Chapter Text
Above Eames’ mantelpiece lies a hidden compartment. Inside, is… a curious collection. A few knickknacks here, a few microchips there.
He isn’t sure exactly when it started. It’s a little game they play, back and forth; a little morbid, a little needling. Not always a fun game, but a game nonetheless.
Somewhere, he knows Arthur has his own collection.
Eames hums, picking up the latest item, a dry-cleaning bill. Gingerly, he presses on his still-healing ribs, and remembers.
---
“Improvisation is the name of the game.” Richards is defensive and tinny over the phone. “I’m not sorry.”
“A regular poet,“ Eames snarls through bloodied teeth, clutching his ribs as he weaves through the crowd. Bloods seeps heavily through his shirt. “I will fucking bury you.”
“I’d say good luck with that, but you’ll need it for something more immediate.”
Bullets whip into the brickwork above Eames’ head, and he puts on a burst of speed, ducking into an alleyway.
“Goodbye, Eames.”
Eames spits invectives, but Richards’ already gone. Eames careens down shrinking passageways before breaking out into an open street, just narrowly missing getting mowed down by a car, and suddenly, they’re upon him when—
Eames is clipped heavily on the side — Christ, that hurt — as another car bursts through the fight, bowling over his pursuers.
“Get in!”
He dives into the backseat. Fuck, his ribs. The car revs, thumping nastily as it rolls over the bodies; his breath hitches painfully. “You said Richards was clean,” he rasps, grabbing the gun in the front cupholder. Fuck. Fuck. He glances down; half his shirt is blood. “This was my good shirt.”
“He was,” Arthur snaps. “You don’t have any good shirts.”
“Clearly wasn’t, thanks. And I liked this shirt.”
The tires squeal as Arthur whips them around; Eames can’t bite back a moan.
“I checked— put pressure on that.”
Eames shakily presses a hand to the wound, mumbling. “Told you something was bloody off.”
“There was no background crossover, wasn’t any— goddamnit, put some fucking pressure on that, stop bleeding.”
“Right, it’s my fault I’m bleeding out.”
“Eames—!”
---
At this point, his memory blurs together. There’s an inverse relationship between the perception of time and pain that Eames is deeply intimate with, and it’s here Eames easily rides the gap of memory back into his dry-cleaning musings.
The bastard had even paid for the shirt to be sewed up.
At the bottom of the bill, neatly penned script reads:
God and your arms be praised, victorious friends,
The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead.
A perfect, dark spot bleeds next to the writing – one could almost mistake it for a spilt drop of coffee. Almost.
Eames huffs, amused. So dramatic.
He thinks about ringing Arthur, but, well. All debts seemed to be paid, didn’t they? Eames tucks the bill back into the compartment.
And if Eames is especially careful not to crease it, well.
They were both always too stubborn for their own good.