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Eames glances up from his book as he hears a thump from the master bedroom. He strains his ears, and when he hears another noise, he sighs, puts the book down and goes to investigate. He pushes open the door, and glances inside, opening it fully when he sees what the commotion is about.
Arthur is half off the bed, back on the floor and legs tangled in the sheets still on the bed. He’s mumbling unintelligibly as he pushes ineffectively at the bed covers.
‘Arthur?’ he questions, lightly, ‘What are you doing out of bed?’
Arthur tilts his head back as far as he can to look up at Eames. His eyes are glassy and bright, splotches of red high up on his cheeks and standing out on his pale skin. His shirt is drenched in sweat, and really he should be resting.
‘Eames!’ Arthur gasps, seeming to give up his fight with the blankets, and lying limply on the floor. ‘I’m in a fight.’ He states it so matter-of-factly that Eames can’t help but smile.
‘A fight?’ he questions, as he bends downs, slides his hands under Arthur’s arm and pulls him up and back onto the bed. He pushes Arthur back down when he tries to stand up again, and then works on untangling the sheets so he can pull them over Arthur properly.
‘Uh huh,’ Arthur confirms as he leans back into the pillows, seeming to accept that Eames isn’t going to let him out of bed (thank goodness). ‘The bees, Eames. The bees.’
‘Bees?’ Eames asks, trying not to laugh as he tugs the blankets up to Arthur’s chest and then feels his forehead. It’s still far too hot. He sighs, and rubs a hand through his hair.
‘They were buzzing.’ Arthur explains, and doesn’t really explain anything, He twitches a hand by his ears while buzzing through his teeth, and then drops it limply back to the blankets. ‘And then they got my legs.’ He looks sadly down at his blanket-covered legs. Eames reaches out and squeezes his knee, comfortingly.
‘Your legs are fine.’ He points out, walking into the ensuite bathroom and wetting a wash cloth with cold water. ‘Just get some rest.’ He orders as he re-enters the bedroom, and places the cloth on Arthur’s forehead. Arthur sighs in relief, and melts into the mattress, and then mumbles something Eames can’t make out. By the time he leaves the room, Arthur is lost in sleep again.
*
When he next comes in, bearing a bowl of soup, a glass of water, and medicine, Arthur is tightly wrapped in the blankets and shivering hard. There’s sweat beading his forehead, but his body is practically vibrating against the bed.
Eames places his delivery on the bedside table, then gently sits on the edge of the bed, before reaching over and shaking Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur jerks under him and jolts awake, and Eames catches the arm thrown his way in defence before it can do any harm.
‘It’s me, Arthur,’ he says calmly.
Arthur blinks at him owlishly, hair is disarray and looking impossibly young and vulnerable with his fever-bright eyes and pale complexion. Eames feels a surge of sympathy and love for the man; something which he has been feeling a lot over the last couple of days that Arthur has been sick. He runs a hand through the man’s hair, flattening it into some semblance of order, and then presses his knuckles to Arthur’s cheek. Still warm, but slightly better than before.
Arthur’s eyes flutter closed, and he lets down his stoic mask for a moment to lean his head into Eames’ touch, sighing quietly.
‘I brought soup, darling.’ He says softly, ‘If you think you can manage it.’
Arthur hums in agreement, still clearly exhausted, but then he props himself up and lets Eames put the soup bowl in his lap so he can take a shaky spoonful. Eames watches him like a hawk, making sure he doesn’t spill on himself or need any help.
Arthur manages almost half the bowl, and then pushes the rest away with a small grimace. Eames swaps the bowl for the glass of water and pills, and Arthur throws them back and gulps down the water.
He sighs as Eames takes the glass from him, leaning his head back with his eyes closed.
‘This real?’ he asks quietly, and Eames takes his hand on top of the blankets, gives it a squeeze.
‘Yes love,’ he confirms.
‘We’re at home?’ Arthur asks, and Eames feeling warmth surge through him at the use of the word home.
