Work Text:
When the oilman's coach finally arrives, the sun has just winked beneath the horizon. Tacky sweat chills Eames’ neck; it’ll be uncomfortably cold, soon. This rendezvous is well out-of-the-way, but in a frontier town run by the likes of Cobol…he’ll take his chances in the desert.
“Well, I’ll be!”
Woodruff emerges with a guffaw of disbelief. Sauntering forth, he’s immediately flanked by his pair of imposing coachmen.
“Never thought a remittance man would be the one to catch him,” he calls. “That boy done rattlesnaked my supply convoy of eight men. Mercenaries, all.” Woodruff nods at the bounty gracing Eames’ saddle—the belle of this particular ball.
Even slung crosswise over Eames’ trusty Appaloosa, hands bound, Arthur radiates danger. Severe white teeth snarl around a lash of dark fabric, in lieu of the blue streak he’d surely be cursing, otherwise. As forbidding eyes meet his, Eames is grateful the man can’t kill with a look as adeptly as he can with a six-shooter.
“Fortunately for you,” Eames says, “he also underestimated me.” He claps a firm hand over Arthur’s haunch, earning a rough growl. “Shall we discuss payment?”
“Fuckin’ fop,” Woodruff scoffs. He nudges his nearest lackey. “Go check him.”
“Easy,” Eames cautions, mildly. He gets a sneer for his trouble; when the brute wrenches Arthur up by the jaw, he only has himself to blame.
An interminable, cacophonous minute of hollering and gunfire gives way to ringing silence. Through the billowing dust, Eames steps over the victims of his unheeded warning.
The moment he’s worked Arthur’s gag free, Eames replaces it with his own lips.
“F’you keep groping me like that,” Arthur murmurs, “someone’ll get wise, eventually.”
“Can’t help myself,” sighs Eames, reprising the offending swat. “You were brilliant.”
“And yet I only rated four-hundred, this time,” Arthur says wryly, brandishing the purse he’s nicked off Woodruff's body. “Disgraceful.”
“If we valued you properly, pigeon, the game would be up.”
“S’pose.” Arthur smirks winsomely. “Still feel like I oughta be sore about it.”
“That can be arranged,” Eames says, waggling his brows provocatively, and helps Arthur into the ostentatious carriage.