Eames' aide is gone, he isn't sure where, and he should be angry at himself for always choosing assistants who are as equally if not more undependable than himself. This means that the texts he needs to look at for reference he has to go get himself.
It isn't that he is especially lazy, just well, that he is especially lazy, hiking all the way across campus to the library isn't something he should have to do. He has tenure. He has assistants for that, if he could find them, ever. Outside is far too bright and makes him feel like he has a hangover, he doesn't, he never gets to do anything fun anymore. His life is dreadfully unexciting.
Except for the whole part where he's leading a Political Rebellion and planning the destruction of major financial institutes and pharmaceutical companies that are poisoning the populace. Except for that part he is utterly boring and never gets to do anything fun.
Pushing into the library it is like a haven, cool, dark, books everywhere. He's pretty sure he made out once as an under-grad in the corner over there. He goes to sit in it for old-time's sake. He doesn't get to stay there long. "Who are you, where is your student pass." The man looks like every bad caricature of a librarian ever. Eames is positive if he tugged at the sweater it would retain the same shape. "This isn't a public library sweetheart?" He feigns surprise, really, he hasn't been young enough to pass as a student for forever, he's touched, also amused because the man did not state it as a question, but an accusation.
"No, it's not. Also, not your sweetheart. Also, get out of my library, go to the homeless shelter." Eames notes that the man has unlawfully slender hips and delicious long-fingered hands splayed upon them. "I'm wounded, you think I look homeless?" Eames pats his shirt down self-consciously.
"That hasn't been in style for a hundred years, if you didn't get it out of a bin, I'd think you were a vampire." Eames decides he likes this man at once. Getting Arthur (he finds out his name by bribing another librarian) to like him back even a little takes a lot longer though.
"Let me take you to lunch." Eames has failed this campaign many times before, he thought for some time that maybe Arthur didn't eat, ever. Maybe he was a robot, but Ariadne had told him he was being obtuse and stated she'd had lunch with Arthur last week and he liked salads. "I'll buy you a nice big salad and you can nibble on it, bunny." He'd postulated that maybe Arthur just liked women only, but decided if that was true he'd have to become one of those men who strove to turn other men gay.
"Did you just call me bunny?" Arthur scowls at him from behind his ridiculously thick glasses. "I would call you anything you wanted if you went to lunch with me." Eames decides he should finally pull out his secret weapon. He collapses in a heap on the floor beside Arthur's desk. A few students look at him funnily from across the way. "I'll lay here until you consent to go to lunch with me." He rolls a bit in an extra pathetic manner, like a death scene in Macbeth.
"I'm going to call security."
"Don't do that pet, I'll be fired. Or put on watch, which means I'll have more time to follow your car and figure out where you live." Eames stares up at Arthur, he loves the way that frown looks on his lips, it's delectable. "Does anyone ever take you seriously and take out a restraining order?" Arthur is already gathering his coat. Eames' head spins with the rush of getting up far too fast. "No, I'm an Art Professor."
"I hadn't noticed, really." Arthur's deadpan makes Eames laugh, he doesn't even complain when Arthur states that Ariadne is meeting them because he'd already planned lunch with her first.
The first time they kiss it's a clumsy thing, Eames may be a little drunk off survival and needing to ground himself in something. Arthur clings to him like a man about to drown, pulls and tugs at his clothing like he isn't quite sure he wants to be kissing Eames at all, or if he wants to be kissing him hard enough to bruise.
Arthur ends up with a bloody lip, and it's not even over something nice, Eames presses a piece of ice from the drink Arthur had served him to the cut. Arthur doesn't know Eames had just participated in the bombing that is flashing across the tv-screen, just that Eames had shown up looking jovial and carrying dinner. Eames wonders how Arthur would react if Eames came to him shot. He went to Yusuf once, but Yusuf has horrible bedside manners, which is probably because he is a chemist and not a doctor. Eames has no one else he could go to.
"This isn't a one night stand is it?" Arthur's tone of voice is the no-nonsense one he reserves for people talking too loud in the library. "Because I haven't gotten any in seven years, and if you are going to do this, I am going to demand visiting privileges with your libido." Eames is pretty sure that is a joke, he'd laugh if he wasn't so turned on right now. "I will write you a legal document giving you full rights to my cock if it will make you happy." Eames is serious, he almost thinks this is why he bothered to become a notary. "Okay, good. We should go to the bedroom though."
