Arthur was tearing up.
It was inevitable, really.
An eye unused to the prolonged use of contacts always protests against them. But it was annoying nonetheless.
And it wasn't the only thing bothering Arthur at the moment.
He felt ridiculous. Purposefully so, but still. Honestly, the contacts are the best part of this ensemble, Arthur thought morosely.
His hair was still damp from his recent shower, contributing to the youthfulness of his appearance. At least the stitches are out, Arthur thought. But he couldn't seem to find anything good to reflect upon when it came to the rest of his appearance. He studied himself in the mirror in front of him, frowning at the state of his apparel.
No one could deny that the fit was tapered. In a I-rebelled-against-my-parents-and-pursued-an-art-degree sort of way, Arthur mused. Just wonderful.
Tight denim skinny jeans hugged the curves of Arthur's legs, rolled at the cuff. He felt ridiculous wearing Eames' knock-off brown oxfords. The short sleeve button up felt tight around his biceps, uncomfortable. It didn't help that the cheap shirt was layered under thin suspenders, the same hue as his shoes.
"Where does Eames get these things?" Arthur complained, as Iris helped him attach the end of a wayward strap. "They wouldn't even fit him anyway!"
"Stop moving," Iris ordered, fixing a crease in his shirt. "I took the stitches out of your back, love, but with my luck you'll strain something whinging and we'll be back to square one."
Arthur was too preoccupied fidgeting with the contacts in his eyes to answer her. He rapidly blinked a few times to try to remedy the situation, but the green contacts seemingly floated farther out of position. He raised his hand to fix them, but was thwarted by the thick rims of fake glasses.
They had been Iris' idea, to draw attention away from the still healing cuts on his face. Then, Iris had used some of her foundation to mask the discolorations, which Arthur reasoned was a necessary precaution, but hated with a passion. Unfortunately, it still wasn't enough to hide the outlines of the wounds.
Arthur's early morning transformation had been both tedious and demeaning, but he let Iris take the reins a bit. He was just glad she was so cooperative.
Yet, there was one thing they disagreed on, something Arthur was stalwart about remaining unchanged -
His hair.
Iris insisted Arthur had to do something different with it. "Love, you use so much gel I could spot you a continent away!"
"I'm sure we've changed enough," Arthur said back to her, hopefully in a reasonable tone. "My hair can stay how it normally is."
"You can't tell me, Mr. Rational, that keeping your hair the same isn't 'a breach of protocol'?"
Unfortunately, Arthur had found out the hard way Iris was a very perceptive woman. She had watched from afar as he conducted his research for Eames, even picking up on a few of his favorite habits for herself. It was not helping Arthur's case at the moment.
"There's no protocol for meeting a - a co-worker while you're wanted for murder!" Arthur sputtered, patting down the soft fluff of his hair miserably. "I don't - I don't need a haircut!"
And then Iris remained quiet throughout the rest of Arthur's makeover. Suspiciously quiet. That woman is too much like Eames, Arthur thought, as he went around the house arming himself with various weapons. He hid his Glock under a borrowed bomber jacket, along with his totem and the other equipment.
By the time Arthur came back upstairs to meet Iris, he was almost in a good mood. Now, I just have to get the hair gel. Arthur strode into the upstairs bathroom, his hand blithely reaching for the latch that would open the medicine cabinet. Smoothing back his unruly hair once more, Arthur's eyes roamed the shelves, ready to land on the familiar label of Eames' product.
They never found it. "Iris?" Arthur called, returning to Eames' room. Iris sat on his maroon duvet, humming contentedly as she crocheted something blue.
"Yes, dear?" Iris looked up, all innocence and smiles with her white apron and pink reading glasses perched on her nose.
Arthur just looked at her a second, resignation washing over him. "I'm ready to leave now," he said flatly, patting his untamed waves once more. I feel like a schoolboy, Arthur thought sourly. But I'm not going to pick a fight with Eames' mother over a bottle of hair gel. Fuck.
