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“Can I help you?” purrs Eames, low and teasing, directly by Arthur’s ear.
Arthur doesn’t jump, but his fingers clench spasmodically around his notebook as he steps back. Eames doesn’t miss it, chuckling as he slips past to empty his bag onto the desk.
Truly, Arthur hadn’t meant to snoop. It’s Eames’ own fault—Arthur had only been searching for the pen Eames definitely stole, and, really, the envelope was right there. Face-up, its addressee scrawled plainly in the center:
Henry Eames
Arthur hates the electricity in his chest, arcing between competing emotions. It’s ridiculous—it’s just a first name. Everyone has one. But this is Eames’, and it’s been two years. Given their hundreds of shared dream-hours, and a fair few life-or-death situations, Arthur would like to think he knows him well enough, by now. It’s not a big deal.
But Arthur’s not naïve. There are real reasons to keep discreet, in their world. A secret can do a lot of damage; Arthur knows, because he’s often the culprit. So he understands Eames’ reservations, even with their history, and feels bad for the intrusion.
The guilt is discomfiting, but distracts from the adjacent knowledge that someone does know Eames like that: well enough to send handwritten letters to Henry, letters he keeps on his desk. Arthur wonders what the threshold is, wonders what someone might have done to earn that...intimacy. The resulting sensation is unacceptably close to jealousy; he’s glad he didn’t check the sender.
“My favorite pen disappeared,” he answers coolly, anyway. And then, in a move that’s maybe a power play, maybe a confession—reckless either way—Arthur adds, “...Henry.”
He can’t look at Eames when he says it, and the ensuing silence makes it all but impossible, after. When he finally does, he’s braced for anger, maybe betrayal. All he can find in Eames’ grin is mischief.
“Only my mother calls me Henry.”
“Oh,” Arthur murmurs. Eames gives a little hum, taking a casual step forward.
“Arthur,” he says, “you’re exceptionally skilled, but you must know: if I’ve hidden something, you’ll only ever find it if I want you to.”
Arthur wants to respond, but they’re standing terribly close, and he can’t think of anything that wouldn’t sound stupid. Eames just quirks a brow, fishing something from his jacket pocket.
His pen. Arthur can’t help laughing as he plucks it from Eames’ fingers, meeting no resistance.