Arthur comes to with a hazy awareness of being in a bed, sheets smooth against his bare legs. The pillow smells strange, though, which means he must be dreaming.
He shifts sluggishly beneath the blankets, only to feel a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. Arthur hisses, pressing his face into the foreign pillow until the hot surge of pain fades. He reaches a hand up, feels gauze and bandages and tape over his left pectoral muscle.
A dream wouldn't involve him being wounded and tucked into bed.
Slowly, the details start to come back to him: gunfire outside his hotel, a car chase, and the realization that he'd been shot.
"Are you awake?" a familiar voice asks, soft breath against the back of Arthur's neck, and suddenly Arthur is aware of the solid warmth pressed along his back, a broad hand fitted over the dip of his waist.
"Where am I?" Arthur asks, voice weak with exhaustion and lack of use. His throat feels terribly dry.
Eames makes a small humming sound, hand flexing gently over Arthur's hip. "Safe," he says. There's no humor in that single word, only earnestness.
Arthur tries to turn over to face him, but the movement only makes the pain in his chest unbearable. "I'm in your bed, aren't I?"
"Lucky for me I laundered the sheets last week." Arthur feels a light caress over the base of his skull, like Eames is nuzzling him with the nip of his nose. "Please don't move like that, you'll tear your stitches."
"Stitches? I was shot, what--"
"Yes, you were bloody shot, and I had the pleasure of watching you nearly bleed out before my eyes." The words are slightly unsteady, high at the end. Arthur would almost call it fear.
"So you took me back here."
"Your hotel room wasn't safe. Seeing as how this is London, I knew just the place to hide you away."
"Eames, they'll find you--"
"Fuck off, I've lived here nearly seven years and have never been traced. Give me a little more credit, love." Soft lips skim over the bare skin of Arthur's shoulder. It's so very strange, being held by Eames like this, in his own bed. They've so rarely touched in the real world.
"Fine," Arthur breathes, "but why are you--here? With me?"
He hears Eames chuckle. "Ah, well, it's an interesting story, really. When brought you back here, you were rather delirious. My doctor friend patched you up, but there wasn't much he could do to calm your fever, or your constant fear that I was going to abandon you. You...uh, you begged me not to leave the bed, that you needed to be in constant contact with me."
Arthur felt his cheeks grow hot. He remembered something about desperation and paranoia mixed with blurry images of Eames cupping his cheeks and shushing him quietly, but it all feels like a dream.
"I appreciate you humoring me," Arthur finally whispers.
Eames places a chaste kiss on the edge of Arthur's jaw. "I would've stayed regardless," he whispers back.
h/c cuddling omg
He shifts sluggishly beneath the blankets, only to feel a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. Arthur hisses, pressing his face into the foreign pillow until the hot surge of pain fades. He reaches a hand up, feels gauze and bandages and tape over his left pectoral muscle.
A dream wouldn't involve him being wounded and tucked into bed.
Slowly, the details start to come back to him: gunfire outside his hotel, a car chase, and the realization that he'd been shot.
"Are you awake?" a familiar voice asks, soft breath against the back of Arthur's neck, and suddenly Arthur is aware of the solid warmth pressed along his back, a broad hand fitted over the dip of his waist.
"Where am I?" Arthur asks, voice weak with exhaustion and lack of use. His throat feels terribly dry.
Eames makes a small humming sound, hand flexing gently over Arthur's hip. "Safe," he says. There's no humor in that single word, only earnestness.
Arthur tries to turn over to face him, but the movement only makes the pain in his chest unbearable. "I'm in your bed, aren't I?"
"Lucky for me I laundered the sheets last week." Arthur feels a light caress over the base of his skull, like Eames is nuzzling him with the nip of his nose. "Please don't move like that, you'll tear your stitches."
"Stitches? I was shot, what--"
"Yes, you were bloody shot, and I had the pleasure of watching you nearly bleed out before my eyes." The words are slightly unsteady, high at the end. Arthur would almost call it fear.
"So you took me back here."
"Your hotel room wasn't safe. Seeing as how this is London, I knew just the place to hide you away."
"Eames, they'll find you--"
"Fuck off, I've lived here nearly seven years and have never been traced. Give me a little more credit, love." Soft lips skim over the bare skin of Arthur's shoulder. It's so very strange, being held by Eames like this, in his own bed. They've so rarely touched in the real world.
"Fine," Arthur breathes, "but why are you--here? With me?"
He hears Eames chuckle. "Ah, well, it's an interesting story, really. When brought you back here, you were rather delirious. My doctor friend patched you up, but there wasn't much he could do to calm your fever, or your constant fear that I was going to abandon you. You...uh, you begged me not to leave the bed, that you needed to be in constant contact with me."
Arthur felt his cheeks grow hot. He remembered something about desperation and paranoia mixed with blurry images of Eames cupping his cheeks and shushing him quietly, but it all feels like a dream.
"I appreciate you humoring me," Arthur finally whispers.
Eames places a chaste kiss on the edge of Arthur's jaw. "I would've stayed regardless," he whispers back.