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[moneypenny]

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[idlethings.livejournal.com]

[ He doesn't call her often. In fact, he almost never calls. The business is small, but it isn't so small that a whatever-he-is today (thief, forger, liar to name a few) and a whatever-she-is find their paths crossing that often. Mostly he finds ghost trails, stories that seem to link to her or rumours about places she's just left. Whenever, by chance or not, it's something more than that, the novelty tends to catch his attention.

He calls from an unrecognizable phone number, considering he only just bought the thing today. ]

[arcadist.livejournal.com]

[ Moneypenny can count on her fingers (no toes required) the number of people who have access to her direct line. Not the business line, mind you, which rings sporadically in the breast pocket of her trusted translator but the one MP carries around on her own person (in a pocket or a purse, sometimes tucked inelegantly into her bra; some habits die hard). Today it buzzes on the bathroom counter of her hotel room, the vibration loud enough to make up for the silenced ringer; it threatens to clatter dance its way off its perch and onto the floor but Moneypenny is there in time to catch it.

She makes a face at the number (none that she knows) and from it is able to make some assumptions of who is (or who isn't) on the other end of the line. She answers with a: ] Stranger danger -- make it good, yeah?

[idlethings.livejournal.com]

[ Eames's smile against the receiver is stretched and seemingly uncertain as to whether he is genuinely amused by this answer or not, though the fact that he smiles at all suggests more to the amused end of things. Moneypenny can't see him, and no one around him on the street knows how he is, which means there's no one to smile for except himself. ]

Don't tell me it's been so long that I qualify as a stranger now, [ he says, estimating (or overestimating, perhaps, a little) that simply being himself is enough to "make it good" in this case. ]

[arcadist.livejournal.com]

Eames, you slag.

[ So goes Moneypenny's usual greeting. Which isn't to say that she's unhappy to hear from him (though, by the same token, the familiarity implicit in the hello doesn't mean she's particularly pleased either). Things always have been -- and by all estimations, always be -- a bit touch-and-go between the two of them. Though one might argue they prefer it that way. (At least the company continues to be interesting.) ]

You burn through bleedin' phones worse 'an I plow through sweet meat. [ Meat, that's what Moneypenny called those new to the game, the ones who found themselves in her arena for the first time. They ended up as little more than grease stains on asphalt by the time she was done with them. Little more than red stains on the soles of her shoes. ]

[idlethings.livejournal.com]

[ Eames was a soldier once, though it was long ago and he was never really very good at it. Since then, he's killed and been killed more times than he really cares to count, in ways ranging from the mundane to the outright gruesome. He really had no cause to wrinkle his nose at Moneypenny's bloodier enterprise but sometimes he found himself doing it anyway. Meat, indeed. ]

In my defence, [ he says, ] my clients are often far less grateful and understanding after I'm through with them.

[arcadist.livejournal.com]

That's 'cause I give 'em service with a smile, kitten. [ Nevermind the fact that Eames had a tendency to abscond with things that didn't belong to him. If there was fleecing done on Moneypenny's watch it was done in plain sight -- many times with an audience. She prided herself in the fact that her business had nothing to do with sleight of hand or optical illusion; everyone ultimately got what they signed up for: an opportunity to play. Many learned, at the loss of their wallets, that playing was not the same was winning and if Moneypenny's deck was stacked it was with experience and deeply-ingrained persistence and nothing more.

She drums her nails against the lip of the sink, loud enough that a faint rat tat tat comes over her end of the line. ] This lookin' to be a proper chit-chat? Or should I pass you onto the kids for a bit'f piss an' wind?

[idlethings.livejournal.com]

I've never been one for piss and wind, [ Eames says, taking particular pleasure in enunciating the words clearly and properly, giving each syllable and vowel their do, even if his South London is at least as good as hers. Generally, he prefers not to venture outside his own accent (just RP enough to be from nowhere in particular, just something else enough to not be RP) except for business and special occasions. ] I've heard a rumour that we may, in fact, be in the same place at the same time for once.

