[fic] Not Eames
Aug. 6th, 2010 02:56 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
kiyala.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shannys_cornerTitle: Not Eames
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kiyala
Word Count: 2462
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG
Warnings: N/A
Disclaimer: Inception is the wonderful brainchild of Christopher Nolan.
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
inception_kink, this prompt.
This is my first Inception fic. I hope I did okay D:
It feels wrong immediately. No, it’s that sensation of foreboding that creeps up on him the moment just before something goes wrong. Considering his choice in occupation, he’s no stranger to it, but this time it grips him in the stomach, in the chest, making his insides feel cold.
Eames turns.
He finds what he’s looking for, without even knowing what exactly that is. Curious, the way he’s spent fruitless hours walking crowded streets in the hope of catching a glimpse of a well-tailored suit, of slicked-back hair; now, for once not consciously searching, he finds what he’s been waiting to see all along.
Except this is all wrong. For a moment, Eames wonders if he’s looking at himself. His hand automatically reaches inside his pocket, fingers closing around the poker chip. He knows it well enough by touch to know this is real. With that reassurance out of the way, he can see now that the man he is looking at looks entirely different to him. Still, they’re so similar. Same casual gait, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed. Same sense of dress, wearing a suit and making it look as informal as possible. He can even tell from where he is, that they’re exchanging barbs as they walk.
Eames wonders to himself why, after so long of wanting to catch even the briefest glimpse of Arthur, he’s watching another man instead.
Then this man—not Eames, and that, he thinks, is the important part—places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, on the thick, pressed fabric of that black suit. It rests there for a brief moment and trails down the back of the jacket, hand splayed out against the small of his back. It’s a fleeting touch, and fairly unremarkable to the general public.
Eames, however, doesn’t qualify as the general public on this matter. The touch simply confirms what the strange, cold, feeling in his gut and chest has been telling him since before he even looked. He stands where he is, on the opposite side of the street, hands in his pockets, fingers clenched around his totem, watching as they walk away.
It’d be bearable, almost, except that Arthur then turns around and finds him in the crowd. Like there’s some irresistible force that makes them find each other now, when Arthur is with someone else. When Eames can do nothing but stare.
A fellow pedestrian bumps him in the shoulder as they pass. Accidentally, in all likelihood, but he’s seen enough projections go hostile to instinctively take it as a sign to keep moving. By now, Arthur has already walked away, nothing more than a glimpse of black fabric among the throng of people, and Eames lingers just a moment longer, until he too turns away.
* * *
It’s been a while since their last job. Cobb is happy with his children and none of the team can begrudge him that. They still have a regular workspace and even without jobs, they drop by now and again.
Eames sees Ariadne there often, as she explores the worlds she can build. He never sees Arthur but, of course, it just so happens that they run into each other three days later. Things can’t even work this smoothly and this conveniently in a dream.
He likes their workspace—another warehouse they’ve made into their base of operations—because it feels more familiar, more like home, than the tiny flat he’s renting. Even if he isn’t working, he sits there in one of the lounge chairs and lets himself relax the way he can’t when he’s in his flat, focusing on how real and boring everything is. Here, he has a connection to the times when life is a little more exciting. When they’re under, for a job or for practice, or when they’re together and even if the real world’s a little too dull for his tastes, at least he’s in good company.
He’s spread out in a lounge chair, thinking of the man who is not Eames. Who should be Eames. Walking a fraction too close, purposefully saying things that make the corners of Arthur’s mouth twist in annoyance in that subtle way they do. Touching him, right there in public, claiming him, the most innocuous motions loaded with meaning.
Really, Eames thinks with a frown he doesn’t realise he’s wearing, why the bloody hell isn’t it him? He’s managed to find out a little more, since seeing them on the street. Just basic profiling work, the standard procedure for anyone worth gathering information on, he tells himself. Never mind the fact that this man is not and probably never will be a mark—unless, of course, Arthur knows he will be and this is all just an elaborate scheme and… no, Eames despises the hopeful tone his thoughts take at this point—or that he has more information than he strictly wants regarding the way this not Eames can kiss Arthur when he thinks they’re alone, but still doesn’t know his name.