"Chin up, love," Iris said, seemingly oblivious to his predicament. "You look wonderful, if not out of character. But that's exactly what we're going for, isn't it?" She stood up from the bed to clasp him in a light embrace, careful to avoid his newly bandaged back, free of stitches.
At the release of the hug, Arthur tried to make a vaguely optimistic face toward Iris. "Thanks, Iris," Arthur managed, with sincerity.
Arthur looked towards the borrowed watch on his wrist, wishing once again he could just fly to his safehouse in Paris to retrieve his own possessions. Soon, he told himself.
"Well, it looks like it's about time to leave." Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. He was never good at goodbyes.
Iris nodded, her pink reading glasses jiggling at their place around her neck. Her green and grey eyes stared at Arthur contemplatively. "Just promise me one thing, alright?"
Arthur shifted, uneasy with making a lasting promise. I know all too well how that could end up. "What is it, Iris?"
Iris held his eyes with her own, a firm pout appearing on her pink lips. Her hands took up a position at her stout hips, cocking them commandingly.I can see how she would be a good nurse, Arthur thought. She has the temperament for it - and the pushiness.
"Don't be daft, Arthur," Iris continued. "No matter how long you're gone, love... Stay safe." She paused, her glasses reflecting the early morning light. "I wouldn't want to have to stitch you up again. It's a waste of my time and ability as a nurse - and Eames' mother."
Arthur nodded, but she went on. "And I'm sure Eames would be embarrassed to drag you back here again, injured. Lord knows that boy didn't inherit much medical knowledge from his mum."
Arthur tried to smile once more, and hoped his second attempt was better than the last. "I'll do my best to stay out of trouble, Iris. Who else would look after your son?"
Iris' lips quirked at his attempt at humor. "You better get off then," she said, suddenly brisk. "Come on then, come on." Iris bustled out of Eames' room towards the downstairs. Arthur followed her to the door, her energy instilling a sense of urgency in the air.
And yet Arthur paused once he reached the door frame, his mostly healed palm faltering against the rough surface. He looked back into Eames' room.
The poker chips on the side table gleamed in the bright sun, the strip of light illuminating the dark wood of the floor. Haphazardly balanced on the side of Eames' dresser was the 'Lucky ' engraved dog collar Arthur had gifted the man so long ago. Well, I guess not that long, Arthur thought. It just feels that way.
Arthur's feet felt heavy as he stopped at the entrance, unwilling to move from his spot. A sense of trepidation filled him as he stood, as though leaving would signal some irreversible transition from one flux of the future into the next.
Don't be ridiculous, Arthur thought to himself, shaking his head. You should be excited to get out. Granted, Eames is a pain, but it's better than being cooped up in here, watching endless broadcasts about the 'White Collar Killer' on the TV.
Arthur forced himself to push off from the wall, his eyes tearing away from the tranquil silence of Eames' bedroom. It will all be over soon, he told himself. Just keep going.
Arthur pulled up a few streets away from the pub where he was supposed to meet Eames. His head brushed the ceiling of the third car he had stolen in as many hours.
Arthur had spent all morning covering his tracks. He purposefully backtracked and strolled into random shops, switching his clothing and vehicles and even his mannerisms. Arthur was trying to confuse any tails, imaginary or not.
The automobile he was in now would be his final switch, a poor 1999 model that some trusting driver had left the keys in the sun visor for, easy pickings for Arthur's needs. He didn't even have to break into it, really. Just drive away.
Flexing his sweaty fingers in the cheap leather gloves he had lifted earlier, Arthur pulled the visor down, slipping the keys into their original position. He slid out out from the vehicle smoothly, keeping his head turned away from any pedestrians. Taking the suffocating gloves off his hands, Arthur pulled the brim of the nondescript hat lower over his eyes.
Dodging a pair of rather clueless teenagers, Arthur threw the stolen gloves into a bin, bumping into a man with a rather large bag. The man, stumbling, glared at him. Later, he would find a hat that he didn't recognize as his own, safely tucked away into one of the bag's pockets.
