Eames kicks the door closed behind him with a loud crash, swearing at the effort it takes to keep Arthur on his feet for the last three steps to the bed. There's no tact to the way they both go down on the double bed, Eames's arm still looped over Arthur's shoulders, and they lie like that in the dark for a long minute.
Arthur's breathing is low and pained. His blood is still slick under Eames's fingers, and Eames knows he needs to move move move. The torn curtain had been a shit bit of first aid to begin with, not that there had been time for much else, and even as they lie there leaning into each other just enough for it to mean something Eames knows the bullet wound in Arthur's thigh is probably pumping more blood onto the cheap comforter than he can afford to lose.
But for all they've fucked, in hotel rooms and the back seats of cars and grimy motels just like this one, they've never just laid with each other before.
Of course it'd have to happen like this.
He takes one last second to curl his hand around Arthur's shoulder, squeeze hard enough for him to feel it through the fuzz of pain and blood loss. Then he wriggles free and gets up to turn on the light. Maybe it won't be so bad.
The heavy smell of blood in the air mocks his optimism. He smears blood across the light switch as he flicks it, blinking a little in the sudden glare.
"Shit," he mutters, leaning against the chipped panelling. Arthur hadn't said anything since they'd made it to the car. That should have been his first clue. Even last time he'd got shot he'd been bitching and swearing the whole fucking time.
He's already wasted enough time being maudlin, so he rolls up his bloodied sleeves and raids the tiny bathroom for towels before returning to the bed.
Arthur blinks sleepily when Eames kneels over him. Blood has already dried in black clumps on his eyelashes. "Eames..."
"Shut up," Eames says, but there's no bite behind it as he unties the blood soaked scrap of curtain as carefully as he can. And he's seen enough gunshot wounds to know this is bad, oh so very bad, but he can't let himself believe it's going to be anything but okay in the end.
"That," Arthur continues, every syllable stuttering on the sharp pant of his breath, "was not a bandage knot."
Despite everything, despite Arthur's blood clotting on his hands and on the bedspread, Eames huffs out a laugh.
Dammit Gollum you have put me on a such an injury kick my god XD 1/2 maybe??
Arthur's breathing is low and pained. His blood is still slick under Eames's fingers, and Eames knows he needs to move move move. The torn curtain had been a shit bit of first aid to begin with, not that there had been time for much else, and even as they lie there leaning into each other just enough for it to mean something Eames knows the bullet wound in Arthur's thigh is probably pumping more blood onto the cheap comforter than he can afford to lose.
But for all they've fucked, in hotel rooms and the back seats of cars and grimy motels just like this one, they've never just laid with each other before.
Of course it'd have to happen like this.
He takes one last second to curl his hand around Arthur's shoulder, squeeze hard enough for him to feel it through the fuzz of pain and blood loss. Then he wriggles free and gets up to turn on the light. Maybe it won't be so bad.
The heavy smell of blood in the air mocks his optimism. He smears blood across the light switch as he flicks it, blinking a little in the sudden glare.
"Shit," he mutters, leaning against the chipped panelling. Arthur hadn't said anything since they'd made it to the car. That should have been his first clue. Even last time he'd got shot he'd been bitching and swearing the whole fucking time.
He's already wasted enough time being maudlin, so he rolls up his bloodied sleeves and raids the tiny bathroom for towels before returning to the bed.
Arthur blinks sleepily when Eames kneels over him. Blood has already dried in black clumps on his eyelashes. "Eames..."
"Shut up," Eames says, but there's no bite behind it as he unties the blood soaked scrap of curtain as carefully as he can. And he's seen enough gunshot wounds to know this is bad, oh so very bad, but he can't let himself believe it's going to be anything but okay in the end.
"That," Arthur continues, every syllable stuttering on the sharp pant of his breath, "was not a bandage knot."
Despite everything, despite Arthur's blood clotting on his hands and on the bedspread, Eames huffs out a laugh.
Yeah. They're going to be okay.