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An Ass Like That

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"So," Eames practically purrs, of course he fucking does, "what are you wearing?"

Arthur aims a pillow at his laptop, sending it sailing just over the built in camera--close enough to get his point across, but far enough to not, y'know, actually hit his laptop with a pillow. "Right now, briefs and an Oxford. If you'll give me a minute--"

Eames laughs, probably to cover the fact that he'd flinched a bit as the pillow came flying by. "Fine, fine, what will you be wearing?" Eames is wearing less than Arthur, as near as Arthur can tell, the radius of light from his own laptop screen showing a bare, tattooed chest, boxers, and--inexplicably--one foot still half in its sock and the other bare.

"I was thinking the grey herringbone," Arthur says, holding it up briefly for Eames's approval. "With that salmon tie you got me in Rome?"

"Nnngh," Eames says, a noise that Arthur mistakes for disapproval until he catches sight of Eames's face. "You want me to show up on your doorstep and ravish you tonight, don't you?"

Arthur grins, dimples be damned. "As appealing as that would be, you've got another week of work to do before I let you come home, Mr. Eames. You said it yourself--Hong Kong is the best opportunity you're going to get to tail Jeffries without being noticed."

"It doesn't mean I couldn't pop round for a quickie," Eames grumbles. "Besides, that was before I knew you'd be tormenting me with suit porn every night before bed."

"We don't have to talk," Arthur says airily, sliding into his pants and making sure to button them in full view of his webcam. "I could just send you a text goodnight."

"Bollocks," Eames replies, squirming a little. "It's too bloody late, I already know you're pouring yourself into a three piece every morning. Visual confirmation just gives me more wank fodder."

"So charming, Mr. Eames," except that, in a weird way, it is. Arthur ducks into the bathroom to adjust his cuffs and collar and to make sure his shirt's tucked in smoothly, so he misses the first half of what Eames says next.

"--an ass like that." Eames almost sounds like he's complaining. "It's positively criminal."

Arthur makes sure his ass-like-that crosses in front of the screen as he comes back to the closet, and the waistcoat and tie hanging there. "It's not like either of us was ever that concerned with legality."

"Still, Arthur, you put more felonious thoughts in my head than any other." Eames must be exhausted; he's not usually this complimentary unless he's exhausted, drunk or both, but he's usually a touch more lecherous when he's drunk.

"Glad I could be of service," Arthur says, returning to button his waistcoat in Eames's line of sight. He can't help but smile as he watches Eames watch his fingers as they fasten him in; too many mornings have been lost in the past to Eames's inability to keep his own hands to himself when Arthur's waistcoats get involved.

"Christ, I miss your hands," Eames murmurs. Definitely exhausted, then. Arthur considers asking, but then decides against it; Eames would have mentioned if there'd been trouble.

"Soon enough," Arthur says, not unkindly. Eames has shifted on the bed; Arthur can see that he's fondling himself lazily, almost as if he doesn't realize he's doing it. "It's only another week."

"Yes, but then we'll be in the thick of the job, and you'll have your job face on," Eames pouts.

Arthur laughs. "My job face?"

Eames attempts to make said face, which only makes Arthur laugh even more. "Your job face," he sniffs. "Not nearly as sexy as your running-around-late-for-work-where-are-my-damn-socks face."

"Where are my damn socks?" Arthur asks, and it's beyond stunning, sometimes, even after all this time, how well Eames knows him.

"You can't pin this one on me," Eames says, and even though Arthur knows he's right, he sometimes has to wonder if Eames doesn't do something utterly nefarious--pay off Ariadne to break into his hotel room and hide his socks--just to get an extra minute of watching Arthur dress each morning.

"I'm sure I could find a way," Arthur replies, before spotting the socks sticking out from beneath the edge of the bed.

"Too kind to me," Eames replies with a grin that says that he knows what Arthur was thinking. "But there it goes--you'll have your job face on before I know it. I might as well turn in now and save myself the pain of having to see Rumpled Morning Arthur disappear entirely."

It's an empty threat, Arthur knows, so he steps away from the camera long enough to pull his suitcoat on and look himself up and down in the mirror in his stockingfeet. He nods at what he sees, then snags his shoes and comes back to sit on the edge of the bed where he can see Eames--cock in hand now, not even bothering to hide it. "You're shameless. And going to make me late."

"I still maintain the blame resides with you and your sartorial choices and your ridiculous arse," Eames replies, never once breaking stride. "Besides, you can wait--won't be long now."

Arthur picks up his laptop from the dresser and curls up on the bed with it, heedless of what it's doing to his suit. "You're impossible," he breathes, but it's half-hearted; he's watching the slide of Eames's hand over his cock, the lust in Eames's eyes, the way his lips fall open even as his mouth tries to form words. Arthur is aware that he is looking entirely too fondly at Eames as Eames comes, but it's this ridiculous fondness or Arthur being impermissably late as he gets himself off and then has to dress all over again, so in the name of expediency he'll take the fondness.

"Try not to have too much fun without me," Eames murmurs when his breathing's started to slow again, stretching languidly as if to show Arthur one last time what he's missing by being halfway around the bloody world without him.

"I never do," Arthur promises. "Goodnight, Eames."

Eames blows him a kiss. "Have fun storming the castle, darling."