"You know that you're wrinkling your shirt, leaving it on the floor like that."

"I don't give a shit."

Eames's face crinkles into a smile. This is the way he likes Arthur best, out of breath and ruffled and not caring at all. He likes Perfect Arthur, too, but this Arthur only he gets to see, and that means he likes it best. Time passes. They doze lightly, exhausted.

Eames's eyes shoot awake, and he reaches for his totem without thinking. He twirls the chip until he's satisfied, then looks down at where Arthur's head is nestled on his chest. Arthur's hair is starting to curl from the sweat, and Eames feels a sudden uncontrollable urge to twirl it around his finger, so he does.

Arthur mumbles, then comes full awake in an instant. "Oh, fuck, my hair. My shirt. Dammit, Eames, I have work to do!" He swings up and out of bed, grabbing his wrinkled clothes from the floor as he leaves.

Eames heaves a heavy sigh. Arthur never stays.