frenzied handsome, hello!
Felis Catus
Arthur/Eames, PG-13, prompt: " Yusuf’s experiment goes wrong. Arthur changes into something cute (a kitten) and Eames takes care of him."
for bronson who has napped for an hour and swears she will be back. idek. i miss you already. thank you for the beta, etc. eta: saw a series of typos here ugh, obvs the beta was ineffectual but ilu anyway bronson.
6088 words
--
cats: as i imagine a&e would look like. also, arthur: one, two and three.
edit: NOW WITH FANART by platina.
It wasn't too bad, being a cat, and except for the size he was rendered in, it wasn't that much of a problem. There was the added flexibility in his tendons and the blink-and-you'll-miss-him speed, and the brief moments wherein Arthur felt like he was in an action movie - except in this one he was starring as a cat - leaping off from roof to roof, from building to building, narrowly escaping death.
It was just the size that bothered Arthur, mostly. He couldn't do things he enjoyed doing like use the TV remote or make himself chicken parmesan, because his paws were too small and he couldn't turn the stove off without somehow injuring himself.
Arthur had been a cat for a total of twelve days but in the last two, in an act of betrayal, was handed over to Eames after a great deal of arguing and pleading from Yusuf.
Yusuf's landlady was threatening to kick him out if he didn't get rid of Arthur as soon as possible. The building had a strict policy on pets since 1992 when a pair of guinea pigs clogged up the plumbing vent and the landlady had to call 911 to put them out of their misery.
Arthur wasn't a house cat, so much as he was turned into one the size of a grown man's hand. He was a horrible byproduct of Yusuf's experimental drug, the one that he promised would revolutionize dreamsharing if he could only get his calculations right, and until Yusuf finds an antidote or the drug finally eeks out of Arthur's system, which ever came first, Arthur was going to have to spend his days as a cat, lounging about in the house, catching mice, sometimes climbing up the dry wall that separated Eames' backyard from his neighbor's just to see what the Ackermanns were up to.
Such was life.
--
"Arthur," Eames said. Arthur pretended not to hear him, feigning sleep, but then Eames plucked him from his comfortable perch on the sofa to deposit him in his lap. Arthur hissed in protest, yowling as he was picked up by the back of the neck.
Put me down Eames! he wanted to shout but Eames just chuckled in amusement, stroking a finger down Arthur's back as if in apology. Arthur stiffened before curling experimentally into the touch, tail twitching as his head was petted by a firm, calloused finger.
Eames' hand was warm, not completely damp with sweat, and Arthur burrowed into himself as it came down on him again and again, in light, feathery caresses that made his stomach loop in on itself. Eames' hand was large enough that it nearly enclosed Arthur's entire body.
Arthur purred.
Eames ran his thumb along the back of Arthur's head, chuckling again low in his throat, before turning the TV on to sports.
--
"Please," Eames said, "Tell me you're joking."
Yusuf had just arrived that evening from San Fransisco, wet and miserable as the London weather. He set his backpack down on the mahogany table and Arthur leapt from Yusuf's arms to the top of counter, stretching and flexing his paws. It felt good.
Eames' kitchen was spotlessly clean, sleek, contrasting the shabby overgrown yard of his suburban London dwelling. There was a bottle of Pinot Noir sitting half-empty on top of the fridge and Eames was wearing a wooly grey sweater and a pair of faded jeans. He was barefoot as he lit a cigarette.
"You came all the way here so I could babysit your cat?"
"I told you - this isn't my cat. It's Arthur. We were running some tests a few weeks ago, trying out this new drug, and everything was fine until Arthur started complaining about growing whiskers and then now we're here with him as a cat."
Yusuf sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I need you to look after him for awhile while I work on a cure."
Eames raised a skeptical eyebrow. Even to Arthur the whole thing sounded like a joke. "A cure," he repeated. "Really, Yusuf. There's no way in hell that that cat's Arthur, and even if it were, why come to me? Why not Cobb, or oh I don't know, Ariadne? An animal shelter?"
