Jazz.
Disclaimer: Not mine sadly.
Author's Note: Wow, it's been practically four years since I've done this, I'm more than a little rusty, just a warning… Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and if you're feeling charitable, I'll always take reviews
…
His eyes never leaving the shadowy figure in the corner Eames rubbed his poker chip between his fingers, feeling that one individual groove that proved beyond a doubt that he was not dreaming.
Slipping it back into his pocket he retrieved his lighter and cigarettes, placing one between his lips and setting it alight fluently. The atmosphere dictated that one smoked, and Eames would never be one to turn down such an opportunity.
Stepping over to a wall for a better vantage point, he briefly wondered how this particular Parisian bar had managed to best that horrendous smoking ban, before a voluptuous woman stepped onto the stage. He saw Arthur lean forward ever so slightly in his seat. Instinctively, Eames shifted forward also, intrigue by the light that seemed to have brightened Arthur's dark eyes.
What made this place, smoke filled and dingy, so alluring to Arthur? Arthur, who compulsively washed his hands and dusted his work area? Arthur, who would never inhale anything as vile and unhealthy as smoke normally? Once again, Eames checked his totem. Yes, this was the same Arthur.
A lone saxophone rang out, a sad note lingering over the crowd before the woman stepped into the spotlight and started to sing. Jazz.
Eames chuckled softly to himself, taking a drag off the cigarette. He never would've pegged Arthur as a jazz man. Hell, he never would've pegged him as a music man in general. On the rare occasion that he had actually witnessed Arthur listening to music, it'd been dull, boring Mozart, Beethoven, and the like. It made him yawn just thinking about it.
Eames' eyes took in the spectacle before him. The crowd ranged from poser beatniks to passionate lovers to those whose prime had passed them and were trying to relive the glory days. Arthur stuck out like a sore thumb amongst them. Heat flared though Eames as he realized that he still hadn't discovered everything there was to know about the Point Man. It enticed him.
Suddenly thirsty Eames moved to the bar, his eyes never leaving Arthur's form for more than a few moments, and ordered a vodka on the rocks.
Polite applause echoed around the small room as the song drew to a close, and Eames looked to the singer once again. She'd painted her lips a dark red and placed a white flower in her hair. She nodded her head to the crowd and introduced herself as the band played the introduction of the next song. Arthur couldn't take his eyes off her.
Eames growled low in his throat, a desire to have Arthur looking at him like that, all longing and rapture, surging though him. Eames devoured his liquor in one gulp, and ordered a second one, wishing that the burn left behind was only caused by the alcohol. On a whim, he also ordered a glass of their best scotch just as Arthur liked it.
He hadn't planned on approaching Arthur, had just been merely curious when Arthur had started finishing up early on Saturday nights, when in the past, no matter the time or the day, he'd always been the last one working on whatever extraction job they'd been assigned. Had he started dating someone? The thought had eaten at Eames, kept him from focusing, the question yearning to be answered. And Eames, in true self-destructive behavior, had decided the best way to answer such a question would be to basically stalk Arthur after work the next Saturday.
Eames weaved through the crowd, and sat silently across from Arthur at his small round table, with a rather pathetic candle lit in the center. He put the glass of scotch in front of Arthur and looked to the stage, forcing himself not to look at Arthur.
"Eames," Arthur greeted, not even sparing him a glance. He sampled the scotch and continued watching the singer for a moment. "So, you're following me now?"
"Oh, you know me, darling, I've always enjoyed this," he threw his hand out, gesturing to the stage.
Arthur said nothing, just sipped at his drink.
Eames was stunned, to say the least. Arthur wasn't riled up that Eames was intruding in what he'd believed was a well guarded secret? Eames narrowed his eyes. Or maybe, he thought, it was just that Arthur was so taken in by the jazz singer that he didn't care.
He pulled his jacket off, perhaps a bit rougher than necessary, and rolled up his sleeves.