[arcadist.livejournal.com]

[ There's a brief silence on Moneypenny's end of the line as she sucks on her teeth before giving way to curled smile. It's there in her voice when she talks, a bit of well well well. She's never liked the fact that Eames has a tendency to know where she is and not the other way around, but their divergent lines in business required different levels of discretion. Eames needed portability, or at least the option to it, and the ability to dissolve into anonymity when necessary; MP, on the other hand, relied on the spectacle and the glories of word-of-mouth (the circus is coming to town). ]

You know birdies, [ she eventually says, her tone lazy. ] An' how they love a good tweet.

Which is it then -- Jakarta or Ibiza?

[idlethings.livejournal.com]

[ Eames doesn't really pay much attention to where his contacts and acquaintances are in the world, except when he actually needs them. He's not a man like Arthur whose nature and function requires keeping track of those kind of details. People find Eames when they need him, and Eames goes looking when he needs people. But Eames keeps a special exception, near and dear to his heart, for people who have crossed him, betrayed him, shot at him, stole from him, or stabbed him. ]

Jakarta, [ Eames says, in a voice that makes it sound as though he'd rather be in Ibiza. There's not much big work out there for someone like him, but sometimes it's nice just to take easy money off tourists. ]

✘

[neaten.livejournal.com]

[ Iain doesn't sleep well. (http://neaten.livejournal.com/441.html?thread=29625#t29625) He still feels vaguely sick when he wakes up, and as much as he tries to focus solely on the girl pressed to his side, the white shadow tugs at his every thought. (He hates himself for it.

I need her, too.

He can't back it up with anything else. He doesn't know that this will turn out for the best, he doesn't know that he knows what he's doing.)

For a long while, he keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling, chewing at his lower lip, trying to chase off the last remnants of Baby Jane's silhouette from the backs of his eyelids. (It doesn't quite work.) When he finally does move, it's as carefully as he can, trying not to wake her. (He doesn't intend to leave, not yet, and certainly not without telling her.) ]

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[arcadist.livejournal.com]

[ Unlike Iain, Moneypenny doesn't dream. She very rarely does and hasn't for a while now, her neurons awash in somnacin after years of abuse and then, after, something more like moderation. Luckily sleep still comes to her when she calls for it, though her lifestyle dictates that she catch sporadic swatches of it as opposed to a full night's rest. The globe-trotting and the jetlag and the twenty-four-hour party people mentality means that her circadian rhythms are fucked, at best. (She's used to it by now.)

So when Iain stirs, Moneypenny stirs with him even though she's not drawn into full waking by the soft hush and shift of sheets against skin. A hand curls loosely against Iain's hip. ]

Солнышко, [ she murmurs.

It means 'sun'. Something Russian grandmothers call their favorite grandsons or older, more romantic souls call their lovers. (You are light. You are center. It means more than just 'sun'.) ]

✘

[neaten.livejournal.com]

[ Where the word should provide warmth, Iain feels another twist in his gut. (He's afraid, again, but it's different from the fear he'd felt in the elevator, and he's reminded of why they'd tried to keep these things unsaid in the first place. He doesn't let himself regret it — he doesn't let that shadow make him regret it — but that thought, a virus in itself, remains.)

When Moneypenny's hand finds his hip, he stops briefly, leaning toward her to press a kiss to her forehead, and although it's an act of defiance, his actions are still almost strained; the little white shadow still holds some sway. ]

Morning, love, [ he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep but telling of the fact that he hasn't just woken up. ]

✘

[arcadist.livejournal.com]

[ A tiny smile flickers across Moneypenny's lips when she feels the light pressure of his mouth against her skin. There's no heat to the kiss, chaste in its sweetness, but still it manages to send a prickling through MP (like she's just realized something she'd otherwise forgotten, a kind of danger danger, Will Robinson only the monsters are them). It urges her further awake, her eyes sliding open to regard Iain sideways.

Her loose hold on him grows less loose. She may only be teasing when she asks: ] Bad dreams?

✘

[neaten.livejournal.com]

I don't think there's such a thing as a good one, [ is how Iain elects to respond, reaching up with one hand to brush back some of her hair.

