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It was treachery that left Arthur on the run in the first place – treachery of an almost high school level, if he was being honest. The team, it turned out, just didn't like him. So they planned to flee with the information (and sell it,) and leave him with the mark, to take the heat.
It was their own stupidity that got them caught. Because Arthur watched everyone, not just the mark, and they should have known that. It was his resources and quick thinking that had kept him alive.
It was his ex-team's own fault that he left them where he left them and got on the plane to England.
Getting sick on the bus from Heathrow, though – that was just Arthur's shit luck.
He hadn't been sick in so many years, he almost didn't recognize the signs. He'd started to think maybe they'd poisoned him or something, when that first, niggling ache began just under his skin. That had started on the plane. Then, later, he was sitting on a cramped, stinking bus when it began to feel familiar. He felt too hot, his eyes burned, and his skin literally ached in the strangest way. The material of his clothes felt too close, a constant irritant. And he was exhausted. He had panicked for a full five minutes before remembering that people sometimes caught the flu. Then he laughed in relief.
It was good timing that he managed to get on that first flight out to England, and trust that brought him to Eames's flat to lay low for a few days. Very few people knew where Eames lived under his many different aliases. Arthur got off the bus, took a taxi to Eames's neighborhood, and walked the rest of the way.
"You look like hell," Eames told him when he opened the door.
Eames did not look like hell. With close-cropped hair and a few days worth of scruff, old sweatpants, bare feet, and a loose, comfy looking hoodie that Arthur wanted to crawl into and die, Eames looked like heaven.
"No, really," Eames said, standing aside so that Arthur could drag his sorry ass through the doorway, "you look like a zombie. You are actually a sort of seafoam green right now. I've honestly never seen you looking so unattractive. It's fascinating."
Arthur sneered and pushed past him, dropping his overnight bag and carefully placing the stolen PASIV on the floor.
"I took the bus," Arthur said. His voice sounded like sandpaper.
"Got carsick, then?"
Carsick, flu, betrayed by his team, left to die, and now Eames acting like a dick to him... Arthur felt gloriously, spectacularly sorry for himself. He rarely indulged in this emotion and found that it felt kind of good. He filed away that bit of information for later. He'd seen self-pity become a habit in others. As with any vice, he thought it best not to indulge in it often enough to really start to like it.
"Anyone follow you?" Eames asked.
Arthur withered him with a glance. Or at least he hoped he did. "I took care of it. It's done."
Eames waved him into the kitchen, where he turned on the light. It was way too fucking bright, spearing through Arthur's skull, and he shut his eyes against it.
"Sorry," Eames said, but didn't lower the lights. His hands prodded at Arthur's skull, then his chest and sides. Gently ran his hand down his abdomen and back up. "Injuries?"
"Nope," Arthur said, pulling away. "I'm good." Just probably going to vomit if you keep poking at me, he did not add.
Eames's hand lingered on his chest for longer than necessary. "Go and have a shower, then. That's an imperative. You smell like a bus."
"Right," Arthur said, bending down gingerly to retrieve his bag. "Thanks."
"Not a problem."
Once inside the bathroom, Arthur took a deep breath. He had to brace on the sink while brushing his teeth, fighting down his gag reflex the whole time. The hot shower felt delicious. The nausea seemed to wash down the drain with the water, leaving Arthur feeling achy and trembly, but at least not like he was going to spew. Huge improvement. Water was awesome.
Once out of the shower, the cold hit him and soon he was shivering. Arthur usually slept in his boxers, and the only other clothes he had with him were work clothes. He eyed a bathrobe that Eames had hanging on the hook. It looked warm. He swiped it, drawing the belt tight around his waist. His feet were freezing, so he put on his stupid, calf-high socks. His feet were still freezing and now he looked ridiculous, but, fuck it.
Huddling his hands up into the sleeves of Eames's robe, he walked out of the bathroom. Eames was still in the kitchen, at the stove.
Arthur came up behind him. "I hope you don't mind..." he started to say, but a loud sneeze cut him off.
