summary: Arthur and Eames have some one night stands
words:Â 6282
In the middle of the night, the bed dips and Eames flails awake. His fist connects with something hard before he registers lashing out.
There’s shocked silence, then Eames fumbles for the light. He’d like to see who exactly has come to kill him in the night. He has a sinking feeling he’ll recognize his assailant; he has a sneaking suspicion the actual killing part may be a late addition to the plan.
“You asshole,” Arthur says, gingerly touching his cheek with the back of his hand, “it’s my bed.”
"How long was I asleep?" Eames asks helpfully.
"How the fuck should I know?" Arthur answers, then dips in to kiss him, and oh, oh, it's so obvious that Eames has dreamed him up. This is why the mourning process is important, Eames thinks, otherwise the madness creeps in.
Arthur settles in next to him, solid and warm. He fits a hand over Eames’ hip and the touch is light, but it feels very real.
“You’re in Mombasa,” Eames says, and follows it up with, “Your pillows don’t smell like you.” It can’t be helped, Eames doesn’t currently have the wherewithal to keep his mouth in check.
Arthur breathes out over Eames’ mouth. “I’m right here.” His kisses are soft and slow, tired. “And I like clean sheets.”
