Joseph knows life is (ex_forgeries811) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-12-12 01:31:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | arthur, door: inception, eames |
Who: Arthur and Eames
What: Lunch and making up
Where: NY, Inception door
When: Recently
Warnings/Rating: None
Arthur had found the team a set of adjoining rooms in a four-star hotel in upstate New York. It was a short walk to a the hospital, one of those private affairs where the extremely wealthy could imagine their suffering to be somehow less by looking out onto a snowy landscape straight out of White Christmas. The hotel had aspirations to be a ski resort with high tapered ceilings, A-frame construction, and solid wood beams, but the snow outside was icy and slick, battering on the high rectangular windows like tiny crystalline knives. Gray light filtered down on the long oak desk where receptionists clattered on their keyboards, and a small sitting area to one side looked in on the short hall to the restaurant, which contributed the clatter of silverware on plates to the tinkling of Christmas carols piped through tiny speakers mounted on the walls. A Christmas tree glimmered in the main lobby and from his seat a little way from the doors, it looked too pretty to be real, and if Arthur had been dreaming he would have called it shoddy construction. After some study he decided it was fake, the branches too regular as they moved down the straight pole set in the comical red tin can, the green not true enough to hide a proper pine’s random bunches of rustic needles.
Arthur had his red die in his hand, working it compulsively through his straight pianist’s fingers while he watched the lights on the fake tree twinkle as he tried to decide if it was quaint or just tacky. On his knee, laid flat by his other hand, his black-bound notebook was balancing precariously, the cream pages spread open under small notes and careful sketchwork that laid out family trees, emotions and connections between all the people involved in Amanda Kearns’ life. The work was interesting but it depressed him the longer it went on. One teenage girl seemed small in the larger world, but he felt sorry for her, and he kept having to push the feeling away. He would have liked to blame Cory for the inexplicable soft-heartedness, but Arthur’s counterpart was paying almost no attention to what Arthur was doing these days, putting distance between them wherever he could. It made Arthur suspect secrets, but he didn’t complain.
As he waited Arthur did his best not to worry about Eames. He didn’t have a clue what they were going to do for lunch, or exactly what lunch meant, or what he was supposed to say when they did go to lunch. He hadn’t known what to wear, and he was sitting in a Varvatos knee-length black coat with several layers of sage and wicker-green suit underneath it, but he kept musing that he probably looked like an undertaker and he should eat more protein. The confusion was only worsened because Arthur was unable to forget how angry he had been the last time he’d seen the man, and he still didn’t really have a logical explanation why. He rolled the die’s six edges against his palm, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he watched the lights fade and dim into low blurs at the edge of his vision.
Eames had arrived the night previous, but he hadn't gone looking for anyone associated with Amanda Kearns yet. He'd spent the night enjoying a lovely meal (charged to Arthur), and drinking topline alcohol in tiny bottles (from the room icebox), and sleeping in a much better bed than he normally had access to. In the morning, he took a very long and entirely non-masculine soak in the oversized tub, the water jets massaging old aches out of his shoulders. And then he ordered room service, which he ate while wearing a fluffy white courtesy robe and watching the widescreen telly.
In the end, Eames didn't even get dressed until noon. He shaved, the perpetual five o'clock shadow that lined his jaw disappearing to leave him looking quite a bit younger than he normally did. It was entirely intentional, all that facial hair. It didn't do to look too young in their business. The tattoos served a similar purpose, while also serving as reminders. But with the tattoos covered in a snowy grey button-down, and with the hair missing from his jaw, he looked no older than his nearly thirty years. Black trousers and suit coat in a slate grey finished him off, and he brushed his fine hair back with little concern to his appearance. For all that he was a confidently smug bastard, Eames didn't pay much attention to how he actually looked - with the exception of when he was intentionally tormenting Arthur with shirts in salmon and shoes in brick.
