{"@attributes":{"version":"2.0"},"channel":{"title":"Stop writing, Ifrit!","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/","description":"Stop writing, Ifrit! - LiveJournal.com","lastBuildDate":"Sat, 04 Feb 2012 09:46:20 GMT","generator":"LiveJournal \/ LiveJournal.com","copyright":"NOINDEX","image":{"url":"https:\/\/l-userpic.livejournal.com\/111622536\/30382754","title":"Stop writing, Ifrit!","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/","width":"100","height":"100"},"item":[{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/7303.html","pubDate":"Sat, 04 Feb 2012 09:46:20 GMT","title":"Volta","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/7303.html","description":"<b>Artist:<\/b> <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"keelain\" lj:user=\"keelain\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/keelain.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/keelain.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>keelain<\/b><\/a><\/span><br \/><b>Word Count:<\/b> 20,000<br \/><b>Rating:<\/b> R overall<br \/><b>Pairings:<\/b> Arthur\/Eames<br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> For <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-C     \"  data-ljuser=\"inception_bang\" lj:user=\"inception_bang\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/inception-bang.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/community.png?v=556&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/inception-bang.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>inception_bang<\/b><\/a><\/span>. Endless thanks to <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"keelain\" lj:user=\"keelain\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/keelain.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/keelain.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>keelain<\/b><\/a><\/span>, who pulled through wonderfully and blew my mind despite all the difficulties in her way, and to <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"starbolin\" lj:user=\"starbolin\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/starbolin.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/starbolin.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>starbolin<\/b><\/a><\/span>, whose phenomenal editing skills are directly responsible for every single thing you may happen to enjoy about this fic, and who also made an <a href=\"http:\/\/dl.dropbox.com\/u\/6967060\/Fanmixes\/Devils%27%20Hearts%20%28a%20mix%20for%20Volta%29.zip\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"nofollow\">amazing mix<\/a> for it. (Go download it now!) I shudder to think the wreck this would have been without their generosity and talent :'( <br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> Ten months after a savage split, Arthur climbs down to pull Eames out of limbo.<br \/><br \/><a href=\"http:\/\/weatherfront.livejournal.com\/20590.html#cutid1\" target=\"_blank\">Link to master post<\/a>","category":"eames\/arthur"},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/6991.html","pubDate":"Wed, 06 Jul 2011 07:38:31 GMT","title":"Spin!","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/6991.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Eames\/Arthur<br \/><b>Rating:<\/b> R<br \/><b>Word Count:<\/b> 21,000<br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> Political crisis managers AU. Arthur and Eames are operatives for rival presidential campaigns in a heated Democratic primary. Can they find love and happiness in spite of all the pies, Republicans, and publicity disasters in their way? Even in the face of the dreaded ELECTORAL COLLEGE SYSTEM? I DON'T KNOW! LET'S FIND OUT!<br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-C     \"  data-ljuser=\"help_japan\" lj:user=\"help_japan\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/help-japan.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/community.png?v=556&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/help-japan.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>help_japan<\/b><\/a><\/span> fic for <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"nm973\" lj:user=\"nm973\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/nm973.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/nm973.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>nm973<\/b><\/a><\/span>. &hearts; A word to the wise, this is of course not how politics works, because politics is not a romantic comedy. I mean, I thought that it was a romantic comedy for Anthony Weiner and Huma Abedin at least, but we all know how that turned out. &gt;:| 2018 is clearly not a presidential election year, and do not by any means try to figure out what month it is as you are reading this fic, because it will not make sense and it will frustrate you. The WHCA dinner is in April! How can it be April if it just turned summer! WELL BECAUSE IT'S A ROMANTIC COMEDY ;___;<br \/><br \/><a href=\"http:\/\/weatherfront.livejournal.com\/17259.html#cutid1\" target=\"_blank\">Link to fic<\/a>","category":["eames\/arthur","au"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/6880.html","pubDate":"Wed, 01 Jun 2011 00:58:50 GMT","title":"Leave the Children Behind","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/6880.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Eames\/Arthur<br \/><b>Warnings:<\/b> Mentions of war and PTSD<br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> In deserts, wheat fields, and rose gardens, Eames finds Arthur and shakes off the remnants of war. AU, very vaguely based on The Little Prince.<br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> So vaguely based that it's more like <i>some recognizable elements lifted from The Little Prince.<\/i> XD Although the references to war and weaponry have been conflated to avoid setting the story in a specific time period (because things like EMDR are relatively recent developments, but Eames reeeally needed to crash in the Saharan desert!), <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"renne\" lj:user=\"renne\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/renne.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/renne.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>renne<\/b><\/a><a class=\"i-ljuser-badge i-ljuser-badge--pro\" data-badge-type=\"pro\" data-placement=\"bottom\" data-pro-badge data-pro-badge-type=\"1\" data-is-raw hidden href=\"#\"><span class=\"i-ljuser-badge__icon\"><svg class=\"svgicon\" width=\"25\" height=\"16\" xmlns=\"http:\/\/www.w3.org\/2000\/svg\" viewBox=\"0 0 33 24\"><path fill-rule=\"evenodd\" d=\"M19.326 11.95c0 2.01 1.47 3.45 3.48 3.45 2.02 0 3.49-1.44 3.49-3.45 0-2.01-1.47-3.45-3.49-3.45-2.01 0-3.48 1.44-3.48 3.45Zm5.51 0c0 1.24-.8 2.19-2.03 2.19-1.23 0-2.02-.95-2.02-2.19 0-1.25.79-2.19 2.02-2.19s2.03.94 2.03 2.19ZM7.92 15.28H6.5V8.61h3.12c1.45 0 2.24.98 2.24 2.15 0 1.16-.8 2.15-2.24 2.15h-1.7v2.37Zm1.51-3.62c.56 0 .98-.35.98-.9 0-.56-.42-.9-.98-.9H7.92v1.8h1.51ZM18.3802 15.28h-1.63l-1.31-2.37h-1.04v2.37h-1.42V8.61h3.12c1.39 0 2.24.91 2.24 2.15 0 1.18-.74 1.81-1.46 1.98l1.5 2.54Zm-2.49-3.62c.57 0 1-.34 1-.9s-.43-.9-1-.9h-1.49v1.8h1.49Z\" clip-rule=\"evenodd\"\/><path fill-rule=\"evenodd\" d=\"M2 8c0-2.20914 1.79086-4 4-4h20.5c2.2091 0 4 1.79086 4 4v7.9c0 2.2091-1.7909 4-4 4H6c-2.20914 0-4-1.7909-4-4V8Zm4-2.5h20.5C27.8807 5.5 29 6.61929 29 8v7.9c0 1.3807-1.1193 2.5-2.5 2.5H6c-1.38071 0-2.5-1.1193-2.5-2.5V8c0-1.38071 1.11929-2.5 2.5-2.5Z\" clip-rule=\"evenodd\"\/><\/svg><\/span><\/a><\/span>'s <a href=\"http:\/\/futureperfect.livejournal.com\/871516.html\" target=\"_blank\">Coming In (On a Wing)<\/a> is such a wonderful WWII-era inspiration. &hearts; Eames's symptoms are not representative of the majority of PTSD cases, and although PASIV therapy mixes elements of ACT and VRT, this story is of course not intended to promote any specific form of therapy. I mean, EMDR doesn't even really work that way fldgh;alk basically EVERYTHING IN THIS STORY IS A LIE AND THE NOTES SECTION IS TOO LONG<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/>He can't see. He can't breathe. The panic tears its way out of his chest in a strangled sob, and Eames brings his hands up to his face, clawing at the useless sockets of his eyes.<br \/><br \/>Thank god, he hasn't been blinded; it's only the crusted blood and sand sealing his eyelids shut, peeling off in rough clayish lumps when he rubs at it. He licks his lips and comes away with sand, sticking to his parched tongue. He opens his eyes and sees sand.<br \/><br \/><i>Heaven is a desert,<\/i> he thinks, before he twists his neck upright and the world reorients itself. He's halfway slumped out of the smashed cockpit of his fighter plane, more diagonal than upside-down. His cheek is abraded raw where it must have dragged a little across the sand. No wonder he can't breathe, the blood rushing to his head, still strapped into his seat.<br \/><br \/>He tumbles out of the cockpit in a heap of limbs when he pries himself loose. Winded, he rolls over onto his back, the cut on his forehead oozing again with the exertion. It dries to a still in the blaze of the sun overhead, hissing closed with a steaming sound like steak.<br \/><br \/>He knows he isn't dead because this has happened before. Memory reminds him that his ribs are bruised, his right leg broken somewhere near the knee. He bends it experimentally and groans at the streak of pain that shoots through him. Of course it hurts to breathe.<br \/><br \/>The way it happened, he lay in the shadow of his plane's crooked wing, dying of thirst and god knows what else, too weak to stir, the sand sizzling through the skin on his back. Three hours later some other squadron spotted the wreck, picked him up and carried him off. The bruises and the breaks and the burns were fixed in time, healing in pale splotches of new skin, and they scheduled him a medical discharge to be effective immediately when he could sleep on his back without pain.<br \/><br \/>So what is he doing here once again, revisiting his shattered body and aircraft beached in the Saharan wasteland-- he must be dreaming. It must be that new rehabilitation program they signed him up for. Somehow that involves him here on his back again, forcing himself to drag the dry air through his lungs, broken and wheezing. Somehow this is helping him.<br \/><br \/>But he's still a soldier, still confined to a soldier's hospital bed, and nothing about the war has ever helped him. War tore him open and ravaged him, like a bullet trapped inside the leather sack of someone's skin. Just three harrowing hours and they would probably rescue him like they did, lift him up out of the dream and fly him awake, but he can't fathom this war birthing anything other than death. He squeezes his eyes closed, and something hot rolls down his temples, blood or sweat or tears. The white porcelain curve of exposed bone, peeking out shyly from the shin of a mangled corpse. He can't breathe.<br \/><br \/>With a blast of sound and heat like the sky is splitting open, his plane bursts into flames. He opens his eyes and the fire rushes down upon him, an avalanche of searing metal, scorching the sand. Just before the fuel tank ignites, he realizes that he is relieved; because this is the way it was meant to be. This is the way things should be. This is the way things are.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>He opts out of the program. Eventually he stops vomiting, the regurgitated gruel thinning away into the bitter wash of bile, and he rubs at the faint trace of puncture marks at his wrist as he listens to the doctor on duty explain what recourse he has.<br \/><br \/>\"There's no need to be discouraged,\" says the doctor. \"Not all forms of treatment are equally effective for all cases, even when the root cause of the condition stems from similar events. PASIV therapy is still highly experimental, and although we've been seeing some promising results with other test groups, that doesn't necessarily mean that it would also be a good fit for you.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Yeah,\" mumbles Eames, \"I want out,\" and means something else altogether.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>He's already chewed through a line of psychiatric nurses and spat them back out in their perplexed dejection, so they enroll him in EMDR therapy and relocate the nurses to more communicative patients. He listens politely and mutters some answers for his latest handler, then stares into a pair of binoculars where a tiny hot air balloon floats back and forth across his line of vision.<br \/><br \/>\"Am I being fitted for spectacles?\" he asks.<br \/><br \/>\"Try to follow the balloon with your eyes,\" says the nurse. \"You can request that we stop whenever you start feeling uncomfortable with our conversation.\"<br \/><br \/>He rests his forehead on the slab of rubber foam and his eyes unfocus. The sixth week of insomnia is hard as hell to take, and he drifts off into a sort of trance, nothing as thankful as sleep, just a milky cloud that fills the space between his ears until the nurse's hand touches his shoulder.<br \/><br \/>\"What?\" he asks. \"Sorry?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Do you remember the last thing I said?\" asks the nurse.<br \/><br \/>\"I,\" says Eames, a little ashamed, \"I can't remember the first thing you said.\"<br \/><br \/>They tell him to hold a buzzing remote control in each of his hands. He keeps his fingers dutifully locked around them, until he loses track of time and they go clattering onto the floor. They tell him to place the controllers under his thighs. He doesn't hear any of the questions until they ask, \"What emotions does the memory of war elicit in you?\"<br \/><br \/>He snaps his head up, cold sweat beading above his lip. He's wide awake, dizzy with the sudden leap of his heart, coiled so tense at the edge of his chair that the controllers writhe and jump beneath his legs. He doesn't feel it. The nurse says something, lips moving noiselessly, and then there is someone at the door to the therapy room, each knock a booming echo that shakes him apart.<br \/><br \/>\"Sir,\" the nurse is saying, \"you can't, we're in the middle of a--\"<br \/><br \/>\"This is Senior Aircraftman Eames?\" asks the visitor, and pushes the door open a bit wider. \"It's alright, I'm authorized under orders from command to ascertain his estimated date of discharge.\"<br \/><br \/>The dark sleeve of an officer's tunic reaches into the room, like a hook fishing him out of the ocean. Eames bolts out of his seat, nauseous and terrified, knocking his chair over. He drags himself to the corner and collapses, his right knee throbbing and giving out, and he huddles against the wall like he could fold himself invisible.<br \/><br \/>\"Your squadron?\" asks the officer, voice soft with pity.<br \/><br \/><i>His squadron?<\/i> Their hospital is dressed as a halfway house, all signs of war swept carefully under the rug, warded off out of doors. And here he marches in, this Wing Commander, like he could coax the stench of rot into their noses by couching it in sympathy. A fly circling down to land on the flat of a purpled tongue, mouth torn at the corners where looters rummaged for gold fillings. What emotions does the memory of war--<br \/><br \/>\"I don't have a discharge date,\" mumbles Eames. \"I can't go home until I can sleep on my back.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What's that?\" asks the officer. \"Speak up, son, if you can't stand.\"<br \/><br \/>\"My back's fine now,\" says Eames, \"but I can't fucking leave because I can't fucking sleep, because I can't stop thinking about what a useless fucking cunt I've become, since I'm no good for anything other than murdering anymore, which I doubt they'll have much of a use for, back home.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Sir,\" he adds, to the wall.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>No punitive measures are taken because the psychiatric nurse attests to the officer's intrusion on what should have been a confidential, if ultimately unrewarding, therapy session. Eames tosses back the sedatives they bring to him that evening, and asks for another cup of water to drown the knot in his stomach.<br \/><br \/>\"Have a good night's sleep,\" says the night duty nurse.<br \/><br \/>\"Thanks,\" he says, \"I'll try.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I heard about the EMDR,\" says the nurse. \"Won't hurt to give it another go tomorrow, yeah?\"<br \/><br \/>He nods and lies back. The pillow is stiff beneath his head, unyielding as always, a customary start to his nine nightly hours of bleary-eyed agitation. The nurse is almost out the door when Eames raises himself back onto his elbows and says, \"The PASIV therapy program. Do you think they'd let me back in?\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>The landscape is gentler this time, and he finds himself already on his feet, walking through a field of wheat. It must be close to harvest, neatly combed rows of lush grain rustling in the breeze. Definitely a sight better than crashing in the desert. The sky is a flood of powder-blue, the sun bright and close in that peculiar autumnal way, a warmth that prickles only at the back of your neck, the bridge of your nose, toasting you golden along with the wheat.<br \/><br \/>A few stray dragonflies flit away as he passes, the air lazy as it can only be in peacetime, a generous quiet unmarred by the prospect of ever coming to an end. <i>The bottomless trust of innocence,<\/i> he thinks. <i>This land never knew war.<\/i><br \/><br \/>But there's nothing so fragile as the balance of tranquility. So as long as there is land to march on, an ocean for battleships to plow across, no peace is impenetrable. It takes only a light dash of fighter planes across the sky, dark and sparse as pepper--<br \/><br \/>Engines drone in the distance, faint, nibbling away at the edge of his subconscious. <i>No, I'm dreaming,<\/i> he tells himself. <i>Those are my planes, I can stop them. Hold it together.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Picture them turning away, swerving back the way they came. Navigators, bombardiers, there is nothing for you here, nothing of interest to the crosshairs in your bombsight. His fingernails bite into his palms as he concentrates. Only wheat as far as the eye can see, and what good does it do to blow up a wheat field? There's no more to unearth here than a trembling family of mice.<br \/><br \/>The sound fades away, a gradual ebb. He uncurls his hand tentatively, pricking up his ears to chase the planes retreating, shooing them away by listening for them. For a moment it seems like he's won, single-handed defender of the stillness.<br \/><br \/>Then out in the middle of the field, he spots a figure standing knee-deep in the swaying stalks. A slight man in civilian clothes, trailing his fingers through the kernels, strolling-- and watching <i>him.<\/i> No weapons, but still, wasn't he told that he would be dreaming alone? Who is it? Eames startles, losing his jittery grip on the fabric of his dream.<br \/><br \/>In an instant the planes come roaring back. And why shouldn't they, so as long as there are skies above? Eames has bombed a field like this before. An endless stretch of grain is just a splash of color from fifteen thousand meters up, a negligible casualty in the path of a target. They were aiming to block off a supply route, and it didn't matter a bit if the field caught fire. It was just burning grass. He had to shatter peace to keep it intact, and a scorched plot of land was the least of their concerns, the fire spreading wild through the dry fields like ink in water, feeding off the chaff, quick as lightning.<br \/><br \/>The crumbling, gnarled husk of a woman left smoking in the embers. Eames turns to run and the field explodes in heat.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>The orderlies have to hold him down when he surfaces, the outstretched lashing of his hands and feet catching them as he thrashes and struggles for breath. After six weeks without sleep, he tires easily, and he calms enough to let the tension drain out of him as soon as he's checked himself for burns.<br \/><br \/>\"Fire?\" asks the doctor on duty.<br \/><br \/>\"Yeah,\" says Eames. \"Didn't you say these sessions would be private? There was someone in there with me.\"<br \/><br \/>\"That's impossible,\" says the doctor. \"You were the only one plugged into the PASIV, and we were monitoring your condition from topside.\"<br \/><br \/>\"It was a man,\" says Eames, \"young, dark hair, I think around average height.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Looks like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth?\" asks the doctor. \"Oh, don't worry about him, he's just a fail-safe mechanism. He's there to make sure you don't end up hurting yourself.\"<br \/><br \/>\"He's built into the machine?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I've heard that,\" says the doctor. \"He's either modeled on the shrink that helped invent PASIV therapy, or on one of the American soldiers that served as the military liaison for wartime implementation. Or so I've heard.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You don't know,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Unfortunately, I don't have the security clearance,\" says the doctor. \"What's certain is that he's always going to be there, so you might as well get used to him. You've still got four sessions left until progress assessment.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames is about to protest, but then he thinks of those careful dark eyes on his, quiet as the wheat fields, and he finds that he doesn't really mind.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"You can call me Arthur,\" he says. \"I'm here to help you feel less alone.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" repeats Eames. \"Is that short for something? Is it an acronym?\"<br \/><br \/>They're at the mazy heart of a garden walled in stone, huddled in a crouch around a rose in the ground like they need it to warm their hands. It's a pitiful thing, the lone red rose, spindly and yellowing, only barely upright.<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Arthur. \"Just my name.\"<br \/><br \/>He closes his thumb and forefinger around the stem of the rose, rolling it thoughtfully, a casual threat. Eames is seized by a sudden pang of dread. He reaches out, aimless, then draws back in an aborted gesture of remonstration, unwilling to slap Arthur's hand away.<br \/><br \/>\"Maybe you shouldn't,\" says Eames, instead.