pointedlook | xx. a musebox

[ Grew up in the heat. Of course. Arthur could probably check even more, find out an exact location, but he leaves it at that. For team members, he just makes sure their backgrounds pass enough that they aren't likely to stab him in the back. ]

Was in Sweden before this, they're having a cold snap. I forgot how disgusting the humidity could be on the eastern seaboard.

[ Disgusting but familiar all at once. He'd grown up further north, where the summers are a blend of humid, hot, and full of mosquitos. With the occasional thunderstorm to shake it all up.

Still, he doesn't like it. A few years on the west coast has spoiled him immensely. ]

You heading back or got other plans?

[ He wraps up his tidying, files neatly tucked away in his bag, head slightly cocked with the question. ]

[He watches his slender fingers press down on the depressor, hears Arthur's lovely voice, and he prepares himself once he's blinked in the sight of the club.

He's slipped into a female form, with long, dark, curled hair and deep brown eyes. Showing up beside Arthur would make it easy to tell, so he situates himself at the bar a few chairs away. None of the patrons interact with him immediately, but soon, an employee carries a note to Arthur -

Find me if you can, Arthur. You have one guess.

- And the ball's in Arthur's court.]

[ It's a few minutes of waiting, something he's thankfully very good at. An employee comes over, passes him a folded note, handwriting neat and well spaced.

Find me if you can, huh? So it's hide and seek.

Pocketing the note, he finishes his drink, sets the fluted glass on the countertop. He leans back, scanning his eyes over the crowd. There are projections dancing, movement making them seem like a blur. If Eames wanted to play hardball, he'd be out on the dance floor, the constant motion making it more difficult to pick out differences.

But then, if forgers are supposed to situate themselves, he might not be looking in the right spot.

Glancing down the bar, he skips over the woman seated nearby. She's beautiful, with dark curls and classically manicured nails. Something about how she's sitting nags at him, but he frowns, considers the bartender instead, who's in the middle of pouring a complex drink. She's blonde, petite thing, hair pulled back in a sensible bun, simple stud earrings the only embellishment.

If he were in a forger's shoes, that's what he'd pick. Though, what the hell does he know about forging? Nothing.

Time for a different tactic. Clearly just trying to pick him out of a crowd isn't going to work. Cobb had been right– Eames is very good. ]

Lovely lady like yourself drinking alone?

[The woman glances over at him with a smile, though it doesn't have the edge of leering that Eames' had to it.]

Seems that way tonight. Unless you'd like to join me.

[She's stunning, but some of Eames' projections just are. Her lips are red, lashes long. She's a conglomeration of his secondary school English teacher, a girl he'd met in Prague, and a model that he'd forged once. Her legs are long and displayed well with her short, black dress. She looks coy, like she's waiting for him to buy her a drink, the one in her hand empty. She's just obvious enough to make Arthur question her, but not enough to make it obvious, and she's cool as Eames is hot under the collar.]

[ This is honestly a big step up for Henry, even if he exudes a sort of calm confidence, like he'd done this all before. He was experimental, adventurous, sure, but there was always a constant: Sylvia. His ex definitely introduced him to a much more stimulating world, and perhaps it's her influence as well that allowed him to be in a situation like this at all.

With the remaining waves of tension dissipating, Henry can sense all of their bodies relaxing into place, getting comfortable with each other and the space they occupy. Rey shifts slightly in her seat when Arthur's hand dips beneath the water, and the way she reaches for him only encourages him to scoot forward. Pulling her into his lap, he sighs when their heated skin press flush against one another. His fingers brush against Arthur's as they both tease around her hips and continues to kiss at her neck.

He watches through heavy-lidded eyes, just relishing this heated exchange for a moment. ]

[She's so sure that Arthur's hand is going to end up where she wants it that when it doesn't, when his fingers come so close to touching her and then slip right back down her thigh ineffectually, she comes very close to growling at him and demanding he fix the mistake he's made.

But then there's Henry, hands on her waist and putting her in his lap, and he distracts her with something new before her patience can wear thin. When he sighs like that she pulls away from Arthur, turns her head to catch Henry's lips when he tries to go on kissing along her neck. It should feel taboo, she thinks, to switch between them so easily, but she's too lost in how good it feels to be wanted to get too worked up by what's right and what's crossing a line.]

[ Yusuf had honestly expected the entire team to write him off. He's not used to actually being in the dream, after all, and that's ignoring the whole 'take cobb's whole share to fuck the team over' aspect of the mission.

He did feel bad - just a little - but it had all worked out in the end. Enough to soothe his conscious and work his way to forgetting the whole thing. The science was brilliant, the financial opportunity to grow and share and chase things he could never do was an opportunity he'll never forget, but the van driving and Cobb going off the rails? Not so much.

When he gets the phone call from Arthur, of all people, he agrees without really thinking about it. He was fairly certain Arthur hated him the most.

Americans are weird. ]

Arthur. Hello--come in.

