170
please take care of yourself
or! five times eames called arthur whilst mixed up in a dire situation.
2,006 words. mostly gen! bear-trap!eames, for pyrimidine. THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY.
i.
Arthur picks up on the fifth ring. He already sounds peeved. Eames is actually kind of surprised that he answered at all.
“What?” Arthur asks. It’s almost not a question at all, except that by nature it is.
“How busy are you right now?” Eames asks, cheerful. The chair is metal, and cold underneath his thighs, and the one light swinging above the table bathes everyone in the room in shadow. It’s the most stereotypical room
Eames has probably ever been in.
“Dreadfully,” Arthur says, and Eames really has no idea if he’s telling the truth or not. The burly Russian across from him, also stereotypical, isn’t making the determination any easier.
“Okay, then,” Eames says, still peppy. “Before I go, I don’t suppose you know the best way to not die during a game of Russian roulette, do you?”
Arthur takes a moment to respond. Eames is watching the Russian, Ulrich, load the bullets into his revolver. Eames would more afraid if he could shake the feeling that he’s in a mobster movie. Maybe if Ulrich’s head were a little less shiny? The gun looks relatively real, however. Also shiny.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” Arthur says, finally. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason.” Eames grins at Ulrich, and shrugs. Ulrich is motioning to him with wide arms that probably mean he should get off of the phone.
“Eames - “
“Ta, Arthur, I’ll see you later!” Probably, anyway.
An hour later, Eames is still alive, and Ulrich and company are very disappointed. Eames sends Arthur a text which says, thanks for the tips :) :) :). Arthur texts him back half an hour later, while Eames is still wandering around south Boston smelling like a sewer vomited on him. I hope you die in a fire, Arthur says. also, the russians must like you.
ii.
“Eames?” Eames is actually feeling a little woozy, but he swears that it’s Arthur’s voice on the other side of the phone.
“You’re not emergency services,” he says, intelligently. His tongue feels like it’s sticking to the roof of his mouth.
“No, I’m not,” Arthur says, as if talking to a small child.
“Huh,” Eames says, and he looks at the screen of his phone. Sure enough, he’s called Arthur. And now he’s bleeding on his phone. “Yuck,” he says, and puts the phone back to his ear.
“- still there? Eames? Come on, this isn’t funny at all.” Arthur’s voice is disapproving, but in that way where he’s actually a little worried.
“Does blood make a mobile not work?” Eames wonders aloud, and Arthur goes suspiciously silent. “I rather hope not, as I’ve still got to ring emergency services.”
“Where are you?” Arthur asks, voice inscrutable. Eames isn’t really sure anymore, but he’s leaning against a tree. Maybe an elm, or a birch.
“I’m leaning against a tree,” he says. His toes have started to tingle. That’s probably not a good sign.
“That’s it,” Arthur says, “I’m tracking the GPS on your phone.”
“Oh, Arthur, I didn’t know you cared.” Eames giggles, and his head thunks back against the trunk of the tree without him actually meaning it to. He must be bleeding more than he’d suspected.
“Shut up,” Arthur says. Eames shuts up. Talking is too much effort anyway.
Eames wakes up some time later, definitely in a hospital, and definitely not dead.
“Well,” he says to no one in particular. His room is empty of all life save himself. Then his phone rings.
“You’re a dumbfuck,” Arthur says. His disapproval is clear even over the phone. Eames can just see him - sitting at his desk, laptop open to some arcane research database, files spread over every open surface. He’s probably drinking coffee, or maybe scotch. He’s probably not even rumpled.
“I believe it was you who said the Russians liked me.” Eames feels like his body is on fire. Or, like he’s just been shot.
“You’re not dead, are you?” Eames can hear Arthur’s raised eyebrow.
“I suppose you have a point.” Though he’s not entirely sure that’s due to Ulrich’s kindness. He’s actually feeling pretty cheerful, all things considered. He’s not dead, and Arthur apparently actually cares about his wellbeing. Both pluses.
“I often do,” Arthur says, and he’s definitely smug.
“I would’ve been fine,” Eames says. Arthur just snorts.
iii.
“I can’t find the keys to my flat,” Eames says. He also can’t understand a word he’s saying. Is he Welsh, suddenly? There’s no telling what that would do to his reputation.
