Of course there's a knock on the door just as he's trying to relax, trying to start letting go of the tension and terrors of today's dreamheist. Of course there is.
Arthur sighs and climbs out of bed, goes through the motions of peering through the hotel-door peephole. He groans and thumps his forehead against the door--gently; he gets beaten up enough while he's asleep, he doesn't need to do it to himself in real life.
He can't refuse to let Eames in, though. He's tried that, and it just results in hotel security arriving because there's a drunk Englishman in the corridor belting out "Blake's Jerusalem." He actually does a pretty good job with it, but very few hotel guests wish to hear about dark Satanic mills at two o'clock in the morning.
Arthur throws open the door.
"That 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the knob?" he says. "That means, 'Arthur is sleeping.' Or possibly, 'Arthur is entertaining a guest.' Either way, 'Do. Not. Disturb.' Fairly clear."
Eames steps into the room, shuts the door behind him, and smiles. He holds up a champagne bottle and smiles even bigger. "I've got enough for your guest, too. Oh, wait, I don't SEE a guest. Unless he flew out the window. What floor are we on again?"
"Seventeenth. And it could have been a she."
"Oh, are you straight this week, darling?" Eames says. He sets the champagne down on the bedside table and starts peeling foil, pushing his thumbs at the cork.
"Stop calling me that."
"All right, pet."
"Not calling you that," Eames says and pow the cork comes out and bounces off the ceiling.
Arthur keeps his posture relaxed and loose and calm, except for the disapproving crossed arms, but it takes everything he has. Because for hours after a work-dream he has a very hard time with gunshot noises and flying projectiles, and Eames knows that, the bastard.
Eames grins at him, holds the foaming bottle up and says, "Glasses?"
"Not mixing alcohol with leftover sedatives, thanks."
Eames shrugs and swigs straight out of the bottle.
"Why are you here?" Arthur says.
"Thought I'd help you sleep."
"Privacy would help me sl--" Arthur says, but he gets cut off by Eames grabbing the front of his pajamas and shoving him toward the bed.
"No, it wouldn't, because you'd just get stuck in your head again," Eames says, and shoves a little more, until the backs of Arthur's knees hit the bed and he sits down abruptly. "Because this was a rough one, and after those just rolling the die doesn't always cut it, does it?"
Arthur glares at him and grabs the champagne bottle out of his hand, takes a long drink. Because he hates it when Eames knows him. But yeah, he's right. The die always works for figuring out that he's in his own dream and not someone else's, but after a dreamday like this one, it's not always enough for making sure that he's back in his own real.
"You need some of this," Eames says, and pulls a set of nipple clamps out of his pocket, chain dangling from his fingers.
The hair stands up on the back of Arthur's neck. "You know I hate pain," he says, not nearly as loudly as he means to.
"I know you hate that you like it," Eames says. "Not remotely the same thing."
He holds out one broad hand, fingers splayed, and gives Arthur the tiniest push on the chest with his fingertips.
Eames unbuttons Arthur's pajama top and plays with his nipples, stroking and pinching and licking, and Arthur closes his eyes, just feels. When he opens them he can't help noticing that Eames has the same look of intense concentration that he gets when he's studying vids of a mark, memorizing his walk and his gestures and his voice. And that's irritatingly endearing, so Arthur closes his eyes again.
"There, you ready?" Eames says and there's a bright hot pinch, a loud flare of pain. Arthur shudders and nods and there's another.
He moans, he can't help it, and Eames shoves him over on the bed and climbs on beside him.
"God, do you still have your shoes on?" Arthur says, and Eames responds with a sharp tug on the chain running between the clamps.
Arthur yelps, and fuck that hurts, that really really hurts, and he's here, he's really here.
And really hard. He rocks his hips up a little, hopefully, and Eames takes the hint and slides a hand into his pajama bottoms.
"You want a little help?" Eames says.
Eames chuckles filthily into Arthur's ear and wraps his hand around Arthur's dick. He squeezes and pulls and says nasty, nasty things, and Arthur pants and squirms and thinks: at least with his hand on my cock and his other arm propped under him he can't get at the clamps.
God I wish he could get at the clamps.
Eames wiggles down his side, still squeezing his dick, and tugs at the chain with his teeth.
"Fuck!" Arthur yells. His nipples are screaming and Eames isn't stopping, just steadily pulling harder and harder, and his hand is moving faster and faster, and Arthur yelps out some gibberish and flails his hands around and comes for a long, long time.
He could pass right out after that, except that his nipples are still killing him, and that's going to have to get worse before it gets better.
He opens his eyes and watches Eames swirling a finger around in the come all over his stomach. Probably he is drawing obscene stick figures.
"Little help?" Arthur says.
"Gonna be bad for a second," Eames says, and reaches for a clamp.
"Always is," Arthur says, but he's never quite prepared for it; he hisses with the pain of it as each one comes off, and then has to just lie there for a while trying to breathe through the throb while it fades slowly, much too slowly.
By the time it's faded to a see-through memory of a pain, though, he feels great, warm and loose-limbed and sleepy and safe.
"S'good," he mumbles.
"Good," Eames says.
"I'll do something for you. In the morning."
"Don't trust you to follow through," Eames says, shoving him over further and stealing a pillow. "I'll just have to wank on your stomach once you're asleep."
"Fucker," Arthur says. And just on the edge of sleep, a thought that's been tickling at the back of his brain stands up tall, and Arthur says, "Hey, you've never told me what your totem is."
"S'true, I never have," Eames says agreeably. "Go to sleep," and Arthur does.