Settling back into the chair, Eames contented himself with merely observing the scene before him. It was the music that made him languid and sentimental, he decided, as he continued to stare carelessly at Arthur, who had already removed his suit jacket, leaving him in his well tailored waistcoat. The image of Arthur silhouetted in smoke and shadow danced through Eames' brain and for a wild moment he believed that Arthur was smoking, his posture so relaxed and his hands so loose that it felt criminal for a cigarette not to be positioned between his fingers.
Eames took a long drag off his own cigarette, holding it in until his eyes watered.
At that moment, he'd never wanted Arthur more.
Arthur seemed lost in the world of jazz and it emboldened Eames, thinking that Arthur had already forgotten his presence there. He took the opportunity to study Arthur intently, not missing a single thing, so he could relive the moment over and over. He etched Arthur's hand in him mind, as it rested on top of the table, completely stationary for the exception of his pointer finger, which tapped in time with the music. Eames added the faded scar, running across the top of Arthur's hand and disappearing under the band of his watch to his own memory. He imagined kissing the scar and being told the story of how Arthur had gotten it.
His eyes followed the arm up to his neck, where he'd loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar. Eames swallowed as though his collar needed to be undone. He traced Arthur's Adam's apple, watching as it bobbed up and down as he drank his scotch. His eye's hovered there for a moment before he looked to Arthur's profile. He loved the strong line of his jaw and had lost his train of thought on more than one occasion when he'd woken up from a test dream to find Arthur standing over him, throwing that gorgeous jaw into sharp relief.
Eames finished his vodka and waved a waiter over, ready to order another one. His eyes flickered back to Arthur and he realized that alcohol was probably not the best choice with the way the current situation was dominating his mind. "Café," he said instead. Coffee would give him the jolt without the inebriating side effects. He wanted to keep his wits about him.
Arthur's brows furrowed as he turned to him. "Tired, Mr. Eames?"
Eames was torn between disconcertment and delight when he realized that some small part of Arthur had been aware of him. He shifted uncomfortably. Had Arthur noticed his close examination? "Just need a bit of a kick, s'all. Not concerned for me, I hope, love?" He teased easily.
Arthur didn't respond, merely turned back to the stage, becoming, so it seemed, almost completely oblivious to the rest of the world. What was the power that this woman seemed to hold over him?
Eames turned a cynical eye to her. She was no great beauty by any standard, her eyes were too small, her nose too big, and she weighed in on the heavier side of the scale. She wore a simple red dress though that highlighted her womanly curves. His eyes narrowed as he looked to her legs, nothing to write home about in that department. But he noted that her nylons had a run in them, and wondered if she made enough money to buy a second pair.
It must've been her voice, her voice alone, that ensnared Arthur, Eames speculated. He would be the first to admit that he had no ear for music, but he gave her his full attention, ready to critique. But- she'd stopped singing.
Eames watched, just slightly puzzled, as she walked off the stage. He mechanically clapped with the rest, but was rather put out that he'd lost his chance to discover this woman's sway over Arthur.
The band started again as the last of the applause died and Eames sat up straighter, leaned forward slightly. "I know this song," he muttered to himself, thinking, trying to place where he'd heard it before.
Arthur heard him and turned, giving Eames a sad little smile. "Bye Bye Blackbird," he offered quietly. "Made popular by Miles Davis," did Eames know anyone that listened to Miles Davis? He didn't think so. "Though, you're probably more familiar with the Joe Cocker version." That did sound more Eames' style.
Eames smiled slightly to himself. He'd never admit it, but sometimes he couldn't help but be amazed at how well Arthur knew him though they'd shared limited personal preferences.
Arthur turned back to the band. "It's one of my favorites," he added and Eames tucked the information away neatly for later examination.
Almost of its own accord, Eames' body melted into the chair, the piano and saxophone easing all the tension out of his muscles.
For a brief moment he thought that he could do this, watch a jazz band regularly with Arthur, but then he remembered that he wasn't with Arthur. Arthur would probably find a new jazz club to frequent. One that he didn't know about.
