Chapter 5: Damage
"Fuck," Arthur hissed through clenched teeth, resisting the urge to rip the needle from Eames' hand, "you really don't know the meaning of gentle, do you?"
"I told you I'm not qualified to do this." The toothpaste mint on the forger's breath reached Arthur's nose as he pulled the surgical thread taught on Arthur's shoulder over the bullet wound.
"And you think I am?" Arthur grit the words out, drawing a sharp breath as the needle pierced his skin again.
"Well Cobb said you had experience with field medicine, so I can only assume," Eames kept his eyes fixed to his task at hand, trying to make an effort to not cause Arthur such visible discomfort, "besides, how do you know your own stitching of wounds isn't this painful?" Eames let his eyes briefly rise to Arthur's face, allowing him a moment before resuming.
"I learned on myself." Eames' eyes widened with sudden surprise and concern. "Don't look at me like that," Arthur reproached, "the end of a job, with a teammate bleeding out is the not the place to learn."
"So injuring yourself to prove you can sew yourself back together is the answer? Did Cobb authorize that?"
"He didn't know."
"Was that necessarily wise? What if you had failed?" Arthur met Eames' eyes in annoyed displeasure. "Oh that's right," Eames quickly said, not faltering under Arthur's intense gaze, "you don't ever fail do you? You always have an answer or a backup."
"That is what I get paid for, Eames." Eames shook his head, turning back to Arthur's shoulder.
"If I ever catch you purposefully cutting yourself, I will tie you up so you have to endure my shoddy first aid as punishment."
"No," Arthur's breath caught in his throat as the needle reentered his skin, "once I'm better, I am fucking teaching you how to properly stitch a wound."
"Sounds dangerously like a date, love." Eames sent him a sideways, roguish smirk.
"I'm afraid you'll be sorely disappointed," Arthur returned without batting an eye, grimacing as Eames pulled the thread taught, "I'm difficult to please and I don't put out on the first date."
"You say that now, but you don't know how persuasive I can be." A small, surprisingly undignified snort of a laugh left Arthur, cut short by a hiss as the needle dipped too deep. "Surely after what you've been through it doesn't hurt that bad."
"It's just…unpleasant." The two men lapsed into silence as Eames continued to work the thread through the open wound.
"Well the only advice I can give you is stop moving around," Eames started again, "if you just lie still and let me actually care for you, you won't tear your stitches and we won't have to do this again."
"You don't ask for much, do you?" Arthur quipped, turning away from the close proximity of Eames' face, the breath from the forger's silent laugh brushing over his skin. Eames pulled the thread taught, wondering how the next question would go over. It was the only question Eames had stewed about since the job went south, since Arthur sacrificed himself so the others could escape.
"Why did you do it, Arthur?" Eames's voice grew soft, his eyes drifting up to Arthur's, hoping to catch a glimpse of the truth, needing to know why Arthur had so willingly used himself as bait.
"It was my job."
"We both know that's a crock of shit." He caught Arthur's near silent, resigned sigh in their close proximity.
"A distraction was needed. Cobb has a family to think about now. If it comes down to him or me— it will be me every time."
"Do you really value your life so little?" The corners of Arthur's lips lifted in something of an embarrassed smile.
"No," he admitted softly, "but I don't have anyone to lose. No one depends on me, so I have no one to miss me."
"I'm the same as you, yet you let me go with Cobb."
"You would have slowed me down."
"You don't know that."
"I didn't need your help."
"No, clearly you got away scot-free." Eames pulled the needle free, ignoring the pointed glare on Arthur's face.
"You wouldn't have been able to help, Eames," Arthur reiterated, voice low with a warning, "you would have been captured, interrogated and tortured too. An escape coordinated between the two of us would have been less successful, and they would have killed us."
"But we wouldn't have died alone," Eames let his eyes rise to Arthur's, surgical thread momentarily forgotten, "if you hadn't escaped, you would have died alone."
"It would have been worth it," Arthur said quietly, tearing his eyes from Eames' to the snowy world outside, "it's worth it every time."
"What is?" Eames heard himself ask.
"The chance to dream," Arthur said quietly his voice distant, "the chance to live in that world. To do what we do—we're time travelers with a luxury. We fly the deepest oceans, we swim in frozen skies—we do the impossible, and defy laws no man on this earth can. Everyone longs for life to be something more than it is, no matter how already prefect—and it's that one chance which makes it all worthwhile."
"Worth dying for?"
"Could you ever walk away, knowing what you know?" A pause settled as Eames surprised himself by actually considering the point man's words.
