Chapter 4: A Bloody Mess Chapter Text
Arthur was lying on wet ground. His eyes lazily traced cracks in the white plaster ceiling, shifting to follow a moth flying in fluttering circles around and around a dirty lamp. His head, in addition to feeling as though it was stuffed with cotton, weighed a million pounds. His arms were limp at his sides, a throbbing ache emanating from his left hand. Vaguely, Arthur realized he could feel a cool breeze brushing across his chest, goose bumps pimpling over his skin. Arthur attempted to raise his head to examine more, but promptly failed in the attempt.
Arthur must have made a noise of exasperation, because a mass of pink paisley consumed his vision and Eames' face swam into focus above him. Arthur had never seen this particular emotion written across it – was that concern?
Oh, that's right. I'm at Eames' safe house.
"Yes, Arthur, that's correct." Eames' face scowled above him, inspecting and prodding the bruises and the open gash that marred his cheekbone. "To refresh your memory even further, darling, you also just fainted - into my arms. And I'm currently trying to figure out what the bloody hell happened to you," Eames responded tersely, moving down Arthur's torso, continuing to unbutton Arthur's shirt. His suit jacket had been taken off, although Arthur didn't recall the action.
Arthur became short of breath, a stab of panic knifing through him as he realized he didn't have his totem. He didn't know why he would be dreaming up all these injuries, but the fact that he had made it to Eames' safe house – and Eames – seemed too improbable to be true.
Arthur dragged his left hand around frantically, smearing something warm and wet across the rough wood. Arthur was on the verge of a panic attack when Eames darted away from his side, snagging the suit jacket from a coat hook. Wordlessly, Eames crouched down, placing the jacket within easy reach. Arthur felt clumsily around, blood gushing from his hand. But, finally, he was able to locate the dice, barely comprehending Eames' voice in the background saying breathe, Arthur, breathe.
At the sight of the twin threes, Arthur turned his head skyward, relieved. Eames guided Arthur's scarlet hand over the blood-soaked floor, and gently closed his fingers around the dice. Eames then helped him slip the totem into Arthur's pants pocket, all without taking or touching the blood-smeared totem.
With the jolt of adrenaline still in his system, Arthur noticed more goose bumps rising on his exposed upper chest, where the shirt had already been partially opened.
My shirt's being unbuttoned. That's where the breeze was coming from.
"Arthur, if you weren't half conscious at the moment, I would be mocking you for stating the obvious. As it stands, please do shut up. Unless you're willing to tell me exactly what parts of your body are bleeding out, because I'm trying to preserve my welcome mat over here." Eames had apparently given up with the tiny buttons on Arthur's button-down. He instead was reaching into his shorts, where he procured a large Swiss army knife.
"I didn't mean to say those things out loud," Arthur said self-consciously, wincing as Eames slid the sliced-open shirt out from under him.
Arthur tried to move his upper body to sit up. Eames immediately pressed a restraining hand against Arthur's sternum, halting any further movement. Arthur's breath rushed out in a whoosh, the pressure pushing his poor blood-drenched tie further into the bullet wound.
Arthur's vision wavered, the ceiling going fuzzy around him. He saw dark spots, obscuring the moth's progress around the dingy light.
Blinking, Arthur flinched back from the pain into the hard floor. His breath came back in jagged gasps, his ribs aching. Eames' unfocused face loomed centimeters away. "Arthur. Darling. Arthur!" Eames tried to get his attention.
"Wwwwhat?" Arthur slurred, confused at Eames' urgency. Once in focus, Arthur noticed Eames' face had a solemn cast, as though he was preparing Arthur's eulogy.
"I need to know where the bloody hell you are hurt. Now," Eames said flatly. His voice had taken on a different sort of firmness. Arthur was immediately reminded of an officer demanding information from a soldier. His subconscious immediately latched onto this, snapping to attention. He noted Eames' eyes glinting in the yellow light, finding something slightly tremulous in the other man's gaze.