Eames grabbed a trenchcoat, gloves and scarf tucked into a pocket, and he left the room and made his way to the lobby. He wasn't nervous, because he seldom was. Things with Arthur would either go terribly, or they would go well. Given past experiences, the former was most likely. But he'd managed to almost do as intended this time. He allowed Arthur to diffuse and contact him, and he was willing to see if it changed anything. He was, as it were, cautiously optimistic.
When the elevator doors opened, Eames noticed the tree before he noticed the man watching it, and he looked around before looking down and noticing Arthur there. "Darling," he said, hands loosely in his pockets and the trenchcoat draped over his sleeve. He smelled of vanilla (from the bath gel) and the Cuban cigar he'd smoked after breakfast, and he grinned a smirk that creased deep into one cheek. "Shall we?"
Arthur twitched violently in his chair and his dark eyes came into quick focus. The twisting, glittering light did odd things to the pallor of his youthful face and the flattened shine of his hair, and his brow’s shadow took the stars out of his eyes as he glanced at the man in the suit nearby--and then did a sharp double-take. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen Eames dressed to the nines before, it was just that it wasn’t really all that common of a sight, and Arthur had to control a rapid flutter of lashes and a no doubt entirely vapid expression. His fingers closed possessively about the die and he stood up in one long movement, closing the notebook with a snap. He stood there for a second, enduring a somewhat beguiling hint of vanilla and tobacco that made him want to bite something.
“Where are we going?” Arthur was the type of man that liked to know where he was going before he went there, and he had been trying to shut surprises out of his life ever since he left home and nobody was around to force him into surprise birthday parties. He looked around, somewhat lost, and snatched up his scarf, which had been crumpled under his seat for the last three-quarters of an hour. He shook out the long length of cashmere cream and made the notebook disappear into his front pocket. The die had also vanished.
Arthur’s cellphone vibrated in his pocket, buzzing enthusiastically, and he took it out of his pocket to glance at the screen and then shoved it away again.
Eames, in his defense, didn't even chuckle. He wanted to, but he didn't. "To lunch, Arthur," Eames replied helpfully, even as he slid his arms into his coat and slipped the gloves onto his hands. The scarf was wound loosely around his throat after that, and he walked ahead and pushed the door open for the smaller man. He knew Arthur wanted the name of the restaurant, just as he knew that Arthur wanted to logically plan for every eventuality between that very moment and the moment when they sat down to eat. Eames, you see, was not so inclined to help on this count. He merely waited for Arthur to finish futzing with the phone and the coat, and then he followed the other man out into the bitter cold.
Eames was not particularly fond of cold. Perhaps life in the desert had made his skin thin, but his cheeks ached almost immediately, and it brought to mind the last botched job they did with Cobb. Oh, they'd succeeded with Fischer, but it had been a rubbish job, no matter how Arthur tried to defend Cobb. "Who was on the phone, darling?" he finally asked, scarf pulled up and making his words thick and seemingly slower. He pointed down the street, avoiding cabs and the direction for the subway. It seemed they were walking to lunch.
Arthur arranged the scarf around his neck, probably taking more time than was necessary with it because he wanted it to lie just so and it wasn’t cooperating. Arthur wasn’t vain, he just wanted his armor on, it made him feel more in control of his effect on people. In some ways he was right, but logistically he should have been well aware that Eames already knew what he looked like, and a scarf wasn’t going to make a damn bit of difference. He arranged it carefully anyway, glancing sideways at Eames wrapped up to his ears. The sight made some of Arthur’s nerves ease and he smiled a little at the other man.
Cory murmured something, like a boy talking in his sleep, but when Arthur waited, it never turned into actual words. Frowning slightly now, Arthur turned his attention externally again. “My mother’s daughter has been calling since Thanksgiving. Wants to connect. I don’t know why,” Arthur said coolly, after a short period in which he remembered that Eames could know such things without becoming a threat somehow. Arthur fell easily into step next to Eames, brushing elbows and intentionally preventing himself from scanning the street.
