Chapter 1 – Marker 1

[WARNING this chapter contains mild references to slash]

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Marker 1

~
If the real world were a book, it would never find a publisher
~

 

October 2005; Mobile, Alabama

It was late and the table was clearing, only three men left: a businessman who looked like he had nothing better to do than lose his millions, a young man in an impeccably cut suit with feline features and slicked back hair, and Eames. The game had been going for four hours already and it was time for a break. A dealer change was called and the men were granted ten minutes to count their losses and stretch their legs. Eames headed to the bar.

He was between jobs at the moment. Private security could only take one so far, and ever since Yusuf had quit the navy Eames had felt less inclined to go under for more than practice without the Cobbs, no matter how much he craved it. What was reality when faced with pure creation? So while Dom and Mal enjoyed their honeymoon, Eames enjoyed his latest pay check. He ordered two fingers of whiskey and turned to survey the club.

It was an underground place, not well known or glitzy. He’d been frequenting it of late whenever he was around this way. There were four tables, but only one high-roller, $10,000+500 buy-in, that played once a week. This game had started with eight people, most of them young and wide-eyed trust-fund babies looking for a way to “slum it”. Those had gone first. Not one good poker face among them, a few calling stations, no real competition. The elderly businessmen went next. Eames had seen a few of them before, caring less about losing their money and more about the little gold diggers hanging off their arms. Once they’d lost their share, they retired to their hotels and mansions, setting aside more money for next week’s game.

And now there were three of them. One gentleman who often played well and bet wisely; Eames had lost to him before and had won back his share threefold another time. He gambled like a man with a career; maybe a right hand man in a powerful company or an heir to a corporation empire. He lost more often than he won when it hit the later hours of the evening, but he didn’t come here to prove anything, he came here to relax.

Eames found it amusing that only businessmen with money to burn and ex-SBS operatives like him found poker games with high stakes relaxing. Which made the gorgeous enigma of a young man sitting straight-backed in his chair, arm draped gently over the back of it, so intriguing.

He couldn’t have been older than twenty four, and looked every bit like the horde of trust-fund idiots that had gambled away their inheritance at the start of the game. But he was still here, inheritance doubled, not a care in the world. Eames had never seen him at this club before. He looked like he belonged in penthouse apartments and shiny black sedans, not dingy underground clubs playing poker with cheats and thieves.

The businessman left the table to answer a call and Eames decided to sate his curiosity.

“Real estate.”

“Excuse me?”

“My guess is you’re in real estate. Just starting out.”

A small quirk of lips. Nothing more. “Why would you say that?”

“Well,” Eames leaned to the right of him, hip against the table. “You have the look of a man who is confident in life. No one who has been in the competitive workplace for a long time looks like that.”

The young man allowed a slow smile. “I’ve recently started work, I’ll grant you, but why real estate?”

“Very few people take such care with their appearance as real estate agents.”

“Something I will certainly keep in mind.”

“Not real estate then?”

“Security.” His tone was strange, almost as though he were both proud and at the same time disgusted with his career choice. Eames just raised an eyebrow.

“Impressive. They pay you that well then?” he indicated the immaculate piles of chips with his glass. The man followed it with his eyes before flicking them back to him. Beautiful, dark brown eyes.

“Perhaps I know my game.” A smirk.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it, darling, you’re well ahead of both me and the other gentleman. But you didn’t answer my question.”

The man’s eyes flashed a second, as though he wasn’t used to being called on his evasions. The thought crossed Eames’ mind that he probably didn’t talk to people face to face often, he seemed reluctant to break eye contact once he’d made it and it was somewhat unnerving. Eames didn’t look away.

“It pays well enough.” curt reply, jaw working slightly, “What is it you do? Hustle poker out of sheer boredom and having too much time on your hands? You certainly aren’t dressed as one who holds down a well-paying job.”

The sarcasm was evident, but there was no real heat in the statement. Eames was, however, getting under his skin. He was challenging him, he was curious. The boy would make a fine point man. Eames made a mental note to mention this to Dom when work started again. As it were, he smiled.

“Appearances can be deceiving,”

“Not in my experience,” there. That look was back, one of shuttered annoyance and longing. No matter how he tried, Eames just couldn’t place it.

He opened his mouth to say something more but the game was called. The businessman returned from his phone call in a foul temper and Eames returned to his seat more intrigued than he was before.

-

And then there were two. The businessman folded on the last round, proclaimed that he was too tired for any more games, and left the club. The dealer called a break and Eames found himself at the bar again observing his competition. He had cleaned out the businessman and Eames had won half of his buy-in back.

Now he sat in his place flipping a chip between his slim knuckles and Eames found himself mesmerized. He thought about buying the man a drink but decided against it. For all he knew he would drink some ridiculous pink abomination and Eames didn’t want to lose his good opinion of the young man just yet. He decided on another approach.

“What say we go all in, end the game quickly and head out?”

He turned his glance to Eames over his shoulder before returning it back to the table, poker chip still flipping expertly over his knuckles.

“Tempting as the offer is, I would have to respectfully decline.”

His tone was quiet, almost reluctant. Or perhaps the whiskey and exhaustion were finally getting to Eames’ head.

“Getting home to the missus?”

“Work, actually.” He rolled the poker chip between his fingers before laying it carefully atop the lowest pile in front of him. Eames returned to the table and took up his previous position to the man’s right.

“Ah but what is work to men like us?”

“Us?” his tone seemed darker, which made Eames’ smile widen. He was riling him up. Excellent. “I’m not like you.”

“And you presume to know me, then, darling, over one quick game of poker at a ratty club? For all you know we could be in the same business.”

