Arthur gets the distinct impression he's ruined things again, but what's done is done.
Besides, he's spotted that little patch of red growing in the middle of Eames' bandages, and that's enough to spoil the mood all on it's own.
"I think you tore some stitches," he sighs, exasperated and tired as he forces himself off, grunting quietly when he feels Eames' still-softening length slip out of him. He doesn't bother putting all his clothes on, just grabbing up his underwear so he's not flapping about completely naked.
"Wait here, I'll get a towel to clean you off and then check your wounds," he orders, voice strictly business and calm as always, smoothing his hair back to some semblance of neatness as he goes upstairs to the bathroom.
Tired is what Eames feels as well, his wrist resting on top of his eyes when Arthur steps away. He doesn't bother covering himself in the slightest, just lays flat and naked and flaccid on the sofa bed until Arthur has disappeared from sight.
Then he rolls up, cringing a little at the tightness that he feels against his side and reaches for his underwear on the floor, using them to wipe himself clean. After that he just sits there for a moment, staring at the opposing wall, elbows on his knees and feeling like he just fucked up things even worse than he did before.
Finally he leans back a little and starts peeling off the bandages on his side. There's not a whole lot of fresh blood there, but enough that it runs down to his hip and he scrambles to yank the rest of it away so he can catch the drip with the soiled bandages.
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.
Eames grunts with half annoyance, half something else, uncomfortable, something that sits right under his ribcage. Something that fucking aches worse than the wound against his side.
At first it seems like he's going to push Arthur's hands away, but then thinks better of it and lays back against the sofa bed, hands coming up to rub over his face.
"I love it when you push me around, darling," he says but there's none of the usual playful tease in it, just... tired and little sad.
Arthur's hands still from where they'd been getting the medkit out, his eyes flicking up to stare at Eames' partially covered face. He almost says something but then decides against it, shaking his head and looking down at the wound which seems the more pressing issue.
It's not until after he's finished closing it up again and is applying fresh bandages that he comments quietly, "Not like you to be so moody."
Eames stays still and quiet the whole time, eyes closed and quiet. Arthur's not even snapping back at him like he usually does.
Obviously Eames could have just... not knocked on that door and they would maybe have been fine, in a couple of years.
"I know," he replies to Arthur's observation, which is as astute as they usually are. Usually Eames is the steady rock that just keeps going. Despite whatever people might think of him bue to his flighty personality. But not now. He feels restless and awkward and anxious.
Arthur falls silent and finishes with the bandages, making sure they're secure and not likely to come flying off or getting bunched up by accident.
He should get dressed, properly. Or washed up, first. Or he should get both done for Eames, first, though the man probably needs a sponge bath, because like hell is he letting the man get those bandages wet.
"... Think you can manage the stairs?" he asks when he's finally done with the bandages, not looking up as he packs away the medkit and wads up the now bloodied towel.
They're back in square one it seems and it both frustrates and angers him for reasons that aren't quite clear to him.
But he's nothing if not a good actor and he decides to swallow his own irritation and gut wrenching doubt by reaching for a small, playful smile.
"Hey, sorry for messing up your couch, darling. I'll get you a new one, okay." He reaches over to run his fingers through Arthur's hair, knowing a few locks will come lose and that might have been exactly what he wanted. "Especially if that means we might end up ruining that one too..."
Arthur rolls his eyes but doesn't pull away from Eames, instead taking his arm and putting it over the slimmer man's shoulders. It's weird how that playful smile is both a bit of a relief and a bit painful to look at, but Arthur doesn't want to look into it, now, when they're both reeling from everything possible.
"Forget the couch," he huffs, getting them both to stand. "C'mon. We both need to wash up."
"You're so bossy even after coming like a fountain on my stomach," Eames murmurs with that infuriating smile of his while Arthur hauls him up. "I like it. It reminds me how bossy you are before while you tell me to fuck you harder."
Oh, yeah, he's putting in all his ridiculous charm and playful energy that is at least 70% fabricated. Just to gain some ground in normalcy.
"You don't know when to shut up, do you?" Arthur grunts, taking them up the stairs and past the open floor of his bedroom to the bathroom. Once there, he gets a stool for Eames to sit next to the bath, giving him a pointed stare that indicates he'd better stay put, or else. He gets the cleaning products, laying them down on the edge of the tub before grabbing the shower head and turning on the water.
A washcloth gets soaked, then Arthur's using it to give Eames' body a quick 'rinse', before following it up with some body wash, careful not to get the bandages wet.