<br \/><br \/>Arthur lets the rose go. He rests his chin in one hand, searching Eames's face for something. Eames is quickly daunted by the attentive interest in Arthur's gaze, his whole body listening, tilting toward Eames like a satellite dish.<br \/><br \/>\"Here's something,\" says Arthur. \"Try making the rose grow.\"<br \/><br \/>\"By watering it?\" asks Eames. \"Is this even actually a rose? Don't they come in bushes? It's not going to work.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Imagine it in full bloom,\" says Arthur. \"Try it.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm telling you,\" begins Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Try,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>He does, but who asks for roses in wartime? Eames can't remember what it looks like for a rose to unfurl, the smooth nature-documentary magic of flowering. The petals shiver and turn liquid, dripping onto the ground, staining the earth. Each petal a spot of blood in the asphalt. The whole city leaking thin smoke, deserted, shrouding the sun. A swollen set of naked legs protrude from an alleyway, veins blue on plaster-grey skin. Soles studded thick with bits of gravel and glass. And then the air raid siren blares through the dust, a widow's wail, like there's anything left alive to bomb--<br \/><br \/>\"<i>I told you,<\/i>\" yells Eames, \"<i>I told you it wouldn't work.<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur says something, but it's lost under the fevered shriek of a missile in flight.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/>The session directly after that one, Eames takes one look at where they are, and shakes his head in disbelief.<br \/><br \/>\"It's not like a roof will keep anything out,\" he says.<br \/><br \/>They've ended up in a greenhouse, warm and humid as a jungle. Eames sucks in a breath to sigh, inhaling a lungful of mist, heavy with the wet smell of soil. The sprinklers fizz and sputter overhead. The rose, sickly as ever, looks like it's been stabbed into the ground.<br \/><br \/>\"Maybe it'll help us feel more contained,\" says Arthur. \"Safer.\"<br \/><br \/>He unbuttons the sleeves of his shirt to roll them up, and when he bends his head, Eames can see the hair curling faintly at the nape of his neck. Eames wonders if it would be damp to the touch, that soft inch of skin.<br \/><br \/>\"I suppose,\" says Eames, \"you want me to try growing the rose again.\"<br \/><br \/>\"The trick is concentration,\" says Arthur. \"You're a gardener, in this moment, and all you know how to do in the world is grow roses. This greenhouse is your entire universe. Don't think about anything else.\"<br \/><br \/>Surrounded in steam, Eames digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. He <i>wants<\/i> to grow the bloody rose. He wishes it would listen, that sad and hollow thing, no better than a weed. Its thorns only brittle bumps, too ill to let its petals out. <i>Turn colors, damn you,<\/i> he would shout at it, <i>show your face,<\/i> but he's afraid the pitch of his voice might shrivel it to dust.<br \/><br \/>He imagines it in full bloom. Strong and vibrant, roots drinking deep. Guarded so close with thorns that human hands can't go near enough for a hold, a passionate little beast with its claws out, pulsing green and full of life. But life-- what has <i>he<\/i> done with the life given him, with the hands that should have cradled things, coaxed things into blossoming? What is life ever good for other than bringing death, the lavish spill of someone's insides spread out over the pavement?<br \/><br \/>\"Wait,\" says Eames, as the ground rumbles underneath them, \"shit, what is going on--\"<br \/><br \/>At first he thinks the rose is growing, which isn't technically wrong; but in the blink of an eye its stem is already as thick as his leg, and then too wide the next instant to even wrap his arms around. He gapes. Arthur snatches at his wrist and yanks him upright, and they go sprinting out toward the exit of the greenhouse, the rose swelling at their heels with a deafening din, thorns like jousting lances.<br \/><br \/>The flat grassland air outside hits them, cool as peppermint. They don't look back until they hear the roof shatter behind them, and then the shrill glass scream of the walls bursting apart. The rose seems to be slowing down, only nudging a few shards and warped metal beams along the ground before it shudders to a still.<br \/><br \/>Eames tips his head back. The rose is the size of a baobab tree, its feet littered with debris, having smashed the entire greenhouse to bits. He has to shade his eyes to even make out the outline of the petals towering above them, nearly blotting out the sky. Each leaf is like tarpaulin rippling in the wind. It's grotesque and terrifying, completely unnatural.<br \/><br \/>\"What a massive failure,\" he says, \"excuse the pun.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Why do you say that?\" asks Arthur. \"You did make it grow.\"<br \/><br \/>It's hard to explain exactly why he ended up with this disaster, why he considers it such a disaster. It's because the rose isn't the exuberant overachievement of an imagination running out of control, or the wanderings of a forgetful mind. Arthur must have thought it would help him to nurture something, to watch the potential of life at work, but Eames is too broken down to remember anything of the sort. <i>Even life, in its own way,<\/i> he thinks, <i>is only an agent for destruction.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"If we lived on a smaller planet,\" says Eames, \"the roots would have drilled straight through to the other side. Crushed everything in reach, and we'd be drifting aimlessly out into space right about now. So of course it's a massive failure. It's just not easy to recognize it as one because this planet happens to be larger than that.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Well,\" says Arthur, \"so what?\"<br \/><br \/>\"So what?\" repeats Eames. \"So I can't do it, that's what. This is all I can think of, Arthur. This is all that's in me anymore. Beautiful little thing like a flower, and all I can see in it is a gargantuan monster waiting to pulverize the Earth.\"<br \/><br \/>He steps over the iron and glass, putting his palm to the smooth waxy trunk of the rose. He thinks he can feel the rush of water under his fingertips, sucking the world dry, and he shivers.<br \/><br \/>\"Then let it,\" says Arthur. \"We'll drift out into space, if that's the worst it can do. The grass, this huge fucking rose, us, the pieces of our crumbled home planet-- all of it, we'll drift.\"<br \/><br \/>\"And go where,\" asks Eames, baffled.<br \/><br \/>\"You can always live somewhere else, so as long as you're still standing,\" says Arthur. \"And you are, aren't you?\"<br \/><br \/>He places a hand over Eames's heart, like he's checking for the answer.<br \/><br \/>\"You're alive,\" says Arthur, \"aren't you?\"<br \/><br \/>God, it <i>burns.<\/i> That touch. A long tongue of flame licks its way up the trunk of the rose, the sweet singe of sap coming to a sudden boil. It laps at his fingers, and Eames jerks back, angry welts beginning to bubble up on his skin.<br \/><br \/>\"Shit,\" he mutters, \"oh, shit.\"<br \/><br \/>There's probably some way for him to stop it, maybe a rain-heavy cloud splitting open above their heads, but in his panic Eames can do nothing but stare up at the climbing fire, already too high for him to reach. It spreads and leaps in bounds, eating through the petals, setting them ablaze like a torch aimed at the sky.<br \/><br \/>\"It's all right,\" Arthur says, before a leaf swallows the two of them, a smothering sheet of flame. \"Next time we'll--\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>The nausea is still there, but he doesn't feel so thoroughly churned with it, and he wonders if he's just too tired to care anymore. But he's <i>been<\/i> too tired to care all this while, it can't be that.<br \/><br \/>\"Going to let the orderlies off easy, this time?\" asks a nurse, withdrawing the IV line from him.<br \/><br \/>Eames accepts the sedatives they offer him that night. He washes them down and lies back, mind so busy he hardly notices the lumpy discomfort of the pillow under his head. <i>We'll drift,<\/i> he thinks, and <i>it's all right.<\/i> Arthur's hand on his chest, hot enough to burn the dream clean through.<br \/><br \/>He closes his eyes when they turn out the lights, and it's only in the morning when the trolley squeaks into the room that he realizes, the sound woke him. He <i>slept.<\/i><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"Last time, if you'll recall,\" says Eames, \"was an accident.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Last time was last time,\" says Arthur. \"Will you try it?\"<br \/><br \/>Eames looks out over the sea of grain around them. A wind ghosts across the wheat field and the waves crest golden, lit with the autumn sun. A fat grasshopper chirrups somewhere among the stalks.<br \/><br \/>\"I've done it before,\" says Eames. \"This field, not just the rose, I've set it on fire before-- in dreams, out of dreams. I hated every moment of it. How could you not regret burning down something like this?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm glad that you hated it,\" says Arthur. \"That's good.\"<br \/><br \/>Hesitantly, Eames reaches for a head of wheat. When his finger brushes across its tip, it fizzes into sparks like a dynamite fuse, like a firecracker, a long narrow line of flame hissing down toward their feet. He has half a mind to grab the stalk and smother it with his palms, but Arthur touches his elbow and roots him to the ground. He clenches his eyes shut.<br \/><br \/>He can tell exactly when the field catches fire, a blazing huff of air from down below, like the molten core of the Earth has opened up into a sigh. The heat shoots through his skin until he can't tell if he's burning from the inside or out, his ears singing, too hot to breathe. There's a burst of sound, muffled through the fire and his own blood, the terse chain explosion of landmines popping all over the field, geysers of shrapnel and dirt. The screaming might be his own; it might not. He hopes to god it's him. Smoke prickles through his nose and the corners of his eyes start to sting, the tear tracks on his cheeks drying stiff in the blast of heat.<br \/><br \/>\"It won't stop,\" he's gasping, \"I can't make it stop.\"<br \/><br \/>When Arthur speaks into his ear, his voice is turned down low, quiet enough to hear beneath the roar of the fire.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames, it's okay,\" he says. \"Let it burn.\"<br \/><br \/>\"But I,\" says Eames, \"I never meant to burn it, I never meant any of it, but it's all I know how to do-- I'd stop it if only I knew what to do, tell me what to do, please, I'll do it--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Just let it burn,\" says Arthur. \"It's already over.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What do you mean it's over, it's not <i>over,<\/i>\" says Eames, because the heat is scorching him. He would look, but he's too afraid.<br \/><br \/>\"It's been over for months now,\" says Arthur. \"No matter how many times you dream of this, there was only ever one field, Eames. No matter how many times you live it, the field can only burn down once. The fire's out. Don't you want to look?\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur's hand is still curled around his elbow, cool as a daub of river mud. Eames starts when he feels it there, all at once, and the touch spreads through his limbs, quenching him.<br \/><br \/>He opens his eyes. A breeze stirs his hair-- he expects the ashes to cloud up their feet, but there's nothing there but soil. A little dried-out and dusty, but not the embers he was expecting, nor the acrid cling of smoke.<br \/><br \/>The sky is clear and the air tastes like water in his throat.<br \/><br \/>\"Still,\" he says, \"it's so flat now, isn't it. I liked it much better before.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I know,\" says Arthur. \"Everyone did. But it's not your fault. It's a few months overdue, but would you mind if we took a moment to mourn? Because there's nothing wrong with that.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames nods and blinks quickly, holding his breath in dread, but the world stays the same even when he stops looking. There's a flutter of movement on the far side of the field, a magpie pecking at something in the earth. Arthur raises his head.<br \/><br \/>\"What happens now?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Well, you're still standing,\" says Arthur. \"I suppose, when one finds oneself on one's feet, it's not a bad idea to use them to walk. Shall we?\"<br \/><br \/>The magpie watches them with amber-bead eyes, and hops away when it decides they've come too close. Wings outstretched, its feathers are bluer than Eames ever thought anything alive could be. Nothing happens.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"Jesus Christ,\" says the nurse when he drifts awake. \"Are you alright?\"<br \/><br \/>\"There's something very funny about your question,\" says Eames. \"As far as I can tell, this is the first time that I've actually been alright when I woke up.\"<br \/><br \/>The nurse makes a thorough note of all his vitals, looking unconvinced. Eames pulls a face at the cold taste of the saline flush, but keeps himself still until the nurse draws his tubing out, which earns him another wary look.<br \/><br \/>\"The timer on the PASIV ran out,\" says the nurse. \"You stayed in the whole time. That's never happened before.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Good news, though, isn't it?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Sure, but you had us worried,\" says the nurse. \"Obviously this is something you don't need to answer, but-- what were you doing in there?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Walking,\" says Eames. \"I was walking.\"<br \/><br \/>\"For an hour?\" asks the nurse.<br \/><br \/>\"I enjoyed it very much,\" he says. The world was at peace, even in a field without wheat, and there was gold flecked through Arthur's eyes when he turned to look at Eames.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"The nurse told me--\" begins Eames, then stops himself. \"Be careful. The fuel tank caught on fire, last time.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Last time, of course,\" says Arthur, \"was last time.\"<br \/><br \/>He spreads his arms for balance, places one foot in front of the other, and continues walking along the long metal body of Eames's downed fighter. Eames shades his eyes with a hand and watches him, shifting his own feet in the sand.<br \/><br \/>\"It's my final session,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Is this your aircraft?\" asks Arthur. \"Did they shoot you down?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Yeah,\" says Eames. \"But I wasn't here long, three hours or so. Then a squadron on patrol found me and carried me out-- in real life, I mean. In the dream, the fuel tank caught on fire.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur steps onto the tail of the plane and skids down the incline, hands thrust into his trouser pockets. It's a boyish gesture, not quite as impenetrably professional as Eames is used to seeing, and he wonders if there's more where that came from.<br \/><br \/>\"I don't think I want it to be my final session,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>They circle the plane like claims investigators, inspecting each injury. Eames isn't exactly sure what Arthur is looking for, so he trails after him, talking at him.<br \/><br \/>\"I could steal the PASIV case and run,\" says Eames. \"I could be addicted to dream therapy. It's plausible. It could be just like morphine addiction, as far as anyone knows. I probably sound like I'm joking, but I think I mean more than half of it, really.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur doesn't answer.<br \/><br \/>\"And you,\" adds Eames, a bit miserably. \"I wouldn't be able to see you anymore.\"<br \/><br \/>\"When one finds oneself on one's feet,\" says Arthur, \"it's also possible to use them to climb into the cockpit of one's fighter plane. You're still standing, aren't you? What do you think?\"<br \/><br \/>\"What, start flying again?\" asks Eames. \"Go back into the field?\"<br \/><br \/>\"No, I remember you don't want that,\" says Arthur. \"But this time, you can leave the desert on your own. Fixing something down here is as easy as thinking about it-- you're done with this war, Eames. There's no need to cook in the sand while you wait for the patrol.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I did always love these things,\" says Eames, and pretends to pet the scalding surface of his plane. The heat radiates off of it in shimmering waves, and he lets his hand hover without making contact, but he doesn't feel threatened by it. Like it couldn't possibly hurt him, like it's only the warm rise and fall of a cat curled up on the rug.<br \/><br \/>He fixes his plane like growing it anew. The wreck comes to life, shivering for a moment before it lists upright, creaking from its joints. Grains cascade in rivulets out of its crevices. The snapped wing twists itself back into alignment, leveling straight out from the side of the plane, and metal winds back over the gashes torn into its fuselage, sealing up the holes.<br \/><br \/>Its sides quake and tremor, his whirring giant, pawing at the sand like an excited horse. The engine begins to hum. It rises to rest its wheels gently on top of the sand, and the afterburners sputter experimental sparks, the fighter clearing its throat, stretching its legs for takeoff. The spiderweb cracks veining the cockpit canopy smooth out into glass.<br \/><br \/>\"Sight for sore eyes,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Wouldn't you like to take it up?\" asks Arthur. \"You walk when you've got feet, and you fly when you've got a plane. Right?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I suppose so,\" says Eames, \"but what about--\"<br \/><br \/>\"If you get in,\" says Arthur, \"I'll tell you a secret.\"<br \/><br \/>Reluctantly, inexorably, Eames climbs into his seat, because there's no other way it can go. He wonders what would happen if he really did steal the PASIV, how long it would take them to catch up with him, what would happen when they did. Would he be court-martialed?<br \/><br \/>But more than that, uncertain as he is of the more detailed aspects of therapy technology, he has a sinking feeling that Arthur would somehow know, if Eames stole a PASIV. And worse yet, he would disapprove. The first illicit session he plugged into would probably end up being his last.<br \/><br \/>He leaves himself unstrapped, the canopy tipped open, his safety gear untouched. Arthur is only barely within reach where he's standing next to the cockpit, the bridge of his nose flushed pink in the heat.<br \/><br \/>Eames steadies his breath and asks, \"What's the secret?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Ah, the secret,\" says Arthur. \"It's very important, so don't forget it, please.\"<br \/><br \/>He smiles, a small tug of his lips as brilliant as the glitter of the sand around him.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/><i>Life is in the little things,<\/i> is what Arthur tells Eames. <i>Always.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"And that's the problem with searching for any deeper meaning to life,\" says Arthur. \"Because that's the secret-- there <i>isn't<\/i> any deeper meaning to it, at least not where everyone seems to be looking. When everyone seems to be so dissatisfied with what they can see, like they could find something truly beautiful if they could just learn to stare beyond the surface of things. Searching for some mythical well in the middle of the desert, or some message written in the faraway stars.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Per ardua ad astra, I guess,\" says Eames. \"Not just in service, either. We've always been told to fly high.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Like life wouldn't be worth living with your feet on the ground,\" says Arthur. \"They'll tell you to fly when you're content to walk, and then to touch the stars when you're happy to skim the clouds. Love the desert for its sand and the night for its darkness, Eames. That's what I think the secret is. Everything they teach you to trample underfoot as you grasp at something out of reach-- that's where life is, right beneath your feet, if only you have the peace of mind to look.\"<br \/><br \/>He gives the body of the plane a smart double knock. The engines are off and the control panels are still wiped blank, but it begins to roll slowly along the sand, smooth as it would down a runway. It's no faster than a strolling pace, Arthur walking alongside like taking it out for fresh air, but Eames fumbles with his straps, unsure of whether he might be able to put it off for a little while longer.<br \/><br \/>\"So you see how it would only disappoint you to steal the PASIV,\" says Arthur. \"Maybe, in the middle of the night in your darkened kitchen, you could think of me when you hear the kettle whistling at your back. Or you might find me in the sunshine burst of bright lemon on your tongue, or in the smell of gasoline in your garage like you're back in the hangars again. I'd like that, if you happen to think of me then. If you saw me in everything beneath your feet, in all the jumbled and motley corners of your life, instead of caging me inside a briefcase and a few drops of Somnacin.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames feels a gentle pressure like the plane is going to pick up speed, and he realizes, Arthur is about to let him go. And Arthur is right, he knows -- both of them should be letting go -- but he leans out of the cockpit to offer some parting words of his own, desperate for something to come to him, each precious moment spent wrestling for the right turn of phrase, and he sees the look on Arthur's face.<br \/><br \/>The back of Arthur's neck is hot when Eames wraps his hand around it, pulling him in for a dry-lipped kiss.<br \/><br \/>\"You looked like you needed it,\" says Eames, against his cheek, by way of an explanation.<br \/><br \/>\"Did I?\" asks Arthur, and his smile is apologetic as the plane catches the wind like a sailboat and the canopy locks closed, wheels lifting, like a kite floating up into the sky, gliding into noiseless flight.<br \/><br \/>From up above, the rolling sand dunes are like vast golden oceans, and Arthur is a speck of dark color lost in the endless stretch of desert. Eames touches his heart where it beats, because he's still standing. He's still alive. His chest feels like one giant bruise, tender in his ribcage, so he decides to take a moment to mourn.