"Your mother's daughter would be your sister, Arthur," Eames explained, as if he was pointing out something entirely new that Arthur wouldn't know. He, Eames, had no family, but it didn't surprise him to learn that Arthur had people he was in contact with out there in the larger, non-criminal world. Arthur was like Cobb that way; they both had the look of living, of extended lives, in a way that Eames himself did not.
The streets of New York were crowded, the sidewalks packed with shoppers and people hurrying toward subway stations and buses, but Eames' pace was slow and unrushed, despite the cold. "Perhaps she wishes to invite you home for hols, darling," he said, and it was a better image than that of Arthur, alone, in his Parisian flat for Christmas. Eames hadn't done Christmas in so many years that he hardly remembered the traditions, but he imagined Arthur to be the sort that liked traditions, especially if they logically repeated themselves like predictable clockwork.
“Half-sister,” Arthur corrected. He spoke through a frown, but under the annoyance it was obvious he was bothered by this strange resurgence in family ties. Despite how it might look to Eames, Arthur hadn’t felt connected to a normal life since he started drawing a government salary, and Cobb had always had a life that Arthur felt was worth defending. Marriage, home, kids. Arthur had never imagined himself with any of those things.
Arthur automatically twisted to avoid someone rushing past in the crowd, but it was not a dream, and they had already corrected their path to move around him, making the anticipation unnecessary. Arthur glanced over his shoulder, wondering at his own reactions. “She’s not a home. I barely even know the woman,” Arthur said. It sounded like a complaint. Arthur always spent Christmas alone, and not even Félix had managed to pry him out of that habit. He made eggnog and turned on space heaters to watch subtitled Christmas movies.
"Still a sibling, Arthur," Eames logicked, and he quirked a questioning brow at the man at his side, one that had nothing to do with the dreamer reaction to oncoming foot traffic. "Problems with the family, darling?" he asked casually, but of course it wasn't casual at all, and it didn't even come across casually. Eames had no true experience in staying anywhere, or in staying with anyone, and families (while entirely tied by emotions) weren't quite as comfortable a thing in practice as they were during dream jobs. "Though," he added, grin and smirk, "I doubt she'd like to be compared to a house." It was a romantic nothing, he thought, that someone could be a home, even if he mocked Arthur's usage. It was something he wouldn't have expected from the other man, and he hummed thoughtfully as he came to a dead stop in the center of the sidewalk.
Katz's, he'd been told, was the best deli in the area. Eames stifled a smirk at the thought of Arthur in a deli and, admittedly, the novelty of it had guided his decision. He pulled open the door instead, and he motioned Arthur in.
Arthur wasn’t expecting the stop, but he was used to working on a team and used to working with Eames. He stopped when the other man stopped, as smooth as a piston and cylinder, and he rotated to face the strange corner cafe. Eames was entirely right; it was not Arthur’s kind of place. He regarded it for a moment and then moved in, not condescending, merely curious and wary. To be honest he was paying more attention to Eames than he was the deli, the people or the street. He could afford to do that. It wasn’t a dream.
“I don’t have family. We don’t speak. I don’t even know where they live,” Arthur said. He was aware that most people wouldn’t understand the concept, but he didn’t think Eames would give him the same half-disbelieving, half-angry response most people did. The majority of people seemed to think Arthur, or Arthur’s family, were doing something wrong, as if there was something wholly unnatural about not camping on each others’ lawns three times a year. Arthur was uncomfortable with the whole idea of having a family, and it entirely escaped his notice that it wasn’t houses that made a home to him. He gave Eames a confused look when the other man mentioned it. “What?” he asked, blankly.
The deli was crowded, filled to overflowing, and the line to be seated snaked to the door and back around again. Eames reached for Arthur's hand, ignoring (for the moment) all that insistence about not having family, and pulling the other man up to the hostess stand. He'd only known the man standing there since the day before, but Eames could be exceptionally friendly when there was something to be gained from it, and he'd clearly done so with this man. A hostess ushered them right in, telling Eames they'd been expecting him, and then giving Arthur a curiously appraising look, direct in the way of New Yorkers.
