Chapter Text
Eames watched Arthur sleep and thought, He’s worse, which was not something he had anticipated. Now he suddenly felt bad that he’d been teasing Arthur all day yesterday. Now that Arthur apparently was no longer well enough to even complain, Eames felt truly awful.
Eames walked back out to the living room, where he’d left Lucky settled in front of some anime.
“Arthur’s sick,” Eames told her. “Like, really, properly sick.” He heard the surprise in his own voice. A silly little cold, he’d thought yesterday, and he still thought it was just a cold but it was a bad cold and Arthur was miserable and Arthur was right: Eames had never seen him get sick before, and this display of Arthur off-his-game and under-the-weather was…unsettling. Who the hell was he kidding, it was fucking terrifying. Arthur wasn’t like this. Arthur never stopped moving, had moleskines whose rules he followed for every situation. Arthur didn’t leave crises to other people, sleep fourteen hours straight, then sleep some more.
Lucky looked concerned in response to Eames’s concern. She was surrounded by a deck of cards that she was taking turns crumpling and flinging all around her in complicated patterns, and now she waved one at Eames and babbled at him.
“I don’t know what we should do,” Eames told her. He felt keenly the absence of Arthur’s guiding figure in the flat. It wasn’t that Eames wasn’t perfectly capable of taking care of himself and Lucky and Arthur, now that it was called for. It was that Eames, childishly, didn’t want to. Eames had thrown his lot in with Arthur because he had wanted Arthur’s voice in his life. It was very silent with Arthur sleeping so heavily in the other room.
Eames, feeling ridiculous, spent his morning wandering in and out of the bedroom, fretting. Lucky picked up on his mood and was fussy and difficult to please. She kept demanding Arthur, endless strings of th noises spilling from her lips in increasingly irritated cadences, and finally Eames gave up and holed all of them up in the bedroom, letting Lucky build a train track on the rug while Arthur snored in the bed.
At naptime, Eames carried Lucky into her own bedroom and settled her in her cot, because Lucky was a baby who thrived on a sleep schedule and was out-of-sorts if there was an alteration. Then Eames went back to the bedroom and stretched out on the bed next to Arthur and watched him sleeping. He was fitful in his sleep, tossing and turning, the opposite of the deep, passed-out sleeps Eames usually watched him during. Eames put a hand on his back, trying to soothe him, and Arthur did still, but his breaths sounded labored and heavy. And suddenly the one point of contact wasn’t enough. Eames, sitting up against the headboard, dragged Arthur over onto him, hoping the elevation would clear Arthur’s head a little bit.
Mostly what it did was disturb Arthur out of his sleep. Arthur rubbed his cheek against Eames and mumbled, “I’ll get you sick.”
Eames couldn’t say anything because he was scared he’d say, I know you don’t have Ebola, but still, I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you, so you need to get better immediately.
“Eames?” Arthur asked sleepily, after a long moment had passed.
“Yeah,” Eames managed to respond without sounding like he was on the verge of tears.
“Do you believe in God?”
Eames was frozen for a moment in terror. “Arthur, if you see a white light, I fucking swear, you had better go in the other fucking direction immediately.”
“What? No, no white light,” Arthur said, sounding confused. “I’m just wondering why we have noses.”
Eames blinked. “Why we have what?”
“If we’re a product of intelligent design, why do we have noses? It seems like a design flaw.”
“I love you,” said Eames, because he didn’t know any more appropriate response than that, and still it was so inadequate, was going to have to stand in for everything else he needed to say.
“Mmm,” said Arthur, and started snoring against him.
***
Arthur’s mother rang again in the downtime right before dinner. Eames had just checked on Arthur, who was still sleeping, amazingly enough. So Eames was sprawled on the couch feeling listless and watching Lucky crash cars into spectacular accidents all over the furniture, when Arthur’s phone rang. Arthur’s mother didn’t ring very often, so Eames knew she was ringing to check up on him.
And Eames was in need of someone to talk to, so he answered.
“How is he feeling?” she asked.
“He’s worse,” said Eames, and he knew he sounded mopey and dramatic but he couldn’t help it.
“Aww,” said Arthur’s mother, clearly thinking he was an idiot. “He’ll get better. Is he getting enough rest?”
“He does nothing but sleep,” grumbled Eames.
“Make sure he gets lots of fluids, too. And not coffee. He’s always been too fond of coffee. We used to fight about it when he was in high school.”
Eames considered that he’d been doing a terrible job getting Arthur to drink anything. Or eat anything, for that matter.
“And make him chicken soup,” Arthur’s mother continued, as if reading his mind. “And if he’s not better tomorrow, then maybe we can start to worry. But I’m sure he’ll be better tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” Eames said, because this was incredibly embarrassing but also really comforting.
“Give Lucky hugs and kisses from me,” she said.
