It's well after lunch time when Eames hangs up the phone with a frown, rubbing at the back of his neck. Nothing like planning a fortnight of uninterrupted holiday time to guarantee someone's going to call in a favour.
He slides open the plate glass door and steps out onto the back deck of the cottage, flexing his toes against the gritty sand they've both tracked up from the beach over the last couple of days. "Fuck them. I'm going to have to..."
But Arthur's asleep, arm hanging over the edge of the hammock strung between two of the palm trees. The book he'd grabbed twenty minutes in to Eames's phone call dangles precariously from his fingers, the red cloth binding almost matching the angry colour creeping across his face and chest.
"Dammit, Arthur," Eames mutters, stooping to pick up the book and put it on the ground. He's going to be fucking sore, that's for sure, and Eames is glad he put the bottle of aloe in the fridge. He knew Arthur wasn't going to last a week without a sunburn.
Arthur stirs sleepily as Eames sits on the edge of the hammock, rocking it downward, but doesn't wake as he carefully manoeuvres until he's lying along side him. Arthur's skin is hot to the touch, and Eames knows he'll have to wake him soon. Wake him, and tell him he's leaving not even half way into their first real vacation since... well, ever.
Arthur shifts, hand coming up to rest against Eames's hair, and makes a soft sound of contentment.
He leans closer into the warm, salt-streaked skin of Arthur's shoulder.
Soon, but not now. Now's he's going to enjoy this, and later he's going to rub cold aloe on Arthur's sunburn, and maybe he'll even procrastinate long enough for them to investigate the application of the hammock for activities far more interesting than reading and sleeping.
He leans up on one elbow, feeling the slight dip and sway as his weight shifts, and sets to kissing Arthur awake.
i can't write when i'm on heavy pain meds but have a snippet anywaaay
He slides open the plate glass door and steps out onto the back deck of the cottage, flexing his toes against the gritty sand they've both tracked up from the beach over the last couple of days. "Fuck them. I'm going to have to..."
But Arthur's asleep, arm hanging over the edge of the hammock strung between two of the palm trees. The book he'd grabbed twenty minutes in to Eames's phone call dangles precariously from his fingers, the red cloth binding almost matching the angry colour creeping across his face and chest.
"Dammit, Arthur," Eames mutters, stooping to pick up the book and put it on the ground. He's going to be fucking sore, that's for sure, and Eames is glad he put the bottle of aloe in the fridge. He knew Arthur wasn't going to last a week without a sunburn.
Arthur stirs sleepily as Eames sits on the edge of the hammock, rocking it downward, but doesn't wake as he carefully manoeuvres until he's lying along side him. Arthur's skin is hot to the touch, and Eames knows he'll have to wake him soon. Wake him, and tell him he's leaving not even half way into their first real vacation since... well, ever.
Arthur shifts, hand coming up to rest against Eames's hair, and makes a soft sound of contentment.
He leans closer into the warm, salt-streaked skin of Arthur's shoulder.
Soon, but not now. Now's he's going to enjoy this, and later he's going to rub cold aloe on Arthur's sunburn, and maybe he'll even procrastinate long enough for them to investigate the application of the hammock for activities far more interesting than reading and sleeping.
He leans up on one elbow, feeling the slight dip and sway as his weight shifts, and sets to kissing Arthur awake.