Still taking time to weave through other pedestrians in an intricate pattern, Arthur was disproportionately glad to finally arrive at the agreed meeting place.
Arthur allowed himself a small smile as he pushed inside the pub after glancing at the watch on his wrist. Three plus hours of wasted time, and still ten minutes early.
The interior of the pub was smoky, even during mid-afternoon. Only a few patrons graced the rugged booths lining the depths of the establishment, a few valiantly flickering lamps the only illumination offered inside. The main bar looked well-used, cluttered and pockmarked, and the barkeep behind it appeared the same, her faded grey top looking particularly at home with her tired features.
The woman barely looked up as Arthur walked in, too busy fiddling with what Arthur supposed was a plugged tap.
Pausing at the threshold, Arthur stopped, indecisive. The movement wasn't go unnoticed by the world-weary employee behind the counter, as preoccupied as she seemed. "Seat yourself, mate." It was a second before she spared a glance in Arthur's direction.
She did a double-take at Arthur's bourgeois disguise, her thin eyebrows lifting.
Arthur forced himself to act oblivious to the scrutiny, his movements a practiced gait as he made his way over to an empty booth. Slidding into the far corner, Arthur placed himself so his back was conveniently resting against the wall. His eyes caught with an older gentleman as he sat down, and Arthur nodded at the man in a hopefully casual way, his hair flopping about in a decidedly undignified manner.
Cracking his fingers under the table, Arthur stayed stubbornly uncoiled as he studied the inside of the pub, his eyes carefully profiling each of its occupants. That one uses a cane, she needs reading glasses, he's too far into his cups to walk straight… Arthur distracted himself by cataloging details as he waited, his hand itching to stray closer to his Glock.
Eventually, the barkeep vacated her spot from behind the counter. She trailed over to Arthur with obvious reluctance, her eyes lingering over his clothes in distaste. "I'll have whatever dark lager you suggest." Arthur spoke before the woman could open her mouth, twisting his vowels and consonants to mimic the clipped tones of an Eastern European.
"Alright."
The woman left as soon as she had appeared.
A foamy glass was placed in front of Arthur moments later, the contents spilling slightly as she sloshed the glass down, beer running onto the unpolished tabletop. Arthur bit his tongue before he could ask about a coaster, his head inclining in a subtle nod towards the bartender in thanks.
Arthur sipped his drink, resisting the urge to make a face at the shoddy concoction. He allowed himself a glance towards the door once more. Arthur frowned at the closed door as he checked his pilfered watch, loose hair falling to rest on his forehead.
Pushing back the wayward locks in a dismissive gesture, Arthur stopped himself from thinking about the possibility of Eames' getting into danger.Or forgetting about our meeting. Or standing me up. Definitely not that.
This isn't some moronic date, Arthur told himself. Relax and play dumb. If anything, you can gauge the mood of London while you're here. Arthur's attention swept over the bar's occupants once more, his gaze halting at anything interesting.
There really wasn't much to look at.
In one corner a soccer match played at a low volume, the players streaking across the bright pitch in blobs of yellow and red. Only one bar-goer watched the game, his mustache drooping lower and lower as the red team dominated the spectacle.
A woman stirred morosely at a sad-looking martini, her features fixed on the photograph of something clutched in her hand. Her long nails tapped against her drink inelegantly as she sat, pensive. Arthur watched her stiffen as she felt someone's gaze, and he flicked his eyes away from her hastily.
The only place bereft of Arthur's inspection was the last corner of the room. No one sat in that area, a messy arrangement of chairs stacked against the plain walls. Above them flickered a TV in which a news broadcast advertised headlines in quick succession. A blonde reporter was narrating with apparent vigor, her bracelets moving up and down at her every gesticulation.
Arthur watched the news ticker proclaim 'Three More Bodies Identified By Experts From Past Explosion at CurrencyCorp' when the door to the pub slowly opened, yanking his attention away from the headline.