<br \/><br \/>He flies, but not too high. Nowhere close to the stars.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center><img src=\"https:\/\/pics.livejournal.com\/weatherfront\/pic\/0001yxba\" fetchpriority=\"high\"><\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><small><small><i>Mais je ne veux pas cinq cents millions de fontaines:<\/i> warning, the following unnecessary wall of text is not at all relevant to the content of the fic and it's probably a waste of your time. <font color=\"white\">If I've blathered on at you before about how I don't think a story is ever over before a happy ending, then you probably already understand how I feel about the ending to this story...! Truth is, there were a couple short sections after this point, dealing with who exactly Arthur is and what exactly Eames does after he finds out. But that coda would have been about how the messy, human mistakes and regrets of life are more valuable than a transcendental acceptance of ~the workings of the universe~, which on the one hand might be more in line with my current personal beliefs, but on the other hand, stories probably shouldn't be platforms for people to expound upon their own views at the expense of the story itself. And the coda was totally fucking with the pacing and doing this weird multifocal thing where there was ANOTHER VOLTA after the initial volta, which, it's not a fucking wrestling match, it shouldn't have that many flips. D: So basically tl;dr but what I mean is, I think I would have found an \"Eames looks for Arthur even though THEY CAN NEVER BE TOGETHER, SOB\" ending more satisfying than the current \"Eames learns to not look for Arthur\" ending, and maybe some iterations of Eames <i>are<\/i> more likely to choose the former course of action, but I thought I would try out this transcendental closing anyway! You never know with these things, maybe years from now I'll prefer the transcendental approach to life after all, and marvel at how immature I was to think that wanting something badly enough was a happier alternative to coming to terms with the things you can't have. Or maybe I won't, I mean-- you never know with these things. Thank you so much for reading and for putting up with this incomprehensible rambling. ;____; what the fuck is any of this shit<\/small><\/small><br><br><br><\/font>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/6880.html?view=comments#comments","category":["eames\/arthur","au"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/6655.html","pubDate":"Thu, 26 May 2011 00:14:30 GMT","title":"All Manner of Wolves","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/6655.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Eames\/Arthur<br \/><b>Warnings:<\/b> Initial sexual harassment and dubious consent<br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> In the immortal words of Freddie Mercury, <i>Fucking on the subway, fucking on the subway, fucking on the subway on a job.<\/i> How Arthur and Eames meet; hint, it is by fucking on the subway. Unfortunately, this fic does not actually have anything to do with Freddie Mercury, but it does contain a light dash of Little Red Riding Hood.<br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> For <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"keelain\" lj:user=\"keelain\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/keelain.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/keelain.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>keelain<\/b><\/a><\/span> and her quest to conquer academics, here is a fic where Arthur and Eames fuck on the subway! HAS THAT PHRASE STARTED TO LOSE ALL MEANING YET. XD Since it is rooted in the whole subway-sex trope, it does contain initially unsolicited sexual contact. (As usual, Arthur and Eames are terrible role models, and we should all take this moment to remind ourselves that real-world sexual harassment is terrible.) AND NOW, FIC.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"Are you sure you don't have it?\" asks Cobb, for what must be the millionth time.<br \/><br \/>Arthur sets his jaw, goes through the perfunctory motions of patting down every one of his pockets for the millionth time, and says, \"Dom, I'm sure.\"<br \/><br \/>He doesn't fuck up very often -- fucks up only very rarely, is bona fide <i>famous<\/i> for not fucking up -- but whenever he does, it always seems to be at these crucial professional junctures, liable to send the entirety of a job's outcome spiraling down the drain with one choice mistake. <i>That's me,<\/i> he thinks bitterly, <i>precise even in failure.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Cobb is looking at him with that pinched expression he gets when things don't go his way, like Arthur has personally forbidden him from ever returning home to his children. It's a lot of guilt to stomach all at once, but Arthur has to admit that he did just singlehandedly (albeit accidentally) manage to sabotage their job on his own.<br \/><br \/>It was a long con, too, three days down in the dream and six full hours topside. The mark is a cryptography enthusiast, and their first shot at him left them with nothing but a sheet of paper packed tight with incomprehensible strings of letters. Which leads them here to their second try, with Cobb befriending the mark over three days of coffee and beer, and Arthur cracking the safe to deliver the information over to Cobb, who will then present it to the mark for decoding. An elegantly ironic solution, inducing the mark to decipher his own secrets, but one that will apparently never bear fruit. Thanks to Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"But you couldn't have misplaced it, that can't be right,\" says Cobb. \"Did something happen on the subway, Arthur?\"<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Arthur, and flushes to the tips of his ears.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>This is what happens on the subway:<br \/><br \/>When Arthur calls Cobb to tell him that he's gotten his hands on the encrypted info, Cobb won't let him hang up until they are both nauseatingly clear on just how vital that sheet of paper is.<br \/><br \/>\"I've been doing this since you were in grad school,\" says Arthur. \"I'm not an idiot, okay?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I know you're not,\" says Cobb, \"but our whole plan is built around it, so just-- be sure to keep it safe. Fold it up, tuck it in, don't let it fall out when you reach for the subway card in your wallet, don't go around waving it in people's faces, and for god's sake don't let any strangers--\"<br \/><br \/>\"What?\" asks Arthur. \"Why would I let-- why would his projections ask me for something he doesn't even know that I have?\"<br \/><br \/>\"You can never be too careful,\" says Cobb, ominously.<br \/><br \/>Cobb's redundant warnings and paranoia aside, it's only good sense, so Arthur folds up the sheet and tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket, close and snug. It isn't strictly necessary, as the mark won't even realize that his safe has been broken into; the dreamscape is too large for him to sense the intrusion, if Arthur keeps as low a profile as he can. Cobb would be distracting the mark with conversation, besides.<br \/><br \/>The subway is no exception to the crushing traffic of the evening rush hour. Arthur isn't particularly bothered by it, blissfully unencumbered by claustrophobia. He finds himself pushed further into the car by the sweep of commuters entering, all the way to the door on the opposite side, the packed sardine crowd behind him.<br \/><br \/><i>Dom better not tip the mark off,<\/i> he thinks. <i>I'd be torn to pieces in a matter of seconds.<\/i><br \/><br \/>He has half a dozen stops to go. A good fifteen minutes on board. The rattle of the train is almost pleasant, hypnotizing. He's entertaining the prospect of taking a cab to his rendezvous point with Cobb, a trifling luxury in lieu of walking the four blocks in between, when someone collides with him from behind, shoving him into the door.<br \/><br \/>He groans, the breath jolted from him. There's no apology offered, and Arthur wonders if he ought to whirl around as best as he can in the cramped space allowed him, if only to inform the jackass that there is a human being trapped between his oafish mass and the wall of the subway. If only to prevent any further impact.<br \/><br \/>But then, before he's made up his mind one way or the other, there's an unmistakable bulge pressed into the cleft of his ass, the heat of it still obscene through two pairs of pants. It occurs to Arthur that this is the moment when he needs to whirl around and sock someone in their fucking teeth.<br \/><br \/>Except that Dominic Cobb, in his desperation to see his children, has forgotten how they were born in the first place. Dominic Cobb has forgotten about the existence of sex. Arthur is not above making eyes at him, has answered the door twice damp from the shower, once dripping wet and wearing nothing but a towel, and still Cobb insists on being obtuse. Unfortunately, in the absence of any similar grief of his own, Arthur is a human being with human needs and human limitations.<br \/><br \/>Which is why -- instead of throwing a well-deserved punch when he feels that half-hard cock nudging at his ass -- he sucks in a shaky breath and arches back into it.<br \/><br \/><i>No, Jesus,<\/i> he thinks in horror as soon as he realizes what he's done, <i>I cannot possibly be this easy.<\/i><br \/><br \/>But of course, he can, and he is. Whoever is behind him rolls their hips forward, experimental, too casual and too light. The drag of fabric across skin is tantalizing but nowhere nearly enough, and Arthur parts his legs just a little wider, a shift as suggestive as the neon glow of a roadside motel, <i>vacant.<\/i> Spreading himself open for some tawdry projection in the middle of a crowded subway car on a job. God, he can feel the back of his neck prickle with excitement.<br \/><br \/><i>Research on the mark,<\/i> thinks Arthur, <i>showed signs of a nymphomaniac bent, besides, I have fifteen minutes to kill, this is just a projection I can get off to, and then after I get off, I'll get off, no hitch in the plans-- the projection is not the dreamer, remember, and it won't hurt anyone, fifteen minutes to let him touch me however he wants.<\/i><br \/><br \/>A glance in the window set in the door, mirrored in the darkness of the tunnel outside, and Arthur is decided. As luck would have it, the projection is very much his type, built thick and a little rough around the edges, the hint of a tattoo spilling out over the collar of his shirt. Their eyes meet, and unmasked in his curiosity, Arthur looks away-- but not without catching the tilt of that wicked mouth, as a hand wraps around the curve of his ass.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>It's two weeks after the botched job that Cobb hands Arthur a dossier.<br \/><br \/>\"What's this?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Open it and see,\" says Cobb. \"From what I've been hearing, this <i>Eames<\/i> seems to be the one responsible for that fiasco we had a couple weeks back. He's been making a habit out of chasing down teams already working on a mark, then posing as a projection and intercepting the information before they can extract it properly. You ever seen him before?\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur opens the dossier, coming face-to-face with a snapshot of a man waiting to cross the street, a paper cup of something from a coffee shop cradled in his huge hands.<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Arthur, and flushes to the tips of his ears.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>But this is what happens on the subway:<br \/><br \/>The first time Arthur ever sees Eames, it's in the blur of a window carved into the subway door, and he's busy being groped to within an inch of his life, those huge hands slipping in past the waist of his pants, faint callouses rubbing across his ass, sending shivers running through him. He considers underwear a form of social propriety rendered superfluous in the dreamscape, but Eames raises an eyebrow at him when his palm meets bare flesh, the expression on his face flickering from surprise to keen hunger, and the flood of humiliation only seems to make everything a little sharper, makes every touch burn a little hotter.<br \/><br \/>Eames strokes the crease of his thigh, tracing with his thumb the stretch of sensitive skin. He  leans in, flat against Arthur's back, and the warm bulk of his body feels somehow <i>safe,<\/i> soothing as the rhythm of the train, like they're somewhere a bit more private. They're hemmed in so closely that it would be difficult to look down and see enough to catch them at it, even if any of the other projections knew where to look, but the thrill is there just the same. <i>Isn't this odd,<\/i> Arthur thinks, distantly. <i>Feels like an intimate game, what we're doing, instead of the pathetic concession to my libido that it is.<\/i><br \/><br \/>He fumbles with his belt, his zipper, leaving them hanging loose. Eames chuckles, dark and low, indulgent like he wants to reward Arthur for a job well done, and slides his other hand into Arthur's slacks. Arthur braces himself against the door, inviting him further down.<br \/><br \/>Thick, careful fingers spread his ass apart, and a slick fingertip brushes his hole, teasing at him. That's almost enough to undo him, it's been so fucking long, and Arthur grinds his hips back toward the touch, the invitation turned to demand. Obliging, Eames blocks them from view with his own forearm resting on the door, caging Arthur in like shielding him. He pushes in one slow finger, and Arthur can feel each knuckle entering him in turn, the shape of every knot, stretching him the slightest bit. Just the one finger, and still he can't help from clenching down around it, already eager.<br \/><br \/>So the first thing Eames ever says to Arthur is, \"Look at you, god, you're so tight.\"<br \/><br \/>Murmured into his ear under the rattle of the train, a gust of warm, wet air, it sounds even more pornographic than the words alone would warrant. In another time and place, Arthur might have come up with a retort, something biting, but all he can manage then is to try to keep his knees from buckling. <i>Nice accent,<\/i> he muses, like an afterthought to the hitch in his breath.<br \/><br \/>\"Relax, yeah?\" says Eames. \"Wouldn't want to hurt you.\"<br \/><br \/>This strikes Arthur as patently absurd, as though anyone willing to be fingered in the subway at rush hour would be expecting tenderness from the experience. <i>Your subconscious is a fucking sap,<\/i> Arthur informs the mark, mentally.<br \/><br \/>Naturally, the first thing Arthur ever says to Eames is, \"Get the fuck on with it, or I'll go find someone else.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Oh,\" says Eames, \"<i>well,<\/i>\" and twists another finger in.<br \/><br \/>Even that faint discomfort is welcome, the twinge of forgotten muscles coming back to life, like the satisfying and familiar burn of a good workout. He's missed it more than he's known, the sensation of being worked loose, fingers petting inside him in delicious little circles, making him shudder with every stroke.<br \/><br \/>He leans his forehead against the door, biting down on his lip to swallow the noises back. Protocol is no help at all, tells him nothing about whether projections will react adversely to encountering public acts of indecency, though he assumes there won't be much risk in it if the mark's subconscious initiated contact in the first place. <i>Technical terms, a clinical mindset,<\/i> he reminds himself, because the heat is building much too fast under his skin, turning him warm and pliant all the way down to his toes. Like this, he wouldn't last very long at all, his cock already hard and damp with precome.<br \/><br \/>At some point Eames has added a third finger, sliding them steadily in and out of him, the rasp of his knuckles perfect beneath the slick coat of lube. Arthur has always loved getting finger-fucked, something about the easy manipulation of his body in someone else's hands, liked being touched and toyed with. Coupled with this furtive excitement, the fragile inattention of the crowd, it's difficult for him to just keep himself upright, his legs starting to shake underneath him.<br \/><br \/>Right on cue, Eames wraps an arm around his waist, bracing him up. Arthur sags into him, though it leaves him in full view of the other commuters again. He isn't sure what his own expression looks like, but if it's anything like the way he feels, then it must be unmistakable what his lower body is up to. God, he's burning up. He tries to turn his face into Eames's shoulder, but the movement shifts the angle of Eames's fingers inside him, guiding them right <i>there,<\/i> oh, fuck, and Arthur is gasping before he can stifle himself, hips stuttering, his vision blurring for an electric instant.<br \/><br \/>\"Yes,\" Arthur pants against Eames's shirt, more just a frantic stir of his lips than any real sound at all, \"there, again--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Don't know if that's wise, love,\" Eames whispers into his temple. \"You're awfully close as it is.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames smells musky, enticing. Arthur noses at the ridge of his collarbone, pushing his ass back shamelessly, wanting those fingers nestled deeper inside of him, hungry for more. He's seldom been this responsive, if ever, and he's beginning to wonder if this projection isn't a figment of his own imagination, not the mark's. Then -- with a final slow stroke like he's sorry to have to do it -- Eames slips his fingers out.<br \/><br \/>For a horrible moment, Arthur thinks that's it, that Eames is going to wipe his hand dry and weave through the crowd to get off at the next stop, leaving Arthur with an unattended hard-on and his pants around his thighs, empty and aching for something or someone to nail him harder. He shoots out his hand, snagging it in Eames's shirt, resolved to fight to be properly fucked if it comes to that.<br \/><br \/>\"Like I said, relax,\" Eames tells him. \"I'll finish you off.\"<br \/><br \/>\"It's <i>your<\/i> cock,\" says Arthur, not as petulantly as he would like, and moves closer to the door to make space behind himself for Eames.<br \/><br \/>A day like this, all of his body tingling and alight, starved for a touch, Arthur knows he might come just from someone's cock filling him up, just that heavy weight inside of him. After months of denial and frustration, he can't help being wound to a hair-trigger. The slightest thing is enough to send his blood rushing. But it's mostly for balance that he keeps his hands on the subway door, holding his breath as Eames sinks inside him, the whole magnificent length of his impressive cock.<br \/><br \/>\"Has anyone ever told you,\" pants Arthur, half turning toward Eames with his filthiest slack-jawed smile, \"what a substantial fucking prick you have?\"<br \/><br \/>\"All the better to--\" begins Eames, then cuts himself off with a groan as Arthur tightens around him. He nudges forward and that's it, he's in as deep as he can go, the two of them plastered to each other, shaking and sucking in air as they try to pull themselves together.<br \/><br \/>It's perfect, Eames settled full and hard in his ass, working them up into a rhythm. Arthur lets Eames press him into the door, trembling helplessly against the cool metal. Fuck, he's missed it so much. There's nothing like it, someone else alive and throbbing inside the shell of his body, the air too hot in his lungs. In the fogged-up window under his cheek he meets the glassy smudge of his own eyes. Eames has most of his face buried in Arthur's hair, but for the outline of a stubbled jaw, swaying in and out of sight as he moves. Feverish with shame and arousal, too far gone to give a damn about the rest of the crowd in the train, Arthur closes his eyes and lets out a breathless little moan.<br \/><br \/>Eames falters a bit when he hears it. \"<i>Christ,<\/i>\" he exhales, a fervent whisper. \"That's good, keep doing that-- let me hear you.\"<br \/><br \/>His thrusts are agonizingly slow, unable to drive into Arthur properly with the lack of room they have. But the uneven jolt of the subway rocks through them as it speeds along the tracks, <i>like a vibrator or something,<\/i> thinks Arthur, and the angle of Eames's cock keeps changing, unpredictable, nudging at the knot of nerves inside him, over and over again.<br \/><br \/>Once he's stopped trying to bite down on the noises building up in his throat, it's too easy to allow them to slip out of him, soft, desperate sounds nearly masked by the rattle of the train. His mouth feels swollen ripe and used. Eames's arm around his waist loosens, and a hand finds its way underneath his shirt, fingers trailing up his stomach to trace a peaking nipple. It isn't much, but Arthur presses into the unexpected touch anyway, every inch of his skin oversensitive.<br \/><br \/>\"Anybody could see you like this,\" murmurs Eames, teeth against the hollow behind Arthur's ear. \"Undone and so fucking beautiful.\"<br \/><br \/>He slides his other hand down to Arthur's cock, but it's an awkward fit, and it turns his thrusts much too shallow for Arthur's liking. Frustrated, Arthur pulls his hips back, away from Eames's reach.<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" he gasps, \"don't need it, just--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Of course,\" says Eames, \"with your slutty fucking arse, god, you're brilliant, I can't believe--\"<br \/><br \/>He slams into Arthur instead of finishing the thought, probably jostling everyone around them, and that's enough to tip Arthur right over the edge. He shudders and comes, too ruined to even know whether he's moaning out loud like a slag or not, though he almost certainly is, his entire body tightening and quivering like a string pulled taut to breaking point, fingers digging into the unyielding surface of the door. Dimly he's aware of Eames's head dropping to the crook of his neck, Eames cursing as he comes inside him, in hot spurts that make him want to clench around him and wring him dry.<br \/><br \/>Dizzy and exhausted, Arthur can't even protest when Eames pulls out of him, only manages a quiet whimper as he shivers through the sensation. His eyes are barely focused, still damp from pleasure, but he catches the tail end of a sly glance from the projection of a businessman standing closest to them. <i>So there's that nymphomaniac bent,<\/i> thinks Arthur. <i>Liked the show, did you?