Originally uploaded on my tumblr (anarcreactorheart. tumblr .com)
Most likely going to write more and turn this into a series of drabbles/short fics about Arthur's clothes.
Eames frowned, trying to twist away and bury his face into his pillow as bright sunlight streaming through the window managed to sneak under his closed eyes. With a groan, he stretched an arm beside him, eyes opening as he found nothing where he knew his partner's warm body should be. The space beside him was empty, the pillow having fallen to the floor and the blanket, which he recalled trying to fight for in the middle of the night, left in a crumpled mess. How odd. He had always assumed that Arthur was the type to be freakishly neat about making his bed upon waking up.
The spot was still warm, so the point man had probably just gotten up, the presence of his glock on the bedside table beside Eames' own berretta proof he was still most likely in the apartment. Something the man was thankful for as he had just finally managed to convince the point man to sleep with him. The memory made him smile, and he got off the bed, already wondering where the younger was and whether he could be convinced to another round and perhaps breakfast. He scanned his surroundings, trying to find his pants, the only article of his attire that had made it into the room and not left scattered along the path from the front door to the bed. Arthur had been very determined to remove everything else as soon as they had closed the door behind themselves.
A confused frown formed on his face though finding most of Arthur's clothes still were he had (thrown) left them. Pinstripe pants peeking from behind the door, Arthur's crisp button-up looking less immaculate where it was covering a lamp, some of it's buttons scattered along the floor, and, to Eames's surprise, the point man's boxers still a mess near the end of the bed.
"Huh." Eames muttered, grabbing his own pants from beside the piece of clothing, continuing to stare at it as he buttoned his pants even as his mind tried and failed to process beyond 'What's Arthur wearing then?'
The question left Eames frozen in thought for a few minutes, before a smell in the air made him snap out of it. Apparently, Arthur was taking care of breakfast. He hurriedly made his way to his apartment's small kitchen, before he was once more frozen at the doorway by what he saw.
Eames stared dazedly at the sight before him, not quite able to process the sight before him. The British man shut his eyes, rubbing over them with the back of his hand, to try and clear his mind, debating whether he should go back into his room and check his totem, but no, the image was still there when he opened his eyes, and he remembered every single thing that led up to him standing awkwardly at the doorway of his own kitchen.
Arthur, dear, sweet, all-around perfect point man, always immaculately dressed Arthur, was standing in his kitchen, hair an adorable mess and wearing, it would seem, nothing but his shirt.
The very same shirt the point man spent the whole of yesterday insulting.
The very same shirt the point man had ripped off of him as soon as they entered his apartment.
The very same shirt the point man swore to burn when he had the chance.
Having been quite literally ripped open the night before, even from behind Eames could see that the front hung open, almost falling off Arthur' smaller shoulders only to be tugged up by the man. The shirt was slightly longer on Arthur, hiding enough for propriety's sake and Eames spent a few moments happily gazing at the slender legs revealed to him and remembering how they had looked wrapped around his waist.
He then promptly chocked on air, as he came to a sudden realization.
"Darling, are you not wearing anything under that?" Eames finally managed to ask, voice cracking a bit.
The younger man turned to him, eyes narrowed, and a frown on his lips, looking as if Eames had asked a particularly stupid question. He then looked down at himself and shrugged, apparently not having found a problem with his (EAMES') clothing or lack thereof, "You ruined my clothes last night, Mr. Eames," the point man said, matter of fact, before turning back to what he was cooking.
"Oh," Eames said, mind in shock at the sight before him, and heat forming in his gut, "Of course, darling."
Even as he sat himself on the table, Eames couldn't help but continue stare, mouth opening and closing as he, for once, found himself unable to find anything to say. Eventually, Arthur shut off the stove, taking a few more minutes to transfer what he had cooked to various plates before turning to the table, and by extension Eames, who found himself once more open mouthed, eyes roving Arthur's form, unable to stay in one spot.
"Darling?" Eames called as Arthur arranged the plates on the table before turning to get their coffees, at Arthur's 'hm?', Eames cleared his throat and wondered if he'll regret his question, "Am I dreaming?"
Standing before Eames, eyebrow arched and looking more than a bit confused, Arthur frowned, "Why?"
"Pet," the Forger couldn't help but chuckle out, "You're serving me breakfast. Naked. Or well, in nothing but my shirt. Which I would like to remind you, you despise."
"Ah," Arthur nodded understandingly, making his way to the chair opposite Eames, sitting down cross-legged, though Eame assumed that was more out of habit than trying to hide himself, Arthur began on his breakfast, "You're not. I can put my clothes back on though, if you want,"
"No!" was the hurried answer, and Eames had to stop himself from physically reaching out and stopping the other man, "Just, darling, are you saying you're fine walking around in that?"
"Yes, Mr. Eames, more than," Then with a grin, he added, "I'm already wearing more than I usually do when I prepare my breakfast at home,"
Eames, who had made the mistake of starting on his coffee, snorted into his drink in surprise, and stared open-mouthed, "What?"
The smaller man shrugged, determinedly looking at his breakfast, "I tend to get home late and my suits are hardly comfortable for sleeping, as soon as I'm out of them I usually fall asleep already, and putting something on when I would have to change into my suit anyway," he trailed off with another shrug, "I got used to it. When I remembered I wasn't at home this morning, your shirt was just the closest thing,"
Eames…could somewhat see the logic in that. He frowned thoughtfully, then smirked, smug, "So I was right? You do own nothing but suits, pet."