Eames owns a little flat in Barcelona. It's warm and stylish, with lots of large windows. It's a spacious and pretty place. Always out of order or disheveled in one way or another. Such as, his bed being placed in the exceedingly large living room, and having his couch in the bedroom. Because he's not done his laundry yet and sometimes the possible because he hasn't had the itching to clean (he does get those, at least six times a year) or because that's how it's most familiar to him, no one will ever know.
But there's always one way that Eames likes his flat to be messed up most. When the clothes hanging from the couch, ceiling fan (he's been working on aim) or a random picture of his family belong to Arthur.
That's always the best mess to have. Especially on the mornings after, the ones like this one. "Eames." The sleepy-eyed Brit looks up, "Yes, Darling?" He yawns. "Why is my brand new $557.93 suit hanging from the ceiling fan?" Eames pushes himself up a little and glances up (well what do you know? His aim has gotten much better), "Should I grab the ladder, pet?" Arthur rubs his temple, "Yes. Please. That suit is two days old." Eames grins, "Sure thing, right after I wake up."
"Eames, you are awake."
"And how would you know that, Arthur?"
"Because you're coherent. Get out of bed and help me pick up your filth."
"No."
"You're a child."
"No."
"Get out of the bed."
"No."
"I made bacon."
". . . . . . Dammit darling, why do you always know how to get to me?"
"The same way you always know how to get me to stay a little bit longer each time."
"I love you, too."
There's that rare moment and Eames manages to catch Arthur's smile as he leaves the room shaking his head a little. Eames lifts his head off of his pillow enough to catch a glimpse of one of his own shirts and a spare pair of pyjama pants donning Arthur's body. The morning afters are always different, but most of them usually go somewhat like this and they always make Eames smile, because those are when he's happiest.