Eames jerked forward, swiping at the back of his hair like Arthur had sprayed him with acid.
"Jesus, Arthur."
"I didn't get you," Arthur said. "I turned the other way."
Eames turned to look at him. The corners of his lovely mouth quirked up, probably because of the robe. Arthur wanted to kiss his stupid, pink lips, but he didn't want to share his disease.
"Feeling better?" Eames said.
"Yeah."
"Go lie down in my bed."
"I'll get germs on your pillow," Arthur said. "No, I'm okay on the sofa. But thanks."
Eames shrugged. "I'll wash my sheets. Go on, now. Do as you're told."
Arthur sighed and did as he was told. He knew the way to Eames's bedroom, he knew the contours of the big, plush bed and he knew the soft sheets and heavy comforter (Eames called it a duvet,) the piles of pillows and oh god, Arthur was nearly asleep by the time he got there.
He left the robe on and climbed between the sheets, wrapping his arms around himself and turning on his side. He was tired, sleep would be the best thing, and he thought it would knock him out the second he hit the pillow.
It didn't.
That stupid fucking team of his. And he'd vetted all of them. They all had good reps, working separately. Only two of them had ever worked together before, and there had been no reports of any kind of rotten behavior or betrayal from any of them. They were supposed to be solid. They were solid—that's what everyone said—except this time. This time, they'd picked one team member and set him up.
Arthur had known it was coming, down there in the final day. He'd overheard a few words and phrases (tellingly: they really, really disliked him and didn't want to work with him again,) and he'd gone through their emails on just a gut feeling. So, no harm done to him, really.
The thing was, he should have caught it earlier and saved himself some time. Maybe he'd gotten lazy. Maybe taking a string of easy jobs had made him lose some of his edge. He was never the best reader of people, but he was the best reader of facts. Most often, an algorithm of data and reasoning would lead him to the most probable outcome, even when it came to individuals. This time, that had obviously not been the case.
He sighed and turned the other way.
Eames stood silhouetted in the doorway, carrying a tray. He knocked lightly before entering his own bedroom. Arthur grunted in reply and Eames came in and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Tea and toast," he said in a soft voice. "That will warm you up and settle your stomach."
He was hungry. The thought of anything heavy was enough to turn his stomach, but toast sounded pretty good. And Eames did make a mean cup of tea. Arthur sat up, keeping the duvet around his shoulders. Eames put a few pillows behind him. It was coddling, there was no other word for it. He was being coddled right now and he didn't give a fuck. The toast smelled good.
"Thanks," he said, as Eames put the tray over his legs.
There was something off about Eames as he sat there, shoulders slightly hunched, watching Arthur nibble the toast. Almost like he was side-eyeing him.
"What?" Arthur said. "Out with it."
Taking a deep breath through his nose (like he was trying to steady himself or something,) Eames asked, "Was it business, or personal? Your team."
Not the question he'd expected to hear. Sometimes it was like Eames could pluck thoughts out of his damn head. He shrugged like it was no big deal. Well, it wasn't, really.
"Little of both. You know how it is." He took a sip of the tea. It was hot going down and warmed him from the inside.
"Did you kill them?"
Arthur put the cup back on the tray. "That's not how I do things."
Eames huffed out a little laugh.
"I didn't say they weren't dead," Arthur said. "I don't know. They could be. I left an electronic trail linking them to the mark, and deleted all of my involvement. They're blacklisted, anyway. I'll find out tomorrow."
"I see." Eames had a way of looking so hard at people that they felt it in the back of their heads, and that was what he was doing to Arthur. "How's the tea?"
"Eames. No killing, I mean it. Don't get involved." Arthur was too tired, too achy, too disappointed for this shit. Okay, so maybe he could stand a little coddling on a night like tonight, just this once, but Eames going all "lover's revenge" would be a bit much.
"No, of course not," Eames said, relenting. "You've got it under control, yeah?"