“Will do,” Eames promised, and ended the call. “Chicken soup for Arthur,” he told Lucky. “It’s a plan.”
***
Eames had to go out to get the chicken soup, and when he and Lucky came back Arthur was on the couch watching television. Eames was so relieved he wanted to just put his head in Arthur’s lap and not do anything else for the rest of the night. Instead he made himself behave like a normal person and walked into the living room and said, “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” said Arthur, even though he still sounded horrible and was all congested and looked like death warmed over.
Lucky tried to launch herself over to Arthur, delighted to see him again.
Arthur managed a small smile, with a shadow of dimples. “Hi, Lucky. How are you doing?”
“Better than you,” Eames said, depositing Lucky gently on Arthur’s chest.
“Thanks for being your usual supportive self,” said Arthur drily, and kissed Lucky’s hands one by one. “Where did you go?”
“To get you chicken soup. And you do seem much better. You’re being an arsehole again.”
Arthur laughed a little, and it sounded terrible but at least it was a laugh. “Did you miss that? You’ll rue the day you told me that. I was tired of being in bed so I thought I’d get up for a bit.”
“And are you hungry?” asked Eames hopefully.
“Starving. Chicken soup sounds good.” Arthur was tickling at Lucky’s toes, barely paying attention to him.
Eames had never been so delighted to be virtually ignored.
***
By the time Eames went through Lucky’s bedtime ritual, Arthur was falling asleep on the couch.
“And you should go to bed, too,” Eames told him.
“I am tired of that disgusting bed,” said Arthur grouchily.
“I changed the sheets for you,” Eames tried to cajole him.
Arthur looked unconvinced.
“I’ll come to bed with you,” Eames offered.
“Eames, no offense, but I am leaking out of every orifice and not good bodily fluids in a hot, sexy way.”
Eames laughed at him.
“It isn’t funny,” whined Arthur. “It’s disgusting.”
“Let me clarify,” said Eames. “I’ll come to bed with you and read out loud to you until you fall asleep.”
Arthur looked over at him, and suddenly reached forward and grabbed Eames’s hand. “You don’t have to be doing all of this.”
“All of what?” asked Eames blankly.
“I don’t know. The chicken soup and the…lemonade and…the…this.” Arthur sniffled, which made his speech somewhat pathetic.
Eames, after a moment, said, “Arthur. What do you think we’re doing here?”
Arthur looked uncertain. “Having a conversation?” he guessed.
“We’re a ‘we.’ This is what ‘we’ do for each other. What I’m doing is the sort of thing you do when you’re part of a ‘we’ instead of just a ‘you.’ And what you’re doing is the plus side of being a ‘we.’ You don’t have to be alone when you’re sick, trying to take care of yourself. You get to be coddled and spoiled until you’re better.”
There was a moment of silence. Arthur said, finally, “I’m just…still kind of bad at being a ‘we.’”
Eames smiled at him helplessly. “No, you’re really rather excellent at being a ‘we’ these days, because that’s what you do, you get really good at things. It’s just that you’re sick right now. Trust me, I expect you to repay the favor of all of this when I inevitably catch this cold from you. Although you’re going to have it easier than me, because you’re a brat but I’m going to be an entirely angelic patient.”
“If I had the ability to make my head do normal things, I would snort with disbelief,” said Arthur.
Eames chuckled. “Come to bed, darling. You’re going to feel a thousand times better in the morning.” Eames tugged him up. “And if you don’t,” he continued, leading him toward the bedroom, “then it’s definitely Ebola and it’s been nice knowing you.”
“Asshole,” Arthur complained.
Eames chuckled again and kissed Arthur’s head haphazardly.
Arthur retreated to the en-suite to change because he said he felt too gross to get back into bed the way he was. Eames found Arthur’s book and settled in the bed, ready to read to him, and eventually Arthur came out and crawled in next to him, curling onto his chest.
“It’s not that I’m cuddling,” Arthur said drowsily into his neck, “it’s just that I’m very tired and you’re kind of comfortable.”
“‘Kind of comfortable’?” Eames echoed, amused.
“A little bit,” Arthur mumbled. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Oh, Arthur, you insufferable prick,” Eames murmured into Arthur’s hair. “Never, ever leave me again.”
“I’ll try to complain as much as possible in the future,” Arthur managed sleepily.
“I’m actually looking forward to it,” said Eames. “Should I start reading now? What page are you on?”
Arthur snored in response.
***
Arthur woke feeling like a completely different person. He took a lovely, deep breath, marveled at the functioning of the human respiratory system, and snuggled a little harder into the pillow of Eames’s chest under his head. There were advantages to being a recovering sick person, Arthur thought, and the unabashed cuddling was one of them.
Eames knew he was awake, because they were far too used to each other’s sleeping and wakefulness giveaways. He scratched his fingertips along the line of hair curling on Arthur’s nape and murmured, “Feeling better, darling?”
