Eames/Arthur
Title: Words Are Not Enough
Summary: It all starts with a text message.
Rating: Nothing too racy till the later parts
Word Count: 2700/?
Beta: Unbeta'd and probs gonna stay that way. Sorry sweeties :)
Original Prompt: Written for this prompt at
and kinda fulfills this prompt as well (later on). Oh god Idek I'm just a wordy bastard.
A/N: Links to the pictures described are embedded when it says [Multimedia Message from Eames]. Why? Because its fun to feel like we're getting these texts as well~ Also, I tried really hard to keep all their "texts" within the 160 character limit. Haha, yes, I did.
“I don’t do calls, they’re too personal.”
“Well then, text me darling.”
“Honestly, associating with you outside of our working relationship might give me a coronary. I’ll pass.”
~
The soft buzz of the phone in his left pocket signaled that Arthur had a message. Not unheard of, there were plenty of people who texted him. Ariadne has taken to sending him texts in the vein of ‘I really hope this guy makes his way into my subconscious. He is hilar- he just talked the conductor into letting him eat a hotdog on the train!’ or ‘This building. This. Building. C’est tres magnifique. I might cry…’
Cobb used to text him, back when it was all work and eyes on the prize. He didn’t expect any communication for the next three months as things stood; Cobb was happy and with his family, correspondence could wait.
His phone wasn’t a stranger to business texts either. If he were a ring-tone kind of man he would definitely have a special alert for the innumerable ‘Unknown number: Need a Point’ texts he’s received over the years.
Occasionally there would be the friendly reminder from his mother ‘Don’t work too much, its a hard month for a virgo.’ Or the ever so fun drunk text from a friend or fling he hadn’t quite shaken yet.
Which is why when he fishes his cell phone out of his pocket and clicks the ‘View’ button he is a bit surprised by the message he receives.
Unknown Number: what are you doing darling?
His eyes narrow as his mind helpfully supplies Eames’ voice, the rougish drawl wrapped in those syllables and rolling around languorously in his head.
Eames, how did you get this number?
Which he realizes, is really a stupid question as soon as he’s hit the Send button. Hoping that the annoying Brit might just think it too simple a question and ignore it Arthur goes to tuck the phone away in his pocket but it buzzes.
Good to know Im still the only one calling you darling. & you arent the only one who can look up information
Arthur scowled down at his phone. Of course the cocky bastard would think that. His thumbs are flying over the keys before he’s had a chance to decide exactly what he wants to say.
The only one from an unknown number. Amazing. Why would you look up my number?
When he hits Send someone jostles him and mutters out a rushed ‘keep moving asshole.’ He shoves the phone back in his pocket and keeps walking, annoyed that he had actually stopped in the middle of a sidewalk to wait for a reply.
When his pocket does vibrate he takes his time fishing it out.
To ask you what youre doing obviously
Arthur decides it must be the lack of punctuation that he finds so annoying about a textual Eames.
Getting a cup of coffee. Heading over to a new job. Nothing exciting so stop texting me.
The Send button feels vaguely final and, Arthur decides, that’s the way he wants it to be. When his phone vibrates again his hand is already in his pocket so he pulls it out and checks the message.
I dont think I will. Put me in your phone pet. & send me a msg when youre done with the job
He shakes his head at his phone as if Eames could see his refusal and shoves it back in his pocket. There’s work to be done and information to be retrieved, he doesn’t have time for Eames’ nonsense.
~
Perched on the edge of sleep Arthur could almost feel himself falling into the warm embrace of natural slumber. The soft buzz of his phone is like a marching band in a museum.
He wants to ignore it, leave it for tomorrow morning and get back to that wonderful almost sleep, perhaps even actually sleep a bit, but natural sleep is a fleeting mistress in their line of work and its all his phones fault that she’s retreated entirely. More precisely, who ever decided to text him at- the soft blue numbers on his digital clock tell him its 1:34 am.
Rolling over to snatch the phone off the bedside table he hopes whoever texted him isn’t too good of a friend because they’re going to get some decidedly unkind words in response.
You never sent me that message you promised. Are you truly that busy darling?
Eames.
The urge to throw his phone across the room is only rivaled by the intense desire to call the other and bitch him out personally. Which is strange as Arthur makes it a point to not make calls unless absolutely necessary.
I didn’t promise you anything. Do you realize what time it is? Some of us are trying to sleep.