‘Yes,’ Eames says again, and Arthur opens bleary eyes and looks at him, probably taking in his tired eyes and scraggly appearance (he perhaps hasn’t been looking after himself very well while trying to care for Arthur).
‘What time is it?’ Arthur murmurs, eyes sliding slowly over to the curtained window, clearly hoping to gain some knowledge from the light creeping in around the edges.
‘Mid-afternoon.’ Eames tells him, rubbing his thumb back and forth over Arthur’s knuckles. ‘You should get some more sleep.’
Arthur leans forward, placing his head on Eames’ shoulder. Eames can feel the heat of his skin seeping through his t-shirt. He raises his arms, and rubs Arthur’s back in comfort, presses a kiss into his hairline.
Arthur’s breath shudders against his throat, and Eames squeezes him tighter.
‘I feel like shit.’ Arthur admits, sounding surprisingly small and lost.
‘I know, darling.’ Eames replies, leaning back and looking in his tired eyes. ‘But hopefully you’re on the mend.’ He brushes Arthur’s fringe off his sweaty forehead. ‘Now try to get some more sleep.’
Arthur looks at him pleadingly. ‘Stay?’ he requests quietly, and Eames’ heart melts in his chest.
‘Of course, Arthur.’ He says, pushing himself fully onto the bed. He helps Arthur lie down properly, and then snuggles up next to him on top of the covers, throwing one arm over Arthur’s waist. He closes his eyes, presses his face into Arthur’s hair, and listens to his breathing even out and deepen as he descends into slumber. Eames follows him.
*
Eames is woken by a hand roughly shaking his shoulder and the persistent voice of Arthur saying ‘Eames, Eames, Eames.’ He blinks, groggily, notes the darkness of the room and looks up to Arthur leaning over the bed.
‘Arthur?’ he mumbles, wondering if the man needs something and what the hell he’s doing out of bed.
‘Come on, Eames we’re going to be late.’ Eames frowns and sits up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and blinking at Arthur as his eyes adjust to the dark. Arthur is moving around the room, scooping up clothes, and throwing them at Eames on the bed. He doesn’t appear very steady on his feet, occasionally touching the wall to keep his balance, and Eames is pretty sure if he could make out colour in the gloom, Arthur’s cheeks would still be flushed with fever.
He suddenly realises that Arthur is wearing different clothes than he was. He’s managed to pull on a collared shirt, although the buttons are done up incorrectly, so one side is higher than the other and there’s a hole around his midriff. He’s also got socks pulled up his calves, and shoes on his feet, and Eames watches as he peers in the mirror and tries to tie a tie with hands that don’t seem to be able to remember how it’s done.
‘Come on, Eames.’ Arthur snaps, when he gives up on the tie and turns back to the bed. ‘We need to go.’
‘Go where, love?’ Eames asks, climbing off the bed and approaching the man. He can feel the heat rolling off him from a step away.
‘The Cobbs’ house,’ Arthur says like it’s obvious, ‘We need to go for James’ birthday party.’
‘Arthur,’ Eames says gently, reaching out and taking hold of Arthur’s hand, ‘That was two weeks ago. We went, remember? And had a lovely time.’
Arthur blinks at him in confusion, brows furrowed.
‘I-‘ he starts, and then stops, ‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, I do,’ Eames says confidently. ‘And I don’t think Dom would want you turning up at their house dressed like that anyway.’
Arthur looks down his body. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘You’re not wearing trousers, love,’ he says, amused, and Arthur frowns at his bare legs. Eames starts undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders. Arthur is pliant under his hands. ‘Let’s go back to bed, yeah?’
Arthur nods, ‘Okay,’ he agrees, and Eames leads him back to bed, kicks off his own trousers, and presses against him under the blankets, holding him close.
