Eames remains where he is, listening to Arthur go about his business, grab the clothes, click there goes the bathroom lock. He drinks a few more glasses of scotch, standing by the table, leaning against it with his eyes fixed on the bathroom door.
He's thinking, quietly assessing the situation. It's not much different than he expected it to be to be honest. It had always been an assumption between himself and Arthur that there were no feelings involved and Eames had sort of betrayed that trust, hadn't he?
It doesn't make the ache any less so in his chest, though.
He's about to go back to the kitchen to fix Arthur something to eat when he hears the the crashing of glass in the bathroom. He pushes himself up quickly and to the bathroom door in the next moment, knocking on it gingerly.
"Arthur?" he calls through the door. "Are you alright? What happened?"
Hand throbbing and trembling slightly from the shock and pain of it, Arthur's left breathing heavily as he stares at the cracked mirror, some of the shards having fallen to the sink. He can distantly hear Eames at the door over the sounds of the bath filling.
There's no way to hide this. Even if Eames keeps a first-aid kit in the bathroom, there's the matter of the mirror.
"I slipped and hit the mirror," he answers distantly, lifting his bloody hand to examine the knuckles, spotting the tiny pieces of glass embedded in the red mess. "... I'm okay."
At least the pain is a welcome distraction from how uncomfortable his chest is feeling.
"Do you want to open the door so I can help you patch up?" Eames asks through the door, voice tight with worry. Arthur doesn't slip and hit the bloody mirror.
Unless...
"Are you dizzy from the drugs?" He should open the door so Eames can check up on him in the bath if that's the case. "Arthur, let me in."
Which would be easier to admit/lie about? Being dizzy, or deliberately punching the mirror?
Arthur's going to swallow his pride and answer, "Yeah, I guess I'm a little woozy, still."
He first wraps the towel around his hips then the discarded shirt around his hand before opening the door, giving Eames a disgruntled look that could easily be interpreted as being annoyed at being drugged. Hopefully.
"Are you sure you can handle a bath?" Eames asks as he grimaces, looking at Arthur's hand that has been wrapped in the shirt, blood already staining the fabric.
He knows Arthur well enough to know that he's going to be pissed about not having all his faculties in order. So he doesn't linger on that, just ushers him back into the bathroom, guides him gently to sit on the toilet while he fishes out a first aid kit. There are not a whole lot of shards on the floor thankfully. He'll take care of them later.
He should have checked with Arthur before letting him lock himself in the bathroom. These bloody feelings are affecting his judgement.
"I'll have to plug out the shards. It's not going to be fun," he says as he eyes Arthur's knuckles after pulling away the shirt, holding it still under Arthur's hand to keep the blood from running wild on the floor.
"Not my first time dealing with glass," Arthur reminds him quietly, letting Eames fuss over him with relatively little struggle for once. He'll blame it on the drugs.
Just like he's blaming them for the state of his hand and how he doesn't want to pull it away from Eames in turn. Or how he's sitting there, watching the Forge's face with unreadable, dark eyes, quietly taking in the man's features and the obvious distress he's feeling in that moment.
"Yeah, I know," Eames says with a quick glance up at Arthur's face. "Just saying it's going to hurt." It comes out like an apology, with a worried frown.
He drags a hamper in front of Arthur and perches on the edge of it, tweezers come out of the kit, disinfectant sloshed onto Arthur's knuckles in liberal amounts, onto the tweezers as well. Then he gets to work, as gently as possible removing the shards, diligently, bit by bit, his other hand holding Arthur's while he holds the tweezers in his other.
"Are you alright?" he asks somewhere along the way. "Tell me if you have another dizzy spell and we'll take a break."
Arthur makes a noncommittal noise, fingers twitching now and then against Eames' as the glass is taken out. Sure, it hurts, but he can distance himself from that... and he's distracting himself with watching Eames' face, anyway.
"Can't trust me to hold myself up?" he asks with a soft snort, finally looking away. "It's fine, it'll pass."
Eames is about to point out that he broke the mirror by slamming into it. But doesn't. Instead he shrugs and admits mildly: "Something like that."
He quiets then, focusing on the task at hand. He's very thorough, and very meticulous about it as only someone used to detailed work can be. He takes his time and then floods the wounds with more disinfectant to get the too small shards out of there.
Then come the bandages, gently applied to his hand, wrapped around and twisted around his fingers until the area is covered with white, clean wraps.
"Let me clean this up," he says as he stands up. "Do you want me to help you into the bath?"
"Not really," Arthur huffs, but then concedes softly, "But you probably should, anyway."