Not quite as biting as he’d wanted, but brevity was always good at being misconstrued as annoyance so perhaps Eames would take the hint and leave him be. He set the phone back on the nightstand, assuming that would be the end of it when his phone buzzed again.
At least you put me in your mobile. Theres a good boy
Arthur had half a mind to deny this entirely but the little white letters that spelled out ‘Eames’ taunted him with the truth. He had saved Eames’ number. But not because he was told to do so, Arthur was a point man; it was his job to know things. Having Eames in his phone was just… more information.
Don’t say things like that. What do you want?
In an attempt to end the conversation Arthur cut right to the chase, needing some sleep before tomorrow- today’s job. For how speedy the other texts were, it took a moment of staring at his phone before it glowed and buzzed with Eames’ response.
Everything, darling. What do you want?
It was interesting hearing Eames’ voice, so clearly while lying in bed so late at night. He shifted, ignoring the way his stomach tensed pleasurably. There was no need to complicate their already complicated acquaintanceship. Eames was naturally sexual, overtly salacious and unapologetic with his attentions. Besides, all late night texting eventually turned sexual. It was best to just end this conversation before they became an embarrassing statistic.
I want to sleep.
The reply buzz was faster this time.
Alright darling, sweet dreams. Say hello to my projection for me.
Arthur felt a blush creeping up his neck. Yes he had a projection of Eames, but that happened when the subconscious identified a frustration in the real world and frustration was the nicest way of describing Eames. Dropping his phone onto a pillow Arthur ignores the jab; Eames was baiting him and defending himself would just mean giving Eames what he wanted.
The muffled sound of his phone buzzing against the pillow surprises him. Was Eames really this persistent?
[ Multimedia Message from Eames ]
Wondering what he could possibly need to see at- oh god, 1:52 am, Arthur clicked the View button, ready to flat out tell the other to leave him alone if this was some stupid joke.
Eames’ face glowed up at him from his phone, impossibly bright in the darkness of Arthur’s own room. There was a light on behind him that cast a glow into the hollow of his cheek, giving his face a defined look that was completely at odds with his eyes. Apparently Eames slept sans shirt. He was lying down on what looked like a green comforter with a yellow box pattern and a black lab? Since when did Eames have a dog?
Arthur tried to focus on puzzling out where this dog had come from and how he hadn’t had any idea that Eames owned a pet but his eyes kept seeking out Eames’ own. The way he looked at the camera was like he could see straight through Arthur’s phone, could tell that he was drinking in every detail, and was perfectly okay with that; like he wanted him to. He looked comfortable and close, as if Arthur could reach across the bed and run his fingers along that expanse of naked flesh at his neck.
He looks away, blushing and frustrated by his reaction.
Why had Eames sent him this? What did he think he was going to do, reply back? The only picture Eames was getting back would be a picture of Arthur’s extended middle finger!
Turning his phone on silent and dimming the brightness all the way Arthur decided the best course of action would be inaction. He wouldn’t reply back and then Eames would feel ridiculous and would learn not to send random shirtless pictures that highlighted his flawless facial structure to his coworkers at 2 in the morning.
Setting the phone on his nightstand he turned his back to it and shifted until he found a comfortable position. That he hadn’t deleted the picture was as inconsequential as the image his mind conjured of Eames lying beside him as he slipped off into sleep.
~
You have competition.
Arthur hit send before he deleted or reworded the message for the hundredth time. Eames probably wouldn’t reply after all. He had never gone out of his way to text the Forger, for all he knew the other didn’t check his phone frequently or at all. The reply would probably come in an hour, or even tomorrow and then he wouldn’t have to explain-
This is rare indeed. Initiating contact & warning me of others untoward advances? Nice to know you still care pet
He had not expected such a fast response. Squelching the heat that threatened to rise in his cheeks he typed out a reply under the safety of his current employer’s conference table.
I initiate contact all the time, shut up. I meant competition in the sphere of annoying men in my life.
The (of course I care, stupid) was ultimately sacrificed to the delete key before he hit the send button.
I would if I didnt know how much more you prefer me w my mouth open. Im not the only man in your life?
The blush crept up the back of his neck, uncontrollable and fierce. He shifted in his seat, pointedly ignoring the way some of that heat curled in his belly. When he had paid enough attention to the old man droning on about how he wanted such and such to be done and what exactly he wanted extracted from the target and other details he honestly didn’t need to concern himself with, Arthur peeked under the desk to type out a reply.