"You know why, Eames." Yusuf rolled his eyes. "Cobb's got his kids to look after and Ariadne, she never gave me her number even though I pestered her about it so many times." He shrugged helplessly, cheeks flushing. "Who else am I going to run to, eh? You said so yourself, back in Mombasa: I've got a problem that needs solving ASAP, I come to you."
Eames made a noncommittal noise. "Yes, but I was talking about gambling debts," he gestured futilely with his hands, "Or if you happen to have a hitman on your tail or if you're on the run and need a fake passport. I didn't mean - this." He gestured towards Arthur. Arthur failed to raise an eyebrow.
"You should've been more specific then," Yusuf snorted.
"I had hoped the implication carried over."
It took half a pack of cigarettes and a bowl of congealing curry for Eames to agree to play caretaker. He wasn't entirely convinced Yusuf was telling the truth but he wasn't completely heartless that he'd turn Yusuf away even though he sounded like he was talking out of his ass.
"You'll owe me for this, you know," he told Yusuf tamping his cigarette on an orange ashtray on the table. He cradled his chin on his hand, smoke curling past his lips as he exhaled through his mouth.
"One week, no more, no less."
"Two," Yusuf said.
"One and a half."
"Two," Yusuf repeated firmly.
Eames rolled his eyes and snorted, freeing another cigarette from the pack on the table and letting it bob against his lips, unlit. "Fine," he grumbled, sniffing and casting a baleful look at Arthur who was curled up by the window, head resting against his crossed paws, watching the curtains sway back and forth.
Neither of them spoke for a long minute.
"What if he doesn't turn back?"
Arthur lifted his head. It crossed his mind a few times but it wasn't like he could ask Yusuf considering his predicament.
Yusuf shrugged, leaning back against his seat as he rubbed his palms across his knees. "I don't know. I guess we'll just have to steel ourselves for that possibility."
"You guess?"
Yusuf shrugged again, looking sheepish. Arthur was a little glad when Eames scowled and huffed out a derisive laugh at his behest.
--
It was with some degree of calm that Arthur accepted his condition. When he'd woken up in the body of a cat nearly two weeks ago, the first thing he did was try to stand on his hind legs.
It worked for about five minutes until he fell back onto all fours, struggling awkwardly to find his balance. He tried a list of other things too, like hooking himself back to PASIV, but even his projection of himself was in the form a cat. Wearing a suit and toting a Glock that fit right into his paw. It was ridiculous.
Arthur didn't blame Yusuf, he couldn't. He'd agreed to act as his test subject, knowing full well what the consequences were. He had been rather feisty the first few days after the transformation occurred but that could be attributed to the drastic change in physiology. He would get these urges sometimes to chase things around -- colorful things that caught his eye, sometimes a mouse or two skittering back into the tiny holes in the wall.
For the most part, he'd still been able to stifle his feline urges, but once or twice he'd catch himself eyeing tiny pieces of string, wondering if it were physically possible to hang from them and swing around. And catnip was starting to taste rather edible too.
--
One day when Arthur was bored and Eames left him to his own devices, he slipped out of the half-opened window and went on an adventure. Arthur wouldn't call it an adventure per se seeing as all he did was circle the neighborhood a couple of times and examine the periphery but that was what it felt like to him anyway, climbing up walls and jumping over rooftops, seeing London in an entirely new, different light. As a cat.
Arthur took a nap in a steep alley after following the scent of baked pie wafting in from one of the open windows and finding there was none, no pie at all. He woke, cold and disorientated and curled up on a stack of old newspapers left teetering by a row of trashcans.
Halfway back it started to rain and Arthur nearly skidded off the roof trying to navigate his way back to Eames' place. The window he'd exited from was shut which made Arthur panic wildly, banging his tiny little paws against the glass and calling Eames over. Eames was in the hall, taking a phonecall, one hand pocketed in his jeans.
It took another ten minutes before he found Arthur sopping wet by the window, miserable and utterly terrified of the bucketfuls of rainwater splashing down onto him. Eames wrapped him in a tight bundle of blankets and set the blow dryer to hot, wiping off the excess dampness that dripped from the ends of Arthur's fur and ignoring Arthur's muffled protests as he was smothered by a rough, bristly bath towel.