He absently runs his fingers over the bandages, feeling the sweat cool on his back now that the torturous part of it all is over. He should send Eames out. Take a moment in solitude to try to sort out the mess in his head.
Instead, he's sitting back and watching Eames tidy up. Finally voicing, "We're gonna regret this, you and I. If we make another contract. You know that, right?"
Because there's no way this could go well. It's Duplicity.
Eames snorts softly at Arthur's concession before he gets back to tidying. He drops everything into the sink, because he'll have to get a trash can here to finish that anyway and sweep the floor, probably vacuum it properly when the bathroom is dry enough again.
He pauses when Arthur mentions the contract and turns to look at him. The frown upon his brows is a tight one and he stares Arthur quietly for a moment.
"No, I don't think I know that," he says firmly. It's always been the difference between himself and Arthur, this right here. Where Arthur sees obstacles, Eames sees opportunities. Arthur is gifted at making those obstacles go away when he's committed. Eames is good at finding unusual ways around them, sometimes ignoring them downright (and then stumbling on them when he's not looking).
He straightens, walks to Arthur and reaches down to gently take his arm to pull him up, wrap that arm around his own shoulders while reaching around Arthur's waist, making sure he's steady on his feet. "Let's get you into the bath." They can talk about the contract later. When Arthur has had time to consider it. Eames doesn't want him to take one on lightly.
Were Arthur anyone else, he'd sigh with exasperation. Instead, he just rolls his eyes and tugs off his towel before he lets Eames guide him to the bath, gingerly lowering himself into the steaming water with a pleased little hiss. Then he draws his hands away from Eames so the Brit can get away as well and takes a moment to duck his head underwater, soaking his hair before coming back up with a soft gasp.
Eames helps him in the tub carefully and then folds the towel onto the side. He gives Arthur a thoughtful look before busying himself with the cleaning again.
"I'll be just outside if you need anything," he says as he steps out, leaving the door open as he fetches a bin and takes care of the trash.
Then he pops out again with a quick: "I'll make you something to eat. Don't get out of there on your own."
Again, the desire to bring up the trashed mirror is right at the tip of Eames' tongue but he doesn't say anything. He just rolls his eyes at Arthur and leaves him at it. (Also because it's hard to look at him like that, flushed and very naked, and not feel a rush of want go through him.)
He makes his way to the kitchen, having just one calming drink in the way, and settles down to cook. Something simple, just whipping together an omelette from the ingredients in the fridge. He's working on auto pilot while listening to the sounds coming out of the bathroom. If Arthur goes silent for too long, he'll make it his business to walk over to check up on him.
There's the occasional sound of water splashing as Arthur sets about washing himself, awkward as it is with one hand. Eventually he settles back to just close his eyes and soak while the water's still warm, resting his head back and distantly listening to the sounds of Eames moving around outside. It's almost reminiscent of before, when they'd been living with Gerard, when things hadn't gotten so... fucked up. Except back then, the bathroom wasn't anywhere near enough to the kitchen for Arthur to listen like this, but still.
Eames finally wanders in some half an hour later, leans against the door frame with hands in his pockets as he asks: "Would be ready to get up in fifteen? I'll put the food on the pan if so."
He tries not to settle too much into nostalgia. He can't do that to himself. He'll have to remind himself constantly that this is unique situation. Not something that's likely to happen again.
Eames quirks his brows at him and then snorts. "No, I don't have to cook for anyone. But I often want to cook for you in particular." He snorts again as he leaves Arthur for his last fifteen minutes of soak time.
He whistles a little while he fries the omelettes, one for himself as well. And then slides them both onto plates and sets the table quickly. They'll have time too cool down a little while Eames will help Arthur out of the tub.
It's fifteen minutes later when he returns, crouching down beside the tub, his arm folded over the side while his chin rests upon his knuckles. "I could also feed you into the tub," he jokes and resigns himself for a splash of water that will probably follow.
There's no splash forthcoming, though the stare from Arthur might be just as frosty. Then he's shaking his head and reaching out to unplug the tub, letting the water slowly drain as he sits up, trying not to think too hard on the whole thing of Eames wanting to cook for him in particular because of the cursed L-word.
He shifts up, getting ready to stand, and gestures towards his discarded towel. "Pass me that, would you?"
Eames snorts at the frosty stare and then climbs up to his feet, picking up the towel and offers it to Arthur. He hovers close by and offers his arm for Arthur when he readies himself to get out of the tub.
"Are you going to be pissed if I suggest that you stay here for the night? I'd rather not let you wander out like this."
Arthur almost points out that if he stays, they'll both be in trouble for the situation, given they're not contracted. But, at the same time, he remembers they're both probably up shit creek anyway already, so what's another citation to add to the list, right?