"I try not to shut up if I can help it," Eames hums agreeably. Arthur has him on his toes, waiting for the other shoe to drop any minute now, he's already fluffing up a smoke screen so it doesn't feel that jarring when he disappears into the mist like a ninja. Jesus, these analogies are getting just as cheesy as his teasing.
So, he surrenders himself to Arthur's fussing. And if he leans against him whenever he has a chance, it's just to annoy Arthur more, not anything else, right?
Still, Arthur doesn't grouse, just focusing on getting Eames cleaned and then put in (his) bed, because there's no point in hauling the man back downstairs like this, right? It's not like he's doing it because he wants to keep Eames nearby or anything.
"I'm gonna shower, so try to get some sleep," Arthur orders, giving the Forge a stern look. "IF you need anything, just gimme a shout, all right?"
Okay, so he's graduated to bed because he's pathetic. Eames finds the idea quite sad but he says nothing. Actually nothing at all. Just rests back against the sheets that smell like Arthur and closes his eyes.
He passes out eventually. Waking up only when Arthur emerges from the shower.
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Besides, he's spotted that little patch of red growing in the middle of Eames' bandages, and that's enough to spoil the mood all on it's own.
"I think you tore some stitches," he sighs, exasperated and tired as he forces himself off, grunting quietly when he feels Eames' still-softening length slip out of him. He doesn't bother putting all his clothes on, just grabbing up his underwear so he's not flapping about completely naked.
"Wait here, I'll get a towel to clean you off and then check your wounds," he orders, voice strictly business and calm as always, smoothing his hair back to some semblance of neatness as he goes upstairs to the bathroom.
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Then he rolls up, cringing a little at the tightness that he feels against his side and reaches for his underwear on the floor, using them to wipe himself clean. After that he just sits there for a moment, staring at the opposing wall, elbows on his knees and feeling like he just fucked up things even worse than he did before.
Finally he leans back a little and starts peeling off the bandages on his side. There's not a whole lot of fresh blood there, but enough that it runs down to his hip and he scrambles to yank the rest of it away so he can catch the drip with the soiled bandages.
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"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.
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At first it seems like he's going to push Arthur's hands away, but then thinks better of it and lays back against the sofa bed, hands coming up to rub over his face.
"I love it when you push me around, darling," he says but there's none of the usual playful tease in it, just... tired and little sad.
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It's not until after he's finished closing it up again and is applying fresh bandages that he comments quietly, "Not like you to be so moody."
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Obviously Eames could have just... not knocked on that door and they would maybe have been fine, in a couple of years.
"I know," he replies to Arthur's observation, which is as astute as they usually are. Usually Eames is the steady rock that just keeps going. Despite whatever people might think of him bue to his flighty personality. But not now. He feels restless and awkward and anxious.
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Arthur falls silent and finishes with the bandages, making sure they're secure and not likely to come flying off or getting bunched up by accident.
He should get dressed, properly. Or washed up, first. Or he should get both done for Eames, first, though the man probably needs a sponge bath, because like hell is he letting the man get those bandages wet.
"... Think you can manage the stairs?" he asks when he's finally done with the bandages, not looking up as he packs away the medkit and wads up the now bloodied towel.
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They're back in square one it seems and it both frustrates and angers him for reasons that aren't quite clear to him.
But he's nothing if not a good actor and he decides to swallow his own irritation and gut wrenching doubt by reaching for a small, playful smile.
"Hey, sorry for messing up your couch, darling. I'll get you a new one, okay." He reaches over to run his fingers through Arthur's hair, knowing a few locks will come lose and that might have been exactly what he wanted. "Especially if that means we might end up ruining that one too..."
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"Forget the couch," he huffs, getting them both to stand. "C'mon. We both need to wash up."
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Oh, yeah, he's putting in all his ridiculous charm and playful energy that is at least 70% fabricated. Just to gain some ground in normalcy.
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A washcloth gets soaked, then Arthur's using it to give Eames' body a quick 'rinse', before following it up with some body wash, careful not to get the bandages wet.
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So, he surrenders himself to Arthur's fussing. And if he leans against him whenever he has a chance, it's just to annoy Arthur more, not anything else, right?
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Still, Arthur doesn't grouse, just focusing on getting Eames cleaned and then put in (his) bed, because there's no point in hauling the man back downstairs like this, right? It's not like he's doing it because he wants to keep Eames nearby or anything.
"I'm gonna shower, so try to get some sleep," Arthur orders, giving the Forge a stern look. "IF you need anything, just gimme a shout, all right?"
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He passes out eventually. Waking up only when Arthur emerges from the shower.