Sinful.

Today, after their initial warm-ups, Patty suggests that they try some poses where Arthur is lying down. It’s good practice for foreshortening, she says, and besides, they haven’t done any lying down poses yet. And it sounds just fine and dandy until Arthur goes to pose and Eames realizes just how much more irresistible this makes Arthur look. It isn’t even that big of a stretch of imagination to picture Arthur in bed (preferably lying under Eames, hair mussed and skin flushed, a panting, disheveled, moaning mess), and Eames just can’t get that image out of his head.

During one particular pose, Eames could swear that Arthur was looking directly at him, though the bright lights and dark shadows made it hard to tell for sure.

About halfway through the morning, they’re taking their usual break, and Arthur is sitting in a manner that’s not quite posed but not exactly completely casual either; it just looks neat, organized, like everything else about him. Edith is continuing her running questionnaire with Arthur (today it’s “Where are you from, Arthur?” and as it turns out, it’s somewhere incredibly obscure, somewhere no one here has heard of, but Edith listens with interest anyways as Arthur spins her tales in a politely detached voice) and Eames is drawing (no surprise there).

He’s labeled the page he’s drawing on with today’s date in a careless, messy scrawl, and he’s hurrying to capture Arthur’s form before Arthur shifts his posture as he does every so often – subconsciously, of course, as everyone does. There are already three previous sketches occupying the page, one only perhaps three-quarters of the way finished because Patty declared that break was over before Eames had a chance to finish.

Eames is drawing furiously as his eyes flick back and forth between the page and Arthur, and he doesn’t even notice that the room has gone quiet until he sees a shadow fall across his worktable. He looks up to find Arthur standing before him and raises his eyebrows at the older man.

“Yes, pet?” Eames says around the beginnings of a smirk. “Can I help you with something?”

Eames loves pet names. He calls anyone who means anything to him every pet name in the book, though if he’s honest with himself, he’ll admit that he never called anyone “darling” before. When he’d called Arthur that this morning, it’d been the first time. If pressed as to why he’d chosen that particular endearment for Arthur, Eames wouldn’t have been able to say. He just knows that it fits. Neither of them knows now that Eames will use that pet name for Arthur so many times, even Arthur will lose count of exactly how many times the word has been said.

Arthur holds out his hand towards Eames’ sketchpad. “May I?” he asks.

Eames considers saying no for a moment, almost worried of what Arthur will think when he sees that Eames was drawing him, but then Eames thinks, what else could Arthur possibly think he was drawing? He knows Arthur had seen him (Eames) looking at him (Arthur). There’s nothing to be worried about, really.

So Eames grins, “Of course. Anything for you, love.”

(“Love” – Ariadne likes to make British jokes at Eames’ expense every time Eames uses that particular endearment)

Arthur rolls his eyes as Eames hands over the sketchbook. He flips the sketchbook over in his hands so it’s facing the right way and Eames can’t help staring at Arthur’s long, slender fingers. Arthur looks like he’d be good with his hands. Eames makes a point to squash that train of thought before it has a chance to take off in all the wrong directions and forces himself to look at Arthur’s face. Proper thoughts, he tells himself, think only proper thoughts. There will be plenty time for fantasizing when he’s alone in the solitude of his room.

Arthur studies the sketches for a while, his expression quietly contemplative as his appraising brown eyes move over the paper. A moment passes and Arthur hands the sketchpad back to Eames.

“You know, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says matter-of-factly, a certain lilt Eames has never heard before (and intends on hearing again) dancing the edges of Arthur’s well-clipped words. It almost sounds suggestive, but it’s so subtle, Eames wonders if he’s just imagining things, just hearing what he wants to hear. “I never knew it was possible for anyone to make me look so sinful.”

Eames takes his sketchbook back with a satisfied smirk. Definitely suggestive, he decides. This is how Arthur flirts, he realizes.

“I take it you like it then?” Eames asks.

Arthur presses his lips together in a thin line and doesn’t say anything. He’d almost look disapproving had it not been for the amusement making his dark eyes seem a shade lighter. Maybe no one else would have noticed it, but Eames does and he grins wider.

“Excellent,” Eames announces. “You know I always aim to please you, dearest.”

Arthur’s mouth twitches up into what might be the beginnings of a smile before he turns away and Eames can’t see his face anymore. When Arthur sits down on the edge of the modeling platform, his expression is perfectly controlled, as always, but Eames is positive he can see the lingering aftereffects of silent laughter playing at Arthur’s features. Eames feels triumphant, feels like breaking out into a celebratory dance, but holds himself back. Just.

The morning passes all too quickly, and before Eames really even realizes it, everyone is tidying up their workspaces to go to lunch. Arthur is pulling his sweater on over his shirt and straightening out his tie, and suddenly Eames has an idea. He reaches for his sketchbook and tears out a carefully chosen page, glad that he’d washed his hands minutes ago so he doesn’t leave black charcoal fingerprints on the paper. He quickly scrawls his name down in the lower right hand corner just the way he signs all of the artwork he intends to give away and looks up just as Arthur is shrugging his messenger bag onto his shoulder.

Arthur waves goodbye to Patty and heads for the door, and Eames is trying to carefully plan just the right time to call out to him.

“Arthur,” Eames beckons for him just as Arthur is passing his worktable. “I have a little something for you.”

(And again, it’s in that tone of voice that Ariadne has condemned as completely and utterly inappropriate)

Arthur pauses and arches an elegant eyebrow. Eames smiles.

“For you,” Eames presents the piece of paper with a flourish, his voice dripping with honeyed sweetness.

Arthur doesn’t move. He simply eyes the sketch-filled paper, which, in fact, is the same page Eames’ sketchbook had been open to when Arthur had requested to look at it earlier today. He recognizes it immediately.

“If I didn’t know better, Mr. Eames, I’d almost think you were trying to slip me your number under the pretext of giving me a drawing,” Arthur says carefully, levelly, after a brief moment’s silence, still staring at the paper as if expecting it to burst into flames. His eyes flick up to Eames (finally, Eames thinks) and he looks at Eames in that scrutinizing way of his. “Tell me, do I know better?”

The corner of Eames’ mouth quirks up into his typical smirk. “I don’t know,” he replies smoothly. That’s a good idea, he thinks to himself, but that’s not what he’s trying to do here. He makes a mental note to save that trick for later. “I think that’s more of a matter of opinion, really.”

Arthur looks down at the drawing in Eames’ hand and then back up at Eames before an almost imperceptible change overcomes his features. It’s almost unnoticeable, but Eames has always been good at picking up on these little things and he sees it. It’s a slight softening of Arthur’s usually steely gaze, the smallest hint of an upward slant at the corners of his mouth. Arthur reaches out and takes the drawing from Eames and doesn’t say another word as he leaves.

It doesn’t show, but inside, Eames is a squealing schoolgirl, fanning himself with his hands while bursting into joyful, love-drunk hysterics.