Plenty Of Good Thieves - 2
Feb. 28th, 2011 08:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tabi_essentiallySome quick notes! Real life handed me a plate of steaming hot doodoo this week, with best friend in the hospital, boyfriend's dad in the hospital, and family member in the hospital very ill. I'm very sorry for the wait. However, fandom and writing are two things that relax me and get my mind off things. So even if it takes me longer than usual, I will be here, writing and updating.
That said, updates on this one will probably take longer than they have in the past. This is mainly because it takes me a while to tally up some of the suggestions and write them in. :D I do most of my writing in my head while I'm bored at work, then come home and type them up. With suggestions to work in, it could take a while. ^_^
(Oh! And I know, I've got to repost Something Like, I will try to remember to do that. So sorry!)
So here's how we ended up:
The train:
Trans Siberian – 7 votes
Italy – 5 votes
Trans Siberian it is!
A few people were for a spooky face outside the window, even a bloody face. Creepy! One vote for Arthur to have a nightmare, two votes for Eames.
Here are some suggestions that I received. If they haven't gone into this chapter, I'm still going to try to get them into a later chapter. :D Sometimes I might have to stretch it out a bit. I'm going to try to get a little something for everyone. These suggestions are really cool!
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
twilightthief - Maybe one of the train operators/workers like opening their pocket watch?
gelbwax AND mydeerfriend - I would like to see AND hear a golden eagle, because those things are badass and scary. (Question: Sorry if this sounds dumb, but are we talking about a golden eagle bird of prey, golden eagle touring train, which they are actually on, or a golden eagle shotgun? ^_^ )
astheytick - Arthur says to Eames "Just wait. Wait for me."
mydeerfriend AND Ectotherm!Arthur being warmed up by Eames
orion_nightbane - people lurking outside their door would be interesting?
towel_master I'd also maybe like to see sponge-Eames getting bored/impatient on the train and Arthur cheering him back up.
twisted_ream there's this huge spider on eames' back and he can't get it off and arthur just laughs
skyvehicle Arthur leaning over the top bunk to talk to Eames below.
french_noodles blood spattered flowers
efcia a broken mirror, possibly a small one. I can see the shattered glass, maybe even a small amount of blood on them?
sweetsigh What I want Arthur to ask Eames: "Get me some of those kitties damn truffles before I shoot your foot"
Because I love chocolate.
** ** ** **
** ** ** **
Chapter Two: Sixes, Sevens and Nines
Arthur liked it, the steady thrum of rails under the floor, the background noise of the engine, the occasional whistle. The room had a CD/DVD player and there was a place to rent movies, and maybe later they would rent some Russian film (or Arthur would download one and then burn it,) but for the most part, he was happy with the drone of the train. He liked white noise. It soothed him.
It took him about thirty seconds to style his hair back away from his face. He'd done it like that for years, because it was just easier to work, to see on all sides. He could admit to himself that for the first few years, he'd done so that because it was how Cobb wore his hair when he was working.
Behind him, Arthur could see Eames in the mirror, fastening his own cufflinks. He looked good in dark blue. ("PROPER DRESS" the sign on the door to one of the many restaurant cars had read.) Eames was clearly dressing to blend in tonight, which meant that he had something in mind that went beyond having dinner in the awesome looking dining car, and then going for a few card games. He smiled. Not even their first night, and Eames had already started. Arthur watched his hands as he pulled the cuffs of his shirt. They were large hands, but his fingers were quick, even quicker than Arthur's. He even typed fast.
"I looked at the menu," Eames said. "Needless to say, I'm very excited. The desserts looked amazing. There was one... What?" He looked up into the mirror and saw Arthur staring. He peered closer at his own reflection, trying to see if something was amiss.
"Nothing," Arthur said. "I just think you look good."
Eames smiled at him. "Thank you."
"I looked up the menu online last week," Arthur said. "Looks pretty good. What time is it?"
"Five thirty. Our reservation is six."
"Let's have a look around first," Arthur said.
He took a last glance in the mirror then let Eames edge past him (okay, this room was cool, but it was fucking tiny and were they really both going to fit in here for the duration of the trip?) Arthur followed, and Eames made to slide the door closed behind him, but Arthur stopped it with his hand.
Before the door slid shut, he reached back into the inside of the cabin and pressed a button on the tiny, silent alarm he'd rigged across the door. It was a beam of light across the floor. If broken by someone going into their room, then his cell phone would ring. When he picked it up, it would link to a camera he had installed in the ceiling. He was prepared for attendants to come in and clean, make up the beds and that sort of thing. But you couldn't be too careful.
Eames looked over his shoulder. "The cell phone trick?"
"It's one of my best."
"A work of art," Eames said.
Arthur closed and locked the door, and they were on their way.
The noise outside of the compartment was less pleasant, but he could get used to anything. Crowds didn't present him with any problems unless he was already in a really bad mood. It was the first day of the trip and everyone was loud, boisterous, and still annoyed almost to the point of frenzy. They chattered, bickered, shoved and huffed as they tried to find their places, where they belonged in some status circle that Arthur had never understood. Who had the better things, and who showed them off to the greatest advantage – that seemed to be part of the contest. Arthur didn't get it, but Eames did. Well, Eames got most of what people were going on about, most of the time anyway. But he also understood the money/status thing. He didn't take part in it, but his family might have, back when Eames was young, before he'd left that behind.
Now, though, the preening that these men and women were doing only presented them with opportunities. They flashed their goods like whores. And neither Eames nor Arthur liked paying for things when they didn't have to.
The cars of the train were plush, almost to the point of ridiculousness. The walkways were tight though. When people shoved at them, usually Eames would do a bit of "oh, beg pardon," as he slipped his hands into pockets, purses, jackets, even holsters.
But tonight, he just looked annoyed when people got in his space. Arthur understood this, too. This was Eames wanting to be in a bubble. He could be very fussy like that, almost withdrawn. It had taken Arthur years to be allowed inside that space when Eames was like this. Eames would probably have a headache later, one which he would bitch about and generously share with Arthur if he didn't defuse this now.
He placed his hand on the arch of Eames's low back – not solicitous, just present. When Eames looked over his shoulder at him, Arthur just smiled. I get it. Chill.
Eames took a deep breath and released it, letting some of the tension drain from his back.
They turned to move forward again, but their path was blocked by a tall, blond man. He was of some indeterminable age between the 30s and 40s, with eyes so light blue that Arthur had to stare for a moment. They were large, too, and luminous. His clothes were similar to Arthur's, he was annoyed to note: tailored and classic. He doesn't have a hat, though, Arthur thought, ridiculously. His dislike was immediate.
It may have been because of the way this guy was eyeing Eames so blatantly, but probably not. People gawked at Eames all the time and it never bothered him. But this guy had actually blocked their path and was now just staring, those big, shining eyes surprised and clearly interested.
"Oh, my," the man said.
Really? Arthur thought. Because, how rude was that? Just going up to someone and deciding it was all right to let them know you wanted into their pants, without even finding out first if... Of course, that was more or less what Arthur had done, years ago when he'd first met Eames, too.