"Oh, Arthur," Eames said, clicking his tongue as he picked Arthur up from the sofa. "You poor, poor thing. Are you warm enough, mm? I was wondering where you'd gone off to. You had me quite worried. Have you been out all afternoon?"
Arthur couldn't reply although he wanted to bite back a what do you think, asshole? Stop touching my ears! Eames brought him to the living room where he set Arthur down on the coffee table, picked him up again and held him to his chest while folding himself against the arm of the couch.
Eames flipped through several TV channels and absently dropped a noisy kiss on top of Arthur's head.
Arthur, to his horror, mewled and burrowed deeper into the fabric of Eames' sweater.
Eames hummed, a deep rumble in his chest that resonated in Arthur's ear and made him feel strangely comforted.
--
One of Arthur's favourite pastimes as a cat, besides chasing things, was looking for a place to hide. He was small enough that he could fit into a shoebox and often felt a strange thrill crawl up his spine whenever Eames panicked when he couldn't find him.
I'm right here, Arthur would laugh(?) gleefully from under the couch as Eames turned the furniture over, calling for him with soft clicks of his tongue. As if Arthur were a pet anyway. He rarely responded to Eames' beckoning and preferred, instead, to be left on his own.
He didn't need Eames.
--
Except he did.
It must've been something he ate because in the ensuing days he started coughing uncomfortably. It started out as dull pain in his throat but towards the end of the week the pain got worse and he was starting to taste blood.
There's something stuck in my throat, he told Eames who simply looked at him with raised eyebrows.
"Are you cold, love? Mm?" Eames set aside his glass of bourbon and placed Arthur on his knee, stroking his back.
I'm not cold, Eames, Arthur said irritably, pawing at his hand but all that came out was a series of meows. It's my throat. I can't breathe and it hurts. Send me to the vet. I think it could be a symptom of something much worse. He hoped the desperation in his eyes would cue Eames in but Eames just looked at him with the same curious expression before sighing and petting his head.
"Are you hungry then?"
Arthur rolled his eyes. He spent the rest of the day mewling pitifully at Eames' feet, scratching the cuffs of his jeans until finally, Eames scooped him off the carpet with furrowed brows.
"Look, Arthur, I don't know what the hell is wrong with you but I'm taking you to the vet. You haven't been eating lately and your meow-ing -- is that even a word -- sounds a little bit off, yeah?" He ran his index finger between Arthur's ears, scratching the back of his head. "We'll have you looked at, don't worry. Just - let me find my keys."
Arthur made a triumphant sound, resting his head against Eames' chest. If he could have flushed in gratitude, he would've done it by now. Luckily he was a cat and could get away with purring in contentment despite the odd, sharp pain in his throat.
--
It was a fish bone.
"I'm starting you on a soft diet," Eames said. "No fish for you in the meantime. We wouldn't want you hurting yourself now, would we?"
Arthur meowed, shrugging his shoulders. I'm just glad I feel all right again.
"Did you just shrug?"
Maybe, Arthur said, tucking his smile behind his paw.
Eames laughed, reaching over, and rubbed him on the back.
--
The first night Arthur spent in Eames' apartment, Eames made him sleep at the foot of the bed. Later on a pillow placed inside an old box of noodles, smelling deeply of Eames' skin.
It was cold in the kitchen, under the breakfast table, and Arthur ended up sniffling and irritable all week so it was back to Eames' room for him. Arthur didn't really put up enough protest because Eames' bed was warm --the crook of his arm even more so -- except when Eames rolled over in his sleep and squashed him into the bed then he was hissing and yelping and scratching blindly at his face, hysterical.
Eames didn't pet him for three days and Arthur found himself oddly disappointed.
--
Eames would leave every other afternoon to god knows where and Arthur would have plenty of time trying to figure out whether or not he fit inside tiny spaces, like a roll of tissue. He found out that did but had trouble trying to wiggle his way out, meowing loudly in complaint as soon as he heard the front door open and Eames drop his keys by the bureau.
Eames laughed and set him free, caught him by the back of the neck before he could scurry off to hide his mortification. Eames, Arthur realized, was affectionate in private (that or he thought Arthur made one hell of a cute cat) because he kept kissing Arthur everywhere, on the stomach, on the back, curling his finger around Arthur's soft feathery tail and cupping him to his chest whenever he went from room to room. Or maybe Eames just liked pets and that was how he cared for them. Arthur wouldn't know.
