Work Text:
“You took a job in Indonesia during monsoon season,” Eames clarified. He turned a page in his book, and shifted his reading glasses back up his nose.
“Yeah, I never said it was a good idea,” Arthur barked into the phone. Eames could hear the rain across the line, like drums in a parade over a staticky tv.
“You took a job with Briggs in Indonesia during monsoon season. Your taste in teammates remains impeccable, Arthur, truly.”
“You’re my taste in teammates, asshole. And I don’t exactly have as many choices as I used to.” Arthur’s voice came in hurried pants as he dashed between buildings and down an alley. His suit was drenched. His Italian leather loafers made unpleasant squelching noises against the pavement.
“Well you can’t use any of your credit accounts, and they’ll already have your description flagged throughout the city,” Eames cautioned. He folded his glasses and laid them in the paperback, marking his place.
“I know that, Eames. That’s why I’m calling.”
“POLRI still on your tail?”
“Yeah, but they’re not as fast as I am.” Eames could hear the smirk. “Listen, do you have any connections here or not?”
“That depends,” Eames said, shrugging on a jacket.
“On what?” Arthur snapped.
“On what part of Indonesia you’re in, obviously.” Eames locked the door of his hotel room behind him and headed out into the parking lot.
“I’m in the south end of Jakarta,” Arthur murmured as he slipped into a shop.
“If only,” said Eames. He turned the key in the ignition of his rental car.
“If only what?” Arthur huffed.
“If only you knew someone who was also in the area and had fungible resources he could share with you.”
“Eames, I’m hanging up.”
“Well, don’t do that until you tell me where I’m picking you up. That would be counter productive.” Eames heard silence across the line for longer than a moment. He wondered briefly if Arthur had actually rung off. The squeak of useless wiper blades grated throughout the cabin of the car. “Arthur?”
“I’m on Jalan Bendha. In the coffee shop.”
“I’ll see you in five.”
^~*~^
Arthur was an adult, and had been for quite some time. Additionally, he was practical, and he was trained for close quarters in the military. Eames’ hotel suite only had a queen bed, and his own job was at risk of compromise if he rented Arthur his own room. This shouldn’t have been a problem for two functioning, military trained adults, which again, they were. Arthur knew he should really just be grateful that Eames had flown in that day, choosing to work on his forge for the Tangerang job in advance.
But Arthur had grown soft in his relatively old age, and he wasn’t used to sharing resources anymore. Even when running with Cobb, he always got his own room. It wasn’t like Eames was the problem. Eames was clean, and surprisingly tidy. He smelled good, and he didn’t snore. He didn’t steal covers, and he didn’t sleep hot. He believed in lights out by 10:00 on any work night, unless he was tailing a mark. He had filled Arthur’s belly with CFC, and made him a hot mug of peppermint tea after. Once Arthur had showered away the chill of the rain, Eames had bundled him in a freshly laundered T-shirt and boxers, both of which were far too large. Eames was an ideal emergency roommate.
Arthur was the problem. It wasn’t even the obvious issue, either. Arthur had buried his feelings for Eames for years, and one night of shared occupancy didn't faze him. The problem was that Arthur was a little bit of a princess when it came to actual sleep. He could still sleep wherever he landed; he didn’t need a fancy mattress or Egyptian cotton sheets. He had fairly regular insomnia, sure, but that was to be expected with dreamsharing. Arthur’s issue was simple: without constructing a perfect fort of cushions, he could not get comfortable, and therefore could not sleep. It wasn’t dramatic, and it wasn’t insurmountable— as long as he could pile pillows and blankets around him to keep his battle worn body in a reasonably stable position, he could get a good five hours.
Without the support, he couldn’t relax past the pain of the literal war wounds he carried. Specifically, it was his hip. It was particularly bad that night after all the running. Worse than the running, however, was the rain. Arthur could work past the pain if he kept moving. It didn’t even slow him down. The trouble came once he paused.
By 10:15, Arthur knew sleep was going to be a lost cause. He sighed. He shifted awkwardly, somehow completely unbalanced on his own leg. He pulled his upper knee forward, but that made a muscle in his lower spine pull. He flopped onto his back, but that made him feel too exposed to rest. He sighed again, heavily.
“Darling,” Eames grumbled.
“What?”
“Everything alright?”
“I’m fine.”
Arthur sighed again, extra heavily.
“Arthur,” Eames started again, his face buried in his own pillow. “What’s wrong?” He ground out.
“I can’t get comfortable,” Arthur whined under his breath.
“How do you normally sleep?” Eames asked, his eyes squinted in the darkness.
“On my side, with a lot of pillows behind me.”