<\/i><br \/><br \/>Almost too well-fucked to stand, he lets himself go slack against Eames, listening to the racing beat of his heart, distant through the fuzz of white noise still echoing through his head. He's melting into the solid warmth of Eames's chest, slowly catching his breath, when he feels a finger inching into him.<br \/><br \/>\"What-- <i>ah,<\/i>\" he sighs, boneless, twitching faintly.<br \/><br \/>\"Just cleaning you up,\" says Eames, voice rough with sex.<br \/><br \/>\"No, wait,\" says Arthur, \"leave it, I want-- I want it in me a little longer.\"<br \/><br \/>The look on Eames's face is extremely complicated, at once startled and aroused and somehow oddly gentle.<br \/><br \/>\"What a fucking sap, this subconscious,\" says Arthur, aloud this time.<br \/><br \/>All the same, he doesn't move away as Eames wipes his stomach clean, zips him back up and tucks his shirt in for him. His stop is next. Try as he might, he can't bring himself to care what Cobb would think, when he shows up at their rendezvous point with his lips bitten raw and a trickle of come running down his thighs underneath his clothes. <i>Well, good riddance to him,<\/i> he thinks, rather pleased with himself.<br \/><br \/>\"Who the hell are you, anyway?\" he asks Eames as the train comes to a stop. \"How does a stodgy fuck like the mark know someone like you?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Work,\" says Eames. \"It's a long story.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Pity I'll never see you again,\" says Arthur. \"It'd be nice to do this again sometime, topside.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Maybe you will,\" says Eames, smiling.<br \/><br \/>\"Ha,\" says Arthur, and pushes his way past the crowd, only a little unsteady on his feet.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"You're sure you've never seen him before?\" asks Cobb.<br \/><br \/>\"Why can you never say anything just once,\" mutters Arthur, and closes the dossier, pushing it back across the desk toward Cobb. \"Is this really relevant right now, anyway? What's done is done, let bygones be bygones, et cetera. Why do we have an entire file on him?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Because I hired him for this job,\" says Cobb. \"If you've never seen him before, then why did he ask me to send you his apologies?\"<br \/><br \/>The flush drains from Arthur's face, taking all his blood along with it.<br \/><br \/>\"You did <i>what?<\/i>\" he yells, and behind him, the door to the warehouse creaks open.<br \/><br \/>So the first thing Cobb ever hears Arthur say to Eames is, \"I'm going to fucking <i>eviscerate<\/i> you,\" and the first thing Cobb ever hears Eames say to Arthur is, \"I'd know that arse anywhere.\" Really, it's not all that different from the actual first things they said to each other, or from the general gist of most of their conversations for the next five years. (Sometime during the fifth year, someone decides to break the pattern and say what they mean for a change, but that's another story for another time.)<br \/><br \/>The job goes splendidly.<br><br><br>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/6655.html?view=comments#comments","category":["pwp","eames\/arthur"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/6331.html","pubDate":"Wed, 27 Apr 2011 02:51:00 GMT","title":"With Regard to the Shadowboxers","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/6331.html","description":"<b>Artist:<\/b> <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"kehrilyn\" lj:user=\"kehrilyn\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/kehrilyn.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/kehrilyn.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>kehrilyn<\/b><\/a><\/span><br \/><b>Pairings:<\/b> Arthur\/Eames<br \/><b>Rating:<\/b> R<br \/><b>Word Count:<\/b> 17,000<br \/><b>Warnings:<\/b> None<br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> For <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-C     \"  data-ljuser=\"i_reversebang\" lj:user=\"i_reversebang\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/i-reversebang.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/community.png?v=556&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/i-reversebang.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>i_reversebang<\/b><\/a><\/span>! All credit for everything goes to <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"kehrilyn\" lj:user=\"kehrilyn\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/kehrilyn.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/kehrilyn.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>kehrilyn<\/b><\/a><\/span>, the WIND BENEATH MY WINGS &hearts; Also, sorry about all of these... cross-posted links leading to other entries that lead to other entries, it's like that one ~Internet blonde joke~, only... not funny...<br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> Arthur and Eames sabotage each other's jobs-- until they can't anymore. Or: How Arthur and Eames Learned to Stop Worrying and Make Their Own Form of Social Capital.<br \/><br \/><a href=\"http:\/\/weatherfront.livejournal.com\/14198.html#cutid1\" target=\"_blank\">Link to fic<\/a>","category":"eames\/arthur"},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/5947.html","pubDate":"Sat, 16 Apr 2011 02:11:12 GMT","title":"The Daughters of Eve","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/5947.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> gen (perhaps Mal\/Cobb, though it does seem more gen than anything else...)<br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> GUYS HELP I have been sitting here for half an hour trying to think of a summary and I CAN'T, not only was I never very good at it, I am also really fucking out of practice, on top of which, this is one of those things that are hard to summarize without giving everything away, so I don't know I DON'T THINK THIS FIC HAS A SUMMARY ;_____; Maybe \"This is a story about Mallorie Miles Cobb\"???? fhgla;ldk;alghe THAT TELLS YOU ABSOLUTELY NOTHING but let's go with that oh my god I am so sorry.<br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> This is a story about Mallorie Miles Cobb.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/>She hates California, chafes at it, at the absurd wholesome fecundity of America, at the perennial spring that plagues her, at the promise the land holds, pulsing and birthing and breeding, proud of its own abundance, ignorant as livestock, she chafes at the sun and the earth, at the anxious buzzing of her own husband as he flits about the house, loving her, thinking of her, caring for her, having fucked her, having poured himself into her, his work done. She leans her head back against the sofa and closes her eyes in irritation, thirsting for blood.<br \/><br \/><i>Mal,<\/i> he says, <i>do you need anything,<\/i> because it is her first pregnancy and all her rage is new to him, precious and sublime.<br \/><br \/>She needs blood. She dreams about blood, daydreams, because her nights are blank to her. The slippery iron trickle of blood sliding down her throat, making her choke and gag, making her claw at the bowl of the toilet as she retches up bile. She is thirsty.<br \/><br \/>Does she need anything? <i>What a question,<\/i> she thinks. As though she could want anything other than blood, when she is large with child, heavy and hurting and tired from trying to spin this delicate thing to life inside her. How can she make something out of nothing, mold a creature of flesh and blood without flesh and blood to feed on? It takes life to make life. She wants meat, she wants blood, to suck her husband dry until he knows the pain of growing a person where no person fits, carving out space for a body where there is only room for one. The agony of making something out of nothing.<br \/><br \/><i>No, Dom,<\/i> she tells him, too tired to explain, <i>maybe something sour,<\/i> because that is the pregnancy she has learned from books and movies, the stories that have taught her to be nauseous, to crave fruits, to clutch to her back, to light up when her baby tries to kick its way out of her. <i>Maybe oranges, blood oranges.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Later as she bites into a dark mouthful, her lips and teeth stained with something so far from perfect, Dom tucks a bit of her limp hair behind her ear.<br \/><br \/><i>I love you,<\/i> he says. <i>You look beautiful.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Do I,<\/i> she says, greedy swallow after swallow like appeasing an angry god, throwing her offerings down the bottomless vortex of her own stomach, swirling, churning, frothing, voracious. Her belly swells in uneasy satisfaction. She is twenty-eight, a child.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>She takes it holed up alone in the bathroom, when she should be arming herself with pearls, painting on her face. She takes it for Dom, because she wants him to put his faith in something he isn't ashamed of, something more solid to him than what he would call her intuition, apologetic, like the word is dirty. But of course she knows already, the news in her clamoring for attention.<br \/><br \/>She perches on the edge of the sink, playing at a routine with the plastic stick in her hand, always tiny plastic things built to resemble someone else's life, dollhouse furniture she arranges around herself in the hopes that it will finally turn her a tiny plastic thing. This is the only way she has learned, how she was taught that women waited. But the minutes are unbearable, interminable things, only crawling past to tell her what she knows already, and Dom is outside in the bedroom unsure of which tie to wear, how to look when no one will see him in the dark, being perfectly docile in his appreciation of any one of a thousand Italian operas where a woman dies for love and passion is something noble and holy and wonderful.<br \/><br \/>She tugs down the edge of her camisole and bares her chest to the mirror. This tube of lipstick is a present from her mother, as most of her arsenal is, hardly touched, still long and deadly when she untwists it out of its scabbard. She crushes it into her skin, forming each waxy letter with care, shavings caked across her breastbone, crimson with glamor.<br \/><br \/><i>L'ENFER,<\/i> she writes, feeling it burn.<br \/><br \/>How can she carry a child to term, how can she hold it to her breast, when there is nothing inside her but demons? Claws will make for poor mothering. She rests a hand on her still-smooth stomach and calls for the little tadpole in her womb. <i>Do you know what misery you are headed for? Do you know your father has wed a wolf? Would that you had never known me, been mothered by someone with a softer touch.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Dom asks through the door, <i>Honey?<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Your poison,<\/i> she thinks, and says, <i>I'm almost ready.<\/i> She takes cream and tissues to her chest, smearing out the name she has given herself, capping and tucking away the abused stump of lipstick, one more gift she has ruined for lack of knowing what to do. She looks at her tiny plastic stick. One, two lines dashed off neatly for her, for Dom, for the world that requires filling.<br \/><br \/>She opens the door and Dom is shuffling in his suit, eager for her approval. He loves her so much. She loves him. It's not the dearth of love that will drive her to ruin him, her unsuspecting husband caught like a fly, blissful and innocent of married life as he is of all things, most importantly of her, of the hell that breathes within her.<br \/><br \/><i>You're going to be a father,<\/i> she says.<br \/><br \/>He says-- well, what do you think he says.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>In the Garden of Eden, naked and timorous, Adam ate of the forbidden fruit. Men, look well, this is the coward father of your fathers, created in God's image, whose blood still runs in your veins. This is he who was not strong enough to carry the weight of his own transgression. Whose mouthful of apple caught in his throat as he ate, unable to swallow for the guilt, and there it lies still lodged in your own throats, choking you, undigested. There is the tale of your fear.<br \/><br \/>But Eve, she chewed. We swallowed. We pushed our sin into our stomachs, deeper inside of ourselves, called it our own and let it ravage us. In penance we matched you tear for tear, but you never knew courage like we did, the nerve to brand yourself a sinner, to fall without being pushed.<br \/><br \/>We do it still, all we mothers, harboring the festering truth of our disobedience within our bodies. Birthing the mealy flesh of our apples when they have grown large inside us, where we have kept them warm and kept them safe as they swelled for nine long months. The fruit turned fruit again, for us to hold and claim as our own. You would tremble under a bravery like ours. The thought of loving your curse.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/><i>If she is a girl,<\/i> her mother says, <i>you must give her a frivolous name.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>I don't know what it is,<\/i> she says, mouth busy with her oranges. <i>I don't want to know.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Don't weigh her down with your grief,<\/i> her mother says. <i>Like you could teach her guilt every time you call her, atone for my agony, you who pained me, you were hell on the mother that bore you. She'll have enough of that in her own time. You'll see.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Is that what you did?<\/i> she asks. <i>Is that how you named me?<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Yes,<\/i> her mother says. <i>It's how your grandmother named me.<\/i><br \/><br \/>It seems innocuous enough, Marie, Sainte Marie, M\u00e8re de Dieu. A million little girls trailing after the virgin mother, she of the immaculate heart, the seven sorrows. But the skin across her mother's cheeks are dry and drawn and Mallorie can't imagine her in her youth, fresh-faced. Born already shriveled and ready for suffering.<br \/><br \/><i>None of the pleasure, all of the pain,<\/i> her mother says. <i>Being a virgin mother is nothing more than that. Mary would have refused, if she'd known better, if they'd let her.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>What about me?<\/i> she asks. <i>What about my name?<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Mallorie, ma malheureuse,<\/i> her mother says, and dabs away the juice at the corner of her mouth with her thumb, a tender, impoverished gesture. <i>Ma malchanceuse.<\/i><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>She honestly believes it, that she will be the most terrible mother, that she was never meant to be entrusted with anything so valuable. She will shatter her child. She does not know how to love it, she thinks.<br \/><br \/>But after hours of cursing and thrashing and Dom's face draining pale with worry, they finally allow her to touch her baby, they tell her, <i>It's a girl,<\/i> and she starts to cry, not because of the exhaustion in her bones, not because it still hurts, even after the shot and the numb flood of excitement. She starts to cry because her baby girl is so soft and small and beautiful in her hands, and she knows she would never break her, and she is going to be a good mother, she is going to be a wonderful mother, she feels violence coursing through her at the thought of being allowed to protect her. She touches her nose to hers, to the wrinkles in her pink skin. She wants to lick her clean and carry her home, her cub, her child, her baby girl, bite-sized miracle, nine-month apple, the price of her sin, the love of her life. <i>Do you know your father has wed a wolf,<\/i> she thinks, euphoric. <i>I would kill for you.<\/i><br \/><br \/>They are crying together, shutting out the insignificant jabber of the world around them, the hubbub of intruders, crying because they have no words between them yet, still so raw and together and in love. She may be bad at being a woman, may always be, but for this daughter with her crumpled face, this tight cotton bundle of her own flesh and blood, she will be a good mother. With all her fury against the wide-open world and all its empty spaces, the task of being fruitful, the dark soil, the ritual of multiplying, still she can fold away her rancor for a moment to wrap her arms around her child.<br \/><br \/><i>It's not your fault, little girl, my love,<\/i> she whispers against the tufts of her daughter's hair. <i>You and I, we are stranded together. We will burn together. It's not your fault.<\/i><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>At times the infinitude of her duty suffocates her, filling her up like concrete poured into a mold, pinning her to her bed, unable to breathe. She has been taught to be responsible, to fulfill the demands made of her, and Eve's task is now her own. Her children are made examples to her. <i>See what you are capable of, Mallorie, you have been doing so well. Open yourself up and work a little harder, for the insistence of the earth, for your mothers who listened and did the same.<\/i><br \/><br \/>When she can force herself into motion again, she stumbles to the nursery where her children await her. These are her treasured moments. Phillipa is two years old, all hers, though the cornsilk bob of her hair is from Dom. She is a busy squirrel, running across the walls, always her hands full of something to present to her mother, a certain affectionate enthusiasm that will trouble her in age, too eager to please those who please her.<br \/><br \/><i>This, too, is your father's doing,<\/i> she says, brushing the crushed remnants of a pansy petal off of Phillipa's palm. <i>Thank you for the gift, my dearest.<\/i><br \/><br \/>James begins to cry, in envy or in petition, and she leans into the sweet pocket of air above his crib, his diminutive throne. She rests her elbows on the fence that keeps him still, stirs the mobile suspended over him, birds and clouds, stars and suns and moons plucked out of the sky, brought down to appease his hunger.<br \/><br \/><i>Perhaps in this, you are more like me,<\/i> she says. <i>You are also my dearest, little one, you are also my most beloved.<\/i><br \/><br \/>His sobs nestle into quiet hiccups, face unscrunching. He reaches for her with his aimless hands, impossibly perfect, knowing her, wanting her. She scoops him into her arms and Phillipa winds herself around her leg, and Mary, she feels loved. She seeks refuge from her burdens in what reminds her of them, the dimpled bodies of her children a summons, an intimation that there are more of them lying patiently in wait inside her. It pains her, it does, but she has never loved anything so much.<br \/><br \/><i>You will grow to be a man,<\/i> she tells James, hushing him, tracing the baby-fat folds in his neck, and she isn't sure whether she means for it to be benediction or accusation. She loves them both, but of course, he will never understand her any better than he does now. She looks into his face, hopeless, at the beautiful incomprehensible foreigner in her embrace. He is already parting from her, and she is in love.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Had she not known dreaming, she would have broken years hence, flattened under her load, she who feels it so keenly. But she ran to dreams like she ran to her children's nursery. Searching for consolation, finding it there in the endless folds that sleep allowed her.<br \/><br \/>For Dom, the dream is another thing to peer at and take apart, to get his hands on, to touch and define, the way her father understood it. They want to measure what they can feed it, what it will spit back out at them. But she knows there is no mathematics here; the dreaming is a fathomless, unreasonable and generous place, no quid pro quo to speak of, just the abandon of creation with no commensurate cost.<br \/><br \/>It's what she was born to do. Create, create, take the indifferent seed of your husband and coax it to fruit. He will spill himself inside you, and it is your work to prepare the ground, to water and tend to the sprout, letting its roots take hold in the hot cavern of your body, to feed it with all the blood there is in you, hurting for it, screaming for it, to push it out of you with more sweat than your husband ever shed in harvest, to love it against all odds. And then to do it all over again, as many times over as your brittle life will allow.<br \/><br \/>Only in dreaming can she manage anything at all like it. There in the underworld she can let loose to breed, like parting the burning skin of her chest. Down below, there is more in her than fire, suddenly capable of the charge that Eve appointed her. Even she is adequate here, vibrant with potential, with grass and vines, with flowering trees, free to shape entire worlds out of nothing, unlimited and bountiful, fertile as the goddess she was ordered to be. Flocks of birds burst from her ribcage, a deer springs from the pit of her stomach, and it takes nothing out of her. She exults. Down below, she could bring forth a kingdom of her own brood.<br \/><br \/>Occasionally Dom is exasperated with her, though he tries not to let it flit to his surface. He wants to prod the dreaming and force sense out of it, to make it bend to him, and he pins the blame on science and believes himself, but she knows better, of course. It's only Adam's urge to hold dominion. She has courted science, knows its reach well. Far as it may stretch, it can't pull her back from filling the dreams with herself. She crowds a flat land with groves of pomegranate trees, shoved up against one another, thick, lush and impenetrable. A forest, the fruits suspended like gorgeous full lanterns for her.<br \/><br \/>She cracks a pomegranate open. Maybe it's this she should have named her craving, not oranges. Each kernel is ripe to bursting, teeming with life, dark and private in its fullness. Their blood fills her mouth, runs down her wrists, staining the front of her shirt. A bright gush of flavor. The branches murmur in the breeze.<br \/><br \/><i>Mal,<\/i> calls her husband, his voice strangled thin by the leaves, <i>where are you?<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>I am Persephone,<\/i> she thinks, running. <i>Hide me, Hades, my mother cannot call me to the surface yet. She will have to suffer alone, for I have eaten of your feast. I am yours for fifty summers.