don't be dull, be fannish

“What happened?”

Arthur sat numbly on the edge of the couch. “Your classic tale of boy meets boy, they fall in love, then one boy stabs the other in their apartment in the middle of the night—”

“Jesus, Arthur.” Suddenly Eames was close again, kneeling beside Arthur, a comforting hand on his arm. “Did he—did you press charges?” Eames asked tentatively.

“I killed him.”

Eames just keeps staring at Arthur like he's the secret, magical, integrated public records database every investigative journalist wants — like Arthur has every answer and all the cross-references and won't charge him 5 cents a page for printing like City Hall, and it takes everything in Arthur not to throw his coffee at Eames and run.

"Oh by the way," Eames said, looking up from his briefing. "I bought a bed frame."

"Good for you," Arthur muttered. Eames let it lie for as long as it took for him to need a cup of coffee.

"No," he said quietly, as he moved past Arthur. "Good for you."

"I think your pig is giving me a gimlet eye, what did you tell him about me?"

"She. Her name's Edith." Arthur's just loose enough to not feel self-conscious about being a tad defensive over the honor of his pig.

"Of course it is. Hello, Edith, charmed. Your bristles are quite fetching."

Rachel focused back on Eames, an intent gleam in her eyes that reminded him very much of Arthur. "So are you in the CIA – or what do they call it in England? The SAS?"

Eames put on his most charming smile. "If I told you I'd have to kill you, love."

"You," Arthur said, handing over Eames' bag from the carousel, "are not helping."

But Rachel was grinning. "Ohhh, Mom's just going to love him."

"Why are you naked exactly?" Eames asked as Arthur got to his feet to just go find some clothes to wear, but there wasn't really any way he could get around Eames to his suitcase and cover both his arse and his front bits.

"I sleep naked," Arthur grumbled, suddenly stuck, clutching the pillow in front of him with both hands.

“The guy that died and sent Eames into a psychotic rampage. The guy he was sleeping with. That was me.”

Just because Eames wasn't in love with Arthur didn't mean he wanted him getting hurt.

"Arthur? What's wrong?"

There was a silence at the other end of the line, almost as if Arthur was trying to find the words for what he had to say. It made Eames more anxious than he already was; Arthur was never at a loss for words.

"Mal's dead. Come to L.A. I need you."

Arthur leans closer, his lips almost touching Eames' face, his breath hot on his skin. Eames shivers, closing his eyes in anticipation, and though he can't see it, there's no mistaking the smirk on Arthur's voice. "Go to sleep, Mr. Eames."