Even if he doesn't think quite like that, no doubt Eames would wave it off as such.
So instead of arguing right off the bat, Arthur scoffs as he starts toweling himself off. "Worried I'll run into danger?"
"I'm worried you'll trip and hit your head," Eames points out with a frown as he leans against the doorframe and pointedly looks away while Arthur towels himself. It's not like he hasn't seen everything there's to be seen already but right now it would just bring more trouble, wouldn't it?
"You're more than capable of taking care of some trouble. But drugs are a little different, yeah?"
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He's thinking, quietly assessing the situation. It's not much different than he expected it to be to be honest. It had always been an assumption between himself and Arthur that there were no feelings involved and Eames had sort of betrayed that trust, hadn't he?
It doesn't make the ache any less so in his chest, though.
He's about to go back to the kitchen to fix Arthur something to eat when he hears the the crashing of glass in the bathroom. He pushes himself up quickly and to the bathroom door in the next moment, knocking on it gingerly.
"Arthur?" he calls through the door. "Are you alright? What happened?"
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Hand throbbing and trembling slightly from the shock and pain of it, Arthur's left breathing heavily as he stares at the cracked mirror, some of the shards having fallen to the sink. He can distantly hear Eames at the door over the sounds of the bath filling.
There's no way to hide this. Even if Eames keeps a first-aid kit in the bathroom, there's the matter of the mirror.
"I slipped and hit the mirror," he answers distantly, lifting his bloody hand to examine the knuckles, spotting the tiny pieces of glass embedded in the red mess. "... I'm okay."
At least the pain is a welcome distraction from how uncomfortable his chest is feeling.
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Unless...
"Are you dizzy from the drugs?" He should open the door so Eames can check up on him in the bath if that's the case. "Arthur, let me in."
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Which would be easier to admit/lie about? Being dizzy, or deliberately punching the mirror?
Arthur's going to swallow his pride and answer, "Yeah, I guess I'm a little woozy, still."
He first wraps the towel around his hips then the discarded shirt around his hand before opening the door, giving Eames a disgruntled look that could easily be interpreted as being annoyed at being drugged. Hopefully.
"It's not that bad."
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He knows Arthur well enough to know that he's going to be pissed about not having all his faculties in order. So he doesn't linger on that, just ushers him back into the bathroom, guides him gently to sit on the toilet while he fishes out a first aid kit. There are not a whole lot of shards on the floor thankfully. He'll take care of them later.
He should have checked with Arthur before letting him lock himself in the bathroom. These bloody feelings are affecting his judgement.
"I'll have to plug out the shards. It's not going to be fun," he says as he eyes Arthur's knuckles after pulling away the shirt, holding it still under Arthur's hand to keep the blood from running wild on the floor.
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"Not my first time dealing with glass," Arthur reminds him quietly, letting Eames fuss over him with relatively little struggle for once. He'll blame it on the drugs.
Just like he's blaming them for the state of his hand and how he doesn't want to pull it away from Eames in turn. Or how he's sitting there, watching the Forge's face with unreadable, dark eyes, quietly taking in the man's features and the obvious distress he's feeling in that moment.
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He drags a hamper in front of Arthur and perches on the edge of it, tweezers come out of the kit, disinfectant sloshed onto Arthur's knuckles in liberal amounts, onto the tweezers as well. Then he gets to work, as gently as possible removing the shards, diligently, bit by bit, his other hand holding Arthur's while he holds the tweezers in his other.
"Are you alright?" he asks somewhere along the way. "Tell me if you have another dizzy spell and we'll take a break."
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Arthur makes a noncommittal noise, fingers twitching now and then against Eames' as the glass is taken out. Sure, it hurts, but he can distance himself from that... and he's distracting himself with watching Eames' face, anyway.
"Can't trust me to hold myself up?" he asks with a soft snort, finally looking away. "It's fine, it'll pass."
And then what excuse will he have?
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He quiets then, focusing on the task at hand. He's very thorough, and very meticulous about it as only someone used to detailed work can be. He takes his time and then floods the wounds with more disinfectant to get the too small shards out of there.
Then come the bandages, gently applied to his hand, wrapped around and twisted around his fingers until the area is covered with white, clean wraps.
"Let me clean this up," he says as he stands up. "Do you want me to help you into the bath?"
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"Not really," Arthur huffs, but then concedes softly, "But you probably should, anyway."
He absently runs his fingers over the bandages, feeling the sweat cool on his back now that the torturous part of it all is over. He should send Eames out. Take a moment in solitude to try to sort out the mess in his head.
