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/Years before the Inception job, somewhere in the USA./
Eames was sitting at a casino bar, playing idly with a not-so-small pile of poker chips in front of him. He was celebrating a particularly successful game of craps and no celebration would do without a cigarette and a glass of fine whiskey, paid for with hard-earned money. Where hard-earned means stolen, of course.
Oh I love my life, Eames thought, and that was a lie, because he didn’t, not really. His mother always told him that he could achieve great things in his life, if only he tried. Eames wasn’t sure she was talking about being a professional thief (he was quite sure she wasn’t, in fact), but, well, that’s who he was, and if you don’t like me for who I am, Mother, you can stop. Bloody. Calling.
Still, the lesson about achieving was seared in Eames’s mind, and being a casino thief, even well-known casino thief, wasn’t exactly what you’d call a grand accomplishment. It really wasn’t fulfilling neither Eames’s nor his mother’s ambitions. His mother would rather he was a doctor or a lawyer, or whatever it is now that distinguished middle-aged ladies can accidentally boast about at their little afternoon tea-parties.
(Having a gay thief for a son was Mathilda’s biggest disappointment in life, as it was making vaunting to her friends quite hard. Having children wasn’t all that great as it turned out.)
Eames on the other hand didn’t have any well-thought ideas about his career, he just didn’t want it to be dull.
Being a casino thief was dull.
By this point he was contemplating setting his goals higher, maybe robbing a museum or something. A bank perhaps? No, dull. Dull dull dull. It looked like he wasn’t leaving the casino sober tonight, again.
He was snapped out of his musings by someone clearing his throat and asking “May I?”. After a short pause, a young, sharp looking gentleman slipped on the bar stool to his left.
Oh, thought Eames, his mood lifting already. Distraction.
The Distraction regarded the pile of chips in front of Eames and said: “I watched your game. It was most impressive.”
Oh, a gold digger, stated Eames to himself. Attractive one, too. He puffed on his cigarette. “Well, thank you. I suppose I am a bit lucky tonight, hm?” He gave the stranger a once over and quirked his eyebrow in a way suggesting that yes, yes he was getting lucky tonight, wasn’t he.
But the stranger picked the cigarette from Eames’s hand, took a drag, and said, exhaling smoke:
"No, I meant: it was most impressive how you managed to switch the normal dice with a loaded one without anyone noticing."
Eames gaped.
He was appalled, truly. How could anyone accuse him of such a thing. Yes, he may have used his new-and-improved dice to play the game, but still, this is a serious accusation.
He was starting to lose interest in this whole distraction thing now.
(And frankly, the stranger wasn’t the most suited person to talk about morals - he still had the stolen cigarette in his mouth. A quite lovely mouth, in fact. A quite lovely mouth that was wrapping around the cigarette in a very promising way. Eames was perplexed now.)
The stranger extended his hand and asked: “May I see it? The dice.”
"Why?" Eames hesitantly dug the lucky dice out of his pocket and cradled it in his palm.
"I just want to see it. Here, we’ll switch" the stranger offered him his cigarette back.
Eames’s was suspecting he wasn’t making a very good deal here, but he handed the dice to the cigarette thief. Somehow, he couldn’t say no to this young man in a three piece suit. With a bow tie. Jesus. Eames liked bow ties. Bow ties are like a perfect finishing touch on a nicely wrapped present. This one was wrapped particularly nice indeed, Eames was a fan of how the material snuggled his perky butt. He would leer more, but the stranger pocketed the dice, Eames’s lucky dice.
"I’ll keep that, thank you. I was looking for something like this. You are Mr. Eames I suppose?"
Why are days like this one happening.
The man apparently saw him cheating, stole his cigarette and his precious dice, and now he knew Eames’s name. Eames started to wonder if he maybe had already slept with this gorgeous creature (quite possible actually, he thought, as Eames wasn’t one to doubt himself), or maybe was this some kind of sick revenge, but no, that couldn’t be - he never introduced himself as “Eames” on his love-conquests. What then.
He would be really mad a that point, but somehow the bow tie had a calming effect on him.
"Yes, that would be my name. And to whom do I owe the pleasure?" Eames aimed for nonchalance.
"You can call me Arthur" supplied Arthur kindly. "I was watching you for a while now, and I have an offer for you."
"Oh, so this is like a sex thing?" Eames was relieved. He was on familiar grounds again.
Arthur stared him down. “No, not really”.
"Oh."
"I’m afraid I can’t get into details here, as this offer of mine concerns activities that are not exactly legal. If you’d come with me, I’d show you exactly what I mean."
Right.
This is definitely a sex thing, thought Eames, as he rose from the bar stool, and without a word followed Arthur outside.