Except for the misplaced attraction Arthur often felt for Eames, he never really saw him as anything but a colleague. He only saw him outside work on rare occasions when Cobb felt loose enough to invite them both for drinks literally minutes after completing a particularly taxing job.
Some people changed, and some stayed the same, but Eames had always been someone Arthur could never pin down, not really, even if he tried. He was someone who walked into a room one person and came out of it another but was essentially still the same.
Eames wasn't like Cobb whose reasons for joining this very business had been painfully obvious from the get go. They both wanted glory and thrived on bending the rules, but Cobb, unlike Eames, often let his biases get in the way. Eames was pretty much as professional as they came despite his predilection for pissing Arthur off.
--
Eames left Arthur food on the table like a normal person, bits of pasta and bacon and one morning, scalding black coffee just how Arthur liked it -- Eames remembered; Arthur had been pleasantly surprised --, which burnt Arthur's tongue and made his hackles rise, hissing and spitting. He spent the entire afternoon sullen, refusing to eat anything until the rawness in his mouth went away.
"Did you swallow another fish bone?"
Fuck you. Arthur turned his back when Eames tried to reach for him.
"Why haven't you been eating, mm?" Eames continued, "Are you coming down with something, love? Do we have to pay the vet another visit? She's quite lovely and I wouldn't mind seeing her again."
Arthur glared at him over his shoulder before shaking his head and folding himself against the couch cushions. "All right, that might have been a no on your part. Is it mating season then? You've been awfully friendly with my sweater lately, I've seen you rub yourself on it a few times, mewling repeatedly and I--"
What the fuck, Eames! Arthur hissed, tail twitching. I was cold and I only did it once and I-- If he had cheeks, he would've been flushing. Instead, Arthur placed a paw over his eyes, moaning in embarrassment.
"Sorry," Eames interrupted, sighing and clicking his tongue, "I've been reading up on cat literature lately. Trying to decipher the noises you've been making although the only noise I wish to hear right now is the sound of your laugh when I tell you that I miss you terribly and would like to see you back in your human form. Preferably naked. But that's entirely optional."
Arthur blinked. "If I killed Yusuf, would that fix things, do you think?"
Arthur blinked again. Eames smiled ruefully, petting Arthur on the head. "Can you do any tricks, Arthur? Perhaps the two of us can make money by traveling the world as a duo. We can be a circus act. I throw knives your way, you evade them smoothly. We can have you wear a suit." He waggled his eyebrows.
Arthur tried not to laugh and said, That is the dumbest idea I've ever heard. How do you even come up with these things?
Eames laughed. "No?"
No, Arthur sniffed, and if he mewled a little when Eames' hand closed over his back, you couldn't blame him. He was feeling strangely affectionate today, his stomach clogged up with elation, listening to the minute shifts of Eames' breathing as he dropped a kiss to Arthur's back.
--
Arthur woke up on a pillow adjacent Eames' face. Eames was snoring softly, muttering in his sleep and Arthur walked around him a little bit, eyebrows raised, before leaping off the bed to his little "kitty corner" as Eames called it to take care of morning business.
Eames was up not shortly after, footsteps loud and heavy and harried as he shrugged out of his clothes and tiptoed around Arthur on his way to the shower.
Eames' shirt landed on Arthur's face and Arthur yowled and leapt in response, trying to free himself from the rumpled fabric and clawing at the seams. Eames smelled distinctly of warm skin and a hint of soap and Arthur stopped struggling after a while, eyelids drooping as he burrowed into Eames' collar where most of the smell seemed concentrated.
"I'm leaving today - strictly on business," Eames said, towel wrapped coyly around his waist. "Arthur?" He picked Arthur up from the floor, laughing as Arthur hissed, digging his claws into his shirt.
"I'll be gone today," Eames said softly, nuzzling him in the stomach, fingers pinching the back of his neck as he held Arthur over his face. Arthur squirmed. "I'll leave you some food in the kitchen. Try not to get into too much trouble or flush yourself down the drain. I want to see you when I get back. In tact. "
How long will you be gone, Arthur asked but Eames, mistaking it for discomfort or something, put him back down and patted him on the head.
