[Fic] Legerdemain, part 1
Title: Legerdemain, part 1
Author: delires and weatherfront
Team: Romance
Prompt: Smirk
Word count: 1238
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Arthur consults his watch. Ah, the MTA, he thinks, as fickle and unpredictable as always. He's still five whole minutes early for his rendezvous with Cobb, less than a block left until the Starbucks he's agreed to duck into. Slowing his footsteps to a luxurious stroll, he chances a glance up at the cloudless summer sky-- and promptly runs into someone.
"Oh, sorry," he says. "Excuse me."
"Sorry-- are you all right?" asks the stranger, breathless as he straightens up. "My fault--"
It's just a knock to the shoulder, and Arthur wouldn't think twice of it, only they end up stepping in the same direction when they try to move past each other. PASIV in hand, Arthur shifts his weight and moves to the right, just as the man takes a step to the left. The halting shuffle is awkward enough already, but somehow it happens again when Arthur heads to the left, and a passerby eyes them as she walks on, amused.
"God, now I seem to be blocking your way," says the stranger, laughing. "I'm very sorry, but while I'm bothering you, could I just ask you one tiny-- I'm afraid I'm a bit lost, you see-- how might I get to 34th street from here?"
"Lucky for you, you're on it," says Arthur. In terms of people to accidentally collide with, the man's not such a bad choice at all. He's a stubbled, slightly creased Englishman, two buttons open at his collar, shoulders broad in a linen jacket. Bright eyes, nice mouth.
"Is that so?" he asks. "That sign ahead, that's for Penn Station, then?"
"No, actually-- for that you'd need to go another block," says Arthur. "You're heading in the right direction, though. Keep on this street."
"Thank you very much," he says. "You've been a great help, er--"
"Arthur," he supplies, offering his hand.
"Eames, where are my manners," says the man, with a shake. His palm is warm and dry. "Thank you, Arthur. I don't know if you've guessed, but I'm not exactly from around these parts."
"The accent might give you away, yes," says Arthur, smiling, a little charmed despite himself. "Though I don't live here, either."
"Really?" asks Eames. "You're not from New York?"
"Maryland, originally," says Arthur. "Family's still down there."
"You're joking," exclaims Eames. "I spent some time in Maryland, actually-- had a four-ten phone number and everything, for a while. Four-ten, seven-fifteen, and -- if I remember it correctly -- triple-five zero, my number was. Ha, seems like I'm not so old after all. So you've got one of those four-ten area codes too, unless you've moved for good?"
"I've been traveling around a bit, so I haven't had time to really change it," says Arthur. "Three-thirteen and seventy-seven fifty has a nice ring to it, besides, and I don't know if I want to give it up just yet."
"Let me guess," says Eames, "you're a Libra."
"What? Jesus Christ," says Arthur, taken aback, "that's good. Because I don't want to change my phone number?"
"Appreciating the cadence of a string of numbers, that requires a certain subtle artistic temperament," says Eames. "I'm a Gemini, myself. Just celebrated my thirty-second birthday at home a couple weeks back-- this watch, in fact, was a gift from a dear old aunt of mine. It belonged to her husband, and I've a heart for antiques, so my eye's been on it for a while. A bit flash, but I like to think it suits me-- what do you think?"
He holds it out for inspection, and Arthur looks over the gold watch, or at the forearm it's hanging off of, whichever. "I'd be lying if I said it wasn't flashy, but I'd also be lying if I said it didn't suit you," Arthur tells him. "Sorry my watch is boring in comparison, I can't even remember where I got it."
Eames's hands on his wrist are gentle, firm, the pads of his fingers pleasantly rough. Arthur turns his arm as Eames unclasps it, peers at the face from closer up.
"Omega," he says, still toying with the skin at Arthur's wrist, thumb a light touch against his pulse. "Very modern Bond. As a compatriot of his, I approve. But it's not exactly a businessman's watch, is it?"
"Well, I suppose I wouldn't--" says Arthur, a quick glow of heat spreading in his stomach, "--I wouldn't call myself a businessman, as such, that could be why. Not to overstate my general of aura of mystery, but maybe I'm a bit closer to James Bond than middle management. Don't let the lack of the Aston Martin fool you, it's a pain to try to find parking in--"
"Are you warm?" Eames interrupts.