“Much,” Arthur said, and stretched luxuriously. “Lucky’s awake,” he remarked, because he could hear her talking to herself in her bedroom.
“Keeping herself occupied for the time being. I thought we could cuddle a little more. We don’t cuddle enough when you’re not disgustingly ill.”
“That’s because cuddling is stupid,” said Arthur, although he couldn’t get himself to say it with much conviction.
“Oh, Arthur, light of my life, can we go back to when you were sick and wanted to burrow into me like a tiny kitten?”
Arthur lifted his head in horror. “I didn’t do that. Did I do that?”
Eames gave him that stupid smirk he hated.
“I hate that smirk,” Arthur told him sulkily.
“No, you don’t,” Eames said. “You told me how much you loved it when you were sick.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Arthur.
“Yes, you did. You were high on cold medication. It was utterly fantastic. ‘Muffin,’ you said—You were calling me ‘muffin.’”
“I was definitely not calling you ‘muffin,’” Arthur said, “I don’t even know how high I would have had to be to call you ‘muffin.’”
Eames ignored him. “‘Muffin,’ you said to me, ‘I adore your smirk. And cuddling. And the way you sing off-key. And the way you wear your hat. And the way you sip your tea. And the way you changed my life.’”
“You’re just quoting Gershwin now.”
“That was another thing you told me when you were sick. ‘Sweet cheeks,’ you said to me, ‘I really love Gershwin.’”
“Well,” said Arthur grudgingly. “I don’t mind Gershwin, but I definitely didn’t call you ‘sweet cheeks.’”
Eames grinned at him like he was adorable, which was pretty much Arthur’s favorite expression in the world. Arthur settled his chin on Eames’s chest and thought that he wanted to sprawl there all day and just look at Eames. They had, honestly, never been together without a baby, so there had never been a lazy time when they just spent all day in bed with each other. And Arthur wasn’t even thinking about sex, Arthur just wanted the time with Eames, who had just taken care of him like it was a totally normal thing to do, like maybe Arthur would spend the rest of his life never having to be alone in the caretaking, always having someone there to pick up the load if he faltered, to actually take care of him.
“Thank you,” Arthur said, trying to say it not the way he said thank you for cups of coffee and the newspaper in the morning, but the way he wanted to say thank you for showing me what I didn’t know I was missing all this time.
Eames’s hand was soft as it moved through his hair and over his face, his thumb finally coming to rest in a dimple. “Darling, there’s nothing to thank me for,” he said, looking as honest as Arthur had ever seen him.
Arthur said, “Let’s spend this entire day in bed. We can get Lucky, too. If we bring her blocks in here, she’ll spend all day being the tyrannical foreman of her building site on our blankets.”
“It was inevitable she’d turn out to be Cobb, you know. She knows she’s got you running point, watching her back.”
“She isn’t Cobb, she’s an architect,” Arthur said. “Just a bossy one. She gets that from you. You’re very bossy.”
Eames snorted. “Not as bossy as you are.”
“I’m only bossy because I’m right,” said Arthur. “There’s a difference.”
“See, this is how I know you’re feeling better,” Eames said. “But I canceled all of your conference calls and clients anyway, because you do need to spend today in bed. You need another day of rest. That’s what most people do wrong, you know. They try to do too much too fast.”
The mention of the cancellations had Arthur saying thoughtfully, “What day is it?”
“What if I told you it was October?” asked Eames, as if this was a joke.
“I know it’s not October.” Arthur sat up, suddenly alert. “Eames, you’ve got your second gallery meeting today.”
“How are you remembering that? Your head is supposed to be all full of mucus.”
“There wasn’t much for you to cancel today on my schedule because I’d cleared most of it so I could watch Lucky while you went to the gallery,” Arthur reminded him. “You’re still going to the gallery, right?”
“Arthur, you don’t feel well, I can just—”
“I am better,” Arthur said. “Look at me. I am much, much better. I can handle Lucky. You need to go to the gallery.” Arthur gave Eames a little, ineffectual shove to try to get him out of the bed. “You need to go convince them all that you’re one of the world’s greatest living artists. Which I know you can do because of what an incredible liar you are.”
“You manage to make that sound sweet, and that’s why I love you,” Eames told him. And then, “Are you sure you’re going to be—”
“Oh, my God,” said Arthur, “hurry up and get ready.”
***
Lucky seemed to sense that he didn’t have the energy to run around after her, so she only made him run around a little bit before graciously allowing him to collapse onto the couch. Eames had found a large pair of dice too big for her to choke on and Arthur watched her practice rolling them across the floor and then chasing after them to retrieve them to do it all over again.
When his phone rang, he assumed it was Eames on his way home, telling him what a huge success it had been and how he was going to pit galleries against each other in a war to carry his art exclusively.
Instead it was his mother.
