Monday. Who goes out on a date on a Monday? Oh, that's right. This was Eames' idea.

Arthur tied his tie in the mirror and checked his watch before he grabbed his jacket. He'd barely had time to take a quick shower after he got off work before he had to get ready to meet Eames at the restaurant, and he was cutting it close. He squatted down next to the tank and took a selfie.

—Just had to tuck in the little one. Leaving now. Might be late.

He hit sent without waiting for a reply.

"Frank, no wild parties while I'm out. And don't wait up for me, just in case."

Outside, he chased down a taxi and checked his messages from the backseat, allowed under cover of gathering darkness, to grin at Eames' reply.

—Perfect, that'll give me time to strategically loosen my shoe under the table for footsie later.

He'd taken Eames' number, but it didn't matter because Eames had looked up his cell phone from Frank's file before he'd even put him back in his tank.

—I demand hourly updates on Frank's wellbeing, darling. How else am I to know if I'll be busy next Monday?

Arthur had shaken his head and replied, -Who said anything about next Monday? Today is Monday. That's not a full week, Dr. Eames.

—Monday to Monday is a week, Eames had replied. Ask anyone. And you don't have to be so formal, darling.

—Fine. I will send you hourly pictures of my fish, Mr. Eames. Is that better?

—Brilliant. Monday at 8 works perfectly for me. I know just the place.

And Arthur realized he was grinning at his phone and holding a jar of goldfish water, and snapped the first of what would be many blurry pictures of Frank.

And for the rest of the week, Eames would text him between clients, of which there were few, and added him to a group chat with Mal, the receptionist. And before he knew it, his phone would buzz and he would jump to check it, or he would leave his phone in his office for a meeting and come back to 161 unread texts of Eames and Mal discussing polio. Or gendered hair ribbons for babies. Or who could take the best "my face as an emoji" photo. Or a dozen other conversations they sucked Arthur into against his will. Many times it was Mal and Eames, but then Eames started texting him later at night, after Mal had gone home to her family and Arthur had climbed between the sheets to read for a bit, and Eames would text him things like, "Have you ever played an instrument?" and "What's your middle initial and I'll try to guess the name."

Arthur still didn't quite know what Eames expected from him, but it was… fun. Eames was fun to talk to via text. Arthur had forgotten what it felt like to look forward to something, and a challenge to be witty and clever in his replies. It was easy to say things like, "Mr. Eames, I'm sure your "o" face is more of a "d'oh!" face most of the time," when he didn't have to be invested in the reply. And it was fun to punch the air when he got an, "I'll suppose you'll have to decide for yourself," in return anyway.

To be honest, Arthur thought maybe fun and flirty could be just the thing. He could do a summer fling. Eames could be someone he used to forget the last month and remember how to have fun. Or a booty call. Did people still call them booty calls? Did group texting with your booty call and his secretary really set the right tone? Frank refused to weigh in on any of this.

The restaurant Eames had chosen was a young place in an old building, and not really Arthur's taste, but the online reviews had been decent. He spotted Eames in a dark corner and squared his shoulders. Just because he was keeping things light didn't mean he didn't want this to go well. It was a date, after all.

Eames caught his eye and smirked the whole time it took Arthur to walk to his table. He didn't get up or hold Arthur's chair for him, and Arthur hesitated for just a moment before seating himself across the small table. This was a date, right? But Eames' eyes crinkled with delight and he leaned into Arthur's space as soon as he sat down.

"Arthur, love, I'm so glad to see you. This is already going better than two of the last five times I went out."

And Arthur grinned, not because it was exactly something Eames would text him and it was a huge relief, but because he was fun and light and ready to blow off steam.

"I guess I've got my work cut out for me if I'm already behind three of them," Arthur fired back with one eyebrow raised.

Eames looked a bit dazed as he chuckled. "Is that how that came across? Well, allow me to spend the evening begging your apology because that's sincerely not what I meant."

Arthur bit back the reply he wanted to say about begging and just said, "No need, Mr. Eames. I already know I'm the best. I'll wait for you to catch up."

