Disclaimer: I don't own anything!
Author's Note: Been working a lot. Tit for Tat is currently on writer's block, but it's still getting worked on, I promise.
Tempting really. To live by skill and courage. One long adventure.
-Nemion (Wolf Tower)
Four-In Which Hide-and-Seek Isn't Just a Children's Game
The first time Arthur hears his voice, he's sitting in a small bakery off of a busy New York street. He answers it automatically, still studying the case file given to him two days ago. "Conway."
The voice on the other line is deep and British. "Good morning, Agent Conway."
Arthur's hand stops midair, coffee in hand. "Who is this?"
"You already have the answer to that one, darling. It's probably even sitting right in front of you."
"Mr. Eames, I presume?" Arthur glanced around the small bakery, searching for someone on the phone. He found a few, but none of them matched the description given to him in the file, even though Eames was supposed to be excellent at disguising himself.
"So polite. I appreciate that. All the other agents were rather rude and very threatening."
"Well, we wouldn't want you to feel threatened, now would we?"
Eames chuckled. "I hope you're better at your job than they were, Agent Conway, otherwise this is going to be a very boring time for me."
"I assure you, I am."
"That's very good news to hear. You certainly look more competent—not many can pull off a suit like you can."
"Is that supposed to make me paranoid? I'm a government agent; we all wear suits."
"Ah, but one so nicely cut? How do you afford these things on a government salary, I wonder?"
"I told you I was good at my job." Now Arthur began looking outside of the bakery, figuring out all the angles from which he could be seen.
"You should stop trying to find me. You'll have plenty of time for that later. Game on." A click and then the dial tone.
A bottle of champagne arrives at the room he's staying in while in Paris, looking for the ever elusive thief. Arthur looks at it suspiciously, taking it out of the ice, peering into and around the bucket, searching for anything to clue him in as to why. He didn't even really like champagne.
He finds a folded piece of paper taped to the underside of the bucket. He unfolds it as he sits down, leaving the bottle in the ice. The handwriting is scratchy, but the ink flow smooth and thick, the kind from a nice pen.
Agent Conway,
A celebratory gift from me to you. It's not every day one turns thirty, is it?
Best wishes,
Eames
Arthur's eyes narrow at the gift and he pours the champagne down the drain.
Arthur tracks him to Venice and loses him somewhere after that. The thief is good, Arthur could grant him that. He sticks a Post-It to Venice and writes what he's learned here. The thief steals art from churches and museums alike, but the pieces never appear on the black market. One of the pieces stolen was found in a household of a young couple who had never heard the name Eames.
Arthur is poring over the map—Post-Its everywhere—trying to figure out where Eames'll go next. Room service arrives ten minutes later, a bottle of wine and a note in hand.
The note reads: Not a fan of champagne? Neither am I. –Eames
Arthur debates on drinking the wine, but chooses not to—he had no way of knowing whether it's poisoned or not, even though bodily harm is not part of Eames' repertoire. Instead, he writes down the name of the wine and starts looking for anyone who had bought it recently.
It's a long list, but Arthur finds a security tape of him in a little store run by a family from Tuscany. They're more than helpful, giving him a description and Arthur asks one of Venice's forensic artists for a sketch based on the information and sticks it with the other sketches of the thief's various disguises.
Eames calls him in the middle of the night. He doesn't wake him—Arthur likes to work late—but it's the principle of the thing that annoys him. "They should pay you extra for all this work, darling."
"Don't call me that."
"You've gotten much closer than all the others have. You're very good."
"You almost sound sentimental, Mr. Eames."
"I always think that there should be a special bond between fugitives and the people after them, don't you? And besides, Agent Conway, I think we're much closer than simply conman and agent."
"You're alone in your thoughts. I haven't even seen your face. Hardly the start of a good relationship." Arthur is tracing the call from his laptop and it's more difficult to keep Eames on the line than he would think. He's never liked long phone calls.
"You're a visual person, aren't you? I could give you a few good visuals if you like, free of charge."
"I bet you say that to all the agents."
"Oh no, Agent Conway, you're a very special case."
"I'm flattered," Arthur replies dryly. His laptop alerts him and he looks at the map, the red dot telling him where Eames is. "…How's Venezuela this time of year?"
"…Top marks. And as an additional side note, it's rather warm." Eames hangs up.
"Yes I thought it might be," Arthur murmurs to himself, already calling the local government to keep an eye out for someone matching Eames' description. He doubted that they'd catch him, but he couldn't afford to not take chances.
Arthur finds a safehouse in the snowy parts of Switzerland. It's hardly furnished, but there are many blankets and a squishy looking armchair by the fireplace, a table stacked with a few cheap paperbacks commonly found in airports beside it.
He leaves the wine bottle, still as yet unopened, and doesn't have to leave a note.
The first time Arthur sees Eames face to face is when he counts as their first meeting.
He's sitting in a rather cozy apartment in Mombasa so that he faces the front door. He hears footsteps coming up the stairwell and checks his watch. Arthur pulls out his phone when the doorknob jiggles slightly and calls Eames.
Through the door, he can hear Sharp Dressed Man playing moments before the song stops abruptly and Eames' voice comes through. "Agent Conway, what a pleasant surprise."
The doorknob turns the whole way and Eames takes a few steps inside.
Arthur can't help the slight smirk of triumph on his face as he speaks into his phone. "Yes, I imagine it is."
Eames turns slowly to look at him, a wry smile playing at his lips. He's a handsome man, almost, stubbled, and his eyes are the color of stormy skies.
"Although," Arthur looks Eames up and down. The man's shirt is loud enough that it hurts Arthur's eyes a little. "I'd hoped you'd had a better sense of dress with all that you had to say about mine."
The wry smile widens a little and Eames doesn't close the door behind him. He stands tall and unafraid, very different from a lot of other fugitives that Arthur's caught. "Had I known you were coming, I would have dressed for the occasion."
"No need," Arthur tells him, smoothly rising from his seat. "Aaron Eames, you're under arrest for grand theft and forgery."
"Oh is that all? That's all right then." Eames is rather impressed that the agent found out his name. He's the first agent who has. "I don't have your full name, Agent Conway."
"Arthur. Arthur Conway."
"Arthur." Eames rolls the name in his mouth. It's a good name for the man in front of him. Solid, uncommon, but not rare, strong and with a hint of sophistication. "How nice to meet you at last."
"Likewise, Mr. Eames," Arthur says it while pulling out handcuffs and Eames really wants to make an inappropriate comment. "Likewise."