“Eames?” Arthur was obviously sleeping. His voice is that sort of scratchy, sexy, lower octave register that usually means he’s been sleeping. Eames keeps track and doesn’t even feel badly about it.
“Bedroom voice,” Eames says, and nods to himself. His door is still closed and he still doesn’t have his keys. His face is very close to the doorknocker, which isn’t where he wants to be. He wants to be in bed. Where he isn’t right now.
“Do you know what time it is?” Arthur asks. Eames imagines him squinting at his clock. Then he imagines him naked, squinting at his clock. The second is a better image.
“No idea.” Probably late. Or very early. Or very late.
Suddenly Eames realizes just how drunk he is. That wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d only gone to the pub for a pint, but somehow it had turned into a number of scotch-and-sodas.
“It’s 3:28, here,” Arthur says, and yawns. “And if you’re at your flat than I’m three hours earlier than you are.”
Eames tries out the math. He really does. “Pardon?”
Arthur sighs. “How drunk are you right now?”
“Ooh!” Eames says, instead of answering. “Never mind! Found them.” Apparently they were in his pocket.
The next morning Eames wakes up with a pounding headache and the discovery that he’s taken forty pictures of his teeth with his mobile phone. He assumes that they’re accidental, but since there are large spaces of time he has no recollection of, he admits to himself that anything is possible.
Arthur sent him a picture text at 3:36 am, which is mostly just of his own scowling face. Eames can see that he wears button-up pajamas. His hair is a mess. The text says, underneath the picture, NO PHONING AFTER 1:00 OR EXPECT BLACKMAIL. In all caps.
Eames thinks about all of the things Arthur probably knows about him that he wishes Arthur didn’t know. And how many people he doesn’t want to know these things. Then he goes to make coffee, drink a glass of water, and take about seven aspirin.
iv.
“I’m relatively certain the architect is an agent,” Eames says, voice light. “He’s got that look. You know, clean cut. Dresses well. Square jaw and shoulders.”
“And this is important to me why?” Arthur asks, unimpressed. “I’m not even on this job.”
“You pick up your mobile when I call?” Plus, this is the point where he gets halfway to asking for help and then thinks better of it. He’s sure Arthur has better things to do with his time.
The warehouse isn’t one he’s ever used before, but it’s the same MO - exposed cross beams and large windows taped over with yellowing paper. Pryce, the architect, is watching Eames out of the corner of his eye, hand casually placed on his hip. Oh, hey, Eames almost says, the agent has a gun. This can’t be good. He doesn’t say it, though. “Whoops,” he says, instead.
“Whoops?” Arthur asks. Eames can just imagine his raised eyebrow, asking for clarification.
“Oh, you know,” Eames says, standing. “I forgot I left the kettle on the stove. Bye!”
“That’s the most ridiculous -” Arthur starts, and then Eames hangs up on him.
Someday, Eames is sure, he will hang up on Arthur one too many times, and Arthur will formulate plans to shoot him on sight. He plans on being well out of reach at that point.
Later, after Eames has Pryce hogtied in the corner, Eames checks his texts. Arthur has said, pryce? really? and then next time do better research. Eames sends back, not all of us can be you.
Arthur replies with a winky face. Eames has no idea what to make of it.
v.
“How much do you know about the Argentinean peninsula?” Eames asks. He’s somewhere just outside Rio Gallegos, looking out over the water. It’s humid, and he’s still wearing long pants. Mostly because he only has the one set of clothes.
“Off the top of my head, not much. Why?” Arthur asks like he’s pretty sure that Eames isn’t going to give him a straight answer. Which is the truth. Eames honestly hates asking for help, which is why he’s so terrible at it. He usually bails halfway through. Arthur is a good source of information, and, Eames has discovered, he’s also easy to hang up on. Harder in person, but they haven’t worked a job together in six months, so Eames doesn’t have to worry about that right now.
What he does have to worry about is the regional Argentinean police force. He stands out a bit among the locals. His Spanish is terrible.
“Well,” Eames says, “it’s possible that I’m slightly lost.” Which is a lie. Arthur probably knows it’s a lie.
“Lost in Argentina,” Arthur says, and that’s definitely not a question. “You took the Cortez job, didn’t you? You have no sense of self-preservation.”
“Nah,” Eames says, tone light and flippant, “I just have no sense of direction. And an important appointment in Chile.”
