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JANUARY 5TH: HILLINGDON

It's a new year, but it's the same old routine for Arthur. The holidays barely register as a thing for him anymore, and while everything gets a bit cozier and cheesier over the holidays, he's glad for the return to infrequent parties and fewer social expectations. He doesn't have that many friends and family to connect with over the holidays anyway, and it wasn't a good time for him to go home to Chicago for a visit.

So it's no surprise that he can be found in the halls of Hillingdon house in early January as if none of it had ever happened, looking for quick and easy bounties to pick up as he organizes a few supply orders. One day he can be found speaking in a hushed but urgent down into his phone at the end of a hallway.

"Two weeks ago you said you'd have the black ironwood. No, I'm not settling for desert, that's not the same thing. I'm almost out and now I'll have to go to someone else - yes, I'd rather pay a bit more than be dead, thanks. Jesus..."

The conversation continues like this for a minute or two longer until he hangs up with a curse, a look on his face like he misses the old days when one could literally slam the phone down to end a call.

JANUARY 8TH: THE BAR

So the man isn't really one for birthdays. He's never made it a big deal, and it barely even came up in the past few years while he was too busy traveling to realize it had come and gone. Today the plan was no different. He ran his errands this morning, had a business meeting over lunch, stopped in at Hillingdon to check in and see if there were any bounties worth picking up, and finished with a lovely dinner catching up with a couple associates. There were a couple glasses of wine ingested at this dinner, but nothing too over the top, and they don't even know it's his birthday when they part ways and he heads home alone.

On this walk, however, he thinks on it a little bit and feels that something is missing. He is turning 30 after all, and it would be a shame not to mark the occasion. There's a popular bar he's stopped into before on his way home, and tonight he spontaneously decides to have a few drinks. It's barely an hour later, after striking up a pleasant conversation with the bartender and introducing himself to the patrons next to him, that Arthur's grinning widely with flushed cheeks, animated and excited at every topic of conversation that comes his way.

He is, of course, uproariously drunk.

JANUARY 11TH: THE PURGE

Arthur's been watching Daybreak. He's been watching them move throughout Croydon, pushing out the dark magic like this is their divine mission. Arthur's not a huge fan of magic that hurts anyone, but he's also not a fan of Sylvia Redbright's apparent directive to bring peace to the London underground by controlling the whole system.

This, though, this has Norrell written all over it, so Arthur's been tracking one Daybreak witch all morning, watching him come and go and hoping that he'll lead him somewhere useful. It's an odd, perhaps creepy thing to do without any promise of a paycheque at the end, but Arthur's as covert as he can be and he's obnoxiously patient. Currently he's watching this witch speak with a defensive shop owner, from across the street in a small deli, passively hoping that it'll turn into a real fight since he's so unbelievably bored.

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"Ah yes," Arthur says, grinning as he settles back on the couch again. "Good old chance."

After musing on this for a second (he's dreaming about winning the lottery, excuse him), his mind decides to change the subject and he raises an eyebrow at Eames. "How did you know it was my birthday? How come everyone knows it's my birthday today?"

"Who else knew?" Eames asks, completely bypassing the first question with an amused smile. Arthur keeps everything so close to his chest, it must be alarming for anyone to know, let alone more than one person.

But. Now he's asked, Eames has a fairly good idea who else might know, and he holds up a hand to stop Arthur before he gets a chance to answer. "Nancy?"

"Mm," Arthur confirms, nodding and looking up at the ceiling. "Must've taken a look at my ID at some point. Or she just had a lucky guess. I was already drunk when she came to the pub."

So, so drunk. Arthur rubs his face and then reaches for his glass of scotch, taking a long sip, like he's trying to ward off any soberness that might be creeping up on him. Soberness is going to hurt, he suspects.

She probably managed to steal a look at his ID. One of Fagin's best, that Nancy, not that he'd ever say that to her face.

"You'd better watch out," there's a hint of a warning in his tone, but mostly he seems to be joking, "girls her age do love an older man." And Eames lingers just a little on the word 'older' with a smirk over the rim of his glass.

Arthur groans and rubs his face again, catching the emphasis on the word but electing to skip over that for now.

"Don't worry," he says, as if Eames would worry about this topic, "I have no interest in crossing that particular line. She's a teenager."

Eames laughs and leans back in his seat. He wouldn't admit it's a relief to hear, but it is. That's a complication he doesn't want to have to deal with.

"Okay," he puts a hand up, stopping the conversation before it starts, "consider me reassured."

"Sweet girl, though," Arthur says with a shrug before he takes another sip of his scotch. He doesn't particularly want to talk about Nancy, especially not in this context.

"Not that I'm a prude. I know you think I am," he says, gesturing at Eames vaguely. "Just, you have to have lines."

