A/N: This is my favorite ship now. I just love everything about them. Please review.
Disclaimer: I only own the plot. Don't sue me.
It's two in the morning when Arthur discovers he can't sleep. He's tried everything he could think of. Sleeping on his side, then his stomach, the other side and finally his back with no improvement. He's tried the bed, the couch and even the floor. He's had a glass of water, warm milk and tea but still nothing's changed. He stares at the ceiling of the hotel they're currently using as a base, and wonders what fuck is wrong with him.
It's about quarter to three when Arthur pieces everything together, and realizes the last time he slept soundly was when Eames decided to crash in his room. The time before was when he and Eames - as well as Dom and Ariadne - fell asleep in one of their makeshift offices. The time before that was at Christmas when everyone had a bit too much to drink so Arthur ended up on Dom's couch and Eames on the floor beside him.
It's exactly quarter to three when Arthur stops internally screaming.
It's three twenty when Arthur tries to will himself to sleep, but it's just more internal screaming and jaw clenching. He begins to think of every other possibility; too much coffee, too much on his mind, restlessness, insomnia. The list goes on, but none of it ads up quite as well.
It's half past three when Arthur finds himself outside Eames' hotel room, pillow and blanket in tow. He can't bring himself to actually knock on the door so he just props himself up against it and drapes the blanket over his legs. He actually feels a bit more relaxed yet tense all at the same time. His eyes drift closed but it's still not a deep sleep. He hopes that Eames doesn't wake up in the middle of the night and open the door.
It's probably four-ish when Eames opens the door. The world officially hates him.
It's actually four thirty, Arthur confirms with Eames, when he finds himself on the couch in Eames's hotel room. He's telling himself that no matter how drawn Arthur feels to Eames, he will not crawl into his bed. Arthur is nothing if not a professional and he will not succumb to that.
It's five when Arthur sneaks in to Eames bed. Eames, feeling all touchy-feely – surprise, surprise – wraps an arm around Arthur's waist and brings him in close. Arthur can't help but to feel sleepy and safe and warm.
It's about six forty-five when Arthur wakes up to the smell of food and the sound of Eames humming gently. Of course, when Arthur gives the slightest hint of being awake, Eames is already in his face with a smirk planted on those full lips, asking him how he slept.
It's six forty-six when Arthur says, "Shut up, Mr. Eames." He thinks it's some sort of new record and the way Eames smiles let's Arthur know he's proud of it.