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Dom tracks her down like game, by the trail of her bare footprints in the soil. <i>We have to go,<\/i> he says. <i>James is almost done with his nap.<\/i><br \/><br \/>She lets the husk of the pomegranate drop to the ground, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. Her children, yes. Were it not for them, she should sleep forever.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>In the blink of one careless afternoon, fifty years pass inside her. She wakes an old woman.<br \/><br \/>Unexpectedly, it seems, she has kept her promise to the dreaming. She locks herself in the bathroom and watches herself breathe until Dom pounds on the door, alarmed. She can't recognize herself. Her skin is smooth, unblemished, and her limbs are young and strong. <br \/><br \/><i>What have you brought me back to?<\/i> she thinks, desperate.<br \/><br \/>Her children are cross and hungry. She and her husband prepare for dinner in silence, afraid to look at each other, at themselves, to hear the unclouded voice rise from their throats.<br \/><br \/>He pulled her up in the same old way, invoking her children above. By the close of fifty years she was happy to have forgotten, deep down in the dreaming where she could create everything she needed, raising mountains, houses to lie down inside. And it didn't matter much that in time, steel and glass took the place of untamed vegetation, because even the steel and glass was of her own making, her creation. She made as she was made to, and it felt <i>right.<\/i> She was home.<br \/><br \/>But for the children she once brought forth, wringing them out of her body with an anguish long lost to her. In limbo she had no need for birthing, the turmoil of her fertility sated into silence by the thousand other things she could summon to her fingertips. But when at the close of fifty years Dom told her what he knew, that they were dreaming, asleep on the floor of their living room, threaded through with IV lines-- she threw it all aside to return to her cubs, didn't she? She loved them, the moment she was allowed to remember them.<br \/><br \/><i>I am a mother still,<\/i> she thinks, as James finishes feeding and drifts into a doze, as Phillipa climbs out of her chair and runs back upstairs, leaving their parents alone at the kitchen table, older than ever, still shell-shocked, and Mallorie once again a woman who must pay for her womanhood somehow.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Fifty years' worth of memories fade into dust, as dream-years invariably do. But the words of her husband as he beckoned her into waking, they keep creeping back to her, insidious as a serpent, beguiling as the temptation of knowledge. <i>If this is reality, Mal, if you're awake, then where are James and Phillipa?<\/i><br \/><br \/>A week after shaking the stiffness from her back, she still ponders the same question. Where are James and Phillipa? She clutches them to her chest until James begins to fuss, until Phillipa squirms for air, like she could press them back inside herself if only she wished it hard enough. Taking them back into her, like when they needed her, when she was all the world they knew, their warm sweet ocean, lulling them to sleep by the distant thrum of her heart.<br \/><br \/>It occurs to her; this chaos can't be what her life was meant for. If limbo was too imperfect to hold her for long, then if she keeps swimming upwards through the layers, casting aside one onion-peel dream at a time, won't she eventually surface at Eden? Breaking free of the river, stepping out from the water naked and immaculate, into some existence better than this crooked, unfair thing? Where she won't need to go to war with her own treacherous body, the unborn voices in her womb demanding, <i>Let us out.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Somewhere above this is a better waking, where she'll only be asked to give as much as she's been given. That's where she needs to be. That's where her children need to be, that's where they must have been all along, where James never grows into a stranger, never grows to puzzle over her, at the baffling creature his mother is to him, only barely recognizable as the shape of a person at all, across the chasm he has placed between them.<br \/><br \/>And Phillipa, for Phillipa, for her daughter, the heiress of her tribulations, she needs to make it back to paradise. To set Phillipa free, to allow her the luxury of coming to age where she can withhold herself as she pleases. Somewhere above this is her daughter, woman enough without having to prove it, wild and proud, unshackled.<br \/><br \/><i>I know it, Dom,<\/i> she tells him under the covers. <i>I know we are still dreaming.<\/i><br \/><br \/>He startles when he hears it, jerking away from her. Wide-eyed, he stares down at her, his face ashen in the moonlight.<br \/><br \/><i>Ah,<\/i> she thinks. <i>I have found you out.<\/i><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Her husband tries to tell her she is wrong, and she pities him, until it tires her. He grips her by her arms, fingers digging blue into her flesh, holding her in place like he always has, and says something about limbo and what he placed in her strongbox.<br \/><br \/><i>Dom, it's all right,<\/i> she says, soothing at first. <i>You've planted things inside me before that didn't belong there.<\/i><br \/><br \/>She laughs at her own joke, and he looks horrified, doesn't mention it a second time. That sours her; she only meant to make fun.<br \/><br \/><i>Just let me talk to my mother, please,<\/i> she tells him. But he says, <i>Why your mother,<\/i> and <i>Let me call your father, he'll know what to do,<\/i> and <i>He's the expert,<\/i> which stokes her rage and makes her tear his hands off of her.<br \/><br \/><i>My father,<\/i> she spits, <i>expert of my own body?<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>This isn't about your-- about your body, Mal,<\/i> he pleads.<br \/><br \/>And isn't that just like him to say, like her father, all of them so willingly deaf to her. It breaks her heart to think that once, they too breathed nothing but the air their mothers gave them, that this too is what her little boy will grow into, the lord reigning over his bedlam of silly, raving sows. Mary, she needs to wake.<br \/><br \/><i>You're not dreaming,<\/i> he says.<br \/><br \/><i>I don't want you to tell me that,<\/i> she shouts, <i>of course you would say that. Bring me my mother. Let me talk to my mother.<\/i><br \/><br \/>What her mother says is, <i>Ma malheureuse, ma malchanceuse, it's not your fault,<\/i> but then she tucks her a little tighter under her arm, and whispers, hushed and frantic against her temple, <i>Don't go, don't leave me here alone.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Oh, maman, Sainte Marie,<\/i> thinks Mallorie, <i>but I must, Mother Eve.<\/i><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Why must Dom be so stubborn? <i>Can't you let me help you?<\/i> she asks him. <i>Wouldn't you like to see our children?<\/i> And then, when she realizes what is giving him pause, she strokes his cheek and says, <i>It's all right, Dom, I will still love you, even after we wake up, even when you do not own me anymore. I promise.<\/i><br \/><br \/>But even that won't clear the clouds from his face, and really, is sovereignty so difficult a thing to surrender? Is it so calamitous to no longer hold court over the world, every man a king, every man a rooster among his hens, the wise benefactor, the protector of his womenfolk? As though it were an insult to stand beside her instead of towering over her, the way they used to before they tasted the fruit, before they covered themselves in shame.<br \/><br \/>Deeper down in the dreaming, she could give her duty her all, and once she thought it Eden, a home for her to rest. But that was keeping a sinking ship afloat with nothing but her hands, cupped to bail the saltwater out. Futile in the end. All this is no better than a nightmare, besieging her with the illusion of her own fecundity, asking her still to make something out of nothing.<br \/><br \/>Twenty years, thirty years here in sleep, and time will come for this Phillipa to wed. Dom will walk her down the aisle, offer her trembling neck upon the altar. He will smile at her, dance with her, and give her away, give away what he never really had, what he never understood, all the while as Mallorie watches, taught to rejoice in the death of her daughter.<br \/><br \/><i>You will have me stay for a beggar's fate,<\/i> she says, and Dom will not look at her, helpless, useless.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Cast out of her only home, Eve stood in the wrath of the Lord, awaiting her punishment. Legs were then taken from the serpent, Adam then made an enemy to the land, cursed to toil all his days to break it under his will. To her was given the agony of childbirth, the indignity of enduring her husband as her master.<br \/><br \/>But she might have accepted this penance, silent as a stone, were it not for the vastness of the world before her. Were it not for the lonely clamor of the unpeopled wilderness, reaching out to her in supplication, in command. And the pain foretold for her was just an afterthought in the face of the real task that fell to her, filling the world with her young, her body a vessel, the only plot of land in all of creation that would willingly bear fruit for Adam, who had no more to do than spend himself inside her and walk away. <br \/><br \/>The world outside Eden was wide and empty, Havilah and Ethiopia, beyond the banks of the Hiddekel and the Euphrates. Eve, la m\u00e8re de tous les vivants, looked out over the Earth and wept.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>On the anniversary of her own death, when her father smiled at her and danced with her and gave her away without ever really having had her, Mallorie waits for her husband, perched four seconds above the ground. This is not the way she has learned, how she was taught that women left; but she can't bear the prospect of walking into water, of yielding herself to its embrace, when it will fill her lungs like rebuking her, tireless mother that it is, chiding her for being unable to birth as the ocean birthed.<br \/><br \/><i>Please,<\/i> Dom shouts from across the chasm he has placed between them. <i>Come back inside, please listen, Mal--<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>No, for heaven's sake,<\/i> she shouts back at him, leaning as far forward as she can with her hands still wrapped around the ledge. <i>You listen to me, for once, can't you allow me that? Can't you listen to me?<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>You're not going to wake up,<\/i> he says, <i>you're not dreaming, you're going to die, don't--<\/i><br \/><br \/>She always meant to take him with her, because he loves her, because she loves him, of course, but mostly because she loves her wolf-cubs too much to return to them alone. But he's looking at her like <i>she's<\/i> the one who needs convincing, moving slowly, patiently, like shooing a child away from sugar, and it infuriates her that he is still so determined to cross her, that he still thinks her a little fool. She is tired of dreaming.<br \/><br \/><i>Here is your goddamn train,<\/i> she says, <i>leaving with or without you.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Mal,<\/i> he begins, choked, stretching a hand out to her.<br \/><br \/>She shakes her shoe loose, slipping it from her foot. They chase it down with their eyes, both of them, watching it light the way down for her. Well, it's not so far, when they've done it all before, from higher up than this. They've fallen from the grace of God into perdition, and wasn't that a plunge to commemorate? After that, what's a few stories onto asphalt, Dom?<br \/><br \/>The air brushes across her legs. Something itches under her skin, and absently she rubs at her bare heel with her leftover shoe-- but no, isn't that odd, it's not flesh she finds there, callous with years of being bent and boxed in. She looks down, and there are feathers at her heels, midnight dark, straight and strong and sharp, growing out of her wretched bones, vicious and magnificent, pushing their way out of her other shoe, stretching into the air like a sapling toward the sun.<br \/><br \/><i>Dom,<\/i> she calls, <i>look, can you see them? Can you see the feathers?<\/i><br \/><br \/>He might answer, he might not, but she can't wait for his equivocation, unclasping her earrings from her ears, letting them drop into the abyss. And there they unfurl again, feathers behind her ears, pushing through her hair, their tips fluttering in the wind, so full of the promise of flight. They stir and her heart stirs with them, starting to beat for the first time in years, sending the blood tingling through her.<br \/><br \/><i>Only now you allow me this,<\/i> she thinks, with a dash of bitterness. <i>Only now you allow me to fly.<\/i><br \/><br \/>But even so, the feathers are there, glinting like knives, and she could pierce the skies with them, carrying herself away, all the way back home. She searches her arms for budding wings, but they remain smooth, disappointing-- she must find something to cast off, something that must be binding the wings, something holding them back, some trinket on her shoulders, on her arms, on her fingers--<br \/><br \/>Her wedding ring. It's her wedding ring. <i>You,<\/i> she thinks, wrenching it off of her finger, triumphant. <i>It was you.<\/i> Immediately feathers burst from her elbows, lining her skin, springing unbidden. And before it's too late, her fingers already starting to flatten into pinions-- she takes the ring in her hand and hurls it at her husband.<br \/><br \/><i>Take this back,<\/i> she tells him.<br \/><br \/>On instinct he fumbles for it, arrested by that flash of gold. He catches it against his chest, losing it from sight for a moment of fitful panic, and in that moment -- while he is busied with the trappings of their union -- Mallorie spreads her wings and soars off the ledge, finally beautiful. A night-bird as she always was, before the flaming sword, before exiles and apples and snakes, older than her name, sculpted from the same majestic clay that formed Adam, too grand to confine to a single rib, vast, free of God and legacy, unblessed and uncursed-- Mary, oh, look at her, a night-bird again at last.<br><br><br>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/5947.html?view=comments#comments","category":"mal"},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/5663.html","pubDate":"Sun, 30 Jan 2011 01:06:45 GMT","title":"The Waking Years","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/5663.html","description":"<b>Word Count:<\/b> 25,800<br \/><b>Rating:<\/b> NC-17 overall<br \/><b>Pairings:<\/b> Arthur\/Eames<br \/><b>Warnings:<\/b> SEX <small>and also I think I should be warning for POV shifts fljf;eak;r<\/small><br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> For <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-C     \"  data-ljuser=\"inception_bang\" lj:user=\"inception_bang\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/inception-bang.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/community.png?v=556&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/inception-bang.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>inception_bang<\/b><\/a><\/span>! :D<br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> After the Fischer inception, Eames goes back to work as an extractor, and Arthur joins his team. Due to circumstances involving a guy who may or may not be from Greenland, pop astrology, someone's broken limb, hormones, and convenience, they end up learning that love is what starts down below (and makes its way up your spine).<br \/><br \/><a href=\"http:\/\/weatherfront.livejournal.com\/8226.html#cutid1\" target=\"_blank\">Link to master post<\/a>","category":"eames\/arthur"},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/5552.html","pubDate":"Wed, 01 Dec 2010 06:17:52 GMT","title":"En haut et en bas","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/5552.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Eames\/Arthur<br \/><b>Original prompt:<\/b> <a href=\"http:\/\/community.livejournal.com\/inception_kink\/9327.html?thread=16665711#t16665711\" target=\"_blank\">Mal makes them do it.<\/a><br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> Mal makes them tell stories. Mal makes them fumble for something to touch. Mal makes them fuck, but maybe that's not the important part.<br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> With <a href=\"http:\/\/pics.livejournal.com\/weatherfront\/pic\/0000495d\" target=\"_blank\">gorgeous, gorgeous art<\/a> by <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"platina\" lj:user=\"platina\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/platina.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/platina.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>platina<\/b><\/a><\/span>! *____*<br \/><b>More notes:<\/b> Oh my gosh, this backlog posting thing is taking forever, so I thought maybe I should just slowly make a <a href=\"http:\/\/community.livejournal.com\/tornadobelt\/466.html\" target=\"_blank\">masterlist<\/a> instead of continuing to post. Possibly I will still end up posting some of the later things, but mostly I'll just link to the kinkmeme threads on the masterlist, so that I am not STILL POSTING BACKLOGS IN THE SUMMER OF 2011 djlf;ajer<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/>This is a small story.<br \/><br \/>Not all of it is true.<br \/><br \/>But it isn't only in dreams that you startle yourself awake, unsure of how you came to the ground under your feet. There are gaps in every painstaking recollection. What we remember is only a sliver of what we know, and even the truth becomes a story in the telling of it.<br \/><br \/>Eames doesn't mind. Details aren't what's important. The trick to knowing, to living, to <i>forging<\/i>, is to paint with broad strokes. Anything worth remembering won't let you ever forget it; and anything you forget, you can always invent again. He doesn't remember how he met Arthur, because that's not the important part.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Maybe this is how it begins.<br \/><br \/>Cobb calls him with a job, so Eames flies to Brussels to work his magic. A car pulls up to the curb and Cobb slides into the front seat.<br \/><br \/>\"This is my new point man,\" he says. \"Arthur.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur doesn't turn around, and all Eames can see is his eyes in the rearview mirror, dark and quiet and so <i>young.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"My god,\" says Eames. \"I'm working with a fetus.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Ah,\" says Arthur. \"This job is going to be fun.\"<br \/><br \/>He jerks the wheel to the side and Eames lurches, skidding to one corner of the back seat, face nearly smashing into the window.<br \/><br \/>\"Professionals wear seat belts, Mr. Eames,\" says Arthur, and adjusts the mirror.<br \/><br \/>Eames knows this story isn't true because Cobb doesn't need his services yet. Cobb is still in Paris, a law-abiding citizen, developing an educational module for dreamshare technology. So this isn't how it begins at all, but it doesn't matter. This isn't the important part.<br \/><br \/>Two years later, Mal dies.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Maybe this is how it begins.<br \/><br \/>He takes a job in Edmonton. But his team gets to the rendezvous point and finds their mark already hooked up to a PASIV, three other people on the ground next to him.<br \/><br \/>Eames improvises, plans to distract the other team by posing as a projection, while the rest of his team goes after the mark. Unfortunately, his first target -- a man leafing through a magazine in the lobby -- doesn't want to play.<br \/><br \/>\"Intruders,\" the man says into a transceiver.<br \/><br \/>He shoots Eames square in the head. The mark's actual projections must notice the commotion, because one by one, the other dreamers snap awake as well. Real guns are drawn, and despite dodging pieces of drywall and ducking behind desks, Eames ends up in a chair with his hands tied behind his back.<br \/><br \/>The mark and his henchmen have dragged everyone else off, and Eames is just waiting for his own turn at agony. Well, Eames, and the trigger-happy man whose wrists are now bound to his.<br \/><br \/>\"As soon as I get out of this, I'm going to kill you,\" says Arthur, over his shoulder.<br \/><br \/>And though Eames can swear he remembers Arthur working his way free, the ropes sawing against his skin -- Arthur's hiss as Eames wraps up his forearms later in a roadside motel, the blood seeping raw through the bandages -- he knows this story isn't true. He's never been to Edmonton in his life. But of course, this isn't the important part.<br \/><br \/>Two years later, Mal dies.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Maybe this is how it begins.<br \/><br \/>He's a lieutenant in the SAS and their dreamshare program is a piece of shit. Its American counterpart, Project Somnacin, is already sending people into each other's subconscious worlds for hours at a time. But the SAS has no idea how to make dreams stable enough for multiple people to inhabit, and so Eames is tasked with industrial espionage.<br \/><br \/>Out of the handful of people who know the sedative compound used in Project Somnacin, Eames picks Arthur to be his mark. It's a logical choice; Arthur seems to live alone, and it's much easier to break into a bachelor's flat than to tiptoe around an entire family.<br \/><br \/>Eames climbs into Arthur's window like a lover, and the glow of streetlights spills across them both as he slips the needles in. The sleep turns into dreaming, and in the no-nonsense barracks of his own design, Eames soon locates the storage cabinet marked <i>Classified.<\/i> He's about to pick the lock when he hears the click of a safety at his temple.<br \/><br \/>\"So this is the famous Lieutenant Eames,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Seriously?\" asks Eames. \"Lucid dreaming? Christ, Arthur, that's impressive.\"<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Lieutenant<\/i> Arthur,\" he says, before he turns the gun on himself and blows his own brains out. Eames is too stunned to react immediately, so by the time he shoots himself and drifts awake, Arthur has secured him to the bedposts and contacted his superiors.<br \/><br \/>Eames is discharged within the week, which he has to admit is a cleaner solution than trying to cover up the whole espionage debacle. He turns to a life of crime, and a few years later, so does Arthur.