Arthur meowed, turning away when Eames started to dress.
--
Eames came back that evening with a bloody lip and bruised knuckles, staggering into the hall instead of walking and kicking the door shut with the point of his shoe. Arthur leapt onto the counter where Eames was pouring himself a glass of bourbon, wincing as he re-aligned his jaw.
What the hell happened Eames? Arthur asked, panic and worry looping uncomfortably in his stomach. He pawed at Eames wrist and Eames smiled wanly at him before sighing.
"I feel like utter shite." He grimaced and then spat blood out into the sink, between his teeth. "Lost myself nearly a fortune there and for what -- nothing." He sipped his drink, wincing, absently petting Arthur on the head before seating himself at the table.
"If you could only --" He stopped mid-sentence and shook his head, quickly changing the subject. "Did you eat the food I left you, Arthur? Are you hungry?" Eames picked him up and kissed him softly between the ears and Arthur could smell the blood caked underneath his fingernails, feel the broken skin of his hands, split open with blisters.
Don't treat me like this. I'm not your pet, Arthur said, What happened to you? I thought you didn't gamble anymore?
Eames smiled a little sadly. "Are you trying to communicate with me, Arthur?" He bent down and peered into Arthur's eyes, unblinking.
What the fuck do you think? Arthur hissed, feeling angry and helpless, all these big human emotions too much for a cat that he mewled a little in desperation.
"Because all I can hear is mew-mew," Eames continued, "And I don't speak a word of it." He laughed at his own joke before finishing his drink and shrugging out of his sweaty clothes. Arthur waited for him to finish showering, perched on the unmade bedsheets. The mattress dipped when Eames sat down next to him, lighting a cigarette and putting him in his lap.
"You're getting heavier, Arthur," he said as he blew out a ring of smoke, "How long has it been, two months? Three?"
Arthur clenched his eyes shut. Four, he said, I think and there it was, again: the dread, aching and familiar as the morning he woke up to a body that didn't belong to him.
--
Eames left again the next morning and rather than stay indoors all day, Arthur ventured outside, leaping off the Ackermanns’ wall and watching cars drive by on the road, perched on the roof, yawning and lazy.
It was a warm day, unusual for London in October, and Arthur distracted himself by walking around the neighborhood, chuckling to himself in the only way cats can at the many indiscretions going around. He was napping by mid-afternoon, sunning himself in the yard when he was approached by another cat, a white Persian male -- about three times his size -- who circled him a few times, eyeing him up and down in a way that made him decidedly uncomfortable. The Persian left, leaping over the wall, only to return minutes later with a dead bird in its mouth which it pushed towards Arthur with its nose.
Oh no. Arthur stepped back. Are you courting me, big guy? The Persian meowed in response to this question and started nuzzling Arthur in the neck, licking at his ears.
Arthur shuddered. Sorry, but you aren't my type or my species. And I'm not a female. I don't think I'm qualified to bear you a litter of kittens. He pawed at the Persian who hissed and pawed at him back, baring its teeth. Arthur leapt away smoothly, evading its advances, rolling onto his back on the grass then back to his hind legs again. He missed this -- the adrenaline pumping in his veins, derived from the looming threat of danger.
The Persian circled him again and then surged to the left -- a feint, because as soon as Arthur let his guard down (for one fucking second), the Persian bounded over to him, and mounted him on his back, heavy as a bag of sand.
Fuck, I can't believe this is happening. Please don't start humping please don't start - oh, shit. Arthur tried to wriggle his way out but the Persian was big enough that his weight crushed Arthur's windpipe, making his eyes bug out of their sockets. He felt something he was sure warranted lots of therapy poking behind his tail and Arthur yowled, scratching at the grass with his claws, hoping desperately for a miracle.
Get off you sick sonofabitch, I'm a fucking man. I can't bear you any kittens!
The miracle came in the form of Eames snatching the Persian by the back of its neck and flinging it to the side. It leapt towards him, hissing, but Eames was quick enough to hurl it across the yard before it could dig its sharp little claws into his arm.