Instead, he's sitting back and watching Eames tidy up. Finally voicing, "We're gonna regret this, you and I. If we make another contract. You know that, right?"
Because there's no way this could go well. It's Duplicity.
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He pauses when Arthur mentions the contract and turns to look at him. The frown upon his brows is a tight one and he stares Arthur quietly for a moment.
"No, I don't think I know that," he says firmly. It's always been the difference between himself and Arthur, this right here. Where Arthur sees obstacles, Eames sees opportunities. Arthur is gifted at making those obstacles go away when he's committed. Eames is good at finding unusual ways around them, sometimes ignoring them downright (and then stumbling on them when he's not looking).
He straightens, walks to Arthur and reaches down to gently take his arm to pull him up, wrap that arm around his own shoulders while reaching around Arthur's waist, making sure he's steady on his feet. "Let's get you into the bath." They can talk about the contract later. When Arthur has had time to consider it. Eames doesn't want him to take one on lightly.
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Were Arthur anyone else, he'd sigh with exasperation. Instead, he just rolls his eyes and tugs off his towel before he lets Eames guide him to the bath, gingerly lowering himself into the steaming water with a pleased little hiss. Then he draws his hands away from Eames so the Brit can get away as well and takes a moment to duck his head underwater, soaking his hair before coming back up with a soft gasp.
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"I'll be just outside if you need anything," he says as he steps out, leaving the door open as he fetches a bin and takes care of the trash.
Then he pops out again with a quick: "I'll make you something to eat. Don't get out of there on your own."
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"I'm not an invalid," Arthur huffs, giving Eames a narrow-eyed stare that's only slightly spoiled by how he's flushed and soaked from the bath.
Still, he's feeling a flush of something warm and, dare he say it, fond at Eames' concerned mother-henning, even if he'll never admit to it out loud.
Maybe that's why his voice is just a touch softer when he adds, "I'm fine. Don't worry."
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He makes his way to the kitchen, having just one calming drink in the way, and settles down to cook. Something simple, just whipping together an omelette from the ingredients in the fridge. He's working on auto pilot while listening to the sounds coming out of the bathroom. If Arthur goes silent for too long, he'll make it his business to walk over to check up on him.
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There's the occasional sound of water splashing as Arthur sets about washing himself, awkward as it is with one hand. Eventually he settles back to just close his eyes and soak while the water's still warm, resting his head back and distantly listening to the sounds of Eames moving around outside. It's almost reminiscent of before, when they'd been living with Gerard, when things hadn't gotten so... fucked up. Except back then, the bathroom wasn't anywhere near enough to the kitchen for Arthur to listen like this, but still.
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He tries not to settle too much into nostalgia. He can't do that to himself. He'll have to remind himself constantly that this is unique situation. Not something that's likely to happen again.
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Arthur blinks his eyes open and lifts his head to look over at Eames, feeling significantly calmer than before.
"Yeah, I can get out in fifteen," he answers, sitting up in the gradually cooling water. "You didn't have to cook for me, you know..."
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He whistles a little while he fries the omelettes, one for himself as well. And then slides them both onto plates and sets the table quickly. They'll have time too cool down a little while Eames will help Arthur out of the tub.
It's fifteen minutes later when he returns, crouching down beside the tub, his arm folded over the side while his chin rests upon his knuckles. "I could also feed you into the tub," he jokes and resigns himself for a splash of water that will probably follow.
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There's no splash forthcoming, though the stare from Arthur might be just as frosty. Then he's shaking his head and reaching out to unplug the tub, letting the water slowly drain as he sits up, trying not to think too hard on the whole thing of Eames wanting to cook for him in particular because of the cursed L-word.
He shifts up, getting ready to stand, and gestures towards his discarded towel. "Pass me that, would you?"
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"Are you going to be pissed if I suggest that you stay here for the night? I'd rather not let you wander out like this."
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Arthur almost points out that if he stays, they'll both be in trouble for the situation, given they're not contracted. But, at the same time, he remembers they're both probably up shit creek anyway already, so what's another citation to add to the list, right?
Even if he doesn't think quite like that, no doubt Eames would wave it off as such.
So instead of arguing right off the bat, Arthur scoffs as he starts toweling himself off. "Worried I'll run into danger?"
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"You're more than capable of taking care of some trouble. But drugs are a little different, yeah?"
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... That little white lie is really coming to be a nuisance, isn't it?
Arthur sighs and pulls on his borrowed trousers, muttering, "We'll see how I'm feeling after some food. It can't last more than a few hours, right?"
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"Come on, the food's getting cold," he says as he nudges his chin towards the set table and leads the way towards it.
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