Work Text:
"Arthur," said Eames, hissing in a sharp breath as he shifted, Arthur's fingers working at his buttons, "What are you doing?"
"My shirt," said Arthur, pulling the switchblade from between his teeth and tucking it under the open collar of Eames' shirt, "Is Burberry. Yours is paisley. Three guesses which one is being sacrificed for the part of your bandage."
"It's so reassuring to see you don't crack under pressure," said Eames, wincing when Arthur's less than gentle rip-cutting jarred his wounded arm.
Arthur grunted, tugging the tattered shirt from Eames' good arm. He left the other sleeve mostly intact.
"Really, though," said Eames, watching Arthur rip the shirt into bandage-sized shreds. "If you wanted to get me naked, I'm not sure that bringing me to Prague under the guise of work and getting me shot was the least convoluted method."
Arthur's jaw tightened. His hands stayed steady over the shirt's dissection.
Eames let out a breath. "Arthur," he said, half-stern, half-soft. He lifted his good arm and touched the tips of his fingers to Arthur's cheek.
"I know," said Arthur. He didn't look at Eames. "Okay, hold still."
Eames swore quietly, one long, painful exhale, as Arthur tied the makeshift pressure bandage around his wound.
"Can you move?" said Arthur tersely, when he'd finished.
"Have to, darling," said Eames. He levered himself off the wall, just a little, swaying in closer to Arthur. Arthur's fingers closed automatically around his wrist. "Incredibly competent though you are, I don't think even you can manage this lot on your own."
"I'm not sure your presence will make a huge amount of difference," said Arthur, in a truly dreadful approximation of his usual condescending tone.
"Now, Arthur," said Eames. There was blood on Arthur's cheek, he noticed, Eames' blood, half-dried smudges pressed like heart-shaped lipstick bruises close to his mouth. He made no effort to wipe it away. "Really, for all you find me dreadfully insufferable, we are two of the best in the business. None of this defeatist attitude."
Arthur flicked his gaze pointedly to Eames' injured arm, held awkwardly against his side, forearm curled over his stomach.
"Yes, well-versed in details though you also may be, I'm afraid there's not much we can do about that now," said Eames. "So, if you would kindly hand me my gun, and perhaps condescend to help me to my feet, we can get on with this bloody business."
"I'm just wondering," said Arthur mildly, slapping Eames' gun into his hands, "Whether there is actually anything in the world that will shut you up. I've crossed getting shot off the list."
"Oh, darling," said Eames. He swayed a little closer. Arthur's hand was still lingering over Eames' fingers, fluttering over the shape they curled around the handle of his gun. "I assure you, given the right pursuits, I can be very, very quiet." He licked his lips.
Arthur's eyebrows shot up. "I'll also cross 'situations of imminent death' off the list of possible scenarios you might leave up with the inappropriate innuendos."
"Not imminent," said Eames quietly, after a silence.
"Almost certain," said Arthur, just as soft.
"Almost certain is better odds than imminent," said Eames.
Arthur's lips twitched. He was very close. Eames felt light-headed from trying so hard to keep his eyes in focus. Although possibly that had something to do with the pool of blood seeping uncomfortably through the seams of his trousers.
"Really, Arthur," said Eames, angling his head slightly, nudging into Arthur's space. Arthur was wonderfully, solidly warm where his legs were slotted up, messy, alongside Eames'. "Anyone would think you were trying to get somewhere with me."
Arthur darted his eyes down to Eames' mouth. The dark shudder of his lashes was without doubt the loveliest thing Eames had ever seen. "Maybe I am, Mr. Eames," he said.
Eames opened his mouth to reply. Arthur kissed him.
It wasn't soft or half-hesitant like the slow pull of his body towards Eames', and Eames was not at all surprised. This was Arthur all over: careful and considered until the decision, the snap into action, and then he was all vicious teeth and brutal, claiming fingers digging into Eames' bare hips, and sure, sure, sure, so certain with every lick, every laid-open slide of his palm over Eames' raggedly-beating ribcage. He tasted like blood and mint, metallic and fresh all wrapped up in wet heat. So very apt.
Eames blinked when Arthur pulled away. "I would like very much to say," he whispered, "Just for the record, that despite the reputation I know you to have, this negates absolutely everything you've ever done. You have the worst timing in the world."
Arthur closed his eyes. For a second he looked nothing but beautifully, familiarly exasperated. "Eames," he said. "You goddamned annoying motherfucker, we have approximately one minute and twenty-seven seconds before our almost certain deaths, so shut the fuck up and kiss me."
"Darling," said Eames, grazing the bloodied tips of his fingers wonderingly over the topmost peaks of Arthur's vertebrae. "Arthur."
He tightened his good hand around the base of Arthur's skull, ignored the flare of pain to curl the fingers of his other in the fabric bunched about Arthur's hips, and did.