Worth A Pair of Shoes

[ifeelbetter]

Title: Worth A Pair of Shoes
Author: ifeelbetter
Word Count: 1,605
Disclaimer: I own nothing of value.
Summary: After Dom and Arthur's first official job as criminals, Arthur explores Paris with Eames. He has to make it back to NYC in the morning, though.
Notes: First of all...guys...Corinne Bailey Rae is SO GOOD. And burnmybridges totally agrees with me. And then...we were like, "Paris Night/New York Mornings is SO Arthur/Eames" and then...this happened.

Secondly...I am claiming my rightful spot in the Nothing Happens Club with this fic. Because...nothing happens. And it happens backwards.



The end

The cab dropped Arthur off on the corner of Bleeker and Broadway and, thankfully, Arthur remembered the cafe around the corner. It was far too early to be without caffeine and his shoes were too nearly destroyed to take him much farther. It was ironic--the bastardized, post-Alanis version of ironic--that he went to a faux-French cafe seven hours after leaving Paris. Cafe Angelique, at least, had a decent cup of house blend.

He sat at one of the rickety metal chairs outside because it was too early for anything else to be ready. Inside, the waiters and hosts were still pulling chairs off of the counters and tables.

"Bonjour," a waitress said, appearing at his elbow, "and what can I..." She trailed off, her gaze landing on the state of his shoes.

"I know," he said, pulling one foot out from under the table and holding it up slightly for closer scrutiny. "I swear it wasn't my fault, though."

"Those are from last season," the girl said. Her tone was caught between breathless admiration of the shoe and horrified wonder at the state they were in. "You haven't had enough time to do that much damage."

"They were pristine 24 hours ago," Arthur said with a sigh.

She didn't look like she believed him. Instead, she pulled her pad out. "We've never had a 'No shoes, no service' policy here," she said, shrugging, "So what can I get you?"

"Your very largest cup of coffee."

She nodded. "You look like you've had a hell of a night."

Arthur's phone started to ring in his pocket. "You have no idea," he told her as she retreated back inside.

Eames calling, his phone told him.

Nine hours earlier

"I'm not going to make my flight," Arthur shouted. The rain was pounding into the cobblestones around him.

"What?" Eames shouted back. His hair was plastered to his face. "I can't hear you, darling."

"I have a flight!" Arthur shouted, louder. "I'm going to miss my flight!"

"I know! You keep telling me all about," Eames shouted back. "Oh, look, we've found a bridge."

They had, indeed, found a bridge. It wasn't a spectacular bridge by any stretch of the imagination. It was raining and they were standing on a bridge over a line of traffic--not what Arthur had in mind when he'd set out for Paris.

"You're lost, aren't you?" Arthur shouted resignedly. "You're just dragging me around this city for spite. And you're lost."

"Oh, just shut up," Eames said--grinning--and pulled Arthur in by the lapels of Arthur's second-hand trench coat.

The kiss tasted like the rain which had been all Arthur had tasted for the past two hours. It had something Parisian to it, he was sure, but mostly it tasted the same as rainwater anywhere else. But Eames's hands were clenching the folds of his lapels, right around the frayed edges, and Arthur could taste the traces of his last cigarette just below the rainwater.

"I am sorry about your shoes," Eames said when he pulled back.

Eleven hours earlier

"This song is ridiculous," Arthur informed Eames from somewhere in the crook of his neck.

"Everyone loves the Zombies," Eames said. He was still more-or-less reeling from the fact that Arthur had allowed himself to be pulled onto the dance floor.

"The lyrics, though," Arthur persisted, turning his head slightly.

"I'd say the lyrics were remarkably clear," Eames said. "A list of characteristics followed by a statement of fact. She is, in fact, not there."

"That's the thing," Arthur said. "She's not there so how can anyone know what she looks like?"

"I think you missed the point, pet."

Twelve hours earlier

It only added insult to injury when Eames knocked one of the bottles of champagne off the table, spilling its entire contents on Arthur's shoes. Arthur took them off right there and then and demanded Eames take them to the bathroom to wipe them off.

Eames dropped one into the garbage by accident. He fished it back out but there was a wad of gum sticking to the toe and a streak of something red and gooey across the heel.

Then he accidentally dropped the other one into the sink.

"I don't care about the bet--you're buying the drinks from now on," Arthur said simply when Eames returned apologetically.

