Pairing: Arthur/Eames, established relationship.
Words: 780
Genre: Fluff
Summary: Eames' clothes almost killed Arthur. So, Arthur broke Eames stupid with his love. Accidentally. Arthur/Eames, slash. Fluff
"Fuck!" Arthur managed not to drop his –thankfully still empty- coffee mug as he stumbled and tried to disentangle a godfuckingugly orange rag from around his legs. He placed the mug on the kitchen counter nearby and picked up the rag with two fingers, holding it at an arm's length.
When did I buy an orange ra- Oh, wait. It's a shirt. He frowned even harder and tried to hold it even further from his body.
Eames was lounging on the couch with a huge bowl of rainbow-colored cereal and the TV playing something that involved too much tears and drama for Arthur not to frown at. He promptly dumped the shirt on top of Eames' head.
"W- wha- darling?" a little milk was spilled in Eames' attempt to juggle the bowl, getting the shirt off his head, getting to a gun on the table with one leg and manly flailing all at the same time.
That was not adorable. Or cute. At all. Arthur bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He was pissed at Eames after all.
"That was your shirt" He glared when Eames opened his mouth for, no doubt, a smart remark.
"That was your dirty shirt. Lying on the floor. I almost gave myself a concussion tripping over the damn thing, Eames! That was the third time this week! Third! In one week! Why can't you put your stuff away nicely! How mortifying would it be, dying because I cracked my head tripping over your outrageously hideous clothes!" Arthur was flailing his arms at this point and Eames couldn't help but smile. His Arthur really was precious.
"Stop smiling! Jesus, just how difficult is it to put your dirty clothes in the laundry basket? Or hell, you can at least throw it at the general area of the laundry basket in the corner. Then they would at least be messy in one area instead of in the whole apartment. So that people –namely me- don't have to trip all over them to do the simplest thing such as getting a mug of coffee, Eames!"
"No matter how much I love your annoying British self, I can't have you ruining my apartment or trying to kill me in such embarrassing manner! Also, you're lucky you only spilled a little of the milk on the couch. But you're still gonna sleep on your own tonight and pay for the clean-" he cut himself when he realized that Eames was looking at him wide-eyed, mouth working but not a single word came out.
"Eames?" Arthur eyed him warily. Did he break the forger? He only nagged a little, right?
"Eames, what-"
"You love me?" was whispered wonderingly, as if it was the greatest revelation of the universe. Arthur froze.
"I- wha- no!" Eames' face began to fall tragically.
"Wait, no! I mean, not no no." Arthur, red-faced, opened and closed his mouth a few times before continuing in the rush of one breath.
"I have no recollection whatsoever of one specific word among the many words that came out of my mouth in the past five minutes!" He was not blushing, damnit! Coffee. I need coffee to wake the other half of my brain cells–hopefully the more sensible, rational, smarter, whatever-. With that, he jerked his body around and stomped to the kitchen to continue his violent activities of searching for the coffee bag and wrestling the bag into the coffee maker.
Eames was left gaping at the back –and arse- of one point man who was choking a bag of coffee bean; his bowl of cereal forgotten in one hand, one leg half up the coffee table. Eames thought that it was the most beautiful way ever for him to hear those words from Arthur. There were no sweet, grandeur words of love, but said as if it was something normal, something familiar and simply part of that person. It was not said to get undying profession of love in reciprocation.
It was just it; a fact.
Later during the job, Arthur spent the whole day bent furiously over his desk, not meeting anyone's eyes. Eames noticed that his ears and the back of his neck were flushed red, though.
Throughout the day Eames was so preoccupied with his own happy thoughts that he tripped over three wayward chairs, spilled a cold tea –which he held forgotten for fifteen minutes doing nothing- down the front of his shirt and walked into two different doors, overall making a nuisance of himself and doing nothing productive. But even strange looks from his teammates and a "Couch tonight, Mr. Eames!" from Arthur could not erase the dopey grin from the forger's face.
-End-