"Sorry, what?" asks Arthur. "Am I--"
"Oh, I didn't mean to cut in, sorry," says Eames. "Please, tell me about where you left your ride, only-- it's July, and you've got that jacket on, and you were looking rather warm, so I was wondering, do you need me to hold something while you make yourself a little more weather-appropriate?"
"I've got it, thanks," says Arthur, tucking the PASIV under his arm as he twists out of his jacket. Eames reaches behind him, taking it by the sleeves. They're nearly pressed chest to chest in the middle of the street. The faint spice of Eames's cologne, warmed by the sun. "Parking, though," he's saying, suddenly flustered, "I'm sure you've heard enough about it, but the first time I was here, back in '07, I think-- I made the stupid mistake of bringing my car along, and you'd think I'd have learned not to use it after that first hellish experience of driving into the city, but in the end I think I spent nearly half my trip circling around various blocks trying to look for somewhere to--"
Arthur rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, shifts the PASIV back into his hand, because that's what-- that's what he should be worrying about, just keeping the PASIV close, never mind Eames's hands brushing across his collar, straightening his tie, undoing the knot as he nods solicitously at Arthur's meandering tale of vehicular inconvenience. Eames catches him faltering, and blinks, looking abashed.
"Jesus Christ, I'm sorry," he says, dropping his hands to curl loosely below Arthur's elbows. "It's past two already-- you were going somewhere, weren't you? I've been keeping you?"
"That's all right, I'm just over there," says Arthur, nodding in the vague direction where the Starbucks should be, arms tingling. "It's no problem, I'm meeting a friend-- glad to help you out, really. You're okay? Penn Station should jump right out at you, just go another block and you'll be right on top of it."
"Brilliant, thank you so much," says Eames, and steers himself around Arthur, palm brushing briefly against his chest. "You know, though-- when I guessed your sign, it wasn't just about your telephone number."
"It wasn't?" asks Arthur. "What else was there?"
"Your dazzling smile," says Eames. "Dead Libra giveaway," and raises his hand as he turns and leaves.
Arthur laughs, caught off guard. He swings the PASIV a little higher as he walks, his steps a little lighter, flushed and pleased. That's worth being a little late for, he thinks, and continues on his way, newly divested of his jacket, his tie, and his watch.
[ Part 2]
Author: delires and weatherfront
Team: Romance
Prompt: Smirk
Word count: 1238
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Arthur consults his watch. Ah, the MTA, he thinks, as fickle and unpredictable as always. He's still five whole minutes early for his rendezvous with Cobb, less than a block left until the Starbucks he's agreed to duck into. Slowing his footsteps to a luxurious stroll, he chances a glance up at the cloudless summer sky-- and promptly runs into someone.
"Oh, sorry," he says. "Excuse me."
"Sorry-- are you all right?" asks the stranger, breathless as he straightens up. "My fault--"
It's just a knock to the shoulder, and Arthur wouldn't think twice of it, only they end up stepping in the same direction when they try to move past each other. PASIV in hand, Arthur shifts his weight and moves to the right, just as the man takes a step to the left. The halting shuffle is awkward enough already, but somehow it happens again when Arthur heads to the left, and a passerby eyes them as she walks on, amused.
"God, now I seem to be blocking your way," says the stranger, laughing. "I'm very sorry, but while I'm bothering you, could I just ask you one tiny-- I'm afraid I'm a bit lost, you see-- how might I get to 34th street from here?"
"Lucky for you, you're on it," says Arthur. In terms of people to accidentally collide with, the man's not such a bad choice at all. He's a stubbled, slightly creased Englishman, two buttons open at his collar, shoulders broad in a linen jacket. Bright eyes, nice mouth.
"Is that so?" he asks. "That sign ahead, that's for Penn Station, then?"
"No, actually-- for that you'd need to go another block," says Arthur. "You're heading in the right direction, though. Keep on this street."
"Thank you very much," he says. "You've been a great help, er--"
"Arthur," he supplies, offering his hand.
"Eames, where are my manners," says the man, with a shake. His palm is warm and dry. "Thank you, Arthur. I don't know if you've guessed, but I'm not exactly from around these parts."
"The accent might give you away, yes," says Arthur, smiling, a little charmed despite himself. "Though I don't live here, either."
"Really?" asks Eames. "You're not from New York?"
"Maryland, originally," says Arthur. "Family's still down there."
