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“I know this looks...something,” Eames blurts, feeling exponentially stupider by the second.
He ought to give a more articulate explanation. The truth, for starters. Of all the compromising positions to be caught in, this is arguably the tamest—he’d only pulled their point man aside to place his surveillance wire, because, really, it’s the polite thing. They’re lucky this is happening now, and not the evening prior.
He really ought to get his hands out of Arthur’s shirt.
For his part, Cobb only blinks, silhouetted by the light pouring into the storage closet. His expression is characteristically enigmatic.
Eames glances at Arthur; the man is always ready to set the record straight, usually unprompted. All it would take is revealing the cord running to the black box in his hand, the roll of mic tape in the other, and it would all make perfectly innocent sense. Instead, he remains stock-still, jaw clenched.
For once, both the truth and Arthur’s know-it-all nature are in Eames’ favor, and neither is forthcoming. Figures. He supposes it’s what he gets for scorning them so often.
With a slow, lazy sip of his coffee, Cobb quirks a brow.
“Was it not already...something?” he asks, the amusement finally creeping into his voice. Eames could punch him.
He’s too busy studying Arthur, having finally secured eye contact. It’s a conversation they’ve not yet had, one Eames has been capably putting off for months now. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, until a sly grin steals over Arthur’s face.
“Um. Yeah,” he says, and the air evacuates Eames’ lungs in a shaky whoosh.
“Oh. Well, that’s alright, then,” he chuckles, and hooks his fingers into Arthur’s belt loops.
When he kicks the closet door shut, the slam is almost as satisfying as the way Cobb’s stupid face disappears behind it.