[ The reason for his tardiness in opening the door is currently trying to make its way out of the small shop - one of his cats is desperately trying to be free of its home, and Yusuf doesn't even look down before gently moving his foot back, making enough room to widen the door. ]

I can't say I was expecting this. [ Despite the fact that Arthur had called ahead. He smiles sheepishly, removing his glasses and letting them hang around his neck. ]

I thought it was a dream.

[ Truth be told, he'd considered not coming here.

Yusuf had sold them out to Cobb, hadn't told any of them about the repercussions of the sedative he'd put in the somnacin blend. And Arthur had taken that a little personally in the moment, because he was the damn point man, that kind of crap was his job. The smallest details were important on a job.

But then, he'd been busy with handling all the other shit that Dom involved himself in. That small bit– he'd meant to circle back around and question Yusuf on it, he had it noted down on his to do list– had nearly fucked them all over.

(So had the freight train. And Mal.

And the militarization).

Ok so the Fischer job had been a spectacular array of screw ups. He'd decided to come here as something like an olive branch. Because if there's one thing that pains Arthur more than anything, it's a waste of talent. Yusuf is talented, extremely so. His somnacin blends are top notch, creative, powerful. With a pang, he realizes the clarity reminds him of Mal in her peak. Professionalism runs in his blood, so he can't ignore someone like Yusuf.

He knows Eames will take a little longer coming around, so he may as well be the friendly face.

As the chemist opens the door, he stands and brushes himself off one-handed, nodding politely. ]

No judgment if you need to check a totem. [ Arthur breezes in, careful to watch for little paws of the very curious cat who'd stuck its head out before. ]

Trying to make a break for it, little guy? [ Safely inside, he leans to scratch behind the cat's ear; he's always been a little soft for animals. ]

Better.

( He grins with half of his mouth, an appreciative nod at the drink. He's not surprised he didn't have to remind him. Half of Arthur's finesse is his attention to detail. So Eames doesn't find it strange in the slightest.

( Whereas his collection of Arthur based facts might veer towards creepy more than anything else. That's why he tries to keep them to himself.)

Eames leans back, throws an arm over the chair beside him. It's the first time he's felt relaxed in months, and he knows it's because there's a large amount of trust between them. They wouldn't willingly lead each other into danger. )

Nobody threatened to cut my body parts off. I got to work on my tan. Travers is still a knobhead though. Christ, the way he prattles on. How about you? Terrify anyone into retirement lately?

[ Eames makes himself comfortable, arm thrown over the back of a chair like he's seen him do so many times in the past. It's different in this more personal light and if Arthur studies the broad line of his body from over the rim of his glass when he drinks, well. He tries not to be too obvious about it. He's finding that a little more difficult now, since Eames is talking about his tan and honestly he looks good. Sun kissed is a great look on the forger, especially since it seems to bring out more of the blonde in his hair.

Smoothly, he avoids commenting on any of that, instead grateful to gossip about one of his least favorites in dreamshare. ]

Why do you even work with him anymore? As far as extractors go, he's alright at best. The constant stream of chatter takes points away, too.

[ Travers really does like the sound of his own voice. They've worked exactly three jobs together. Arthur bought a pair of soundproof headphones on that first job and brings them with any time he had to work with him afterwards. Generally he avoids it if possible. ]

Not lately. Thought I scared a green architect off a couple months back but apparently she was shy and star struck over how many projections I killed on that job. She's not our Ariadne, but she's a good problem solver.

Money, darling.

( It's a drawl, something lazy. It actually isn't what Eames aims for in the long run. He usually takes jobs because they're interesting, or because they're difficult. But sometimes enough zeros and he's interested. ) I get to be a little more choosey for a while now, at least.

( He snorts at that image, shiteating green turning pleased. ) Arthur. We've talked about this, you terrifying young impressionables with knowing your way around a glock. You'll give them a complex.

( He'd probably terrified Eames a little bit too. If terrified meant more like arousal. )

Right, I forgot you like a certain number of zeroes at the end of your paychecks.

[ He hadn't, really. Just he's never had to use pay as an incentive to get Eames on board with any of the jobs he's pitched. Arthur knows what kind of creative challenges the forger likes and chooses not to waste his time on sending him things he knows will bore him to tears. ]

That goes for both of us. [ After all, they're the best in their respective business. Not to mention they made waves doing the inception job, even if most of the information about it is hearsay and rumor. Saito's payout was enough to keep them more than well off for a while. Any resulting job after, they could be more specific with. ]

I'm not going to give them a complex. Hopefully they'll take it upon themselves to be just as competent. I'm setting a standard here.

An impossible one. ( Because let's face it, it will be a cold day in hell when someone manages to surpass Arthur. ) Not that I mind you doing your best to pave the way for the new generation, but they'll end up with unrealistic expectations.

( Another sip of his drink, a flick of his wrist. It's easy and unconcerned. The tension he's been holding has practically bled free. )

Don't tell me it's been all work though. You're too young to go prematurely grey from stress. Tell me you've been up to something interesting, or I might weep.

( A sniff. )

I worry so.

It's not impossible; obviously I did it.