"Laceration on my face. Bruising. Both sides." Arthur took a shallow breath, noticing the pain it caused. "My ribs are damaged from impact with glass. Rope burns on wrist. Pretty sure there's still glass in my left hand. Eames, I need stitches." Eames was paying close attention as Arthur listed the injuries, immediately flipping Arthur's bleeding palm towards him at the mention of stitches. Eames tore off his own shirt ungracefully, revealing a rather tan chest. He tied the pink fabric around Arthur's hand, Arthur muttering, "The only good use for that rag." Belatedly, a thought occurred to Arthur. "Oh. I forgot. A bullet wound. Left shoulder. Still embedded, I think," Arthur added, an afterthought.
Eames stared at Arthur for a moment, radiating disbelief. "And you didn't think to mention that first? Rather important, wouldn't you say?"
Eames didn't wait for a response, dropping Arthur's wrapped hand, taking Arthur's right side in his grip. Before Arthur could understand what he was doing, Eames slipped his arms under Arthur's body, one under the crook of his knees and the other centimeters below the entrance wound of the bullet. Arthur left a puddle of diluted blood and water behind as Eames lifted him off the wood.
Arthur himself let out a noise of protest, mumbling complaints as he was hauled off the ground - like some damsel in distress, Arthur thought hazily.
"I'm about to ruin my kitchen tablecloth for you," Eames griped, maneuvering through the entryway into a small living room. Arthur heard the drip, drip of his blood along the carpeted floor, unconsciously noting the feminine wallpaper and the blue china collection as they made their way into the kitchen.
They must have been quite the picture, Eames the shirtless seraph, and Arthur, a bruised and bloodied human.
Arthur must have drifted off again, because the next thing he knew, Eames was repeating something, once again looming over Arthur's face. A bright kitchen light shone above him, illuminating Eames' head in some kind of halo. He's like an angel, Arthur thought blearily.
Eames prodded Arthur, his brain slowly becoming conscious. "Arthur, I need you to stop talking about soddin' cherubs and let me flip you over. Brace yourself with your hands, alright? I don't want you to slam down."
"Okay," Arthur croaked, his mouth as dry as a desert.
Eames, still shirtless, laid his large hands on either side of Arthur's torso, manhandling him onto to his side. Eames' palms felt like burning irons on Arthur's skin. Arthur became aware of how cold he was, shivers radiating through him.
Arthur said as much to Eames as he was pushed onto his stomach, barely able to slow his descent onto the checkered tablecloth. "That's because of the blood loss, Arthur," Eames said in response. "Sit tight for a moment." Eames, out of Arthur's range of sight, shuffled around before returning with a white dishtowel, which he shoved under Arthur's chin. Arthur's eyes focused on the embroidered daisies on its surface, his brows crinkling in confusion.
"Eames?" Arthur called weakly from the table; his arms curling loosely around the edges of the cloth. His hand throbbed within the sacrificed shirt, no doubt still saturating it with blood.
"What, darling?" Eames' voice called from behind him, his steps quickening over the linoleum of the floor.
"Why – why does your dishtowel have flowers on it?"
Eames steps faltered. He dumped the first aid supplies onto the counter in front of Arthur.
"Because they're my mum's," Eames responding gruffly, turning to the sink to wash his hands, his back to Arthur. Eames was again clothed, an old maroon sweatshirt advertising the stiff set of his shoulders. "We'll talk about whatever you want later. But right now, let's focus on the fact that you got shot," Eames said shortly, turning back toward Arthur's prone form.
Eames leaned over Arthur, the fabric of his sweatshirt brushing Arthur's side. "Is this toilet paper?" Eames tore off the outer wrappings of the bandage. Arthur elected not to answer, instead bracing himself for the inevitable agony of the tie removal. Eames let out a low whistle after the last of the toilet paper. "Arthur – is that your tie stuffed in the bullet wound?"
"Café… not a multitude… bandages…" is what came out of Arthur's mouth, although he meant to say, "I was in a café, there weren't exactly a multitude of bandages at my disposal." He was having some trouble breathing on his stomach, and was wishing Eames would hurry up – or at least fucking finish him off, already.
