loadedparadox

[Inspired by this piece by the wonderful eamesofdreams. For Complications verse mostly, though applicable to most verses.]

It was a typical late fall day in L.A.. The sun was brilliant overhead, the sky hazy with smog, and despite the warnings about air quality, anyone and everyone was outside. Dom had set up some brightly colored sprinkler that cast streams of water into the air, the droplets reflecting back rainbows before the gleeful body of Phillipa disrupted them. James, so young and toddling about, sat just on the edge of the sprays range, giggling madly when the drops splashed him. Nearby Dom sat on the edge of the deck, working on putting together the new bike they'd gotten for Phillipa. Mal had just set out a fresh pitcher of sangria, the red wine so delicious and delightful against the heat of the day.

Standing on the edge of the deck, Arthur couldn't help but smile. This was what he'd never had as a child. A family. A place where he belonged. Not that he overstayed his welcome but he also knew that neither Mal nor Dom minded him being there, welcoming his stays each and every time. Pouring himself a fresh sangria, Arthur was about to ask Mal if they should start dinner when he heard the doorbell ring. Waving Mal and Dom back to their family, Arthur slipped into the relative coolness of the house, crossing the tiled floor silently to open the door.

Dressed for the heat in a short sleeve dress shirt, no tie, and dark slacks, Arthur was calm and curious as he stared at the other man. Slowly his dark eyes took in the rumpled sports jacket, the lighter trousers and the bag the man held in his hand. Full lips, eyes a bit bleary as if he'd been sleeping, or perhaps drinking, and their was a distinct air about him that was as out of place in L.A. as snow. The scent of nicotine and tobacco.

"May I help you?" Arthur's tones were careful and clipped, the glass in his hand as a brow arched.

"I... don't know." The British accent caught Arthur slightly off guard. When he reached into his inner breast pocket, Arthur stepped back, free hand going to the small of his back. They both froze, each understanding the other implicitly in that moment. "Stand down, Mate. Just a card."

He held up the Queen, the crease down the middle nearly bisecting the card. It wasn't the address that caught his eye so much as handwriting. Mal's.

"You're Mr Eames?" It wasn't so much a question as a stunned proclamation. Once more that gaze swept over the brit, taking him in as if he might well see him in a new light. The stony expression didn't change. "Well then..." Arthur stepped back, gesturing for him to enter. "You were expected nearly a week ago," he pronounced.

"I didn't agree to come!"

Then he was rewarded with a tiny, enigmatic smile. "Mal was certain you would. The family is out back. You can leave your bag here."

"Wait. Slow down. Who are you?"

Arthur paused, turning back to look at Eames once more. This time his eyes met the other man's and didn't waiver. "The name's Arthur." With that he continued down the hall.

"Great. He had to have a damn spook working for him?" Muttering into the silence of the hallway, Eames dropped his bag with a thud, striding down to the end of the hall.

It wasn't that he hadn't been expecting Arthur. In truth, he'd heard more than enough about him when he'd looked into this Mallorie Cobb. Maybe the best point man in the business, and fiercely devoted to the Cobb's. No one had said he'd be so damned stoned face, like a statue come to life. Eames was going to focus on that and not the light step, the small dimple when he'd smiled. Screw that. Last thing he needed was some cold hearted bastard turning him down in front of that beautiful flame that was already crossing the lawn to greet him.

***

The hands that curled around Arthur's bicep were delicate but strong, giving him a bit of a squeeze.

"Well?"

Arthur chuckled, leaning into Mal's touch. "Well what?"

"Stop playing coy with me. You very well know what I mean. What do you think of him? Isn't he everything I said he would be?"

Arthur gave her a look, unable to help but smile. "He seems more than competent as a forger. I look forward to seeing if he lives up to the hype."

"Arthur!" She gave him a soft shake. "Quit that. You know very well that wasn't what I meant."

"He's a brute."

"Did you see his mouth? Those lips?"

"He's uncouth and smokes."

"And those muscles. Tell me you didn't notice those muscle."

"I noticed the tattoos."

"Very rakish, non?"

"He's completely and utterly not my type, Mal."

"He wishes to be."

That earned her a sharp look and then a laugh. "Mal, I think you're projecting your desires on that poor man."

"Mark my word, my sweet soldier. Our Mr Eames has his eye on you."

Shaking his head and laughing at her words, Arthur gave her a playful nudge. "Go bother your husband and leave me to cleaning up this mess."

Soft laughter echoing his own, Mal moved down the hall like a wraith, leaving Arthur with the cleaning and his thoughts. Thoughts that would certainly serve him no good, especially if this man was soon to be part of their team. Though Mal was right on one thing. Those full lips had held Arthur's attention for much too long over the course of the evening. He suspected they would hold his fantasies for quite a long time.