The door opens and Eames lifts his head, expecting to see Ariadne, the cold sensation returning when he locks gazes with Arthur, who clears his throat and nods, acknowledging his presence before turning away and ignoring it.
However brief the eye contact, Eames sees the flicker of emotion. The dread that tells him that he knows something Arthur doesn’t want him to know.
Sure, it’s a piece of information that he doesn’t quite enjoy having, but hell if he isn’t going to milk it for what it’s worth.
“You never told us you had a special someone,” he says, his words clear in their otherwise silent surrounding. “You’re all grown up. We should mark the occasion.”
Arthur doesn’t dignify this with a reply, but his shoulders tense, hard lines beneath his suit. Eames finds himself fixating on the small of Arthur’s back, where he can still visualise the hand that doesn’t belong to him.
“Does he have a name?”
“Yes.” Arthur doesn’t elaborate. Eames is tempted to throw names at him until he’s told to shut up. Instead, he gets to his feet.
Arthur is at the table, sorting papers that most probably don’t require sorting. He turns when he feels Eames behind him, hands by his sides, back straight, standing his ground. Challenging Eames to tell him what he already knows, at the back of his mind.
That he’s doing this all wrong.
Of course, Eames never does what Arthur wants him to. Instead, he looks at him without speaking for a long moment. A piercing gaze that makes Arthur uncomfortable in a way he’d never show. Eames’ eyebrows draw together ever so slightly, forehead wrinkling.
“Does he make you happy?”
This is none of his business. Instead of telling him so, Arthur massages his temples and lets out a sound halfway between a bitter chuckle and an exasperated sigh.
“He’s infuriating. Doesn’t take things half as seriously as he should. Irritates me for the pure sake of irritating me. He’s—”
You.
Not me.
Neither of them complete the sentence with their thoughts, as much as they want to. Finally, Arthur turns away and says, the way he should have in the first place, “This is none of your business.”
“Of course.” Eames returns to his lounge chair.
Arthur turns back to the desk, shoulders tense, back straight. He wants nothing more than to be alone, to be able to bend over the desk, cover his face with his hands and get the frustration out of his system. But for that, he’d need Eames to leave.
Despite everything, he isn’t sure he wants that.
* * *
The next day, Ariadne is there too and she watches in amusement as Eames does what he does best when he’s not forging; following Arthur around, baiting him, irritating him.
“Ariadne,” he speaks up as they’re having lunch together in a nearby restaurant, giving her a brilliant smile. “Has Arthur told you—”
“Shut up, Eames.”
“—new lover?”
She raises her eyebrows, looks between the two of them, and smiles. “Congratulations. Took the two of you long enough.”
The colour drains from Arthur’s face and he looks at Eames disbelievingly. “Not him.”
His tone hurts more than the truth does, but Eames keeps his smirk firmly in place. “And what a pity that is, darling.”
Arthur makes a sound of irritation and turns back to his food, staring at it with intense concentration for the rest of the meal.
* * *
The three of them go under once they return to their workspace. Ariadne wants to try out her new maze, carefully shaped into a hotel. They start in the lobby, walking past Arthur’s projections to the elevator, where the maze begins.
Eames shifts his skin as he turns the corner behind the other two, turning into someone similar to him. Someone who is not him.
“Eames,” Arthur says when he looks over his shoulder, his voice rough in warning, but gets nothing but a wink in response.
Ariadne raises an eyebrow at Eames and his new skin. “So this is him?”
Eames wants to correct her that no, this is not him, the lucky bastard, even though it should be. He stops himself, realising that perhaps he’s thinking about it more than he should be and really, doesn’t that make him a bit of a hypocrite every time he teases Arthur about doing the same?
Instead, he does something of questionable wisdom—nothing new, there—and drapes his arm around Arthur’s shoulder, bowing from the waist with a flourish.
“Why, yes. And we're very much besotted with one another, thankyou.”
“Eames,” Arthur snaps, pushing his hand away, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something—guilt?—at addressing him by his name when he looks like this.
He winks in reply, patting Arthur’s shoulder and letting his hand linger for longer than strictly necessary. He fights the urge to trail his hand down to the small of Arthur’s back and shoves it firmly in his pocket.