And he was being stupid, because it wasn't as if there was any possibility that Eames would be - he wasn't going to use the word "unfaithful" because there had never been any vow of "faith" between them. On the battlefield, yes, but not sexually, and there never would be.
Still, Arthur found himself pushing in front of Eames to take the lead, effectively blocking this guy's view by putting himself between them.
"Excuse me," Arthur said.
"Of course," the man answered. His voice was low, almost a whisper. Then he eyed Arthur, a clearly appraising look. He very obviously decided, Not bad, then dismissed him with a glance past him, again at Eames.
Arthur felt like if he had hackles, they would be up. It wasn't jealousy or possessiveness or anything like that, either. This creep, his blue eyes gave Arthur the heebie-jeebies, there was no other explanation. And if he kept gawking like that, he was going to get a punch on the beezer. Arthur didn't like people staring at either of them for too long. It set his teeth on edge and made him feel like they were being made.
"Let's go, darling," Eames said, now putting his hand on Arthur's back. "Excuse us, please," he said to the staring guy.
Finally, the man stepped aside. With a sweeping gesture, he allowed them to pass.
Allowed them.
Arthur fought the urge to go back there and and show Staring Guy just how he felt about being allowed to pass. No one gave Arthur permission to do anything, not when he wasn't working for them, anyway.
When they got to the restaurant car, they were taken in about fifteen minutes early and ushered to two red, plush seats opposite each other – a booth with a small table between them. They huddled into the seats.
"What the fuck was that guy's problem?" Arthur asked. He grabbed at a piece of bread and buttered it.
Eames tried valiantly not to grin, but failed. Arthur was going to punch him later, maybe. Then he reached into his pocket and drew out a bill. "All he had was a ten. American money, no less. Hardly worth allowing him to eye-fuck me."
"Seriously?" Arthur asked. Because Eames hadn't allowed that – the guy had just done it.
"He was just looking," Eames said.
"Well it felt like a grift."
"You're paranoid."
"It's my job to be paranoid."
"Is it so far fetched that someone would want to look me over? Of course I'm not the handsome conman I was back in the day, but I'm only young, still, and I like to think that..."
"You're ridiculously attractive, that's not even up for debate. And yeah, he was checking you out. That happens all the time. But I got a feeling off him that I didn't like."
"Why are you so mean to your food?" Eames asked. "I've never seen anyone butter bread with such aggression. Control your testosterone."
Arthur narrowed his eyes and dipped the buttered bread into olive oil before taking a bite. It was fresh and warm. "This is delicious," he said. It came out sounding like an insult, which he didn't mean.
"Arthur," Eames said. He was still smiling. "Are you j--"
"Don't." He pointed his bread at Eames. "Don't even fucking say the word. You know I'm not. I just know a creep when I see one."
"I'll steal something else from him and give it to you," Eames said.
"Don't bother. I feel like it would be more trouble that it's worth."
Eames let the subject drop, which Arthur took to mean that he would go out of his way to prove him wrong anyway. When it came time to order, Eames asked for Rassolnik, in perfect Russian. Eames knew a little bit of most languages, often enough to get by. Arthur knew more useful words and phrases than Eames did, but he never got the accents right. He ordered the potato and mushroom dish in Russian anyway.
"I do speak English, you know," the waiter said, with a British accent.
"We're practicing," Eames told him.
When the food arrived, Arthur raised his glass and said, "Na zdarOv’y" – "enjoy" – and Eames didn't correct his accent. The food was so good that Arthur almost – almost, but not quite – forgot about Staring Guy. He ate everything, quickly, the way he usually did, while Eames ate slowly, talking endlessly about Russia, trains, the last time he was here and what happened, history, Catherine the Great, cuisine, and whatever else occurred to him. Arthur listened, asking questions now and then, and feeling satisfied and strangely enlightened.
"Good god," Eames said later, as they were finishing dessert, "this was such a good idea. I might never go back to eating regular food again. Perhaps I'll live here."
"It's too cold," Arthur said.
"You've survived worse."
"Not by choice. But I agree, this was a great idea."
Post-dinner, the crowd seemed to have settled down. Sometimes, Arthur mused, all it took was the basic assurance of food and comfort to turn people human again. He felt relaxed and decided to let his guard drop, just a little. Nothing terrible was going to happen on this train. To constantly live in that kind of suspense was not only wasteful, it was unhealthy. It had taken him years to learn how to turn that off, but these days, he could if he concentrated enough. "Shell-shock," they used to call it in the early days. Well, he had finally gotten over his, and he knew how to not be like that.
This trip was going to be interesting. Not dangerous, just interesting. He was sure of it.
** ** ** **
There was a lounge, of course, and Eames seemed to find it by sense rather than by looking at directions. It was as if he could hear the shuffling of cards and the exchange of tokens.
In the lounge, again there were red seats, and half-circle tables as well as one-on-one, private tables. Arthur didn't have a deck of cards, but he would bet that Eames did. The first time they'd ridden the train together, Eames had entertained (and occasionally annoyed) him with card games. He thought of it fondly. Tonight, they'd sit on the train and play cards again, like they had the first time. Maybe it would be fun if they played for truthful answers, the way they had back then. But on the other hand, by now he probably didn't have any secrets, and neither did Eames. He wondered if he could think of anything he'd really like to know, that he didn't already.
He never got the chance to, though, and he wasn't entirely surprised to see the blue-eyed man staring once again at Eames from a table on the other side of the car. Staring Guy was surrounded by others, all playing a card game. He beckoned Eames over to him. Arthur felt all of his alerts instantly re-engage.
Eames smiled and declined with a polite wave of his hand.
But then Staring Guy rose from his table and and seemed to glide over to them. Eames stood in front of Arthur, as if to prevent him from doing something ridiculous, which was insulting.
"Hello there," the man said. His accent was British, similar to Eames's real one. He looked only at Eames when he spoke. "Terribly sorry for having been in your path earlier. Very clumsy, I'm afraid."
Arthur didn't buy this for a minute. The man offered his hand to Eames. "Jack St. John Dinclusin," he said. He pronounced 'St. John' as 'Sinjin.' "'Jack' will do."
"No problem, mate," Eames said, shaking his hand. "Thomas Eames. Cambridge I think?"
"Very good," Jack said. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Eames."
Eames didn't tell him to call him Tommy, which made Arthur smile. "This is Arthur," he said, standing aside.
"Hey," Arthur said, and he shook Jack's hand, which was was colder than his own.
"A pleasure, Arthur," he said. "California, I believe?"
Arthur drew his hand back. "You got that from one word?"
"I'm a bit of a linguist," Jack said. "And an America-phile, to be honest. I love the west coast."
"I see," Arthur said.
"Well, listen," Jack said, now focusing again on Eames, "we've got one spot left at our table that needs filling. Either of you interested?"
"We're a bit tired," Eames said.
"Please, we insist on one game. We'll buy you a round."