Arthur felt something rise in his stomach. It rapidly fell at the appearance of a man at the threshold, his light hair and slight build hovering unimposingly over the entrance.
"Will it be the usual, John?" The bartender was already reaching out, her hands deft as she groped for a specific bottle.
"That's fine, ta Joan." Arthur noticed that as the man moved forward, the door behind him stayed ajar. More fingers appeared around the wood, tan and sure.
Arthur could barely remember to keep a straight face as Eames strode into the bar. He was as purposeful and casual as Arthur had ever seen him, a light grin taking shape on his face as he took in Arthur in the corner.
"You look a sight." Eames slid into the seat across from Arthur, his voice smooth and seamless, his usual undertones of teasing able to be discerned.
"... Sasha." Arthur said, his accent uncharacteristically deep and crisp. Eames smiled beatifically, a dimple forming on his right cheek. Arthur felt something rebel in his stomach as Eames leaned forward, centimeters away from touching Arthur's face.
"A little exotic are we, darling?" Eames murmured, his left hand reaching out to snag a sip of Arthur's drink. Arthur's hand twitched in belated protest.
Seconds later, the barkeep materialized next to their spot, her eyes blinking toward Eames.
The man had composed himself into a business-like pose by the time he met her stare, the only evidence of his stolen sip a tiny droplet of liquid gleaming at the edge of his full lips.
"What would you like?" The woman seemed fractionally more forgiving as she took in Eames' worn attire. Eames flashed her an alluring smirk, his teeth gleaming in the low light.
"I'd like a pint of the cheapest beer you got, love," Eames countered, his arm spread out against the back of the booth's cushions.
The woman wheeled away without another word, and Eames' frowned, his hand reaching for another grab at Arthur's half-empty glass. Arthur countered his movement without looking down, his eyes tracking the woman's progress behind the bar. "I'm losing my touch," Eames complained dramatically, his fingers rolling a poker chip in his palm.
"She's gay," Arthur replied absently, feeling the lump of his own totem in his pants. "What took you so long?"
Eames rolled his eyes, his hot hand trapping Arthur's left wrist as it reappeared above the table. Instead of responding, he turned Arthur's wrist gently around, inspecting the clasp of his borrowed watch. Continuing down the line of Arthur's wrist, Eames lightly traced the slightly raised scar marring his palm. Arthur resisted a shiver at the action, the skin unusually hot and sensitive to the touch. Arthur enjoyed the feeling of Eames' calloused fingers, the caress a drastic antithesis from the panicked scrambling of Eames' weeks before.
And yet, wary of other bar goers and maybe a little distrustful of himself, Arthur tugged his hand back slowly, fist curling.
They stayed quiet even after Eames' drink arrived, lost in their own thoughts.
"It was not a slow morning, Sasha," Eames said finally, his face pinching in the way Arthur knew meant he was unhappy. "Our associate… ah, Helga, has decided to leave us."
"What?" Arthur hissed, dropping his forged accent in agitation. "Gone to where? By force?" Arthur's mind was already racing ahead, to thoughts of Eddie and ways of kidnapping and discarded evidence. And then the ideas rapidly cut off, slammed shut at one thought - "Was there confirmation of… a struggle?"
Eames exhaled slowly at Arthur's query, his fingers swirling patterns on the surface of Arthur's drink. "No," he said, sitting back into the booth. Eames threw a poker chip onto the table dismissively, and it spun in a stormy black circle.
Arthur's experienced eye caught the way Eames' shirt tugged slightly at the motion, indicative of his firearm being close at hand. More trouble, then.
"She seems to have… left of her own volition," Eames drawled finally, his offhand delivery belying the anger in his voice. His hand slapped the poker chip roughly to a stop, a vein in his hand pulsing at the movement.
Arthur traced the prominence of the blood vessel with his eyes, his point man instincts rising within him. "There's much more developing here than we thought."
"Yes," Eames said softly, his eyelashes brushing his cheeks as he briefly closed his eyes. "And I have no fucking idea where it's all leading to."