I’m in a meeting, would you mind not sending me stuff like that? No, you’re not. My employer is nearly as annoying as you.
Eames’ reply was exponentially quicker.
Why? Im in a meeting and I typed it out. Unless its affecting you darling?
Arthur luckily caught the snort before he voiced it, reaching up to scratch at his cheek; small movements like that convinced people that you were paying attention.
Any meeting you’d be in is very much unlike the one I’m in currently.
Replying to the ‘affected’ jab would ensure he’d never hear the end of it, so he decided to ignore it altogether.
Oh really?
Eames couldn’t be in a meeting if he was replying this quickly. Or maybe he was. That would be just like Eames, to completely and blatantly disregard anything that didn’t attract his immediate attention.
Yes, there are no silk shirts, all cotton/polyester blends here. And all of our buttons are done.
He felt rather smug hitting the send button, ribbing Eames for his fashion sense- or lack thereof, was a favorite pastime of his.
So youre thinking about my undone buttons & the feel of my shirt while in a meeting? Positively naughty kitten, keep it up
His sharp intake of breath was followed immediately by another text.
Figuratively of course. Since you arent affected & all
If he thought his blush was going anywhere, he was very mistaken. He set his phone down on his thigh and focused on reorganizing his papers and jotting down a random set of words to keep his mind off the accusation. Was he really thinking about Eames in the boardroom of his latest employer? Imagining the stretch of smooth fabric over his shoulders, the undone buttons at his throat, the way his head tilted just enough to make the line from his jaw into his shirt seem clean and smooth; a line waiting to tested.
Arthur’s pen pressed into the paper much too forcefully. He focused on the old man’s voice; grating and clear and very, very American.
The vibration on his thigh is almost electric.
He takes his time answering it; staring blankly down at his papers, making eye contact with the employer, and pressing first his left big toe against the sole of his shoe and then his right.
Im just teasing darling. If it helps this should bore you adequately.
His text asking just what should ‘bore him adequately’ was interrupted by a buzz alerting him to a new message.
[ Multimedia Message from Eames ]
Arthur paused. The idea of opening up a picture message from Eames in the middle of the day, while at work no less, had bad idea written all over it. He wouldn’t send anything immature after they’d both established they were at work, right? The reasonable part of him insisted that Eames most definitely would but the part of him that wanted to see just what Eames thought would bore him was slightly more insistent so he clicked the View button against better judgment.
Eames was dressed in a surprisingly sober suit, a black blazer with a white shirt under it, plain but with a distinct touch of Eames in that the top buttons had been left undone and a tie completely forgotten. His hair looked wet and haphazard, like he had just come from a shower and he had entirely too much scruff to be allowed into a meeting of respectable gentlemen. Eames did not look like a gentleman with his fingers resting against raised eyebrows, his plump lips accentuated by the deep red of the wall behind him; he looked…
Arthur hit the reply button, trading Eames’ picture for less stimulating black text.
Where are you? And whom did you steal that suit from? It’s two sizes too big for you.
He couldn’t imagine what workplace would paint their walls such a color and still demand their clientele wear formal attire.
Florida. Lol I hate this old thing. Sobered you up didnt it? Not everyone can wear a suit like you dear
Knowing Eames he probably did laugh out loud. It wasn’t fair how he could throw out compliments like they were simple facts. Arthur knew that he looked good in suits; good money and a good tailor ensured that one could literally wear the fuck out of a suit, but most people wouldn’t dare comment on that fact. Common respect for personal space and the possibility of offence was enough to quell most comments. Not Eames.
Not really.
His finger hovered over the send button, willing himself to be as bold as Eames and throw out daring compliments like so many comments on the weather. Arthur breaks down and adds ‘I’m keeping this picture for blackmail. My tailor is going to have a heart attack.’
His phone vibrates in his hand.
You didnt keep the other one?
Arthur frowns. The fact that he did keep the picture from a couple nights ago burns a message into his fingertips. Telling Eames however, seems like a bad idea. Arthur’s phone saves a copy of all pictures sent to him in his pictures folder and he just hasn’t gotten around to erasing some of them. He had a picture from Yusuf of the Chemist on an ostrich- having a couple pictures of Eames wasn’t any different.
Still, he sets his phone on silent and vows to pay attention to the task at hand, not the annoying bitter aftertaste of Eames’ text.