"I'm not one for animal abuse but you're one sick cat. I mean, what in bloody hell is this, eh? Were you attempting to rape him?" He scooped Arthur into his arms, clutching him tightly against his shoulder. "Go. Beat it." Eames waved the Persian away, kicking at the ground to emphasize his point.
Eames walked Arthur back inside, clutching him to his chest and nuzzling the side of his face. Things, Arthur realized, Eames wouldn't be able to do if Arthur were human.
"I leave you for one second, Arthur. One second." Eames shook his head but didn't let go of him. He smelled of cigarette smoke and alcohol, but there was no blood this time, just sweat and a faint whiff of his cologne.
Arthur mewled.
"My poor little kitten -- fuck! Arthur! What did you do that for?"
I'm not little, Arthur said stiffly, tail twitching in indignance, but he realized how wrong that assumption had been today after having been assaulted by that cat; how completely vulnerable he actually was because of his current size and form.
For the first time in a long time, Arthur felt terrified.
Later as Eames slept, Arthur lay awake and watched him. He ran a soft paw over the muscled planes of Eames' back, resting his head against his shoulder blade. He thought about the passage of time with a niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach, of courage and what it truly entailed, and why Yusuf still hadn't called with news on a cure.
--
Eames was leaving again. He was dabbing cologne on his neck and fixing his hair in the mirror, smoothing out errant strands and clicking his tongue at his reflection. He grabbed his watch from the coffee table where Arthur was licking his paws clean -- a habit he stopped finding ages ago after he found he was partial to Friskies' Prime Fillets With Beef and Gravy -- sitting on a stack of outdated newspapers.
"I dunno when I'll be back," Eames said. Arthur snapped to attention, spine rigid. He didn't like the sound of that. "But if I'm not back before the week is over, Yusuf will pick you up to bring you back to the lab. I rang him today and wired him some money so he should be all right." He patted Arthur on the head, smoothing back his fur and pausing for a long time.
"Be good, Arthur," he said finally, "I will miss you. The scratches on my shins may fade in time but my memories of you will remain forever." Eames laughed a little before grabbing his coat from its hook behind the door. Arthur hopped towards him, tugging at his ankles and Eames picked him up like he always did and nuzzled him on his neck.
"This is why it makes it bloody difficult for me believe it's really you. The real Arthur would've gouged my eyes out by now. He wouldn't be looking at me like he didn't want me to leave. Then again I am a sad, sad man living alone with a cat. Oh woe is me. I'm probably imagining things. Can you hear me in there, Arthur? I asked Cobb for your phone number the first time we met but he didn't give it to me because he thought I was bad for you." Eames chuckled and put Arthur down on the floor. "Anyway, I'm off. I'll see you... when I see you, I suppose. Take care."
The door closed with a click.
Arthur watched Eames leave by the open window and five minutes later, he was darting across the street, following Eames' cab, nearly skidding off rooftops, heart hammering in his throat.
--
The cab stopped by the pier. Arthur was panting by the time he leapt to the ground, hiding behind the dumpster as he watched Eames load his gun. The cab drove off in a plume of black smoke. Eames walked briskly to a dilapidated warehouse -- typical, Arthur thought, rolling his eyes, as Eames often had a penchant for the teetering, decrepit places -- wrapping his coat around him and fishing a cigarette from his breast pocket.
Eames was inside the warehouse for a long time, maybe half an hour, and it was with a degree of trepidation that Arthur climbed up the steep wall. He didn't like not knowing what Eames was up to so he leapt onto the roof, nearly slipping on its grooved ridges as he entered through an open window.
And he was just in time it seemed. Arthur heard a loud crash followed by a series of gun shots piercing the air. Somebody yelped and "bloody hell!" was said in a voice that sounded distinctly like Eames. Arthur hopped down from the window. Eames's face was bloody and he was bound to a chair by a length of rope, his head tipped to the side.
Five men surrounded him, and one, the Leader presumably, was pointing a gun at Eames' head.
"Arrivederci Mr. Eames," and before Arthur knew what he was doing he was flinging himself at the man's face, baring his claws.