"Not really. Life in reality never seems to measure up." Eames admitted, voice drawn, watching Arthur continue to stare out the window, a wistful knowledge in his eyes. "That was very poetic, Arthur. You have a surprisingly graceful eloquence with words. It's a shame you don't show it more often."
"Poetic…?" Arthur seemed to snap out of his distant revere, turning back to Eames, not minding the forger's close proximity. "And just what would you know of poetry, Mr. Eames?"
"'The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved—loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves.'" Eames watched a surprised, impressed light creep almost imperceptibly to Arthur's eyes. Most anybody else would have missed it."Victor Hugo." Arthur's eyes searched the forger's for some hint of the game he was playing.
"No game, Arthur," a hint of a smirk played on Eames' face as he studied Arthur's searching eyes, "my then-long-time partner at university and I explored and loved over our mutual adoration of the written word. And that, not to put too fine a point on it, would be what I know of poetry."
"My research on you never turned up such an interest," Arthur suddenly said, almost disappointed he hadn't uncovered that tidbit on his own, "or a serious love interest of any kind."
"Much like yourself, darling, there are facets to my character that I do not wish to made public knowledge," Eames' eyes narrowed to a serious look, "surely you can understand that."
"More than you know." Arthur nodded his head slightly, acknowledging the forger's desire to keep his love for literature a secret. Arthur felt a smile tug unbidden at his lips at the thought. He shared a secret with Eames, and a relatively personal one at that. Something few others knew about him, and he had wanted Arthur to know the truth. His eyes fell from the forger to the new stitches on his shoulder, the black thread a stark contrast to his pale skin.
"Let me finish that up." Eames said softly, breaking the silence, his hands rising to the thread, tying a secure knot, snipping off the remaining thread ends. "Now if you'll just hold still, that should do you." Arthur's eyes darted to the arm sling currently on the bed, removed temporarily so Eames could repair the stitches.
"Just don't force me back into the sling." Arthur simply said, attempting to roll his left shoulder, grimacing, drawing a sharp breath at the pain and tight pull of skin.
"Darling, you tore your stitches with the sling on. I don't know if you can be trusted if not restrained—there, you see." Eames shook his head, not willing to give sympathy as he watched the look of pain on Arthur's face, despite the small tug on his heart. "Would you like a pain pill?"
"Maybe in a bit," Arthur said quickly, eyes returning to Eames with something of a hesitant, even ashamed question in their depths, "but right now I...I would like you to help me take a bath. Please. I'm too disgusted with myself to keep lying here" Eames froze for a brief second, quickly shaking it off, not believing he had heard the point man right. A bath?
"I thought you'd never ask," Eames gave his eyebrows a suggestive waggle, "but you will just have to sit there. You move or try to do anything, and I swear I will duct tape your appendages together—do not ask me sew you back up again." Arthur's lips quirked in a small yet amused smile.
"I promise Eames, no tricks, no sudden movements. I just want to be clean." Eames nodded silently, suddenly unsure what to do. This would take a major dose of self restraint—Arthur, naked and pliable in a bathtub was the stuff of fantasy any given day. Adding injured and vulnerable to the situation now struck a startling, aching chord within the forger. Was the point man really getting under his skin?
"Well stay here," Eames rose from the bed, moving for the bathroom, "and please, really, don't move." Eames realized he sounded like a broken record, but he really didn't want to have to go through that stitching process again. And now the man wanted to take a bath. Did he realize what he was asking?
Eames turned on the tap, letting the water run till it reached scalding hot, tempering it with cold until it reached a pleasant temperature. Not surprisingly the hotel didn't stock bubble bath or shower gel, so he grabbed the bar of the soap, attempting to work up a loose lather of bubbles in the warm water. Eames didn't know the first thing about washing another person, at least not with the purpose of achieving cleanliness. Turning off the water, he let go the breath he didn't realize he was holding, exiting the bathroom and moving back to the bed.
"So how are we going to do this, hm?" Eames stopped in front of Arthur, choosing not to mention the fact that the point man had moved to a sitting position, his feet on the floor. God he looked awful. Eames couldn't deny a bath would do him wonders. "Bridal-style? Over my shoulder? Bridal's my preferred—"
"You're not carrying me anywhere, Mr. Eames." Arthur's resolute voice pointed to his feet as he gingerly tested his weight, fighting the woozy feeling growing in his head. His bandaged right hand fell to the bed for support as he put more weight on his injured right ankle, hissing in pain. Quickly he shifted to his left foot, leaning forward before instantly leaning back, overcome with dizziness, eyes closing to miss the shake of Eames' head.
