This is a side-fic to my longer story "Brazil", but no knowledge of that story is needed to understand this one. Thank you Indi for the prompt ilu.
Arthur's hands are assured against the camera's lens dial, he twists, moderates zoom manually, raises the camera to his face, tests the focus. He shifts the settings, needs too much control to use a manual-zoom camera. He is laying on the ground, the wind buffets around him, tears at his thick leather jacket. On the fifth story of the building this means that the wind is also freezing cold, the night air cutting. His leather jacket has a fur lining, but it isn't offering very much against the midnight chill.
He turns the dial, sharp eyes focusing along with the lens, he snaps a picture. The camera makes a near silent snap, it is taken by the wind, like a gun's safety clicked off. Rapid pictures after that, he used to use film, loved the quiet silence, the seclusion, of the dark room. He doesn't anymore, he needs to take too many pictures too quickly, cannot spare the time for the reload. He has reloading down to a science though, bullets, film, it doesn't matter, quick calculated movements all the same.
He stops snapping, follows the target with his camera, lips twitching into a smile. Following a well-built man in a three piece suit, the camera lens lets him catch every detail, every perfect movement, calculated. Arthur slows in his shooting, frames his pictures carefully, even through the distance, the glare of the club windows, there is no mistaking the subject of his photographs. Eames is still Eames, even looking through a camera lens.
If the Forger knew the true attention to detail Arthur was capable of, he'd never live it down.