He isn't the type to have good dreams; after all, even the ones that he creates can't be categorized as such. ]

Sleep well?

✘

[arcadist.livejournal.com]

[ Moneypenny exhales lightly, too still to drowsy to bring herself to properly laugh. She peddles dreams for a living and unlike Iain's, hers are worth their weight in superlatives (whether that be the very best or the very worst, they are always extreme) so perhaps she disagrees. ]

Nah, [ she says softly, but she doesn't seem to mind. ] Jus' a bit. Here an' there.

[ The motion is slow and sleep-ridden but clear as she pulls slightly on Iain's hip. (C'mhere.) ]

✘

[neaten.livejournal.com]

[ Iain rolls onto his stomach, draping one arm over her waist as he nips once at the curve of her jaw, the gesture just as lazy as hers.

(His concerns almost flicker away completely, replaced by the same contentment he'd felt last night. The same complacency, he suspects Baby Jane might say.

Stop. Please.) ]

I assume this means your getting more of it isn't much of a priority.

✘

[arcadist.livejournal.com]

[ Her back bows up off of the bed as she stretches, the crown of her head pushing back into the pillow as her hips pull upward and her toes curl against the mattress. If there's a yawn, Moneypenny stifles it with the back of her hand, the other tracing an idle path from his hips to his ass to the small of his back.

(Not on your life.)

She grins at the ceiling, her eyes threatening to slip closed again. ] That your way of offerin' t'keep me awake, sweets? [ Moneypenny doesn't know when his flight is, though she assumes it's today. Secretly she hopes that it's later rather than sooner, that still has a few more hours of this and him before he ricochets off to wherever he needs to be next. ] Y'know I'd never give up another go at you.

✘ AU

[somnascent.livejournal.com]

[ The process itself is gradual, but it begins with a botched job, two (or maybe three, or maybe one, he can't remember) years after the first time he tells her he loves her. No one is there to see what happens (his hands shake, he forgets where things are in his own head, and his cuts are broad, ugly things) but when the two parties come up, Iain is visibly shaken and the other man is not as broken as he could be. He cancels what appointments he has after that.

It's small things, after that. Small things that add up to big things that add up to him repeating insignificant actions (he catches himself, sometimes, trying to do things he's already done, and while he'll look confused for the briefest of moments, the look that lingers on his face is always one of anger and, at the same time, resignation), and forgetting to do others (he doesn't often even approach the PASIV anymore). His hands forget what to do with the tools they're given (they tremble, instead, knowing that they should know, knowing that they did know, once upon a time); they lose their grace, instead becoming as close as Iain has ever been to clumsy.

He begins to forget other things, too. Names, places, dates. (When he first realizes it, he sits her down and starts with my name is Iain Marling and ends with everything he can still remember, because someone should remember, if he can't, and he wouldn't give it to anyone else. He doesn't take no for an answer.) When he lies next to her in bed, he doesn't fall asleep easily. Instead, he stares at her as if he's seeing her for the very first time. Each time, he seems to recognize her less and less. The name she whispered into his mouth in Tokyo is gone completely. (There are always the unspoken words in his gaze, on his lips: I wouldn't blame you if you left. And at the same time, more quietly: But I'd like it if you stayed.)

Sometimes there are glimmers of what's being lost — a sharp smile, an off-hand comment that seems almost comfortable, something in his gaze that says I know who you are and what you are to me — but they never last long, or at least they don't last long enough. The nights find him awake more often than not (somnacin use has had more than one effect on him), seated, as he is now, in the kitchen of wherever it is that they're staying, with his head in his hands and a glass of water abandoned by his elbow. ]

✘ AU

[arcadist.livejournal.com]

[ My name is Iain Marling.

Funny, she'd always assumed he'd been lying about that part, that 'Iain' was just another smoke screen, the very last hurdle that she never asked to climb over. He'd given her so much already, too much arguably, but Natalia's taught herself not to regret the things she's been given and the things she knows she'll never have now; all those memories that had slipped from Iain's mind before he'd given up the ghost and told her; all of the things they once carried together, which are now her burden to hold but never have. She no longer knows which is worse, when his his hands fumble, when she realizes that he's lost something new, or when he looks at her and -- for a brief moment -- she thinks he recognizes her and remembers how to love her.

