FILL (5/?)
anonymous
September 30 2010, 00:46:04 UTC
"It's required?" Eames demands, spinning to stare at Arthur.
Arthur fixes him with a 'do you want me to repeat myself?' look for an instant before he remembers himself and shifts his gaze to a point beyond Eames' left ear. "Yes, Mr. Eames." His voice is so carefully neutral as to be cutting.
"What sort of tattoo?" Eames wants to know, because he's smelled burning human flesh and it's not the sort of thing he wants to repeat, ever, so he's not even thinking about branding. Reflecting on previous visits to Mombasa, though, he thinks he knows what Arthur is about to say.
"An 'E'," Arthur says, still not meeting Eames' eyes. "Small. At the wrist or ankle, easy to see."
"Well," Eames says, because he doesn't know what else to say. 'E' for esclave, 'slave' in French. "That's unfortunate." He's not not going to Mombasa because of this, however, and he says as much to Arthur. "But I promise you, no branding," Eames says, stomach turning over.
Arthur doesn't respond. Eames doesn't mistake it for assent, but stiff acceptance. Arthur has roughly 18 hours to get used to the idea before they land in Nairobi, Kenya. Eames stalks out of the airport bookstore and throws himself on a chair in the terminal waiting area; Arthur follows and stands near Eames' knee, hands in his pockets and watching planes taxi back and forth through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Eames doesn't want a magazine. He has another problem to chew on, and that problem is Arthur.
*
The identity Eames is currently sporting is clean in the United States, but he's not so fortunate in other countries or under other names. In most NATO countries, Eames realizes, Arthur is going to be a problem. The microchip, specifically: it allows him to be traced, is, in fact, the intention of the item, and Eames has absolutely no use for being traceable (except, perhaps, it might be useful for a decoy ... but if he's smart it will never have to come to that). It's going to have to go.
Eames studies Arthur openly in the seat next to him while Arthur reads (a Sherlock Holmes novel, well-worn with creases at the edges of the pages); he sits fully back in the seat, holding the paperback open with the thumb and pinky of his right hand, and turns pages with his left hand. He holds it down nearly to his lap and Eames wonders if Arthur is far-sighted. His long legs are crossed at the ankles under his seat, his knees spread until they almost hook on the edges of the cushion. He's dressed himself in black slacks and a plain pale blue button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, which makes no secret of his expensive watch. Eames lets his eyes wander the lines of his body up to the back of his neck; his dark hair curls slightly, and just underneath those curls and that pale, slim neck lies the microchip.
Eames knows Arthur's noticed his attention only because he clears his throat, swallows, and draws his knees a few inches closer together. Eames reaches up and presses his palm to the back of Arthur's neck; the other man tenses, then relaxes, darting a questioning gaze Eames' way before looking back at his book. Eames notes the reaction and files it away to consider later.
Re: FILL (5/?)the_moonmothOctober 2 2010, 15:09:55 UTC
I'm picking because I love this fill... Kenya is a previous British colony, not French, therefore the 'E' for 'esclave' doesn't really make sense. The vast majority of the population speak English, but in my time there I didn't meet a single french speaker. Perhaps you should look into the Swahili word as a substitute?
Arthur fixes him with a 'do you want me to repeat myself?' look for an instant before he remembers himself and shifts his gaze to a point beyond Eames' left ear. "Yes, Mr. Eames." His voice is so carefully neutral as to be cutting.
"What sort of tattoo?" Eames wants to know, because he's smelled burning human flesh and it's not the sort of thing he wants to repeat, ever, so he's not even thinking about branding. Reflecting on previous visits to Mombasa, though, he thinks he knows what Arthur is about to say.
"An 'E'," Arthur says, still not meeting Eames' eyes. "Small. At the wrist or ankle, easy to see."
"Well," Eames says, because he doesn't know what else to say. 'E' for esclave, 'slave' in French. "That's unfortunate." He's not not going to Mombasa because of this, however, and he says as much to Arthur. "But I promise you, no branding," Eames says, stomach turning over.
Arthur doesn't respond. Eames doesn't mistake it for assent, but stiff acceptance. Arthur has roughly 18 hours to get used to the idea before they land in Nairobi, Kenya. Eames stalks out of the airport bookstore and throws himself on a chair in the terminal waiting area; Arthur follows and stands near Eames' knee, hands in his pockets and watching planes taxi back and forth through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Eames doesn't want a magazine. He has another problem to chew on, and that problem is Arthur.
*
The identity Eames is currently sporting is clean in the United States, but he's not so fortunate in other countries or under other names. In most NATO countries, Eames realizes, Arthur is going to be a problem. The microchip, specifically: it allows him to be traced, is, in fact, the intention of the item, and Eames has absolutely no use for being traceable (except, perhaps, it might be useful for a decoy ... but if he's smart it will never have to come to that). It's going to have to go.
Eames studies Arthur openly in the seat next to him while Arthur reads (a Sherlock Holmes novel, well-worn with creases at the edges of the pages); he sits fully back in the seat, holding the paperback open with the thumb and pinky of his right hand, and turns pages with his left hand. He holds it down nearly to his lap and Eames wonders if Arthur is far-sighted. His long legs are crossed at the ankles under his seat, his knees spread until they almost hook on the edges of the cushion. He's dressed himself in black slacks and a plain pale blue button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, which makes no secret of his expensive watch. Eames lets his eyes wander the lines of his body up to the back of his neck; his dark hair curls slightly, and just underneath those curls and that pale, slim neck lies the microchip.
Eames knows Arthur's noticed his attention only because he clears his throat, swallows, and draws his knees a few inches closer together. Eames reaches up and presses his palm to the back of Arthur's neck; the other man tenses, then relaxes, darting a questioning gaze Eames' way before looking back at his book. Eames notes the reaction and files it away to consider later.
tbc
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