“Shall we get back to work?” Arthur asks pointedly, and continues walking through the hotel that is a maze.
* * *
It has to end sooner or later, Eames thinks. There will be a point where they’ll get sick of each other. Where Arthur will realise that this is all wrong, that it’s just a little to the left of what he really wants.
That time doesn’t seem to come. Arthur shows up to work, immaculately dressed as always, but with a red mark on his neck, mostly hidden by the collar of his shirt, or when Eames leans a little closer, he can smell someone else on him. Arthur tolerates these inspections without a comment, looking directly ahead of him as if Eames doesn’t exist, even when he’s blatantly analysing him for any signs of the man who is not Eames.
Of course, Arthur knows exactly why Eames is doing all of this. He’s just waiting for Eames to say something about it. Something real, not the usual remarks that mean everything and nothing at once. Eames does nothing of the sort. He’s waiting on Arthur.
Arthur knows he’s just passing time, waiting for something to happen. It’s like waiting for a kick; he knows it’s coming, and he’s just waiting for it, anticipating it, almost longing for it, to be dragged out of this pretence and back to reality.
It’s almost ironic, the fact that his reality is the forger.
* * *
In the end, it isn’t Eames who makes the first move. It isn’t Arthur either; it’s the man who isn’t Eames. Who should be Eames. Who can now be Eames.
When he walks into work the next morning, the forger is the only one there, sprawled out on his favourite chair, an arm thrown across his face obscuring half his face as he is lost in thought.
He looks up immediately when Arthur enters, and his gaze lingers for a little longer than it usually does. Arthur says nothing and Eames doesn’t need him to. He can tell.
Eames is already on his feet, walking to the desk as Arthur makes a bee-line towards it, arranging the same papers he arranged yesterday, and the day before that, as if this simple act can force order into his life. His hands pause over the sheets as he feels Eames behind him, close enough that they’re nearly touching, that Arthur can feel the warm breath against the nape of his neck.
He wants to lean back, to just surrender now that he doesn’t need the façade. He doesn’t, but his hands tremble just a little and he places them down against the desk and waits for Eames to say something.
When he finally does, he says, “No greeting this morning, love?”
“Good morning, Mister Eames.”
A small smile flickers across his lips and he nearly reaches out to touch that place on Arthur’s back that has been driving him mad for weeks. Instead, he touches Arthur’s shoulder. The point man turns around.
“Didn’t work out?”
Arthur keeps his chin high. “You don’t sound surprised. Or sympathetic.”
The smile slowly returns. Eames tilts his head a little to the side. “Did you want me to be?”
“I can’t say that I particularly care.”
“No, of course not.”
They watch each other, not breaking eye contact, not moving away, not moving any closer.
Finally, Arthur growls quietly. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”
Eames chuckles, his voice low, tugging Arthur closer by his tie. “Darling, I thought you’d never ask.”
* * *
Arthur’s eyes are closed, his lips slightly parted, as he leans in. Eames tugs him just that little bit closer and their lips meet, warm, soft, a little dry, but altogether wonderful.
To Eames’ surprise, Arthur kisses him again, more demanding this time. He quickly recovers from this pleasant wonder, giving just as good as he gets. If not even more. Arthur holds onto his upper arms, pulling him closer, hands then going to rest on the sides of Eames’ neck. Eames places his hands on the small of Arthur’s back—the exact same place he’s fantasised about for all this time—and kisses him until they’re leaning against the desk for support, they’re panting softly against each other’s mouths, and the only thought Eames can hold onto in the jumble of his mind is that dishevelled is a very good look on Arthur.
“While I’m quite aware that you are a shameless exhibitionist,” Arthur murmurs, the usual bite in his tone lost in the thick desire, “I refuse to do this where we could very easily be found.”
“Anything you say, darling,” Eames replies, straightening up, pulling Arthur up with him, and dragging him to the nearest storeroom.
“Anything I say?” Arthur repeats, arching an eyebrow as Eames shuts the door behind them.