Arthur knew that Eames was going to say yes. He was still going to try to glaum something off this guy, and maybe even his gang at the table. He'd said he would, and against Arthur's warnings to let it go, he probably felt like he had to. Arthur looked them over, the group at the half-circle table. Three men and one woman, all in their thirties or maybe forties. They were all dressed sharp, like he was. The woman was blond, with neatly gelled, short hair and cool, blue eyes. They were all attractive. Eames actually looked as if he belonged with them.
"Go on," Arthur said, before Eames had the chance to make it awkward by asking him if it was all right. "I'm gonna get a drink, okay?" He wasn't, or at least not one with alcohol. He tried to put a warning into his eyes: Don't fuck with these people, I sense trouble. But Eames already knew what he thought.
"It'll be a quick game, Arthur," Eames said. And with that, he headed over to the table. They were boisterous when they all introduced themselves, as if it were some sort of reunion. Well, they were all from around the same area, and had that much in common, so it wasn't surprising.
He took a seat not at the bar, but next to it, where he could take covert glances over at the table.
His view was soon blocked, however, by a bored looking teenage girl, who seated herself in his line of vision and started listlessly shuffling a deck of cards. She looked to be about fifteen, with lank, brown hair and an obviously indecorous Pokemon keychain attached to her belt. She looked as out of place as Arthur suddenly felt. And Arthur never felt out of place, not anywhere, and not in any situation. He scanned the room for her parents and found them quickly because the father kept glancing over at her. He looked both watchful and disapproving, the way most fathers did at their recalcitrant teenage daughters. They were at a different table. The mother seemed to be discussing her, judging by her whispers to her cohorts, and glances at the girl.
"I like your hat," the girl said to him.
"Huh?" Arthur was surprised to see her now sitting across from him at the small table.
"Your hat. It's cool. You look like James Cagney."
"No I don't. He was blond. But thanks."
She shrugged.
"You look bored," Arthur said.
She rolled her eyes. "As you can probably guess, this trip was not my idea."
"It's really interesting, if you give it a chance," he said.
"Whatever," she answered. "I saw your boyfriend ditch you. Ouch."
Arthur laughed – there was no other reaction he could think of. "He's not my boyfriend, Christ. I'm thirty-three. We work together."
"Uh huh, that's why you were all handsy with him earlier."
Arthur dismissed this without a response. "They're just being British together, over there."
"I know. My Mom's British. She's a bitch, though."
"You shouldn't say that about your Mom," Arthur said. He re-thought. When had he started sounding like this? "Scratch that. My Mom was a bitch, too. Well, when she cared enough to make the effort."
"Wah-hah," the girl said, mocking. "Anyways, I'm Michelle."
"Arthur."
"Yeah, I got that."
"Nothing gets past you," Arthur said.
"Nope."
He watched her shuffle the cards. Took a glance over at Eames, who was doing his "lose on purpose while I siphon your money" thing. Something tightened in Arthur's chest. It wasn't going to work.
"You play cards?" Arthur asked Michelle.
"No. I just like to shuffle them."
"You must at least know how to play War."
"Mankind is born knowing how to play war." She looked him in the eye, going for a hard, weary look that she failed at miserably, and he hoped she would continue to fail at. She reminded him of Ariadne.
"That's very profound," he said, lightly mocking her in return. "Come on, let's play. I need to keep looking over your shoulder at that table."
"You think he's gonna cheat on you with that hot guy?" she said.
"No," Arthur said. "That's the least of my worries."
"Something else weird is going on, then," she said. "This whole thing gives me a weird vibe."
He had to agree with her on that.
** ** ** **
Eames glanced at Arthur for what felt like the thousandth time that night. His little, adolescent card-playing partner had long since run off to play with her own portable video game system. Eames had watched Arthur play War with her a few times, and then attempt to teach her Bridge and Rummy. He also saw that Arthur was watching his table carefully. Not watching him, but watching the others, and making mental notes for future reference. His alerts were on high. Eames could almost see lights blinking in the computer of his head. It was not the first time that he had likened Arthur to a robot of some sort.
But Eames had this; he had these people figured out. Jack Dinclusin, Kenzie and Giles Fenderlyn, and the woman, Ann Dromalius. They were Society, as his parents had been, and as his siblings still were, for all he knew. He was familiar with this sort of person.
Jack sat next to him the entire time. Eames could feel his eyes on him once in a while. It didn't make him uncomfortable, being watched, because he could shift to being what he wanted the other person to see, with ease. Right now, he was the affable English guy, everyone's mate, harmless, charming, funny, good at the game but not too good.
It wasn't a quick game, as Eames had said it would be. But then, none of these games ever were. It was midnight by the time they wrapped up, and noisy as hell when they were saying good night. Over the din, and over the heads of the others, he saw Arthur stand up, frowning as he did when something had surprised him. Then he saw Arthur grab for his phone as if he were going for a gun. Eames's hand moved reflexively to where he was not carrying a gun, either, before he could stop it. He tucked it back down at his side.
Arthur didn't answer the phone, he just looked at it.
"Well then," Jack said, "quite a good game, Mr. Eames."
"Yes, yes," Eames said. "Good game." Jack was searching his face, trying to make eye contact. "I'm sorry mate, looks like I've got to run. Arthur's just heard from his Mum; his Dad's been ill."
"Oh, so sorry," Jack said. He stared at Eames as he said it, forcing him to meet his eyes. Jack's look stated clearly that he knew this was a lie. He looked blank, almost. Lids too wide around the irises, and for a moment, predatory.
Eames shuttered himself away behind a wall. "Good night," he said, pointedly, and moved past him.
Arthur was still staring at the screen on his phone when Eames got to him. If anyone had been trying to take something from them, Arthur would not still be standing here.
"What is it?" Eames asked.
Arthur tilted the phone towards him.
One of the staff was closing the door behind him as he left the room. The only thing that was out of place was the vase of flowers now sat on the bedside table. He frowned at Arthur, who said nothing as he tucked his phone away.
They quickly made their way back to their compartment. Once inside, they stood side by side, staring at the bouquet of flowers on the table. Pink and white carnations, mostly.
"Maybe all rooms get flowers," Eames said.
Arthur glared at him, then went back to looking at the flowers.
"Well," Eames said, "it's not like it's a bad thing. It's not a bomb or anything."
At that, Arthur moved closer to the vase, cautious and slow. Eames couldn't honestly believe that there would be a bomb hidden inside the flowers, but he had obviously given Arthur the idea. The vase was clear, where would anyone hide a bomb in a glass vase. It would take expertise and technology that neither of them possessed, and if someone wanted them dead, there were easier ways.
Arthur didn't move the vase. Instead, he took something out of his bag of toys; a compact, hand-held trace detector. He scanned it over the tops of the flowers. Nothing showed up. He tucked it away again.
"If someone sent you flowers," Arthur said, "then they know what room we're in."
"How do you know they're for me?" Eames said. "Maybe they're for you, darling. Or both of us."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Well. At any rate, it looks like the most dangerous thing on here is pollen. Probably pretty safe. Weird, though. Did that Jack guy send it, maybe?"