Eames brought the cigarette to his lips and realized that it had burnt down in his neglect. He stamped it out, annoyed, and lit himself a new one as the waiter brought his coffee. He'd never felt more Parisian, all cigarettes and unrequited love.
A lightness began to spread through Eames, the vodka finally driving through his blood, and he let himself go numb. There were too many thoughts crammed into his skull.
Time became useless as he moved from song to song, cigarette to cigarette. He wasn't sure why, but at the end of each song Arthur would speak. He wouldn't look at him, and he'd never acknowledged him at any other time, but he'd always lowly murmur the title of the song. "If I Could Be With You (One Hour Tonight)" "Lover, Come Back to Me" "All of Me" "You Go to My Head" "If You Were Mine" "Just You, Just Me" Granted, there had been other songs, but Eames hadn't notice those.
It was torture, exquisite torture, listening to Arthur say those phrases with nothing more than academic understanding behind them. He wanted Arthur to stop but feared the loss at the same time. He was raised up and thrown down with every phrase uttered. Even the reappearance of the singer couldn't add to his misery.
And then at long last, yet all too soon, the singer announced the last song.
"Gonna take a sentimental journey," she sang, and Eames found something else to criticize. She was saccharine. "Gonna set my heart at ease." Eames snorted and Arthur gave him a nasty sideways look. The house lights brightened as the song came to a close and people stood, readying to leave. Eames waited, taking his cue from Arthur, who remained seated.
Once the crowd had drastically thinned, Arthur rose, shrugging on his jacket, buttoning his collar, and tightening his tie. The Arthur Eames knew and loved was falling back into place.
Eames stood too; pulling his jacket on while he tried to think of a snarky comment to make that would effectually cover up the awkward silence that was sure to settle between them soon.
He had taken a step towards the door before he realized that Arthur was approaching the stage.
Eames stood frozen in horror and shock, his mind racing in drastic directions, a thousand different explanations jumping forward. Was Arthur actually dating the jazz singer? No, he'd walked passed her with just a few short comments. He stopped in front of the guitarist, who greeted him with a wide grin. Why? Oh God, please don't let Arthur be dating that man, Eames begged, knowing that the fates were more likely to laugh at him, than answer his plea.
Arthur leaned towards the man and Eames stopped breathing, expecting their lips to meet. They didn't, the man just talked in Arthur's ear, the crowd too loud for him to overhear.
Arthur laughed and patted the man on the back of the shoulder. His eyes found Eames' and he motioned for him to come over. Begrudgingly, Eames moved over to them, a bit chagrined at the beseeching he'd just mentally done.
"This is Greg Regat." Arthur said, and Eames took Greg's outstretched hand, shaking it. "This is Eames." He introduced to Greg. Both Eames and Greg looked to Arthur, waiting for a deeper explanation. "Greg and I were roommates in college." He added awkwardly. "Eames and I work together."
"Roommates, fancy that." Eames said uninterestedly. He couldn't think of another way for Arthur to introduce him, but Eames and I work together just seemed so cold. Almost as if Arthur barely tolerated his presence. Which, Eames thought, was probably true. Eames frowned, and Greg took a step back.
If Arthur noticed the chilly air between Eames and Greg, he didn't acknowledge it, merely spending the next few minutes talking to Greg about God knew what. Eames was too busy pouting to care.
One thing that Eames did observe though was the considerable attraction that Greg had for Arthur, and Eames wondered if they had a scandalous history? Whether Arthur felt a similar attraction for Greg, Eames couldn't tell. Frustratingly, Arthur's body language was completely unreadable. Eames' frown deepened as he was once again reminded of how hard it was for him to read Arthur.
Arthur and Greg bid goodbye and Greg initiated a hug. Eames glared as he watched Greg's hand slowly making its way south. Before the offending hand could reach its destination, Eames seized it, shaking it vigorously. "Fantastic time meeting you, Greg." He said around clenched teeth.
