[ It's a mild rumble, Eames tucking the phone between cheek and shoulder as he works on digging the grit out from under his nails. He chose this apartment because of the character to the walls, yes, but also for the bright blue door. ]
I might. But you know I put in my badge of honour and servitude in a long time ago. What do you have for me?
More honour and less servitude, [ he says, though it's meant as a joke, the way his voice takes on that tone. (That one phrase, or so the saying goes, with thieves and that pesky H O N O U R word.) Bond exhales again and under some awning in a hotel in Bolivia, he watches the smoke rise up and up and thinks, rather disdainfully, that his jacket is going to smell by tomorrow. ]
How is Arthur? [ Not a threat, mind, but a deliberate change of topic. Transparent, but Bond's too impatient (or tired) for the pretense of not working an angle. ]
You don't want to talk about Arthur. [ That much is obvious. In fact, if Bond wanted to talk to Arthur, there's artful ways of going about finding his series of new numbers, too. ] Are you too broke to bring something to the table? I thought I've warned you about spending your government stipend on all those suits.
[ There's some deliberation here as Eames straightens in his chair, lifts up to pad over to the window looking over the alley. He can hear the background noise from the other line, an argument in Spanish maybe. ]
Arthur can only be as wonderful as his take on life allows him. Corceau's holed up in the Cape until the sea somehow begets him a boat, last I heard. And you're smoking again.
I'd wager you've put on a stone, then. [ Delivered lazily, without any real heat. Eames isn't wrong in his estimation; there's a woman a couple paces away, arguing with her cab driver, one hand curled around her luggage while the other gesticulates wildly. She is beautiful, but in a way that makes Bond feel more tired than secure. (Espionage; supposedly a young man's game, and all that.)
The quip about smoking makes him exhale again, though it's more in the vein of a tsk than plain amusement. He flicks the butt into the cobblestone at his feet where it lands in a tiny pool of rainwater, turning from cherry-red to wet-ash in a single breath. ]
There's been a restructuring of management. [ Bond very deliberately does not say the word funeral. ] Hell of a stressor. Compartively, I'll talk all night about your Spring fling.
Summer, [ Eames corrects rather lazily. Kenya doesn't leave much room for mistake in terms of season. The sun's especially bad this time around, sporting a burn on the back of his neck that makes the rest of him look almost pale. ] And you always said I needed to put on weight, don't get patronising when I finally do.
Why don't you take a vacation? I never know what you'll die of next - on the job or a venereal disease. I could set you up something lavish in Fez if you lend me access to your account. [ He's not being serious, of course - at least in that he knows Bond wouldn't lend him a digit concerning his personal spendings; it occurs to Eames they spend far more time talking around things than ever talking directly, but it comes to an almost exaggerated point over the telephone than in person. Maybe because he can read Bond's face better than his voice. ]
People tell me the mint tea here has properties akin to the fountain of life.
[ It's a snort this time, skating the fine line of friendly and genuine offense. ] Are you calling me old?
[ Nevermind that all of Bond's problems as of late, ennui or otherwise, come from that feeling of weariness. It's not necessary to pare it down any finer than that — shit happens, isn't that the favored phrase of their international counterparts — and it will be momentary. The life of a double oh certainly doesn't make for many friendships, nevermind the amount of bridges still intact versus those burned, but there is a reason that Corceau was a fleeting topic of conversation rather than the focus of it. Answering other instead of buisness certainly counts as direct, but it is, perhaps, also the only way Bond knows how to be the smallest modicum of genuine. ]
You'd leave me with the ugliest flat in town before running off with all my money.
Paranoia isn't kind to your health, Bond. Besides, hasn't anyone ever told you that luxury can become toxic after awhile?
[ Not old, no, but isn't it always the young who fuck off to Spain in the middle of the school year with mother's money? The Queen isn't always so kind to her civil servants, but he wouldn't be getting a call if Bond was truly in the middle of something deep. ]
Unless you have something better to do than lay by the beach and drink to excess. Which, if you did, you'd not be ringing me up at such a ridiculous hour.
