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Eames comes out of the bathroom just in time to see Arthur put his gun under the pillow. Eames’ pillow. The hotel for the job is booked full and it’s the first time they’ve shared a room. “Planning on putting me out of my misery?” he says, but he’s pretty sure Arthur would have shot him already if that’s the case.
“Sorry. Force of habit. Chamber’s empty.” He puts the Glock on the nightstand.
“Take out the magazine. I don’t want you shooting me in the head if I have a nightmare.”
“I don’t sleep without my gun.”
“Isn’t it enough that you can kill a man ten different ways with your bare hands?” Eames says, his voice cold and steady. “Take out the magazine, or you’ll be sleeping on the floor.”
“You have trust issues.”
“I have self-preservation issues.”
Arthur scowls and removes the magazine, slapping it onto the table with more force than is necessary. “Where’s yours?”
“Oh, is this an ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?’” Eames says, lips curling into a grin. He opens his nightstand drawer, where his unloaded gun sits next to an optimistically placed condom and a packet of lube.
Arthur’s sour expression dissipates into a look of surprise. “It doesn’t look like you want me to sleep on the floor.”
“Very astute.”
“Well, if we’re finished with our arms negotiations, perhaps we can move on to the peace accords.”