Work Text:
Arthur is standing in front of the mirror in a cramped hotel bathroom and the air around him is still a little humid from his shower. His fingers are sticky-wet with gel as he works it into the dark strands of his hair, slicking it back into place. It sharpens his features, making him look older and a bit more stern than he appeared a few moments before when his hair was tousled and wet, curling at the ends.
The door to the hotel room he’s staying in bangs open and Arthur freezes, hands caught in midair on their way up to smooth back a few stray pieces of his hair.
It takes approximately five seconds of him listening intently for any sound in the room, breath caught in his chest as he calculates how fast he can get to his gun, before he recognizes it’s Eames by the tune he’s humming under his breath.
Arthur relaxes and lets out the breath he was holding, his heart still beating wildly in his chest.
It became something of a joke for Eames to whistle loudly or hum to himself whenever he returned back to the space he and Arthur were sharing after that time Arthur pulled a gun on him when Eames went out to get bagels for breakfast, and Arthur had been in the shower when he got back.
Arthur’s not even sure if Eames realizes he’s doing it anymore. He’s much quieter about it now, just the soft rumble from his chest that Arthur only notices because he’s listening for it.
Back then, Eames had been bundled up against the January wind outside, mostly unrecognizable under his heavy coat and hat, his back turned to Arthur. Arthur had been dripping wet, a towel wrapped half-haphazardly around his waist, but he had still managed to take Eames down in one graceful movement, knocking him onto his stomach and twisting an arm up behind his back. He shoved Eames’ face into the carpet with one hand and a gun into his back with the other. He had Eames pinned with his weight, the dampness of his skin soaking into the fabric of Eames’ clothes. When Eames was done yelling (“Fuck! Arthur, what the fuck do you think you’re playing at?”) at him, he’d realized how incredibly turned on he was by the fact that Arthur, Arthur, could pin him to the ground that way and keep him there. It had been a bit of a turning point for both of them, really.
Of course, that was back in the early days of their working relationship, when they were still unfamiliar with each other.
Now, Arthur knows the hunch of Eames’ shoulders under any jacket. He’s memorized the lines of Eames’ body, up close and personal, and stored the information away for safe keeping.
“Arthur, love,” Eames calls out, “I’ve got your latte here.”
“I’ll be right there,” Arthur calls back through the partially opened door of the bathroom. Arthur turns on the tap and rinses his hands clean, wiping them dry on the scratchy hand towel hanging from the towel rack on the wall. He exits the bathroom, coming over to Eames who is standing by the small table in the corner of the room. He’s reading the paper in one hand, and his own cup of tea is abandoned on the table. Arthur reaches for his cup, sliding it free from the tray with a small squeak of foam against cardboard. He takes a sip, closing his eyes when the first rush of liquid washes over his tongue.
It’s hazelnut, his favorite. Eames had learned and memorized that about Arthur after only a few days of working with him, and every time he goes out for coffee this is what he brings back for him now.
Arthur savors the flavor, dark and rich, not too syrupy or sweet. He doesn’t moan, but it’s a close thing.
When he opens his eyes, Eames is watching him fondly. “Good, then?” he asks, nodding his head towards the cup.
“Fucking excellent,” Arthur says, and takes another long swig from the cup, licking his lips when he’s done. Eames drops his paper next to his tea and moves closer to Arthur, sliding the cup from his hands and placing it carefully back on the table next to everything else.
A small smirk quirks at Arthur’s lips. “Eames,” he says, curiously.
Eames is suddenly invading his personal space, standing so close their chests are touching, and his hand is brushing against Arthur’s cheek, cupping it in one large, warm hand.
“Shut up, Arthur,” Eames says without any heat, and then leans forward and kisses him.
Arthur shouldn’t be surprised, but he is. He makes a startled noise that’s muffled against Eames’ warm mouth, then goes pliant as Eames holds his face a little more forcefully, slanting Arthur’s head to the side to make the angle better.
Arthur’s lips part as Eames’ tongue darts out playfully to lick at his lips before sliding into his mouth. At first, Eames sucks gently at Arthur’s tongue, licking away the lingering taste of espresso and hazelnut, but the kiss turns hard soon after. Eames’ tongue fights for dominance in Arthur’s mouth and wins as he licks across Arthur’s teeth, causing Arthur to let out a quiet moan. Arthur steadies himself by fisting his hands in the front of Eames’ shirt, bunching up the fabric in his palms.
Eames tastes like toothpaste and tea leaves, like the cigarette Arthur knows he smoked on the way to the cafe down the street from the hotel. Arthur kisses back just as hard, getting a thrill out of the way Eames’ breath hitches as their tongues stroke against each other.
Eames’ free hand holds Arthur by the hip, before traveling up over his ribs, rubbing his palm against the fabric of Arthur’s waistcoat. He gives Arthur one more flick of his tongue, sucking Arthur’s bottom lip into his mouth and releasing it with a wet pop, before letting him go and pulling his head away from Arthur’s.
Weak at the knees and more than a little breathless, Arthur reaches his hand out and curls his fingers around Eames’ wrist, catching him before he can step out of Arthur’s space. He reels Eames back in close, pressing their mouths together again, gently this time. Arthur kisses him softly, his lips moving slowly against Eames’. When he pulls away, he brushes his lips sweetly against the corner of Eames’ mouth, inhales the scent of Eames’ skin: his cologne and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke, and then steps back.
Arthur’s lips are kiss-swollen, his chin and the skin around his mouth colored red from Eames’ stubble. He can feel the heat of it lighting his skin on fire. He runs his hands down over his waistcoat, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. When he looks up at Eames, he’s standing there looking back at Arthur, the pad of his thumb playing over his own swollen bottom lip, rubbing back and forth. Arthur reaches forward and runs his hands across the wrinkles he left behind from clutching at Eames’ shirt, smoothing them out as best as he can.
Eames does not miss the small smile working at Arthur’s lips as he turns away to grab his suit jacket so they can leave for the warehouse, and Arthur does not miss Eames’ answering grin either.
It’s a whole new reason for Arthur to feel breathless.