“Sure,” Arthur says. “Whatever.” He’s being derisive again. Eames isn’t sure if this is a good or a bad thing.
All that really matters is that Eames stay as far away from Buenos Aires as he can. He’s probably close to the border, right? He must be, at this point.
“You’re being less than helpful,” Eames says. “I’m going to hang up on you now.”
“You always do,” Arthur says, voice dry. Eames hangs up, then, mostly because he’s not sure what to say in reply.
The police shootout goes more smoothly than Eames had expected, and he is neither incarcerated nor deported, which he’s relatively thankful for. He’s got a reputation to uphold, obviously, and this includes not being arrested. It probably also includes not ringing up on-again off-again teammates while plastered, or while bleeding profusely, however accidental.
This is beside the point, though.
It’s muddy in Chile, cloudy like it’s just stopped raining, and Eames only has one pair of shoes.
my shoes are ruined :(, he texts to Arthur.
I’m sure you deserve it, Arthur replies. Then, seven minutes later, he emails Eames a link. Eames clicks it, and then rolls his eyes so hard he gives himself vertigo for a moment.
ha bloody ha, Eames replies, and promptly steps in another puddle.
just so you know, is all Arthur says.
(and a terribly cracky bonus!
vi.
“I thought I told you to stop being an idiot?” Arthur doesn’t even answer the phone with hello anymore. Eames feels bizarrely proud. He hops a bit to see how far he can get, and the answer is - not far. “What is it now?”
“Oh, nothing,” he says, “I was just wondering if you were busy.”
“You’re still in Chile, you can’t be asking me out on a date.” Arthur is deadpan. Eames left ankle hurts a lot.
“Lies,” Eames says, and then adds, “Did you know that they apparently have bears in Chile?”
“I honestly don’t think they do.”
“Well.” Eames looks down at the bear-trap enclosed around his foot, and shrugs. “If you say so.”
“I do.” Arthur sounds pretty certain. Eames wonders what sort of large animal this was actually meant for.
“Okay, then, you sound terribly busy. I’ll just - leave you to it.”
“Whatever you did that you’re not telling me, you’re an idiot.”
“Ta,” Eames says. He’s pretty sure Arthur’s hung up on him. He’s going to have to find some kind of large stick.)
or! five times eames called arthur whilst mixed up in a dire situation.
2,006 words. mostly gen! bear-trap!eames, for pyrimidine. THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY.
i.
Arthur picks up on the fifth ring. He already sounds peeved. Eames is actually kind of surprised that he answered at all.
“What?” Arthur asks. It’s almost not a question at all, except that by nature it is.
“How busy are you right now?” Eames asks, cheerful. The chair is metal, and cold underneath his thighs, and the one light swinging above the table bathes everyone in the room in shadow. It’s the most stereotypical room
Eames has probably ever been in.
“Dreadfully,” Arthur says, and Eames really has no idea if he’s telling the truth or not. The burly Russian across from him, also stereotypical, isn’t making the determination any easier.
“Okay, then,” Eames says, still peppy. “Before I go, I don’t suppose you know the best way to not die during a game of Russian roulette, do you?”
Arthur takes a moment to respond. Eames is watching the Russian, Ulrich, load the bullets into his revolver. Eames would more afraid if he could shake the feeling that he’s in a mobster movie. Maybe if Ulrich’s head were a little less shiny? The gun looks relatively real, however. Also shiny.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” Arthur says, finally. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason.” Eames grins at Ulrich, and shrugs. Ulrich is motioning to him with wide arms that probably mean he should get off of the phone.
“Eames - “
“Ta, Arthur, I’ll see you later!” Probably, anyway.
An hour later, Eames is still alive, and Ulrich and company are very disappointed. Eames sends Arthur a text which says, thanks for the tips :) :) :). Arthur texts him back half an hour later, while Eames is still wandering around south Boston smelling like a sewer vomited on him. I hope you die in a fire, Arthur says. also, the russians must like you.
ii.
“Eames?” Eames is actually feeling a little woozy, but he swears that it’s Arthur’s voice on the other side of the phone.
“You’re not emergency services,” he says, intelligently. His tongue feels like it’s sticking to the roof of his mouth.
“No, I’m not,” Arthur says, as if talking to a small child.
“Huh,” Eames says, and he looks at the screen of his phone. Sure enough, he’s called Arthur. And now he’s bleeding on his phone. “Yuck,” he says, and puts the phone back to his ear.
