undergrounds | backdated so hard/for eames

Eames hums softly, a quiet "mm" that does sound a little like he agrees, though Eames may just be hearing what he wants at this stage, who's to say?

"Why?" He asks after another moment or two, because now Arthur's said it in so many words, Eames doesn't exactly understand why he'd bother with this. The injuries might be serious but they're not fatal; as far as Eames can tell, just sending him on his merry way or even taking him home would've been a lot easier.

Arthur's busy smoothing down a bandage over one of the milder gouges. It's one of the last that might need one, the rest won't open back up too badly, and if they do they'll dry up quickly. He waits a moment for Eames to elaborate and then glances at his face, raising an eyebrow.

"Why what?"

"Why are you helping?" It's not that he doesn't understand basic decency, it's something Eames banks on quite regularly, but they've never operated in a way that would make him expect it from Arthur. They're not friends, they've never been anything approaching kind to eachother... but maybe that just says a lot about Eames instead of Arthur.

Arthur frowns as if the question is strange for him and he draws back a little. He supposes it's partly a holdover from the army - you can't let a teammate keep bleeding because they need to be in fighting form the next day. He almost says that Eames would do the same for him, but he doesn't know that to be true, and once he thinks about it he supposes it's probably not. Eames has seen many humans come and go, so he probably wouldn't put any extra effort into making sure one of them didn't go a little earlier than expected. The thought of that makes him feel a little small, so he takes a deep breath and finds something else to say.

"It would take a lot of work to find another contact as high up in the courts as you," he says. He can tell it's cold as soon as it comes out of his mouth, but right now he resents Eames a little for the hypothetical lack of help he would receive if the tables were turned, and he doesn't elaborate or take it back.

It gets a small chuckle out of Eames, evidently not feeling hard done by by the chilliness of it. He doesn't know if he believes it entirely — he knows Arthur well enough to know he rarely shares the entirety of his feelings on any topic without being pushed — but it's also hard to think of another way to ask him about it.

"The first time we had sex," he continues on after a moment, and it's an inelegant way to pursue tge topic but really he's just saying things as they occur to him, "you said you wanted to be able to trust me."

It's a question, even if he doesn’t phrase it like one, curiosity about what that meant and why he'd want it. Mostly if it's a human thing or an Arthur thing.

Arthur still feels small, suddenly so aware that he has an immortal being laid out on his couch. Sometimes it's easy to forget that Eames is as old as he is, that he doesn't look at life or relationships or anything quite the same, and it's making Arthur uneasy right now.

"I did," he says, trying to keep his voice level. He's done bandaging for now but he doesn't pack up, too anxious about what's to come. He knows Eames is asking for more information, but he has to brace himself, compose it in his head first.

"I guess I just wanted to know that at least one thing about you was sort of human," he says with a shrug, "that you were subject to some of the same... needs."

He knows that sounds dumb, so he elects to start packing away his things then, focusing on putting everything neatly back in its place rather than the conversation they're having right now.

Eames opens his eyes again, looking at Arthur with an entirely baffled expression. His eyes are heavy and lidded and it's hard for him to focus, but he's heard enough of what Arthur said to know he doesn't understand what he's being told right now.

"I don't follow," he answers after a moment's silence. What needs? A sex drive? Arthur's interrupted him enough times to know he's got a fairly loud one of those.

Arthur scoffs at himself dismissively and shakes his head, looking down at what he's doing. "I mean, that night I really just wanted to sleep with you, but..."

He hits pause on the cleaning up, leaning forward on his knees, clasping his hands together loosely. He takes a deep breath and shrugs before he goes on:

"I'm never going to trust you not to betray me. I'm not that stupid. I just thought I could understand you better if I could see you like that, if I could tap into something... human. Just sex and no bargaining. Something that wasn't just for fun but still wasn't..."

He shrugs again as he avoids going down the route of baldly saying there's no emotion to what they do. It's fun now, but it wasn't for fun that night. It was just raw and fueled by frustration and anger. He looks down at Eames and wonders if he'll even remember any of this with the state he's in, and he lets out a sigh as he sits back up.

