letting his irrationality win over his logic and... Eames deserved better than that. Arthur needed to make the effort to stop that kind of behavior (entirely if possible).

He had had a lot of time to think on things without a job of his own to do and not able to sleep in a bed that felt even colder than it had last night.

So often it isn't until after things have happened that one is able to look back and realize where things should have been done differently, reactions pulled back, thoughts needing to be refocused. The list could go on. But the bottom line was Arthur realizing how things needed to be different on his end of things.

Because he did care about Eames... very much.

That was probably what caused his expression and voice to soften more, even have a tinge of sadness (possibly guilt) to both, "But... I want to be." I want to be nice to you. Because so many times Eames hadn't deserved the nastiness and meanness Arthur had dealt him (at the time, clouded with whatever irrational emotion he was experiencing, he had felt the other had but having time to really reflect on it while the other had been away had made him change his perspective quite a bit - he hoped for the better) and... he didn't want to keep doing that to someone he cared about.

At the latter, "I'll be right behind you."

Edited 2011-10-08 07:14 (UTC)

Caught off guard with Arthur's tone, Eames shifts his weight, the sound of it loud in the relative quiet of the kitchen. He feels like he has to reaccustom himself to the way Arthur's neck curves to rest on his knee, the errant curl of his dark hair against his skin. "If that's the case, you're certainly off to a good start."

It might be the hour, or the way he's sitting there curled into himself, but Eames feels like he shouldn't leave. Only about halfway through his cuppa, Eames debates staying in the kitchen with Arthur until he finishes. It would save him a dirty dish on the night table, which he knows is not Arthur's favorite thing in the world, but it also runs the risk of all eleven stone of him refusing to get back up from the chair. His body's been in a seated position for far too long to have more sitting look like anything less than torture. Spending his first night back in the flat sleeping at the kitchen table hardly sounds like the way to go about things.

Instead, he reaches out to run his palm over the unkempt mess that is Arthur's hair. Either he took a shower earlier (his hair is dry to the touch) or Arthur didn't bother pulling the pomade out today. The gesture is an affectionate acknowledgement that Arthur is trying something here. Or perhaps it's an apology on Eames' part; his body is giving in to the siren call of a mattress and a pillow that smells familiar, and he'd love to ask Arthur all the questions if he can just lie down to do it.

"I'll be waiting," Eames promises, mussing Arthur's hair as he heads out of the kitchen and to the bedroom.

Arthur doesn't really give a verbal response to the other, but his reaction to the touch makes it look like it soothes him enough to nod at Eames going, not making any comment on how the mug will end up on the nightstand on Eames' side of the bed (but mainly because he can understand why it will; the other is worn out and exceptions can be made).

It is a few more moments before he opens his eyes back up and finally, slowly unbends himself from his position on the chair, flinching slightly at how cold the floor is to his bare feet. He uses the table and chair to support him as he gets up (making a face at how he felt - or perhaps heard - something pop in his back as he straightens more). Remaining silent as one hand rubbed at his lower back and the other pushed the chair back into place under the table, his movements remained unhurried and lacking much energy behind them as he cleaned up from making the tea and then turned the light off.

By that time he could shuffle his way back to the bedroom, the lamp on Eames' side of the bed turned on and giving him enough soft light to see his way by in the overall darkness of the flat. He entered the bedroom and wordlessly moved to help Eames in his task of undressing for bed, seeing as how he was obviously having a hard time of it (Arthur knew from experience that long trips spent in one position - whether on a train, plane or in a car - could leave the body feeling ridiculously sore).

Edited 2011-10-09 00:06 (UTC)

Taking his time shuffling toward their bedroom, Eames leans all eleven stone (probably less, considering) of himself on the doorway when he finally reaches it-- listening in on Arthur in the kitchen. He isn't worried that Arthur won't join him, not seriously, but it is still a relief when he hears the sigh of clothing shifting, Arthur unfolding himself from the chair. He sips at his cuppa and leaves just enough for a final swallow swirling at the bottom, setting the mug on the bedside table.

By the time Arthur slips into the room, the sound of his feet padding on the floor a sound that Eames appreciates (considering how very silent Arthur can be when he wishes), Eames is halfway done with his button up and his belt is lying on the bed. His undershirt seems like a daunting task, if only because the hamper is all the way in the bathroom. They should really fix that.

As Arthur slips Eames' wrinkled button up off of his shoulders, Eames closes his eyes and drags his undershirt over his head. Its a slow process, and when his head emerges from the white cotton, Arthur is there, looking at him with familiar brown eyes and cheekbones that remind Eames' fingers just how much they've actually missed him. Eames tosses his undershirt behind him, not caring if it lands on the bed so much as he cares that his other hand catches Arthur's, guiding him closer. "C'mere."

