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He peels the ruined fabric of Eames’ dress shirt, bloodied and tattered, away from the wounds in his shoulder as soon as they can get back to the hotel.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Arthur says around a cigarette. Eames has the decency and the presence of mind to cower slightly, at least.
Arthur shucks the shirt into the trash and surveys the damage for a moment, shaking his head angrily. He pries the first aid kit open like it’s done something inexcusable and flings his cigarette into the toilet, takes a fistful of ibuprofen and azithromycin out of the box and shoves it and a plastic hotel cup half-filled with water at Eames and barks, “Eat this.”
“I –“ Eames starts.
“Shut up,” Arthur finishes. He doesn’t even look up from Eames’ injuries when he says it. Eames jams the pills into his mouth and drinks the water and then shuts his jaw with an audible snap.
“Move your ass,” Arthur snarls after apparently deciding on a course of action for Eames’ shoulder. Eames scoots over and Arthur gets to work on rolling up his sleeves and thoroughly washing his hands in the hotel room’s cramped loo.
Arthur gets right up in his face and says loudly at him, “THIS IS GONNA HURT,” like he might not otherwise understand. He picks up the isopropyl and a wad of gauze and douses the one with the other, presses the cloth to Eames’ torn skin, and –
The pain. God, the pain. Eames hisses with it, trying not to flinch away from Arthur’s ministrations since that will no doubt earn him a slap across the top of his head for his insolence. He’s definitely experienced worse in the past, but there’s something about the burning sensation of alcohol in a flesh wound that’s sharper than sharp, sharp as crystal.
“There’s still some buckshot in there that I’m gonna have to dig out,” Arthur mumbles. He pulls a largish tweezer out of the kit and shoots Eames a glare. “Don’t fucking move while I do this, got it?”
Eames steels himself and stays as still as he possibly can. By the time Arthur’s satisfied that he’s gotten all the pieces he can out of the wound and stitched up the deeper holes, there are tears streaming down Eames’ face.
The tears make Arthur’s hands stutter and pause for a moment when he sees them. He finishes dressing Eames’ shoulder with as much gentleness as he can muster, given the circumstances.
When he’s done taping it up, he releases a big sigh and says almost tenderly, “C’mon, stupid. You need to go lie down.”
++++
Eames wakes up with a moan a few hours later from the mounting throb in his bandaged shoulder. Arthur is instantly at his side.
“You need more pain meds? Here, here, sit up,” he says. He stuffs the pillows behind Eames’ back and hands him another bunch of pills and another cup of water, then goes back to the blue glow of his opened laptop. “We’re gonna need to monitor that for infection pretty closely the next couple days,” he adds, not looking up.
Eames mumbles something from the bed that Arthur doesn’t quite catch and his head shoots up with a challenging, “Huh?”
“I’m sorry,” Eames says meekly.
Arthur fixes him with a stare and sits back in his chair, simply observing Eames for a moment. Anyone else would think his response the measured essence of calm, but – Eames knows him quite a bit better than that.
“You’re sorry,” Arthur repeats.
“I am very, very sorry,” Eames quietly reiterates.
Arthur points at him from across the room and says plainly, “Fuck you.”
“Arth-“
“No, Eames,” he says definitively, tossing his pen onto the table next to his little notebook, “fuck you.”
“Iamsosorry,” Eames says in a miserable rush.
He can see Arthur grind his back teeth from fifteen feet away.
“Let me let you in on a little secret, Mr. Eames,” he says.
The use of the mister makes Eames wince. Oh, I’m in the shit now, he thinks.
“When we agreed to get together? When we agreed to get emotionally involved?” Arthur continues, his voice rising with every sentence. “We also agreed that we weren’t gonna take stupid risks with ourselves, remember?”
Eames sits up on the bed silent and alert, his head bowed, not sure if that’s a rhetorical question and too afraid to answer anyway.
“DO YOU REMEMBER THAT DISCUSSION, MR. EAMES?” Arthur yells.
Not so rhetorical, then. “Yes,” Eames replies.
“I’m glad. I’m glad to hear that,” Arthur says, calmer now. He’s still in his waistcoat, pulls at the bottom hem of the thing like it’s what just lost control. “It’s good to know that that thick fucking Anglo skull of yours can apparently take as many beatings as it has and still thwart brain damage, so I’ll chalk our current situation up to just your usual fundamental doltishness.
Now. You’re well aware of my feelings for you, correct?”
“Yes,” Eames responds with a clear nod.
“And you still share those feelings?”
“Very much so,” Eames says, daring to make eye contact. Arthur’s face is an aggregate of planes, nothing soft about it, his mouth a thin taut line. He smacks his open hand on the surface of the table suddenly and Eames jumps.
“THEN WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU GO AND DO SOMETHING LIKE THIS?”
Eames lowers his eyes and ducks his head again until his chin is on his chest. “Because I’m an arsehole,” he admits, hastily.
“Because you’re an asshole,” Arthur agrees, nodding. “And do I agree to partner assholes?”
“No,” Eames whispers, now genuinely scared at where this conversation is headed.
“No. No I do not, Mr. Eames.”
There’s silence in the dim room for a moment, Eames trying to camouflage himself into his side of the big bed under Arthur’s furious, unabating glare.
“Arthur?” He dares.
“What is it, Eames?” Arthur says with resignation.
“Are you breaking up with me?”
There’s no response whatsoever from the other side of the room for far too long, and that’s more painful than a gunshot could ever be for Eames.
Arthur lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag. He looks back up at Eames after a few moments and says, “Consider this your yellow card, Mr. Eames.”
He leaves the cigarette in the little hotel ashtray and walks over to where Eames is on the bed, leaning over him.
“Don’t do this shit to me again, Eames. I’m not fucking kidding.” Arthur’s eyes are suspiciously shiny in the murky light. “I don’t want to lose you, understand? One way or another, that’s not something I want to have happen.”
“I won’t. I won’t, I swear,” Eames promises.
Arthur stares at him for what feels like an eternity, apparently assessing Eames’ sincerity.
Eames doesn’t drop his gaze for a millisecond, and is rewarded with a kiss on the top of his head, a hand gently stroking the side of his neck. He swallows hard, knowing how close he’d come to fucking up everything yesterday afternoon.
“C’mon,” Arthur says gently. “C’mon, lie back down. Let’s get you tucked in.”
He does as he’s told, but grabs Arthur’s wrist before he can go back to his laptop, and kisses the palm of his hand.