"Yeah." Arthur took another swallow of tea. It was starting to burn his throat. The hot, scratchy feeling started to crawl up the inside of his neck into his head. He wormed his way out of the duvet for some air. A moment later, he was shivering again.
"That's a bitch, isn't it?" Eames said. "The flu, I mean. Let me get you a pain killer, shall I?"
"That'll be good."
While Eames was out of the room, Arthur nibbled on the toast and tried to swallow the tea. It burned and ached now; later it would be like swallowing glass. He hadn't been sick in a long time, but he remembered that much. Better eat and drink what he could before it got that bad.
Eames came back with a pill, a bottle of water, and two tired, sticky throat lozenges with torn wrappers. "Found them in the cabinet," he said. "In case you get desperate enough."
Arthur took the pill and the water, and swallowed them down hard. He looked from the pathetic lozenges, to the tray with tea and toast, to Eames. He thought back a few hours ago, being left behind by his "team"; the long plane ride through which he had worked the entire time; the close, hot bus ride. But mostly, the whispered words ringing in his ears: 'Take that asshole's cut of the money... He'd do the same to us if he could... No big loss, who's going to care if he goes missing? Probably put a lot of people's debts to rest... They'd thank us for getting rid of him...'
Even though he knew he'd been sold out and betrayed, he didn't feel betrayed. It was hard to actually feel hurt that they'd singled him out. Arthur had no use for stupid people. He didn't require affection or even respect to get the job done. He just needed to do his work and get out alive. And really, it was better to just get that group out of the business before they did any real harm.
Eames, though. Bringing him tea and shitty lozenges as if it mattered. It was nice.
"Thank you," he said.
Still unreadable, Eames moved the tea tray out of the way, placing it next to the bed, then crawled up next to him. His hand caught Arthur around the back of the neck and he pressed his warm mouth against Arthur's forehead. It was nearly like the gesture that moms did to their kids when they had a fever, but it wasn't that. This was a kiss.
"You've no need to thank me," Eames said, moving his lips higher to Arthur's hairline. It was such a strange sensation, so weirdly intimate.
"You're going to catch my disease," Arthur said.
"Then you'll bring me tea and toast and suck me off, too."
"I'll... you didn't... Huh? Oh." Arthur knew he sounded idiotic, but his brain was fuzzy and too hot, his skin felt too tight and his nerves were on fire. Especially where Eames's mouth was, now under his ear.
Then Eames's mouth was moving down the column of his neck, over his burning throat and Arthur swallowed again, hard. It still burned, and he had to let his head fall forward a little.
"Sorry," Eames murmured.
"No, it's," Arthur managed.
Eames was untying the knot in the bathrobe and pushing Arthur back against the pillows again, and it was quite possible that Arthur actually said "unf" amongst all the embarrassing sounds he was already making, and Eames hadn't even gotten started yet.
"You don't have to," Arthur croaked out. "You probably shouldn't."
"Hush," Eames told him, and Arthur did.
Then Eames was running warm, dry hands down his sides, back up over his stomach and chest, and it felt like it should hurt, with the way his skin was burning. It didn't hurt, though; it soothed. So did his mouth, as he pressed soft, damp kisses across his chest. That irritating, painful, tight feeling in all of his nerves sort of melted away.
When Eames slid his hands up Arthur's sides, and then thumbed gently around his nipples, that almost was too much. It made him squirm. Reading him, as always, Eames went back to petting his sides and instead bent down over him. He licked, gently, at first one nipple then the other. His tongue was soft, warm. Arthur ran one hand over Eames's short hair in encouragement.
Eames kissed him a little more, a sweet line down his chest, and reached down to cup Arthur in his hand. It was really nice, it all felt good, but Arthur's dick was only semi-invested in this. It was apparently as tired as he was. Eames hummed and murmured against his skin, between wet kisses.
"All right, Arthur?"
"Yeah."
"Do you want to stop?"
Arthur thought about it. "No. No, it feels good. Just don't know how long it's going to take or if I'm going to fall asleep."