Eames follows Arthur, led by the thin fingers wrapped around his wrist. Later when Arthur is curled tight to his side, sleeping with his cheek resting against Eames' darkly tattooed shoulder pretty much pinning Eames to the bed, he realizes Arthur is an evil genius.
One, because he had to be evil, because if he hadn't been laid in seven years, he must have killed his last lover like some kind of preying spider-person. How could someone not give free reign to let this happen. Two because Eames had really wanted to leave, it was what he did. Fucking was nice, and maybe a post-coital hug if he really liked the person, but then he was out. Yet here he is, because anyone willing to move Arthur when he was making tired whuffing noises everytime Eames tried to get out from under him, was obviously a smarter man than Eames and would have made sure Arthur had not ended up on top during post-coital haze.
He falls asleep eventually, listening to the soft breathing in and out. In the morning he's actually pretty glad he didn't manage to book it because Arthur is a spurisingly frisky morning person, and also Arthur makes the best fucking smoothies he has ever had, no really.
Eames belatedly realizes he's bleeding, he probably should have realized this before, the pain in his side is unbearable. He's halfway to Arthur's apartment when he notices. Even going into mild-shock he knows the bullet probably knicked his rib, is probably still floating around in there. He cannot go to the hospital, and he refuses to go to Yusuf. It's been three months almost, that they've been sleeping together. It's always been an easy gentle thing, Arthur never demands anything more of him, but Eames realizes before he even takes another step, he's about to blow that all to fucking hell.
He breaks into Arthur's apartment, well if you can call being told two months ago where the hidden key was breaking in. He leaves a smear of blood on Arthur's bedroom door, and feels very guilty about that. He manages to get his shirt off, manages to tumble into the bathtub, but his intention on putting the shower on and letting it run till he either dies or spontaneously heals himself like the Christ is rendered null when he realizes reaching the shower control means bending and fuck, he's not going to do any of that. So he just lays in the tub and bleeds on it, and thinks about how the last time he was in here, Arthur was straddling his lap and putting bubbles on his nose.
He dozes in and out of consciousness, but eventually he can feel the gentle press of fingers against his neck. Slowly he flutters his eyes open, he almost misses the shuttered sigh of relief Arthur breathes out. "I've got to move you, can you put your hand over your head?" Arthur's words are confussing at first, Eames thinks perhaps he has spontaneously become a synesthesiac. Because Arthur's voice sounds like bright beautiful warm reds and oranges. He lifts his arm over his head, grunts in pain as Arthur shifts him onto his side.
"I have to apply a topical anesthetic so I can take out the bullet." His voice comes out like bells, it feels warm rushing over Eames' skin, Eames realizes he's much too cold of a sudden. It hurts at first, but then it only hurts a little. The antiseptic hurts a little bit more, and then the stitches. Finally everything is a warm wash running over him, the shower on hot, scalding into him, making him aware and alive. Arthur is stronger than his wiry frame looks, he lifts Eames up, speaking soft things into his neck, shoulder. "You're going to sleep, when you wake up, we need to talk." Eames dreads waking up, because he doesn't want to have this talk with Arthur. Doesn't want to loose him, but there had not been anywhere else to go, he hadn't had any choice.
When he wakes up, an IV in his arm, still huddled tight in Arthur's bed, the first thing he notices is not that his side hurts like a mother fucking bitch. But that Arthur is at the foot of the bed meticulously cleaning a sniper rifle. "I think, I might have misread you somewhere along the line." Eames states with quavering voice. "Just a little." Arthur offers with a sad smile.
"I'm sorry Arthur, I should have told you, I'm one of the-" Arthur cuts him off, gently laying his hand on Eames' ankle under the bed. Eames realizes he's naked, which isn't surprising, Arthur had given him a shower with his clothing still on. "I know, or rather, I figured that out last night when your head popped up in my sight. I'm sorry, I couldn't take out Lissy before she shot you." Eames just blinks, he hasn't quite gotten it yet. "My name isn't Arthur Starling, Eames. Well. My name is Arthur, but, my code-name is Starling." Eames feels a little like his last girl must have felt when he came in all beat up. 'What am I doing, why am I here?' And other variations of this are running through his head. "When I saw it was you, I couldn't do it. I'm not sure what you want to do about that."
Eames doesn't need to have it spelled out for him that Arthur was supposed to kill him, really he isn't that fucking obtuse Ariadne.