"What did I tell you, hm? Nothing doing," warm, sure fingers wrapped around Arthur's upper right arm, "you haven't really eaten in over three days. You just don't have the energy to prove your strength." He watched the point man's jaw set in a hard, frustrated line. "I know you hate it and it's hard for you to be vulnerable and so forth. I get it, I do. But you'll never be on the teasing end of my words for it—in public or private." He met Arthur's incredulous look. "Well maybe a bit in private. Have to have my fun somehow." He was strangely relieved to hear a silent breath of a laugh from the point man, his face softening. "But I promise not to carry you unless I absolutely have to, if that helps."
"Yes…thank you." Arthur admitted, something of a forced, yet still embarrassed and proud note on his voice. He looked at Eames as the forger sat on the bed next to him, draping Arthur's right arm over his broad shoulders, left arm snaking across the point man's back to tuck him in close.
"Hold on," Eames' voice was surprisingly low in Arthur's ear, "let me know if I hurt you."
"I've been tortured Eames," Arthur groaned as Eames slowly stood, pulling him to his feet, "it's supposed to hurt."
On slow, hobbled steps they slowly moved through the room, Eames studying Arthur as he moved. The determined glare and hisses of pain from the younger man spoke volumes about his internal struggle between the pain and letting it show. Eames felt Arthur's weight shift from leaning against him as Arthur gradually limped more on his injured ankle, impressed he was relatively managing so well. Though the death grip from Arthur's hand on Eames' side indicated just how much of a struggle it was for him. It'd be even more impressive if Arthur didn't doze off in the tub after this exertion. They stopped next to the tub, Arthur suddenly slumping against Eames, breathing hard.
"I don't think my ankle's broken, but it sure hurts like fucking hell." Eames laughed softly at the serious tone trying to cover the strain from exertion on Arthur's voice.
"Only you would try to analyze your pain after the fact." Eames ignored Arthur's sharp glare, shifting his focus. "Come on, your bath water's only getting colder." Arthur's eyes settled to the tub, relaxing at the sight of the warm, slightly sudsy water. The earlier feelings of uncertainly washed over Eames again, not sure of his next move. The only article of clothing left on Arthur's body was the prison standard issue white, thin cotton boxers, and Eames had never found such expansive ranges of skin, though marred by injuries, to be so appealing. He just had to keep a grip on himself when the final barrier was removed.
"Do you want to—or should I—"
"Why I didn't think you had a shred of modesty in you, Mr. Eames." Eames couldn't believe the faint flush creeping to his cheeks on Arthur's words, loving the near flirty tone on Arthur's voice.
"Heaven forbid, darling," Eames quipped, matching the other man's hinting flirty tone, "I merely wanted you to know I'm not trying to take advantage of you. For if the day ever comes that you let me, I don't want you plagued by uncomfortable memories."
"'If the day ever comes'…" Arthur shook his head lightly as he repeated the words with a smile, hooking the bandaged fingers of his right hand into the waistband of his boxers, slowly working them down, "I do seem to recall optimism was your preference."
"It beats realism every time." The memories from the parliament building flashed through Eames' mind as he helped Arthur step out of the discarded shorts and gingerly settle into the tub. He watched the point man draw a deep breath, his eyes falling peacefully closed as the warm water engulfed most of his body, leaving his critical left shoulder and right hand wounds dry. "Will you be ok to sit—and I mean just sit—here for a few minutes?" Arthur cracked a curious eye open. "I have got to the change the bed sheets." He offered in attempt of an explanation, watching Arthur nod his assent before moving from the bathroom.
He fetched the clean set of sheets he procured the day before from the dresser top, making swift work of removing the old, somewhat soiled sheets. He would have to dispose of them later—housekeeping just wouldn't understand the bloodstains, no matter the explanation. He worked the new sheets on the queen bed, keeping his ears trained for the sounds of splashing water. He almost grew worried as he neared the end of his task, having not heard a sound the entire time.
He rounded the door back into the bathroom, rolling up the sleeves of his long-sleeved, button down shirt, unable to stop the soft smile on his face as he gazed down at Arthur. The tub was surrounded on three sides by tiled walls, and Arthur's head was currently tilted back, resting against the tile, eyes closed, breathing even. A stand of oily, matted hair had broken free, resting lazily across his forehead as he dozed. Eames wasn't surprised to find the younger man resting so quietly. Walking across the room in such a weak state had surely drained him.