[ While Arthur knows he's very good at what he does, he doesn't exactly see it as an unrealistic standard. But then, he supposes he hasn't met too many other people in dreamshare who are as anal retentive as he is about details. ]

If I did go grey, at least I wouldn't constantly be mistaken for seventeen. [ That'd been half the reason he'd gone the fashionable route. Tailored suits, expensive watches, designer shoes, neatly slicked hair– it all made him look older instead of like jailbait. In the earlier days, when he first started, a youthful face was more detriment than anything. Despite the working knowledge he had from being part of the project in the military. ]

Yeah yeah, save your crocodile tears. [ He huffs a laugh though, takes a sip of his drink, leans back in his chair some. ] I bought a house– not an apartment, but an actual house. Needs a lot of work though, so I've been fixing it up between jobs when I've got time.

[ Honestly he still doesn't know what possessed him to put down roots. All he knows is that he'd been driving around on an errand, saw the house, and immediately knew he wanted it. ]

ftr grease fires are really hard to put out

What did you do

ah

burn down some of my apartment

you wouldn't happen to be in paris already, would you? or have alcohol on hand?

lost that file on the mark for that upcoming job too

have I ever told you you're so smart and capable?

[As if that will make him look less like a mess if he compliments Arthur.]

You

what

Hyatt Regency, 6th floor.

[ There's a million things he wants to say, but they're better saved for in person. ]

[Ah. He's getting told off, he just knows it. But at least he'll have somewhere to sleep.]

on my way

[It actually only takes him about ten minutes, with how close his apartment is (was) to the Hyatt. The taxi drops him off and he trudges to the elevator. It only occurs to him then that Arthur never gave him a room number, so he's juggling his phone trying to text him with a box and a houseplant in his arms. He looks rather pathetic, in sweats and a t-shirt and some awful loafers, smelling like smoke but no signs of injury. The elevator dings and he gets off, making a noise of distress when he drops his phone in the hall.]

[ It takes Eames about ten minutes to get to the Hyatt from his apartment.

It takes Arthur those precious ten minutes to stop his heart from trying to beat out of his chest in a wave of panic. Even now, when he's sure Eames will have gotten to at least the front desk, his palms are clammy and his mouth is dry. He feels like he's just coming down from a sprint and it's exhausting.

Of course, he realizes, he forgot to tell him the room number. How stupid. Arthur hasn't made such a rookie mistake in a long time and maybe it's telling.

So he swings the door to his room open, intent on heading to the lobby to meet Eames whenever he showed. Naturally, this means he bumps into him at the elevators. For a second he just stares at the forger before registering the dropped phone and bending to pick it up. ]

Here, let me.

[ He'll reach out for the plant, which looks to be in a more precarious position. ]

This way.

[ And he knows he sounds terse just then, but in front of the elevators isn't exactly where he wants to have a conversation. Arthur leads him back to the room, balances the plant while he swipes the keycard and holds the door open. ]

[Eames coughs, unaware of the smudge of burnt gunk on the bridge of his nose, the flakes in his hair, and blinks a little at Arthur. He looks good. Better than Eames. But he did just go through an Incident.

He follows him, gearing himself up for the lecture. He really can't believe he lost the file, but the box it was in just fell apart in his hands when they let him back in finally.

Eames enters, and to be honest, that was terribly frightening and he's shaken. So he does what he always does when he's frightened: acts like everything's fine. He stops in front of the bed, looking down at his loafers.]

If you're going to say the shoes should have burned up too, I will have you know that I got these as a present. Can't throw away presents.

[ Eames steps in and Arthur follows, the hotel door shutting with a solid click behind him. He sets the plant on the nearby desk, brushes a little flake of ash off one of the leaves; it's green, healthy, and he has an overwhelming swell of affection for Eames.

It's mixed with residual panic. And after his seemingly nonchalant comment, something in him just. Snaps clean.

Arthur whirls on him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt and holding tightly. ]

You—

[ The word starts off sharp and ends strangled. He drops his gaze to the floor, loosens his grip on Eames' shirt but doesn't let go. ]

Jesus Christ, Eames.

[ So maybe his voice wavers a little, worry seeping through. ]

[Arthur turns on him, and Eames' eyes grow wide, expecting a punch by the way his fingers are curling into his shirt, but it never comes.

In his surprise, he drops the box of stuff the firemen let him have. There's not much in there, a few shirts, jeans, an antique clock, a stupid pen with googly eyes, for example.

Something he never thought, never even considered, is that Arthur might be upset. That he scared him.

He pauses, just staring wide-eyed at Arthur and not moving. And then he presses a hand to one of Arthur's.]

I'm sorry, [he breathes, still staring at him with wide eyes, probably looking like a maniac, but he leans in to kiss him briefly. Only briefly because he has to turn his head to cough some more. The coughing stops, and he just feels weary and gross.]

That was sexy.

You'd be surprised what some people can misinterpret.

[ Those hands up her dress, however, are left to their own devices. The higher they go, the closer to her arse they reach, the more he'll find her readily pressing into his touch.

She likes him clean and pristine.

She thinks she'll like him more when he's properly rumpled. There's the hint of it here and there, aided by how tired they are, and she finds she likes a tired and relaxed Arthur. ]

I'd be disappointed if you didn't, Arthur.

xx. a musebox

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