In States of Metamorphosis--Drabbles, (2/?)
Arthur pauses in the doorway between his office and the living room. Five seconds previous to this action it had been a regular, average night.
He had come home to his house the same way he had every night since he returned from the Belize job. After dinner, bantering conversation, and house chores he had retired to his office to research the many things of his life that required near constant monitoring (whether any hits had been placed on him, or Eames (most often Eames), recently, whether he had missed his mother’s birthday again, and occasionally he used the time to partake in a bit of insider trading).
It was normal. It was practical (For a mind thief).
So, really. Why was he shell shocked by the image that greeted him?
Sandy hair, impossibly bright logo’d shirt, and burberry checked sweat pants made up the casual appearance of the man who was snoring lightly on Arthur’s three thousand dollar distressed leather sofa.
Well. Arthur cocked his head to the side, attempting to put a label on the unfathomable feeling that had erupted in his stomach worse than acid reflux.
Eames was on his couch. So what? Eames has been on his couch before. Eames had even, on multiple occasions, been naked on his couch before. It shouldn’t be a big deal.
Arthur paused. He flicked the office light switch off and tried to think back to recent months. Eames and he had been having regular sex for about six months (Arthur furrowed his brow. They had started in June right? Yeah, it was hot out, and that furry mob boss from Kuala Lampur had been trying to kill them.)
Then Eames had starting spending most of his downtime at Arthur’s. (Arthur’s brow furrowed even further. That had been in September right? Yeah, because Eames had insisted that he had to follow Arthur home from the Dallas job so that he could properly check Arthur’s smoke detectors.)
Then, as a “Really, pet, one mustn’t neglect basic fire safety” floated briefly to the front of Arthur’s mind he attempted to connect a few more dots. (And really, at this point Arthur should remember that if he furrows his brow any further there’s no guaranteeing it won’t stay that way.)
After another moment of pensive thought Arthur’s mind shuttered to a really chaotic train wreck of a stop. “Shit,” he muttered. His brow immediately de-furrowed as his eyes shot wide open in genuine astonishment.
Well, huh, it looked like somewhere along the line Eames had moved in with him. Arthur supposed that he should have noticed that at some point being that he was a point man of elite recognition.
So that’s where those horrible Thanksgiving decorations appeared from. Arthur shouldn’t have been surprised. The man lacked taste, and he was British. Arthur was certain that somewhere between kindergarten and first grade he had learned that Thansgiving was an American holiday. (But, really. Try telling that to a man that once insisted for the entirety of three hours that it was of utmost necessity that he forged Cher on their current job.)
Arthur padded quietly to the couch and then around it. He picked up the television remote and silently switched off the Bill Maher re-run that Eames seemed to have fallen asleep to. Arthur was trying to keep up with his mind as he processed what the presence of the man napping on his couch meant.
Arthur felt the makings of an ear splitting grin steal its way across his normally stoic visage.
Arthur took a few steps towards his bedroom before glancing down and realizing that the remote was still clutched loosely in his hand. Arthur breathed out a chuckle and then tossed it over his shoulder in the vicinity of the couch.
He had half expected to hear an indignant grunt and retort as the remote landed on the Englishman’s stomach. When no such sounds were forth coming Arthur turned to look back at the couch.
Eames was just sitting up. The remote he had deftly caught was in his left hand. He was looking at Arthur.
Well, damn, Arthur thought. It looked as though Eames hadn’t really been asleep after all.
“Time for bed already, darling?” Eames mused. Arthur’s eyes found their way to Eames’. Eames was returning his gaze far too softly, and with far too much understanding for Arthur not to be surprised.
Arthur hummed a response, smiled, and then led the way to their bedroom.