Once they were seated at a table with check linens and wobbly chairs, Eames pulled his coat off. His scarf and gloves followed and, after draping everything on one of the empty chairs, he regarded the man across from him. "If they're living, then they're family, Arthur." Even if they weren't living, really, but no need to go into that. "You said she wasn't a home. What is?" he asked, without thinking too deeply about forcing Arthur to discuss emotions. It was good for the other man, Eames thought. If anyone needed a sloppy family about it was Arthur. "You should see them this year," he suggested, envisioning tiny children clinging to Arthur's impeccable trousers with sticky fingers. He chuckled, and he opened the menu.
Arthur had never had anyone wearing gloves reach for his hand, and it was a truly bizarre experience. Connected without heat or flesh, and more than that in a crowd of people who were all exceptionally real and strongly scented by pastrami. Completely out of his element, Arthur gave the appraising man behind the host stand a look of utter bewilderment before he was towed away through the square tables and close warm confines of sticky floors and glass salt shakers. He sat because it was the only thing he could think of to do once he had his hand back, and he automatically tugged on his scarf. (He forgot he’d been trying to arrange it.)
“Nothing,” Arthur replied automatically, trying to defuse the conversation without really understanding why. “I mean, no, that’s not what I mean. I mean she isn’t anything to go back to. I don’t know her. I have a flat in Paris, and some other places, and that’s where I live,” he insisted. He couldn’t imagine what was funny about it and he gave Eames and his chuckle a narrow, almost accusatory look. “What?”
"Does she have children, Arthur?" Eames asked, because he couldn't help himself. That smiled stayed precisely where it was. If anything, it grew and widened, and perhaps his expectations for the meal had just improved. Getting Arthur cranky (in that safe, harmless way) always made Eames feel better about the state of the universe. He chuckled again, and he looked down at the menu and considered the exorbitantly priced three meat platter, which seemed so excessive that he might need to try it.
Arthur flipped the menu over and stared at the oversize font, trying to find something that wasn’t a heart attack on a platter--without much hope of success. His long fingers pressed a spider into the top of the table, betraying his irritation and no doubt egging Eames on. “I don’t know. Probably, as she’s married. The phone number is registered. She must have got the number from my mother. I never expected the woman to use it unless someone was dying,” he added, disgruntled. He poked at the edge of the menu and then gave up on it, rocking back in his chair and folding his fingers over his stomach nervously.
Eames thought this the best topic of conversation that he'd merely stumbled on (without instigating) in years. Food choice made, he set the menu aside and stretched his long legs under the table, crowding Arthur's own legs intentionally. His mood was brilliantly positive, and he spread his thighs as he got comfortable, taking up even more room beneath the table. "I was envisioning small, sticky fingered lads clinging to your trousers," he admitted, his smug smile carving a dimple in his cheek. "Perhaps your mother wishes to see you, Arthur," he added a moment later, rather more seriously. And then he cocked his head in contemplation. "What were you like as a child?"
Arthur’s expression soured slightly. He didn’t think he was particularly likeable as a child, and he didn’t especially like his younger self, being the kind of person that didn’t wallow in self-pity. “Quiet. My parents worked a lot. I did things on my own. Independent, I guess. Uh...” he searched for a word, his eyes sliding easily around the room and taking in nothing but the flutter of patterned tablecloths and the aged glow of yellow bulbs. “...Aggressive. I wanted people to leave me alone.” Arthur automatically tried to move out of the way of one of Eames’ legs, but he hit the other one, and then ran out of room to retreat. His sour expression blossomed into healthy annoyance and a barely perceptible gleam of genuine affection. He crossed his ankles and relaxed to one side on the inside of Eames’ left knee. “My mother remarried and then I really wanted them to leave me alone, and I guess they did. Then I went to school,” he finished, sealing off about eighteen years in five words.
