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It's the hands that give her away in the end. It could have been a hundred other things: the artful toss of blonde hair; the lipstick stain on the rim of a cocktail glass; the delicate, fluting chuckle sung high in the throat - but no. Arthur knows those hands, would know them with shapely fingers clasped around the stem of a wine glass or with nails scratched and blunt, the knuckles scarred and pitted from a hundred underground fights. Arthur sees the turn of that delicate, fine-boned wrist in the light and he knows whose dream this is.
Eames is alone, though, or at least as alone as it's possible to be in the intimacy of the small lounge. The ceiling is low, the corners curving into darkness that's barely touched by the soft glow of table lamps. The other patrons sit in twos and threes, nestled in plush leather armchairs or perched half-leaning against the polished bar. Arthur observes for a moment, but the hum of conversation remains low and none of the projections seem to have noticed the interlopers in their midst. He checks his watch. Half an hour before the mark is due to arrive.
Eames hasn't noticed him yet, from his place in the shadows. Perfect.
Arthur glances once more around the room and catches the eye of a passing waiter. He murmurs softly and the waiter departs with a hefty tip. A moment later, the bartender places a tumbler in front of Eames. From his vantage point, Arthur can't quite see Eames' face: only the ring of moisture the cold glass leaves on the napkin as Eames raises it to her lips.
The soft strains of a saxophone float through the air, pumped from some invisible speaker - or, more likely, from the mark's conclusion that such an upscale bar must have some type of music. Arthur lets the tinkling of distant piano keys cover the sound of his footsteps as he moves to slip into the unoccupied space on Eames' right.
"Scotch, neat." The amber liquor doesn't burn as much in dreams, and lacks the smoke that Arthur prefers, but drinking it gives him an excuse not to face Eames for one more moment.
"Thank you for the drink." Her voice is low and melodic, giving nothing away. She speaks with a flat affect, expression barely changing from calm, vapid serenity; Arthur might as well be speaking to a projection. Despite himself, a frisson of uncertainty curls in his gut. Has he -
But there's a flicker then in Eames' eyes, buried deep like the glint of a coin at the bottom of a well, visible only if one knows how to look, and the tension becomes a spark of triumph.
"Didn't think you'd take work with Mathery after last time." Arthur keeps his voice pitched low and speaks only when the bartender's back is turned. They have time, but not enough; the longer he can delay the mark's suspicions, the better.
Eames' painted lips twitch into something not kind enough to be a smile. "Why ask me? Aren't you the one who bullied your way onto this job in the first place?"
Arthur sips his drink to postpone answering and pretends he can feel the alcohol burn on the way down, pretends he can feel anything but the conversation slipping out of his control. "It's not like that. Someone has to -" he changes tack but it's too late. "I'm the insurance."
Eames' eyes are blue in this dream, dark as the ocean and just as unforgiving. "Has to watch out for me, is that it? I don't know if anyone's ever told you this, but your condescension is just as unattractive in dreams as out of them."
Arthur rips his gaze away. He bites his tongue hard enough to almost taste blood and struggles for a response, but he's out of time. A proprietary hand has slid across Eames' lower back to curl around her waist. The mark has arrived.
"Hi there, honey. Who's your friend?" The mark's voice is confident; his tone is assured, charming. His thumb grazes the bare skin revealed by the low cut of Eames' dress, and Arthur grits his teeth.
He tries for a smile, though his jaw feels locked. "I'm -"
"Oh," Eames flaps her hand as though brushing away a fly. "He's just leaving."
+++
Eames finds him later smoking on the balcony, braving the chill of a Prague winter. The city is spread out below, buildings and streets in perfect miniature, gilded by the dull daylight. Overhead, grey clouds roll on for miles.
Eames' approach is near-silent, but his presence looms like an oncoming storm. Arthur stares straight ahead and pointedly doesn't look at Eames' hands clasped loosely in front of him as he leans on the railing.
"Bum a smoke?"
Arthur reaches into his breast pocket and flicks his cigarette case open, proffering it. He doesn't even like Marlboro lights, but what Eames doesn't know won't hurt him.
Eames takes a cigarette with a murmur of thanks. They smoke in silence for a moment before he speaks again.
"Don't remember taking out a protracted insurance policy on this one."
Arthur exhales a thin stream of smoke. "I was in the area."
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eames nod. "Hm. I'm sure Mathery was thrilled that you joined."
"It was hire me now or waste ten grand on a reckless point before coming back to hire me anyway." Arthur shrugs and risks a glance to the side to catch a glimpse of Eames in profile. "His choice."
Eames' lips curve but there's no humour in his smile. The expression is familiar but something sour twists in Arthur's gut to see it directed at him. "I see."
Do you? Arthur swallows the words. He stares down at the bare trees lining the grey streets, their withered branches waving in the wind. Eames' gaze is an almost physical heat on his neck.
Arthur's cigarette is down to the filter by the time Eames speaks again. "There are easier ways to apologize for Minsk, you know."
He flicks the stub away. "Who said I was apologizing for anything?"
"Don't play coy, it never suits you." The words are brusque but Eames' tone gentles when he asks, "Am I to believe you'd drop a six-figure job and take a red-eye flight to Prague to save just anyone from the trials of having to work with an untrustworthy extractor?"
Arthur bites the inside of his lip. The only two people on earth who had known about his now-cancelled job had been himself and the client. And, somehow, Eames. "I thought my services were unnecessary."
That makes Eames huff a laugh. "Unnecessary, yes. One might even say irritating, in the moment. But the thought behind them-" and here Eames looks at him, really looks in the way that makes Arthur feel like no one has ever quite seen him before - "that was almost touching."
"Almost," Arthur echoes drily.
"Like I said: easier ways to apologise." Eames' face is studiously blank; he's spinning Arthur's pilfered lighter around in his hands. "Dinner, perhaps."
Arthur rolls his eyes and tries to swallow his grin. "Fine. What are you doing tomorrow night?"
"Darling," Eames breaks into a full smile now, eyes bright. "I thought you'd never ask."