sixwordstories | (no subject)

Busy?

depends entirely on why ur asking

Give me a list of reasons why you'd say no.

always feel underdressed around u. v emasculating

If I didn't know better, Mr. Eames, I'd think you were asking me to wear...less.

[Arthur can really only deal with Eames when caffeine or booze are involved. Which would be why he's got a cup of very strong, very black coffee as he sits down across from the other man.]

Behind the times as usual, I see.

[ Considering that he's currently hovering over the crossword puzzle, it can't be said that Eames's interest in the task at hand is keeping him from following the requisite social niceties. Still, he doesn't bother to acknowledge Arthur's presence with eye contact. ]

The answers for yesterday's crossword are already published. [ His gaze flicks to the black-and-white photograph of a young woman on the opposing page, then back to the crossword puzzle. ] Makes it a sight easier to cheat if you've lost the patience for it.

[As though Arthur ever expects niceties from Eames. He just sort of frowns at him, even though he can't see it.]

Seems like there are a lot more interesting things you could be doing than filling in yesterday's crossword. What's this about?

[ There's a delay of several seconds before Eames lowers the newspaper far enough to give Arthur a rather mild look. ] I suppose you've already an inkling, else you'd have chosen a more reputable establishment to purchase your morning swill. When did Anderson sign you on?

[He pauses. He's not surprised that Eames knows, necessarily, but, well...]

A week ago, but I don't see how it's any of your business. Your name didn't come up during the contract negotiations.

I've quite the talent for obfuscation, as you may have heard. [ He raises both of his eyebrows, his amusement palpable despite his lack of a smile. ] Bienvenue à Paris, Arthur. [ Welcome to Paris. His accent is atrocious. ]

[Arthur's face remains impassive as he sips his coffee. When he replies, it's in French, but his accent is impeccable.] You sound like a tourist.

That was a compliment to my hair, wasn't it? [ He's folding up his newspaper as he speaks, creasing it sharply until it's left in a neat little rectangle upon the table. His own cup of coffee is nearly cooled to room temperature, but he takes a good long swig of it anyway.

He understands French perfectly well, and Arthur's more likely than not to be aware of that, but Eames, as mentioned earlier, does love his obfuscation. ] Merci, monsieur. [ The accent hasn't improved. ] I think I look rather dashing today, too.

[ One cup of coffee sits in-front of Arthur, cooling while his fingers tap out a few messages on his Blackberry. There's faint chatter around them but for the most part, Arthur chooses to remain quiet. The silence isn't uncomfortable but it's not quite companionable either, and if it bothers him it doesn't matter, because he doesn't seem to give enough of a fuck to start a thread of conversation.

Eventually, Arthur sets the smartphone down. Hooking a finger around the handle of his cappuccino cup, he stares flatly at the man sitting opposite him, a look usually reserved for, perhaps, incompetent travel agents. ]

That's yesterday's paper.

[ To the tune of: No shit, Sherlock. ]

[ There are half a dozen replies that rise to the occasion to combat Arthur's latest drier-than-the-Sahara comment, but this is such a common scene between them that Eames finds none of them quite novel enough to use. Instead, he makes an impatient sound at the back of his throat, the nonverbal equivalent of a phrase that might have been unsuitable for Arthur's ears, had his true age matched that of his appearance.

Eames doesn't bother to lower the newspaper before he replies. ]

Some lucky pap bastard snapped a photo of the esteemed Lady Gaga emerging from an impromptu dip in the Pacific.

[ Never mind the fact that he's reading the 'World News' section of The NY Times. ]

Right. [ It's clear by the cadence of his voice — usually so impossible to discern, but here the message is clear: You can do better than that, Mr. Eames.

The phone buzzes lightly on the table, briefly re-capturing Arthur's attention. A few taps pass and his gaze, again, falls on Eames. The way both of Arthur's hands are curled around the coffee cup, nails clinking lightly on the brim of it, suggest impatience. It's hard to see in the set of his face but easy to see in the set of his shoulders; he's impatient for a real answer, and while he's capable of a fair amount of patience the last thing he wants to do is reward some of it to Eames. It's maybe for this reason too that Arthur doesn't have much patience for newspaper reading in general — a few strokes on the right keys on his phone is going to give him more accuracy and a better scope of answers than the damn paper. ]

Is there anything else? [ He says at length. ] Or am I going to have to guess.

Now that you've offered to put your imagination under the scope, how can I resist? [ This time, he does lower the paper just enough to make his amusement visible. ] Have at it, then.

[ In truth, there's much that a newspaper can reveal about marks that are more difficult to access in person. The way an article is written says much about the way the public currently views a subject.

And while forgery involves knowledge of the subject, it goes a step further, requiring familiarity of the way that others view the subject. A forgery of man when his wife is the mark is a vastly different forgery than that of the same man for his mistress.

That said, yesterday's article on their current subject isn't particularly helpful. Eames has been staring at the man's black-and-white face for the past ten minutes with his thoughts a thousand miles away. ]

[ Surprisingly (or perhaps not that surprisingly; every man, after all, is a combination of the things he is and the things he isn't) Arthur slots his phone back into the pocket of his jacket, hidden there on the inside of the seam. He leans back in his chair and the look on his face is thoughtful but not overly focused, as if Arthur's willing to play the game but still a far cry from admitting to want to play it in the first place. ]

Maybe you are a fan of Lady Gaga, [ Arthur notes idly, the long thought-upon conclusion to which he's ended up at. In the grand scope of things, none of it seems particularly unreasonable. ]

If you're going to make me wait, at least hand over the crossword.

[ Maneuvering a fullsize newspaper with dramatic flourish over a coffee table would be a difficult endeavor for most people, but Eames hardly fits under that particular category. Again, favoring the expediency of a show, not tell sort of response, he abandons the page at hand and flips to the last one. The crossword, printed on the outside of the paper and thus visible to Arthur, has already been filled in with Eames's meandering scrawl, legible only when one squints and tilts one's head to the right.

In fact, not only has it been completed, it's surrounded by a few idle sketches of an index finger hooked about the handle of a very familiar cappuccino cup. These are far more legible than his writing. ]

Perhaps I do, but she isn't nearly as interesting as our mark. [ The words are delivered with a careless nonchalance that's impossible to parse. Eames folds the newspaper back up, leaving it in an untidy pile next to his armament of ballpoint pens. ] Unfortunately — Mr. Thomas Hardy, esteemed staff writer for The Times, doesn't seem to share my outlook on the matter.