Eames had the type of childhood that made decent members of society wonder about childcare laws in England. There was seldom enough food, never enough money, and he'd no father to speak of. His mother made basic wages working too many shit jobs, and she had a string of boyfriends and little time for the pleasantries of parenting. There was no abuse, no terrible occurrences that left tiny Eames scarred for life. But there was a perpetual want, a perpetual neglect and, with time, perpetual thefts and bad friends. None of it was terribly surprising or shocking, and Eames found himself believing that (somehow) it sounded quite a bit better than Arthur's childhood. He could imagine Arthur as an angry child with little trouble, and it said quite a lot about the reason Arthur had grown into man he was. Eames had always thought Arthur unpleasant, he just liked to push buttons to get beneath the unpleasantness.
When Arthur reallocated his feet, Eames let it be until the waitress returned to take their order, and then he repositioned and crowded Arthur again with his legs, all while he was giving the waitress his own terribly unhealthy order.
It was very fortunate that Arthur (who was not, after all, so far from that lonely, angry little boy) could not hear Eames’ thoughts. He was easily affected by Eames’ opinions of his dream constructs and similar things that Arthur felt defined him (another example being his choice of clothing and decor) and he would not have liked to hear that he was thought unpleasant. He couldn’t hear these things, however, and he was distracted from Eames’ speculating look by the arrival of the waitress.
To his credit, Arthur was only briefly thrown by the wrestle of limbs under the table, and he dropped a half-word while he ordered the special dry with the mustard on the side. He took himself off the back of his chair, set his elbows on the edge of the table, and dragged his right ankle sharply back toward him, knocking Eames’ leg to the side. He did it while smiling somewhat seraphically to the waitress, who was no doubt beginning to show signs of alarm.
Eames didn't even bother pretending that Arthur hadn't just accosted him with a leg. He laughed a belly laugh, one which melted into a chuckle that came complete with a dimpled, smug grin. "He just kicked me, I'll have you know," he told the waitress, unconcerned with what the woman would think. He winked at her, which was just as shocking, and then he turned his attention entirely back to Arthur, perfectly willing to let him attempt to smooth matters over, all while Eames enjoyed the luncheon performance.
Arthur’s seraphic smile changed into something considerably closer to earth, but he didn’t immediately laugh. He brought one of his arms off the fold of his elbows, set a fist under one cheek, and simply sat there. Blatantly refusing to ease the awkward situation, he gave the waitress a bland look that cooled distinctly when Eames winked at her. Arthur frowned, as if just realizing she was still standing there, and nudged his menu in her direction in an obvious hint that she go away. “He deserved it,” Arthur said, the abruptly wicked smile returning without warning. He turned his head and glared at Eames without the slightest bit of intensity. “Stop flirting with the waitress while I’m sitting here,” he said, not at all sorry about whatever discomfort he might inflict on whoever was unfortunate enough to be around them.
"But you turn the most delightful shade of salmon when you're put out, Arthur," Eames told the other man, and he made quite the show of watching the waitress go on her way, before turning his attention entirely back to Arthur. He grinned, and then he leaned his elbows on the table and turned the full force of that olive gaze on the man across from him. He didn't bother lowering his voice, and he didn't care if they'd developed an audience with their previous shenanigans. "Still put out with me, darling?" he asked, all earnestness. He'd no idea how to make Arthur believe anything he said, and he'd no intention of defending things, so it seemed the best way to proceed, to simply ask. And it had nothing to do with the upcoming job, or with the possibility that they'd end up in limbo until they lost their bloody minds. It was simply time to ask, and Eames didn't question his gut; he'd have died countless times in his life if he did.
Arthur managed not to blush again, but as he was one of those incredibly fortunate people that didn’t turn exotic colors the longer they were embarrassed, the vague heat dissipated quickly and he looked the same as he ever did, sparsely calm in a soft face. He knew better than to be annoyed at the look Eames directed at the waitress, and he was more disconcerted by the question. “I don’t think so. It wears off, being angry with you.” He didn’t smile; he was dead serious. Arthur took his hands off the table and made sure they were empty, something he did when he felt vulnerable. “Are you... put out with me?” Arthur thought of Eames as both deep and mercurial; he imagined the man could be enraged and happy at the same time.
