Trust you, I mean. If there's a special occasion, just warn me ahead of time, yeah?
[ Maybe that's flirting with some kind of unspoken line, but the words are out and he can't take them back. Hastily, he drains his tea despite it burning a little on the way down. ]
Right, I uh. I'm gonna turn in. [ Very smooth, Arthur. He awkwardly pats Eames on the shoulder as he walks past him to the kitchen, where he sets his teacup in the polished sink.
A few minutes later finds him up the stairs and in the bedroom he'd picked out earlier. It has a good view of the street from the windows, currently blocked by the drawn curtains. Carefully, he sits on the edge of his bed, thinks about the rest of this very long job timeframe, and considers himself completely fucked. He's bad at affection, real or imagined, but more than anything, he's worried about caving. About letting himself get used to it. Because he's not sure he'll want to give it up when everything is said and done.
The two of them have been flirting over the years, tip toeing along the edge of something and he feels like this is just going to tip it into some direction. Whether that will be a good one or not, he doesn't know. Frustrated, he gets ready for bed, lets the small rituals calm his nerves even if his brain is still on overdrive.
Thankfully, he crashes out from the stress close to midnight
When he peels himself out of bed at 8 the next morning, he takes the coldest shower imaginable for reasons, and resolves to leave his personal feelings out of this whole mess. It's a job. He has to focus. True to routine, he makes coffee with the machine on the counter, puts a kettle of water on the stovetop for Eames. He's pouring himself a mug and adding milk when he hears the familiar cadence of the forger's steps down the hall.
(No, it's not weird that he can identify him by how he walks). ]
I boiled water. Not pouring your tea, since I know I fucked it up last time like the dirty American I am.
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Date: 2018-06-24 04:36 am (UTC)[ Uh, maybe clarify??? ]
Trust you, I mean. If there's a special occasion, just warn me ahead of time, yeah?
[ Maybe that's flirting with some kind of unspoken line, but the words are out and he can't take them back. Hastily, he drains his tea despite it burning a little on the way down. ]
Right, I uh. I'm gonna turn in. [ Very smooth, Arthur. He awkwardly pats Eames on the shoulder as he walks past him to the kitchen, where he sets his teacup in the polished sink.
A few minutes later finds him up the stairs and in the bedroom he'd picked out earlier. It has a good view of the street from the windows, currently blocked by the drawn curtains. Carefully, he sits on the edge of his bed, thinks about the rest of this very long job timeframe, and considers himself completely fucked. He's bad at affection, real or imagined, but more than anything, he's worried about caving. About letting himself get used to it. Because he's not sure he'll want to give it up when everything is said and done.
The two of them have been flirting over the years, tip toeing along the edge of something and he feels like this is just going to tip it into some direction. Whether that will be a good one or not, he doesn't know. Frustrated, he gets ready for bed, lets the small rituals calm his nerves even if his brain is still on overdrive.
Thankfully, he crashes out from the stress close to midnight
When he peels himself out of bed at 8 the next morning, he takes the coldest shower imaginable for reasons, and resolves to leave his personal feelings out of this whole mess. It's a job. He has to focus. True to routine, he makes coffee with the machine on the counter, puts a kettle of water on the stovetop for Eames. He's pouring himself a mug and adding milk when he hears the familiar cadence of the forger's steps down the hall.
(No, it's not weird that he can identify him by how he walks). ]
I boiled water. Not pouring your tea, since I know I fucked it up last time like the dirty American I am.