Chapter Text
I.
Eames wakes up feeling out of sorts. Feeling out of sorts isn’t all that unusual for him, but this out of sorts feels more out of sorts than usual.
Scowling groggily at the fan whirling above him, he desperately tries to remember why, at such an ungodly hour, his alarm clock is blaring at him so hatefully.
Ah. Right. It’s his first day of work. At his new job.
His first day of work at his new, completely above board, one hundred percent legal, legitimate job.
As a... File Manager. Not a Secretary, a File Manager. Yes, that sounds better, makes the tenseness clenching in his chest loosen slightly. When Eames thinks ‘Secretary’ he imagines himself crawling across a carpeted office in a pencil skirt—not something he’s opposed to, mind you, but— he thinks the distinction is the first step in maintaining his sanity. File Manager. Capital ‘F’, ‘M’.
Fuck Me. Too early to start drinking?
Eames stretches and rolls over, sheets twisting around broad thighs, and wonders--not for the first time this past weekend-- how he'd managed to get himself so royally fucked. The answer to which, more often than not, was that he hadn't a fucking clue.
Or gambling; often the answer was gambling.
And in this case, it is unquestionably gambling that has him fucked.
.
It'd happened on a Thursday. Eames could never quite get the hang of Thursdays, and so he’d done what he generally did on particularly awful Thursdays; he’d gotten pissed.
That was his first mistake.
His second mistake was going to the Cobb’s.
His third was engaging in a particularly blood-thirsty game of five card poker.
With a crazy man, and his pregnant wife.
Eames groans, and shuffles to the bathroom unsteadily.
Eames is good at cards. He's fucking aces at cards, but Mal is…Mal. The best. Which is why, generally, Eames has a rule of not going up against her. Ever. Upon pain of death.
But-- alcohol.
Eames allows himself an audible sigh.
Jesus, he can still see her face.
All glinting eyes and wine lips and bared teeth as she'd showed her cards and sat back smiling carnivorously at him.
“Oh my God,” Ariadne had breathed somberly, “Shit Eames, I’m so sorry.”
And Eames' mouth wouldn’t close. He just sat, looking at Mal’s royal flush, gaping like a bloody fish.
It was at that point that Dom had started to laugh.
Eames had looked up at Mal balefully, he could’ve sworn he’d seen a bit of pity in her expression before it hardened, determined,
“For Cairo, Eames,” making him flinch, “Welcome to hell.”
.
Eames strips out of his sleep shorts, and steps inside the shower, steam curling around his calves as the water pounds against his back.
He had argued, had tried--unsuccessfully— to reason with the mad woman.
“One fucking bullet!” he had shouted, “Jesus Mal, it was one measly bullet, nothing to cry over! Nothing to do this over. Mal, please love, be reasonable!”
Dom hadn't stopped laughing.
Ariadne, a conflict-avoiding opportunist, escaped to the kitchen to grab another bottle of wine. Or three.
“I’ve heard you complain about him for seven ruddy months, and you’re going to do this to me? On top of office work? You know I can’t stand to be cooped up, Mal—”
She cut him off by leaning over the poker table, perfectly polished finger jabbing him in the shoulder.
“Eames. I won,” her voice quiet, harsh, “If you weren't planning on honouring the pot, then you should have folded when you had the chance.”
Eames felt the coldness of inevitability sobering-sharp in his chest; he may be a liar and a forger, but he honours his debts.
“The pot was for keeps, darling,” She'd said pity-quiet, “Until I have the baby, and then you are released.”
“Plus,” she added softly, “I hate to do this to you, dear, but you owe me.”
Eames swallowed noisily around the lump in his throat, guilt and shame throttling him quiet.
Cobb stopped laughing, “Mal, dearest, are you seriously going to—”
Mal turned on him in a swirl of righteous indignation,
“I will not go through this pregnancy with that bastard driving me insane and not be able to have a drink. Drinking’s all I’ve got at this point, and if I have to deal with him and not have alcohol to save me, Dom—” she lapsed into forceful, angry French, and Eames slunk away to find Ariadne. And a stiff drink.
He found both in the kitchen, Ariadne looked at him over the bottle she was unceremoniously guzzling.
“Can you fucking believe this?” Eames sighed, reaching for the bottle.
