The motel room smells of spices, and the air is so hot as to be uncomfortable, but you're used to it. It's home, and you've chosen it for yourself, and it suits you. The sheets on the bed are scratchy and cheap against your palms and knees, and you hear barefoot children running outside. You're being waited on, but the man on the bed beneath you was still there when you returned from the meeting with Cobb, and you're impulsive enough to give into it, to let Cobb wait. And Cobb will, you know, wait. It's rather brilliant to know your own value, and you do. There isn't even a hint of insecurity in you as you thrust into the man beneath you, but you aren't really thinking about him at all.
The job is a bad one. You feel that in your bones, and your instincts never fail you. It's bad news, and Cobb's become bad news, and you're not the sort to risk your own ass for anyone. But you agreed, and you don't really want to think terribly hard about why you agreed. You could pretend it's the money, and you could pretend it's the thrill of it, of inception, but it would be a lie, and you don't lie to yourself. No, you prefer just to do, and not to think. Thinking never does you a bit of good, and it never has.
You know, as you come, as you groan, as you pull out of the man and pad heavily to the bathroom where the water runs rust-red in the sink as you wash up, you know how Cobb found you. Cobb doesn't keep track of you himself. Cobb's too selfish for that. He thinks whoever he needs will be there whenever he needs them. No, you know how Cobb found you, because you're watchful, and you know when your location has been made.
You just didn't do anything to put him off your scent. He'll only find you again, because he always does, regardless of where you hole up. You wonder, idly, as you dress, if he's ever considered coming for you himself, the impossible bastard. But it's just that, idle thought, nothing terribly taxing.
You barely hear the dark-haired man as he comes up behind you and kisses your shoulder. "Hmmm?" you ask noncommittally, trailing your fingers through his dark curls as he chatters. You won't see him again, and he hardly matters, but you're always kind until they're out the door. Still, your mind is already miles away, and the grin on your lips has nothing to do with the other man in the bathroom with you. No, you're wondering if your first mocking jab should involve the fact that he apparently has you tracked wherever you go. You wonder if he does that with everyone; he is rather capable, after all. You hope he doesn't, you decide, and you don't think about that either. But you know you'll keep that particularly mocking comment to yourself.
France, lovely this time of year, and no other reason to go there. None whatsoever. You dress, and you intentionally pick the gaudiest shirt you own, and you're whistling as you head to the meeting place, en route to certain doom with a smile on your lips. It's rather not like you at all, but you don't think on that either.