Chapter Text
Arthur does yoga. Eames discovers this fascinating little tidbit of information one morning after a particularly sleepless night culminates in Eames deciding to go to work instead of stare at the ceiling of his hotel room for three more hours.
He walks into the empty studio apartment that is the base of operations for their current job and is greeted by the sight of Arthur on a yoga mat, his lithe body a mess of tangled limbs.
“Care to join me?” Even though Arthur’s face is pressed against his knee, he’s aware of Eames’s presence immediately. His voice isn’t even the least bit strained, he sounds exactly the same as he does sitting at his desk, asking Eames if he’d like to go for a coffee run together.
“I don’t think I could if I wanted to, darling. I’m not flexible in the slightest,” Eames leans against Arthur’s desk (Arthur is really the only one who needs a desk) and watches as he gracefully moves into another pose.
“That’s the whole point, Eames, yoga improves your flexibility.”
“But now you’ve gone and discouraged me. I could never pull off those tight little trousers as well as you do.”
“That’s one of the biggest lies you’ve ever told.”
“I’m flattered,” Eames grins at Arthur, who is currently peering up at him from between his thighs.
“You’re up early,” Arthur remarks, his voice is only ever so slightly breathless.
Eames marvels at how little embarrassment Arthur is displaying here. The pointman seems perfectly content to hold a conversation from in between his firmly toned thighs.
Eames supposes it’s that uniquely Arthurian confidence that whatever Arthur is doing, he’s doing it well.
“S’been a while since I’ve taken Somnacin,” there’s no use lying to Arthur, he would just see the signs of fatigue on Eames’s face and figure it out on his own.
It’s that uniquely Eamesian confidence that no one can keep anything hidden from Arthur.
“This helps, you know. It’s how I started.”
“If I wanted to bend myself into uncomfortable positions before collapsing into bed I wouldn’t call it yoga,” Eames says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively as Arthur moves into a resting pose.
It’s fascinating how Arthur’s face can be planted into the ground, yet his body still finds a way to convey just how unamused he is.
“I’ll show you my routine, if you like,” Arthur offers as he sits up, ignoring Eames’s innuendo.
Eames watches Arthur for a moment. Something shifted between them after the Fischer job, Eames notices. It’s a slight, and perhaps insignificant, shift, but there is something different. Maybe sharing a near-death experience is what caused it.
He doesn’t believe in cliches, but they stared down the light at the end of the tunnel then turned and walked away. That’s not an insignificant experience to share. Most people would call it life-changing. It isn’t a stretch to believe it could have changed his and Arthur’s relationship.
“Cheers. You know where I’m staying?”
“You can come to me.”
+++
It takes Arthur less than a minute to answer the door of his hotel room. Eames feels underdressed, he’s in old, threadbare sweats, an army t-shirt, and brand new sneakers he’d picked up on his way over.
“You were never in the army,” is the first thing Arthur says as he stands aside to let Eames through.
“Patriotism, innit? Support the troops and all that rubbish."
“You don’t like England either,” Arthur points out drily. Arthur knows this because Eames refuses to take any job that involves being in England for any period of time.
“It’s a terrible country,” Eames agrees, “doesn’t change the fact that I’m English.”
“I brought you a mat,” Arthur gestures to where he’s pushed the sofa in his suite aside and laid down two mats, side by side.
Eames spends the next hour floundering through all the different positions Arthur shows him. Arthur made it look so easy, but Arthur makes everything look easy. Eames should have known this would be absolute hell. He hadn’t been lying when he said his flexibility was non-existent, and he's realizing now that his core strength is even worse.
(He even got stuck at one point.
“Eames what were you even doing. You were just supposed to be in down dog.”
Arthur untangled Eames, carefully pulling his leg out from behind Eames’s neck and laying him out on the ground.
Arthur was always careful. Alway capable and careful and safe.)
Eames is lying on the mat by the end of it. Every muscle in his body is sore, his abs hurt with every breath he takes, and he keeps thinking of Arthur’s soothing hands on him, easing him into the positions. He keeps thinking of Arthur’s deep voice, quietly murmuring the names of each pose into his ear.
“Eames. Drink your tea,” Arthur calls over to him from the kitchen.
Arthur has made them an herbal tea which Eames is petulantly refusing to drink.
“No.”
“Do it for Queen and Country.”
“I hate England. Tea isn’t even English.”
“Stop complaining, it’s getting cold.” Arthur ducks down behind the open fridge door.
Eames is already drifting off, right there on the ground with his face against the mat and his mug of tea steaming in front of his eyes. He watches the tendrils of heat rising from the mug as his eyelids get heavier and heavier.
“Should I make up the sofa bed?”
Eames lifts his head and drops his chin on the ground. Arthur is looking at him from over the fridge door. He’s smiling, his dimples are showing, and his eyes are impossibly, incredibly warm.
“Mmph,” is all Eames can answer before dropping his head back down onto the mat.