It was a remarkable moment of self-control on Arthur's part.

Fifteen hours earlier

When Arthur finally found Eames, he was in the alley behind the bar smoking a cigarette.

"I have to go," he said, pulling on his coat. He handed Eames the empty champagne bottle. "I have a flight to catch."

"You have time for one more drink, surely," Eames said, tossing the cigarette onto the pavement. He twisted the toe of his shoe into the glowing end.

"I think I should leave now," Arthur said. They'd had a lot to drink but neither was showing it much. Eames's smile had warmed and Arthur's dimples were showing but there was no sign beyond that of the lakes of alcohol they had consumed between them.

"Fine." Eames pushed himself off from the brick wall he'd been leaning against. "Let's go find you a cab, shall we? I know just the spot."

As they ducked out of the alleyway, the skies opened up and rain started to hammer into the streets around them.

Fourteen hours earlier

Eames was the one who had turned into the bar with the pub quiz. He only had to phrase it as a challenge to Arthur's skills ("I mean, if I do better than you, maybe I should be the point man on the next job") for Arthur to agree.

Eames's French was not nearly as sophisticated as Arthur's but it worked in some places when Arthur's more refined, entirely-studied-not-practiced French didn't. The bartender--who was taking a shot every time someone got the right answer--was slurring her speech and using more colloquialisms as the night went on.

"What did she say?" Arthur hissed into Eames's ear.

"The administrative capital of Sri Lanka. Shit, I have no ide--"

"Sri Jayawardenepura-Kotte. Obviously."

Eames raised an eyebrow. Arthur raised one of his own. Eames shrugged and tried to write it down. He got as far as S-R-I J before he had to admit defeat. Arthur smirked when he pulled the paper away from him.

"That's the longest word I've ever seen," Eames said when Arthur finished writing.

"Let's make this more interesting," Arthur said. "I know more answer than you, you're buying the next round."

"Your stakes are abysmally low."

"When I win, I will be ordering champagne. Bottles of it."

Eames grinned. "Fine. You're on."

"This is going to be so easy," Arthur said. "Like taking candy from a baby."

"You Yanks have the creepiest expressions, did you ever realize?"

Their answers were collected and the bartender glared at them when she took another shot. It was apparent that the crowd didn't usually do so well. She wiped her mouth as she asked the next question.

"She wants to know the English collective noun for a group of ferrets," Eames said before Arthur could ask.

"I heard her," Arthur said, bristling.

"Just in case you couldn't understand, you know, I thought I'd just--"

"Well, don't. I've studied French since I was five."

There was a pause in which they both looked at the sheet of paper in front of them.

"I don't know this one," Arthur admitted. It looked like a painful admittance.

"Three options, actually. I'll just put all three," Eames said, chewing on the end of his tiny pencil. He wrote A business or fesnyng or cast.

"A fesnyg?" Arthur repeated.

"Your pronunciation is atrocious," Eames told him. He folded the piece of paper in half and pushed it across the table.

"I'm blaming that word. My pronunciation would be fine if the word would just be reasonable."

Eames grinned and Arthur ducked his head. Eames could have sworn he saw the edge of a dimple in Arthur's smile.

The beginning

Arthur's flight left in ten hours. In twenty hours, he'd be sitting in a cafe in SoHo, waiting for Mal. The job was done--he and Dom could officially call themselves criminals now--and he was in Paris for the very first time. Thirteen years of French class and he was finally there.

Eames knocked their shoulders together. When Arthur turned his head to look at him, his expression was...off.

"How does it feel to be a wanted man?" he asked.

Arthur frowned slightly. "I feel just like myself, Mr. Eames. Just like I've always been."

Eames tilted his head slightly, his expression still oddly blank.

"I've never been to Paris before," Arthur blurted out. It was hanging in the back of his mind--had been for days--and it just popped right out of his mouth.

"First time I came was a long weekend in secondary school," Eames said, smiling at the memory, "with this girl from my class. We sort of...escaped from the school. It was my first kiss too. On some famous bridge."

"You must have a bridge for a truly excellent kiss," Arthur said, teasing.

"You joke now but someone will show you the truth of it someday."

Arthur pulled on his ratty trench coat, lifting it from the back of his chair. "I don't know about you but I've got places to see before my flight."

"I could--if you didn't mind, that is--I mean, I've been here before--"

Arthur tugged at Eames's elbow. "Come on, then. Show me Paris."