<br \/><br \/>This story is probably not true, but there isn't any real reason why it wouldn't be. Eames likes this version, likes the maybe-memory of stepping into Arthur's bedroom, everything silent but for the brush of his fingers across Arthur's wrist. Still, this isn't the important part.<br \/><br \/>Two years later, Mal dies.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>The important part needs no inventing, because Eames remembers every bit of it. Two years after he and Arthur meet, wherever and however it might be, Mal dies.<br \/><br \/>\"Jesus Christ,\" says Eames into the phone. \"I'll be there for the viewing.\"<br \/><br \/>\"It's not really a viewing,\" says Arthur, because Cobb is too shattered to speak to anyone. \"It's closed-casket. They had to cremate her as soon as-- because they-- they scraped her off the ground, Eames. They couldn't find enough of her to arrange in a coffin, so they had to burn what was left of her.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm sorry,\" says Eames. \"Tell Cobb I'm sorry.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'll try,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>There's a picture of her on her casket when he arrives for the wake. She's radiant. The flash of the camera is caught in her eyes, speckled like constellations, as impenetrable as faraway stars, bright and invincible. Her lips press together in that particular French smile he knows, shy and forward, just like a gamine, like when she extended a hand out to him and said, <i>Mallorie, Mr. Eames. I've heard so much about you,<\/i> and her hand was warm and dry in his, so small, but he felt like it was wrapping circles around his own.<br \/><br \/>\"Isn't she beautiful?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"She was,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"That's Mr. and Mrs. Miles,\" says Arthur, nodding in the direction of an old couple by the door. \"Stephen and Marie. Mal's parents.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Where are the children?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Sleeping in the back room,\" says Arthur. \"They're tired.\"<br \/><br \/>\"How are you holding up?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I'm,\" says Arthur, and pauses. \"I don't think that's the right question, Eames. I'll go tell Dom that you're here.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames watches him slide into the crowd, inscrutable in black. He doesn't need to ask about Cobb because he <i>knows<\/i> how Cobb is holding up, which is to say, not at all. His wife just killed herself, for heaven's sake. But Arthur's eyes are clear as he steers Cobb out of the huddle of mourners, and anytime that Arthur looks <i>that<\/i> focused, that determined, it worries Eames; it means that somewhere beneath the calm, Arthur is thinking of doing something colossally stupid.<br \/><br \/>\"Thank you for coming,\" says Cobb, stumbling into a handshake.<br \/><br \/>\"I'm so sorry,\" says Eames. \"Mal was one of a kind.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Yes,\" says Cobb, like that's the only word he knows. He darts a quick glance off to the side, and lowers his voice. \"Eames, I need to keep in touch with you. I might-- I might be venturing into your line of work. I'm not sure how-- stay available, anyway. I'll be seeing you.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What, the illegal line of work?\" asks Eames. \"Why?\"<br \/><br \/>Cobb makes as though to answer, even as his forehead furrows into knots, but Arthur is turning him around with a hand on his arm, sending him back in the direction of the arriving guests.<br \/><br \/>\"What's that about?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" says Arthur, \"they think he killed her.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What, <i>Cobb?<\/i>\" asks Eames. \"They think he-- they think he <i>killed Mal?<\/i> That's-- I mean, he <i>didn't,<\/i> right? He didn't kill her?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I don't think that's the right question either,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Fuck,\" says Eames. \"I can't believe this. I can't believe Mal is--\"<br \/><br \/>\"I know,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Remember that time, when you introduced me to the two of them?\" asks Eames. \"In Paris, when they were researching shapeshifting, and you told them it would only be that once, that they shouldn't make a habit of consulting me, even though I was the best damn forger alive?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I still think they shouldn't have,\" says Arthur. \"Typically, it's a good idea for innocent civilians to stay away from criminals.\"<br \/><br \/>\"And then Mal just laughed, and she shook my hand,\" says Eames, \"and then we all had a glass of wine in their living room before we got out the PASIV? And you were lying on the couch and you were worrying about something, I don't know what, maybe about how disreputable I was, something or another, and Mal listened to you worry and she ran a hand through your hair, and she said--\"<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Fais dodo,<\/i>\" says Arthur, \"<i>petit chou.<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>\"And then a couple months later, she got pregnant again,\" says Eames, \"and I really meant to drop by and say hello, give her a foot rub, whatever you do for pregnant women, maybe feel the baby kick if I was lucky, but I just kept putting it off, and that was it. Were you there? Did you feel the baby kick?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Yes,\" says Arthur, and looks toward her picture on the casket. \"It's a pity there's only ashes in there. I would have liked to kiss her.\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>It rains on the day of the funeral. They slog through the wet pools of autumn leaves, and they stare into the six-foot hollow in the ground, as some preacher that Marie Miles knows says something about perishable mysteries and trumpets and the victory and sting of death. Stephen Miles is holding an umbrella for him. Cobb is holding an umbrella for his mother-in-law, and the children are back at the house with a babysitter.<br \/><br \/>Eames is holding an umbrella for Arthur, and watching the splash and glide of raindrops off Arthur's far shoulder. He should have brought a bigger umbrella. Absently, as people file by the grave to toss roses onto the lowered coffin, Arthur twists the stem in his hands.<br \/><br \/>\"She liked red roses best,\" says Arthur. \"Even though we told her--\"<br \/><br \/>He cuts himself off as he moves to the front of the line. And he stoops as low as he can without kneeling, like he doesn't want the rose to travel so far before it hits the dirt, like he wants to lay it on the coffin instead of dropping it there.<br \/><br \/>Then it's Cobb's turn, but he's rooted to the ground, looking at the swirl of mud at the bottom of the pit.<br \/><br \/>\"Dom,\" says Arthur. \"<i>Dom.<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>Cobb starts, and his hand hovers over the grave. Slowly, his fingers unclench, one by one, and when the rose finally falls, he jerks forward like he wants to catch it again.<br \/><br \/>\"A reading,\" says the preacher, \"from the Book of Revelations.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames blinks one eye open when the preacher gets to <i>Death will be no more,<\/i> because he feels a breeze by his side that wasn't there before.<br \/><br \/>Arthur is gone.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Seventh call in thirty minutes and Arthur finally picks up.<br \/><br \/>\"Hey,\" says Arthur, vowels trailing indistinctly out of the slurred greeting. \"Where are you?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Where are <i>you?<\/i>\" asks Eames. \"Why did you run off all of a sudden?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm at the Marriott,\" says Arthur. \"Downtown. Come see me.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" says Eames, with a suspicion that borders on certainty, \"are you drunk?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Room 622, the door will be open,\" says Arthur. \"If you don't come, I might die.\"<br \/><br \/>\"<i>What?<\/i>\" asks Eames, but Arthur has hung up already.<br \/><br \/>He takes a cab to the hotel, snipes at the driver, and flings away a wad of bills as he jumps out. He would call 911 just to be sure that Arthur hasn't already done whatever massively idiotic thing he is about to do, but he isn't sure if he's wanted in Los Angeles or not.<br \/><br \/>He finds Arthur on the floor, curled on his side at the foot of the bed, surrounded by a jumble of empty bottles.<br \/><br \/>\"Christ, Arthur,\" says Eames. \"Did you empty the whole bloody mini-bar?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I left the wine,\" Arthur mumbles into the carpet, \"because wine is for celebrating.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Let's get you up,\" says Eames, and drags Arthur into a sitting position, propped up against the bedframe. \"You're going to have one hell of a hangover, but you're not going to die.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I wouldn't be so sure,\" says Arthur. \"That vodka came after the bottle of sleeping pills.\"<br \/><br \/>\"The <i>sleeping pills?<\/i>\" repeats Eames, and feels his spine run cold with panic. \"You took-- Arthur, what did you-- a <i>bottle,<\/i> how many-- do you <i>want<\/i> to die?\"<br \/><br \/>\"It was a pretty bad idea,\" says Arthur. \"But now you have to keep me up all night, Eames. All night long.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur smiles, a bleary sort of smile as sloppy as the wreck of his tie, the crumple of his trousers, and he tangles a fist in the front of Eames' shirt. But Eames wrenches himself away, and this time, he does call 911, dialing as he stands to look for the rubbish bin.<br \/><br \/>Before he can get to the final digit, Arthur is up and on him, knocking the phone out of his hand, blocking his way.<br \/><br \/>\"Don't,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"I can't just <i>keep you up<\/i>,\" says Eames, \"you fucking <i>idiot!<\/i> Where's the bottle? How many did you take?\"<br \/><br \/>But the rubbish bin beneath the desk is empty, and so is the one in the restroom. Eames tears through the suite, opening drawers, checking under furniture. Arthur hesitates, hovering just behind him, then hands him his phone.<br \/><br \/>\"Don't call 911,\" says Arthur, and sits on the bed. \"I didn't take any.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Then why--\" starts Eames, bewildered. All the nervous energy drains out of him, his legs give out, and he has to sit down next to Arthur. \"Excuse me, love, but what the <i>fuck<\/i> are you doing? Is this some sort of joke?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Blame the movies,\" says Arthur. \"I thought you'd do it, if you felt like you had to. I just thought-- I didn't want you to say no.\"<br \/><br \/>\"To what?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>Instead of a proper answer, Arthur turns to him. The mattress dips under their weight, tilting them toward each other, and Arthur is leaning forward, and Eames is so distracted by the sheer force of fear in Arthur's eyes that he nearly doesn't pull back until it's too late.<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" says Eames, \"why are you trying to kiss me?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I think we should fuck,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Just how drunk are you?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Not nearly drunk enough,\" says Arthur. \"I need to be out of my mind right now, Eames. I think we should fuck. I think we should-- what, you think we shouldn't, because I'm drunk? I know what I'm doing, it's okay, you're not going to be a felon. Well, not for fucking me, anyway-- here, look, I can prove-- listen, we're in room 622 of the Marriott in downtown Los Angeles, where we've just attended the funeral of Mallorie Miles Cobb, our dear mutual friend and mentor. It rained. You held an umbrella over me.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"And we threw red roses into her grave because she liked red roses best,\" says Arthur. \"I remember once we told her, we said, <i>Mal, you can't like red roses best. Everyone likes red roses best.<\/i> And she said, Eames, do you know what she said, she said, <i>I would love to be unique, but there's simply nothing better than romance.<\/i> She was twenty-nine when I met her. I was twenty-five. She was thirty when she had James, and when she was pregnant, she wanted fruit, always fruit, she craved blood oranges by the crate--\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur falls back onto the bed, like a marionette with its strings cut loose.<br \/><br \/>\"And now she's dead,\" he says. \"Mal is dead. <i>Mal is dead.<\/i> Mal died, Eames. She's dead.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm sorry,\" says Eames, and means it, but it doesn't seem like it's enough.<br \/><br \/>\"And I thought that if we could just-- if we could fuck, right after her funeral, knowing that she's dead,\" says Arthur, \"then maybe that meant that nothing had really changed. If-- if I could fuck on the same night that I helped bury her, then Mal being gone-- then maybe that's not something that will stay with me forever-- maybe it means I'll forget, and maybe everything is going to be okay again.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur swallows.<br \/><br \/>\"I thought this would make it go away,\" he says. \"But it didn't, and Mal is-- she's still dead. And it still-- god, Eames, it hurts like hell. Is it always going to be like this?\"<br \/><br \/>And Eames is stunned to see how lost Arthur looks, because Arthur really doesn't know what to do, or how to be, because he's never been left behind before. Arthur, for all his sullen silences and his peevish moods, has really been loved for all his life. All he had ever received from those he loved was boundless kindness, and he had thought it made him all-powerful, that he could make anyone laugh, that his smile could fix any broken thing in the world.<br \/><br \/>Eames is angry-- not at Arthur, but at everyone who has ever loved him, who has never taught Arthur that there would be things he could not fix, that in life he would lose things, irreplaceable things, and that sometimes he would not be able to stop something precious from crumbling in his hands. Who has never told him that he could not play a benevolent god with those he loved.<br \/><br \/>It's so determinedly <i>cavalier<\/i>, Arthur's insistence that they fuck right then and there, like pretending nothing had happened would somehow rewind their lives back to years and years ago, gliding backward through time, when Mal asked for crateloads of blood oranges to feel the tang in her mouth, and carded her fingers through Arthur's hair, when she told him to go to sleep, and the bottle of wine sat half full on the tabletop in the Cobbs' living room, and Eames remembers that Mal's hand was warm and dry when it shook his own, and she pursed her lips as she smiled, like she was happier than she could let on. Eames feels his throat close up.<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" he says, lying back, \"it's going to be all right.\"<br \/><br \/>\"How can it be all right?\" asks Arthur. \"How can it <i>ever<\/i> be all right?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Because moving on isn't about leaving them behind,\" says Eames. \"It's about taking them with you. Taking Mal with you, into the life she left for you. What you have to do is hold her inside of you-- and you'll forget the details, you can't help that, like the way she signed her name, the smell of her skin at the nape of her neck, but details aren't what matters. Maybe she smelled like milk, maybe sugar, maybe ink, but what you remember is that you liked to breathe it in.\"<br \/><br \/>\"She moved like,\" says Arthur, \"she moved like water, Eames. Like honey. After dinner she would want to dance, and she wouldn't even put any music on, just the sound of cicadas outside, and the clink of Dom washing the dishes in the sink, and she was like a ball of light when I put my hand on her back. And I felt like I was perfect when I danced with her, because why else would someone like her let me wrap my arms around her? And Dom would be there to meet her when she turned around, and I stood against the table and I drank my wine, and they danced like there was no one else alive on Earth.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You'll remember that,\" says Eames, promises, \"you'll remember the important things. Don't worry. Like the way you put your hand on her stomach and first felt the baby kick against the touch-- or the way she balanced her papers on her knee as she made notes in the margins-- the important things, you'll never forget. What you do forget, you can always invent.\"<br \/><br \/>\"How do I know,\" asks Arthur, \"if what I'm inventing is anything like her?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Because you knew her,\" says Eames. \"Because you know that Mal was beautiful because she was good, and you know that you loved her, and that she loved you, Arthur. Just keep that inside of you, and know that you're carrying Mal with you. Do it for yourself, and do it for Mal-- do it for Cobb, because he's in too many pieces to do it himself right now.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur shifts onto his stomach, face buried halfway into the sheets.<br \/><br \/>\"Almost every time we went under,\" he says, \"I would worry about something or another. About the sedative, about the dosage-- I would always worry. Like the time when you came over. Like that time she laughed and smoothed down my hair, you remember-- but do you know, she would do it every time I worried, and she would tell me to go to sleep, and I loved her, Eames. I loved her so much.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I know,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"It's just,\" says Arthur, \"so hard.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm here,\" says Eames, and when he turns to look, Arthur is a heap of hair and hunched shoulders, barely a dent on the bed, his spine a faint arc through his shirt. He stretches an arm out over Arthur's shoulders, brushing through his hair, running his thumb across Arthur's cheek, feeling the cool of his skin.<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Fais dodo,<\/i>\" says Eames, \"<i>petit chou.<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>And Arthur shudders, just once, a long quiet shiver that runs down his entire body, and finally, like he's been waiting for permission, a hot flood of tears spills out over Eames' hand.<br \/><br \/>\"God,\" says Arthur, and then he says, \"<i>Mal.<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>Eames remembers this because that's the moment that he falls in love.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Arthur is gone when he wakes up, but that's only because it's half past two in the afternoon. There's a note on the bedside table that reads, <i>Sorry I had to go. Urgent call from Cobb.<\/i> Eames reads that name out loud, and thinks, <i>He's calling him Cobb.<\/i> Like in Arthur's mind, Dominic Cobb has subsumed Mallorie, and if Arthur can keep Cobb together, then he can keep Mal somehow safe as well. It's a valiant, desperate thing.<br \/><br \/><i>Thank you,<\/i> it says on the other side of the paper.<br \/><br \/>It's a week, or a month, or a year later that Eames visits Mal's grave with a red rose in his hand. He places it next to her tombstone and crouches down on his heels.<br \/><br \/>\"Hey, Mal,\" he says. \"Been all right?\"<br \/><br \/><i>We all miss you,<\/i> he thinks. <i>Of course Cobb does. Your children and your parents. And Arthur-- Arthur misses you. I miss you. I'm sorry I never made it, after I heard you were pregnant again. I shouldn't have put that off. Wish I could have seen you.<br \/><br \/>Hey, you know about what happened with me and Arthur, right after your funeral? Course you do. Look, Mal, I just want you to know, I didn't take advantage of him or anything like that, I want that to be clear, but-- well, there are some things I can't stop from happening. It just so happens that I fell in love, Mal.<br \/><br \/>Is that all right? I mean, I know he's got his hands full trying to help Cobb through this, and I'm not going to try anything, won't even tell him, I swear, but-- Mal, is it all right that I fell in love, the day we buried you? Or do you feel like I've pushed you aside?<\/i><br \/><br \/>He wonders.<br \/><br \/>But then his eyes come to rest on the rose he's set on the ground, and it makes him think, <i>Mal, you can't like red roses best. Everyone likes red roses best.<\/i> And her answer, her voice like a songbird, <i>I would love to be unique, but there's simply nothing better than romance.<\/i><br \/><br \/>That was Mal, a woman who liked red roses best, and didn't care what anyone thought of her. Mal was someone who loved red roses, loved romance, loved everything about <i>love,<\/i> and the warmth of her hand when he felt it was that of a person who knew how to love.<br \/><br \/>Mal was someone who loved, to the end, despite everything-- and even to her fall she didn't want to go alone. She didn't want to leave alone. Even when she jumped, all she was doing was reaching, reaching for the love she thought was waiting for her.<br \/><br \/>And Eames thinks, that's the Mal he remembers. That's the Mal he knows. Mal who lived and breathed love. Mal, who would do anything to coax love into the light-- even on the day of her own funeral-- even with her body reduced to ashes and fragments of bone, even for a love so tentative, just a flicker of it in the fireplace of his heart, afraid to feed it lest the flames shatter the delicate balance of a world plunged into grief--<br \/><br \/><i>Mal, you brilliant, crafty girl,<\/i> thinks Eames. <i>Was it your doing? Was it you all along?<\/i><br \/><br \/>It's a week, or a month, or a year after the funeral that Eames sits by Mal's grave, and contemplates the notion of a ghost playing matchmaker to two idiots she used to know. Then there's a rustle of grass behind him, and he turns to see Arthur, Arthur with an armful -- a real <i>armful<\/i> -- of red roses, just beginning to bloom.<br \/><br \/><i>You're really something, Mal, you know that?