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When Eames wakes, it’s to the artificial chill of the hotel AC. A thought flits by, Americans and their air con. His senses sleep-addled and the light low in the early dawn, he rises nonetheless, on a vague trajectory to find something to throw on over his pants. He opens the first bag he trips over.
It takes him an unreasonably long minute to realize it isn’t his. It’s not even the same kind; he’d packed his worn leather duffel, and the suitcase he’s pawing through is quite clearly the hardside, Samsonite affair Arthur travels with. Eames shakes his head, about to move on, but stills when he recognizes the article in his hands.
This may not be his bag, but it’s most definitely his jumper.
It’s lightweight, fair-isle knit in two deep shades of green—secondhand, as most of his favorite pieces are. It’s not something he’d have brought from the heat of Kenya, though. In fact, he’s fairly sure he hasn’t seen it in months. His mind sharpens slightly with the rapidly-oncoming information.
“Sorry,” murmurs a rough voice from behind him.
Eames turns to see Arthur, still in bed. He’s propped up on one elbow, eyes half-shut, hair an absolute mess, his face soft and unguarded. For a moment, Eames’ confusion is usurped by the impulse to jump him all over again.
“What for?” he asks instead.
“Stole it. In Winnipeg.” Arthur flops back down to the pillow. “Missed you,” he adds, by way of explanation.
It’s disjointed, but it’s all Eames needs. He pulls on the sweater. In the light of day, he’ll wheedle Arthur for every detail, watch him flush with his typical lucid embarrassment. For now, he burrows back under the covers, draping a wool-clad arm across Arthur’s bare chest, and drops into blessedly dreamless sleep.