She finished her swig with a pop and looked at him soberly. Well, not entirely soberly.
“I’ll eat lunch with you; I’m only three floors down,” his dark haired protégé slurred at him, the bottle back to her lips.
She was reaching the bottom of it, “It won’t be so bad. He’s not so bad.”
Eames raised an eyebrow at her. She coughed, and amended,
“I mean, Mal’s stuck it out the longest of anyone, and you’re just as stubborn as she is.” Ariadne paused, “Then again she’s never quit anything in her life. Plus I sort of think she’s growing fond of him, French masochist that she is, so maybe you are a bit screwed. But it’s just a bet Eames, hand in your notice after a few days, I’m sure it’ll be fi—“
“I never quit.” He interrupted proudly, grabbing the almost empty bottle from her and placing it on the counter.
“Bullshit!” she cried, “There was Versailles for starters, and also Mumbai, Naples, Pokhara, Manila, don’t tell me you forgot about fucking Moscow, Eames, oh and—”
“All right, all right, you tart, I get it. So I quit. A lot. But I always pay what I owe when I lose, even though that’s a rare enough occasion.” He trailed off bitterly, turning to the freezer to look for the vodka he knew he’d find there. It was behind the frozen peas.
Ariadne shuffled her socked feet against the linoleum, “A full house is a perfectly respectable hand.” She whispered to his back.
He loved her for it.
“This was never about cards, Ari.”
Eames had found her on the streets in Chiang Mai, back when it was just him and Dom, with Mal as their fence, and he’d taught a scrawny doe-eyed girl to forge and to con and to not get caught.
The kid had been good. Still was good. She was working over marks to pay her way through architecture school.
Mal had gotten Ariadne the internship at Finch & Son, the biggest architecture firm in Chicago.
Where Eames would be replacing Mal while she was on maternity leave.
For eight months.
The personal assistant to, as Mal put it, “the devil himself,” Arthur Finch.
.
Eames focuses on smoothing soap across his skin, the silky suds relieving a little tension, blurring whorls of ink. He tries to quiet his mind; lifting his face to the spray of the shower. He deserves this, that was the bitter truth of the whole damn situation—it was his fault that Mal had gotten caught. Turning off the shower, he swallows thickly; shame burning hotly in his throat. It was all his fucking fault.
His fault she’d gotten caught, his mistake that had cracked their whole operation wide and wound-exposed; the reason they'd all had to go underground, go legitimate. The reason that Mal had to work a job she hated for an arsehole that made her life miserable. His fault he felt hollowed out and husk-empty. His fault that he couldn't--Eames grits his teeth and grabs a terry cloth towel.
Enough.
It was Eames’ fault. And here he was a year and a losing hand later, paying for it.
Karma, it turns out, really is a vindictive bitch; a pregnant French one.
.
Eames stands awkwardly in the lobby of Finch & Son waiting for the lift. He wonders if he can put his hands in his pockets, or if that would ‘ruin the lines of suit’ as Ariadne had exasperatedly harped at him, and catches his reflection in the stainless steel of the lift doors.
He looks nervous, so slips on a cheeky grin, and straightens his shoulders.
He keeps his hands out of his pockets, trying to mind his lines, because he’s wearing a tailored navy suit, his best suit, because apparently he couldn’t wear “fucking polyester to Finch & Son, Jesus, Eames!” or so Ariadne had shouted at him over the phone when he’d sent her a photo message earlier that morning asking if he should wear the paisley tie, or the striped one.
“Why the hell not? It looks nice,” Eames had looked down at himself, and added defensively, “it was my Granddad’s.”
“Because Eames,” Ariadne had explained slowly, fake patience oozing out of the earpiece and drenching Eames with disdain, “It was your Granddad’s. When you wear that suit you look like a Danish man from the 1970s; an ugly one.”
Eames had snorted, “As if I could ever be considered ugly.”
She'd ignored him, “Arthur Finch is the most fashionable man I’ve ever seen. The best brands, impeccable tailoring, he always looks divine, oh my god you should see his ass in this one gray suit, he—”
“Araidne.”
“Sorry. But Eames, he will notice. And not in the way you want him to. He definitely won’t appreciate your ‘quaint, eccentric’ clothing choices. And you don’t want to make a bad impression.”