“- still there? Eames? Come on, this isn’t funny at all.” Arthur’s voice is disapproving, but in that way where he’s actually a little worried.
“Does blood make a mobile not work?” Eames wonders aloud, and Arthur goes suspiciously silent. “I rather hope not, as I’ve still got to ring emergency services.”
“Where are you?” Arthur asks, voice inscrutable. Eames isn’t really sure anymore, but he’s leaning against a tree. Maybe an elm, or a birch.
“I’m leaning against a tree,” he says. His toes have started to tingle. That’s probably not a good sign.
“That’s it,” Arthur says, “I’m tracking the GPS on your phone.”
“Oh, Arthur, I didn’t know you cared.” Eames giggles, and his head thunks back against the trunk of the tree without him actually meaning it to. He must be bleeding more than he’d suspected.
“Shut up,” Arthur says. Eames shuts up. Talking is too much effort anyway.
Eames wakes up some time later, definitely in a hospital, and definitely not dead.
“Well,” he says to no one in particular. His room is empty of all life save himself. Then his phone rings.
“You’re a dumbfuck,” Arthur says. His disapproval is clear even over the phone. Eames can just see him - sitting at his desk, laptop open to some arcane research database, files spread over every open surface. He’s probably drinking coffee, or maybe scotch. He’s probably not even rumpled.
“I believe it was you who said the Russians liked me.” Eames feels like his body is on fire. Or, like he’s just been shot.
“You’re not dead, are you?” Eames can hear Arthur’s raised eyebrow.
“I suppose you have a point.” Though he’s not entirely sure that’s due to Ulrich’s kindness. He’s actually feeling pretty cheerful, all things considered. He’s not dead, and Arthur apparently actually cares about his wellbeing. Both pluses.
“I often do,” Arthur says, and he’s definitely smug.
“I would’ve been fine,” Eames says. Arthur just snorts.
iii.
“I can’t find the keys to my flat,” Eames says. He also can’t understand a word he’s saying. Is he Welsh, suddenly? There’s no telling what that would do to his reputation.
“Eames?” Arthur was obviously sleeping. His voice is that sort of scratchy, sexy, lower octave register that usually means he’s been sleeping. Eames keeps track and doesn’t even feel badly about it.
“Bedroom voice,” Eames says, and nods to himself. His door is still closed and he still doesn’t have his keys. His face is very close to the doorknocker, which isn’t where he wants to be. He wants to be in bed. Where he isn’t right now.
“Do you know what time it is?” Arthur asks. Eames imagines him squinting at his clock. Then he imagines him naked, squinting at his clock. The second is a better image.
“No idea.” Probably late. Or very early. Or very late.
Suddenly Eames realizes just how drunk he is. That wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d only gone to the pub for a pint, but somehow it had turned into a number of scotch-and-sodas.
“It’s 3:28, here,” Arthur says, and yawns. “And if you’re at your flat than I’m three hours earlier than you are.”
Eames tries out the math. He really does. “Pardon?”
Arthur sighs. “How drunk are you right now?”
“Ooh!” Eames says, instead of answering. “Never mind! Found them.” Apparently they were in his pocket.
The next morning Eames wakes up with a pounding headache and the discovery that he’s taken forty pictures of his teeth with his mobile phone. He assumes that they’re accidental, but since there are large spaces of time he has no recollection of, he admits to himself that anything is possible.
Arthur sent him a picture text at 3:36 am, which is mostly just of his own scowling face. Eames can see that he wears button-up pajamas. His hair is a mess. The text says, underneath the picture, NO PHONING AFTER 1:00 OR EXPECT BLACKMAIL. In all caps.
Eames thinks about all of the things Arthur probably knows about him that he wishes Arthur didn’t know. And how many people he doesn’t want to know these things. Then he goes to make coffee, drink a glass of water, and take about seven aspirin.
iv.
“I’m relatively certain the architect is an agent,” Eames says, voice light. “He’s got that look. You know, clean cut. Dresses well. Square jaw and shoulders.”
“And this is important to me why?” Arthur asks, unimpressed. “I’m not even on this job.”
“You pick up your mobile when I call?” Plus, this is the point where he gets halfway to asking for help and then thinks better of it. He’s sure Arthur has better things to do with his time.