[Part ii]
Summary: It all starts with a text message.
Rating: Nothing too racy till the later parts
Word Count: 2700/?
Beta: Unbeta'd and probs gonna stay that way. Sorry sweeties :)
Original Prompt: Written for this prompt at
and kinda fulfills this prompt as well (later on). Oh god Idek I'm just a wordy bastard.
A/N: Links to the pictures described are embedded when it says [Multimedia Message from Eames]. Why? Because its fun to feel like we're getting these texts as well~ Also, I tried really hard to keep all their "texts" within the 160 character limit. Haha, yes, I did.
“I don’t do calls, they’re too personal.”
“Well then, text me darling.”
“Honestly, associating with you outside of our working relationship might give me a coronary. I’ll pass.”
~
The soft buzz of the phone in his left pocket signaled that Arthur had a message. Not unheard of, there were plenty of people who texted him. Ariadne has taken to sending him texts in the vein of ‘I really hope this guy makes his way into my subconscious. He is hilar- he just talked the conductor into letting him eat a hotdog on the train!’ or ‘This building. This. Building. C’est tres magnifique. I might cry…’
Cobb used to text him, back when it was all work and eyes on the prize. He didn’t expect any communication for the next three months as things stood; Cobb was happy and with his family, correspondence could wait.
His phone wasn’t a stranger to business texts either. If he were a ring-tone kind of man he would definitely have a special alert for the innumerable ‘Unknown number: Need a Point’ texts he’s received over the years.
Occasionally there would be the friendly reminder from his mother ‘Don’t work too much, its a hard month for a virgo.’ Or the ever so fun drunk text from a friend or fling he hadn’t quite shaken yet.
Which is why when he fishes his cell phone out of his pocket and clicks the ‘View’ button he is a bit surprised by the message he receives.
Unknown Number: what are you doing darling?
His eyes narrow as his mind helpfully supplies Eames’ voice, the rougish drawl wrapped in those syllables and rolling around languorously in his head.
Eames, how did you get this number?
Which he realizes, is really a stupid question as soon as he’s hit the Send button. Hoping that the annoying Brit might just think it too simple a question and ignore it Arthur goes to tuck the phone away in his pocket but it buzzes.
Good to know Im still the only one calling you darling. & you arent the only one who can look up information
Arthur scowled down at his phone. Of course the cocky bastard would think that. His thumbs are flying over the keys before he’s had a chance to decide exactly what he wants to say.
The only one from an unknown number. Amazing. Why would you look up my number?
When he hits Send someone jostles him and mutters out a rushed ‘keep moving asshole.’ He shoves the phone back in his pocket and keeps walking, annoyed that he had actually stopped in the middle of a sidewalk to wait for a reply.
When his pocket does vibrate he takes his time fishing it out.
To ask you what youre doing obviously
Arthur decides it must be the lack of punctuation that he finds so annoying about a textual Eames.
Getting a cup of coffee. Heading over to a new job. Nothing exciting so stop texting me.
The Send button feels vaguely final and, Arthur decides, that’s the way he wants it to be. When his phone vibrates again his hand is already in his pocket so he pulls it out and checks the message.
I dont think I will. Put me in your phone pet. & send me a msg when youre done with the job
He shakes his head at his phone as if Eames could see his refusal and shoves it back in his pocket. There’s work to be done and information to be retrieved, he doesn’t have time for Eames’ nonsense.
~
Perched on the edge of sleep Arthur could almost feel himself falling into the warm embrace of natural slumber. The soft buzz of his phone is like a marching band in a museum.
He wants to ignore it, leave it for tomorrow morning and get back to that wonderful almost sleep, perhaps even actually sleep a bit, but natural sleep is a fleeting mistress in their line of work and its all his phones fault that she’s retreated entirely. More precisely, who ever decided to text him at- the soft blue numbers on his digital clock tell him its 1:34 am.
Rolling over to snatch the phone off the bedside table he hopes whoever texted him isn’t too good of a friend because they’re going to get some decidedly unkind words in response.
You never sent me that message you promised. Are you truly that busy darling?
Eames.
The urge to throw his phone across the room is only rivaled by the intense desire to call the other and bitch him out personally. Which is strange as Arthur makes it a point to not make calls unless absolutely necessary.
I didn’t promise you anything. Do you realize what time it is? Some of us are trying to sleep.