*
Eames is jolted awake for the second time that night by Arthur squirming against him, and flailing his arms towards the bedside table, scrabbling at the drawers. Eames instantly unwraps his arms from around Arthur’s waist, sitting up in bed and watching the man lunge from the bed, stumbling and falling to the floor as he rips open the top drawer of the bedside table and starts rummaging through it.
‘Arthur?’ Eames exclaims, pushing himself up on the bed and starting to make his way to the edge as Arthur curses and pulls open the second drawer.
‘Arthur, what’s wrong?’ Eames asks, gently, and Arthur’s eyes snap to him. They’re glassy and over-bright, but also strangely desperate and Eames feels fear curl in his gut.
‘It’s okay, Eames.’ Arthur says, and Eames blinks at the fact that Arthur is trying to comfort him, ‘It’ll be okay, I’ll get us out.’
Dread shoots down Eames’ spine, and he steps off the bed, so he’s within grabbing distance of Arthur, who’s moved to the third drawer.
‘Get us out from where, darling?’ he asks, trying to understand even though he thinks he knows what’s happening.
Arthur gives him an unimpressed look, and then staggers upright and wobbles uncoordinatedly towards the wardrobe.
‘This dream, of course,’ Arthur snaps at him, as he starts rummaging through the suit jackets hanging up. It only takes him a moment to let out an exclamation of success and suddenly he’s holding a gun.
Eames feels his whole body go cold. He moves forwards, hands outstretched as Arthur turns back towards him. He’s shivering slightly, but the gun is steady in his hands. Eames can feel his heart pounding in his ears.
‘No Arthur,’ he says, desperately, wanting to jump forwards and rip the gun out of Arthur’s hand, but knowing that will probably make the situation worse. Instead, he approaches like he would to a skittish, dangerous wild animal. ‘This isn’t a dream. Don’t do anything impulsive now, just give me the gun.’
Arthur frowns at him, swaying slightly. His cheeks are rosy and his eyes unfocussed. ‘Of course this is a dream,’ Arthur says, ‘Everything is too bright and weird and I don’t remember how we got here. We need to wake up. Here, I can do you first.’
Eames freezes as a gun is suddenly pointed at his head. He feels his breath catch in his chest, desperation and terror warring on his insides. ‘Arthur, no,’ he pleads, ‘You’ve got a fever, we’re not in a dream. We don’t need to wake up, you just need to feel better.’
The gun shudders slightly and Eames wonders how fast his heart beat has to go before he has a heart attack. He just hopes that Arthur knows the truth on some subliminal level.
‘A fever?’ Arthur asks, sounding young and lost and confused.
‘Yes,’ Eames breathes, slowly bringing his hands up and wrapping one around the barrel of the gun and another around Arthur’s wrist. ‘Yes, a fever, darling. Please believe me.’ He begs, feeling the heat radiating off the skin under his fingers. He exerts the smallest bit of pressure, and then Arthur releases his grip, eyes wide and scared.
Eames catches the gun, feeling like he’s run a marathon in the last minute, and hurriedly makes sure the safety is on, before tossing it across the room away from them.
‘Thank you, Arthur.’ He says softly, and then it seems Arthur’s legs give up on holding up his weight as he sinks to the floor, the adrenaline rushing out of him and leaving him weak and trembling. Eames slides down next to him, takes his other hand in his and sits for a moment, letting his breathing start to return to a normal rhythm.
‘This is real?’ Arthur asks so timidly that Eames feels his heart ache. He reaches up and rubs Arthur’s shoulders, before tugging him into a hug.
‘Yes, Arthur. This is real.’ He confirms, feeling Arthur relax into his hold. He’s far too hot.
‘I don’t feel well.’ Arthur admits, small and sad, and Eames can feel him sinking towards unconsciousness, body exhausted at trying to fight off this virus.
‘I know,’ he murmurs, ‘Let me help you.’
Arthur hums into his neck, and then Eames shifts, keeping an arm wrapped around Arthur’s shoulders, and tucking his other arm under his knees. He scoops Arthur up, grunting a bit with the exertion – Arthur may be skinny, but he’s made pretty much only out of wiry muscles – and makes his way into the bathroom.