God, Eames suddenly wanted to kiss him. Just a gentle kiss to the exposed skin of the point man's gracefully arched neck before washing him. That was all…to start with. Eames forced a hard sigh, trying to push such thoughts away. If he was going to get through washing, drying and returning Arthur to bed without becoming uncomfortably aroused, he would have to squash all such manner of thought. He turned to the bathroom counter, reaching for the shower cap, pulling it from the package.
"Arthur…" He called out softly, approaching the tub, grabbing a washcloth from the towel rack. "Arthur." He tried again, slightly louder, a smile tugging at his lips. The poor guy really was worn out, but Eames really did need his help. He could sleep all he wanted once he was back in bed.
Eames reached a hand out, gently cupping the curve of Arthur's neck, letting his thumb gently stroke the skin beneath Arthur's ear. The forger's breath hitched in his throat as a short, low moan left Arthur, watching him turn his head into Eames' touch, settling against the warmth of the forger's fingers. Slowly, those sharp brown eyes opened, clouded with muddled confusion.
"Eames…?"
"There you are; welcome back," Eames said softly, kneeling down, letting his hand fall away, "sorry to wake you, but I need your help." Arthur continued to look at Eames, eyes still half-awake.
"Why did you touch my neck?" He could still feel the lingering warmth left behind from Eames' fingers.
"You said it yourself—you were tortured. I can only assume you were awoken with slaps, buckets of water, grabs on your arms. A more intimate touch seemed appropriate to prevent a potentially violent reaction on your part."
"Not sure 'intimate' and 'appropriate' belong in the same sentence, Eames." Arthur let his eyes briefly close, breathing deep the warm, moist air, feeling the water ripple as Eames dipped the washcloth in, wringing out the excess water.
"Would you really expect anything less from me?" He flashed Arthur a quick smirk, handing over the shower cap. "Fit this to your shoulder. Might have to hold it with your left hand." Arthur scowled at the offending item.
"Is this really the best we can do to keep my shoulder dry?"
"Beggars can't be choosers." Arthur fought back a groan at Eames' quip as he fit the plastic cap over his bony shoulder, surprised how effectively it covered his freshly stitched wound.
"And just for the record," Eames said, lathering some soap onto the washcloth, "I'm really not trying to get handsy."
"Eames please," Arthur deadpanned, ever serious, rising his right elbow to rest on the tub's edge such that his right hand stuck up in the air, "don't make this any more awkward than it has to be." The forger huffed a silent laugh, pressing the washcloth to Arthur's right shoulder, gently moving over the battered, damp skin. Up and down the right arm, careful to stop at the wrist and avoid the bandage, back to the chest and over the left shoulder, edging the shower cap and up along the neck. Eames found it surprisingly nerve-wracking, not sure if he was doing it right or if there even was a right way to wash another person.
He found himself trying to remember the baths he got from his mother as a kid, and sadly failing. Dammit, he needed a distraction—the occasional brushes of his fingers against the point man's wet skin were maddening. He wanted to taste the skin before him, hear the rough, ragged breathing from its owner, map every inch, erase all the wounds that would forever mar such skin.
Eames snapped from his revere, near ashamed to find himself half-hard, unable to shake the early stirrings of arousal. He just had to focus on washing—only washing—the rest of Arthur's body and getting him out of the tub. He channeled all his thought to remembering the baths from his mother as he moved down Arthur's torso, over his legs, trying desperately not to notice the toned muscles beneath the skin indicating just how in shape Arthur normally was.
A sharp hiss passed Arthur's lips as Eames gently washed his offending right ankle.
"Sorry love…" Eames mumbled without thinking, easing his ministrations over the swollen flesh before moving to the other ankle, foot.
Eames couldn't remember the last time he had concentrated so hard to not think about what he wanted. He wanted Arthur, pure and simple. And here he was, so plainly and easily before Eames, it was maddening.
"Not sure what we can do about your hair…you're not fit to stand under a shower head." Arthur glared at him almost threateningly.
"I am not getting out of here until you wash my hair."
"Didn't your mother ever warn you about staying in the tub too long? Your fingers will prune." Eames looked up to him with a small smile. The point man stared back, lost in thought, the gears in his mind clearly as work.
"Use the ice bucket," he said at last, "I will tilt my head back so you can pour water over my hair without hitting my shoulder."
"What do I get as a 'thank you,' hmm?" Eames asked casually as he rose, thankful for the relief to his back and knees.
