[ There's red on his knuckles. A hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks (two fingers curled around a square of loaded plastic), the other of Arthur's hands sports a cigarette. He exhales a thin stream of smoke and it rises in the air, coats the wall with a temporary haze of grey, warping the lines of brick and mortar.
(There's red on Arthur's knuckles. Who can tell if it's glass or snow that catches in the light; if it's wine or blood that paints the turn of his cuff, hidden by the cut of his sleeve.) ]
Fuck off, [ he says in greeting, but it's without heat, just a certain kind of flatness that Arthur always seems to carry with him. The butt of his cigarette gets thrown onto the ground, stomped out with the flat of his boot — he doesn't seem to be bothered that this is, in a way, sullying Eames' proverbial front door.
no subject
(There's red on Arthur's knuckles. Who can tell if it's glass or snow that catches in the light; if it's wine or blood that paints the turn of his cuff, hidden by the cut of his sleeve.) ]
Fuck off, [ he says in greeting, but it's without heat, just a certain kind of flatness that Arthur always seems to carry with him. The butt of his cigarette gets thrown onto the ground, stomped out with the flat of his boot — he doesn't seem to be bothered that this is, in a way, sullying Eames' proverbial front door.
Arthur tips his chin. ] You gonna let me in?