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Too Hot to Handle, Too Cold to Hold

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There were, in the history of shit jobs, ones that were significantly worse than any that Eames had landed. He was not walking dogs, or wiping runny noses, or cleaning bed pans.

No, instead, Eames is the Ice Cream Man.

He drives a spray-painted paneled van around, sweating his bollocks off in the back as he gathers sticky notes from small children in exchange for frozen sweets. He gets hit on by bored housewives in their brightly-colored capri pants, and underage nannies in their big sunglasses and low-cut blouses. He gets minimum wage and funny hat, and three times a week, when he's cutting through the business district to get from Nanny Territory to Housewife Neighborhood, he gets Arthur.

Arthur, with his sleeves rolled up and his dollar bills fresh and perfectly creased, and his mouth twitching like he wants to smile but can't be seen to show the weakness. Arthur, with his slender fingers and his sharp tongue.

"You do know you're driving on the wrong side of the street, don't you?" Arthur asks, with the barest hint of a dimple. It's practically a love song. He licks the blue leaking from his Bomb Pop off his thumbnail.

"Ah." Eames sighs, sadly, pulling off his hat to wring it in his hands. "I have the hardest time with that one," he says, because but this is the side of the street you were on would probably be deemed unacceptable in an American court of law. Silly country.

Arthur's mouth pinches. On most people this would be a frown. On Arthur it's practically a term of endearment. He flicks his tongue against the tip of his pop, and Eames manfully resists the urge to swoon. "I can see how you in no way endanger the children of our fair city."

Eames grins stupid and too wide. "So you've decided to stop referring to my vehicle as a 'molester van' have you?"

Arthur smirks. He holds his pop with his mouth in order to replace Eames' hat, his thumb cold against Eames' overly-hot forehead. "Have a good afternoon, Mr. Eames," he says when he's finished his task and his mouth is stained so, so very red. He says it slow, feeling out each syllable like his tongue has gone a little numb from the cold.

"Until next time, my love," he says, tipping his hat and waiting, holding his breath for that split second as Arthur turns away that he finally gives in and smiles.