Chapter Text
Rapture, noun: ecstatic joy or delight; joyful ecstasy.
“It's a bit poetic, really,” Eames says one balmy summer morning in Madrid, his feet crossed over a small wood coffee table lazily—which clearly Arthur hasn't noticed yet or he would have said something disapproving—and his fingers shifting through the file he's been given. They're on a job for a wealthy Spanish businessman and it seems the mark hasn't done anything exciting at all ever in the entirety of his life, because Eames is about to curl up and die of boredom from the blandness of his file.
“Mm?” Arthur's not actually listening, but it's a nice gesture.
“Rapture. You can use it to describe intense pleasure, right? But it's also used to described when the Christians ascend to heaven during the apocalypse and that. I imagine it's a bit on purpose, really. You're meant to be all happy that you're being saved from the heinous unbelievers. Of course, then there's the issue of the other side of it—if you're really having that good a time, it's like you're transported to another place. You forget all the little things that are bothering you and just go somewhere else, if only for a little while. I just think it's interesting is all.”
Arthur scrunches his nose and puts down his pen for a moment.
“You're getting all philosophical on me. Should I be worried?” he says, ignoring how thoroughly the other man has glossed over his religious facts for reasons Eames won't ponder because then he might miss the chance to revel in not being lectured.
Eames grimaces. He has, for once, avoided lacing a sentence with sexual connotations—there are so many wonderful things he could do with what he'd just said, but didn't—so Arthur's reaction is expected.
“Perhaps. I read a terribly boring book about the meaning of life on the plane yesterday and I think some of the bullshit has lingered.”
Arthur is clearly going to say something witty when Ariadne interrupts them, sweeping in from outside with her arms full of packages and coffee and those unnecessary little tidbits you know you don't need but always seem to have anyway. Her hair, tousled and wild, is partially tamed with wetness, making Eames look outside.
“It's raining,” he says simply. He hadn't noticed that.
“I thought monsoon season was an Asian thing,” she replies, carefully maneuvering around her bundles of Very Important Articles to set the coffee down beside Eames' feet on the table.
“Feet off the table,” they say simultaneously. Eames sighs, but does as he's bid. One of them will just end up physically forcing him to sit upright and proper if he doesn't, so the fight isn't really worth it. Besides, Arthur's in one of those moods where he's not any fun to annoy.
“How's it then?” Eames asks, eying the packages Ariadne has deposited on the table. He sips his coffee languidly, his lip curling a little at the taste of it. He's always been one for tea, but right now he is tired and needs the boost, so he tolerates the espresso more out of necessity than anything.
“Yusuf's a genius.”
“I wouldn't have picked him if he were anything but, Ariadne.”
Ariadne sighs because Eames is really kind of brilliant when it comes to these things and everyone who's ever known him knows it's best not to feed his ego, but oftentimes it's unavoidable. Eames has constructed this wonderful little life for himself in which everything he says to do works out and he gets what he wants all the time and, frankly, he thinks himself quite clever for it.
Alright, so his definition of everything might be a little different from the rest of the world's. Almost everything is more accurate, but he prefers not to think about that.
“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, he managed to engineer a new compound that'll be pretty perfect for our needs. It's transmitted through the air rather than intravenously and has a delayed reaction time. Since it's virtually impossible to get the mark alone, especially since tomorrow he'll be smack-dab in the middle of the party, we'll feed the Somnacin through the vents and the delay will give us time to make sure we haven't missed anyone. It works pretty slowly, so everyone should have time to find a seat before they pass out.”
“Won't they be suspicious when they all wake up later?” Arthur asks incredulously. He's never been eager to experiment with the Somnacin so every new iteration makes him twitchy.
“Darling, have you seen how much alcohol they have at these things? They'll be too smashed to think anything of it," Eames says, the words tumbling out in the careless fashion that has become expected of him.
Arthur's mouth remains in a neutral straight line, but his brow is marked with worry.
“So we just... put everyone under and snatch the mark out from under their noses?”
“Precisely,” Ariadne says, looking pleased with herself.
“We won't be able to control the dosage. You know that weight affects how long everyone's under.”
“We won't have to. We'll be in and out before it expires on even the tiniest of the guests.”
“But—”
“I like it,” Eames interjects, finishing off his coffee. “Different from the usual procedure, but I could use the change. It all gets a mite too boring to continue with if you're not careful.”
Arthur looks none too happy, but he has the good grace to keep his mouth shut. In truth, he's got a reason to be irritated—there are simpler ways to do what they're doing, but Eames is bored and Ariadne doesn't know any better—but Eames won't validate his grumpiness. That would do nothing for the case he's trying to make against Arthur's uptight nature.
“Everything's ready to go then, I suppose,” Eames says, sounding like he really couldn't be bothered but is checking out of formality. They've already planned out the job, so getting the chemicals was the last bit before they were ready to go. The whole thing should be a cakewalk, minus the unusual circumstances in actually getting the mark to a secluded location, but even that's easy—it's more about excitement than difficulty.
“We'll meet back here at four pm tomorrow. Make sure you dress to fit the occasion, because they won't admit you otherwise.” Arthur gives Eames a pointed look, which Eames takes to be an attack on his personal style. He'll have to act wounded about that later when he's got the time.
“Right-o. See you then,” Eames replies, looking at Ariadne to make her feel included. He gets up easily and tosses his coffee cup in the trash can they'd dragged into the empty warehouse when they first arrived, collecting his various papers and wishing he were somewhere south of the equator enjoying a fruity alcoholic beverage. Madrid is hot, sure, but it's the wrong kind of hot.
“See you.” Ariadne gives him a smile before heading off, bracing herself against the wind as she opens the door to the outside.
“You're an ass,” Arthur says matter-of-factly when she's gone.
“My old wounds still smart, darling. No need to add new ones so soon, mm?” Eames gives him a woebegone look as they fall in step, Arthur grabbing his umbrella (because he would be sensible enough to bring one) and Eames frowning at the whipping wind he's about to face.
“If this stupidly complicated scheme of yours doesn't work, trust I'll be breaking out the lime juice,” Arthur quips, but there's an easy rhythm to it that Eames knows means he isn't actually annoyed. Arthur's bored too, he can tell, and a break from the routine will do his soul good. That's probably why the Point Man hasn't stopped the whole thing and revealed the dozens of simpler plans he's undoubtedly got tucked in his back pocket.
“It will.” Eames gives him a cocky half-smile, the one he knows Arthur hates, and chuckles as the man rolls his eyes and stomps out into the foul wetness of summer.