[ One of the very first things that Eames learns about Arthur is that he's always early, to anywhere, no matter what, no matter what sort of travesty has happened that day, no matter if the moon's overshadowed the sun and the second coming of Christ has cars shoved together in bumper to bumper traffic
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The devilish smile, that careless slouch is something he remembers with pure, unadulterated annoyance, something he does not forget even when he's busy straightening the place. And when the door slams, he knows exactly who it is. Who else amongst them would have the detestable habit of stomping around without a care in the world?
His lips thin, and he checks the urge to curse (because it's unbecoming, it's so terribly uncouth that it's an insult in itself to think Arthur capable of such crass tendencies). Instead, a swift glance at his watch reveals that Eames is early, which surprises him for a moment. (In what universe would this ever have a chance of happening ( ... )
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Eames pauses mid-step, his fingers smoothing over his jacket as he moves to shrug it off, and he feigns absolute confusion at Arthur's question. He checks the cuffs of his shirt when the jacket slips from his arms, and then he's dropping it on the nearest table. ]
Was what really necessary?
[ There's too much space between them, with Arthur standing on the other side of the room and Eames standing near the corridor. But he has plenty of time to fix that, doesn't he, and he takes his time moving around the lobby, pretending to give a shit about what's in the room, about the layout of the building, even though the only thing he cares about right now is standing not even twenty feet from him.
But he has plenty of time to get to that, too. ]
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There's plenty of time, but Arthur is already inadvertently, unwittingly doing his part to close the distance, starting towards the table where the jacket had been so casually disposed. It's a new record; two seconds in, and Arthur is already thinking of killing Eames with his own jacket sleeves.
Italian leather. Sleek, smooth and buttery against his fingers - warm, still - much like the man himself, in all his near-insufferable glory. He glares, fine brows narrowed in response. ]
All the noise. This. We have coat hangers for a reason.
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[ He's not looking at him when he says it. Instead, his attention is focused on the windows, the glass panes wide and open, a little dirty and covered in a thin layer of dust. That must drive Arthur up a wall, and he's surprised he hasn't wiped them down yet, but then -- maybe he hasn't gotten to it.
Maybe Eames interrupted him before he could, and that thought makes him smile. Just a bit. Because he can't help it. Because interrupting Arthur, cutting in when he tries to say something, breathing hotly against his ear whenever he's bent over a table working, is probably one of his favorite pasttimes.
And he's especially good at it.
Here, he glances behind him, in Arthur's direction, because he's not even going to lie, he's curious to see if you actually will hang up his jacket, or if you'll dump it right back on the table where you'd found it. DECISIONS, DECISIONS, ARTHUR; WHAT TO DO. ]
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