The man’s eyes searched Eames’ face for a moment before he glanced away, expression feigning disinterest.

“I highly doubt it.”

Eames couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped his throat. The boy was just too much fun to play with. Eames deposited of his glass on the table behind him and held out his hand.

“Eames, forger.”

A look of doubt crossed the man’s features before he hid it behind the usual wall of indifference. But his disposition had changed; he looked interested, almost hopeful. A challenge appeared in his eyes. He swallowed once, drawing Eames’ eyes to his throat, before accepting his hand in a firm handshake.

“Arthur,”

“Arthur… rolls off the tongue quite nicely doesn’t it?”

Arthur chose not to dignify that with a reply as he let go of his hand and flexed his fingers gently on the table, his posture rigid, eyes never leaving Eames’.

“No job can possibly be done well if it’s done on an empty stomach, so, dinner?”

Only a tiny movement in Arthur’s lower eyelids showed that his expression was more than slight annoyance. “And why would I accept that invitation, Mr. Eames?”

He had a million answers prepared, all of which would have fitted in well at the dingy club, and none of which should be heard in polite society, but the dealer returned and called for the game to resume. Eames smirked and chose the safest: “I’ll play you for it.”

-

Eames don’t know what made him more pleased, the fact that Arthur’s fingers tapped a nervous beat on the table after he put his blind in or the predatory look he gave him when Eames noticed.

Eames’ hole cards were a seven of spades and a two of clubs. Not much hope for winning unless a miraculously lucky flop was dealt. He doubted it would be. Arthur was flipping another chip between his fingers and looking past him with a look Eames couldn’t read.

His posture was relaxed, but not comfortable. He looked as though he was poised to spring at any moment. Besides his hand, Arthur didn’t move at all, his eyes focusing on a spot behind Eames. He took advantage of Arthur’s distraction and fully took in his appearance: a tan suit with a dark brown shirt and matching silk tie, amber cufflinks and a dark stick pin, probably titanium. Double Windsor knot. His throat moved as he swallowed and Eames lifted his eyes to meet Arthur’s. He met them for a moment, lips parting as though to speak, before looking away, motioning for the dealer to deal the flop.

Two of hearts, jack of clubs, ace of diamonds. Eames checked his hole cards: pair. Well, at least it was something he could work with, he’d bluffed his way through many a game with nothing at all. Arthur impassively checked his own before raising on the preflop bet.

“Confident, are we?”

“As much as any man could be, in a game of chance.” Arthur smiled slightly, allowing himself to slouch a little more in his chair, eyes on Eames the entire time. Eames could hear his feet shift a little under the table. He knew if he were to stretch his legs out he would find Arthur’s. A man so perfect would look amazing undone. Eames dragged his teeth over his top lip to distract himself from the mental image and called Arthur’s bet.

The turn saw a queen of clubs come into play, something that didn’t help Eames at all. So, naturally, he bet more than half his chips. The only reaction he got from Arthur was a pause before he called the bet, voice quiet and precise, eyes meeting Eames’ for a moment longer than necessary before returning to the table. Eames felt a smirk building but held it back. This was, after all, a poker game. And he had been banned from Vegas for a reason.

The river brought with it a king of clubs and Eames knew that his only chance at victory would be to hope that Arthur got a high card and nothing more. He allowed himself a moment before going all in. Arthur stopped spinning his chip for the first time in several minutes.

“That’s quite a bet.”

“Calling or folding, Arthur?”

“Calling,” he replied quietly, executing the bet with his long fingers before leaning back and regarding Eames with another unreadable expression; right hand curled under his chin, left hand gently tapping the chip against the table in time with a beat in his head. Eames smiled. Arthur blinked almost imperceptibly and raised an eyebrow. It was with great effort that Eames didn’t make a move to raise the second one; the kid – and compared to Eames he was one – was a tease and a half.

“Moment of truth then?”

“So it seems.”

Eames didn’t look at his cards as he showed them. Nothing in Arthur’s posture gave him away as he glanced down and then back to him again.

“Pair. A good hand, Mr. Eames.”

“Isn’t it?” he allowed a smile. High card.

“Indeed,” Arthur showed his cards, nine of spades. “But I’m afraid you’ll be dining alone tonight,”

One slender finger slid the nine of spades aside to reveal a ten of spades. The bastard had a straight. Dealer called the end of the game and Arthur leaned back in his chair, a very slight smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Eames was speechless. And thoroughly impressed. It wasn’t often that one found a worthy opponent in Alabama, or anywhere. Arthur unfolded himself from his chair and walked around the table to stand by Eames’ side.

“They say if you have bad luck in cards, you have luck in love, did you know?” he commented quietly as he leaned against the table, arms folded loosely against his chest, poker chip held between the fore and middle fingers of his left hand.

“Is that so?”

“A Russian saying, I think.”

“And is it true?”

Arthur smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and pushed off the table. “Upon occasion.”

Eames caught his wrist as he passed, feeling a slight tremor go through Arthur at the touch. “And on this occasion?”

Arthur didn’t look at him, but Eames could see the muscles working in his throat as though he wanted to. He ran his thumb gently under the cuff of Arthur’s shirt and felt his pulse quicken. Arthur’s eyes closed slowly, his breathing evening out even as his jaw worked and he licked his bottom lip into his mouth. After a moment he twisted his wrist until they were palm to palm and pressed the warm chip into Eames hand before pulling away gently.

“Good night, Mr. Eames,”

Without another word Arthur left the club, one hand flexing by his side before sliding into his pocket. He didn’t look back as he mounted the stairs and slipped out the door without cashing in his winnings.

—

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