There are two weeks till the end of the semester, he has had three hours and forty five minutes of sleep in the past three days, he has seven projects to finish, he has called Cobb twice in the past week, emailed Ariadne seven times in the last forty eight hours, Ariadne has responded six times, he has gone out to lunch with friends twice in the last three days, he has seven dollars and forty five cents left on his Starbucks card, and he has had to change his cat's diet twice in the last seven days.
Arthur curls up on the bus-seat, hugs the messenger bag on his lap, and closes his eyes. He just -listens-, listens to the thrum of the bus engine, listens to the sound of the traffic a dull hum under the sound of that massive engine. He just listens to it all for two minutes, he doesn't need to count seconds, it passes and then he is getting out his iPod and closing his eyes again. He leans against the window and lets the vibrations, the inertia of the bus run through him and lets go a little. The day behind him becomes a blur, he knows the sun is setting, but for a little while, everything is timeless to him.
He's on edge, but he's always on edge, even though you'd never know it to look at him. His friends know nothing, they are intellectuals, they sip wine at social gatherings and update their Facebook status a dozen times a day. They aren't really friends but are people Arthur has cultivated to create the illusion of a normal college student. He looks young enough to pass for someone their age, fresh faced and naive. They serve their purpose though, as does the apartment, the cat, the thick rimmed-glasses. He is the easy mark, the art student with the oversize sweater-vest that hangs off his shoulders because he's too thin and doesn't eat enough. His hands are thin and suited for paintbrushes and pencils, not guns, not needles. No one now would look at him and think he knows intimately how to work a PASIV. No one but those he's worked for, and even some of them would look twice, wouldn't think this is the consummate professional.
He is still comfortable in this skin, in this lie, it's a little closer to who he is at home, buttons undone, loose t-shirts, un-brushed hair. But just far enough away from the truth to protect him. He counter-balances with the bus, it is natural movement, unconscious, he pushes back as the bus pulls to a stop, rocks forward as the bus rocks back to keep his core steady. The doors slide open, he cannot hear them, or see it, but he knows the tempo of this pause, someone is getting on the bus, paying the driver, little coins tinkling into the machine, the pause is too long for someone with a bus-pass. He takes a deep breath as the bus moves forward again. When he got on, the bus was empty save for the driver, he is relatively safe in his belief that he would remain isolated at the back of the bus.
When warm weight settles against his thigh his eyes open slowly, no alarm displayed, but his pupils dilate, and he's immediately paused his music. He isn't expecting the full-lips, the wondering blue-gray eyes that are too familiar drinking him in like someone starved. Arthur bites down the growl that is working it's way through him, and pulls out his ear-buds. "Mr. Eames." It is a question, an accusation, a greeting all in one, he is the professional now, and suddenly feels naked in the garb of the college student, he hates Eames a little bit for making him feel that way. He wants to curse, to rail, to lash out at Eames for showing up -here- where he doesn't fucking belong, where he has no right.
"Darling, you look tired." There is no teasing and no worry to the tone, merely a statement. "Let me take you for a coffee." Eames reaches up and tugs the pull-cord for the next stop, doesn't even wait for Arthur to respond, which doesn't surprise Arthur at all because Eames is an ass. Because Eames knows Arthur is going to go anyway, because if he wasn't going to, he would have already pulled the cord himself and gotten away from Eames, would have run and packed up and moved to a different college. He feels so naked in these clothes, like Eames can see right through him, read him like a book, he'd been so comfortable before, and now Eames knows just that much more about him. The damage has already been done though, and Eames already knows he's coming, so when the bus stops he raises with Eames and exits far before he usually does.
They go to Starbucks, because it was established long ago that Arthur really likes over-priced tea and drinks it like water, mostly because tea is safer than water in most of the locations he may end up at. Eames pays as promised sitting them down in a secluded corner with overly comfortable chairs that Arthur curls up in on a regular enough basis to know the exact perfect spot for maximum comfort. He puts his bag between them like a shield and sits with horrible posture, sipping at his iced coffee without grace or elegance because fuck if Eames is there, he is still a college student right now.
Eames smiles at him pleasantly, it is meant to put Arthur at ease but it never has and tends to have the opposite effect and sometimes Arthur is aware that Eames does it on purpose because he knows it never works. "You are incredibly difficult to find Arthur, you little fox." Eames teases and out of everything maybe that calms Arthur down the most. Some of the tension fades from his shoulders, he takes a more refined sip of his coffee. "I told Ariadne not to give you her contact information." Arthur scowls at Eames, already his ire is fading, replaced with piqued interest. "What did you bribe her with, lunch?" He narrows his eyes a little at the Brit, masking his quick study with annoyance.
Eames looks good, he's tanned a little more since Arthur last saw him, lost a little weight. His hair has been cut a bit shorter, his suit fits well. The cloth is expensive, but it is also a horrible eggplant color with green paisley that offends the design student in Arthur. "Brunch actually, she supplied the city but I had to do the rest of the leg work." Eames studies a painting on the wall, but Arthur knows better, knows that Eames is studying the barrista instead, picking apart their mannerisms because it's just not something you can turn off. Just like Arthur cannot turn off the details, cannot just stop counting and calculating and looking for optimum efficiency. He's not obsessive compulsive, he doesn't arrange his silverware, doesn't have to be impeccably neat in real life, because you -cant- be and he learned that a long time ago, but the tendencies are there, floating right under the surface, and fuck if Arthur is not perfect efficiency on a job, is not a machine of order and details, and not a soul would claim Arthur isn't the consummate professional in dreams, perfect and pristine, quick-thinking, ace.
But he is not on a job here, he is a student pure and simple, he just wants to finish out this semester, choose classes for the next, get a degree, and then go back into the Extraction business, because by then Cobb will probably have grown tired of retirement and will be itching to do something small. He does not want Eames here, because the Brit is complicated and not part of his plans, because all Eames will do is take, and Arthur will give, because whatever it is, if he wasn't already going to bite, he would have walked away from Eames.
"What do you want Mr. Eames?" Arthur asks, cultivating a careful air of long-pressed patience, as if he were suffering Eames' presence and considering leaving with his coffee into the chill evening if Eames didn't hurry. He wouldn't of course, if Eames wanted to play games, he'd play them, and outlast Eames' patience, they'd been playing games all along, never saying what they meant, he couldn't just stop now.
"I need you on a job, you're the best, and I wouldn't trust anyone else." Arthur already knew what the words would be, he already knows he's going to say yes, going to skip out on the last few weeks of the semester, going to send his cat to Cobb's daughter, going to pack up this carefully orchestrated lie and waste all the time he's spent and he hates Eames, because Eames knows he's going to do it too.
He's got his sketchbook out and is scribbling details, numbers, contacts on crisp pages that should have held life-studies. They move from the coffee-shop to Eames' hotel room when the details get too thick, too dangerous. Finally Arthur sleeps, really sleeps, curled up in the hotel bed with the smell of Eames on the sheets and the man making phone calls near the window. He's safe here, and that last little bit of tension fades away. In the morning he'll build a team for them, call his contacts, pull some strings, they had a lot of work to do, extracting from government contractors was always tricky business.
But that would wait, for now he would sleep, because Eames is right there to watch his back. Next time he'd make it harder for the Forger to track him down, "Arthur E. Darling" had been much too easy to find.