"Never mind, love, save your breath." Eames shifted even farther over Arthur, his hot hands cataloging the span of Arthur's back. "This tie's coming out on three, yeah?"
Arthur nodded, clamping down on the towel with his teeth.
"Alright. One-" Eames, the bastard, yanked the tie out prematurely, and poured the contents of a hidden bottle of what Arthur suspected to be alcohol - onto the open wound. It felt as though shards of glass had been jabbed under Arthur's skin, the fluid thrashing his insides like liquid fire. Arthur let out an uncontrollable yell, opening his mouth despite the dishtowel between his teeth.
It took Arthur a minute or two to compose himself, in which time Eames washed his back with yet another towel, warm water sluicing god-knows-what off of Arthur's skin. "Sorry about the vodka, mate. Last thing I need is an infection on my hands, you're loony enough at the moment." Eames plopped the wet towel on the table. "So I can either take the bullet out now, or put on a compression bandage and wait. It would be safer to wait, honestly, but if I do you might not have full use of that shoulder anytime soon."
"Take it out," Arthur replied automatically. Nothing could be worse than the vodka.
As it turned out, Arthur was wrong. As soon as Eames probed the entrance with the sterilized prongs, Arthur passed out, again. He woke up to Eames maneuvering his form into a sitting position, wrapping the finishing touches on the bandage. For once, Eames had been efficient, quickly stitching the wound.
"I need to look at your hand now, darling," Eames said quietly. His warm torso curled around the back of Arthur, preventing him from diving head-first off the back of the table.
As Eames stitched Arthur's hand with black thread, Arthur's mind wandered. He gazed out the small kitchen window above the sink, tracing the faint glint of Orion's Belt with his eyes. The stars are beautiful tonight.
Arthur didn't notice Eames wrapping his chest until suddenly he could actually breathe. "Bruised ribs," Eames declared, feeling around. He rubbed some kind of stinging salve on the rope burns that circled Arthur's wrists. Finally, Eames came in front of Arthur to gingerly cradle his shoulders in each of his warm hands. Eames' multi-colored eyes met Arthur's own for a brief second, a frown tugging at his lips. "I don't think that cut on your face needs stitches, although it looks bloody painful. I cleaned it out while you were unconscious."
Eames broke his eye contact with Arthur, looked around at the kitchen, and sighed. Arthur belatedly followed his sweeping gaze.
The moon's rays shining through kitchen window illuminated the various bloody towels strewn across the floor, a ruined paisley shirt, some bits of thread, bandages, and an abandoned vodka bottle piled in a corner. Arthur's trail of blood had long dried across the tiles, marking a stained path in the living room.
"At least you're not dead." Eames said at last. "I was worried about my welcome mat for a moment there."
Arthur didn't even think to respond. The only thought flitting across Arthur's mind at the moment was how warm Eames' chest seemed to be, his head rocking forward, falling into the maroon sweatshirt.
"Time for bed," said Eames. He rocked Arthur off the kitchen table onto the tile, one hand on the small of his back, the other slinging Arthur's arm across his shoulders.
Arthur really tried, but his legs just couldn't seem to stay upright, even with Eames holding most of the burden. "Let's go," Eames said, and, without consulting Arthur, swept behind Arthur's knees, knocking him off his feet.
Eames carried Arthur like that through the house, Arthur uncomplaining, his exhaustion rendering him a docile passenger. Eames made his way up narrow wooden steps and down a dark hall, the ceiling swirling and rolling under Arthur's gaze.
Eames turned, coming to a stop in a quiet bedroom. He laid Arthur on top of a white checkered quilt, his gaze sweeping over Arthur from head to toe.
Arthur felt absolutely naked, although he still had his pants. He was swathed in bandages, every part of him aching something fierce. Turning his head self-consciously, Arthur noticed a window shining in the corner of the room. Once again, he spotted Orion's Belt, further along in the cloudy sky.
"The stars are beautiful tonight, Eames."
"I know, darling," Eames said softly. "I know."