"I don't see how he could have. He was sat at the table the whole night, he never had the chance."
Arthur nodded. He looked strangely tired, more so than usual. Eames reasoned that Arthur had had a longer fight than he'd had, earlier. Of course he was exhausted.
"Why don't you see if the shower is free, so you can get to bed?" Eames said. "We share it with the next room, but there's only one person staying in there. I'll go later, yeah?"
Arthur nodded, and started going through his suitcase, looking for pajamas. There was a weary set to his shoulders.
"Oh, I nearly forgot," Eames said. He pulled Arthur backwards by his beltloops and set him down on the lower bed, next to him. "I nicked this for you." He dug into his pocket.
"Not off those people, I hope," Arthur said.
"No. You asked me not to, Arthur. I took your advice, as I often do." Arthur smiled. "No, I got this off one of the conductors."
"Jesus, Eames." Arthur sounded exasperated, but he was still smiling.
Eames pulled out a gold pocketwatch with a train etched into the front. "It's not a sentimental thing, they all carry them. And it probably doesn't have much value and perhaps you can buy them at a gift shop. But I thought it suited you."
Arthur took it and clicked it open. The numbers were big and fancy, and he ran his finger across the glass face of it. "It's really cool," he said. "Thanks, Eames."
"My pleasure." Which he meant, because he always got a kick out of stealing, and he always got a kick out of giving Arthur interesting things, too. "I get head for this, right?" he said, before it got too serious.
Arthur laughed softly. "Sure. Later, though, okay?"
"Later," Eames agreed.
** ** ** **
Later, though, Eames simply returned from the semi-communal shower to find Arthur already in the top bunk, lit only by a hand held game system on pause. He was fast asleep. The music kept playing, strangely lush over the sound of the train.
Eames shook him awake. "Your batteries are going to die," he said.
Arthur woke instantly, as he always did. "Hmm? Oh. Batteries are a thing of the past. But thanks." He shut down the system and tucked it into a small carrying case.
Eames was so fond of him sometimes.
"Oh, wait. Before you fall asleep." Arthur swung his legs over the edge of his bunk and jumped down.
"I was kidding about giving me head. If you're too tired, I mean."
"I got you something, too, while you were in the shower. And by 'got' I mean 'stole.' Umm." He took something from one of the compartments. "It's not as daring as yours, but you're a better thief than I am. It's just little. I got it off the cart." He held out a box of gourmet chocolate truffles. An easier grab, by far, but probably worth more than the pocketwatch that Eames had stolen.
"My goodness," Eames said.
"You shouldn't have one before bed, though." He yawned. "It'll keep you awake."
"Perhaps," Eames said, but opened one anyway and bit into it. It was delicious, the darkest of dark chocolate that he loved. "Jesus. This might be better than head."
"I'm this close to agreeing with you," Arthur said. He watched Eames eat it as if he couldn't look away. When he licked his own lips, it seemed an unconscious gesture. Then he pulled himself into the top bunk without using the ladder. He fussed around with the blankets for a few seconds before leaning back over and peering to the bottom bed. "Good night, Mr. Eames," he said.
Eames reached up and awkwardly cupped his chin. There's no one like you, he wanted to say, and there isn't even a close second, but he refrained. There was no need for that sort of thing. Instead he just said, "Good night," and released him.
Arthur smiled, or rather smirked, slightly wry. Then he went back into the top bed and settled in.
A few minutes later, Eames turned off the light.
** ** ** **
The scent of carnations followed him into the dark. His mum had loved those. He hadn't smelled them before, though; when he'd shut the light earlier, the flowers had just smelled chilled and slightly planty-y.
Eames turned on the small light above his bed. Arthur didn't stir. He was glad; he didn't want to wake him.
The carnations that had been white and pink were now speckled red. They hadn't been before; Eames noticed things like this. He had to, because he observed for a living and often to save his life. He would have seen red-spotted flowers instead of white or pink ones.
He reached over to the bedside table and touched one of them. The red flecks were warm, and smeared down the petals when he prodded them. He drew his finger back and decided to wake Arthur.
Before he could, he saw the man staring into the window beside his bed. It was dark, the background was moving, he couldn't make out any features other than the mouth. The mouth was white with teeth, and stretched wide. Too wide to be normal or even possible.
Eames flung himself out of the bed and scrambled for his gun, on the small dining table under the DVD player. He grabbed it and pressed his back against the door, staring at the window.
The face was gone.
"What is it?" Arthur asked, awake and alert. He swung down from the bed and had his Glock in hand before he even got to where Eames was crouching.
"The window," Eames said. He was panting hard, he felt hot, sweaty and trembly. Because, how the fuck did something get outside the window? The train was moving; he could feel it. He could still hear it.
He reached for the poker chip in the pocket sewn into his pajama bottoms. He felt the weight of it, the familiar wear of the letters.
Reality.
Still, he looked to Arthur.
"We're awake," Arthur said, and reached for his own totem. He drew it out of his own pocket and tossed it three times onto the floor. It landed on three each time.
Eames didn't know if he felt relieved or not. There had been no moment of waking, no shift from the dream to reality that he was aware of.
"You dreamed of someone at the window?" Arthur asked.
Eames nodded. He rubbed his face and scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Yeah. First nightmare I've had in years, really. Well, first one that actually worked like one of those nightmares where you think you're awake. What I mean is..."
"Not lucid," Arthur finished for him. "A natural dream, no outside awareness."
"Just so," Eames said.
"What did they look like? At the window, I mean."
"Didn't see his face, really. Just a person standing there. And blood, too. Not at the window, but on the flowers." He inhaled to see if he could still smell them like he had in the dream. He couldn't.
He felt utterly stupid. Professional dreamer, having nightmares like a little kid, faces outside the window of a train for fuck's sake. He laughed a little. Arthur smiled and stood up, offering Eames his hand. Eames allowed himself to be pulled up, even though it wasn't necessary.
"Told you to hold off on the chocolate," Arthur said.
Eames glanced at the clock. He'd only been asleep for thirty minutes. Arthur vaulted himself into his top bed again, and Eames sank back into his. He felt exhausted now, but unsettled.
Arthur peered down over the edge of his bed again. "You all right, though?"
"In perfect order," Eames assured him. "Just unused to my own level of amateurishness and slightly disappointed in myself."
"You look unsettled," Arthur observed.
"I'm fine. Really. Get some sleep."
Arthur nodded, still slightly dubious. "Well," he said, "you know. I'm right up here if you need anything."
Eames acknowledged him with a nod and made a decent show of settling back into his bed and appearing comfortable. Arthur watched him for a few more seconds before lying down again.
Arthur actually slept the entire night. Eames did not.
** ** ** **
Okay, there we are!
Now tell me, what next? They've got to make a stop on the train, right? This was the tour you guys booked for them! ^_^
So I'd like: something spooky, something sexy, something exciting?
Also, tell me something about this Dinclusin guy. What do you think he should do / who do you think he is? What do you think he wants? I have a vague idea I'm working with, but I'd like more input on him. Also on Ann Dromalius. Or really any of them.