“Jesus Ariadne, I’m just his File Manager,”
“His…what?! File Manager, Eames? Really?” he could hear her sputtering down the line, laughing. He narrowed his eyes.
“Twat,” he muttered.
“Whatever you want to call yourself, Eames, you’re his Secretary,” he could hear her smug grin, “And you’re the first person people see when they come to his office. Look your best, wear the navy sans tie, and meet me downstairs in ten. We’ll go shopping after your first day in the seventh layer.”
Eames had considered not changing, but only for a few minutes.
Then he’d dashed about his flat like a madman, dodging piles of books, art supplies, nearly tripping over an unfinished forge of a Klimpt, throwing on his navy suit, trying to find the left foot of his dress shoes, and grabbing a swallow of lukewarm tea. He pushed out the front door of his apartment building into the warm air of early Chicago in September, in a little under ten minutes.
Ariadne was waiting for him. She held out a raspberry danish, smirking.
The joke was not lost on him.
They fell in step and made their way to the bus stop.
Ariadne arched an eyebrow at Eames as the bus pulled up to their stop. The doors opened with hiss. She studied him quietly for a moment, and eventually asked,
“You aren’t nervous are you?”
Eames’ head snapped towards her, his eyebrows pulled together, and his bottom lip trapped between uneven teeth.
Truth is, he was nervous. Frightfully so. Eames is an unrestrained fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of bloke; a thief, a man who makes his living by trickery and impulsivity.
He wasn’t sure he could handle sitting in an office for eight months.
“You forget, love,” he had said to her quietly, “in our profession there’s no room for nerves.”
.
Fidgeting, Eames buttons the top button on his shirt, decides he looks like a complete tosser, and unbuttons it again.
Ten more floors.
Ari tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear and hums quietly next to him, waiting for the lift to deliver her to her floor; Eames feels more than sees realization smack her right in the forehead.
She stiffens and looks over at him, mouth slightly open, and eyebrows up, in the universal expression for ‘gob smacked’.
Eames keeps his eyes forward, silent, waiting.
“Are you treating this like a Job?!” she hisses at him, smile plastered onto her face for the benefit of the nine to five’s crowded in a herd around them.
Eames has the grace to grimace.
Ariadne faces him fully,
“You are treating this like a Job you sad, ridiculous forger. Arthur Finch isn’t a mark, dumb-ass,” she whispers forcefully.
Four more floors.
“He’s smart— genius level, and Eames whatever you’re planning to do, or if this is how you’re planning to cope, it’s going to fail. Spectacularly. Just,” she pauses, eyes fond-soft, “straighten up, and be yourself.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets, lines be damned, looking down at his shoes as the elevator ‘bings’ its arrival.
“Be no one but yourself, Eames. This isn’t a game, and this isn’t a Job— at least, not the kind you’re used to. You can’t work Arthur Finch over, and you shouldn’t. This isn’t a con, it’s the real world. And whether you’ve realized it or not, this is the Cobb’s way of seeing if you’re ready to be a part of it. Be yourself.”
The elevator doors slide open and Eames stays silent until Ariadne is almost out of the lift.
“If I don’t pull someone else on, Ari, I won’t stand a chance.”
.
What Eames doesn't account for is the way that Arthur Finch looks at you that makes it impossible to be anyone but yourself.
Ariadne had been right. Arthur Finch was one of those people you couldn’t con.
He sees through Eames in less than three seconds.
“Cut the bullshit,” he says, barely looking up from his desk, and the eager-to-please look slides right off Eames’ face.
He’d been playing Henry, a shy, awkward, easy-to-trust accountant.
Eames takes a step forward and shakes out of Henry, shoulders straightening from unassuming-hunched to fuck-off broadness, and comes back to himself. He shoves his hands into his pockets, probably fucking the lines of his suit to hell, and studies the polished man sitting in front of him.
The only person he’d ever met who’d seen through him that quickly was Dom; colour him intrigued, to say the least.
By the devil himself.
Eames doesn’t live under a rock; he knows who Arthur Finch is. He’s the ‘& Son’ in Finch & Son Architecture, and since Finch Senior died a year ago, he is also one of the youngest CEO’s in the game; twenty-five, blood-thirsty, and brilliant.
