Work Text:
The smoke from Eames’ cigarette stubbornly coalesces into a small cloud in front of him, mocking his choice to be outside on such a dismal night.
Eames wonders, not for the first time, why he didn’t set up shop as a private eye somewhere warm. Miami, perhaps.
He flips up the collar of his trench coat and huddles against the cold. Takes another drag on his cigarette, inhaling the warm smoke into his lungs, and purses his lips to exhale more forcefully this time. It shifts the sullen cloud that’s started to surround him and gives him a better view of his target, the reason he’s outside on this brutal February evening.
It’s not even a paying job, though he hopes the payoff will be worth it.
The mark’s name is Arthur. Civil engineer. Squeaky-clean police record. Upstanding moral citizen. Doesn’t gamble, doesn’t drink to excess, doesn’t enjoy the company of women — at least none of the ones who’ve coyly flirted with him at the bar where he sometimes goes for a drink after work.
As far as he can tell, Arthur doesn’t flirt with anyone. There’s something to be said for discretion. Though, as a general rule, it would make his line of work a lot more difficult.
He watches him now, catching glimpses of his dark hair and lean figure as he passes by his bedroom window, shedding his work clothes for something more comfortable, indulging in a cigarette of his own. Arthur’s hand leaves his cigarette briefly so he can take his tie off properly, not yanking it off singlehandedly. He’s fastidious to a fault.
The smoke at the end of it rises like the tendrils of a vine. When he exhales, it ghosts around him and disappears, unlike Eames’ own personal storm system. The end of the cigarette glows brightly in the warm, dry room; his own struggles to stay lit.
Arthur comes to the window then and stares into the night, looking straight out at Eames. He shrinks back into the shadows, cursing himself when he forgets to stub out his cigarette, the telltale glow giving him away.
Thirty seconds later, the door opens.