(He never does.)

After 'Iain Marling', her life changed. She began to whittle away at her entourage, person by person, began to travel less, began to hide more. She ditched the platforms and the brightly colored clothes and learned the comforts of being lost in a crowd, the safety of anonymity that's needed when you know you're operating at a gross handicap. The topographies of her existence shifted and turned and in some places strained, threatening to burst, threatening absolute ruin. (But she'd promised him then, when she'd learned the narrative of his life, or what was left of it; she'd promised with words smudged against the corner of his mouth. We'll both go down together, right, luv? And Natalia's been plenty of things in her life, but one of them isn't a liar.) Bridges were burned, both his and hers, until all that was left were a handful of delicate threads that held them -- suspended -- at arm's length from the rest of the world. (I can live small, she'd told him, though he wasn't the only one who'd needed convincing. Just you wait an' see. I can an' I will. For you.)

She sleeps thinly, much worse than she ever had in the beginning. There is the worry that he'll wander, that he'll end up somewhere he shouldn't be (that she'll lose him indefinitely). So when her hand slides across the sheets beside her and finds them empty, she bolts upright in bed, a flash of panic tightening in her chest. Her exhale is audible when she finds him in the kitchen, pausing in the doorway with shut eyes, wrapped in one of his shirts. ]

Iain. [ Every conversation begins the same way. ] It's me. Natalia.

[ No one calls her Moneypenny anymore. The ones who were trusted enough to keep have earned the right to her name. (He won't remember. That's the worst part.) ]

✘ AU

[somnascent.livejournal.com]

[ There's a Walkman at his elbow, accompanied by a handful of tapes she ought to recognize. (He doesn't, but he listens to them like he should. I'll be seeing you in every lovely summer's day; in every thing that's light and gay. I'll always think of you that way. The songs say he should remember. He should remember her.)

At the first noise, he straightens up like he's been shocked, hands falling from his face, eyes wide for a moment before his expression pans out into something more neutral. (Iain. Me. Natalia. Her. He doesn't remember that they've had this talk before.) The smile that he offers her now is apologetic. (The shirt — his shirt — is a clue; she means something. He doesn't know for how long, or to what degree.) ]

Hi, [ is what he says in response, the single syllable still tentative.

After he'd first wound her his life's story, he'd tried to keep his deterioration from her. It wasn't, after all, the sort of thing that either of them were really taking well. Every day had felt like one more step toward his deathbed, one more step on which he was dragging her along, too. He'd still known how to love her (that he loved her), for a while, but each day, his hands seemed less sure and the way he looked at her less bright. He'd earned a handful of new scars, too, and had kept earning them until he'd become unable to remember why he was going after them in the first place. And by that point, he'd stopped trying to act as if he could still recall. (It's all going, he'd said. Not telling her hadn't been a choice he could maintain.) ]

Sorry, [ he adds momentarily, the apology, simple as it is, covering a multitude of sins. (Sorry about me. Sorry about us. Sorry I ever said yes.) ]

✘ AU

[arcadist.livejournal.com]

[ Used to be, before it all went, Natalia would try to push Iain along by force, shoving the truth at him indelicately, as if somehow that would make it stick better or longer. (His hands pressed to cover the ink on the small of her back, her eyes saying the words she could never bring herself to tell him. This is yours, this is you; I gave you this, I gave you everything; it's precious to you, I swear it is.)

She doesn't do that nowadays. (Please love me again.) It only hurts the both of them more. ]

S'alright. [ It isn't, but she pretends like it is, she pretends for him because, in the end, Natalia knows that's the only thing left she can give him. A smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes but that still somehow manages to say I'm glad that I know you. It, too, will slip away like so much sand through resigned fingers. He'll forget that it's alright, forget that she's given him her name yet again, and all that will be left is that single word and all the regret it can possibly hold.

