That was all Arthur could think as he walked through the hotel lobby toward the elevators--and then back toward the front doors--and then back to the elevator. He jammed the button with too much force and dragged a hand over his face without bothering to try and look less pissed off than he was. Whiskey... might not have been the best idea. Neither was being here, certainly, but he wouldn't be able to sleep without letting Eames know exactly what he thought of the man's 'third-party' passing on of their private life.
Or private... whatever it was, it wasn't as if life really counted for what they had. Or didn't have.
Or wouldn't have again, if Arthur had his way tonight, because, goddamnit. Eames knew how he felt! And worse was that Arthur knew Eames well enough to know that the man, for all his oh-so-convincing openness, was about as honestly forthcoming with most personal details as fucking Fort Knox. So why in the hell would he tell Ariadne that they'd slept together?
Arthur was in the mood to beat to decent answer to that question out of him. And then maybe fuck him if he asked nicely enough.
No, more whiskey had not been a good idea.
He stumbled slightly getting off the elevator and threw a look over his shoulder at the couple that had ridden up with him as he steadied himself against the closest wall to dig out his wallet. Key, key... Eames had given him a key. Because they were the best of fuck-buddies, weren't they? Of course. And everyone knew it, thank you very much Mr Eames. The condemning piece of plastic was wrenched free from behind his driver's license (fake name, why was everything in his life fake?) and Arthur glared at it before loosening his tie and setting off down the hallway to match the number on the card to a door.
809... 811... 813. Arthur rolled up his sleeves and switched his draped jacket to his left arm to jam the keycard into the door with his right. He had to do it once, twice, before the little light turned green and let him in. Arthur was still trying to decide as he stepped inside whether he should stay quiet and just deck Eames, or alert him enough to make it a fair fight.
He snorted.
Couch, empty. Arthur wandered toward the middle of the room. A half-drank something was on the coffee table. Probably scotch. His lip curled a little into a drunk approximation of a sneer for no other reason than right then Arthur more than a little hated that he knew what Eames drank. Knew what he drank in specific situations, because it was all about appearance, wasn't it? And so long as Eames wasn't ruining people perceptions of his own image--whatever the hell that happened to be on that given day--then the man didn't give a...
He knew those shoes. Strappy. Cute but sensible.
Frowning, Arthur took another step into the room, far enough that it gave him a clear line of sight. Far enough that motion from the revealed bed caught his attention, lifted his eyes from the shoes to the pair of people. Ariadne was unmistakable; it was the fall of her hair. Her voice, making those little noises. And Eames--Eames' hands were on her, big enough to make her look small in comparison.
Something nasty and sharp unwound in Arthur's chest. "What the hell?"
no subject
That was all Arthur could think as he walked through the hotel lobby toward the elevators--and then back toward the front doors--and then back to the elevator. He jammed the button with too much force and dragged a hand over his face without bothering to try and look less pissed off than he was. Whiskey... might not have been the best idea. Neither was being here, certainly, but he wouldn't be able to sleep without letting Eames know exactly what he thought of the man's 'third-party' passing on of their private life.
Or private... whatever it was, it wasn't as if life really counted for what they had. Or didn't have.
Or wouldn't have again, if Arthur had his way tonight, because, goddamnit. Eames knew how he felt! And worse was that Arthur knew Eames well enough to know that the man, for all his oh-so-convincing openness, was about as honestly forthcoming with most personal details as fucking Fort Knox. So why in the hell would he tell Ariadne that they'd slept together?
Arthur was in the mood to beat to decent answer to that question out of him. And then maybe fuck him if he asked nicely enough.
No, more whiskey had not been a good idea.
He stumbled slightly getting off the elevator and threw a look over his shoulder at the couple that had ridden up with him as he steadied himself against the closest wall to dig out his wallet. Key, key... Eames had given him a key. Because they were the best of fuck-buddies, weren't they? Of course. And everyone knew it, thank you very much Mr Eames. The condemning piece of plastic was wrenched free from behind his driver's license (fake name, why was everything in his life fake?) and Arthur glared at it before loosening his tie and setting off down the hallway to match the number on the card to a door.
809... 811... 813. Arthur rolled up his sleeves and switched his draped jacket to his left arm to jam the keycard into the door with his right. He had to do it once, twice, before the little light turned green and let him in. Arthur was still trying to decide as he stepped inside whether he should stay quiet and just deck Eames, or alert him enough to make it a fair fight.
He snorted.
Couch, empty. Arthur wandered toward the middle of the room. A half-drank something was on the coffee table. Probably scotch. His lip curled a little into a drunk approximation of a sneer for no other reason than right then Arthur more than a little hated that he knew what Eames drank. Knew what he drank in specific situations, because it was all about appearance, wasn't it? And so long as Eames wasn't ruining people perceptions of his own image--whatever the hell that happened to be on that given day--then the man didn't give a...
He knew those shoes. Strappy. Cute but sensible.
Frowning, Arthur took another step into the room, far enough that it gave him a clear line of sight. Far enough that motion from the revealed bed caught his attention, lifted his eyes from the shoes to the pair of people. Ariadne was unmistakable; it was the fall of her hair. Her voice, making those little noises. And Eames--Eames' hands were on her, big enough to make her look small in comparison.
Something nasty and sharp unwound in Arthur's chest. "What the hell?"