Not quite as biting as he’d wanted, but brevity was always good at being misconstrued as annoyance so perhaps Eames would take the hint and leave him be. He set the phone back on the nightstand, assuming that would be the end of it when his phone buzzed again.
At least you put me in your mobile. Theres a good boy
Arthur had half a mind to deny this entirely but the little white letters that spelled out ‘Eames’ taunted him with the truth. He had saved Eames’ number. But not because he was told to do so, Arthur was a point man; it was his job to know things. Having Eames in his phone was just… more information.
Don’t say things like that. What do you want?
In an attempt to end the conversation Arthur cut right to the chase, needing some sleep before tomorrow- today’s job. For how speedy the other texts were, it took a moment of staring at his phone before it glowed and buzzed with Eames’ response.
Everything, darling. What do you want?
It was interesting hearing Eames’ voice, so clearly while lying in bed so late at night. He shifted, ignoring the way his stomach tensed pleasurably. There was no need to complicate their already complicated acquaintanceship. Eames was naturally sexual, overtly salacious and unapologetic with his attentions. Besides, all late night texting eventually turned sexual. It was best to just end this conversation before they became an embarrassing statistic.
I want to sleep.
The reply buzz was faster this time.
Alright darling, sweet dreams. Say hello to my projection for me.
Arthur felt a blush creeping up his neck. Yes he had a projection of Eames, but that happened when the subconscious identified a frustration in the real world and frustration was the nicest way of describing Eames. Dropping his phone onto a pillow Arthur ignores the jab; Eames was baiting him and defending himself would just mean giving Eames what he wanted.
The muffled sound of his phone buzzing against the pillow surprises him. Was Eames really this persistent?
[ Multimedia Message from Eames ]
Wondering what he could possibly need to see at- oh god, 1:52 am, Arthur clicked the View button, ready to flat out tell the other to leave him alone if this was some stupid joke.
Eames’ face glowed up at him from his phone, impossibly bright in the darkness of Arthur’s own room. There was a light on behind him that cast a glow into the hollow of his cheek, giving his face a defined look that was completely at odds with his eyes. Apparently Eames slept sans shirt. He was lying down on what looked like a green comforter with a yellow box pattern and a black lab? Since when did Eames have a dog?
Arthur tried to focus on puzzling out where this dog had come from and how he hadn’t had any idea that Eames owned a pet but his eyes kept seeking out Eames’ own. The way he looked at the camera was like he could see straight through Arthur’s phone, could tell that he was drinking in every detail, and was perfectly okay with that; like he wanted him to. He looked comfortable and close, as if Arthur could reach across the bed and run his fingers along that expanse of naked flesh at his neck.
He looks away, blushing and frustrated by his reaction.
Why had Eames sent him this? What did he think he was going to do, reply back? The only picture Eames was getting back would be a picture of Arthur’s extended middle finger!
Turning his phone on silent and dimming the brightness all the way Arthur decided the best course of action would be inaction. He wouldn’t reply back and then Eames would feel ridiculous and would learn not to send random shirtless pictures that highlighted his flawless facial structure to his coworkers at 2 in the morning.
Setting the phone on his nightstand he turned his back to it and shifted until he found a comfortable position. That he hadn’t deleted the picture was as inconsequential as the image his mind conjured of Eames lying beside him as he slipped off into sleep.
~
You have competition.
Arthur hit send before he deleted or reworded the message for the hundredth time. Eames probably wouldn’t reply after all. He had never gone out of his way to text the Forger, for all he knew the other didn’t check his phone frequently or at all. The reply would probably come in an hour, or even tomorrow and then he wouldn’t have to explain-
This is rare indeed. Initiating contact & warning me of others untoward advances? Nice to know you still care pet
He had not expected such a fast response. Squelching the heat that threatened to rise in his cheeks he typed out a reply under the safety of his current employer’s conference table.
I initiate contact all the time, shut up. I meant competition in the sphere of annoying men in my life.
The (of course I care, stupid) was ultimately sacrificed to the delete key before he hit the send button.
I would if I didnt know how much more you prefer me w my mouth open. Im not the only man in your life?
The blush crept up the back of his neck, uncontrollable and fierce. He shifted in his seat, pointedly ignoring the way some of that heat curled in his belly. When he had paid enough attention to the old man droning on about how he wanted such and such to be done and what exactly he wanted extracted from the target and other details he honestly didn’t need to concern himself with, Arthur peeked under the desk to type out a reply.