"We need to…" Arthur trailed off, his dark gaze sweeping over the dingy pub once more. " … find a better place to talk, pool information," he finished lamely. Eames' tawny green eyes studied Arthur a moment, lingering on the thick rims of the glasses shielding his face. Then, without preamble, Eames stood up from his seat, their drinks jostling a little at the errant vibrations.
"Let's go then."
Arthur barely remembered to throw down payment onto the table before he was swept up into Eames' wake, out the door, and onto the London streets.
Arthur wasn't quite sure how he found himself in front of a nondescript hotel an hour later, but there he was. The brick and mortar of the establishment rubbed against his healing back as he leaned next to Eames, grudgingly pretending to bum a cigarette.
"I quit years ago," Arthur reminded Eames, warding off the smoldering object.
"I don't smoke either," Eames said defensively, twirling the burning tobacco expertly within his fingertips. His features were a haze to Arthur behind the thin trail of serpentine smoke. "We just need a cover while we decide how to play this." Eames trailed a hand through his gelled hair, smiling devilishly at an exiting guest. "Do you want to manipulate them to give us rooms next to each other?"
Arthur picked at the suspenders on his shoulders, his lips pursing. " I can dodge the cameras easily, I'm familiar with the layout of this chain of hotels. But, the problem is…"
"The problem is…?" Eames prompted, rolling his head to loosen his neck muscles. His tan collar brushed against day-old stubble, highlighting the man's beard. Arthur blinked away from the sight, wetting his lips.
"A lot of people are interested in me lately, Eames. It's too risky. I shouldn't have come to London. I shouldn't have stayed - "
" - but you did," Eames cut off severely, stopping the torrent of Arthur's words. "So, darling, what's the root of your rambling?" Eames sucked at the inside of his cheek, his foot balancing against the wall behind them. One of his arms crossed over his chest, perfectly innocent. But Arthur knew the position was a perfect one to reach for his Heckler & Koch, undoubtedly hidden on his left side. A deceptively cautious man, Arthur thought. So why is he pushing me to stay when he knows it's not a smart idea?
"I can't use any identification," Arthur said finally, readjusting his own jacket. The material suddenly felt thick, oppressive. The whole city did, really.
Eames seemed surprised at Arthur's admission, dropping the smoldering cigarette to extinguish it under the heel of his shoe. Reaching down to flick the remains into a nearby trashcan, Eames turned closer to Arthur. "Easy," he said. "I get a room, you follow."
"And look like a cheap prostitute?" The words were out of Arthur's mouth before he could regulate them, bringing a hot blush to suffuse his cheeks.
"No." Eames smirked, his lips curving into a grin. He reached out to snap one of Arthur's suspenders, eyes glittering. "A damn good one."
Arthur evaded security easily as he slipped inside the building, his stride determined as he went to the receptionist's desk. Why couldn't I just hack into the system?
Because you know we don't have that type of time or luxury, darling. Eames' voice slithered through Arthur's consciousness, admonishing and amused. Just talk to her. That's something you do every day, isn't it? Just talk, Arthur.
Arthur fixed his face into a caricature of a friendly smile as the receptionist looked up, her face coolly polite as she greeted him.
"I hope you can help me," Arthur rushed out, exaggerating his American accent. "This - oh my - this is so embarrassing - "
"What is it, sir?" The receptionist's composure didn't change in the slightest, her fingers still working over the keys even as she made eye contact.
"My boyfriend - " Arthur gave an exaggerated laugh, his healing ribs protesting at the sudden flex of muscles. "Wow, my boyfriend is soo ridiculous sometimes. I was supposed to book this special room and everything for our first trip to Britain, you know, London and all that, 'Oh, God save the Queen' and - "
"Just let me know where you would like to stay and I'll see if it's available."