Eames kneeled up, straddling one of Arthur's thighs, stroking him idly. His other hand moved inside his own sweatpants to his own cock and - yes, that, that got Arthur interested embarrassingly fast.
"Oh?" Eames asked, tilting his head a little. He stroked himself slowly, beneath his pants, letting Arthur watch.
Yet Arthur's eyes kept getting drawn back to his face. Actually he didn't know where to look. Eames's eyes looked dark in the dim light, his mouth red, cheeks flushed. Then he stopped what he was doing to strip off his shirt and shimmy out of his sweatpants.
Arthur wanted to touch all of that hot skin. He also wanted to watch. He pulled Eames a little closer and hooked him in between his thighs. From here, he could reach up and run his hands down the ladder of muscle over Eames's ribs, the hard cut of his waist, the soft hair of his chest. His shoulders were so wide that Arthur spent a good few seconds just spanning them with his hands before moving down his arms. He had missed this. More than he should.
"I want to watch you come, first," he told Eames.
Eames laughed softly, his hand working quickly. "You'll end up covered in it."
Words fled from Arthur's head after that. He braced on one arm and leaned up, kissing and nipping at Eames's chest, thumbing at the pulse in his neck, gripping his forearm to feel the play of muscles under his skin.
Unable to help himself, Arthur lifted his other hand to the side of Eames's face, then to his lips. He knew that this was probably what everyone wanted to do to Eames, but there he was, and he got to. Him. He got to touch Eames's mouth while he was jerking off. And – oh god – he got Eames sucking on his fingers and looking him right in the eyes.
Eames didn't last too long, coming in his hand and on Arthur's thighs as he grunted softly. Arthur kissed along his neck and under his jaw until he started to feel too hot, too close, and too sticky.
Panting, Eames pressed him back down against the bed. He went willingly.
Eames mouthed at him softly, vocal as he always was, humming and whispering on each exhale. Arthur didn't know if Eames knew how much that got to him, the noises he always made.
When Eames put his mouth on Arthur's cock, it was gentle and soft. But every inch of him was so over-sensitized that it was just enough. Any more might have been too much – and Arthur usually liked a lot of pressure, a lot of suction.
Eames gave him a few sultry licks and then backed off. "Christ, you're burning."
Arthur looked down the length of his body. "If you just took my temperature by using my dick, we're not friends anymore."
Eames laughed into the crease of his thigh. "We're the best of friends, darling. Don't deny it."
The truth of that offhanded statement knocked the breath out of him. Eames was one smart motherfucker, and the hottest person he'd ever seen. He was also a liar, thief and cheat by profession. He defied the data algorithm. One expected Eames to take his cut and run. And he did, with others. But not Arthur. Never him. So unless Arthur was the subject of some very long, convoluted and frankly stupid con, Eames actually was his best friend. Eames liked him – really a lot.
"Stop overthinking," Eames sighed. "Just lie there and be pleasured."
Eames also had the best ideas.
It was nice. Arthur wasn't fisting the sheets and crying out (he probably couldn't anyway.) Eames took his time, with gentle strokes of his tongue and fingers, and soft, hot suction. It was just enough. When Arthur came, it wasn't volcanic or intense; actually it was quite sudden, giving him only a second or two to dig his fingers into Eames's shoulder and say, "umm..." in warning.
The sensation left him floating and tired rather than wrung out and gasping. Not spectacular – but Arthur wasn't in the mood for spectacular.
"Rest here a moment, love," Eames said, pushing himself to his knees. "Be back in a jiff."
He went into the bathroom and ran the water for a few minutes. Arthur enjoyed the view when Eames came back out, backlit. He looked hazy through Arthur's feverish eyes, but solid and real. Familiar, mostly. It had never occurred to him before how ingrained Eames's silhouette was in his unconscious mind. He'd know him anywhere, in any crowd.
The bed dipped under his weight and he pressed a warm, wet cloth into Arthur's hand.
"Thanks," Arthur said, and as he used it to clean himself up, Eames reached to the tray he'd brought earlier and fetched the tea.