True to his word, Eames took him to dinner and talked. If he'd wanted to just be a bloke needing to talk, that would have been very gentlemanly and appreciated. But, well, the wine selection was excellent, and it had been a while since Arthur'd been on a date, but he still knew how they went. And he couldn't help but notice that the open collar of Eames' shirt showed off the edge of more than one tattoo, and another peeked from under his sleeve. He angled his body and maintained some heavy eye contact and tried, in general, to put out The Vibe.

"So, Arthur," Eames said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin in a way that made Arthur almost miss what he was saying. "Tell me about the rest of your family."

The sound of brakes screeched in Arthur's head as he sat up and tried to shake off that particular mental bucket of cold water. "Uh. Well. Just my older sister, Alex, now." But Eames just kept looking at him with interest, so Arthur kept talking. "My dad, uh, died when I was young, and my mom didn't get along with his family, and hers was on the other side of the country, so it was mainly just us. Alex and my mom were really close, especially after I moved out. Alex still lives in my hometown, so she was the one who—"

Arthur broke off and wiped his own mouth before reaching for his wine glass again. This was supposed to be fun. He was supposed to be cool and witty, and possibly getting laid by a tattooed British veterinarian. He was absolutely not supposed to be getting all misty-eyed. He cleared his throat. "What about you?"

Eames shrugged. "Well, it's not an accident they're over there and I'm over here. Left my family back in merry old England, didn't I?"

Despite himself, his curiosity piqued. "You don't talk to them at all?"

"Well," Eames said, leaning in, "I don't want to put any pressure on you, but if I go back, I'll be forced to marry and produce an heir to inherit our family's vast estates and titles. See, I'm the last of a long line of Eameses, and I know that by staying here I'm letting everyone down. But," he sighed, "the weight of that crown, Arthur." He breathed out a labored sigh. "It's heavy."

Arthur raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Wow. Was any of that true?"

Eames threw his head back and laughed and Arthur felt warmed to his toes. "Not a word, love." His grin was infectious. "I talk to my mum twice a week or it's my head, and I visit Christmas and Mother's Day and any other time I can get away. Pop runs a pub, although he keeps saying he's going to sell it and retire, but that will never happen." Eames looked at him, lazy and content, and swirled his drink, only his sensible second. This wasn't going exactly the way Arthur had anticipated, but Eames kept talking, and Arthur couldn't help but be intrigued.

"I have two sisters and a brother who keep them off my back about grandkids, a whole pack of nieces and nephews, and the kind of small-town gossip they like to call "it takes a village". Bloody nightmare is what it was, I'll tell you that for free. But enough about all that. You said you were an architect? Tell me about being an architect."

Arthur tried to remember back to the exam room and Eames' exact words, because this was a date, right? He hadn't misread the situation and wandered into an after-work happy hour or something. It just usually didn't take this long to get his date to suggest getting the check and heading back to their place.

And yet, it was still easy to talk to Eames. He found himself talking about his job, which could be tedious, but man, that feeling when it all finally came together, and everything worked…

"When it's finished, it's like… I don't know how to describe it. I could tell you exactly how many bricks, and how many nails if I had to. If I do my job right, the builders shouldn't have any questions, the whole thing should run smooth, and when it's all over, there's a new thing in the world. Like, a creation. And I helped bring it into being."

Eames grinned. "Sounds amazing."

Arthur found himself smiling back and shrugging. "Well, it never does run smooth. That's where my boss comes in. He's supposed to make sure it all works out in the end, but he hates it. He's more of a face-to-face guy, meeting with contractors, selling the building plans, blah blah. But he's got a family, and he's gearing for a promotion, so who knows? Maybe I'll get his job someday."

Eames nodded. "I'm positive you'd be fantastic, darling."

Just that. A compliment. Arthur fought down a blush with the rest of his drink and looked for the waiter.

"Did you drive here?" Eames asked.

"Taxi," Arthur answered before he realized what Eames was really asking. He scowled. "I'm fine."

Eames raised his hands in defense. "No offense meant, love. Habit from growing up in a pub."

Arthur wasn't placated, but he decided he didn't really need another glass anyway. Besides, as nice a guy as Eames was turning out to be, or maybe because of it, it was probably going to be an early night.

"Well," Arthur said like a goodbye, reaching for his wallet. "No offense taken, but I probably should think about getting home." Eames didn't look insulted and Arthur joked, "Unless, of course, you want to take me home." He laughed, just in case.