Looking as though he'd just sucked a lemon, Greg stepped away from Arthur and nodded once to Eames before walking away. Eames gave Arthur a wide smile, feeling quite proud of the interception he'd just performed. Arthur gave him a questioning look, and Eames just shrugged, though he suspected that he probably looked like the cat that caught the canary.
It was a cool spring night, and Eames took a deep, clarifying breath as they stepped out of the bar. The fog that had engulfed his mind, as thick as the smoke in the jazz club, only cleared slightly.
Arthur walked beside him, lost in thought. Eames' curiosity took on self-destructive behavior once again and he couldn't stop himself. "Past boyfriend?" He asked, hoping that it came off innocently enough.
Arthur turned his eyes to him sharply. "Who, Greg?" His face twisted in distaste. "No, no. Just a roommate."
"But that's not what he wants, is it?" Eames pressed, realizing that Arthur had no idea of the other man's infatuation.
Arthur's eyebrows knitted together, and he shook his head in negation.
Eames laughed heartily. "He invited you, right?" Eames guessed, and Arthur didn't answer, which he took as a yes. "Are you telling me that you watch him play as just friends?"
"He doesn't normally play, the regular guitarist was sick tonight." Arthur mumbled, "he's the manager and when he heard that I was in the area…" He frowned, finally seeing through the excuse. "Well, I've been going there for weeks, and this is the first time I really got to talk to him." He added as though that canceled out the other bit.
Eames laughed again. "Sometimes, love, you can be a bit thick."
They continued along the street, Eames chuckling to himself every now and again, Arthur mainly frowning at the ground.
"What's wrong with him, then?" Eames asked, knowing that Arthur probably wanted to pretend that the conversation had never happened, but Eames just couldn't.
Arthur glared at him. "There's nothing wrong with him, he's just-," he stopped, and shook his head.
"He's just too different from you?" Eames filled in, finding it harder to breath. He was, after all, the exact opposite from prim and proper Arthur.
He was wishing that he'd just kept his mouth shut, knowing that he didn't want to hear Arthur declare that Eames and he would never work.
"No, that's not it," Arthur said, his voice softening as he thought, "I mean, time and again, opposites have come together and proven… Just look at Django Reinhardt and Stéphane Grappelli."
"Who?" Eames asked, his breath coming much easier again.
"They founded the Quintette du Hot Club du France." Arthur murmured, completely lost in his own thoughts. "Granted, they were only business partners, but still, it translates fine as an example…"
"Arthur," Eames chided, "you're not making much sense, darling."
He had the good sense to look sheepish. Arthur came to a stop as he turned fully to face Eames. "They were musicians, geniuses really. And they were complete opposites, Reinhardt was impulsive and unpredictable, and Grappelli was conscientious. I guess my mind's still full of jazz, there must be better examples of how opposites attract. But still…" He trailed off, his eyes unfocused.
Arthur's eyes had darkened, and Eames desperately wished to know what he was thinking. "What?" He breathed, afraid of speaking too loudly.
"They'd made magic together," Arthur said softly, looking straight at Eames. Eames swallowed, and felt his stomach drop. It was just an innocent comment, but the images that the phrase invoked were anything but.
Eames shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking again, humming the tune that was playing over and over in his head. He needed to put some space between him and Arthur.
Arthur caught up with him easily and became a silent companion, walking in step with him to Lord knew where.
Eames and Arthur were staying at different places in different arrondissements, their client thinking that it'd look suspicious if they all stayed in the same hotel. Arthur of course, actually had an apartment, but Eames was staying in the business district, and he was fairly confident that Arthur's apartment was in the exact opposite direction of Eames' hotel.
With no destination in mind, Eames just let his feet lead while he frowned, thinking back over the night's progress. He'd never really paid attention to jazz before but knew, with the way Arthur revered it, he'd be willing to learn. He and Arthur had actually had an enjoyable time together. Not that any time with Arthur was ever unwelcome, on Eames' part at least, but it'd never been so personal before. He'd seen Arthur without all his defenses in place, his tie loosened, his critical eye turned on something that wasn't related to the job. Eames couldn't get enough of it, knew that going back to what they'd been before wouldn't be… adequate. Knew that he'd forever be needing more, needing to witness this side of Arthur again and again.