And beautiful— but not in the way that Eames is handsome. Arthur Finch is modern streamlined beauty; all dark hair and pale skin, tall and lean and polished. The lines of his suit aren’t fucked, and when he stands to shake Eames’ hand, it’s with an elegant poise, graceful but considered, his grasp in Eames’ hand a firm, unyielding hold.
Eames isn’t sure what to do... which for Eames is rare.
The man standing in front of him is everything Eames isn’t. Where Arthur is agile and fluid, Eames is solid and blunt. Where Eames creates problems, Arthur unmakes them.
Eames has an unconventional twistedness about him; in his uneven mismatched teeth, in the way he dresses down his attractiveness. He is unpredictable, impulsive, smart-mouthed, and dishonest; a wild card.
Arthur, on the other hand, is perfect. From his carefully slicked back hair to his even, straight teeth. Everything about him reeks of faultlessness; in his impeccable dress and air of immaculate precision. Arthur is calm and organized where Eames is unpredictable disorder. Arthur is calculating where Eames is reckless, and although Eames has a rugged foreign attractiveness, a charismatic magnetism one often finds in chaos, Arthur Finch is unadulterated loveliness, stunning precise artistry.
Arthur is… staring at him oddly.
Looking down Eames sees that he is still shaking Arthur’s hand like a fucking lunatic.
Pulling back the offending appendage, he shoves it back into his pocket. Ariadne may need to refresh him again on the importance of the lines of his goddamn suit.
“Sit, Mr. Eames,” Arthur gestures with a wide hand, sliding back into his own chair.
Eames sits; feet crossed at the ankles, and rakes a hand through his hair.
He could already tell that Arthur Finch was a piece of work, a fucking beautiful piece of work.
And if there was anything Eames was a sucker for, it was a fucking beautiful piece of work.
“So, you’re Mrs. Cobb’s maternity-leave replacement, Mr. Eames? A recommendation she made herself,” Arthur shuffles some papers around on his desk.
“Yes,” Eames replies, “Mal wagered you in a game of five card poker.”
“And you won?”
Eames grins toothily, “I lost.”
Arthur looks up from the papers in his hands and into Eames’ eyes for the first time during their meeting, one eyebrow perfectly raised.
Eames’ swallows hard.
God, but he’s fucked. Arthur’s eyes are deep and dark, unbending, hard and calculating.
And Eames wants.
It hits him low in the gut, forceful and sudden. Eames wants those eyes to look at him with warmth, indulgence, lust and need.
Instead they regard him with disdain and condescension.
“Is that so,” says Arthur Finch; it isn’t a question.
Eames doesn’t reply, instead he looks down at Arthur’s long tapered fingers tapping on the polished mahogany of his desk. They are pianist’s hands, artist’s fingers, and Eames appreciates and envies, as a pianist and artist.
“Do you not have a first name, Mr. Eames?”
Eames looks up from the fingers jerkily,
“No,” Eames is, after all, a liar.
The other eyebrow arches to meet the first one,
“Hm,” is all the answer Eames gets, as Arthur gingerly picks up Eames’ less-than-genuine CV with its less-than-real previous employments.
“Hm,” Arthur says again, and drops the papers in front of him, leaning forward fingers steepled,
“To be completely honest, Mr. Eames, I don’t care what your first name is, or how ridiculously conceited it is to just list one name on a CV as though you're Seal, or Cher. I don’t care that every contact number you listed leads to the same man with or without an Irish accent. Your work visa checks out, and that’s all that matters.”
Eames ignores the insult in favor of grinning internally. His visa better fucking check out; it’s a piece of art, one of his best counterfeits.
“I go through secretaries,” Arthur continues, ignoring Eames’ wince at the title, “like candy, and I don’t expect you to last the week.”
Eames’ eyes narrow as Arthur persists,
“Given the suspicious nature of your resume, I doubt you have much work experience. If the complexities of your duties, which will mostly include being on your knees singing the alphabet song, are too much for you to handle, not to worry,” the disdain drips off Arthur’s words like syrup, “I can hire ten of you in ten minutes. Don’t imagine for an instant that you are inimitable.”
Eames carries on with the silent treatment. As fine-looking and striking as Arthur Finch is, he’s also a bit of a dick.