"I'd be happy to," Eames said easily. When Arthur looked at him in surprise, Eames just smiled like he knew something Arthur didn't and reached for his own wallet. They split the bill and overtipped, and Arthur found himself tucked into the front seat of a partially restored classic Shelby Mustang giving Eames directions to his apartment.

At the curb, Eames put the car in park but left the engine running. "Well, here you are, Arthur. Safe and sound and unaccosted." He grinned and Arthur tried to smile back.

"Yeah." Unfortunately. He pulled his keys out of his pocket and decided it couldn't hurt to just flat out ask to be accosted. "I don't suppose you want to come up for coffee?"

It was Eames' turn to look surprised, but pleasantly, and although he didn't answer, he shut the car off and came around to hold the car door open for Arthur, which he realized afterward was because there was a trick to getting the door to stay shut.

Arthur led the way to his apartment, stomach jumping far more than he would have expected, and Eames made small talk about the neighborhood while Arthur tried to look like his hands weren't shaking as he opened the door. What was wrong with him all of a sudden? This was what he wanted. Summer fling me, baby. So why did he feel like a teenager at prom?

"Well, this is me," he said, tossing his keys into the flower bowl on the counter.

Eames was looking around, nodding, until he spotted Frank's tank. "Oh hello, love!" He bent to peer through the glass and Arthur didn't stare at his ass. "Look, Arthur, he remembers me!"

Arthur shook his head, smiling, as he took off his jacket and hung it carefully over the back of a chair. Eames straightened and turned, and Arthur decided to get the ball rolling.

With deliberate movements, he held Eames' gaze as he reached up and loosened his tie. Eames grew very still, and Arthur removed it efficiently with a few tugs, draping it over the jacket. Then he watched Eames watching him as he undid the top two buttons. Then his cuffs.

"Ahem," Eames said, jerking out of his stupor and moving past Arthur into the kitchen. "You said something about coffee, I believe..." He started opening cupboards at random. "I can make it. Actually top-notch at coffee, if you can—"

Arthur stopped him with a hand on his arm. Surely Eames wasn't… nervous? This man who'd asked for his number during the middle of his crisis over a fish, and then flirted outrageously with him for a week? But sure enough, there was a pink stain across the tops of Eames' cheeks, and he licked those luscious lips before he met Arthur's eyes.

"I don't want coffee," Arthur said, and stepped into Eames' space.

Eames swallowed.

Arthur ran his hand down Eames' bicep, admiring the view, and settled a hand at his waist. Then with his other, he pulled Eames' away from his cupboards. It was funny, but faced with Eames' nerves, his own disappeared. He felt calm, confident, in control. It felt… good. Amazing, really.

"Kiss me, Mr. Eames." His voice was low and hoarse, and he watched Eames' pupils dilate.

Eames licked his lips again, a quick flicker of tantalizing tongue, but he was staring at Arthur's mouth. "Are you sure?"

Arthur grinned, fierce and feral, and yanked Eames closer. Then he kissed him, hot and sweet, a press of slightly open mouth to slightly open mouth. Oh, he could get used to this. Eames, for all his blushing and offers to make coffee, had a switch that flipped on at the touch of Arthur's lips.

He clutched at Arthur, hips, back, waist, pulling him closer, walking toward him at the same time, trying to grab more of him, all of him. He had ten pairs of arms and they all wanted to touch Arthur at the same time. Arthur groaned and it lit a fire under Eames even more, and Arthur tucked that little nugget of information away for a rainy day. They stumbled backward, touching and gasping, Arthur only vaguely sure they were headed toward the bedroom. When he ran into the drafting table in the corner, missing the bedroom door by about eight feet, he thought, "close enough."

Arthur was mesmerized by the slide of Eames' mouth, the rasp of his stubble, but he wanted his hands on the play of muscles he'd been eyeing all night. A few tugs pulled Eames' shirt from his waistband, and Arthur wasted no time exploring skin.

"Arthur," Eames said against his mouth as he struggled against Arthur's hands to unbutton his shirt. "Arthur, are you sure about this?"

"Yes, I'm fucking sure, why wouldn't I be sure?" Arthur barked, pulling at Eames' belt. "Take off your pants."

"Because I," Eames tried to say, dragging off his shirt and pulling Arthur into another kiss which whited out sound, "I don't usually do this… but you are just so..." He broke off with a frustrated sound and Arthur ground their hips together.