How about a scent you'd like written into the story?
Any more likes you'd like to hear that I could attempt to write in?
I hope you guys like this; thanks for all the awesome suggestions, and also for being patient with me. :D
Chapter 3 - Dust In Your Garden
That said, updates on this one will probably take longer than they have in the past. This is mainly because it takes me a while to tally up some of the suggestions and write them in. :D I do most of my writing in my head while I'm bored at work, then come home and type them up. With suggestions to work in, it could take a while. ^_^
(Oh! And I know, I've got to repost Something Like, I will try to remember to do that. So sorry!)
So here's how we ended up:
The train:
Trans Siberian – 7 votes
Italy – 5 votes
Trans Siberian it is!
A few people were for a spooky face outside the window, even a bloody face. Creepy! One vote for Arthur to have a nightmare, two votes for Eames.
Here are some suggestions that I received. If they haven't gone into this chapter, I'm still going to try to get them into a later chapter. :D Sometimes I might have to stretch it out a bit. I'm going to try to get a little something for everyone. These suggestions are really cool!
twilightthief - Maybe one of the train operators/workers like opening their pocket watch?gelbwax AND mydeerfriend - I would like to see AND hear a golden eagle, because those things are badass and scary. (Question: Sorry if this sounds dumb, but are we talking about a golden eagle bird of prey, golden eagle touring train, which they are actually on, or a golden eagle shotgun? ^_^ )astheytick - Arthur says to Eames "Just wait. Wait for me."mydeerfriend AND Ectotherm!Arthur being warmed up by Eamesorion_nightbane - people lurking outside their door would be interesting?towel_master I'd also maybe like to see sponge-Eames getting bored/impatient on the train and Arthur cheering him back up.twisted_ream there's this huge spider on eames' back and he can't get it off and arthur just laughs skyvehicle Arthur leaning over the top bunk to talk to Eames below.french_noodles blood spattered flowersefcia a broken mirror, possibly a small one. I can see the shattered glass, maybe even a small amount of blood on them?sweetsigh What I want Arthur to ask Eames: "Get me some of those kitties damn truffles before I shoot your foot"Because I love chocolate.
** ** ** **
** ** ** **
Chapter Two: Sixes, Sevens and Nines
Arthur liked it, the steady thrum of rails under the floor, the background noise of the engine, the occasional whistle. The room had a CD/DVD player and there was a place to rent movies, and maybe later they would rent some Russian film (or Arthur would download one and then burn it,) but for the most part, he was happy with the drone of the train. He liked white noise. It soothed him.
It took him about thirty seconds to style his hair back away from his face. He'd done it like that for years, because it was just easier to work, to see on all sides. He could admit to himself that for the first few years, he'd done so that because it was how Cobb wore his hair when he was working.
Behind him, Arthur could see Eames in the mirror, fastening his own cufflinks. He looked good in dark blue. ("PROPER DRESS" the sign on the door to one of the many restaurant cars had read.) Eames was clearly dressing to blend in tonight, which meant that he had something in mind that went beyond having dinner in the awesome looking dining car, and then going for a few card games. He smiled. Not even their first night, and Eames had already started. Arthur watched his hands as he pulled the cuffs of his shirt. They were large hands, but his fingers were quick, even quicker than Arthur's. He even typed fast.
"I looked at the menu," Eames said. "Needless to say, I'm very excited. The desserts looked amazing. There was one... What?" He looked up into the mirror and saw Arthur staring. He peered closer at his own reflection, trying to see if something was amiss.
"Nothing," Arthur said. "I just think you look good."
Eames smiled at him. "Thank you."
"I looked up the menu online last week," Arthur said. "Looks pretty good. What time is it?"
"Five thirty. Our reservation is six."
"Let's have a look around first," Arthur said.
He took a last glance in the mirror then let Eames edge past him (okay, this room was cool, but it was fucking tiny and were they really both going to fit in here for the duration of the trip?) Arthur followed, and Eames made to slide the door closed behind him, but Arthur stopped it with his hand.
Before the door slid shut, he reached back into the inside of the cabin and pressed a button on the tiny, silent alarm he'd rigged across the door. It was a beam of light across the floor. If broken by someone going into their room, then his cell phone would ring. When he picked it up, it would link to a camera he had installed in the ceiling. He was prepared for attendants to come in and clean, make up the beds and that sort of thing. But you couldn't be too careful.
Eames looked over his shoulder. "The cell phone trick?"
"It's one of my best."
"A work of art," Eames said.
Arthur closed and locked the door, and they were on their way.
The noise outside of the compartment was less pleasant, but he could get used to anything. Crowds didn't present him with any problems unless he was already in a really bad mood. It was the first day of the trip and everyone was loud, boisterous, and still annoyed almost to the point of frenzy. They chattered, bickered, shoved and huffed as they tried to find their places, where they belonged in some status circle that Arthur had never understood. Who had the better things, and who showed them off to the greatest advantage – that seemed to be part of the contest. Arthur didn't get it, but Eames did. Well, Eames got most of what people were going on about, most of the time anyway. But he also understood the money/status thing. He didn't take part in it, but his family might have, back when Eames was young, before he'd left that behind.
Now, though, the preening that these men and women were doing only presented them with opportunities. They flashed their goods like whores. And neither Eames nor Arthur liked paying for things when they didn't have to.
The cars of the train were plush, almost to the point of ridiculousness. The walkways were tight though. When people shoved at them, usually Eames would do a bit of "oh, beg pardon," as he slipped his hands into pockets, purses, jackets, even holsters.
But tonight, he just looked annoyed when people got in his space. Arthur understood this, too. This was Eames wanting to be in a bubble. He could be very fussy like that, almost withdrawn. It had taken Arthur years to be allowed inside that space when Eames was like this. Eames would probably have a headache later, one which he would bitch about and generously share with Arthur if he didn't defuse this now.
He placed his hand on the arch of Eames's low back – not solicitous, just present. When Eames looked over his shoulder at him, Arthur just smiled. I get it. Chill.
Eames took a deep breath and released it, letting some of the tension drain from his back.
They turned to move forward again, but their path was blocked by a tall, blond man. He was of some indeterminable age between the 30s and 40s, with eyes so light blue that Arthur had to stare for a moment. They were large, too, and luminous. His clothes were similar to Arthur's, he was annoyed to note: tailored and classic. He doesn't have a hat, though, Arthur thought, ridiculously. His dislike was immediate.
It may have been because of the way this guy was eyeing Eames so blatantly, but probably not. People gawked at Eames all the time and it never bothered him. But this guy had actually blocked their path and was now just staring, those big, shining eyes surprised and clearly interested.
"Oh, my," the man said.
Really? Arthur thought. Because, how rude was that? Just going up to someone and deciding it was all right to let them know you wanted into their pants, without even finding out first if... Of course, that was more or less what Arthur had done, years ago when he'd first met Eames, too.
And he was being stupid, because it wasn't as if there was any possibility that Eames would be - he wasn't going to use the word "unfaithful" because there had never been any vow of "faith" between them. On the battlefield, yes, but not sexually, and there never would be.