"It's gone cold, I'm afraid," he said. "I could make you another."
"No, that's all right. I'm good."
"Tomorrow, then." He put the tea aside and took back the cloth, tossing it into the bin.
Arthur tugged the sheets up, as the water was starting to cool on him and the pleasant, warm, post-orgasm buzz was starting to fade back into aches and chills.
"Will I crowd you if I stay?" Eames asked.
Arthur thought about it for a minute. He liked his space, he didn't want to spread his germs (probably too late for that, though,) and he dreaded waking up having to be sick. However, his stomach had settled and now he just felt cold, with cramped, aching muscles.
"It's your bed," he said. "Of course you can stay."
"Budge up," Eames said, nudging him away from the center of the bed and lifting the covers to get in beside him.
Arthur tried to turn to face him, but Eames pinned his shoulder, saying, "You'll cough on me all night."
"Fine," Arthur muttered, even though Eames was right. He turned away, waiting for Eames to drape his arm across his middle and press up against his back.
Instead, Eames's hands started stroking firmly down his back. He started at his shoulders and ended at his hips. The sensation was too much, a bit. At first, anyway. By the third pass of his hands, his inflamed nerves seemed to get used to it. The muscles he'd been holding tense since the onset of the flu trembled first, then slowly relaxed.
Still, his palms were sweating and his feet were freezing. His body couldn't make up its mind.
"Eames," he said – or tried to say. His voice gave out, leaving only the "s".
"Mmm?"
Arthur cleared his throat. "Can I put my cold feet on you?"
With a sigh like Arthur had saddled him with some great burden, Eames used his own legs to tug Arthur's closer, and then pressed Arthur's feet between his warm calves.
"Jesus fuck," Eames said. "That's hideous."
Maybe so, but Arthur was beginning to feel his toes again. He muttered his thanks.
"The things we do for the ones we love," Eames said.
And there it was, the word "love." Not the first time either of them had said it, but it still felt a little new, a little fresh and raw.
Eames started toying with his hair, pressing his fingers into his scalp and rubbing the tension away. He was really good at that. Arthur told him so.
"I like your hair," Eames said, stroking his fingers through it. "It always looks like it's going to be soft when you've got it plastered down, but then it's wavy and coarse."
Arthur didn't give a fuck about his hair, aside from the fact that Eames's hands were in it and it felt good. He grunted a non-reply. Sleep was starting to sneak up on him. He was sure he'd probably wake up coughing and hacking in a few hours, but he'd take what he could get. He was on the border, that fleeting place between consciousness and sleep, when he turned to look over his shoulder. Eames was watching him, pondering, as if trying to guess what he was going to say.
"You know I love you too, right?" Arthur said.
Some brief flicker passed over Eames's face, a thousand thoughts and replies like a quick spark. Then it was gone, and he smiled like, yeah, of course he knew, and Arthur was a silly twat for having to ask. Arthur expected any of the usual flippant replies they each had at the ready.
Instead, Eames cupped a hand around his jaw, turning him so his shoulders were nearly flat against the bed, and kissed his mouth. It was firm without being demanding, heated but still sweet. Arthur's hands curled into involuntary fists. This was good, it was so good he could do it all night if he could stay awake. And if the angle hadn't started to hurt his neck.
"Mmm," Eames sighed into his mouth, sucking on his bottom lip before parting. His fingers gently played across Arthur's cheekbone.
When he pulled away, Arthur just lay there for a second, trying to look at Eames but too tired to keep his eyes open. Eames nudged him back onto his side and tucked him close. His fingers kept threading gently through Arthur's hair.
"That'll do for tonight, I think," Eames said, as if making an executive decision to close the meeting. "When you're well, we'll go over that last team of yours."
There's no need, I took care of it, it's done, revenge is unnecessary and messy, don't get involved... All things Arthur planned to say, if Eames was really going to pursue this. But not now. Sleep was a few seconds away and he was finally comfortable, finally warm.
Eames said, "Go to sleep, Arthur."
And Arthur did.