On S'appelle
Tuesday.
“Binge drinking is dangerous, Mr. Eames.”
The only reasons Arthur knew that this is what Eames had been doing were A: it was Tuesday and Eames had declared, rather raucously, at a job two years back that “Tuesdays are the days to do it, darling. To get right proper drunk!” and B: answering the phone had led to Eames’ oh so very hushed shooing exclamations of I wanna be the one t’ tell ‘im I won! Arthur had sat through it patiently.
“Y’need s’more fun in your life, Arthur,” Eames advised rather sagely; or as sagely as he could manage with twenty straight shots clouding his every thought.
“Do you have a ride home?” Arthur asked in sudden thought. Thought, he reiterated in his mind. Not the same thing as panic.
Eames seemed to take a moment of thought, pausing after the question and taking a pause of hmmm. Arthur felt this was the signal to jump in, but his lie of I’m only five minutes away was stuck resolutely somewhere between the back of his tongue and his churning stomach. Eames had no sense of time when he was drunk (or at all). If Arthur said five minutes, he could arrive two hours later to the greeting of, “you’re always too early, darling.”
Before the pounding muscle in his chest could push the words past his dried lips, Eames gave up on his extended pause. “Riley’ sober ‘nough.”
“Sober enough?” A rustle of movement told Arthur that Eames was nodding. “’Sober enough’ isn’t the same as sober, Mr. Eames.”
“Is so,” Eames argued like a child.
“You’re drunk, Mr. Eames.”
“Obvi’sly.”
Arthur didn’t know what to say next. He could convince Eames to find someone more sober, someone more trustworthy. Or he could make his offer. But the chances were that Eames’ mind would get bored of waiting the two hours it took Arthur to get to the bar he knew the Forger was occupying.
“Arthur.”
Arthur hummed in response, his mind still scattered in other parts, across other planes of thought.
“I remembered th’ name of that movie.”
“And what was it, Eames?”
A pause.
“Forgot.”
Arthur would have rolled his eyes or snorted, but Eames’ voice sounded so genuinely rain-soaked that he held back any smart comments or laughs. Instead he breathed out a response of encouragement. The title couldn’t be that difficult. If he remembered it once, he could surely remember it again. He was clever enough for that.
“S’pose so,” Eames answered in a sunnier tone and Arthur had the sneaking suspicion curling like sunlight over his stomach that Eames was fully aware of the reactions a change of tone could get from the Point Man.
“I can pick you up in about an hour,” Arthur said after a pause, lowering his voice and his words until he was sure they could be brushed off by Eames as background noise that wasn’t important. Arthur thought he could hear the smile in Eames’ words but Eames could shift any part of himself to match up with any mask he chose to wear.
“Riley’s sober ‘nough.”
The only reasons Arthur knew that this is what Eames had been doing were A: it was Tuesday and Eames had declared, rather raucously, at a job two years back that “Tuesdays are the days to do it, darling. To get right proper drunk!” and B: answering the phone had led to Eames’ oh so very hushed shooing exclamations of I wanna be the one t’ tell ‘im I won! Arthur had sat through it patiently.
“Y’need s’more fun in your life, Arthur,” Eames advised rather sagely; or as sagely as he could manage with twenty straight shots clouding his every thought.
“Do you have a ride home?” Arthur asked in sudden thought. Thought, he reiterated in his mind. Not the same thing as panic.
Eames seemed to take a moment of thought, pausing after the question and taking a pause of hmmm. Arthur felt this was the signal to jump in, but his lie of I’m only five minutes away was stuck resolutely somewhere between the back of his tongue and his churning stomach. Eames had no sense of time when he was drunk (or at all). If Arthur said five minutes, he could arrive two hours later to the greeting of, “you’re always too early, darling.”
Before the pounding muscle in his chest could push the words past his dried lips, Eames gave up on his extended pause. “Riley’ sober ‘nough.”
“Sober enough?” A rustle of movement told Arthur that Eames was nodding. “’Sober enough’ isn’t the same as sober, Mr. Eames.”
“Is so,” Eames argued like a child.
“You’re drunk, Mr. Eames.”
“Obvi’sly.”
Arthur didn’t know what to say next. He could convince Eames to find someone more sober, someone more trustworthy. Or he could make his offer. But the chances were that Eames’ mind would get bored of waiting the two hours it took Arthur to get to the bar he knew the Forger was occupying.
“Arthur.”
Arthur hummed in response, his mind still scattered in other parts, across other planes of thought.
“I remembered th’ name of that movie.”
“And what was it, Eames?”
A pause.
“Forgot.”
Arthur would have rolled his eyes or snorted, but Eames’ voice sounded so genuinely rain-soaked that he held back any smart comments or laughs. Instead he breathed out a response of encouragement. The title couldn’t be that difficult. If he remembered it once, he could surely remember it again. He was clever enough for that.
“S’pose so,” Eames answered in a sunnier tone and Arthur had the sneaking suspicion curling like sunlight over his stomach that Eames was fully aware of the reactions a change of tone could get from the Point Man.
“I can pick you up in about an hour,” Arthur said after a pause, lowering his voice and his words until he was sure they could be brushed off by Eames as background noise that wasn’t important. Arthur thought he could hear the smile in Eames’ words but Eames could shift any part of himself to match up with any mask he chose to wear.
“Riley’s sober ‘nough.”