<\/i> he thinks as he stands up. Arthur looks a little tired, but that might just be the flight. The fire in him flares a little, and he imagines Mal leaning against the brick wall in an evening gown of satin, stoking it gently, smiling with her lips pressed together.<br \/><br \/>\"I didn't expect to see you here,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"You're putting my offering to shame,\" says Eames. \"How many roses have you got, anyway? Did you raid all the florists in this city?\"<br \/><br \/>\"More or less,\" says Arthur. \"Thanks for coming.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Cobb still can't make it, huh?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Not yet,\" says Arthur. \"There's another appeal scheduled soon, but he needs to stay out of the country.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Are you two doing okay?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Actually, Eames, there's something--\" says Arthur. \"It's about Cobb. He's been-- the thing is, when he dreams, these... projections of Mal keep appearing. She's everywhere. He can't suppress her. And-- the Mal that he keeps imagining, she's-- well, she's-- she's not <i>right<\/i>. For one thing, she's killed me about a dozen times now. Bullets, falling, knives, the whole deal.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur brings up a hand to touch his throat, like he's checking to see if he's bleeding, and Eames is suddenly acutely aware of how close they are.<br \/><br \/>\"That's not Mal,\" says Eames, \"don't forget. You knew her, Arthur-- you know she loved you. And you know she was good.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Yeah, I know,\" says Arthur. \"Sometimes Cobb forgets, sometimes he thinks she's the real thing, but-- I know. I remember what you told me, last time.\"<br \/><br \/>And Arthur looks down at his shoes and smiles, like he's really remembering everything about that night, the bottles littered across the floor like the worst half-formed ideas, their faces tilting into each other, Eames brushing his thumb across Arthur's cheek. It's a small smile, but it's soft, and it says a thousand things that Arthur can't bring himself to utter in words just yet.<br \/><br \/><i>Oh,<\/i> thinks Eames.<br \/><br \/>He's almost certain that his intuition is correct, and how could it not be, when Arthur is smiling like that, like he's summoning an anchor, like he's thinking about home-- but just to test it, just because Mal keeps prodding at the embers inside him, Eames leans forward and kisses him.<br \/><br \/>It's slow and almost chaste, and Arthur is frozen solid, arms still clutching the roses. The smell is heady all around them. Then Arthur's lips melt and move against his, like the best answer there is, a moment of epiphany before he stumbles back, wiping at his mouth with a sleeve.<br \/><br \/>\"Not now, Eames,\" says Arthur, his eyes wide, \"and not here-- I'm still-- <i>Cobb<\/i> is still, and <i>Mal<\/i>--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Maybe this isn't all selfish,\" says Eames. \"You knew Mal. Think about the Mal you knew. If there were two options, one of which included any two people kissing, and one of which included them not kissing, which would Mal prefer?\"<br \/><br \/>\"But this is--\" stammers Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Any two people <i>being in love,<\/i>\" says Eames. \"Which do you think she would choose?\"<br \/><br \/>At that, Arthur colors, and turns away to make a show of setting the roses down on Mal's grave. He's still toying with them when Eames sits, crossing his legs under him, his arm knocking against Arthur's.<br \/><br \/>\"No matter what Cobb's subconscious seems to think,\" says Eames, \"people don't abruptly turn evil when they die. At least, that's my opinion. Last time was a terrible idea because last time, you turned to me to forget her, Arthur. When you should have turned to me to remember her. Because if there's anything in the world that should remind you of Mal, it should be love.\"<br \/><br \/>\"But Cobb needs me,\" says Arthur. \"I can't stay.\"<br \/><br \/>\"And that's all right,\" says Eames. \"Hey. It won't just be me waiting for you. It'll be you waiting for me-- and both of us waiting for Cobb to put himself back together. Be there for him. I wouldn't have it any other way, and neither would the Arthur I know.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Okay,\" says Arthur, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes for longer than a blink. \"Okay. I brought-- I have presents for the kids. From Cobb. Would you like to-- do you want to come with...?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'd love to,\" says Eames. \"Do you think they'd remember me?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Probably not,\" says Arthur, \"but they might know you, regardless.\"<br \/><br \/>\"That's the spirit,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>And Arthur bends to kiss the edge of Mal's gravestone, running his fingers over her name, <i>Mallorie Miles Cobb,<\/i> and they turn and they fall into step together.<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur, by the way,\" says Eames, \"do you remember how we met?\"<br \/><br \/>\"No idea,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Me neither,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>This is a small story.<br \/><br \/>Not all of it is true.<br \/><br \/>What isn't remembered has been invented, but that's probably all right, really. All the important parts are true, because no one is able to forget them. And even the invented parts are built on what they know.<br \/><br \/>They visit the children and leave before dinner, ducking out of Marie's way before she casts off her civility. They buy sandwiches together, Italian or chicken sub or meatball, even, it could be anything, but the important part is that they buy sandwiches together.<br \/><br \/>They eat their sandwiches as they wander, strolling aimlessly across Los Angeles. Back in Arthur's hotel room, they tumble into the bed and jack each other off, and Eames thanks Mal afterward, as he gazes up at the ceiling. <i>That was fantastic, Mal,<\/i> he says, and Arthur says, <i>I hope you're happy, Mal.<\/i> They kiss like it's the most important thing they've ever done, and maybe it is. Maybe it is.<br \/><br \/>Then for a week, or a month, or a year, Arthur leaves and tries to piece Cobb into something like a whole again. Fights to remember that he knows Mal, that the bullets burrowing into his skin are from some rude impostor that dares to wear Mal's face. Sometimes they talk over the phone, and Eames thinks, even if none of this is really Mal's doing, even if there's no such thing as ghosts, he thinks that this love is the way they keep her inside of themselves.<br \/><br \/>Cobb doesn't call for a forger until he shows up in Mombasa, a week, or a month, or a year later. He mentions Arthur and Eames thinks, <i>Arthur.<\/i> That dangerous, cavalier, beautiful stick-in-the-mud.<br \/><br \/>Then Eames arrives at the Paris warehouse and it's like a fucking movie, as the camera zooms in toward him framed in the doorway in perfect symmetry. He steps inside and the music swells, and it's Arthur who turns around, Arthur, for whom Eames has invented a thousand stories, since that night in a Los Angeles hotel room two years ago, on the day of Mal's funeral when it rained over her grave, when he ran his fingers through Arthur's hair and said, <i>Fais dodo, petit chou,<\/i> and Arthur said, <i>Mal,<\/i> a long sob of a name, like he was calling her down to watch over them, like he was praying-- and in that moment, as Eames fell in love, he thought of warm, dry hands, and he felt weightless.<br \/><br \/>That's the most important part.<br><br><br>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/5552.html?view=comments#comments","category":"eames\/arthur"},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/5229.html","pubDate":"Thu, 04 Nov 2010 01:33:06 GMT","title":"Zugunruhe","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/5229.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Eames\/Arthur<br \/><b>Original prompt:<\/b> <a href=\"http:\/\/community.livejournal.com\/inception_kink\/11941.html?thread=26011813#t26011813\" target=\"_blank\">Sorry about this fic, sorry I wrote it-- tell me about the story where I sully Richard Siken's good name.<\/a><br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> The things that they are too afraid to want.<br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> I'M DOING PRETTY WELL WITH THIS HIATUS THING, I promise, this was written before, fldnlfj;eanr why am I making excuses about this WHY WON'T THE HIATUS END ;___;<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/>In Paris they don't feel at home. They are fitful with their sleep. Eames wonders what it would be like to forget to pay the rent, what it would feel like to be shoved onto the edge of life together.<br \/><br \/>\"We need to leave Paris,\" he says, tilting his head off the pillow.<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Arthur. \"Kiss me.\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>The trouble with Paris; when they're in Paris, they know who they are.<br \/><br \/>Look, here is the cafe where you left halfway through our meal, and you wouldn't let me in the door when I chased you back home. Here is the streetlight that you kissed me under, when the first fall of snow caught you off your guard. Here is where you slipped your gloved hand into mine, and I would have braved frostbite just to feel you from closer up.<br \/><br \/>Here is where you called me names, shades of profanity until you spat, <i>Eames,<\/i> like it was the worst of all the invectives. Here is where I held you against the damp shadow of the wall, stroked you through your trousers until you shuddered and said my name again. Here is where we watched the river. Here is our Paris.<br \/><br \/>The trouble with Paris is that Paris knows who they are. Darling, convince me otherwise.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>This could be Amsterdam:<br \/><br \/>Their windows are lined with flowerpots, bite-sized terracotta gardens. Arthur is angling a watering can over them when Eames walks in, and the sun is blinking through the cloud of his hair, the line of his shoulderblades soft beneath his shirt.<br \/><br \/>Eames has just enough time to toss his keys onto the counter before Arthur is on him, all hungry hands and mouth.<br \/><br \/>\"Only jobs we can do together,\" says Arthur. \"From now on.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I promise,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>Arthur goes bright as a lighthouse, calling him home. It's a beautiful thing. Eames says it again, <i>I promise,<\/i> just to see the boy smile.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>This could be Tangier:<br \/><br \/>He wants to unwind into looseness in the dusk of a hotel bar. Wants to let the alcohol simmer through him. But he thinks of his flight and he knows that he can't, and so Eames slides in between his sheets, denting the new-snow calm of the linen.<br \/><br \/>When his phone rings beside him he blinks and sees two o'clock, he blinks and sees Arthur's name.<br \/><br \/>\"Were you asleep?\" asks Arthur. \"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you.\"<br \/><br \/>\"It's alright,\" says Eames. \"Cheers to a job well done. I'll see you around.\"<br \/><br \/>He can hear the music pound where Arthur is, the shrill laughter of the faceless.<br \/><br \/>It takes Arthur a while to answer, but when he does, he says, \"I wanted to hear your voice.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames closes his eyes. The words are warm as brine. He lets them lap against his heart, nudging at his pulse, before he speaks.<br \/><br \/>\"Where are you,\" he says. \"I'm coming,\" he says.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>This could be New York:<br \/><br \/>In the crowd across the street from the Christmas display, Eames tells Arthur to hold on tight in case they lose each other. Arthur laughs in long wisps of steam.<br \/><br \/>The naive American opulence of it all is charming, he thinks. They watch the snowflakes blink in and out to the music, feel themselves shiver with the bells echoing down the street. Eames is a bit deaf still, when the last of it dies away, so he doesn't hear what Arthur mouths into his cheek.<br \/><br \/>But he knows the shape of every syllable. He listens to Arthur's lips.<br \/><br \/><i>You,<\/i> Arthur is saying. <i>I love you.<\/i><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>But in Paris all the monuments harbor slivers of who they are. The gate to our building, darling. Here is where you waited, suitcase in your hand.<br \/><br \/>You in a glittering blue-flame rage, rare and so precious in your fury, and I had to run out into the street because I would have kissed you if I didn't. I came back smelling like scotch and you were sitting at the curb. You said you were going to leave, your suitcase was packed, keep the toothbrush and the receipts and the low-fat milk in the fridge, you said.<br \/><br \/>I was too drunk to know what it meant, and you waited until I figured it out. Until I knew that you wanted me to stop you. I knew you'd never ask.<br \/><br \/>And I stopped you, with my paws and my claws, with the ache in my jaws as I devoured you. Please don't leave, I said. I gave you the chance to beg like you were only giving in.<br \/><br \/>Later, you said something, but by then you knew I was asleep.<br \/><br \/>This is how they live in Paris.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>In Paris he turns to Arthur and asks, \"Don't you think we should leave?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm too afraid to leave,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Aren't you afraid of Paris?\" he asks. \"Aren't you afraid of who we are here?\"<br \/><br \/>Of the cobblestones you stumbled over, your fingers catching in my sleeve, and I held you up and you looked at me and knew that I was about to say something stupid. I'm sorry. It's just that right then, you looked like you needed me. Arthur stretches against him, skin melting beneath his touch.<br \/><br \/>\"I am,\" says Arthur. \"But I'm frozen with the fear.\"<br \/><br \/>And maybe he's right to be.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>This could be Florence:<br \/><br \/>Arthur hands him cotton to dab at his wrist with. The IV lines snake onto the spool and Eames glances at the time. They have enough of it.<br \/><br \/>\"Same account?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"What,\" says Eames, \"no celebration?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Doesn't seem so wise,\" says Arthur. \"Local law enforcement got word from Quito yesterday. They'll be on us.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Right, then,\" says Eames. \"I'm off to the Cayman Islands for a bit.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur is startled enough to look up at him, and he says, \"Shouldn't go around telling people your hideouts.\"<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Eames, \"but I was wondering if you--\"<br \/><br \/>\"What?\" asks Arthur, and Eames feels like he's been caught doing something terrible, like killing a man, or telling the truth.<br \/><br \/>\"Nothing,\" says Eames, because in Florence he doesn't know what he wants.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>This could be Kigali:<br \/><br \/>Eames feels dry with dust inside, choking him to the throat. He could crumble beneath it, he thinks.<br \/><br \/>\"I had fun,\" says Arthur. \"Didn't you?\"<br \/><br \/>Fun is breaking the speed limit. Fun is getting someone else to pay the bill, a waitress who's willing to scrawl her number onto a packet of sugar, who will be angry with you when you call her a second time.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" says Arthur, \"don't look like that, please.\"<br \/><br \/>He threads his fingers through the back of Eames's head, presses a kiss against his closed mouth.<br \/><br \/>\"You knew it wasn't ever going to work,\" he says. \"Not with us, it wasn't.\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>This could be Washington:<br \/><br \/>He's doubled over with the pain, hands cupped around his nose. Arthur undoes his fist, his eyes bright, and some of the passersby drag their feet as they pretend not to stare.<br \/><br \/>\"Fuck you,\" says Arthur. \"Don't ever come anywhere near me.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur walks away like he's running away, and somewhere in the station, something is delayed. Eames thinks he could do it all over again.<br \/><br \/>I don't get to apologize because I don't get anything, he shouts after Arthur, in a world where he can straighten up and face the rubble. Blood down his face and all.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>At least in Paris, Arthur always comes padding back like he wants to lick clean the wounds he's made. His tongue a peace offering. In Paris we have each other. In Paris you never leave.<br \/><br \/>And maybe Arthur is right to be afraid, because for every Amsterdam, there's a Florence. They're as likely to land in Tangier as in Kigali, and they can't tell New York and Washington apart from a distance. Paris, they have. Paris they know.<br \/><br \/>Paris knows them. In Paris, when I apologize, you get this look. Like you're coming apart.<br \/><br \/>I wonder what it is that you find worthwhile in Paris. You must have an Amsterdam of your own. In Guangzhou, am I a better man? Maybe I do not hold inside the things I mean to tell you. Maybe I am brave enough not to stifle your mouth with mine, when you are about to say something important and I am frightened.<br \/><br \/>But you must have a Florence of your own, a Kigali, a Washington. Maybe in Brisbane you never learn my name. Maybe in Edmonton I tell you, <i>This doesn't mean anything.<\/i> Maybe in Edmonton, you're glad to hear it.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>In Paris they drape their dripping clothes over the radiator. Raindrops drum against the window, and it fogs up with steam from the inside. Their third-floor flat hangs over a sidewalk. Umbrellas patter past.<br \/><br \/>We have to leave Paris, thinks Eames, and then Arthur kisses him and pulls him down onto the bed.<br \/><br \/>In Paris he licks all the seams of Arthur's body open. Arthur shudders and hooks his heels together, and in the flat downstairs, someone turns on a radio and Carla Bruni whispers a song into the rain.<br \/><br \/><i>L'amour,<\/i> she says, <i>pas pour moi.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"Tell me what she's singing,\" says Eames, into the hollow of Arthur's throat.<br \/><br \/>\"I don't know,\" says Arthur. \"I don't speak French.\"<br \/><br \/>In Paris, Eames listens to Arthur gasp out his name and he thinks, <i>There is somewhere else we have to be.<\/i><br><br><br>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/5229.html?view=comments#comments","category":"eames\/arthur"},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/5044.html","pubDate":"Thu, 28 Oct 2010 00:44:35 GMT","title":"The Greedyhearts","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/5044.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Eames\/Arthur<br \/><b>Original prompt:<\/b> <a href=\"http:\/\/community.livejournal.com\/inception_kink\/4946.html?thread=5779794#t5779794\" target=\"_blank\">Eames is a high-end thief. Arthur is a private investigator hired to catch him.<\/a><br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> Ridiculous events ensue; something like love happens somewhere along the way. (Warning for extra bad Eames spelling, haha)<br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> <a href=\"http:\/\/rakuyou.deviantart.com\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"nofollow\">Rakuyou@DA<\/a> drew an <a href=\"http:\/\/pics.livejournal.com\/weatherfront\/pic\/00008dh1\" target=\"_blank\">incredibly gorgeous picture<\/a> of what happens after the events of this story, YOU SHOULD REALLY SEE IT oh my gosh it is so delightful *____* !! <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"paperflower86\" lj:user=\"paperflower86\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/paperflower86.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/paperflower86.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>paperflower86<\/b><\/a><\/span> created a <a href=\"http:\/\/paperflower86.livejournal.com\/83304.html\" target=\"_blank\">wonderful comic<\/a>, which if you haven't seen it, you haven't lived, it's so beautiful. And dearest anon who made the beautiful website-- you are what makes fandom such a great place. &hearts; Thank you.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/>It's a Friday.<br \/><br \/>\"Mail's here,\" says Detective Yusuf. He's holding a stack of envelopes in his right hand, and a hot dog in his left. Detective Ariadne follows behind in more or less an identical state, right down to the condiments on her hot dog. She's fitting in well.<br \/><br \/>They make their way down the winding maze of cubicles, dispensing letters and packages as they go, a bite of a hot dog with each step they take.<br \/><br \/>Arthur knows what's coming. It's a Friday. And just like he's done every Friday for the last two months, he grits his teeth and braces for the impact. His cubicle is at the far end of the room, but Ariadne and Yusuf are getting closer.<br \/><br \/>It isn't long now.<br \/><br \/>\"A letter for Darling,\" says Ariadne. \"Wait, Darling? We don't have anyone n--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Thank you,\" yells Arthur, as he leaps up and snatches the envelope from her hands.<br \/><br \/>\"Detective Arthur?\" asks Ariadne. \"But your name isn't...\"<br \/><br \/>\"Ah, today is Friday,\" says Yusuf. \"Really though, Arthur? You're already at <i>darling?<\/i> Young passion must run its course, but wow, talk about taking it too fast.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Shut up, Yusuf,\" says Arthur, tearing into the envelope.<br \/><br \/>\"You're new,\" Yusuf says to Ariadne, \"so let me explain something.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Go away,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Today is Friday,\" says Yusuf. \"Every Friday and every Monday, the best thief we've ever had the misfortune to deal with sends Detective Arthur here an envelope.\"<br \/><br \/>\"He's not the best,\" says Arthur. \"He's just the luckiest.