Eames didn't consider his response before speaking, because thought would only bollocks up the truth of it; he wasn't terribly fond of thinking. "I'm concerned you won't let it go, Arthur. That you'll constantly be looking for me to trip. Self-fulfilling prophecies always come true, darling, and I'm not sure you have it in you to trust me, no matter what I say or do." He paused long enough for the waitress to return and put their drinks on the table. "I'm not put out with you," he conceded, finally.
For some reason, Arthur didn’t look relieved. The waitress obviously didn’t exist for him, as he didn’t look up at her nor notice when she was gone. Glumly, Arthur set his sights low and let his eyes unfocus. “You’re the only thing about me that doesn’t make sense,” Arthur muttered, as if to himself, staring vaguely at the warm air in front of him. “I’m not always sure why I’m mad or why I’m happy. I was very careful for a long time and now it seems... like it only made it worse.” He didn’t expect Eames to understand why this was so unsettling to him.
Eames did understand that he was the strange, nonsensical thing in Arthur's life. He was the wrinkled shirt, the unhemmed trouser. It was the main reason he knew Arthur did, in fact, care for him, because Arthur couldn't stand mess, and Eames was rather the definition of messy. He smiled. "I know, darling," he said simply, because they were long past the point where demurring about such things was helpful. "Life isn't careful, Arthur. It's a bloody risk. Every single day is a bloody risk. I'm no different. You could find a man that was all straight lines, no deviations, no bloody messes along the way, and you'd be entirely bored with it. I can't promise not to hurt you, and I can't promise not to die in some entirely ill-planned job somewhere down the line, but I can promise to give you a grand time, darling." He paused, his fingers wiping condensation off the side of the glass idly. "I'll do you one better. If I intend to cheat, for any reason within my control, I'll pick up the phone and inform you beforehand. If your phone doesn't ring, darling, then don't fucking worry." He thought it was rather a helpful offering.
Arthur was astonished at this concession. He knew Eames hated accountability with an intensity most people reserved for the darkest vengeance and anaphylactic shock. He actually sat up in his chair and stopped muttering to himself long enough to focus entirely on Eames face,' where he discovered that, judging from the other man’s expression, he was completely serious. “Really?” he said, trying to hide an obvious eagerness. It was perfect for Arthur, exactly the kind of thing that made his watches tick and his schedules congeal. An assurance of advance information. Any such news would be horrifically unpleasant, of course, but Arthur always preferred to know when unpleasant things were coming. He grinned suddenly. “I can’t guarantee whomever you plan on cheating with will survive the experience, though.”
"I'll ensure we're somewhere you can't find before I ring, darling" Eames added helpfully, but that smirk was taking up residence around his mouth again. The waitress returned with the plates of food, and Eames chuckled at the amount of sheer cholesterol on his plate. However this job turned out, he'd had some of the best meals of his life during this trip to New York. He sliced off a bit of beef eagerly, actually sitting up and relenting from tormenting Arthur with his legs in favor of the meal. He was, in truth, quite pleased with Arthur's reaction, the little micromanaging shit.
“I can find you,” Arthur said, dismissively, obviously not at all aware of how that sounded. “I always can.” In truth, if Eames said he was with someone else in such a way as to warn Arthur off, it would probably stick faster than either of them would like. Arthur would probably pack up and make sure he was in a different hemisphere, because he had done enough traveling on his own to think that physical distance and a few time zones were the perfect solution to anything that hurt. The threat was a tease, and that was all it was. Arthur eyed his own sandwich, which was considerably lighter than the mess Eames was devouring. He nudged some of the pastrami off the mound so to better manage it, then replaced the slab of bread. He eyed it a moment more. France had spoiled him. “And,” Arthur added, picking it up, “you’re not going to die in any ill-planned jobs if you only work with me, because all my jobs are well-planned.” Just especially dangerous.