"Well, I was talking with that, that, uh, you guys say 'bloke ' right, ha, you know, the one that just walked in, and he literally told me the exact room my boyfriend said he wanted. Oh my gosh, so awkward." Arthur was glad to pause and take a breath, internally rolling his eyes. "Anyways, I was wondering, Miss - "
" - if I could find a room near there." The receptionist finished his long-winded tale with a few clicks of her fingers, the keys loud in the empty lobby. Arthur supposed at this time everyone was out enjoying dinner, not lying to hotel employees. "Well, Room 491 is booked. I can see why your boyfriend wanted it, that's one of the cosier accommodations, farther away from the noise of the elevator… however, hmm, would you mind descending down a floor, to the third level?"
"No, that's swell!" Arthur flashed a cheery grin, cocking his thumb behind him. "But I really need to use, ah, 'the loo' as you Britain people say!" Arthur jerked his head to the side. "I'm gonna go and use the side door to talk to my boyfriend after. He'll be tickled to know we can get the same price, although I think I'll be in the doghouse for not reserving a spot in the first place!" Arthur's face hurt from smiling so much. He bounced away from the desk, intentionally tripping over a bit of rug so his features were shielded from a camera.
Arthur only allowed himself to relax until after he was well past the receptionist's point of view. Shutting the door to the stairs behind him gingerly, Arthur massaged his jaw, rushing up to the fourth floor.
"Room service." Arthur's voice reverberated in a deadpan through Room 491's door. He kept a hand close to his Glock.
The door opened slowly, tendrils of steam wafting out like grabbing hands. Arthur frowned as the warm air hit his face. Eames appearing in the opening, his hair damp. Arthur looked down, and realized the man was clad in only a hotel robe.
"Glad you're here. I'm ready for a treat." Eames winked exaggeratedly, blocking Arthur's path.
"Shut up, Eames." Arthur pushed the man aside and walked into the room, his jacket suddenly too warm. Arthur shrugged off the article of clothing, throwing the heavy material onto the bed. He turned back to Eames. "Why did you take a shower?"
Eames stood by the closed door, his hands in the shallow pockets of the cheap white robe. His skin looked unusually tan in contrast to the fabric, tattoos peeking out from under the sleeves. Eames swallowed under Arthur's scrutiny, beads of water dripping off from his hair to pool on his shoulders. Arthur watched Eames lift a hand as though to pat his damp hair, but then, slowly pull it down again to rest at his side. Arthur observed the fidgeting with a slight frown on his face. Eames the forger never made extraneous movements, especially ones that could be classified as 'twitchy'.
Eames saw Arthur staring and immediately adopted his usual swagger once more. "Sorry, Arthur, does it make you uncomfortable?" Eames smiled in that irritatingly appealing way of his, stalking closer to Arthur in the tight confines of the room. "Unlike some of us, I haven't had the convenience of home amenities, lately. I was going to bloody murder one of those bobbies soon if I didn't get a proper shower."
Arthur thought about retorting that today had been the first time he'd taken a real shower in ages, but quickly dismissed the idea. It was no use trading words with Eames. Arthur knew from experience the forger would just thrive on the attention, propagate it.
Arthur folded himself into the lone chair in the corner, drumming his fingers onto the plush armrest. "Yes, well, those of us in the outskirts of London actually acquired some information, believe it or not."
"I'm all ears, Arthur." Eames fell onto the sole bed in a rush, his robe gaping out onto the crisp white duvet. Arthur pointedly averted his eyes to stare at some abstract painting on the wall. He reached up, easing off one of his thin suspenders. Eames followed the motion, adjusting the terrycloth of his garment.
Arthur reached up to adjust his tie, but his hand fell flat as it ghosted on air. He stretched his palms on the seat below him, wrists popping.
Arthur was not often alone with Eames, and there was a reason for that. They were opposites, antipodes, contradicting converses of each other. Everyone in the business knew this. When there was no need for them to mingle, naturally they did not. Oil on water. Or propellent on fire. Take your pick. Nothing good came from their meetings. Or at least, that's what Arthur always told himself.