“Hello,” Arthur answered.
“Oh! Arthur!” exclaimed his mother.
Arthur lifted his eyebrows. “You sound surprised that I’ve answered my own phone.”
“I assumed it would be Eames. You must be feeling better.”
“Much better,” he confirmed, trying to dodge Lucky’s grabbing for his phone, because Lucky assumed that all phone conversations needed to include her.
“Oh, good. Eames was so worried about you, honey. It was adorable. Don’t tell him I said that.”
Arthur smiled and said, “I won’t.”
***
Eames arrived home to find Arthur heating up soup in the kitchen while Lucky made an intense piece of art on her highchair tray with sweet potatoes.
“How’d you do?” he asked, all anxious concern, as if Arthur was about to crumple.
“I’m fine,” Arthur said impatiently. “How did you do? How much money are they throwing at you? Did they compare you to, I don’t know, Renoir?”
“Hello, poppet,” Eames said to Lucky, dropping a kiss onto her head on his way past her highchair.
“Batatama E!” exclaimed Lucky in greeting.
“Renoir?” Eames said, sounding amused, as he pressed himself behind Arthur and slid an arm across Arthur’s abdomen, nudging him back against him. “Is that what you think of my art? Renoir?” Eames brushed a kiss over his earlobe.
Arthur stirred the chicken soup and quirked a smile at it. “I don’t know other artists. I only know you. You’re one of a kind, I wouldn’t compare you to anyone.”
“That’s what they said, too,” said Eames, his voice dripping with unmistakable delight, and kissed the side of Arthur’s neck.
Arthur grinned now. He couldn’t help it. “Better than being compared to Renoir?”
“Better than being compared to Renoir,” confirmed Eames.
Arthur turned in Eames’s arms and shifted them a couple of steps away from the stove, mindful of the hot soup sitting on it. He said, “Good. I’m glad they were smart. I’m always happy to be saved the effort of shooting people.”
Eames laughed and kissed him properly, and Arthur felt like it had been a while since he had been properly kissed by Eames, because he had spent a long time recently being gross. Being properly kissed by Eames was like coming home. Arthur hadn’t left home, but he still had the impression of getting home from a long journey, finding everything just as he’d left it, relaxing into a space that had already been made perfect for him.
And, to make things better, Eames had clearly had a fantastic appointment with the gallery. There was joy in his kiss.
Eames pulled back from the kiss, leaned his forehead against Arthur’s, and said breathlessly, “Hi.”
“Hi,” Arthur said, and brushed his hand through Eames’s hair, leaving it to rest on the back of his neck.
“I’m glad you’re better,” Eames said.
“I’m glad things went well with the gallery.”
“Bagagabagamata,” contributed Lucky, and banged her spoon against her tray for extra emphasis.
***
Arthur, for all that he was feeling better, still found himself dozing in bed much earlier than normal, casting his book aside and drowsing against Eames’s shoulder. Eames was doing some kind of logic puzzle thing, and sometimes Arthur made comments, spying on what Eames was doing, but tonight he just let his eyes close and enjoyed feeling poorly enough to really appreciate the warm comfort of Eames and feeling well enough to actually enjoy the warm fuzz of leaning into Eames.
“Were you worried about me?” Arthur asked, remembering what his mother had said.
“I always worry about you, darling,” Eames answered, sounding distracted, like he was answering by rote. “You work yourself far too hard and you’re always exercising and eating healthy, it’s really not good for you.”
“You’ve got that backwards,” Arthur said, rubbing his cheek against Eames’s t-shirt, which was wonderfully worn and soft. “But I mean with the cold.”
Arthur sensed Eames put his puzzle aside, and then one of his hands landed on the back of Arthur’s head, pushing him closer against him, while Eames pressed a kiss to his temple.
“I was terrified,” Eames said. “I don’t like it when you’re sick. You are not to be sick ever again, do you hear me? I don’t know why you have a moleskine for what I should do if something were to happen to you, I refuse to ever allow anything to happen to you. No moleskine would help me in that circumstance.”
Arthur said, “I’m sorry I worried you.”
“It’s alright,” said Eames. “You just have an inferior immune system. I’ll have to take care of Lucky next time she gets sick.”
“There is nothing inferior about my immune system,” grumbled Arthur.
“Which of us caught the baby’s cold?” asked Eames evenly.
“You’ll probably wake up with a sore throat tomorrow,” said Arthur.
Eames chuckled. “Promise me you won’t panic if I do.”
“I don’t panic,” said Arthur.
“You panic constantly,” said Eames fondly. “You just hide it really, really well.”
“You think you know me so well, don’t you?” said Arthur, a bit sulkily.
“Yes,” said Eames simply.
Arthur thought about it. Then he said, “Okay. Fine. Yes,” and kissed Eames just so he could avoid the smugness that would have resulted from that.
THE END.