"You don't need to explain yourself to me, Arthur." He does think Arthur's a prude, that much is true, but he wouldn't call this particular thing prudish so much as sensible.

Either way, Eames is eager to get off the topic of Nancy and whether or not Arthur wants to sleep with her, and gestures like he's suddenly remembered something important. "Anyway-- I almost forgot. I got something else for you," he says as he reaches into a pocket, tossing a neatly wrapped box in Arthur's direction with little regard for how his reflexes might be compromised by how much he's had to drink.

(It's a box of Just For Men in black.)

"I think that's your colour."

Arthur's a bit startled, but he manages to catch the thing. He looks puzzled when Eames makes the comment about his colour, so he tears off a bit of the wrapping and then gives Eames a look as flat as as a look can get when it's being given by a man who's been drunk for hours.

"I'm not old!" he insists, but he lets out a laugh. "And I am not going grey."

"But this is a turning point for mortals, right? What are you--" He squints at Arthur for a moment, as though trying to guess, "fourty?"

Despite the amusement on his face, Eames manages to sound like he genuinely has no idea how old Arthur is or how to roughly judge a person's age. But in all fairness, it wouldn't be an unbelievable thing coming from a man who's looked the same age for centuries.

"And you of all people should know the value of preparation."

Arthur laughs, shaking his head. "I'm thirty," he says, leaning forward to put his scotch back on the coffee table. He considers refilling it, and after a moment he decides to do it after all. "Besides," he says, clumsily pouring the scotch into his own glass, "if I'm old, then you're ancient."

"Listen," he's sitting up straight now, this is serious, "that's all relative. Some fae are older than your entire species."

Eames starts to settle back into his seat, but then he straightens back up again with a gesture that's the visual equivalent of 'and another thing.' "Besides. You don't even know how old I am anyway."

Arthur sits back, resting the glass of scotch on his knee between sips and raising his eyebrows in mild curiosity. Back when they first met, that was one of the things he dearly wanted to know, but it always seemed rude to ask. Now it's not so pressing, but Eames opened up the topic with the stupid hair dye, so it's happening.

"How old are you?"

It's Eames' nature to be reticent with that kind of information about himself, (or any information really,) not out of a specific distrust of Arthur so much as a more general distrust of everyone. So his answer, "old enough to have burned every last portrait of me sporting a ruff," comes out easily with a self-effacing shrug. It's an answer he's given many times over by now.

Arthur laughs gently. "Okay, fine," he says, holding up a hand in defeat. "I was just curious."

He takes another sip (slow down, Arthur) and smirks at Eames. "You look good for someone who was around when ruffs were a thing," he says, and it's partly poking fun and partly actual flattery. He'd never dare tell Eames he looks good while he's sober, but his tongue is a little looser right now, and Eames does look good. He can admit that much.

"Arthur, please. I look good in general." Eames raises an eyebrow as he reaches for the bottle of scotch to top himself up, any surprise at the compliment neatly hidden behind his ego.

He does contemplate just letting that hang to see what other compliments he can draw out of Arthur, (always a glutton for flattery, that Eames,) but the potential for it to go horrendously wrong in one way or another is too much and Eames isn't in the mood for that.

"But today is about your journey toward a hip replacement, not mine."

God, it's relentless. Arthur let's out a pained laugh, shaking his head again. "I'm only thirty," he insists, rolling on as if he had never given Eames the compliment in the first place. Despite the fact that he's always been pretty good at avoiding regrets, he's definitely going to feel a bit embarrassed about that once soberness sets in. It's not a lie, he just doesn't really want Eames to get smug about it.

"Now, now. No need to get defensive," Eames is so smug, look at his face. He's having such a great time. "You do look good for a man your age. I'd hardly believe it's almost time to start looking at nursing homes."

It's so close to being a compliment, but it's just. It's not.

"Okay, okay, I get it" he says, holding up his hands in defense. He glances at his laptop and heaves a sigh. The thought of getting up is a bit overwhelming, but he has to face it some time. He takes a long gulp of scotch and then sets his glass down on the coffee table carefully.

"If I'm such an old-timer I guess it's way past time for me to turn in," he says, in a resigned sort of way that every drunk person uses when they realize the party's coming to a close and sleep is a human necessity. He stands up slowly, trying to minimize the sway in his step as he picks up the bottle of scotch with every intention of putting it away.

Eames grins and finishes his scotch, putting the glass down on the table with a quiet sigh. "Alright, old man. I'll see myself out." He stands with the noise of someone who'd much rather just fall on the floor and stay there for a decade, but he can do that when he gets home. Instead, he flashes Arthur another smirk as he heads toward the door, "wouldn't want you to fall and break a hip."

"Ah, shut up," Arthur says, but he's still smiling as he waves Eames off. "I'll see you later. And thanks for the watch."

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