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“So, things are looking rather dire,” Eames quips, far too conversationally for the circumstances.
“Pardon my French, but no shit, Doctor Eames.”
He can’t see Arthur, tied back-to-back against the sturdy tent pole as they are, but Eames can picture his aggrieved scowl perfectly. It makes him grin, despite the strain on his split lip.
“Is this funny to you, or something?” Arthur groans. “God, this is why I quit. It’s like you get off on almost dying, every time.”
“Believe it or not,” Eames huffs, “this wasn’t supposed to happen. My plan was solid enough. You can thank Browning for selling us out.”
“Well, right now, I’m thanking you for dragging me along in the first place. Next time you decide to get into it with an occult regime, don’t look me up, okay?”
“You missed it,” Eames croons. “And I did so miss your delightful company.”
Eames catches a conspicuous shuffling outside the tent, and frowns.
“And your linguistic talents,” he adds, hushed. “Your French is lovely; how’s your German?”
“What?”
Eames shrugs meaningfully towards the shadow figures lingering on the canvas wall. “Oh,” says Arthur, and they both fall silent as he hones in on their captors’ clipped exchange.
For his part, Eames scans the massive tent. It’s commonplace enough: wicker chairs, ornate rugs to check the ever-penetrating dust of the desert, parchment maps strewn across shelves and tables. His gun and whip are gone—expected, but terribly inconvenient. A theodolite sits on a tripod at the far end of the tent. He dismisses it; it’s too far to be of immediate use, and he hates the idea of using such a gorgeous piece of equipment as a blunt weapon, anyway.
Speaking of gorgeous pieces of equipment, Arthur clears his throat behind him.
“They know you can read the map,” he whispers. “They’re hauling us out to the dig site, and if you don’t decode it, they’re going to kill me. And then you, presumably.”
“Of course. And if I do?”
“What do you think?”
“Hm.” Eames thumps his head back against the pole, gazing up at its apex. As he’s weighing the merits of just rushing the soldiers at the site, maybe giving Arthur a head start, he’s startled by an insistent brush against his bound hands; it’s Arthur’s little finger, grasping at his own. Eames melts with it.
“Arthur,” he murmurs reverently, doing his best to twine their fingers together. “It’ll be alright, my love. I’m working on a plan.”
“Eames,” Arthur grits out sharply. Eames is nonplussed, until Arthur presses something into his grip: a slender pen knife, procured from god-knows-where.
“Oh, darling,” Eames chuckles breathlessly. “I knew you missed it.”