He deposits Arthur on the rim of the bathtub, using one hand to support him as he wilts into himself, while he uses the other to turn on the shower, carefully turning the temperature to around room temperature. It feels mild to him, but he knows Arthur will find it freezing with his current body temperature.
He tugs Arthur’s sweat-soaked t-shirt off, and pulls off his underwear. Arthur is bleary and pliant under his hands, likely not fully aware of what’s happening.
‘Here we go,’ Eames says softly, ‘This will make you feel better.’
He lowers Arthur into the spray, sitting him on the bottom of the tub and keeping a firm hold on him. Arthur jerks as soon as the first drops of water hit his skin, whimpering, and trying to escape the cold water, but Eames holds him steady. He shivers violently, teeth chattering as his hair becomes plastered to his head.
After a few minutes however, he relaxes slightly, body getting used to the temperature. Eames carefully strokes up and down his arms, making sure Arthur knows he’s there and offering comfort where he can.
Once he’s decided Arthur’s had long enough, he turns off the water, scoops Arthur up again and wraps him in a towel as quickly as he can. Arthur’s pale long-fingered hand emerges to grip it tight as he quivers in the cold air, and Eames rubs him dry and then hurriedly grabs some dry clothes, which he helps Arthur into.
Arthur is slightly more lucid after the shower, although his eyes are exhausted. He manages to walk mostly under his own steam back into the bedroom, with Eames only holding his arm in case he falls. Eames carefully settles him on the bed, and he snuggles into the blankets.
‘I’m sorry, Eames,’ he murmurs, quiet and regretful. Eames brushes his damp hair off his forehead, leans over and kisses the top of his head.
‘Hush,’ he says, ‘Everything is okay.’
Arthur blinks at him, eyelids heavy, and Eames watches him fight against sleep for a moment, fondness bursting in his chest. He crawls into the bed as Arthur goes boneless against the mattress, and gathers the man up in his arms, kissing the nape of his neck before trying to get some more sleep.
*
Eames wakes to light behind his eyelids that’s a lot brighter than he would usually expect. He feels like he’s been asleep for a while, and he languidly moves towards full awareness. Someone is touching his face lightly, tracing his cheeks and playing with his hair. The fingers are cool against his skin.
He blinks opens his eyes to find Arthur’s face inches from his own, dark eyes open and clear. He smiles when he sees Eames’ eyes open, and drops his hand from Eames’ face, moving it to settle on Eames’ waist on top of the blankets.
‘Hey,’ he whispers, voice slightly raspy.
‘Hey,’ Eames replies, feeling the silent magic of the morning settle over them. He feels warm and content and never wants to move from this spot.
He pulls an arm out from under the blankets, and presses his hand against Arthur’s cheek. Arthur closes his eyes and presses into the touch, but his skin is cool to the touch; the fever must have broken during the night.
‘Feeling better?’ Eames asks, just to check.
‘Much.’ Arthur agrees. He bites his lip, a habit that he rarely lets anyone see, and love fills Eames up so much that he thinks he could burst from it. ‘Thank you for looking after me.’ Arthur adds, eyes warm and beautiful.
Eames touches Arthur’s hair, runs his fingers down Arthur’s cheek. ‘You’re welcome, darling.’
Arthur gives him a small, secretive smile, and the shuffles forwards, burying himself in Eames’ chest. Eames instinctively wraps his arms around him, buries his nose in his hair.
‘What time is it?’ he mumbles, trying to gain some semblance of reality.
‘Late morning,’ Arthur sighs against his shirt. He squeezes his arms around Eames, soft and lethargic in Eames’ arms.
‘Stay for a bit longer?’ Arthur asks, quietly, already sounding like he’s slipping back towards sleep.
Eames kisses the top of his head. ‘Always, darling.’ He answers, and knows he would never rather be anywhere except here.