“You are to refer to me as Mr. Finch, and you will do everything I ask of you as promptly and as thoroughly as possible. Are you a religious man, Mr. Eames?”
“Very lapsed catholic,” Eames blinks, confused at the change in subject.
“Well in here, I am God. And what I say is law, understood?”
“Yes.” The forger grits out from between clenched teeth. Eames doesn’t take orders from anyone except Dom, and even then those are carefully worded as suggestions-he-better-fucking-do.
“Yes, what? Mr. Eames,” Arthur prods slowly, as though speaking to a particularly thick Neanderthal.
“Yes I understand that in here I’m your bitch,” Eames retorts, insulted and irritated.
“Exactly,” Arthur smiles, which to Eames’ horror makes him even more arresting.
“Now run along. You’ll find you passed your desk on the way in, and I’ve sent a list of everything I need done this morning to your email. The IT department has set you up with an account and the information is taped to your computer. You start every day at 8:00am, you have an hour lunch break at 12:30, and your day ends at six o’clock if you’ve finished everything. See yourself out Mr. Eames.”
Arthur Finch turns to a sleek looking computer, and starts tapping away at it.
In any other situation, Eames would have politely told Finch to go fuck himself, no matter how much of an Adonis the man was.
But Eames honours his debts. So instead he stands and makes his way to the door, stopping as he yanks it open to look back at Arthur, “Call me Eames. Like Seal or Cher. There’s no mister,” relishing the affronted look on Arthur Finch’s face, as he strides out.
.
Eames sits at his desk and looks at a yellow post-it note stuck to the monitor of his desktop computer.
The handwriting is undoubtedly Arthur’s; a pointed, refined cursive. Even his hand-writing looks like it needs a good fucking.
Eames’ work email is [email protected]. His password is secretary.
Swearing, Eames signs into Outlook taking deep, even breaths.
There is an email from Arthur.
Reading it Eames swears again.
And then again for good measure.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: (no subject)
I have a meeting at 9:30am with the board.
For this meeting I will need all the files on the Stenton commission, the Wright commission, and the blueprints for the Savoy copied in triplicate. I also need the updated designs on the Savoy foyer sent up from Yusuf, and you will need to hi-light in green all the size changes made from the old design.
Aside from this finish everything in your IN tray. Pick up my dry-cleaning from drop it off at my building. Assuming you don’t have reliable transportation, you will be reimbursed for your bus fare.
Do not disturb me unless it is an emergency. And to hand me the papers I need at 9:15. No later.
I will email with any tasks from here on out.
A.Finch
Before Eames has a chance to swear again, his computer pings.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Coffee
Venti triple shot macchiato with vanilla soy, stat. I don’t care if you have to kill someone to get it. I want it in ten minutes or less.
Eames swears.
And shoots back:
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
RE: Coffee
I know how to use the bloody intercom, by the way. How do you feel about whipped cream?
Eames adds, just to be cheeky.
The intercom on his left crackles,
“None,” is the terse reply.
Eames glances at his watch. It’s 8:17. He has about an hour to do god knows what with some copying and some filing, a green highlighter, and whatever the hell a Yusuf is.
And 10 minutes to get coffee.
He gets the coffee in seven by contacting a barista who owes him a favour for forging a green card.
“Elsa, love, you know that thing you owe me?” he can hear her freeze on the other line, “provide me with a venti triple shot macchiato, vanilla soy hold the cream anytime I need it, the first one in five minutes, and we can call it even.”
She curses at him, in English and Romanian, using some combinations Eames smirks at with the phone held a foot away from his ear and files away for later use, but she agrees to call Edward, the barista at the Starbucks across the street from Finch & Son, and see what she can do.
What Elsa can do, apparently, are miracles.
Eames raps on Arthur’s door, steaming drink in hand.
“Enter only if you’ve got my Macchiato. If not, consider yourself fired.”
Eames considers leaving, but only for a few seconds, and opens the door.
Arthur is sitting at his desk, jacket off, shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbows, sketching in a black moleskin. He looks at his watch, and raises an eyebrow.
The CEO doesn’t look at Eames, just gestures towards an open spot on the expansive mahogany for Eames to set down the coffee, and waves towards the door as if shooing away a pesky fly.
