It had been stupid.
Eames felt sweat trickle from his hairline down to his neck, traveling a quick path from there into his white undershirt, jumpsuit unzipped and rucked around his waist as he lifted the weights in the exercise room. The careful eyes of the guard from the doorway followed him the whole time, and Eames didn't heckle him right now,
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But Eames didn't care. He'd been told about this prisoner - Arthur, slim and untouchable, whom had no qualms about killing a man his first day here, and killing new arrivals who didn't have the time to hear his story when they saw him.
Eames had noticed him, once or twice. Usually, he left the other man alone, liking his dick where he had it. But now, the young man (and he was younger than Eames' thirty) was watching him, and Eames ran a hand through too-short hair before he spoke.
"Something I can help you with, darling?"
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He didn't have any intention of killing the older man. Yet. Most times Arthur at least needed some kind of reason for exerting the energy and effort that it took to kill (and felt it was worth the time he would spend in solitaire for it).
So far, he was just wanting to watch. That's all.
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So, flicking a glance to the guard and shrugging, he moved to another machine, this one for his legs. Bending and unbending his leg, he spoke again after a few minutes.
"Give a man all sorts of ideas just sitting there and staring at him," He said conversationally.
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