The warehouse isn’t one he’s ever used before, but it’s the same MO - exposed cross beams and large windows taped over with yellowing paper. Pryce, the architect, is watching Eames out of the corner of his eye, hand casually placed on his hip. Oh, hey, Eames almost says, the agent has a gun. This can’t be good. He doesn’t say it, though. “Whoops,” he says, instead.
“Whoops?” Arthur asks. Eames can just imagine his raised eyebrow, asking for clarification.
“Oh, you know,” Eames says, standing. “I forgot I left the kettle on the stove. Bye!”
“That’s the most ridiculous -” Arthur starts, and then Eames hangs up on him.
Someday, Eames is sure, he will hang up on Arthur one too many times, and Arthur will formulate plans to shoot him on sight. He plans on being well out of reach at that point.
Later, after Eames has Pryce hogtied in the corner, Eames checks his texts. Arthur has said, pryce? really? and then next time do better research. Eames sends back, not all of us can be you.
Arthur replies with a winky face. Eames has no idea what to make of it.
v.
“How much do you know about the Argentinean peninsula?” Eames asks. He’s somewhere just outside Rio Gallegos, looking out over the water. It’s humid, and he’s still wearing long pants. Mostly because he only has the one set of clothes.
“Off the top of my head, not much. Why?” Arthur asks like he’s pretty sure that Eames isn’t going to give him a straight answer. Which is the truth. Eames honestly hates asking for help, which is why he’s so terrible at it. He usually bails halfway through. Arthur is a good source of information, and, Eames has discovered, he’s also easy to hang up on. Harder in person, but they haven’t worked a job together in six months, so Eames doesn’t have to worry about that right now.
What he does have to worry about is the regional Argentinean police force. He stands out a bit among the locals. His Spanish is terrible.
“Well,” Eames says, “it’s possible that I’m slightly lost.” Which is a lie. Arthur probably knows it’s a lie.
“Lost in Argentina,” Arthur says, and that’s definitely not a question. “You took the Cortez job, didn’t you? You have no sense of self-preservation.”
“Nah,” Eames says, tone light and flippant, “I just have no sense of direction. And an important appointment in Chile.”
“Sure,” Arthur says. “Whatever.” He’s being derisive again. Eames isn’t sure if this is a good or a bad thing.
All that really matters is that Eames stay as far away from Buenos Aires as he can. He’s probably close to the border, right? He must be, at this point.
“You’re being less than helpful,” Eames says. “I’m going to hang up on you now.”
“You always do,” Arthur says, voice dry. Eames hangs up, then, mostly because he’s not sure what to say in reply.
The police shootout goes more smoothly than Eames had expected, and he is neither incarcerated nor deported, which he’s relatively thankful for. He’s got a reputation to uphold, obviously, and this includes not being arrested. It probably also includes not ringing up on-again off-again teammates while plastered, or while bleeding profusely, however accidental.
This is beside the point, though.
It’s muddy in Chile, cloudy like it’s just stopped raining, and Eames only has one pair of shoes.
my shoes are ruined :(, he texts to Arthur.
I’m sure you deserve it, Arthur replies. Then, seven minutes later, he emails Eames a link. Eames clicks it, and then rolls his eyes so hard he gives himself vertigo for a moment.
ha bloody ha, Eames replies, and promptly steps in another puddle.
just so you know, is all Arthur says.
(and a terribly cracky bonus!
vi.
“I thought I told you to stop being an idiot?” Arthur doesn’t even answer the phone with hello anymore. Eames feels bizarrely proud. He hops a bit to see how far he can get, and the answer is - not far. “What is it now?”
“Oh, nothing,” he says, “I was just wondering if you were busy.”
“You’re still in Chile, you can’t be asking me out on a date.” Arthur is deadpan. Eames left ankle hurts a lot.
“Lies,” Eames says, and then adds, “Did you know that they apparently have bears in Chile?”
“I honestly don’t think they do.”
“Well.” Eames looks down at the bear-trap enclosed around his foot, and shrugs. “If you say so.”
“I do.” Arthur sounds pretty certain. Eames wonders what sort of large animal this was actually meant for.
“Okay, then, you sound terribly busy. I’ll just - leave you to it.”
“Whatever you did that you’re not telling me, you’re an idiot.”
“Ta,” Eames says. He’s pretty sure Arthur’s hung up on him. He’s going to have to find some kind of large stick.)