Eames smirks, his hands settling on Arthur’s sides, kissing his neck. “Almost. Don’t push your luck.”
x
Author:
kiyalaWord Count: 2462
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG
Warnings: N/A
Disclaimer: Inception is the wonderful brainchild of Christopher Nolan.
Notes: Written for
inception_kink, this prompt.This is my first Inception fic. I hope I did okay D:
It feels wrong immediately. No, it’s that sensation of foreboding that creeps up on him the moment just before something goes wrong. Considering his choice in occupation, he’s no stranger to it, but this time it grips him in the stomach, in the chest, making his insides feel cold.
Eames turns.
He finds what he’s looking for, without even knowing what exactly that is. Curious, the way he’s spent fruitless hours walking crowded streets in the hope of catching a glimpse of a well-tailored suit, of slicked-back hair; now, for once not consciously searching, he finds what he’s been waiting to see all along.
Except this is all wrong. For a moment, Eames wonders if he’s looking at himself. His hand automatically reaches inside his pocket, fingers closing around the poker chip. He knows it well enough by touch to know this is real. With that reassurance out of the way, he can see now that the man he is looking at looks entirely different to him. Still, they’re so similar. Same casual gait, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed. Same sense of dress, wearing a suit and making it look as informal as possible. He can even tell from where he is, that they’re exchanging barbs as they walk.
Eames wonders to himself why, after so long of wanting to catch even the briefest glimpse of Arthur, he’s watching another man instead.
Then this man—not Eames, and that, he thinks, is the important part—places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, on the thick, pressed fabric of that black suit. It rests there for a brief moment and trails down the back of the jacket, hand splayed out against the small of his back. It’s a fleeting touch, and fairly unremarkable to the general public.
Eames, however, doesn’t qualify as the general public on this matter. The touch simply confirms what the strange, cold, feeling in his gut and chest has been telling him since before he even looked. He stands where he is, on the opposite side of the street, hands in his pockets, fingers clenched around his totem, watching as they walk away.
It’d be bearable, almost, except that Arthur then turns around and finds him in the crowd. Like there’s some irresistible force that makes them find each other now, when Arthur is with someone else. When Eames can do nothing but stare.
A fellow pedestrian bumps him in the shoulder as they pass. Accidentally, in all likelihood, but he’s seen enough projections go hostile to instinctively take it as a sign to keep moving. By now, Arthur has already walked away, nothing more than a glimpse of black fabric among the throng of people, and Eames lingers just a moment longer, until he too turns away.
It’s been a while since their last job. Cobb is happy with his children and none of the team can begrudge him that. They still have a regular workspace and even without jobs, they drop by now and again.
Eames sees Ariadne there often, as she explores the worlds she can build. He never sees Arthur but, of course, it just so happens that they run into each other three days later. Things can’t even work this smoothly and this conveniently in a dream.
He likes their workspace—another warehouse they’ve made into their base of operations—because it feels more familiar, more like home, than the tiny flat he’s renting. Even if he isn’t working, he sits there in one of the lounge chairs and lets himself relax the way he can’t when he’s in his flat, focusing on how real and boring everything is. Here, he has a connection to the times when life is a little more exciting. When they’re under, for a job or for practice, or when they’re together and even if the real world’s a little too dull for his tastes, at least he’s in good company.
He’s spread out in a lounge chair, thinking of the man who is not Eames. Who should be Eames. Walking a fraction too close, purposefully saying things that make the corners of Arthur’s mouth twist in annoyance in that subtle way they do. Touching him, right there in public, claiming him, the most innocuous motions loaded with meaning.
Really, Eames thinks with a frown he doesn’t realise he’s wearing, why the bloody hell isn’t it him? He’s managed to find out a little more, since seeing them on the street. Just basic profiling work, the standard procedure for anyone worth gathering information on, he tells himself. Never mind the fact that this man is not and probably never will be a mark—unless, of course, Arthur knows he will be and this is all just an elaborate scheme and… no, Eames despises the hopeful tone his thoughts take at this point—or that he has more information than he strictly wants regarding the way this not Eames can kiss Arthur when he thinks they’re alone, but still doesn’t know his name.
The door opens and Eames lifts his head, expecting to see Ariadne, the cold sensation returning when he locks gazes with Arthur, who clears his throat and nods, acknowledging his presence before turning away and ignoring it.