God help him, Eames wants Finch to look up and acknowledge his presence. He feels like a sodding dog, salivating and waiting for a pat on the head and a “job well done.”
He gets nothing.
Sitting down at his desk, Eames lets his forehead get thoroughly familiar with the smooth wood for a minute, and takes a few deep breaths.
Then he pulls up Ariadne’s information from the business directory and sends her an email.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: fuck
What the bloody fucking hell is a Yusuf?
.
It takes Eames until an hour and a quarter to figure out how to irritate Arthur.
To exceed expectation—which, to Eames’ disgust, is admittedly low —and to complete everything perfectly with a reckless abandon. Eames performs his tasks with an Eames-like attitude and impulsive chaos that is unorthodox, sometimes illegal, and involves a lot of cursing at an outlandishly ancient copy machine, that yields results Finch can’t argue with; and that, in itself, gets to Arthur.
Eames can tell in the slight flaring of Finch’s nostrils as he hands the CEO several blue file folders at 9:14am exactly.
The forger grins tooth-full and slightly vengeful, and discovers that it isn’t just getting shit done that upgrades the nostril flare to the scowl; it’s getting shit done cheerfully.
Eames is good at being cheerful, and Arthur’s resigned glare after seeing that everything is there, and in order, makes it even easier. His smile stretches.
Eames mentally pats himself on the back, heads to his desk, and promptly unorganizes the clutter into something he can manage; a disorderly file system that only he would understand. Kicking off his shoes, he starts trudging his way through the tray marked IN.
It takes Eames four and a half hours to figure out how to unsettle Arthur. Four and a half hours to figure out how to ruffle Arthur Finch’s perfectly in place feathers, to put him out of sorts, and Eames relishes this discovery:
One word,
It was a bit cruel, he admitted to himself later, but he doesn’t really have a problem with that.
Obviously such a young CEO is going to have a problem feeling patronized.
Finch probably feels demeaned at board meetings, faces condescension at every turn, is constantly told what to do, written off, not taken seriously, and most likely goes to great lengths to be treated as an equal; as a colleague.
Which is probably why he is such a stuck-up, self-righteous arsehole.
It was a bit cruel, Eames thought later, grinning wolfishly, not feeling a gram of guilt.
Eames has a good seven years on Arthur, and it shows. Finch looks barely twenty-five in such a deliciously endearing way, that Eames can’t help it when the mocking endearment rolls off his tongue as he pops his head into Arthur’s office at 12:30 and says, “I’m going to lunch now, darling, be back in hour.” Arthur Finch cringes, but says nothing, cold eyes turning steely, and Eames knows, can feel it as he strolls towards the lift, that the younger man has waged war.
Eames laughs loudly, the lift doors closing behind him, and hums all the way down.
.
“You look pleased as punch,” Ariadne greets him at the downstairs café.
Eames ignores this, too pleased to care as he grabs an avocado sandwich with goat cheese, peppers, and tomato.
“I take it the job is going well?” Ariadne prods as they sit down at a table near a window, sunlight streaming in lighting up dust motes.
“As well as could be expected,” Eames supplies, taking a big bite out of his sandwich.
Ariadne looks at him over a bowl of chicken tortilla soup, doe eyes going big and soft and making Eames feel gooey and guilty,
“Alright, don’t give me The Eyes. This job is the fucking worst I’ve ever pulled,” Ariadne’s eyebrows shoot up at his phrasing, “and that counts Istanbul.”
Ariadne’s look is nonplussed,
“And?”
“And it’s a lot of fun,” Eames says sarcastically.
She waits. Ariadne has patience in spades.
“Okay, okay. I met with the devil this morning and he was an absolute dick,” Eames spears an artichoke heart, “and I’ve just had the pleasure of rubbing my competency in his face, thanks for the help by the way, and the prick didn’t have the manners to say ‘Thank you Eames, wow, my God! Can’t believe you got all that done without ever having worked in an office, Eames, Cheers!’”
“So this is why you’re pleased?” Ariadne asks confusedly, licking her spoon.
“No, no. I’m pleased because I’ve irritated him.” Eames smiles around a bite of apple.
“What?”
“I’m pleased because he didn’t expect me to be able to do anything, and I’ve done it. And on top of that, I’ve discovered how to get under his skin. And you know me—I do love a challenge.”