"I suppose you'll have to arrest me or something." Eames had already expected himself to die in some violent way, not on a televised execution. "No." Arthur's determination is steely, Eames is reminded of the time he tried to convince Arthur that a forgery he'd done was an original, Arthur had set it on fire on the stove top to prove the chemical burn was the wrong color. Arthur was -insane- when he was determined. "Love?" Eames stares at the sniper rifle as Arthur is holding it like it was his only child. As if only noticing that moment how utterly batshit he looked, Arthur put the rifle back into the long case that until now Eames had thought was a guitar case. "I think we should feed them false information through me." Arthur's tone doesn't say he thinks anything, but rather that he'd already been doing this since last night before he found Eames in his bathtub.
Later that night after Arthur feeds him soup and curls into his uninjured side, Eames holds him as he breaks apart. The tears are slow at first and then Arthur is sobbing, face buried against Eames' shoulder. "You've ruined my whole life and I don't even care and that is terrifying." He soothes Arthur, shushes him, pets back his hair, and is just as terrified.
It's Arthur that decides for Eames, that it would be best if Eames would move out and in with him. He says it's because no one would be monitoring a Government agent, but everyone at the college was suspect. He says it helps with his cover, that it just goes with the whole college thing, you cant look like he looks and study lit, and not be gay. It's fine. Eames thinks that even though he is the one orchestrating bombings and painting forged copies of banned art that Arthur is the one with no preservation instincts. But the first time he comes home, to Arthur's home, after all of his things have started to fill it out, and Arthur is there, making some kind of healthy monstrosity in the kitchen while wearing one of Eames' shirts, he really cant bring himself to give a damn.
Arthur's cabinets always smell like fucking chamomile and anise, for no discernible reason. He has recipes written in his little black book next to the recipes for explosives, and he doesn't wear shoes in the house, rolls up his sleeves and dances to Eames' music collection. He is eerily normal, and then Eames sticks his hand under the couch to get the pen that rolled under it, and encounters instead a rifle. It is horrifying or addictive, he is still having a hard time believing Arthur, sometimes he hopes it's all just some elaborate joke and Arthur is not turning sides because of sex. He hopes it's the sex, even though he's living with Arthur, and getting little smiles from him when he pushes Arthur's stupid hipster glasses up his nose. He hopes it's just the sex, because then perhaps Arthur will turn sides again at the end, and Eames wont have to feel guilty that Arthur potentially died by executioner right next to him because of feelings.
When Eames comes home one night with a bruise forming all along his face, Arthur makes him sit on a stool and hold raw steak to his face, and it's utterly disgusting. Arthur had been doing something probably illicit with blood oranges before this, and his hands are dyed pink. Arthur can never just let things be unwholesome, he has to try and suck all the good unhealthy things out of it. Like steak on Eames' face, he'll never get to eat this steak now, Arthur has ruined it with compassion and Organic Foods. "Shut up Mister Eames." Arthur kisses Eames' cheek, and Eames does shut up, for a few minutes. "Once I had a girlfriend, she told me she couldn't handle it all, wanted a nice normal Art Major for a husband." Eames relates this all with a look on his face that baldly states 'Arthur how are you seriously a real thing that is real?' Arthur continues to squeeze all the juice from the small blood oranges, he isn't looking at Eames, so he cannot comment on the state of his quantum presence. "That would be boring." Arthur hums to himself, Eames wants to ask him to marry him.
He does ask him to marry him, half-honesty, he relates it as a joke though, grins brokenly. Arthur is hanging off a building at the time, pressed into a thin alcove. Eames is sort of afraid a stiff wind will blow him off, Arthur is regrettably tiny. Regretably right now, not so much at home where it is safe and they are not being shot at. He'd said "Dearest, if we live, I'll put a ring on you and keep you in my bed forever and never leave, blast this whole rebellion." Arthur had kicked him to get him to move further into the alcove, as people were still shooting at them. Arthur is wearing a hood, and a scarf up around his face, he shouldn't have been here. He'd planned to have drinks with Ariadne tonight, Eames knew this, he liked to peek into Arthur's planner as it made him feel like he was doing something illicit even though they both knew he was doing it, so really not so much illicit.
But weapons shipment, and it was important Eames had to be there. Then there is Arthur, grasping his arm seven hours later and telling him they were coming, to grab what he could. Eames stayed back to make sure everyone else was out, because he's the leader, that's what you do is all. So then Arthur is probably bleeding, he'd made a gasp of pain, Eames is pretty sure they shot him. He pressed Arthur into the alcove and waits for Yusuf's bombs to go. "You are going to have to try harder." Arthur either has impeccable timing or the world hates Eames. The bombs go off, drowning out any reply he might have made.