However brief the eye contact, Eames sees the flicker of emotion. The dread that tells him that he knows something Arthur doesn’t want him to know.
Sure, it’s a piece of information that he doesn’t quite enjoy having, but hell if he isn’t going to milk it for what it’s worth.
“You never told us you had a special someone,” he says, his words clear in their otherwise silent surrounding. “You’re all grown up. We should mark the occasion.”
Arthur doesn’t dignify this with a reply, but his shoulders tense, hard lines beneath his suit. Eames finds himself fixating on the small of Arthur’s back, where he can still visualise the hand that doesn’t belong to him.
“Does he have a name?”
“Yes.” Arthur doesn’t elaborate. Eames is tempted to throw names at him until he’s told to shut up. Instead, he gets to his feet.
Arthur is at the table, sorting papers that most probably don’t require sorting. He turns when he feels Eames behind him, hands by his sides, back straight, standing his ground. Challenging Eames to tell him what he already knows, at the back of his mind.
That he’s doing this all wrong.
Of course, Eames never does what Arthur wants him to. Instead, he looks at him without speaking for a long moment. A piercing gaze that makes Arthur uncomfortable in a way he’d never show. Eames’ eyebrows draw together ever so slightly, forehead wrinkling.
“Does he make you happy?”
This is none of his business. Instead of telling him so, Arthur massages his temples and lets out a sound halfway between a bitter chuckle and an exasperated sigh.
“He’s infuriating. Doesn’t take things half as seriously as he should. Irritates me for the pure sake of irritating me. He’s—”
You.
Not me.
Neither of them complete the sentence with their thoughts, as much as they want to. Finally, Arthur turns away and says, the way he should have in the first place, “This is none of your business.”
“Of course.” Eames returns to his lounge chair.
Arthur turns back to the desk, shoulders tense, back straight. He wants nothing more than to be alone, to be able to bend over the desk, cover his face with his hands and get the frustration out of his system. But for that, he’d need Eames to leave.
Despite everything, he isn’t sure he wants that.
The next day, Ariadne is there too and she watches in amusement as Eames does what he does best when he’s not forging; following Arthur around, baiting him, irritating him.
“Ariadne,” he speaks up as they’re having lunch together in a nearby restaurant, giving her a brilliant smile. “Has Arthur told you—”
“Shut up, Eames.”
“—new lover?”
She raises her eyebrows, looks between the two of them, and smiles. “Congratulations. Took the two of you long enough.”
The colour drains from Arthur’s face and he looks at Eames disbelievingly. “Not him.”
His tone hurts more than the truth does, but Eames keeps his smirk firmly in place. “And what a pity that is, darling.”
Arthur makes a sound of irritation and turns back to his food, staring at it with intense concentration for the rest of the meal.
The three of them go under once they return to their workspace. Ariadne wants to try out her new maze, carefully shaped into a hotel. They start in the lobby, walking past Arthur’s projections to the elevator, where the maze begins.
Eames shifts his skin as he turns the corner behind the other two, turning into someone similar to him. Someone who is not him.
“Eames,” Arthur says when he looks over his shoulder, his voice rough in warning, but gets nothing but a wink in response.
Ariadne raises an eyebrow at Eames and his new skin. “So this is him?”
Eames wants to correct her that no, this is not him, the lucky bastard, even though it should be. He stops himself, realising that perhaps he’s thinking about it more than he should be and really, doesn’t that make him a bit of a hypocrite every time he teases Arthur about doing the same?
Instead, he does something of questionable wisdom—nothing new, there—and drapes his arm around Arthur’s shoulder, bowing from the waist with a flourish.
“Why, yes. And we're very much besotted with one another, thankyou.”
“Eames,” Arthur snaps, pushing his hand away, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something—guilt?—at addressing him by his name when he looks like this.
He winks in reply, patting Arthur’s shoulder and letting his hand linger for longer than strictly necessary. He fights the urge to trail his hand down to the small of Arthur’s back and shoves it firmly in his pocket.
“Shall we get back to work?” Arthur asks pointedly, and continues walking through the hotel that is a maze.