Ariadne stares,
“Oh my God, you like him.”
Eames glares at her disgustedly,
“I don’t like him, sorry— are we suddenly in a Jane Austen novel? I just didn’t expect that I might be able to have a bit of a laugh poking fun at the prick. Get under his skin. That’s the way to fight the devil, isn’t it, love?”
Ariadne nods, conceding slowly and grinning widely.
Eames preens, and Ari smacks him on the arm.
He finishes his lunch, listening with half an ear as Ariadne waxes poetic about who exactly Yusuf is.
.
He should have known better.
Eames finishes working through his IN tray with a lot of expletives, furtive emails to Ariadne, phone calls to redeem favours, and some more expletives. He does the whole dry-cleaning bit, and feels like that girl out of The Devil Wears Prada.
After that realization he nearly calls it quits, but instead stops at a hotdog vendor for a little comfort food.
Back in the office it is surprisingly quiet. No calls from the intercom, no emails from Finch. Eames has been waiting for the other shoe to drop all day, but— he guesses— it isn’t going to.
He should have known better.
Eames looks at the time, 5:58.
Shoulders loosening at the promise of freedom he stands from his desk, grabs the jacket he’d shucked, and turns to find Arthur Finch leaning in his office doorway, arms crossed casually, shirt-sleeves pushed up over smooth, taut forearms.
Eames thinks for a moment he sees Finch’s eyes flicker from his arse up to his face as he turns, and what might be, curse the bad lighting in this place, a hint of a blush.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Arthur poses coolly.
Eames’ stomach plummets.
“It’s six o’clock, Mr. Finch,” he drawls, balefully facing Arthur fully.
The man looks positively sinful standing in the doorway like that. Finch does the whole clothes thing very, very well. Charcoal fitted trousers that mold around legs a mile long. A bottle green shirt tucked in at the belt that stretches across his chest in a way that should be outlawed in at least forty-seven states. Dark hair that had been combed back severely that morning is now slightly disheveled, and it makes Arthur look just a little bit undone. The sight goes straight to Eames’ cock.
He’d been ignoring it all day, tamping down the desire when it surfaced, but now he opens the floodgates and sags in acceptance and defeat, letting it hit him like a goddamn truck.
The conman’s eyes rake over Arthur, greedily taking him in; noticing, despite the bad lighting, the younger man’s face flush at the obvious perusal, arms tightening over his chest.
Eames places his jacket down on his desk beside a stack of papers, and stalks slowly over to his boss, taking in the quickening rise and fall of the other man’s chest, the way he stiffens defensively as Eames gets closer, and closer.
He stops about a foot away; hands shoved into his pockets, (fuck the goddamn lines, Ariadne) a predatory smirk gracing his face. Licking his lips he watches Finch’s mouth part in response.
Arthur’s eyes snap up to his, and they’re cold, hard, unyielding and vindictive—but there’s something in them, a flicker of something that is there and gone so fast Eames thinks he might have imagined it.
Eames grabs onto it like the adrenaline junkie he is, leans into Arthur’s personal space and breathes him in. Mint and cloves, and something so intrinsically Arthur it makes Eames dizzy; a smell like smooth glass and hard marble.
“Is there something you need from me… off the clock?” low words soaked with seduction.
Arthur’s face reddens deeply as he flinches and turns swiftly, going back into his office.
“Check your inbox Mister Eames,” he throws over his shoulder, slamming the door behind him.
The time stamp on the e-mail in his inbox is 5:57pm. He texts Ari and tells her they’re going to have to postpone their suit shopping trip.
Eames doesn’t get home until ten that night.
When he finally falls into bed after a long hot shower, a late supper, and a film to fill his head with static, it’s with nothing but loathing and resentment towards his arse of an employer. Freedom is something Eames cherishes, and Arthur Finch has taken it away.
Fuck the fact that Arthur Finch is gorgeous and, personality aside, exactly Eames’ type.
Fuck the fact that Eames hasn’t wanted something this badly in years.
He will never, ever give in to his desire and do anything about it.
He will abhor and loathe and irritate Arthur Finch for the entire eight months of his employment.
Eight months.
Fuck; Eames needs to go to the liquor store.