Author's Note: In an attempt to regain my previous love for my Torchwood WIP, I've done a little ficlet for a completely separate fandom, hoping it'll kick-start my creativity again. I love Arthur and Eames, and I happened to re-watch the film for the fourth or fifth time this afternoon, so I went for a spot of character and relationship analysis. Boom.

Enjoy.

Oh, He's The Best

It was as if they were nine years old and jeering from opposite ends of the playground.

Eames' greatest pleasures stemmed from his infinite ability to irritate and impassion Arthur. It had been obvious very early on in their working relationship that Arthur didn't respond well to sarcasm, and even less so to casual jibes about his own intelligence. Eames played the part of the old-fashioned, sepia-tinted bully, picking at Arthur for his many talents, his stoic professionalism, and, as an umbrella of fault spanning that jumble of underlying 'flaws', the metaphorical stick that Eames liked to claim was lodged firmly up Arthur's arse.

It was entirely calculated; Eames targeting the one man who was quite likely among the most patient and aloof humans on the planet, and chipping casually away at him with barely a breath of effort involved.

Arthur's attempts to hit back always seemed pitiful, even to himself. When lacking an immediate audience, any response he could come up with was swiftly swallowed down with the knowledge that losing his carefully-constructed reserve was preciselyEames' goal in taunting him. In public, he would dig at any flippant remark or half-answer that left Eames' lips, in an admittedly immature attempt to gain superiority and push back.

Except that it took only the most delicate of arches from Eames' left eyebrow to silence him once more. To the viewer, nothing ever changed, no matter how many times they walked away from each other, either through choice or necessity, only to be reunited thanks to their specific skill sets. They just happened to complement each other professionally, however many times Arthur insisted there were other thieves and forgers in the world, and regardless of Eames' dismissal of Arthur as wholly lacking in imagination.

You are the best, Arthur.

It wasn't that Eames was an entirely different person when it was just the two of them, stripped back and in semi-darkness and far from civilisation. Arthur would have hated him if he was. Eames didn't suddenly retract all he had ever said about him (either to his face or to Cobb, who would smirkingly recount the comments to Arthur) and instead ply him with compliments that he didn't necessarily deserve. No.

Instead, he said very little. Arthur controlled the conversation during those times. He chose the themes, asked the questions, and Eames would answer honestly and without pretension. His predilection towards mischief and wit still made itself known every so often, still poked at Arthur with mirthful yet pointed faux-scorn, but these days, it was soundly ignored. The bottom line was that Eames simply adored seeing Arthur lose control, and he wouldn't give him the satisfaction until absolutely necessary.

Arthur was improving his skills in fighting for that control until the other man finally – inevitably – broke through; now, after years of attempting to fathom his connection with Eames, loosening his own reins after the struggle actually seemed worth it, even when his pulse had returned to normal. Once, giving in had made him feel clumsy, unsure, and each time he relinquished he would distance himself from Eames until the man's knowing grin didn't make everything seem quite so raw. Until gradually, Eames showed him that there was no shame to be found in letting go.

None at all.

And the more Arthur accepted that, the more Eames shared with him. Years back, he would have stolen Arthur's comforting layers from him in just two or three sweeps of his hand as if to break him down and keep him down, making Arthur feel – both mentally and physically – like one long nerve. Now, he took him apart piece by piece (blazer, waistcoat, tie, braces, shirt, belt, trousers; emotions following suit) and offered Arthur the freedom to reciprocate in any way he saw fit.

You are the best, Arthur.

Arthur remained ineffably put together and efficient outside of whatever bed they had shared in whichever city they were currently pulling a job. He continued to act as if he thought Eames' intelligence below his own, as though they only just tolerated one another, like their mutual fondness didn't quietly transcend their delicate work (only reluctantly bursting through when the other might be in particular peril). Arthur felt no burning need to prove his affection, just likes Eames would make no attempt to curb his need to tease and taunt and pick little squabbles like a child who was unsure how to express warmth any other way.

Their bodies were more honest than their voices could ever be.

Then it was time to part ways again. A single, congratulatory nod towards Cobb, swerving a more-than-safe distance from Fischer, barely a glance spared for anybody else.

And if Arthur somehow found himself in the same taxi as a stocky Englishman wearing a tasteless shirt (greeting politely as strangers do, awkwardly agreeing to share since cabs were scarce at this time of day, giving the driver a pair of addresses that – what a coincidence – were only two or three streets apart), he might feel moved to enquire about the red poker chip the man was twiddling between uncannily graceful fingers.

Just to hear the forger lie.