[ A mild scoff is all Eames gets for his troubles. (Yes, the conversation is not directly about luxury but one does know better, to expect blatancy. Bond's done it before, to live off the beaten track but the old addage of spies will be spies still applies. It's debatable, who finds it easier to shift skins: himself, or the man at the other end of the line.) ]
My luxuries don't give me E. coli. [ Bond looks down at his shoe, the smudge of ash smeared on the stone next to it. He's regretting it now, isn't he. ] Should I bring a new front door with me through customs?
[ Depends on your foie gras. Still, Eames allows for the change in direction, glancing behind him when he thinks he might hear movement from the bedroom. ]
I like my front door. [ He may have gotten the place because the door and window were bright blue - his needs have never been very focused from day to day. ] But if you want to change the colour, you're welcome to bring whatever paint you'd like and do it yourself.
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no subject
[ It's a mild rumble, Eames tucking the phone between cheek and shoulder as he works on digging the grit out from under his nails. He chose this apartment because of the character to the walls, yes, but also for the bright blue door. ]
I might. But you know I put in my badge of honour and servitude in a long time ago. What do you have for me?
no subject
How is Arthur? [ Not a threat, mind, but a deliberate change of topic. Transparent, but Bond's too impatient (or tired) for the pretense of not working an angle. ]
no subject
[ There's some deliberation here as Eames straightens in his chair, lifts up to pad over to the window looking over the alley. He can hear the background noise from the other line, an argument in Spanish maybe. ]
Arthur can only be as wonderful as his take on life allows him. Corceau's holed up in the Cape until the sea somehow begets him a boat, last I heard. And you're smoking again.
no subject
The quip about smoking makes him exhale again, though it's more in the vein of a tsk than plain amusement. He flicks the butt into the cobblestone at his feet where it lands in a tiny pool of rainwater, turning from cherry-red to wet-ash in a single breath. ]
There's been a restructuring of management. [ Bond very deliberately does not say the word funeral. ] Hell of a stressor. Compartively, I'll talk all night about your Spring fling.
no subject
Why don't you take a vacation? I never know what you'll die of next - on the job or a venereal disease. I could set you up something lavish in Fez if you lend me access to your account. [ He's not being serious, of course - at least in that he knows Bond wouldn't lend him a digit concerning his personal spendings; it occurs to Eames they spend far more time talking around things than ever talking directly, but it comes to an almost exaggerated point over the telephone than in person. Maybe because he can read Bond's face better than his voice. ]
People tell me the mint tea here has properties akin to the fountain of life.
no subject
[ Nevermind that all of Bond's problems as of late, ennui or otherwise, come from that feeling of weariness. It's not necessary to pare it down any finer than that — shit happens, isn't that the favored phrase of their international counterparts — and it will be momentary. The life of a double oh certainly doesn't make for many friendships, nevermind the amount of bridges still intact versus those burned, but there is a reason that Corceau was a fleeting topic of conversation rather than the focus of it. Answering other instead of buisness certainly counts as direct, but it is, perhaps, also the only way Bond knows how to be the smallest modicum of genuine. ]
You'd leave me with the ugliest flat in town before running off with all my money.
no subject
[ Not old, no, but isn't it always the young who fuck off to Spain in the middle of the school year with mother's money? The Queen isn't always so kind to her civil servants, but he wouldn't be getting a call if Bond was truly in the middle of something deep. ]
Unless you have something better to do than lay by the beach and drink to excess. Which, if you did, you'd not be ringing me up at such a ridiculous hour.
no subject
My luxuries don't give me E. coli. [ Bond looks down at his shoe, the smudge of ash smeared on the stone next to it. He's regretting it now, isn't he. ] Should I bring a new front door with me through customs?
no subject
I like my front door. [ He may have gotten the place because the door and window were bright blue - his needs have never been very focused from day to day. ] But if you want to change the colour, you're welcome to bring whatever paint you'd like and do it yourself.