“Well, we don’t have any extra pillows.”
“I’m aware, Eames.”
With a grunt, Eames bodily shifted Arthur, rolling him up like a teddy bear into his embrace. He slipped his knee between Arthur’s, and gently wrapped an arm around his waist. Arthur was too stunned to even freeze, a loose-limbed and fantastically relaxed little spoon.
He was comfortable. His leg was at a perfect angle, the tension entirely out of the scar-twisted cartilage. He was absolutely shocked. And he was even more shocked when he blinked and Eames’ alarm was going off, nine hours later.
“You slept well,” Eames noted with a yawn.
Arthur didn’t say anything at all.
^~*~^
Two weeks later found him puttering around Paris with Ariadne, flopping dramatically on mattresses while she sipped a latte and tried not to think about finals.
“This isn’t working,” he muttered, sprawled out in a zero gravity chair.
“Don’t be like that,” Ariadne chided. The chair swayed gently beneath her. “These things are pretty comfortable. Why don’t we dream in them?”
“Because they’re three thousand euros,” Arthur sighed. “The lounge version is too conspicuous to throw in a dumpster. And you have somnacin,” he added. “You don’t need to be comfortable to sleep.”
“But you do,” she said, glancing over her sunglasses. “You need to be more comfortable in your daily life.”
“I do,” he agreed. He hadn’t— not before. He’d been just fine, with his pillows and his blankets. And then Indonesia happened— Eames happened— with his warm thighs and steady arms. Arthur’s nightly pillow fort was no longer enough. Like a starving man who’d just tasted steak, all he wanted was more. So, he started shopping.
“You think you might be looking in the wrong place?” Ariadne asked, passively.
“I have looked in every place,” Arthur growled.
“Why don’t you just call Eames?”
Arthur froze. “And why would I do that?” How could she know? How could she possibly know?
Ariadne shrugged. “He knows people. He studies this kind of thing. If something exists that’s so comfortable it knocks a person right out, Eames will have heard of it.” Arthur sighed.
“I’m not calling Eames,” he said, tonelessly.
“Suit yourself,” she shrugged.
^~*~^
Two months later, it was hot enough in Texas that Arthur almost missed being in Indonesia, drenched in the rain and shivering. The worst part was, the heat was keeping them indoors. Eames was handling surveillance, and Cobb was backing him up, as needed. There was nothing for Arthur to do but research, and that meant there was nothing for Arthur to do but sit. Sitting only worsened the pain, and made it harder for him to pretend nothing was wrong. When he stood up from his desk, Arthur felt the shrapnel all over again, blown from the pressure of the IED into the tendons and muscles surrounding his hip.
At least he’d walked away.
It was just Arthur and Cobb in the warehouse, so he was more open than he otherwise would be. He dropped into a deep lunge, and listened to Cobb rummaging around in the kitchen. The microwave beeped. “You’ve got to do something about this, Arthur,” Cobb frowned, as he reentered the workspace. He handed Arthur a hot rice bag. Arthur held it against the inside of his hip and blew out a long breath. “Call,” Cobb commanded.
So he sat for ninety minutes on hold with the local VA. The military had put him in this mess, and since he was in the states, he figured they could get him out of it. “We can absolutely get you in for an appointment,” the woman on the phone said, cheerfully. Arthur felt some of the tension flow out of his shoulders. “How’s December 4th?”
Arthur blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“You see, there’s a six month waiting list,” she said.
“I won’t even be here in six months,” Arthur said.
“Well where will you be?” she asked. “I can transfer you over to the VA in that state.” Arthur hung up.
He was running out of ideas. He decided to go back to the basics.
^~*~^
“Nope,” Ariadne said firmly. “Absolutely not.”
“You don’t have to stay and it doesn’t have to be weird,” Arthur pleaded. “I just need to know.”
“What’s going on over here then?” Eames asked, strolling in with a shockingly large coffee. Arthur waved his hands at her not to answer, but—
“Arthur’s trying to find something that will let him fall asleep instantly.”
“Drugs,” Eames said, bluntly. “The answer is drugs.”
“He wants to spoon me,” Ariadne shrugged, and Eames whipped his head towards Arthur.
“That’s not what I—“
“Oh, sorry,” she said. “Technically he wants me to spoon him.”
“Why would that help him—“ Eames started, but then the smile on his face suddenly grew three sizes. “Darling,” he purred.
“Eames, shut up,” Arthur warned.
“Is there anything I can help you with Arthur?” Eames asked, merrily.
“I told you to begin with you should ask him,” Ariadne grumbled. Eames eyebrows darted upward.
“To begin with? How long as this been going on?”
