Sam/Eames: art class
Eames was doing this out of spite.
Well. Nearly entirely out of spite and a proportion of fascination. He would have been very glad to have missed the fang-show, had he known it was on offer, darling, but his ticket was, as it were, punched. Eames liked art. Not the kind in galleries that hung in gilt frames and changed hands for hideous amounts of money: while he liked hideous amounts of money, Eames couldn't give a tinker's fuck for high class art. He knew the difference between Degas and Matisse, darling but decades of soot and oil over paint didn't stir him anywhere remotely interesting. He liked art's creation which was probably predictable, even if joining in its creation was not at all.
It wasn't an alibi. It was a deliberate choice to stroll into the studio two days before, having observed the plea for models taped on the inside of the glass at least twice already. If they followed him, what on earth would they do with an art class? Some ten or twenty earnest little artists, busily sketching away. If they followed him, Eames delighted in dragging them to all the kinds of places they would least wish to while away an hour.
Besides, darling. They had him by his balls already, why not give them a full visual?
It was spite and Eames was, it had to be said, capable of spite, as languid as he looked presently. When he'd walked in, it had been in a very bright pink shirt, with embroidery picked out on the shirt-front and a pair of brown trousers that had been tailor-made to cling to every inch and a blazer in grey wool that didn't match but was impeccably made. With brown Lobbs that he'd toed off in scarlet socks. Dressed, Eames looked like the kind of man who might act as a patron of something or someone, if you squinted and took in the wardrobe first. Naked (and he was naked) he looked blocky and large, muscle thickly layered over chest and neck and arms and meaty thighs. Naked, he looked like it was absolutely ridiculous to own the clothes which was a perversity Eames delighted in, darling. If you're asking.
He was sat, on the chair, with his legs artfully crossed (as much as slabs of thigh could cross, darling, but Eames managed neatly) not by any means hiding but at the instruction of the art tutor, who thought perhaps standing for the full hour would be a little much. He had a newspaper, folded to the crossword in his right hand, and a pencil in his left hand and he was taking rather a long time completing it if you were looking.
But at various points, he was watching back. Drinking it in, fascinated beside himself. All that looking. All that studying. They, the lot of them, were committing angles and shadows to paper until they could pick him out of a line-up. Not that it mattered if they were any good, they were doing it. It was like Eames imagined forging, looking with intent, and it didn't matter he didn't mind really not being able to reproduce a scribble in crayon on paper with any accuracy, for a moment, he envied the ease of it.
Then of course, he looked directly at one or two, to see if he could make them blush. Messy and at the canvas, the little blonde didn't look like she blushed. He winked, instead.