To say Arthur's displeased to see Eames being so dumb is an understatement.

"Seriously?" he growls, rushing over and batting away Eames' hands, not caring if blood might leak onto his furniture because what the fuck? "You couldn't wait five minutes?"

The towel that had been intended for cleaning Eames instead gets wadded up against the open wound, applying pressure. "Lie down," comes the gruff instruction, a pointed glowering stare directed up at Eames' face to indicate Arthur's not playing around.