Eames knew Arthur well enough to know that the threat was a load of bollocks. "You can, but you wouldn't, darling, because you're a bloody fool. I'd find you, and I'd break whoever you were with in half," he said plainly, not even taking a break from his plate of meat to make the very true claim. Eames knew emotions, and he knew relationships, and he knew people fell off wagons and tripped over pretty people. It didn't always mean something, but Arthur didn't have the security to understand that. Eames would, in truth, go and drag Arthur out of bed by his hair, and beat the shit out of whoever was in the bed with him, and he'd do it without even a hint of guilt. Why? Because he knew Arthur loved him, and it was as simple as that. As for dying? "Arthur, our jobs are perfectly safe. It's only when the bastards we steal things from wake up that we have problems." Eames didn't, as a rule, fear limbo, because Eames didn't take those jobs, not unless Cobb dragged Arthur into it first, as he had now.
Arthur turned the vague pink of newly-blown glass fresh from the furnace as Eames mentioned breaking people, but he didn’t say anything about it. He just smiled a softly dangerous smile, both silent and significant, and his pupils went a little wide as his thoughts drifted off to something else. He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed without really noticing what he was eating. “That’s true, I guess,” he said, nodding at that last bit. They did pick their enemies well. Arthur had a whole branch of the government that was unhappy with him, and so did Eames, though each in their different way. “But they can’t hire us to find us, so we’re hard to find.” He smiled again. He was looking positively reckless in comparison to his normal dispassionate self.
Eames chuckled. Arthur was so seldom reckless, so seldom laid back, and he loved seeing it when it happened. It made him feel some grand sense of accomplishment, as entirely ridiculous as that was. He stretched his legs out again, having stuffed himself with enough food not to be as concerned about sitting upright any longer. His knees bumped Arthur's knees, and spread them apart. It was quite intentional, and the look he gave Arthur was also quite intentional. Arthur looking reckless was like waving a flag in front of a bull. "Check," he called out, not even bothering to look around for the waitress. The money he pulled from his pocket was in a roll, held together with a rubber band, and he threw a couple of cylindrical bills on the table, and then he pushed his chair back. Eames was nothing if not impatient.
Arthur had given up on the greasy sandwich and focused instead on the pickles, which he’d been picking up with two fingers and chewing slowly, sucking on the brine and thinking about nothing much at all. It was pretty nice, actually, and it got even nicer when the contact under the table returned. Arthur blinked as his eyes went dark again and he tried hard to look annoyed, but it didn’t happen exactly the way he intended. Instead his lashes just went low and the dip in one cheek went dangerously deep and soft at the same time. The pressure of both knees against Eames’ was hard and entirely fleeting. Arthur looked even more amused as Eames pulled away, and then he raised his eyebrows. “Is this the part where we make up?” Arthur shoved his plate to one side, relieved. “Thank God.” At some point he’d been bound to say something to destroy the whole thing, or perhaps Eames would say something and make the irrational anger return. At this point, Arthur felt that some of that irrational anger would just make things a little more interesting. He stood up and swept up his coat and scarf.
"Smug bastard," Eames muttered, his tone entirely ire-free. Arthur seldom sounded smug about their relationship, and he was willing to tolerate the other man's impossible nature when it came to this one thing. The sweep of lashes and darkening of Arthur's eyes, that didn't hurt either, and Eames stood with more grace than any man of his size should possess. His coat was slipped onto his shoulders, but he shoved the scarf and gloves into a pocket, not bothering with the time it would require to get them on and settled. He didn't bother answering Arthur's cheeky question, because impatience didn't allow time for that either. Eames was, when it came to sex, unbelievably impatient. Once he'd decided he wanted something, he didn't waste time getting it. Slowing him down would be rather like slowing down a charging bull - best not to try it.
Eames didn't wait for the check, and he didn't wait for change. He didn't even ensure Arthur was following him. He merely went outside, cursed the daylight that meant he couldn't simply shove Arthur against an alley wall, and grabbed the edge of Arthur's scarf once the other man came close, intent on pulling him all the way to the hotel, if need be.