"Christ, Arthur." He kissed his way up Arthur's neck. "I should have bought a lottery ticket. I didn't think you'd want to do this."

Arthur pulled back. "Do you not want to do this?"

Eames barked a laugh. "Oh, I very much do. Look at you," he said, reeling Arthur back in. "All posh and lovely," he kissed down Arthur's neck to bite at his clavicle, "and way out of my league."

Arthur snorted and shoved Eames' pants past his hips.

As they hit the floor with a clatter of his belt buckle, Eames grinned and cocked an eyebrow. "You sure you'll respect me in the morning, darling?"

"I'll respect you right here on this table if you'd shut up for five seconds," Arthur said. He spun them and pressed Eames back, biting at those maddingly delicious-looking lips. "And then I'll respect you again in the morning."

Eames looked delighted and hoisted himself onto the table, spreading his thighs and pulling Arthur between them. The tent in his boxer briefs was gorgeous. Arthur ran his fingers over it, learning size, shape, and heft. It was a very nice heft.

Eames opened his mouth to say something, and Arthur kissed him to keep him quiet. He swallowed Eames' groans as he let his fingers wander, dipping below the waistband and stroking over velvety skin. He took his time removing the rest of Eames' clothes, telling Eames to lift his hips one at a time so he could ease his underwear down and off, unwilling to be impeded in his explorations. Eames didn't seem to mind the orders, gray eyes dancing and his cheeks and lips pinkened. Beautiful.

Eames gripped the edge of the drafting table, every ounce of his attention focused on Arthur. It was a heady feeling and Arthur found himself grinning as he traced Eames' knees and inner thighs, closer and closer to the prize.

"Hands?" Arthur asked, "or mouth?" His voice came out low and rough, and Eames' breath hitched.

"Both, of course."

Arthur cocked an eyebrow. "Greedy."

Eames just grinned wolfishly. "I'll take whatever you—fucking hell," he said, sucking in air through his teeth as Arthur swallowed him down. "You are a talented man, Arthur, good Christ, I can't—"

Arthur pulled off with a noisy pop. "Mr. Eames?"

Eames was breathing hard. "Yes, darling?"

"It is now my goal to render you incapable of speech." Then he went to work.

Arthur bobbed on Eames' cock a few times, letting him hit the back of his throat and loving the way Eames' hips couldn't seem to sit still beneath him. He backed off in a long, slow slurp, Eames holding his breath, and let the tip rest against his lips as Eames remembered how to pull air into his lungs.

"Arthur… fuck."

Arthur worked his way down, feeling powerful, laving attention on Eames' balls, while he jacked him at the same time, slow and steady. Eames unclenched one fist from the edge of the table to drag it through Arthur's hair, his touch soft and reverent. When Arthur flicked his eyes up, Eames was staring, open-mouthed, and panting.

"Christ, Arthur, you feel bloody amazing, you do, and I—"

Arthur tightened his grip on Eames' cock and rose. He kept up his rhythm, that steady tug and smooth slide enough to make Arthur's own cock cry for release and dared Eames with his eyes to keep talking.

Eames' eyes narrowed mischievously and Arthur dipped down to taste the spread of tattoos before him. Bites and licks and careful worship of Eames' ink, and all the while that steady tug and slide. Eames' breath was starting to quicken as Arthur dragged his tongue over the nub of Eames' nipple. His hips started to cant and Eames' head dropped back.

"Arthur…" Eames breathed, and Arthur dropped to his knees in one smooth motion, his lips meeting his fist around Eames' cock, dark red and welling at the tip. Arthur devoured him, rocking with the movement of Eames' hips, pulling and sucking, wet and filthy.

"Oh, God, Arthur," Eames groaned, "faster. Please, darling…"

Arthur sped up, adding a slight twist at the end that was making Eames hiccup a cry every time, as his body tensed like a bowstring. Eames' thighs trembled as his hips chased Arthur's mouth, hands gripping the edge of the table and his head thrown back.

"Please, fuck, please," Eames strained, although Arthur didn't think he knew he was saying anything at all. He would start a sentence on every exhale, forgotten by the time he sucked in a breath. Arthur own hips jerked with the way Eames' voice broke, higher and tighter, until he spilled with a cry, and Arthur worked him through it and then licked him clean.