When they pour back home Arthur doesn't even wait to get the bullet out before he's calling his contacts, assigning alibi, he was out for drinks, heard the explosion, what happened? Every minute Arthur isn't dealing with the blood flooding out onto the floor, with the pallor of his skin turning chalky, has Eames going a little insane. Watching Arthur pull the bullet out later is even worse, he throws up in the tub basin, it's humiliating. Arthur pets back his hair and shushes him as the adrenaline drops him like a rock off a roof.
"Lets buy a boat and just get out of here." Eames holds tight to Arthur later, laying in the cool darkness of their bedroom. His hand is splayed over the bandage pressed over Arthur's shoulder. "Really?" The querulous sleepy hope in Arthur's voice breaks Eames apart, breaks his heart open. He feels like a pinata after a children's party there are glittery bits of plastic and disgusting candy all over his soul. "No, I'm sorry." Eames buries his face into Arthur's hair, breathes it in, remembers the sound Arthur made when he was shot. That bullet should have hit him, not Arthur.
Arthur goes to work the next day with the bandage under his nice dress shirt, under the soft sweater-vest. He apologizes for missing Ariadne, and explains that Eames had cornered him with an old friend. Eames is a cad, so Ariadne buys this completely. She hits him hard in the arm over lunch and Eames doesn't tell her that -no- that actually did hurt because Yusuf's bombs have a fucking insane aftershock. Ariadne doesn't know about her boys and how they climb around at night fighting to let her be able to buy those ridiculous silk scarves and dress however she wants in public. Doesn't know what Arthur's hands look like on his sniper rifle (but Eames does and it never fails to illicit a sick sort of arousal) she doesn't know that Eames first killed a man when he was seventeen, breathing hard, hands drenched in blood.
Eames buys a sailing magazine on the way home, forgets it on the coffee table because Arthur is sleeping a a lazy curl on the low couch. He sinks down to his knees, groaning as old injuries make him pay for each inch. Arthur groggily opens his eyes, smiles soft, easy. Arthur should have killed him, should have, even though Eames wouldn't have done the same. He cards his fingers through Arthur's hair, brushes out the gel, makes it a mess. "You're so beautiful it hurts that I can never recreate that." Eames is being genuine, he is trying his hardest to portray earnestness on his face. Even his mother would have fallen for this, believed it. Arthur scowls and nudges his nose against Eames' jawline like an animal. "You're such an Art Major." Eames groans, buries his face against the couch.
"All the things I sacrifice for you, you are the least romantic man in the history of time, why do I do this to myself?"
Arthur presses his hands to either side of Eames' face, pulls him up from the couch cushions where he is trying his best to emulate them by method acting. The first touch of lips is timid and gentle, the second soft and deep, perfect. Arthur turns Eames' face, he is momentarily reminded how easy Arthur could break his neck. Each kiss is delicate, worshipful, when Arthur finally halts at the shell of Eames' ear, Eames isn't sure he actually succeed and became a couch, or if he is paralyzed by kissing. "Because I make the best damn smoothies ever." Arthur whispers against Eames' ear, and Eames groans like that isn't at all what Arthur said, really how could that even be what he said.
It had to be something like "Because I can deep-throat you like a fucking pro," or "Because I make that one sound when you bite here." Not this, why would he even. Because he's Arthur, and impossible, and he loves him so much right now. "I love you so much right now." He states, voice tremulous and Arthur smiles down at him, beaming. "You better, I got shot for you." Eames groans. "No, no don't remind me."
Eames carries him around the house that night, even though Arthur got shot in the shoulder, even though Eames' knees hate him like a rebellious teen. He does it because he can, because it makes Arthur mutter obscenities but ultimately relent. When Arthur cooks dinner Eames stands attached to his back, chin against Arthur's other shoulder, the one without medical tap and gauze, arms wrapped loose around Arthur's slim waist. Watches him push things around in the skillet and doesn't make comments about how Arthur's cooking has no imagination. "I adore you." He lavishes praise and affection, he wants Arthur to know, because well they don't really talk about it, about everything else, but not this thing. They haven't talked about it, which is a wonder it even became a thing at all. But Eames wants him to know. When he says "I love you." the fifth time Arthur turns slowly in the circle of his arms and puts his hand over Eames' mouth, the spatula still between his fingers.
"I know." He says it softly, honestly. "I love you too." He kisses Eames' cheek, and this, this is what he's fighting for, this is what Eames is fighting to keep.