(Sorry.)

On quiet feet she pads over to him, doesn't look at his Walkman or the tapes by his elbow. (That's her handwriting on the cover, spelling out some Edith Piaf refrain in tightly-cramped script. She'd listened to the songs until she knew all the words by heart and then she gave them to him so that he wouldn't forget them. She's certain he doesn't know what they mean anymore so sometimes she pretends that she doesn't either.) Her hand hovers by his shoulder but she hesitates to touch him. Sometimes it only confuses him more. ]

Couldn't sleep, luv? [ They've had this conversation dozens of times before. She knows his answer. But he doesn't know that. ]

✘ AU

[somnascent.livejournal.com]

[ Some days, his gaze says that he isn't as lost as he was before. That he sees small glimmers (I think I know you, I do, I swear it), here and there.

Not today.

(Who are you?)

They're his worst days, the days he doesn't seem to recognize his own face in the mirror, or, at the very least, he seems to wonder when he aged so much. (I'm getting old.) The streaks of grey in his hair are more pronounced, curling through as though to outline the cracks in his skull that seem to grow from day to day. They're the days his emotions hit their extremes, whether it be anger, resignation, or confusion. He exists. Why can't he remember anything past that? Had there even been a time when he did? ]

Not really, [ he admits, with a half-shrug. (Her hand gets a cursory glance. She is wearing your shirt. She means something. She means something.) ]

✘ AU

[arcadist.livejournal.com]

[ Iain's glance tells her all she needs to know. (No, not today. Maybe tomorrow, then. Maybe for a little while.) Gingerly, she curls her fingers back to form a loose fist which she drops again to her side. The look that she gives Iain is quietly reassuring though strained at the very edges. (S'alright, luv. Better luck next time. I'm not goin' anywhere; never planned to.) ]

Can I make you somethin'? [ Moneypenny knows how Iain takes his coffee, how he takes his tea, too. How he likes to drink his whiskey (or used to, she doesn't let him anymore; the alcohol just makes things worse). The path that his straight razor would take over the planes of his face, back when his hands were still steady, back when his muscles could remember. She knows how he likes to dress, how he hates to drive, and which tapes in his car have gotten the most mileage. MP knows all this because, like Iain had told her once: someone has to. ] Somethin' to drink or eat. Anythin'.

[ (I'll give you anything, Iain. If you'd only remember how to ask.) Moneypenny shrugs awkwardly. She can't remember when it started to be uncomfortable between them -- whether it was a slow and steady decline or if she'd simply woken up one morning and realized he was a stranger. ] Company.

✘ AU

[somnascent.livejournal.com]

Company.

[ There is comfort to be had in company (in not being alone), even if that company is relatively unknown. (Somebody has to know. Who I am. What I am.) He nods at the seat across the (tiny) table from him, pushing it out with one foot. (Stay. It's his turn. Now. For a bit. For forever. No matter what she ends up doing, she will be gone from his memory by the end of the night.) ]

✘ AU

[arcadist.livejournal.com]

[ Natalia half-smiles (it's a cool comfort; not cold, but not warm either; detatched is probably the best word for it, given how few dots Iain can connect). Thankfully, carefully, she lowers herself into the chair. It's not something she's used to being -- careful -- but it's something that was relatively easy to learn compared to everything else.

Her hair's not blonde anymore (Natalia brushes some of it out of her eyes as she wraps her arms around her middle and tries to get comfortable in the chilly kitchen). She dyes it black these days so that no one will recognize her (if Iain can't, why should anyone else be allowed to); the bathroom sink still has the stains, an ugly blue-grey ring in an otherwise spotless white basin. Seated across from him, Natalia can't bring herself to look Iain in the eyes so she stares at his collarbones instead.

(Used t'be, was never afraid of you. Only now. Hell of a thing. And you can't even think to be smug about it. A shame, that.) Eventually, she asks: ] It help any -- me tellin' you?

[ (Who I am. Who you are. That you love me, or used to. That I'll be here, even after you've forgotten. That I still love you, broken as you are.) ]