Arthur manages to move the belt off the bed, setting it on the top of the dresser they have in the room before getting to Eames and helping him wrangle out of his clothes. The button up goes easily enough but the undershirt proves slightly more troublesome but Eames' wordlessly insists he can get it off himself (even while Arthur occasionally gives him helpful tugs when he looks like he might be stuck).

And when the white cotton is off and tossed behind him to the other corner at the end of their bed, Arthur moves closer to Eames without a word, eventually bending down slightly and pressing his forehead gently to the forger's. His free hand reaches up to brush over the other's cheek and then slowly card through ruffled brown hair he had missed touching more than he realized.

Edited 2011-10-09 04:03 (UTC)

Always rather baffled at the enjoyment Arthur derives from touching his hair (it's nothing like Arthur's, loose and long enough to almost tangle in) Eames leans into it, the familiar feel of those long fingers curling over his scalp enough to justify driving since Christ knows when in the morning to get here. Eames' other hand goes to Arthur's side, rubbing up over the worn cotton of his sleep shirt to feel where his stomach ends and his ribcage begins; he's always unnaturally cool.

"You could have turned the heat up," Eames mumbles, because it doesn't feel right to speak outright when near everything else is silent. He can't deal with silence the way Arthur can- wrapping himself up inside of it and finding a way operate without any noise or words. Even when the silence is comfortable, possibly for his benefit considering how Arthur had stayed up to greet him with a cuppa (though Eames is willing to bet Arthur's staying up was hardly to keep the home fires burning and more to do with the fact that he couldn't sleep even if he wanted to), he's bound to be the one to break it.

Arthur mumbles back, nose rubbing against Eames' slightly and hand going down to the back of the forger's neck and then his back, almost relishing the warmth he was feeling, "I did. It didn't help."

( Just as the blankets piled up on the only chair in the room would indicate how that hadn't worked, either. )

"Gotta get you a space heater one of these days." Eames isn't sure if the eyelashes on his cheek are his own or if they're Arthur's, feather light and barely noticeable as they are. He would have no qualms with falling asleep in his trousers, but he still has his shoes on and that just isn't going to work. Instead, he tangles his fingers with Arthurs, his other hand spanning the width of Arthur's side and inviting him closer with the slight pressure of his fingers at his back.

(He's too tired to notice these things at the moment, not to mention what few mental faculties that are still operational are distracted by Arthur's presence. In the morning, when he's bleary and hopefully not feeling quite like a vice is threatening to snap his back in half, he'll catch sight of the wadded up blankets and feel bad about them- as if he could have somehow done something about it from three states away.)

Arthur snorts softly but doesn't make any other comment, not really noticing how he's nearly nuzzling Eames' face until the other tries to bring him in closer. The point man makes a small noise as he pulls way, "Not yet. Still need to get your shoes off."

And so he ended up getting down on his knees in front of Eames to remove the forger's black loafers, putting them on the floor around the end of the bed and then reached up to undo the fly to the other's trousers.

"Do you need anything for your back?" He often rolled his eyes at Eames claiming how "old age" was catching up to him but that didn't mean Arthur didn't notice the moments where the forger would be rubbing at his back with a pained expression on his face.

The position isn't unusual, for either of them, but there is something distinctly different about Arthur lowering himself to his knees for something so platonic as slipping Eames' shoes off that it almost feels indecent. His hair, always trying for a curl when not gelled into submission, forms a dark halo around his face when he looks up at Eames, deft fingers at his zip.

There is something inherently beautiful about this that Eames would have had trouble believing were anyone ever to simply describe it. Slipping out of his trousers with a wiggle of his hips, nothing sexual in the way Arthur's hands follow the trousers down his thighs nor how Eames stands before him. Just a weary man before another, if possible, equally weary man. Eames steps out of his trousers, left then right, and touches his fingers to the underside of Arthur's jaw when he's gathered them. "An IcyHot patch might help."

Almost as an afterthought, when Arthur stands and starts his search for the waistband on Eames' trousers, Eames reaches out, offering. "I can fold those."

Arthur has never considered himself to be the most nurturing kind of person but if he allowed himself to think about it, he would remember making exceptions for people he cared about (and Eames did fall into that category - very much so, in fact) and when he did he made sure they were taken care of. It might be that devotion, that unguarded desire to look after that makes Arthur seem "beautiful" in a very different way but it's not something he pays attention to, either way. All of his attention is on the forger, on tending to him and making sure he gets what he needs before laying down for much needed (and deserved) rest.

He nods at mention of the patch, pushing himself back up to his feet with his knees, intent on folding the pants before he gets the patch.

The point man shakes his head at the offer, taking a step away with Eames' trousers, "So can I." Nodding his head towards the bed, "Get on the bed. I know your back is hurting you." And he's folding quickly and efficiently as he's saying this, already taking steps to toss them onto the dresser as he moves in the direction of the bathroom to get the patch from the cabinet they keep such remedies in.

