moneypenny | contact ✖ ic

[ 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?

[ 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. ]

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. ]

[ 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.

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?

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.

[ 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?

[ 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. ]

An' here I was thinkin' 'bout giving Jakarta the blow-by, [ Moneypenny muses, though it's not clear whether or not that's a lie. Unlike Eames, she doesn't make a living off lying (debatable, maybe, given the nature of dreams) so she's less careful with them, wreckless even. It's hard to tell where the posturing ends and the lies (little and white; not so little and pitch black) begin, but it's unpracticed and never deliberate.

Moneypenny clicks her tongue. ] Never happen, not if Eamesie's comin' to town. How 'bout it then, 'ey? First one's on me. For old time's sake 'an all that.

[ Eames crosses an intersection with a wave of other pedestrians. He tilts his face up, squinting into the sun, and smiles at nothing in particular. Old times is a funny notion to him. He's young enough still to feel like he's not old enough to have old times yet, but old enough that it doesn't feel like a wholly ironic thing to say anymore. But he does anyway. ]

For old time's sake, [ he repeats. ] Yes, I suppose I can be talked into letting you buy a drink for me. Provided you agree to leave all your pointy things at home or, at least, hide them somewhere where I can't see them.

[ Eames has caught Moneypenny on the rare occasion of being alone. Not with her translator or another member of her inner circle; not with her secret lover, Iain. Her particular vein of dreamshare business requires an entourage (the spectacle is harder to cultivate without it), most of whom Moneypenny has no particular attachment to save the color they add to her menagerie at any given time.

Her end of the line is quiet, a television playing in another room; Moneypenny's laugh obscures the sound of it. ]

What good's a bit'f metal if you go flashin' it 'fore its time? [ The pointy things would be coming with her; they always did, hidden among fishnets and tulle skirts. ] Promise t'be on my best behavior if you promise to keep those bloody hands of yours to y'rself.

[ In general, MP's a hands on kind of girl. But there are exceptions. Eames is one of them. ]

[ Eames is prepared to admit that the first and only time Moneypenny ever stabbed him was largely deserved (not completely deserved, as Eames thinks to highly of his person to be that generous), but he's motivated enough to avoid a repeat performance. ]

I promise, [ he says dutifully, before a hint of mischievious amusement slips back into his voice, ] for whatever you feel that's worth these days.

[ She returns Eames' amusement with some of her own. ] Knowing you, kitten? Fuck all.

[ Contrary to popular belief, Moneypenny didn't actually enjoy shanking Eames. In so much as she didn't enjoy having good reason to in the first place. Despite piss and wind, she doesn't really look forward to needing another reason again. ] Make sure to bring some stories worth sharin', yeah?

[ Eames was a thief before he was a soldier. And he was a thief before he was a forger. He suspects that he will be a thief long after he stops being everything else. But the years have made him a prudent thief, far more prudent than he was when he first tried to steal from Moneypenny, and he decides on the spot that he will actually keep this promise. ]

Oh, I have plenty. [ He turns right, off the main street and down a smaller, winding side. There's still plenty of pedestrian traffic, and Eames must pick his steps with more care. ] Perhaps even a few you'll want to appropriate for your games. As inspiration.

[ Moneypenny snorts and shuffles her way out of the bath and back into the bedroom of the hotel suite, now the sound of muted explosions and shouting in an unfamiliar language doplering across the background noise. ]

Don't have near as much blood an' guts to keep a crowd happy, [ she says, carelessly, and then drops herself down onto the bed again, her toes curling in the sheets as she stretches. ] 'Less you're thinkin' to teach ol' MP a trick or two.

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