It was also about the same time that Yusuf's drug decided to reverse itself.
--
"What," Eames said, and then when he regained his mental faculties, "Arthur?"
Arthur picked himself up from the ground, wobbling slightly on his knees. The change in size disoriented him but maybe that had something to do with being less than a foot big for half a year. He grabbed the man's pistol and pointed it straight at him.
"You want your boss alive, you will back off and put your guns down," he warned the others -- but his voice sounded shaky at best, raspy from unuse, a soft little whine. He cleared his throat. "You," he pointed to the man to the left -- the redhead. "Untie him."
Eames was laughing, shoulders shaking. "I can't believe it's been you all along," he said. "I just thought-"
"Shut up," Arthur barked even though, as Eames lifted his head he was staring directly at Arthur's crotch and that made him flush a little. Finally freed of his bonds, Eames rubbed the skin of his wrists and popped his neck, grin gorgeous and wicked.
He rummaged through his pockets before lighting a cigarette, lower lip split open, smeared with blood. He looked like shit. His right eye was red and swollen.
Eames pressed the heel of his shoe against the Leader's head, digging hard until the man yelped and flailed his arms, muttering in Italian.
"Shall we?" he asked Arthur and it was nice to finally be on eye-level with him after nearly half a year of stooping at his ankles and gazing up at him from the floor. Arthur nodded, turned the Leader around on his back using his foot and searched for a gun in his jacket.
A semi-automatic. Arthur smiled. "Ready when you are," he said and Eames laughed, mussing the back of his head before stubbing his cigarette on the ground and exhaling loudly.
"Let's roll, darling."
It was an absolute carnage.
--
Arthur refused to wear anything by a criminal. He pushed away the shirt Eames handed to him, previously worn by the right-hand man of a mob boss they've just killed.
"We're both criminals, Arthur," Eames reminded him with a raised eyebrow. "But god, look at you."
Arthur shrugged, adjusting the buttons of Eames' coat. It felt comfortable, if a bit heavy, on his shoulders and he squirmed at the lack of underwear. "I can't believe I've been living with you all this time. We slept in the same bed together. I kissed you on your stomach." Eames turned red and shook his head, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
"I don't see why you're acting so surprised. Yusuf already told you what happened. It was the experimental drug."
"I honestly thought he was lying about that. I hoped he was. I felt ill thinking about you as a cat, eating food scraps from my table and listening to me sing in the shower."
Arthur smiled. He was going to miss that, maybe: lying in Eames’ lap during warm, long afternoons and eating from his hand. He flexed his fingers and curled his bare toes on the ground. The pavement was rough, gritty. It felt wonderful to be back in a body he knew so well.
"You called me by name," Arthur said. "You called me Arthur. For six months. And you’re telling me you didn’t believe Yusuf?"
"It happens to be a lovely name for a cat, regal, masculine. I thought Yusuf gave you that name. So I called you Arthur."
Arthur laughed.
"You're so...different," Eames said, perplexed, in awe almost as he stopped Arthur with a hand curled around his arm. He touched Arthur on the cheek. "I stopped you from getting raped by that rabid overweight cat. Do I get a kiss at least? For my bravery?"
"And I just saved you from imminent death," Arthur reminded him, lips curling in amusement. He winced at the memory of the cat and the unpleasant emotions it dredged up and Eames cupped his jaw tightly, as if sensing his thoughts, and tipped his chin up.
"Yes," he said, "Yes you did save me. That was very heroic of you. I think you scarred those men when you appeared naked out of thin air, shouting and spitting like a lunatic. Did I ever thank you for that?"
Arthur licked his teeth clean, laughing softly. "No," he said, and Eames smiled, heavy with the charm, and decided to remedy the situation.
Arthur purred contentedly when Eames knotted his fingers into his hair and when Eames rubbed his back in broad, sweeping strokes, he curled right into the touch. And mewled a little in appreciation. Maybe. It was something neither of them could confirm nor deny, and three days later, when Arthur was lounging about in his underwear on Eames' couch in London, he didn't complain at all when Eames scratched him behind the ears and dropped a kiss to his forehead before turning on the TV.
Life was good.