There were, Arthur decided, definite advantages to having such a noisy partner. New goal: to find out what other sounds Eames made.

Hot and fucked out, Arthur flopped back on the mattress, panting at the ceiling, his limbs refusing to work, while Eames mouthed kisses down his chest.

"God damn," Arthur breathed.

"Mmm," Eames agreed.

Arthur smiled euphorically at nothing and started to laugh. It started as a chuckle, just because he felt good, then giggles rolled out of his belly until he couldn't breathe.

Eames' mouth grinned against his skin. "What's so funny, pet?"

He beamed down at him, fingers in his hair. "Nothing," he admitted. "Just… that was great. You were great."

"Mmm," Eames hummed again and kissed his nipple. "Pretty bloody brilliant yourself, darling."

A rush of contentedness washed over him as Eames snuggled into his side, their sweaty chests sticking together and their legs tangled in the sheets, and he closed his eyes to try to memorize this moment so he could keep it.

Oh, Arthur, don't be silly!

Arthur sat bolt upright in bed, panic filling his lungs as he kicked blindly at whatever was holding him down, keeping him from getting to her, keeping him from—

"Arthur?" Eames sat up, blinking blearily but awake in seconds. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

He was pulling the sheets aside to stand, even as Arthur was waving him down.

"No, sorry, sorry, I'm fine. It's fine," he said, stomach dropping as he realized he'd been kicking Eames. "Just a dream."

But Eames was already up and leaving the bedroom, moonlight lovingly tracing over his nakedness.

"Eames," Arthur called, "it's fine." He scrubbed a hand over his face, pushing away the memory. "What is he doing?"

A few seconds later, Eames returned, wearing his underwear and carrying a glass of water.

"Everything is locked, Frank is fine," he said, climbing back in and handing him the glass. He settled himself back against the headboard and draped the sheets over his lap. "Now," he said, holding out his arm. "Tell me."

Arthur stared at him, but he just sat patiently, waiting for Arthur to lean against him. He looked down into the glass, taking a shaky drink and then setting it on the bedside table. Slowly, he sank into Eames' side, tucked into the safety of a tattooed arm stroking comforting brushes over his skin.

"That's better," Eames murmured. "Tell us what your dream was about, hmm?"

Arthur felt silly but too raw not to take comfort in Eames' embrace. "Oh, just… you know. Stuff."

Eames didn't say anything, but he leaned his cheek on the top of Arthur's head and didn't stop the casual touches, and Arthur was grateful.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Eames asked eventually, his voice quiet.

Arthur shook his head, and Eames shifted down in the bed, dragging Arthur with him. When they were face to face, close enough to feel Eames' breath on his cheek, Eames started talking.

"Do you remember Buzz?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Your assistant? How could I forget?"

Eames' lips quirked up and Arthur found himself staring at them. He was really, truly beautiful.

"Buzz was a rescue dog. Well, not really a rescue. His owners brought him in because he had stopped urinating, and we had to do an x-ray. Turned out he had a blockage, which he passed, and he got put on a special diet to prevent any future issues."

"Is he okay now?" Arthur asked.

"Safe as houses, love," Eames assured him, which Arthur assumed was good. "But his owners never found that part out. They just saw the bill and never came back to pick him up."

"Jesus." Arthur felt a little ill. "Does that happen a lot?"

Eames shrugged with his mouth. "Not in our office," he said. "But it didn't happen to me. It happened to Buzz. And he was the one who had to deal with it, even though he didn't do anything wrong."

Arthur gave him a flat look. "So you're saying shit happens, but I shouldn't be upset because I didn't do anything wrong."

Eames chuckled and his eyes crinkled up. Beautiful.

"It's not a fable, darling. I'm telling you how I met Buzz. And I wouldn't presume to tell you how to feel."

"Uh huh," Arthur said dryly. "Well, I appreciate that, Dr. Eames."

"Tsk," Eames said. "Doctor? Really? When I'm in my pants and you're naked?"

"Mmm," Arthur said, sliding their legs together. "Mister."

Eames kissed him softly. "Better." Then he kissed him again, longer, deeper, until Arthur had to pull away.

"Eames," he breathed.

And Eames smiled against his mouth. "Best."