(Untitled)

[kingedme]

[ His jacket has a stain.

Eames isn't entirely sure where it's come from, only that it's bright pink and that he's going to have a hell of a time wringing it from the black fabric. He's rubbing his thumb over it, his jacket slung across his arm, as he pushes his shoulder against the wide glass door of the entrance to Saito's hotel, strolling in

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[buysanairline]

[ There are many, many business strategies that involves hotels and their conference rooms, their lavishly decorated suites, their polished lobbies. There are also many business strategies that involves the hotel's bar, usually for the time when everyone have finished using those conference rooms and suites and lobbies

[kingedme]

[ It's a little different for Eames.

Saito is unlike any client he's ever come across. Clients -- don't go into the field. Period. Most of the teams he's worked with ultimately prefer not to have their employer present in the dreamspace, and with good reason; they're inexperienced, and they risk blowing their cover, risk blowing the entire job. But none of that is usually a problem. Almost all of Eames's clients and employers have flat out refused to take any part in their work, in what they do, because they didn't have the balls.

Except for one.

That's what makes Saito different, that's what makes him particularly fascinating. He's rich and clean, with smooth and polished hands, and he wears a semi-automatic Type 14 like a second skin, could probably work his way through a heavily guarded facility on his fucking own, without any assistance from his paid help. He's dangerous and clever, coolly collected, but not unfeeling. And he's always surprising him

[buysanairline]

[ The weight of a gun is something familiar to Saito, and the smell of gunpowder and oil even more so. And Saito can smell it on Eames, the spike in the air like the shotgun going off, the spice and the bitterness and the slight itch the smell causes at the back of one's throat. Eames smells like a dangerous man, a man who sleeps with a gun under his pillow and walks with one in his jacket at all times.

Saito's own weapon is hidden in the lines of his jacket. A perfectly tailored suit, to the point that it cannot even be seen. It's a reassurance, a confirmation- that thought Saito is one of the most powerful men in the world, he is not one that needs to be constantly tailed by bodyguards dogging his heels.

He's perfectly capable of getting rid of any threat on his own.

Yet this man is far from a threat, is he? Saito reaches out, curls his fingers against Eames- and instead of shaking his hand, he tugs it towards himself, inhales the scent of danger on his fingers, and kisses the knuckles- with his eyes fixed upon Eames's own. ]That

[kingedme]

[ -There he goes again, surprising him.

Eames doesn't pull from him, but his expression momentarily slips as he looks from Saito's eyes to his lips brushing across the backs of his knuckles. Then he decides, no, death doesn't really suit Saito at all, and he likes him much better when he's free of bullet holes, and he's smiling again, slow and deliberate, by the time Saito lets him go. ]

Is that right? [ Saito's holding his glass toward him, and Eames's reaches for it, his own fingers brushing against Saito's as he takes it from him. Because, well, if they're playing a game and Saito's testing him, it's really only fair that he test him back. And Eames has never played a game he hasn't wanted to play. ] Well, I'm deeply flattered.

[ Baileys Irish Cream is something of a delicate beverage, smooth and sweet and creamy, and though he typically prefers a teaspoon in his coffee in the morning, he has a particular liking for cream liqueurs all on their own. He settles back in his stool, curling his fingers around the glass and pressing