He keeps an ear out for a change in the actions, but the background noise of Eames puttering around puts his nerves at ease a bit. Without the forger so close, he can clear his head, focus on all the things they'll need to accomplish in this next week. First, he pulls his computer bag closer, fishing out the slim laptop and propping it on his knees. It doesn't take him that long to pull up a photo of his hockey days from an archived site. He sticks it in a folder on the desktop, carefully encrypts it out of habit.
Looking up, he scans the photos around again, eventually sliding the computer off his lap and setting it on the side table. Arthur pulls one of the frames down from a section of bookshelf, tilting it so the light doesn't obscure the image in a glare. It's the two of them, from a job a while ago. Before Mal killed herself—in fact, he's pretty sure that's who had taken it. She'd been their chemist on site, a rarity, and had this quirk of attempting to take his picture whenever she could.
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth from the memory. They both look so much younger; part of that is due to him laughing openly. Eames is leaning in close, head tilted up and a smirk written all over his face. He remembers he'd been imitating the mark's particular cadence, telling dirty jokes in a put upon flat voice. Slowly, he sets it back on the shelf, turning to look at Eames as he's set the tray on the table. ]
I can't believe you still had a copy of this.
[ The photo, obviously.
Arthur walks back over, picks up his cup from the tray, and tries not to stand too close or too far from the other man. Even though it's tempting, so tempting, to step closer and breathe in the subtle cologne he sometimes favors. ]
no subject
He keeps an ear out for a change in the actions, but the background noise of Eames puttering around puts his nerves at ease a bit. Without the forger so close, he can clear his head, focus on all the things they'll need to accomplish in this next week. First, he pulls his computer bag closer, fishing out the slim laptop and propping it on his knees. It doesn't take him that long to pull up a photo of his hockey days from an archived site. He sticks it in a folder on the desktop, carefully encrypts it out of habit.
Looking up, he scans the photos around again, eventually sliding the computer off his lap and setting it on the side table. Arthur pulls one of the frames down from a section of bookshelf, tilting it so the light doesn't obscure the image in a glare. It's the two of them, from a job a while ago. Before Mal killed herself—in fact, he's pretty sure that's who had taken it. She'd been their chemist on site, a rarity, and had this quirk of attempting to take his picture whenever she could.
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth from the memory. They both look so much younger; part of that is due to him laughing openly. Eames is leaning in close, head tilted up and a smirk written all over his face. He remembers he'd been imitating the mark's particular cadence, telling dirty jokes in a put upon flat voice. Slowly, he sets it back on the shelf, turning to look at Eames as he's set the tray on the table. ]
I can't believe you still had a copy of this.
[ The photo, obviously.
Arthur walks back over, picks up his cup from the tray, and tries not to stand too close or too far from the other man. Even though it's tempting, so tempting, to step closer and breathe in the subtle cologne he sometimes favors. ]