"What do you want?" Arthur made the mistake of asking, quickly realizing it as he looked up, meeting Eames' mischievous smile. "Forget I asked…"
"Oh, you're simply delectable." Eames near cooed, heart fluttering as he stepped from the bathroom to fetch the ice bucket.
It wasn't as bad as Eames had thought. Washing Arthur's hair actually worked pretty smoothly, and gave Eames the opportunity to wash his back when he sat forward for Eames to work the shampoo through his matted hair. The passage of time had caused the gel in Arthur's hair to near solidify, not aided by the buildup of oil and grime. But Eames had secretly loved carding his fingers through Arthur's hair, longing to feel it dry and soft between his fingers as he held the point man tight to his body.
Arthur slumped back against the tub, letting his head rest against the wall, exhaustion written in his features. Eames was sure a good, long nap was in order after this. But underneath the exhaustion lingered the relaxed lines of refreshed contentment. The forger caught himself wanting to ask what Arthur was thinking as he lay there, eyes closed, face peaceful. He opted instead to pull the drain plug, watching Arthur crack an eye, annoyed at the disruption.
"Rise'n shine." Eames quipped lazily, reaching for a towel as Arthur craned up to look at him.
"Leave it to you to spoil a quiet moment."
"Let's get you dry and back in bed. Then we'll talk about quiet moments." Eames wrapped a stabilizing hand around Arthur's arm, the other draped in towel, wrapping about his back for support as he stood. The water on the point man's skin easily penetrated the towel, soaking through to Eames' clothing though he paid it little mind. Braced against Eames' side, with a shaky hand on the shower wall, Arthur stood awkwardly, trying not to think about the continued movements of Eames' hands over his body.
Arthur was surprised at the gentle firmness in Eames' touches. He didn't honestly know what to expect from a bath by the forger—soap in the eyes? Skin rubbed raw by carelessness?—but he had been braced for it to not be the best of experiences. Yet Eames' soft, even unsure words and gentle, thorough touches had made it quite the relaxing bath. Or maybe that was the exhaustion from earlier exertion talking? A nagging voice in his head told him it wasn't—he already knew of his surprising, growing affection for the forger…was this just more of that affection growing into something else…?
He shook from his muddled mind of thoughts and feelings at Eames' beckoning, stepping out of the tub onto the bathmat. Eames watched the thoughts and emotions rage across Arthur's face, almost glad the man was too battered to put up his usual stoic front. The forger knew he was glimpsing an Arthur few had ever witnessed.
"Come on…almost nap time." Eames said quietly, watching Arthur's tired eyes snap to his on his voice, using it to keep the point man focused if only for a few more minutes.
Gradually, unsteadily they moved out of the warm bathroom, Arthur hissing slightly as the cooler room air hit his damp skin and hair. A pile of clothes greeted him on the bed—boxers and a soft undershirt t-shirt smelling of his cinnamon scent. Arthur's eyes were growing heavier and having trouble staying open as Eames worked the boxers up his legs and slid the shirt over his head and around his arms. Eames couldn't believe how young Arthur looked—like a little lost kid who was just grateful for some care.
Eames took the towel that had until now been wrapped around Arthur's body and placed it over his head, running it over Arthur's hair to dry up the excess moisture. When he pulled the towel back, the wild, every-which-direction of Arthur's hair made him chuckle, unable to stop himself from reaching a hand out and carding it through the raven locks.
"Thanks for the bath Eames," Arthur mumbled sleepily, looking first to Eames' eyes then up to the hand on his head, "don't press your luck."
"If only you knew how cute you looked." Arthur gave his head an unconvincing shake.
"No…don't start…I want to sleep."
"Then sleep." Eames let his hand fall away, watching Arthur look happily to the pillow and slide more across the mattress until he lay flat, letting out a deep breath of satisfaction as he stretched his body out. Eames reached for the covers he had pulled back, pulling them up around Arthur, surprising himself by even tucking them loosely around Arthur's frame.
"I haven't been tucked-in in years…" A sleepy mumble came from the point man.
"You're overdue it sounds like." Eames braced a knee on the bed as he hovered other Arthur, adjusting the covers.
"Thank you." A hand shot out from the under the covers, wrapping around and stilling the forger's hand. Eames froze wondering just what Arthur was attempting to accomplish. Arthur drew his hand back, still holding Eames' as he sank deeper into the pillow. Eames dared not move as he listened to Arthur's breathing even out, feeling the hold on his hand slacken, wondering just what the handhold meant.