He had to fight back the urge to slip his hand into Arthur's, the instinct coming naturally to him. Eames groaned quietly to himself. If he squinted his eyes and tilted his head just so, tonight would look suspiciously like a date. Which was bad, very, very bad.
He couldn't start thinking like that and expect to behave normally around Arthur. He daydreamed enough as it was, and if he didn't look out, he'd start confusing reality with his fantasies. Arthur would probably not appreciate Eames attacking him in janitor's closets and such.
And why was Arthur still with him? Why hadn't he gone on his way as soon as they'd exited the bar as he expected he would? Eames was beginning to get a headache.
He was also having a hard time not slamming Arthur into the nearest brick wall and having his way with him right there, especially with the way their shoulders kept grazing every few steps.
Eames pulled out his crumpled pack of cigarettes and shook one out, putting it roughly between his lips. He patted his pockets down, feeling for his lighter, but it wasn't there. He cursed under his breath, thinking he must have left it in the bar.
There was a click and then the production of a small flame in front of his eyes. He looked to Arthur, who, with a smug smirk, was holding out his lighter. Slowly, Eames leaned forward and inhaled as the cigarette caught, and then slowly blew the smoke in Arthur's face. His smirk didn't falter, and Eames might've glared slightly.
"Sorry," Arthur said, not sounding sorry at all. In fact, he sounded gleeful. "But you left it on the table."
Perhaps it was all the tension that was coiled tightly in Eames' stomach, just waiting to burst, of perhaps it was the relief that Arthur wasn't in love with Greg, or maybe it was his love for jazz, or maybe, just maybe, it was the way he was biting his lip. Whatever the reason, Eames grabbed him, his fists clenching around the wrinkle free lapels of his jacket, and pulled Arthur to him, their lips crashing together.
Oh. Bloody. Hell. He was kissing Arthur. This was exactly what he'd just been warning himself against.
"Goddamn son of a bitch," Eames growled, pushing Arthur back roughly, which he regretted immediately. He was the one, after all, who'd jumped Arthur, not the other way around. Arthur should be the one pushing him away.
Arthur fell back a step at the force of Eames shove, but otherwise didn't move.
Eames couldn't look at him, and he pressed his fingers against his eyes. He couldn't believe he'd just lost control of himself. Now, if Arthur didn't outright reject him, he'd have to deal with all the small pitying stares that Arthur would send his way as they worked together. He couldn't decide which would be worse.
He felt, rather than heard, Arthur take a step, and was surprised when he realized that the step had been towards him, not away. His ear was tugged, his face tilted up. He opened his eyes just as Arthur leaned forward, pressing his lips softly to Eames' own. "I never took you for one that needed encouragement, Mr. Eames," Arthur whispered, pulling back slightly.
This, Eames thought, was a much better alternative to rejection and unrequited love. "Sorry, darling," he responded simply though he felt rather giddy.
He pulled Arthur back to him, wrapping one hand around his tie, while the other grabbed the back of his neck, and kissed him fiercely. Eames had no intention of letting him go that easily.
"This probably isn't good for our working relationship." Eames said, smiling widely, as they broke apart and began walking again. He slipped his arm around Arthur's waist and tucked his hand into the back pocket of Arthur's pants.
Arthur chuckled and mimicked Eames' action, though he kept his hand away from Eames' pockets, which he thought was a shame. "Don't take this the wrong way, Eames, but our working relationship can't possibly get any worse."
"Well," Eames smirked, "your place or mine then, love?"
Arthur smiled and tightened his hold. "I do have some jazz records at my place. We could continue your education."
"Not quite what I was thinking, but I like the direction it's going in." Eames purred.
"Is that so?"
Over the next few weeks Eames kept Arthur far too busy to make it to any jazz performances, though his knowledge of jazz did expand.