Work Text:
Eames is a laidback sort of fellow; it's a trait that helps immensely in both his real and dream world professions. So when Arthur decides the only possible way to relieve his boredom is to paint the other man's nails, Eames silently holds out one hand and continues to flip through his notes with the other.
Arthur is doing a masterful job of spreading the very pale pink polish about, but that isn't surprising. He has sisters, older sisters, and Arthur had no doubt made an adorable doll when he was too young to do more than smile at the attention.
And it is nice, Eames will admit. He's feeling quite pampered at the moment.
“What in the hell are you two doing?” their current architect asks, and to his credit, he sounds more confused than offended.
Eames peers at him from behind the fringe of his lashes, takes in the way the man has frozen mid-stretch to boggle at them. The fellow's name is Henderson or Harrison or something along those lines. That Eames can't remember says a lot about this fellow. The fact that Arthur does not even look up from his task says more.
“Fine,” the architect says with a long suffering sigh after no answer is forthcoming. “Why are you doing it?”
Arthur shrugs. He's smiling just enough to show his dimples while he examines his work.
“Bored.”
“Where did you even get nail polish?” Mary, the extractor, asks with an arch of a sculpted eyebrow.
Probably from the same place Arthur got the markers he uses to draw temporary tattoos on Eames. The forger spares a quick glance at Arthur's bag. Eames will likely be getting new ink as soon as the polish dries if this job does not get more interesting soon. Not that he is complaining, mind.
“It's not exactly a rare commodity,” Eames drawls. He sets his notes down and swivels the chair just enough to let Arthur at his other hand. The look the two share questions why they are working with people that cannot grasp the obvious.
“Don't you have research to do?”
“Done it. Waiting for you to actually look through it instead of pointedly ignoring its existence,” Arthur says with a roll of his eyes. “Start now and I promise to refrain from singing showtunes.”
It isn't much of a threat; Arthur has a lovely voice. Eames tells him as much as the polish is applied to the last of his fingernails. There's a hum that might be a thank you or might be Arthur approving his own work then out comes a black marker just as expected.
“Oh, you've gotta be kidding me,” is grumbled out in the distance as Arthur studies his living canvas. Carefully, he positions Eames how he wants and leans in close. He's humming something that sounds suspiciously like Dentist.
Eames snorts out a laugh and kisses the other man's temple. Arthur just smirks and starts wrapping a geometric tree around Eames' arm.