Sometimes Arthur will wake up in the dead of night, his heart pounding and his breath tearing from his throat like the dying gasps of a wounded gazelle, and he'll curse the day he ever started to work in the business of dreams. It really doesn't make for the most restful of dreams when he's encompassed by nightmares of being stuck for eternity in Limbo, or when he's almost too scared to go to sleep for fear of getting stuck in his own head.

He'll roll over and tuck his hands beneath his pillow, pressing the tips of his fingers against the cool underside of the linen. A warm arm will wrap over his waist and pull him close against a muscled body, a stubbled cheek rubbing against his hairline and his nose smushed against a bare-skinned collarbone.

"Go back to sleep," Eames will say, his voice sleep-rough and little more than a growl. His eyes will still be shut, his expression peaceful in the dim half-light trickling in through the too-thin curtains.

Arthur won't say anything in return, though. He'll just take one hand from beneath his pillow and place it on Eames' hip, thumb digging too hard into the tattooed skin. There will be a bruise in the morning, but he knows that Eames won't care.

"S'rsly, love," Eames will say, "shut up before I kick you out the bloody bed."

"I didn't say anything," Arthur will automatically respond, rising to the bait without a second thought despite the fact that they're pressed together, skin to skin, legs tangling together beneath the blankets.

"Your brain is remarkably noisy at this hour of the morning." Eames will nose at the spot beneath his ear, his stubble scratching uncomfortably against Arthur's skin. He'll press a still-sleepy kiss to the shell of Arthur's ear and skim a gentle hand up Arthur's ribs to rest on his chest.

Arthur will sigh and move closer, resting his forehead on Eames' shoulder and breathing in the reassuring scent of Old Spice. "Sorry," he'll murmur, almost inaudibly, against the inked skin there.

"Nothing to be sorry for, Arthur," Eames will say in a half-asleep rumble, snuggling closer and fitting his head under Arthur's chin like a lazy cat.

Arthur will pet his hair idly, and stare up at the shadows on the ceiling until the dawn light creeps over the windowsill and patterns the covers in abstract sun patterns, like a quilt of golden warmth. He will be far too warm underneath the duvet, Eames plastered to his side, but he'll trace the curves and letters of the tattoos covering Eames' chest and shoulders until Eames stirs awake once more and kisses him breathless.

"Ready to go play with some dreams, darling?"