Watching Arthur leave, Eames glances at the mug set on the night table. He could take it out to the kitchen while Arthur rummages around in the bathroom cupboard for the Icy Hot patch- or whatever equivalent they have. He's already up, and Arthur is going to notice it tomorrow (even if he doesn't say anything, he'll notice it for sure), but Eames is sagging down to the soft plush of their bed before he's able to properly guilt himself into just taking the bloody thing back to the kitchen. With Arthur in the mood he's in, Eames doesn't really want to do anything to bollocks it up. A small groan rattles around in his chest, not quite making it past his lips.

With only a bit of effort, Eames hoists his feet up on the bed and leans down to tug off his argyle socks. Rolling them into a ball, he sets them on the night table by his mug.

By the time Arthur gets back, Eames has maneuvered his legs under the blanket and is rubbing at his eyes with his fingertips, feeling the exhaustion start to wash over him. It's been a long few days.

Arthur will most likely take the mug back to the kitchen himself if Eames is done with it, and all without making a fuss over it.

Although, coming back with the patch for Eames after another moment he did make a slight face at the socks on the nightstand (he's told Eames more than once that that is gross and they belong in the laundry hamper but he's honestly not wanting to nag the forger about it tonight -- he's obviously exhausted and seeing him rub his eyelids like that... it makes him seem younger for some reason, almost endearing). He moves forward until he's at the bed, leaning down to brush some of Eames' hair from his forehead, voice still soft, "I got the patch; do you want me to put it on or do you want to?"

He would have put the socks in the hamper (or at least, thrown them over in that general direction) but tonight he's just too tired to do anything more elaborate than take them off. The sound of Arthur's feet on the floor alerts Eames to his presence, but he does little more than move his knees to the side, making room for Arthur to sit beside him if that's what he would like to do. "I could probably," Eames starts, twisting around to lean his weight on one hip so he can reach behind himself-- that is, before the knot of muscles that his back has become gives a vengeful twinge that warns of weeks in bed if he so much as tries that again sends him back to his original position.

"Bleeding bollocks..." Grumbling, sheets twisted up in his hands, Eames takes deep breaths and eases himself back into the semi-seated position.

At the grumbling and wincing Arthur does sit on the bed and wordlessly leans over Eames, opening the patch up properly to where it will stick onto the other's skin, and gingerly feels out with one hand the area the patch needs to be (he has seen Eames knead at the area before more than once at different times). When he hears a soft hiss he knows that's where the patch needs to go.

With long, careful fingers he gets it on and rubs at it enough to make sure it will stay on during the rest of the night, apologizing quietly for any further pain he's caused the forger for pressing on the already sensitive area. He then gets back up and collects the mug and socks, intending to take them to the kitchen and hamper respectively.

Pausing only to ask, "Are you done with the tea?"

Edited 2011-10-16 00:03 (UTC)

"Yeah," Eames' answer is distracted, the cooling sensation of menthol seeping into his skin (so cool it almost burns) a welcome sensation. When Arthur goes to grab the mug and the socks, Eames reaches out to hold Arthur's wrist, keeping him from moving away. "Hey."

Running his tongue over his lips, Eames pulls ever so lightly on Arthur's arm, coaxing him forward without forcing him to do anything. Its an invitation to leave the socks and the cup for the morning-- more, its an invitation to get some rest, because Eames can see those half circles under Arthur's eyes like someone's popped him once for each socket. "You don't have to do that. I promise, I'll get them tomorrow."

Arthur shakes his head, gently taking his his wrist back, words just as gentle, "I can take them now; it'll only be a minute and then I'll be back." And with that he's taking the mug and socks with him as he leaves the room.

In truth, he's back in just under a minute, using what little energy he has left to spur his legs into more than shuffling around barefoot.

"See?, " as he goes to turn the light out before going to his side of the bed and slipping under the covers and sheets to join Eames.

In the darkness of the room, little more than the light from the streetlamp spilling through the window and the glow of the digital alarm clock on Eames' side of the bed (because Eames hates to use his mobile as an alarm, he can't figure the damn thing out when he's still half asleep), Eames' arm snakes out to find Arthur's body. The bed isn't big enough that he has to reach very far.

"Thank you," Eames' voice is quiet, his fingers brushing over the soft cotton of Arthur's sleep shirt. "For all of this." His fingers slipping under Arthur's elbow, curling to indicate that he's welcome to come closer. "I wasn't expecting you to be up, and here you are doing everything I could possibly think to ask for. Honestly, thank you."

Arthur does come closer, so close his head rests near the other's collarbone, face half pressed into warm skin and his arm loosely wrapped around Eames' equally warm waist.

The response is equally quiet if also equally tired, the bed and warmth immediately pulling Arthur towards the direction of sleep, "You're welcome."

Then, almost shyly, "I'm just glad you're back."

Edited 2011-10-16 01:38 (UTC)