Still, Arthur found himself pushing in front of Eames to take the lead, effectively blocking this guy's view by putting himself between them.
"Excuse me," Arthur said.
"Of course," the man answered. His voice was low, almost a whisper. Then he eyed Arthur, a clearly appraising look. He very obviously decided, Not bad, then dismissed him with a glance past him, again at Eames.
Arthur felt like if he had hackles, they would be up. It wasn't jealousy or possessiveness or anything like that, either. This creep, his blue eyes gave Arthur the heebie-jeebies, there was no other explanation. And if he kept gawking like that, he was going to get a punch on the beezer. Arthur didn't like people staring at either of them for too long. It set his teeth on edge and made him feel like they were being made.
"Let's go, darling," Eames said, now putting his hand on Arthur's back. "Excuse us, please," he said to the staring guy.
Finally, the man stepped aside. With a sweeping gesture, he allowed them to pass.
Allowed them.
Arthur fought the urge to go back there and and show Staring Guy just how he felt about being allowed to pass. No one gave Arthur permission to do anything, not when he wasn't working for them, anyway.
When they got to the restaurant car, they were taken in about fifteen minutes early and ushered to two red, plush seats opposite each other – a booth with a small table between them. They huddled into the seats.
"What the fuck was that guy's problem?" Arthur asked. He grabbed at a piece of bread and buttered it.
Eames tried valiantly not to grin, but failed. Arthur was going to punch him later, maybe. Then he reached into his pocket and drew out a bill. "All he had was a ten. American money, no less. Hardly worth allowing him to eye-fuck me."
"Seriously?" Arthur asked. Because Eames hadn't allowed that – the guy had just done it.
"He was just looking," Eames said.
"Well it felt like a grift."
"You're paranoid."
"It's my job to be paranoid."
"Is it so far fetched that someone would want to look me over? Of course I'm not the handsome conman I was back in the day, but I'm only young, still, and I like to think that..."
"You're ridiculously attractive, that's not even up for debate. And yeah, he was checking you out. That happens all the time. But I got a feeling off him that I didn't like."
"Why are you so mean to your food?" Eames asked. "I've never seen anyone butter bread with such aggression. Control your testosterone."
Arthur narrowed his eyes and dipped the buttered bread into olive oil before taking a bite. It was fresh and warm. "This is delicious," he said. It came out sounding like an insult, which he didn't mean.
"Arthur," Eames said. He was still smiling. "Are you j--"
"Don't." He pointed his bread at Eames. "Don't even fucking say the word. You know I'm not. I just know a creep when I see one."
"I'll steal something else from him and give it to you," Eames said.
"Don't bother. I feel like it would be more trouble that it's worth."
Eames let the subject drop, which Arthur took to mean that he would go out of his way to prove him wrong anyway. When it came time to order, Eames asked for Rassolnik, in perfect Russian. Eames knew a little bit of most languages, often enough to get by. Arthur knew more useful words and phrases than Eames did, but he never got the accents right. He ordered the potato and mushroom dish in Russian anyway.
"I do speak English, you know," the waiter said, with a British accent.
"We're practicing," Eames told him.
When the food arrived, Arthur raised his glass and said, "Na zdarOv’y" – "enjoy" – and Eames didn't correct his accent. The food was so good that Arthur almost – almost, but not quite – forgot about Staring Guy. He ate everything, quickly, the way he usually did, while Eames ate slowly, talking endlessly about Russia, trains, the last time he was here and what happened, history, Catherine the Great, cuisine, and whatever else occurred to him. Arthur listened, asking questions now and then, and feeling satisfied and strangely enlightened.
"Good god," Eames said later, as they were finishing dessert, "this was such a good idea. I might never go back to eating regular food again. Perhaps I'll live here."
"It's too cold," Arthur said.
"You've survived worse."
"Not by choice. But I agree, this was a great idea."
Post-dinner, the crowd seemed to have settled down. Sometimes, Arthur mused, all it took was the basic assurance of food and comfort to turn people human again. He felt relaxed and decided to let his guard drop, just a little. Nothing terrible was going to happen on this train. To constantly live in that kind of suspense was not only wasteful, it was unhealthy. It had taken him years to learn how to turn that off, but these days, he could if he concentrated enough. "Shell-shock," they used to call it in the early days. Well, he had finally gotten over his, and he knew how to not be like that.
This trip was going to be interesting. Not dangerous, just interesting. He was sure of it.
** ** ** **
There was a lounge, of course, and Eames seemed to find it by sense rather than by looking at directions. It was as if he could hear the shuffling of cards and the exchange of tokens.
In the lounge, again there were red seats, and half-circle tables as well as one-on-one, private tables. Arthur didn't have a deck of cards, but he would bet that Eames did. The first time they'd ridden the train together, Eames had entertained (and occasionally annoyed) him with card games. He thought of it fondly. Tonight, they'd sit on the train and play cards again, like they had the first time. Maybe it would be fun if they played for truthful answers, the way they had back then. But on the other hand, by now he probably didn't have any secrets, and neither did Eames. He wondered if he could think of anything he'd really like to know, that he didn't already.
He never got the chance to, though, and he wasn't entirely surprised to see the blue-eyed man staring once again at Eames from a table on the other side of the car. Staring Guy was surrounded by others, all playing a card game. He beckoned Eames over to him. Arthur felt all of his alerts instantly re-engage.
Eames smiled and declined with a polite wave of his hand.
But then Staring Guy rose from his table and and seemed to glide over to them. Eames stood in front of Arthur, as if to prevent him from doing something ridiculous, which was insulting.
"Hello there," the man said. His accent was British, similar to Eames's real one. He looked only at Eames when he spoke. "Terribly sorry for having been in your path earlier. Very clumsy, I'm afraid."
Arthur didn't buy this for a minute. The man offered his hand to Eames. "Jack St. John Dinclusin," he said. He pronounced 'St. John' as 'Sinjin.' "'Jack' will do."
"No problem, mate," Eames said, shaking his hand. "Thomas Eames. Cambridge I think?"
"Very good," Jack said. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Eames."
Eames didn't tell him to call him Tommy, which made Arthur smile. "This is Arthur," he said, standing aside.
"Hey," Arthur said, and he shook Jack's hand, which was was colder than his own.
"A pleasure, Arthur," he said. "California, I believe?"
Arthur drew his hand back. "You got that from one word?"
"I'm a bit of a linguist," Jack said. "And an America-phile, to be honest. I love the west coast."
"I see," Arthur said.
"Well, listen," Jack said, now focusing again on Eames, "we've got one spot left at our table that needs filling. Either of you interested?"
"We're a bit tired," Eames said.
"Please, we insist on one game. We'll buy you a round."
Arthur knew that Eames was going to say yes. He was still going to try to glaum something off this guy, and maybe even his gang at the table. He'd said he would, and against Arthur's warnings to let it go, he probably felt like he had to. Arthur looked them over, the group at the half-circle table. Three men and one woman, all in their thirties or maybe forties. They were all dressed sharp, like he was. The woman was blond, with neatly gelled, short hair and cool, blue eyes. They were all attractive. Eames actually looked as if he belonged with them.