It has to end sooner or later, Eames thinks. There will be a point where they’ll get sick of each other. Where Arthur will realise that this is all wrong, that it’s just a little to the left of what he really wants.
That time doesn’t seem to come. Arthur shows up to work, immaculately dressed as always, but with a red mark on his neck, mostly hidden by the collar of his shirt, or when Eames leans a little closer, he can smell someone else on him. Arthur tolerates these inspections without a comment, looking directly ahead of him as if Eames doesn’t exist, even when he’s blatantly analysing him for any signs of the man who is not Eames.
Of course, Arthur knows exactly why Eames is doing all of this. He’s just waiting for Eames to say something about it. Something real, not the usual remarks that mean everything and nothing at once. Eames does nothing of the sort. He’s waiting on Arthur.
Arthur knows he’s just passing time, waiting for something to happen. It’s like waiting for a kick; he knows it’s coming, and he’s just waiting for it, anticipating it, almost longing for it, to be dragged out of this pretence and back to reality.
It’s almost ironic, the fact that his reality is the forger.
In the end, it isn’t Eames who makes the first move. It isn’t Arthur either; it’s the man who isn’t Eames. Who should be Eames. Who can now be Eames.
When he walks into work the next morning, the forger is the only one there, sprawled out on his favourite chair, an arm thrown across his face obscuring half his face as he is lost in thought.
He looks up immediately when Arthur enters, and his gaze lingers for a little longer than it usually does. Arthur says nothing and Eames doesn’t need him to. He can tell.
Eames is already on his feet, walking to the desk as Arthur makes a bee-line towards it, arranging the same papers he arranged yesterday, and the day before that, as if this simple act can force order into his life. His hands pause over the sheets as he feels Eames behind him, close enough that they’re nearly touching, that Arthur can feel the warm breath against the nape of his neck.
He wants to lean back, to just surrender now that he doesn’t need the façade. He doesn’t, but his hands tremble just a little and he places them down against the desk and waits for Eames to say something.
When he finally does, he says, “No greeting this morning, love?”
“Good morning, Mister Eames.”
A small smile flickers across his lips and he nearly reaches out to touch that place on Arthur’s back that has been driving him mad for weeks. Instead, he touches Arthur’s shoulder. The point man turns around.
“Didn’t work out?”
Arthur keeps his chin high. “You don’t sound surprised. Or sympathetic.”
The smile slowly returns. Eames tilts his head a little to the side. “Did you want me to be?”
“I can’t say that I particularly care.”
“No, of course not.”
They watch each other, not breaking eye contact, not moving away, not moving any closer.
Finally, Arthur growls quietly. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”
Eames chuckles, his voice low, tugging Arthur closer by his tie. “Darling, I thought you’d never ask.”
Arthur’s eyes are closed, his lips slightly parted, as he leans in. Eames tugs him just that little bit closer and their lips meet, warm, soft, a little dry, but altogether wonderful.
To Eames’ surprise, Arthur kisses him again, more demanding this time. He quickly recovers from this pleasant wonder, giving just as good as he gets. If not even more. Arthur holds onto his upper arms, pulling him closer, hands then going to rest on the sides of Eames’ neck. Eames places his hands on the small of Arthur’s back—the exact same place he’s fantasised about for all this time—and kisses him until they’re leaning against the desk for support, they’re panting softly against each other’s mouths, and the only thought Eames can hold onto in the jumble of his mind is that dishevelled is a very good look on Arthur.
“While I’m quite aware that you are a shameless exhibitionist,” Arthur murmurs, the usual bite in his tone lost in the thick desire, “I refuse to do this where we could very easily be found.”
“Anything you say, darling,” Eames replies, straightening up, pulling Arthur up with him, and dragging him to the nearest storeroom.
“Anything I say?” Arthur repeats, arching an eyebrow as Eames shuts the door behind them.
Eames smirks, his hands settling on Arthur’s sides, kissing his neck. “Almost. Don’t push your luck.”
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Date: 2010-08-12 12:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-08-12 02:27 am (UTC)I'm glad you care so much about your writing, but you need not fret anymore~
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Date: 2010-08-12 02:29 am (UTC)