"It worked, a little."

If he had the mental faculties to really think about what Arthur's saying, Eames might laugh about the idea that he's so beholden to bargaining and double-dealing that he can't have sex without it. Eames is a lucky one, he's not an ogre or a kelpie, and the fact that he looks human makes his life easier on a lot of different levels, but it also means he's never considered how fundamentally inhuman he is, or how much so people think he is.

Nobody's ever said as much to him anyway. Not without it being an insult.

Right now though? He still doesn't entirely get it, and it feels like he's just falling short of the mark. He sighs, feeling like he's young and struggling to understand humanity all over again. With added exhaustion and a growing headache and just a whole lot of pain all over his body and he feels cold which is a weird feeling for him if he's honest.

He shakes his head, as much as he can right now, and frowns up at Arthur. Murmuring a quiet apology because he still doesn't get it.

Arthur gives him a sigh for his trouble, putting his hand on Eames' chest in a show of sympathy and reassurance and maybe a touch of affection. He's not even sure he knows what he's talking about, so it's almost a relief that Eames can't get into this right now.

"You should get some sleep," he says. "You're going to feel awful in the morning."

With that, he pushes himself up, puts a few more things away in the case and then closes it up to carry it back to the kitchen. He comes back to flick the light off and then makes to leave. He's tired too, from the party and the bit of booze and from having to talk to Eames and from being frustrated about Harris, so he's going to lie down and sleep as long as possible.

Finally.

Eames barely takes a minute to fall asleep, curling up on the couch and pulling his jacket around himself in a makeshift blanket. He sleeps for a solid 12 hours like a log, barely moving in his sleep. There's the odd bout of snoring but otheriwise he might as well be dead for how heavily and how long he sleeps.

When he does wake up, it's with a groan as he sits up and puts his head in his hands. He doesn't remember coming back to Arthur's at first, and looks around the room because he's on the couch instead of in the bed which means he definitely didn't get any last night. Which probably makes sense because everything hurts and he has a headache and he's so hungry he feels like he could eat everything in the whole world.

There's more grey in his hair and the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth are a little more pronounced, but of course he's got no way to know about that. Mostly he's concerned with dragging himself up and to the kitchen in the hope that Arthur's put on like an entire pot of coffee at some point so that he doesn't have to put in any more work than getting a mug and pouring it out.

Arthur's never one to be caught without a pot of coffee ready to go first thing in the morning, so it's already brewed and ready in the carafe when Eames wakes up. Arthur himself has been up and grabbed himself a cup already, hiding out in his room with his laptop, since he usually works from the couch. He took a glance at Eames when he did, noting the extra grey but mostly checking to see if he bled through any of his bandages. The cushions may have to be dry-cleaned, which is never fun, but it's not like Arthur can take back any of his good will.

He hears Eames moving around down the hall but doesn't move right away. It's partly because he's engrossed with what he's reading but partly because he wants to give Eames the opportunity to leave if he wants. The man is so awkward with gratitude and all other feelings actually and Arthur doesn't want to put him in a weird situation after the night he had.

Eames isn't in any state to be going anywhere just yet, and he does feel kind of obliged to thank Arthur for helping him. He doesn't remember much except being mad that Arthur wouldn't let him sleep, but judging by the bandage on his neck he's struggling not to pick at, and likely others he can't see, he did a lot.

First things first though, he pours himself a coffee and practically downs the entire thing in one go while he snoops through Arthur's fridge and cupboards for things he can just eat without actually cooking them-- he'll make lunch or something when he feels less woozy and sick.

If Arthur thinks Eames is above just taking a slice of bread and eating it straight out of the bag, he has another thing coming.

After enough commotion, Arthur finally puts his laptop aside and gets out of his bed to go see what's going on. He stops in the doorway to the kitchen and leans on the frame, crossing his arms.

"You're hungry, I take it," he says dryly.