And now, there was that feeling clouding the room again, making them both on edge. Spasmodic. Prone to bad ideas.
Arthur cleared his throat. "Did you know our friend Colin Jansen enlisted in the service?"
Eames made a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat, running his fingers over the expanse of sheets in front of him. He was propped up on his side, facing Arthur. Arthur hoped the robe was covering everything it needed to, but by the few subtle glances Arthur allowed himself, Arthur knew it was not.
"Really, Arthur?" Eames played with a loose strand in the bedspread, his fingers twirling. "Is that how he evaded you? With refined British tactics and learned American persistence?" Arthur smiled involuntarily at the sarcasm in Eames' voice, stretching so his shirt was not quite so tightly tucked into his skinny jeans.
"Barely made it through boot camp," Arthur said, his forearms resting on his knees. "Was dishonorably discharged due to sexual assault and espionage."
"Sounds like an upstanding bloke," Eames said, nodding in mock agreement. "Find anything else?"
"Oh, you mean besides the fact that Eva Jansen's miracle stock is a sleep aid?"
"No - you're taking the piss." Arthur granted himself a hint of self-praise at Eames' incredulous expression. He launched into an explanation of his findings on both the Jansens and the Pergamonium.
Even with the curtains closed, Arthur could feel the night growing older. As Arthur fielded off Eames' teasing and answered his sparse questions, he let his mind wander to the fact that he wasn't making it out of London tonight. Where will I go?
" - and of course, now that our lovely friend Andrea has taken her leave, we know Jansen had an in the whole time David and I were working alongside her. I can't believe I didn't see through her. I should've worked faster to vet them both. Shite!" Eames hit the mattress with his fist in a muted thump, the top of his robe sliding open even wider. Arthur look at Eames' bared chest, the dark hairs peppering his breastbone.
"You're correct." Arthur said distractedly.
"Yes, I know darling, I'm - wait." Eames shifted up into a sitting position, the sides of his clothing gaping even further. "Did Arthur - point man extraordinaire and 'a little more specificity, Eames' just tell me I'm bloody well correct?"
"We need to put the pieces together, make a plan," Arthur got up from the chair, back cracking, feet pacing. He paused in front of the TV by the foot of the bed, a thought hitting him. "It needs to be soon, the hit on them. This news, the media, it's not going to blow over, Eames. The search for me, or someone like me, is just building and building and the public is just going to be in a frenzy, hell - "
Arthur's mind flashed to earlier, where he had been walking the streets, covering his tracks. "I'm just so worried about what I'll do after the upcoming holiday, Grace. I'm telling you, Gary and I had a row last night about sending the children back to school - I can't stand the idea of them traveling so far, alone, with this maniac on the loose. No one knows his motivations yet, what if he's some sort of kidnapper?" Arthur's feet slowed as he trailed behind the two woman in matching peacoats, a bag from the local florist swinging between them. The taller of the two had a loud, piercing voice, and her worries carried far beyond Arthur's range of hearing. "Don't worry about that," a nearby vendor called, his hand already outstretched with the current newspaper. "You should care about your husband. This guy seems to have it in for the office-type folk. Just look how he killed these three at CurrencyCorp!" Arthur glanced at the paper as he went by, the insides of an exploded corridor flooding his view. The picture was in full color, detailing just how the three 'employees' were blown up. "The price has dropped!" The shopkeeper called towards Arthur, his sweat-stained shirt overshadowed by a leather cap.
Arthur had been shaken at the news. It was a grim revelation. Somehow Jansen had successfully made it appear as though the men killed had been regular CurrencyCorp workers, not trained mercenaries. It was only a matter of time before the possibility of a lone wolf terrorist echoed throughout the news outlets, bouncing overseas. Arthur wouldn't just have a problem dodging the law in the U.K. He would have to worry about the entire world.
"Arthur? Arthur, are you alright?" Eames had materialized in front of the TV next to Arthur, his eyes worriedly scanning Arthur's face. There was a pressure on Arthur's wrist, and he realized belatedly that it was Eames' grip, just above where Arthur's burn was wrapped. Arthur gaped at the gesture, his mind a jumble.
