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There appears to be an Arthur in his bed. This is unusual, and it gives Eames pause.
"Darling?" he says, opting for caution and valiantly refraining from poking Arthur's shoulder where it peeks from under the blanket. "I hate to interrupt, but you're in my bed."
"It's mine, too," Arthur says, sounding far more coherent than Eames would have expected.
"Really. According to whom, if I may ask?" Eames sits down beside him. He supposes he should be upset about this – it's late, and Arthur's quite frankly hogging the blanket, and also is in Eames' bed without so much as a by-your-leave.
Eames finds he can't really bring himself to object to the last one.
"The state of Massachusetts," Arthur says. "The marriage certificate is on the table."
Eames takes the piece of paper Arthur points out, and his eyebrows rise. "You've even used my real name," he says, unaccountably moved. "Darling, I never knew you cared." He frowns. Now that he comes to think about it, this is rather a sticking point. "Since when do you care?"
Arthur flops to lie on his back. "It was never the caring that was a problem," he says, sounding almost exasperated. "Also, you did ask me to marry you about a dozen times now."
Eames very carefully does not point out that telling Arthur 'Marry me' when he brings Eames coffee first thing in the morning does not constitute a proper proposition by the standards of civilized society. "You've never said yes," he temporizes.
"This seemed more efficient." Arthur sits up. The blanket pools in his lap, where Eames is most definitely not looking, because he is gentlemanly and above such things.
"It's not like I haven't been running after you for the last two years," Arthur says, and the corner of his mouth curves upwards. "To some fairly ridiculous places, too."
"That was for the job," Eames protests, half-hearted.
Arthur's eyes are patient, kind, and Eames wonders what precisely he's missed. "It was," Arthur allows. "And now it isn't."
Eames gulps. "What's this, then?"
"This is me." Arthur kneels up, and his mouth is inches away from Eames'. "Telling you you have five minutes to make up your mind about this. Yes or no. No take-backs."
Eames retreats to stand up. Arthur's face becomes blank, unscrutable.
Eames kneels on the floor, reaches to take Arthur's hand. "Never ask me to leave you." His voice is raspy. "Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people, and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried, and may God himself strike me down if anything but death parts me from you."
Arthur's mouth hangs open. He blinks. "You melodramatic ass," he says, sounding somewhere beween admiration and terror. "You had that fucking memorized."