"Go on," Arthur said, before Eames had the chance to make it awkward by asking him if it was all right. "I'm gonna get a drink, okay?" He wasn't, or at least not one with alcohol. He tried to put a warning into his eyes: Don't fuck with these people, I sense trouble. But Eames already knew what he thought.
"It'll be a quick game, Arthur," Eames said. And with that, he headed over to the table. They were boisterous when they all introduced themselves, as if it were some sort of reunion. Well, they were all from around the same area, and had that much in common, so it wasn't surprising.
He took a seat not at the bar, but next to it, where he could take covert glances over at the table.
His view was soon blocked, however, by a bored looking teenage girl, who seated herself in his line of vision and started listlessly shuffling a deck of cards. She looked to be about fifteen, with lank, brown hair and an obviously indecorous Pokemon keychain attached to her belt. She looked as out of place as Arthur suddenly felt. And Arthur never felt out of place, not anywhere, and not in any situation. He scanned the room for her parents and found them quickly because the father kept glancing over at her. He looked both watchful and disapproving, the way most fathers did at their recalcitrant teenage daughters. They were at a different table. The mother seemed to be discussing her, judging by her whispers to her cohorts, and glances at the girl.
"I like your hat," the girl said to him.
"Huh?" Arthur was surprised to see her now sitting across from him at the small table.
"Your hat. It's cool. You look like James Cagney."
"No I don't. He was blond. But thanks."
She shrugged.
"You look bored," Arthur said.
She rolled her eyes. "As you can probably guess, this trip was not my idea."
"It's really interesting, if you give it a chance," he said.
"Whatever," she answered. "I saw your boyfriend ditch you. Ouch."
Arthur laughed – there was no other reaction he could think of. "He's not my boyfriend, Christ. I'm thirty-three. We work together."
"Uh huh, that's why you were all handsy with him earlier."
Arthur dismissed this without a response. "They're just being British together, over there."
"I know. My Mom's British. She's a bitch, though."
"You shouldn't say that about your Mom," Arthur said. He re-thought. When had he started sounding like this? "Scratch that. My Mom was a bitch, too. Well, when she cared enough to make the effort."
"Wah-hah," the girl said, mocking. "Anyways, I'm Michelle."
"Arthur."
"Yeah, I got that."
"Nothing gets past you," Arthur said.
"Nope."
He watched her shuffle the cards. Took a glance over at Eames, who was doing his "lose on purpose while I siphon your money" thing. Something tightened in Arthur's chest. It wasn't going to work.
"You play cards?" Arthur asked Michelle.
"No. I just like to shuffle them."
"You must at least know how to play War."
"Mankind is born knowing how to play war." She looked him in the eye, going for a hard, weary look that she failed at miserably, and he hoped she would continue to fail at. She reminded him of Ariadne.
"That's very profound," he said, lightly mocking her in return. "Come on, let's play. I need to keep looking over your shoulder at that table."
"You think he's gonna cheat on you with that hot guy?" she said.
"No," Arthur said. "That's the least of my worries."
"Something else weird is going on, then," she said. "This whole thing gives me a weird vibe."
He had to agree with her on that.
** ** ** **
Eames glanced at Arthur for what felt like the thousandth time that night. His little, adolescent card-playing partner had long since run off to play with her own portable video game system. Eames had watched Arthur play War with her a few times, and then attempt to teach her Bridge and Rummy. He also saw that Arthur was watching his table carefully. Not watching him, but watching the others, and making mental notes for future reference. His alerts were on high. Eames could almost see lights blinking in the computer of his head. It was not the first time that he had likened Arthur to a robot of some sort.
But Eames had this; he had these people figured out. Jack Dinclusin, Kenzie and Giles Fenderlyn, and the woman, Ann Dromalius. They were Society, as his parents had been, and as his siblings still were, for all he knew. He was familiar with this sort of person.
Jack sat next to him the entire time. Eames could feel his eyes on him once in a while. It didn't make him uncomfortable, being watched, because he could shift to being what he wanted the other person to see, with ease. Right now, he was the affable English guy, everyone's mate, harmless, charming, funny, good at the game but not too good.
It wasn't a quick game, as Eames had said it would be. But then, none of these games ever were. It was midnight by the time they wrapped up, and noisy as hell when they were saying good night. Over the din, and over the heads of the others, he saw Arthur stand up, frowning as he did when something had surprised him. Then he saw Arthur grab for his phone as if he were going for a gun. Eames's hand moved reflexively to where he was not carrying a gun, either, before he could stop it. He tucked it back down at his side.
Arthur didn't answer the phone, he just looked at it.
"Well then," Jack said, "quite a good game, Mr. Eames."
"Yes, yes," Eames said. "Good game." Jack was searching his face, trying to make eye contact. "I'm sorry mate, looks like I've got to run. Arthur's just heard from his Mum; his Dad's been ill."
"Oh, so sorry," Jack said. He stared at Eames as he said it, forcing him to meet his eyes. Jack's look stated clearly that he knew this was a lie. He looked blank, almost. Lids too wide around the irises, and for a moment, predatory.
Eames shuttered himself away behind a wall. "Good night," he said, pointedly, and moved past him.
Arthur was still staring at the screen on his phone when Eames got to him. If anyone had been trying to take something from them, Arthur would not still be standing here.
"What is it?" Eames asked.
Arthur tilted the phone towards him.
One of the staff was closing the door behind him as he left the room. The only thing that was out of place was the vase of flowers now sat on the bedside table. He frowned at Arthur, who said nothing as he tucked his phone away.
They quickly made their way back to their compartment. Once inside, they stood side by side, staring at the bouquet of flowers on the table. Pink and white carnations, mostly.
"Maybe all rooms get flowers," Eames said.
Arthur glared at him, then went back to looking at the flowers.
"Well," Eames said, "it's not like it's a bad thing. It's not a bomb or anything."
At that, Arthur moved closer to the vase, cautious and slow. Eames couldn't honestly believe that there would be a bomb hidden inside the flowers, but he had obviously given Arthur the idea. The vase was clear, where would anyone hide a bomb in a glass vase. It would take expertise and technology that neither of them possessed, and if someone wanted them dead, there were easier ways.
Arthur didn't move the vase. Instead, he took something out of his bag of toys; a compact, hand-held trace detector. He scanned it over the tops of the flowers. Nothing showed up. He tucked it away again.
"If someone sent you flowers," Arthur said, "then they know what room we're in."
"How do you know they're for me?" Eames said. "Maybe they're for you, darling. Or both of us."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Well. At any rate, it looks like the most dangerous thing on here is pollen. Probably pretty safe. Weird, though. Did that Jack guy send it, maybe?"
"I don't see how he could have. He was sat at the table the whole night, he never had the chance."
Arthur nodded. He looked strangely tired, more so than usual. Eames reasoned that Arthur had had a longer fight than he'd had, earlier. Of course he was exhausted.