Stiffly, Arthur looked up to meet Eames' stare. Eames' posture relaxed a little at the eye contact. He took on a more laid back stance, his hand releasing Arthur without another word. "Has my mum been leeching brain cells from you with her daily telly programs?"
Arthur let out an aborted laugh. It choked on its way out of his throat, clenched and painful. "No. I've been… I've had some vivid dreams lately. I was remembering one of them," Arthur lied, aware of the stress Eames was already under by trying to manage the London situation. It would do no good to vocalize the threat of international attention.
"Dreams?" Eames' hand thrust out again as though to clasp Arthur's arm, but he stopped himself, drawing the limb back. "I thought you had learned from Cobb's mistakes," Eames said rather coldly, folding his arms. "It does no good to fuck with that PASIV regularly, outside of work. You know the consequences just as well as I do, Arthur."
It had been a while since Arthur had seen Eames look this stern. "No," Arthur said hastily, unceremoniously plopping himself down onto the foot of the bed. His thoughts flashed back to days ago, to his rather vivid memory of their introduction. "I meant naturally." Arthur ran a hand through his ungelled hair. "I just fall asleep, and… I dream."
"But Arthur," Eames sat down softly next to Arthur, as though not to startle the point man. "You know after the military's projects… that just doesn't happen to us any more. You can't dream like anyone else. We can't."
"But I am." Arthur turned towards Eames, his brown eyes searching into Eames' viridescent ones. "I've researched chemical formulas and manipulations, Mr. Eames. I looked into Somnacin and side effects of chemist's concoctions, hell, I even thought about calling Yusuf. I think the inception changed me, Eames, and not for the better."
The fan whirred above the two men as they sat on the edge of the hotel room bed. The last of the natural light had disappeared off the horizon, making way for the illumination of the city's own luminescence through the thin curtains. Arthur's body felt hot in his tight clothing, compressed. He hadn't felt this jittery since his last deployment.
Eames was the first to move, leaving his position next to Arthur to go into the bathroom.
He came out a few minutes later; sans robe, but plus boxer briefs. His chest was still tantalizingly bare, save for tattoos and various silvery-white scars.
The sight of him snapped Arthur right out of his fugue. He moved off the bed, towards his own abandoned clothing. Arthur reached out towards his jacket, but was stopped as Eames snatched the fabric away, throwing it into a different corner. "What are you doing, Eames?" Arthur was not amused.
"I'm - " Here the man paused, throwing back the top of the bed's covers. " - going to get some actual shut eye. And I suggest you get some too, Arthur, dreams or no soddin' dreams. There's nothing like a possible murder conviction in my future to persuade me to get a good night's rest, darling."
Arthur just peered at Eames for a moment. The man was serious, slipping under the right side of the bed's covers without hesitation.
Arthur looked towards the door, and then to his jacket - to his Glock, his other weapons, his totem - right under Eames' dangling hand.
"Don't even think about it, Arthur." Eames mumbled up from the hotel's feather pillows, his voice muffled as he rolled onto his stomach. "I'vf had enufh chasin' afteruh peopuhl to lasht me uh lifshtime."
Arthur looked around once more, his gaze straying to Eames' bare back. The man's muscles were relaxed, melting into the mattress underneath him, but Arthur wasn't fooled. If he went for that bomber jacket, he would be in for a scuffle.
Eames suddenly jerked his chin up from the pillows, rolling to fix Arthur with a sleepy-eyed glare. "Just take off your damn trousers and get into bed, Arthur. If I have to leave this spot to persuade your chivalrous arse to join me, I am not going to be a hospitable bedmate."
Arthur took in Eames a moment longer, assessing the probability of his claim. Shrugging, he unbuttoned his pants, beginning with the fastenings of the collar at his neck. "I hog the blankets," Arthur told Eames. "I get cold."