Even if he were the kind of person who felt shame at all ever, Eames just cannot bring himself to give a single shit right now. He turns to look at Arthur, with the coffee in one hand and a half eaten slice of bread in the other and shrugs a shoulder, eyebrow raised as if to say 'are you surprised?'

Though he does glance at the bread for a moment-- he should probably think about eating something with a bit more sugar. Does Arthur have any biscuits? He doesn't seem like the type, but then who doesn't enjoy a few digestives while they're working?

"Mm--" he starts, waiting until he's swallowed the bread before he actually says anything, "thank you, by the way." He gestures to his neck with the bread, and then in the vague direction of Arthur's living room, "I'll pay for the cleaning."

Arthur makes a noise as he shrugs, looking down at his feet. "I'm the idiot who brought you back here," he says, like he's saying that Eames doesn't have to pay for the cleaning. Arthur can pay for it, but it would be nice if the man whose blood was all over his couch did instead.

He takes a few steps into the kitchen to sit down at the table, considering another mug of coffee. "Looks like you didn't bleed through any of them."

He's gonna pay for it, it's his blood and he has the money so he feels vaguely like he should.

They don't need to talk about it though, Eames has other things to deal with, like devouring everything in this kitchen. He makes a quiet noise to indicate he agrees it is good and turns around to inspect a cupboard.

"Do you have anything sugary?"

"Cupboard above the fridge," Arthur says as he drags himself up to get some coffee. There's a slightly obscured box of assorted biscuits up there that he indulges in from time to time, and he keeps them out of sight for a reason. He supposes he can let Eames in on this one little secret given his traumatic experience.

That gets a noise like it's the best thing he's ever heard, and Eames goes to get the box down, cradling it in an arm while he takes the lid off and observes this holy grail of delicious goods.

"I'm... Going to eat all of these. I hope that's okay."

He probably will not eat all of them, but right now he really feels like he could.

With a sigh, Arthur makes a mental note to add it to the list, and he gestures vaguely for Eames to go ahead when he sits back down with a full mug of coffee. He decides is high time to change the subject from Eames being ravenous this morning to something far more interesting.

"What's going on with your hair?"

"What?" He gives Arthur a plainly confused look and drags a hand through his hair as if he's gonna be able to tell what's going on by feel alone. His hair feels fine though, if a little in need of washing.

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's greyer than last night," Arthur says all nonchalant. "Is it because you're injured?"

That doesn't make much sense. He's seen Eames injured before. Maybe never this bad but he would have noticed if Eames just sprouted grey hairs whenever he bled.

Oh fuck. What a blissful hour where he'd completely forgotten about this curse. Eames swears under his breath and immediately puts the box down to go to the bathroom and look at his reflection.

He's there for a while, inspecting every wrinkle and combing his fingers through his hair like that's gonna make it go back to its normal colour. It doesn't look bad, not yet, but fucking hell he needs to find a solution to this before it progresses much more. He smacks a palm on the rim of the sink, angry at whoever the hell did this to him, but angrier still at himself because everything he's done over the last 24 hours has been fucking stupid and now he has to deal with Arthur and his fucking bloodhound nose when it comes to information he doesn't already have. He swears again, composing himself before he leaves the bathroom so he can face this situation with some dignity.

"It's not because I'm injured," Eames says casually when he comes back, hoping Arthur will just let it go even though he knows it's pointless to think he will.

Arthur has meanwhile poured himself some cereal and is now crunching away at it while he waits for Eames to come back. He doesn't have much stock into why Eames' hair is grey or whatever, but now he can tell it's something that has him upset, and regardless he presses on.

"So what is it, then?" he asks. "Last night you made it sound like it was intentional."

"Nothing you need to worry about," Eames answers dismissively, pouring himself a new coffee and regretting sticking around to thank Arthur.

He glances at Arthur's bowl of cereal instead of thinking about how annoying this curse is, jutting his chin a little in its direction. "I was thinking I could whip up some lunch, put together a little show of gratitude," he continues on easily, something about the way he lingers on the word 'gratitude' that should make it clear that food isn't the only offer on the table.

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