"Why don't you see if the shower is free, so you can get to bed?" Eames said. "We share it with the next room, but there's only one person staying in there. I'll go later, yeah?"
Arthur nodded, and started going through his suitcase, looking for pajamas. There was a weary set to his shoulders.
"Oh, I nearly forgot," Eames said. He pulled Arthur backwards by his beltloops and set him down on the lower bed, next to him. "I nicked this for you." He dug into his pocket.
"Not off those people, I hope," Arthur said.
"No. You asked me not to, Arthur. I took your advice, as I often do." Arthur smiled. "No, I got this off one of the conductors."
"Jesus, Eames." Arthur sounded exasperated, but he was still smiling.
Eames pulled out a gold pocketwatch with a train etched into the front. "It's not a sentimental thing, they all carry them. And it probably doesn't have much value and perhaps you can buy them at a gift shop. But I thought it suited you."
Arthur took it and clicked it open. The numbers were big and fancy, and he ran his finger across the glass face of it. "It's really cool," he said. "Thanks, Eames."
"My pleasure." Which he meant, because he always got a kick out of stealing, and he always got a kick out of giving Arthur interesting things, too. "I get head for this, right?" he said, before it got too serious.
Arthur laughed softly. "Sure. Later, though, okay?"
"Later," Eames agreed.
** ** ** **
Later, though, Eames simply returned from the semi-communal shower to find Arthur already in the top bunk, lit only by a hand held game system on pause. He was fast asleep. The music kept playing, strangely lush over the sound of the train.
Eames shook him awake. "Your batteries are going to die," he said.
Arthur woke instantly, as he always did. "Hmm? Oh. Batteries are a thing of the past. But thanks." He shut down the system and tucked it into a small carrying case.
Eames was so fond of him sometimes.
"Oh, wait. Before you fall asleep." Arthur swung his legs over the edge of his bunk and jumped down.
"I was kidding about giving me head. If you're too tired, I mean."
"I got you something, too, while you were in the shower. And by 'got' I mean 'stole.' Umm." He took something from one of the compartments. "It's not as daring as yours, but you're a better thief than I am. It's just little. I got it off the cart." He held out a box of gourmet chocolate truffles. An easier grab, by far, but probably worth more than the pocketwatch that Eames had stolen.
"My goodness," Eames said.
"You shouldn't have one before bed, though." He yawned. "It'll keep you awake."
"Perhaps," Eames said, but opened one anyway and bit into it. It was delicious, the darkest of dark chocolate that he loved. "Jesus. This might be better than head."
"I'm this close to agreeing with you," Arthur said. He watched Eames eat it as if he couldn't look away. When he licked his own lips, it seemed an unconscious gesture. Then he pulled himself into the top bunk without using the ladder. He fussed around with the blankets for a few seconds before leaning back over and peering to the bottom bed. "Good night, Mr. Eames," he said.
Eames reached up and awkwardly cupped his chin. There's no one like you, he wanted to say, and there isn't even a close second, but he refrained. There was no need for that sort of thing. Instead he just said, "Good night," and released him.
Arthur smiled, or rather smirked, slightly wry. Then he went back into the top bed and settled in.
A few minutes later, Eames turned off the light.
** ** ** **
The scent of carnations followed him into the dark. His mum had loved those. He hadn't smelled them before, though; when he'd shut the light earlier, the flowers had just smelled chilled and slightly planty-y.
Eames turned on the small light above his bed. Arthur didn't stir. He was glad; he didn't want to wake him.
The carnations that had been white and pink were now speckled red. They hadn't been before; Eames noticed things like this. He had to, because he observed for a living and often to save his life. He would have seen red-spotted flowers instead of white or pink ones.
He reached over to the bedside table and touched one of them. The red flecks were warm, and smeared down the petals when he prodded them. He drew his finger back and decided to wake Arthur.
Before he could, he saw the man staring into the window beside his bed. It was dark, the background was moving, he couldn't make out any features other than the mouth. The mouth was white with teeth, and stretched wide. Too wide to be normal or even possible.
Eames flung himself out of the bed and scrambled for his gun, on the small dining table under the DVD player. He grabbed it and pressed his back against the door, staring at the window.
The face was gone.
"What is it?" Arthur asked, awake and alert. He swung down from the bed and had his Glock in hand before he even got to where Eames was crouching.
"The window," Eames said. He was panting hard, he felt hot, sweaty and trembly. Because, how the fuck did something get outside the window? The train was moving; he could feel it. He could still hear it.
He reached for the poker chip in the pocket sewn into his pajama bottoms. He felt the weight of it, the familiar wear of the letters.
Reality.
Still, he looked to Arthur.
"We're awake," Arthur said, and reached for his own totem. He drew it out of his own pocket and tossed it three times onto the floor. It landed on three each time.
Eames didn't know if he felt relieved or not. There had been no moment of waking, no shift from the dream to reality that he was aware of.
"You dreamed of someone at the window?" Arthur asked.
Eames nodded. He rubbed his face and scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Yeah. First nightmare I've had in years, really. Well, first one that actually worked like one of those nightmares where you think you're awake. What I mean is..."
"Not lucid," Arthur finished for him. "A natural dream, no outside awareness."
"Just so," Eames said.
"What did they look like? At the window, I mean."
"Didn't see his face, really. Just a person standing there. And blood, too. Not at the window, but on the flowers." He inhaled to see if he could still smell them like he had in the dream. He couldn't.
He felt utterly stupid. Professional dreamer, having nightmares like a little kid, faces outside the window of a train for fuck's sake. He laughed a little. Arthur smiled and stood up, offering Eames his hand. Eames allowed himself to be pulled up, even though it wasn't necessary.
"Told you to hold off on the chocolate," Arthur said.
Eames glanced at the clock. He'd only been asleep for thirty minutes. Arthur vaulted himself into his top bed again, and Eames sank back into his. He felt exhausted now, but unsettled.
Arthur peered down over the edge of his bed again. "You all right, though?"
"In perfect order," Eames assured him. "Just unused to my own level of amateurishness and slightly disappointed in myself."
"You look unsettled," Arthur observed.
"I'm fine. Really. Get some sleep."
Arthur nodded, still slightly dubious. "Well," he said, "you know. I'm right up here if you need anything."
Eames acknowledged him with a nod and made a decent show of settling back into his bed and appearing comfortable. Arthur watched him for a few more seconds before lying down again.
Arthur actually slept the entire night. Eames did not.
** ** ** **
Okay, there we are!
Now tell me, what next? They've got to make a stop on the train, right? This was the tour you guys booked for them! ^_^
So I'd like: something spooky, something sexy, something exciting?
Also, tell me something about this Dinclusin guy. What do you think he should do / who do you think he is? What do you think he wants? I have a vague idea I'm working with, but I'd like more input on him. Also on Ann Dromalius. Or really any of them.
How about a scent you'd like written into the story?
Any more likes you'd like to hear that I could attempt to write in?
I hope you guys like this; thanks for all the awesome suggestions, and also for being patient with me. :D
Chapter 3 - Dust In Your Garden
