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?"
Eames is slower to take in his food. Instead, he sips his wine and picks apart the omelette. He doesn't crack up any conversation or pressure Arthur into staying. When they're done, he stands up and collects their plates to the sink.
"How do you feel?" he asks finally, hip resting against the counter, patient eyes regarding Arthur.
At least they're both on shaky ground. It makes it fair, almost.
Leaving Eames to deal with the coffee, Arthur takes a slow poke around the place, pausing by the liquor cabinet and frowning when he sees just how many half-empty bottles there are in there.
"... You been partying a lot or something?" he asks, even if he knows that's not it.
There was no reason to take the empty bottles out, really. Sure, Eames had visitors around Christmas but things had quieted down since then, he had gotten used to existing just on his own again, not caring if his growing alcohol use was leaving marks.
And it sure was.
Arthur would find more of those bottles in the kitchen cabinets.
It's not an easy thing to forget, he could say, but he doesn't. Instead he looks at Arthur, glancing at him from the corner of his eye, quiet and still. He needs to knock himself out before he goes to sleep or he will dream about it, that damn pirate ship and killing the person he's come to love.
In the end, he says nothing, just fiddles with the coffee maker a little longer, too long, maybe he started to grind the beans by hand...
Seeing as how the man's not answering him, Arthur approaches Eames and asks quietly, "Nightmares?"
He doesn't know what nightmares might be plaguing Eames, but considering the man's PTSD had a tendency to rear it's ugly head at nighttime when they were under a contract the first time...
There's nothing to fiddle with at the coffee pot anymore. So Eames lowers his hands onto the counter, too carefully. He's never been good at dealing with guilt, he's more likely to just split and leave. But he can't do that now. It makes him feel sick in his stomach.
"Sure," he says hoarsely. "Nightmares, regret and self-medicating," he snorts softly.
A snort of sharp amusement spills out, just a little bitter.
"Oh, lovely, always lovely."
He's already laid himself open for Arthur once today. And he knows he needs to do so again. This one is going to sting maybe a little less, maybe a little more. It's hard to tell.
"I thought you wouldn't come back," he says after a moment of quietness, staring at the coffee pot. "And now that you are there, I'm not sure how to fix what the pirate ship wrecked. But thankfully I haven't forgotten it, it keeps me awake. Sometimes... Well, most nights, it's easier to sleep if I'm drunk. I know forgiveness doesn't just happen. But at least now there's a chance."
He looks at Arthur, waiting for him to throw it all back at his face. Rightfully so.
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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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Again comes that tight feeling in his chest as Arthur follows after Eames, smelling the food, feeling the soft warmth of the Brit's clothes on him.
What the hell is he doing? It was a mistake to come here...
Regardless, Arthur takes his place at the table, muttering a quiet 'thanks' before he digs in.
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"How do you feel?" he asks finally, hip resting against the counter, patient eyes regarding Arthur.
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Arthur shrugs, dabbing at the edges of his mouth with his napkin as he answers, "Full. That was good, thanks."
Is he deliberately avoiding answering about his state of being precisely? ... Maybe.
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Because obviously Arthur isn't about to leave right away and yet, he's not going to discuss about it either.
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"... All right."
He sees what Eames is doing, but why isn't he just insisting he should leave? Arthur knows better.
Of course it's this bastard who manages to throw him off the rails like that.
"Nothing alcoholic, thanks. Don't want to know what that would do mixing with the drugs."
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This state of uncertainty doesn't sit well with him but he lives with it for now, giving Arthur time to figure out what he wants.
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At least they're both on shaky ground. It makes it fair, almost.
Leaving Eames to deal with the coffee, Arthur takes a slow poke around the place, pausing by the liquor cabinet and frowning when he sees just how many half-empty bottles there are in there.
"... You been partying a lot or something?" he asks, even if he knows that's not it.
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And it sure was.
Arthur would find more of those bottles in the kitchen cabinets.
It's not an easy thing to forget, he could say, but he doesn't. Instead he looks at Arthur, glancing at him from the corner of his eye, quiet and still. He needs to knock himself out before he goes to sleep or he will dream about it, that damn pirate ship and killing the person he's come to love.
In the end, he says nothing, just fiddles with the coffee maker a little longer, too long, maybe he started to grind the beans by hand...
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Seeing as how the man's not answering him, Arthur approaches Eames and asks quietly, "Nightmares?"
He doesn't know what nightmares might be plaguing Eames, but considering the man's PTSD had a tendency to rear it's ugly head at nighttime when they were under a contract the first time...
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"Sure," he says hoarsely. "Nightmares, regret and self-medicating," he snorts softly.
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Arthur stares a moment longer, taking in Eames' body language, reading between the lines to discern what's not being said.
"How's that working out for you?"
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"Oh, lovely, always lovely."
He's already laid himself open for Arthur once today. And he knows he needs to do so again. This one is going to sting maybe a little less, maybe a little more. It's hard to tell.
"I thought you wouldn't come back," he says after a moment of quietness, staring at the coffee pot. "And now that you are there, I'm not sure how to fix what the pirate ship wrecked. But thankfully I haven't forgotten it, it keeps me awake. Sometimes... Well, most nights, it's easier to sleep if I'm drunk. I know forgiveness doesn't just happen. But at least now there's a chance."
He looks at Arthur, waiting for him to throw it all back at his face. Rightfully so.
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