"You're joking," exclaims Eames. "I spent some time in Maryland, actually-- had a four-ten phone number and everything, for a while. Four-ten, seven-fifteen, and -- if I remember it correctly -- triple-five zero, my number was. Ha, seems like I'm not so old after all. So you've got one of those four-ten area codes too, unless you've moved for good?"
"I've been traveling around a bit, so I haven't had time to really change it," says Arthur. "Three-thirteen and seventy-seven fifty has a nice ring to it, besides, and I don't know if I want to give it up just yet."
"Let me guess," says Eames, "you're a Libra."
"What? Jesus Christ," says Arthur, taken aback, "that's good. Because I don't want to change my phone number?"
"Appreciating the cadence of a string of numbers, that requires a certain subtle artistic temperament," says Eames. "I'm a Gemini, myself. Just celebrated my thirty-second birthday at home a couple weeks back-- this watch, in fact, was a gift from a dear old aunt of mine. It belonged to her husband, and I've a heart for antiques, so my eye's been on it for a while. A bit flash, but I like to think it suits me-- what do you think?"
He holds it out for inspection, and Arthur looks over the gold watch, or at the forearm it's hanging off of, whichever. "I'd be lying if I said it wasn't flashy, but I'd also be lying if I said it didn't suit you," Arthur tells him. "Sorry my watch is boring in comparison, I can't even remember where I got it."
Eames's hands on his wrist are gentle, firm, the pads of his fingers pleasantly rough. Arthur turns his arm as Eames unclasps it, peers at the face from closer up.
"Omega," he says, still toying with the skin at Arthur's wrist, thumb a light touch against his pulse. "Very modern Bond. As a compatriot of his, I approve. But it's not exactly a businessman's watch, is it?"
"Well, I suppose I wouldn't--" says Arthur, a quick glow of heat spreading in his stomach, "--I wouldn't call myself a businessman, as such, that could be why. Not to overstate my general of aura of mystery, but maybe I'm a bit closer to James Bond than middle management. Don't let the lack of the Aston Martin fool you, it's a pain to try to find parking in--"
"Are you warm?" Eames interrupts.
"Sorry, what?" asks Arthur. "Am I--"
"Oh, I didn't mean to cut in, sorry," says Eames. "Please, tell me about where you left your ride, only-- it's July, and you've got that jacket on, and you were looking rather warm, so I was wondering, do you need me to hold something while you make yourself a little more weather-appropriate?"
"I've got it, thanks," says Arthur, tucking the PASIV under his arm as he twists out of his jacket. Eames reaches behind him, taking it by the sleeves. They're nearly pressed chest to chest in the middle of the street. The faint spice of Eames's cologne, warmed by the sun. "Parking, though," he's saying, suddenly flustered, "I'm sure you've heard enough about it, but the first time I was here, back in '07, I think-- I made the stupid mistake of bringing my car along, and you'd think I'd have learned not to use it after that first hellish experience of driving into the city, but in the end I think I spent nearly half my trip circling around various blocks trying to look for somewhere to--"
Arthur rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, shifts the PASIV back into his hand, because that's what-- that's what he should be worrying about, just keeping the PASIV close, never mind Eames's hands brushing across his collar, straightening his tie, undoing the knot as he nods solicitously at Arthur's meandering tale of vehicular inconvenience. Eames catches him faltering, and blinks, looking abashed.
"Jesus Christ, I'm sorry," he says, dropping his hands to curl loosely below Arthur's elbows. "It's past two already-- you were going somewhere, weren't you? I've been keeping you?"
"That's all right, I'm just over there," says Arthur, nodding in the vague direction where the Starbucks should be, arms tingling. "It's no problem, I'm meeting a friend-- glad to help you out, really. You're okay? Penn Station should jump right out at you, just go another block and you'll be right on top of it."
"Brilliant, thank you so much," says Eames, and steers himself around Arthur, palm brushing briefly against his chest. "You know, though-- when I guessed your sign, it wasn't just about your telephone number."
"It wasn't?" asks Arthur. "What else was there?"
"Your dazzling smile," says Eames. "Dead Libra giveaway," and raises his hand as he turns and leaves.
Arthur laughs, caught off guard. He swings the PASIV a little higher as he walks, his steps a little lighter, flushed and pleased. That's worth being a little late for, he thinks, and continues on his way, newly divested of his jacket, his tie, and his watch.
[ Part 2]