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It’s nearly midnight when Eames knocks on her door, a little drunk and a little sad but mostly just very tired. He waits a few heartbeats, sighs and rests his forehead against the lacquered polish of the door, his fist against the door near his face and his other arm drooping at his sides, a half-empty bottle of wine knocking against his thigh.
He knocks again and jumps when a typically irate voice inside grumbles, “I’m coming, fuck’s sake,”
The door opens and Arthur looks at him, frowning. There’s a gun hidden poorly behind her body and she flicks the safety on with a huff, setting it down on the side table beside her.
“What do you want, Eames?” she snaps.
Eames lets himself look her up and down. Her face is as clean of make up as ever, her hair tied into a messy bun at the top of her head. She’s wearing a giant towel, wrapped around her from the top of her breasts nearly down to her knees and her calves below them are lightly sprinkled with fine brown hairs where she hasn’t bothered to shave in days, caught up in the job and honestly, too lazy and practical to bother in any case. Her toes are long and twitch when his gaze catches there, on white skin and short, neat nails.
“Well,” he says faintly, “this isn’t what I expected.”
Arthur rolls her eyes and steps away from the door, holding it open. “Come in then. I don’t have all night.”
Eames hesitates. “I suppose this isn’t the best time?” His voice is clear but even he can hear the exhaustion in it.
Arthur huffs again and wraps her strong fingers around his wrist, yanking him in. “Is it ever? Look, today was rough for everyone so you may as well come in. You can keep your hands to yourself while I bathe, can’t you?” she says, the arch of her eyebrows making it very clear that the answer had better be yes.
Eames smiles with just the very corners of his mouth. “Of course, darling. I am a big boy after all.”
She doesn’t smile back, not exactly, but she turns around and walks further into her flat. She’s not like any other woman Eames has met; there’s no sway to her walk, just the steady, military one-two beat of her steps as she leads the way to the bathroom. He laughs quietly to himself, drags his hand over his face and shuts the door behind himself, flicking the deadbolt across before following her.
By the time he catches up she’s already in the bathtub, the water gently steaming and covered in a swathe of thick white bubbles. The entire room is steamy and smells lightly of jasmine and honey and he settles in on the floor at a right angle, back against the wall and feet against the tub. If he slouches, his head doesn’t quite touch the towel bar and the terrycloth of her towel cushions his head.
Arthur’s head is leant back against enamel, cheeks already flushed and eyes closed when she asks, “So. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, not particularly,” Eames says, raising the bottle to his mouth and taking a long, uncouth drag. “Would you like a taste, Arthur?”
Arthur snorts. “Gracious of you but no.” She stretches in the tub and flings one leg out over the lip of the bathtub, splashing scented water over Eames' ankles. He smiles at her lack of shame and echoes it, rummaging through his pockets for a crumpled cigarette case and resting one hand on her ankle, thumb brushing in tiny circles over the the bone and short hairs.
He raises his pack questioningly. “Do you mind?”
She waves a magnanimous hand. “No, there’s no smoke alarm in here. But if you drop your ash in my bath, I’ll snap all the fingers of your left hand.”
Eames' mouth twitches. “That’s my dominant hand,”
“Yes. I know,” Arthur smiles, with both dimples and teeth.
It makes Eames laugh, her quiet viciousness, and he makes a showy gesture of pulling his lighter from thin air, touching the tip of his cigarette to the flame. He tips his head back and inhales slowly, holding it for a second before exhaling the smoke in careful ringlets. He takes another puff, and another, before pressing it into Arthur’s waiting hand. He waits until her wet fingers have a sure grip before he drops his own hand to rest back on her ankle, draped on the edge of the bath.
“Menthols, Eames?” Arthur says. “Really?"
Eames chuckles. “I nicked them from a teenager in the lobby. Beggars can’t be choosers, hmm, Arthur?”
Arthur sighs. “Tell me there’s more than one in there at least.”
Scoffing, Eames lifts the pack and rattles it gently. “What do you take me for?”
Arthur pointedly exhales smoke in his direction, slipping further into her bath so that the water laps gently over her shoulders.
They sit in silence for a while, sharing the cigarette between them and then a second. “Bit of a shite day, hmm?” Eames says finally, and Arthur looks back at him.
“Just a bit, yeah,” she says, and stubs the very end of the cigarette out against her soap dish, dropping the butt on top of a half-used bar of soap. She frowns a little. “Remind me to get that later.”
“Will do,” Eames promises, heaving himself to his feet. His knees crack and he groans. “Bloody hell, I am not old enough for everything to be this painful.
Arthur smiles at him mercilessly. “Not going to the gym enough, old man. Now pass me my towel.”
She stands up as Eames obliges, bubbles and water trailing down her pale skin, catching on the sharp points of her nipples as they stiffen in the sudden cold. Her small breasts still sit high on her chest and water drips from the wet hair of her underarms. She’s not embarrassed, not flinching at his steady gaze. They’ve haven’t had sex, and they won’t tonight, but Eames still appreciates her beauty and her frankness as she steps out of the tub and into the towel he’s holding ready for her, knowing that they will soon, knowing what they’re heading towards.
“Eames,” she says, “it’s past midnight now and I’m exhausted. Are you staying or leaving?”
Eames tilts his head, considering, and sets his bottle of wine down on the counter next to where Arthur’s toothbrush and toothpaste are sitting in a clear, short glass. “I think I’ll stay,” he says slowly.
Arthur nods, towelling herself off briskly. She drapes her towel back over the rack and walks naked to her bedroom. Eames follows, eyebrows raised and cock twitching half-heartedly. He shoves his hands into his pockets and leans against the doorframe to her room, watching as she pulls out a pair of practical black panties, slipping them up against her hips. She sits on the bed and looks at him steadily. “Well?”
He smirks at her and starts undressing as she watches him, eyes dark. He doesn’t make a show of it but he makes no effort to protect any last vestiges of modesty. They’re well past that point. He folds his clothes as he goes and leaves his shirt and trousers folded on her dresser, his suit jacket hooked over her doorknob. His boxers are black silk, which makes her snort, and he leaves his socks on as he pads towards her, lifting back the top edges of the comforter.
He gestures towards them extravagantly and Arthur snorts again, slipping in under the sheets and onto her side, curling in just slightly. She looks back over her shoulder when Eames slides in and lies stiffly on his back, reaching across for his arm and dragging him over until he’s wrapped around her, a line of warmth all along her back and tucked behind her knees. He reaches up to take the elastic out of her hair until it pours across the crisp pillow and he can smell the left over hairspray and rests his lips against the back of her neck, exhaling softly just to feel her shiver.
She wriggles and settles into place, humming in contentment, and laughs when she can feel Eames' cock twitch again against the small of her back. “Maybe tomorrow,” she says sleepily.
Eames smiles against her. “Yes, of course, darling,” he says, and waits until her breaths even out to whisper his thanks and tuck her hair behind her ear, fingers dragging slowly across her warm skin.