“Ariadne, don’t—“
“Two months, at least,” she supplied.
“Darling!” Eames gasped, at once aghast and gleeful.
Arthur turned. He turned so sharply that he twisted his already bad hip, and nearly stumbled. He stormed off, teeth gritted. An insistent voice in the back of his mind said, “just go back and ask him to hold you.” It wasn’t like he didn’t know he could. Eames had made his openness to the idea pretty clear over the years.
Arthur leaned against his desk and rolled his die instead.
“You mustn’t be afraid to ask for help, Arthur!” Eames called. Arthur closed his eyes.
^~*~^
He decided to take a different tack.
He tried just not thinking about it. It went about as well as not thinking about elephants ever does. He focused on the overly chilled air conditioning blowing through his room, and did not think about Eames’ leg between his. He thought about running different remote scripts on the mark’s work computer, and not about Eames’ arms around him. He thought about the argument he’d had with Dom earlier that day, and not about the fact that Eames was just down the hall.
He didn’t think about his smirk, or his shoulders. He didn’t think about how Eames never told a soul about Indonesia, or how he hadn’t pressured Arthur for anything. He hadn’t done anything but nod as Arthur left that morning, and he’d been his normal self when he arrived for their current job. If there was any special softness in Eames’ eyes reserved for Arthur, and if Arthur had noticed, it wasn’t something he needed to ponder (or even be surprised about), so he didn’t.
Arthur settled into his Houston hotel bed, and happily stuffed the complementary extra pillows between his legs. He tucked the comforter tightly around his waist. He sighed, content.
And then his hip seized. Sharply.
Arthur pulled a pillow across his face. He wasn’t proud of the frustrated scream he released into it.
“You mustn’t be afraid to ask for help, Arthur!“
Seriously, fuck everything.
^~*~^
Eames’ smile was cocky as he stood in the doorframe, pushing the safety back on his beretta. “You couldn’t live with your own failure,” Eames quoted. “Where did it bring you? Back to me.”
“Shut up, Eames,” Arthur sighed, exhausted. He stood as still as possible, his bad hip throbbing.
“Let’s get you off that leg, hmm?” Eames suggested, keen to the almost imperceptible lean and limp Arthur perpetually carried. He wrapped a strong arm around Arthur’s waist and hoisted him up, just slightly. Arthur sighed with relief as the ball of his hip drifted back from the socket. He limped heavily against Eames’ side, the hotel room door banging shut behind him.
Maybe it didn’t mean anything. It probably didn’t mean anything when Eames gathered Arthur into his arms. It probably didn’t mean anything when he caressed Arthur’s face. And the gentle, soft look of affection in his eyes? That probably didn’t mean anything either.
But Arthur was tired of pretending, so he pressed his mouth to Eames’ and wound his arms around the forger’s neck. Eames smiled at him after, his eyes dancing, his mouth resolutely sealed against the smart remark he clearly wanted to make.
“Yeah, I know,” Arthur sighed, shaking his head. Eames’ grin widened, and he pulled Arthur closer.
“I’m gonna make you so fucking comfortable,” Eames murmured against Arthur’s throat. Arthur sighed, almost a moan, and leaned in. “I’m gonna make you sleep until you can’t even remember your own name.”
“Fuck,” Arthur hissed.
“I’m gonna slip my knee between your legs, spread them open, and just fucking spoon you until you’re begging for it, until my name is dripping off your tongue as you sigh in your dreams.” He stepped back and lifted Arthur into a bridal carry. Arthur, thoroughly exhausted and disturbingly aware of his own heartbeat in his hip, allowed it.
“Yeah baby,” he purred, as Eames carried him toward the bed. “Keep going.”
“I’m not going to let you out of bed for a whole day,“ Eames groaned. “And I’m going to snuggle you, over and over, until you feel like you couldn’t possibly handle anymore, and then I’m going to snuggle you again.”
Arthur laughed as Eames gently dropped him onto the bed. Eames leaned in, resting his hands on the mattress on either side of Arthur. He kissed him softly. Arthur traced a hand along Eames’ jaw. He didn’t say anything. He could tell from Eames’ eyes he didn’t need to— not right now. Eames pulled off his own shirt, and Arthur set to work on his jeans and shoes.
In the morning, he could think about the implications of what they were doing. He could wonder whether this was a long term thing, or if the water ran as deep for Eames as it did for him. For now, he just breathed in the clean scent of the forger, savored the warmth and relaxation he was steeping in, and dragged a hand to cover Eames’ at his waist. “Goodnight, Mr. Eames,” he whispered.
Eames kissed the back of his head. “Goodnight, darling.”
Arthur slept.