I’m in a meeting, would you mind not sending me stuff like that? No, you’re not. My employer is nearly as annoying as you.
Eames’ reply was exponentially quicker.
Why? Im in a meeting and I typed it out. Unless its affecting you darling?
Arthur luckily caught the snort before he voiced it, reaching up to scratch at his cheek; small movements like that convinced people that you were paying attention.
Any meeting you’d be in is very much unlike the one I’m in currently.
Replying to the ‘affected’ jab would ensure he’d never hear the end of it, so he decided to ignore it altogether.
Oh really?
Eames couldn’t be in a meeting if he was replying this quickly. Or maybe he was. That would be just like Eames, to completely and blatantly disregard anything that didn’t attract his immediate attention.
Yes, there are no silk shirts, all cotton/polyester blends here. And all of our buttons are done.
He felt rather smug hitting the send button, ribbing Eames for his fashion sense- or lack thereof, was a favorite pastime of his.
So youre thinking about my undone buttons & the feel of my shirt while in a meeting? Positively naughty kitten, keep it up
His sharp intake of breath was followed immediately by another text.
Figuratively of course. Since you arent affected & all
If he thought his blush was going anywhere, he was very mistaken. He set his phone down on his thigh and focused on reorganizing his papers and jotting down a random set of words to keep his mind off the accusation. Was he really thinking about Eames in the boardroom of his latest employer? Imagining the stretch of smooth fabric over his shoulders, the undone buttons at his throat, the way his head tilted just enough to make the line from his jaw into his shirt seem clean and smooth; a line waiting to tested.
Arthur’s pen pressed into the paper much too forcefully. He focused on the old man’s voice; grating and clear and very, very American.
The vibration on his thigh is almost electric.
He takes his time answering it; staring blankly down at his papers, making eye contact with the employer, and pressing first his left big toe against the sole of his shoe and then his right.
Im just teasing darling. If it helps this should bore you adequately.
His text asking just what should ‘bore him adequately’ was interrupted by a buzz alerting him to a new message.
[ Multimedia Message from Eames ]
Arthur paused. The idea of opening up a picture message from Eames in the middle of the day, while at work no less, had bad idea written all over it. He wouldn’t send anything immature after they’d both established they were at work, right? The reasonable part of him insisted that Eames most definitely would but the part of him that wanted to see just what Eames thought would bore him was slightly more insistent so he clicked the View button against better judgment.
Eames was dressed in a surprisingly sober suit, a black blazer with a white shirt under it, plain but with a distinct touch of Eames in that the top buttons had been left undone and a tie completely forgotten. His hair looked wet and haphazard, like he had just come from a shower and he had entirely too much scruff to be allowed into a meeting of respectable gentlemen. Eames did not look like a gentleman with his fingers resting against raised eyebrows, his plump lips accentuated by the deep red of the wall behind him; he looked…
Arthur hit the reply button, trading Eames’ picture for less stimulating black text.
Where are you? And whom did you steal that suit from? It’s two sizes too big for you.
He couldn’t imagine what workplace would paint their walls such a color and still demand their clientele wear formal attire.
Florida. Lol I hate this old thing. Sobered you up didnt it? Not everyone can wear a suit like you dear
Knowing Eames he probably did laugh out loud. It wasn’t fair how he could throw out compliments like they were simple facts. Arthur knew that he looked good in suits; good money and a good tailor ensured that one could literally wear the fuck out of a suit, but most people wouldn’t dare comment on that fact. Common respect for personal space and the possibility of offence was enough to quell most comments. Not Eames.
Not really.
His finger hovered over the send button, willing himself to be as bold as Eames and throw out daring compliments like so many comments on the weather. Arthur breaks down and adds ‘I’m keeping this picture for blackmail. My tailor is going to have a heart attack.’
His phone vibrates in his hand.
You didnt keep the other one?
Arthur frowns. The fact that he did keep the picture from a couple nights ago burns a message into his fingertips. Telling Eames however, seems like a bad idea. Arthur’s phone saves a copy of all pictures sent to him in his pictures folder and he just hasn’t gotten around to erasing some of them. He had a picture from Yusuf of the Chemist on an ostrich- having a couple pictures of Eames wasn’t any different.
Still, he sets his phone on silent and vows to pay attention to the task at hand, not the annoying bitter aftertaste of Eames’ text.
[Part ii]