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Inside the envelope,\" says Yusuf, \"is a love letter.\"<br \/><br \/>\"No, there isn't,\" shouts Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Why is a thief sending Detective Arthur love letters?\" asks Ariadne.<br \/><br \/>\"Well, you know, he and Arthur are--\" says Yusuf, and does something very obscene with his hands.<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Arthur. \"No, that's-- Ariadne, don't listen to this asshole, that's not-- that's not even remotely true.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Deny it all you want,\" says Yusuf. \"But they <i>are<\/i> love letters. I know we've declared Eames the sworn enemy of this entire division, but I will not say a word against the strength and purity of his erection--\"<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Yusuf,<\/i>\" groans Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"His love,\" says Yusuf. \"The strength and purity of his love.\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>It has been a little over two months since the first envelope. Every Monday and Friday for two months, Arthur has been receiving envelopes in the mail from the most atrocious high-end thief in modern history.<br \/><br \/>Eames.<br \/><br \/>Fucking <i>Eames.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Arthur -- freelance private investigator extraordinaire -- is currently in the service of the city police, Division of Burglary and Theft. It's two months ago, though it seems like forever, that they begin picking up rumors of a planned Sunday job on a private collection. <i>Police won't know what hit them,<\/i> say the whispers. <i>This will be the work of a virtuoso. First in a series.<\/i><br \/><br \/>The police come to Arthur. He specializes in tracking down misplaced artwork, relocated jewels, anything and everything worth a handsome reward. He has an excellent track record. The collection in question is particularly tasteful, and the owner -- Saito, an energy mogul -- leaves all security to Arthur and flies off to Germany on a business trip.<br \/><br \/>\"Are you serious?\" demands Arthur. \"You're just up and leaving when there's a theft threat against your property?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Mr. Arthur,\" says Saito, placing a warm hand on Arthur's shoulder, \"sometimes a man must continue living his life in the face of danger. Perhaps you too will understand, when you have become a man.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur puts all his soul into guarding Saito's collection. He really does. He tapes off the entire building, positions the whole division around the block, and personally stands watch inside the house.<br \/><br \/>At half past one, all the alarms go off at once.<br \/><br \/>\"Shit,\" exclaims Arthur. His head is ringing. Over the thunderous, relentless din, he thinks he hears footsteps heading south. The window egress route. He dashes after the sound. Skidding across a carpet, jumping over a doorsill, he chases the shadow with his heart in his throat.<br \/><br \/>He hunts it down to the master bedroom, where a set of Venetian windows are thrown open and the night wind ripples through the curtains. There's someone on the balcony. Someone is slinging a leg over the railing. Arthur is about to pull his gun on the silhouette, but it turns and freezes, hanging halfway in midair-- and the clouds pass over the moon and the light streams across them.<br \/><br \/>White male, early thirties, well-built. He has a framed painting under one arm. With a rage that sets his hair on edge, Arthur realizes that it's a Bacon triptych. The thief has his grubby hands on a Bacon triptych. The situation is unacceptable.<br \/><br \/>But before Arthur can do anything about it, the thief grins. His smile is wide and bright, sharp as steel. There's stubble on his jaw. And then he <i>winks--<\/i><br \/><br \/>--and jumps.<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Arthur. \"No fucking way.\"<br \/><br \/>He rushes to the railing. There's no ledge below, only a good clean drop of eight stories onto asphalt. There's nowhere to hide, and no way to survive the fall. But there's no trace of the thief on the ground or otherwise, and gone with him is the Bacon triptych.<br \/><br \/>Arthur is speechless, bewildered, and absolutely furious. He broods at home for the rest of Sunday, and doesn't take any calls from the office. When he arrives at work on Monday, Yusuf hands him an envelope with <i>PRIVATE DETECTIVE ARTHUR<\/i> scrawled across the back.<br \/><br \/>Inside is a hollowed-out poker chip with a piece of paper folded into it.<br \/><br \/><i>HELLO,<\/i> it says. <i>DO YOU BELEIVE IN LOVE AT FIRST SITE?<\/i><br \/><br \/>It's signed <i>EAMES<\/i>, and since that's no one he knows, Arthur considers the whole thing some sort of elaborate office prank. He blames himself for screwing up his first chance at victory. All in all, really, he's glad. If it hadn't been for the hints that the thief had other jobs lined up, Arthur would be out of a job with nothing to show for it but a tarnished reputation. So he suffers the mocking with dignity and doesn't mention the note to anyone.<br \/><br \/>On Friday, Yusuf hands him an envelope addressed to a <i>DETECTIVE ARTHUR.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"Did you get a pen pal?\" asks Yusuf. \"Is this your way of dealing with grief?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Shut up,\" says Arthur. \"I know where your cat lives.\"<br \/><br \/>\"That is low,\" says Yusuf.<br \/><br \/>Inside is a hollowed-out poker chip with a piece of paper folded into it.<br \/><br \/><i>BE AT THE MUSEAM OF CONTEMPORRARY ART ON SUNDAY,<\/i> it says. <i>ILL BE THERE AT 2 OCLOCK.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Arthur tries to crumple the envelope, but something inside won't give. He peers inside. It's a polaroid picture of the Bacon triptych, resting on what appears to be bright orange bedsheets.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>At two in the morning on Monday, a beautiful Gorky is stolen from the Museum of Contemporary Art.<br \/><br \/>At ten in the morning on Monday, Yusuf drops an envelope off at Arthur's desk.<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" he says. \"You look like hell.\"<br \/><br \/>\"No, I don't,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Your collar is lopsided,\" says Yusuf. \"Did you even sleep?\"<br \/><br \/><i>ARTHUR,<\/i> reads the envelope. Inside is a polaroid picture of the Gorky on bright orange bedsheets, and a letter inside a poker chip that says, <i>LOVE THE TRENCHCOAT. REALLY SHOWS OFF YOUR FIGURE.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"Oh, you can't arrest Mr. Eames now,\" pleads Yusuf. \"His spelling is getting so much better.\"<br \/><br \/>\"This asshole is going down,\" says Arthur, and crushes the envelope in his fist because this time he remembers to take out the polaroid first.<br \/><br \/>Eventually Arthur comes to be silently thankful that he didn't think to put a timeframe on his threat. Again and again, he misses Eames right before his eyes. Always the helter-skelter of shoes on marble, just a couple footsteps ahead of him. Eames steals jewels, statuettes, more paintings. Arthur seethes and watches as Eames escapes, safe on a helicopter rope ladder with a Giacometti in his free hand.<br \/><br \/>\"If I wasn't worried about the Giacometti,\" yells Arthur, \"I'd just shoot you right now.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'll see you next week,\" Eames shouts back, and waves.<br \/><br \/>When he does see him the week after, Eames is diving into the backseat of his getaway car. Arthur yells into his transceiver, <i>He's in an Audi, block off the roads,<\/i> but somehow Eames slips right through.<br \/><br \/>Before the car turns a corner, the sunroof slides open. Eames pops his head up into sight, grins, and blows Arthur a kiss.<br \/><br \/>Of course, then there is the time that Arthur has never spoken of to anyone. That's the week with the enormous blue diamond and the museum with a million passageways leading in and out of every room. That's the week when the sprinklers go off at a quarter after midnight, and Arthur splutters, unsure of what to do-- when suddenly someone <i>slaps his ass<\/i> and when he whirls around, there is no one there.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" shouts Arthur, mouth filling with water, \"not only am I going to arrest you, I am going to sue you.\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>At last even Sergeant Cobb runs out of faith. And Arthur knows Cobb is on his side, that Cobb was the one who got him hired in the first place, but even he can't justify Arthur's abysmal numbers.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames is still on the loose,\" says Cobb. \"Your clearance rate is zero, Arthur.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I only have the one case,\" protests Arthur. \"Once I get him, it'll be a hundred. Think of it that way.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Your dedication is well noted,\" says Cobb, \"and I know you're certainly capable enough. It's just that-- perhaps Eames isn't the right case for you. He's unorthodox. Catching him may require more-- well, require more imagination.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I have plenty of imagination,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Zero percent clearance rate,\" says Cobb.<br \/><br \/>Arthur's brain spins into overdrive, tiny cogs clicking into each other and whirring so fast they hum inside his head. No matter which way he looks at it, there's only one way out of the problem. Arthur feels a little sorry for Cobb, but that's what he gets for assuming that Arthur doesn't fight dirty when he needs to.<br \/><br \/>\"Speaking of clearance rates,\" says Arthur, \"how's the new division chief treating you?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Surprisingly great so far,\" admits Cobb. \"He's not on my back about the rates. But he's a good man, you know? I don't want him to start worrying about clearance. You understand.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Of course I do,\" says Arthur. \"He really is a good man. And his daughter, Cobb. Have you seen his daughter? She was at the mixer last week in that plunging dress. She's a piece of work, all right.\"<br \/><br \/>Cobb swallows.<br \/><br \/>\"Let me see if I remember her name,\" says Arthur. \"Was it Mal? I think it was Mal. She's very pretty. It makes sense for her father to be so protective of her. Wouldn't want any wayward sergeants putting the moves on his beloved daughter, right? I wonder how he'd react if he was informed that someone managed to get past his watchful eye.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" says Cobb, \"you wouldn't.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Dominic Cobb,\" says Arthur, leaning forward over Cobb's desk, \"I so would.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur keeps the case.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Sometime near the end of the first month, Arthur's Monday envelope contains the following missive.<br \/><br \/><i>ANOTHER WHOLE WEEK UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN,<\/i> it says. <i>HERE'S SOMETHING TO HOLD YOU OVER. WWW.EAMESSTEALSTHINGS.COM<\/i><br \/><br \/>Arthur isn't going to take the bait, he really isn't, but then when he comes back from a weak cup of coffee Yusuf has commandeered his chair, typing on his keyboard, using his browser to most definitely take that bait with gusto.<br \/><br \/>\"He launched an official website,\" says Arthur. \"That asshole launched-- I can't believe this.\"<br \/><br \/>\"There's a 'statement of purpose' section,\" says Yusuf, and clicks.<br \/><br \/><i>STATEMENT OF PERPOSE,<\/i> says the website in large orange letters. <i>MY NAME IS EAMES. YOUVE PROBABLY HEARD OF ME. IM POSSIBLY THE GREATEST THEIF WORKING TODAY, AND BETTER THEN MOST OF THE ONES NOT WORKING TODAY. I STEAL ART, I STEAL JEWELS, I STEAL ANYTHING YOULL PAY ME FOR.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"Even his website offends my eyes,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/><i>I CHARGE BY THE HOUR,<\/i> it continues. <i>THIS INCLUDES TIME SPENT IN PLANNING. EQUIPTMENT AND COFFEE WILL BE CONSIDERED BUISNESS EXPENDITURS. MY CONTACT INFORMATION IS NOT FOUND ON THIS WEB SITE BECAUSE STEALING IS ILEGAL, BUT YOU PROBABLY KNOW HOW TO GET IN TOUCH WITH ME IF YOU REALLY NEED TO. ENJOY THE REST OF MY WEB SITE!<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"What's on the rest of his website?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"There's a 'photographs' section,\" says Yusuf, and clicks.<br \/><br \/>The first picture that loads is of the Bacon triptych. Arthur grinds his teeth together. His first defeat still tastes sour. It's even worse this time because Eames' face is obscuring the middle panel, where he stands pointing at himself like he fucking knows he's got it, whatever it happens to be.<br \/><br \/>\"I won't scroll down if you don't want me to,\" says Yusuf.<br \/><br \/>\"Let's just get through it,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"All right,\" says Yusuf, \"but do you mind not digging your fingers into my arm quite so much?\"<br \/><br \/>Every single item is there. Eames is posing with every single one of them. His eyes are lazy with self-satisfaction, his grin like a cat with a face full of milk. Yusuf is trying to pry Arthur's fingers from his arm but Arthur can't seem to relax his muscles, and he's winding tighter and tigher, his peripheral vision flashing red with pounding blood.<br \/><br \/>After the catalogue of stolen items, the pictures quickly turn inexplicable. There is one where Eames is kneeling in a field of grass with the sun in his hair, petting a golden retriever by his side.<br \/><br \/>\"What are these pictures even <i>for,<\/i>\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>There is also one where Eames is slouching against the hood of a battered old Jeep, tattoos like arcane secrets trailing down the curves of his biceps.<br \/><br \/>\"I don't understand,\" says Arthur. \"Is it an ad campaign? Is it a photoshoot for some kind of fugitive fashion magazine?\"<br \/><br \/>Then comes the series where the pictures are grainy like they've been snapped on a phone, and Eames is stretching a hand high to angle the shot, and he's shirtless and his pants are slung extremely low on his hips and there's an incline of hard lines and hair disappearing into the front of his waistband.<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Close it,<\/i>\" yells Arthur. \"<i>Close the browser.<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Oh my god,<\/i>\" yells Yusuf. \"<i>Calm down, Arthur.<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Anyway, it's been two months, and it's a Friday. Detective Ariadne is asking, <i>How do they even find the time to sleep with each other,<\/i> and Yusuf is saying, <i>That's the funny thing about erections, they always find a way.<\/i><br \/><br \/>The note inside the poker chip says, <i>IT'S A DATE AT THE GEMSTONE EXIBITION. LETS MAKE IT SOMETHING SPECIAL. 1 AM DONT BE LATE.<\/i><br \/><br \/>The gemstone exhibition in question is an annual event held to celebrate the art of setting, and being what it is, it fills the entire wing of a museum with enough precious stones to cause a war. Arthur is annoyed that Eames won't just tell him which item he plans on stealing, if he's going to tell him the time and place to begin with.<br \/><br \/>But Arthur combs through the exhibition on Saturday morning, and knows this is perhaps the last chance he has. He needs to make a choice. He can't close in on Eames without narrowing down the list of possible targets to a single item; Eames is too talented to trip over something like diffuse security.<br \/><br \/><i>It's time I took a chance<\/i>, thinks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>He settles on a brooch of gigantic pearls and rubies, unapologetically flashy and much too large to be practical and somehow so very Eames that he is almost confident in the gamble. Arthur doesn't know what makes him feel like he knows Eames; they've never talked at once for more than a couple seconds each, and most of the things that Arthur has said consisted of threats and invectives.<br \/><br \/>All of the things that Eames has said consisted of promises and endearments. An odd sensation creeps over Arthur, like something has been jarred and come loose in himself, but he chalks it up to excitement.<br \/><br \/>He'll show Eames imagination. He has it planned out; mirrors that take the place of open corridors, mirrors that slide down from the ceiling to the floor and block the division between rooms. People being chased turn sharp corners, and Eames won't realize that the exits are closed off until it's too late. It's unusual enough to throw him off balance, and that split second of confusion will be all that Arthur needs.<br \/><br \/>Arthur is going to win.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>The alarms go off at one o'clock sharp. The museum is arranged in what is more or less a grid, and as soon as the alarms sound, the eight rooms surrounding the brooch become cul-de-sacs.<br \/><br \/>There are footsteps running across the floor--<br \/><br \/>--those infernal footsteps, echoing in every bone of his body--<br \/><br \/>--leading him closer and closer, and Arthur is on the hunt.<br \/><br \/>Arthur is playing to win.<br \/><br \/>Eames is in the third room he sprints into. Eames is scrambling up from the floor, brooch clutched in one hand, about to throw himself at the mirror cutting him off from his exit.<br \/><br \/>\"Freeze,\" says Arthur, pulling out his gun. \"Turn around.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames does. Slowly his hands rise to either side of his head.<br \/><br \/>Arthur flips the safety, keeping the gun trained on Eames. God, the exhilaration is sweet, and he's breathless with adrenaline. The lights are white-hot and sparks are dancing across the walls.<br \/><br \/>\"You,\" wheezes Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Hello, Arthur,\" says Eames, like he isn't cornered in a room full of mirrors, like he isn't staring down the barrel of a gun pointed at his forehead.<br \/><br \/>\"It's about fucking time,\" says Arthur, \"you asshole.\"<br \/><br \/>\"When I told you we should make today something special,\" says Eames, \"I don't think this is what I meant.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Shut it,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Charcoal's a good color on you,\" says Eames, nodding at Arthur's suit. \"It brings out your eyes.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Seriously,\" says Arthur, \"be quiet while I send you where you belong, jailbird.\"<br \/><br \/>He fumbles behind himself for the handcuffs, his fingers numb with agitation. As his heart begins to pound a little slower and his head clears into lucid thought, he realizes that Eames really isn't saying anything. All he's doing is watching Arthur. There's a tiny smile around the corners of his lips, and even though his mouth is crooking up, it doesn't look anything like happiness.<br \/><br \/>\"Jesus, do something,\" says Arthur, his chest flooding with incomprehensible panic. \"Don't just stand there! Try to run, come on-- wrestle my gun out of my hands, do something! Goddammit, why are you just standing there?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I was just thinking,\" says Eames, \"that this is how it's going to end.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur's knuckles go pale around the butt of the gun.<br \/><br \/>\"It made me sad, pet,\" says Eames. \"That's all.\"<br \/><br \/><i>This is how it's going to end,<\/i> thinks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>And for some reason he can't picture the congratulations, the hundred-percent clearance rate, the hefty check and the booming business. All he sees is the endless Friday line of tail lights down the highway going home. He thinks of cleaning his house like he used to do every Saturday, dusting all the crevices, vacuuming under the rug, scrubbing everything clean until each surface gleams spotless, just so that he can collapse onto his bed at night and sleep until the morning.<br \/><br \/>He thinks of bleach and unscented wipes. He thinks of Sundays spent on the couch, all his windows thrown open in hopes of catching a breeze, and he thinks of waiting, waiting, waiting for Monday, waiting until someone wants something found for them, waiting until he knows what to do next, waiting until he knows who he is.<br \/><br \/>He thinks of a 404 error in place of that stupid orange website with its stupid grainy pictures, and he thinks of the heap of hollowed-out poker chips stacked in a basket on his kitchen table.<br \/><br \/>There's a faint commotion in the distance. It's the sound of backup arriving.<br \/><br \/>And god help him, because Eames doesn't do a single fucking thing, just stands there with his hands up and smiles like he's let go. God help him, because he knows he shouldn't, but all he can think of is the misery of what people call self-sufficiency.<br \/><br \/>\"Take off your shirt,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" says Eames, \"now is really not the time--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Hurry, that's backup coming,\" says Arthur. \"I don't want to ruin mine, it's expensive.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur rams his gun back into his holster, and Eames' eyes flicker to life. He sheds his jacket and makes quick work of his buttons, and he pulls the shirt off of himself as the fabric stretches against his skin, undershirt tight across his chest. Eames looks broad and solid and he feels warm even from several feet away, the heat radiating off him when Arthur reaches out a hand to take the shirt.<br \/><br \/>\"I could disrobe further, if you like,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>He's smirking, insolent and inviting like he's always been, and Arthur can't stop to think about why that comforts him because the crowd is drawing near. Arthur wraps the shirt around his fist, and takes a deep breath. It's going to hurt, but he can't risk being found with shards of glass all over his hair, and they'd count the rounds left in his service weapon.<br \/><br \/>Fist it is, then.<br \/><br \/>Arthur puts all of his weight into the punch, and the mirror shudders and cracks in spiderweb ripples, crashing to the floor when he pulls out his fist. The dull ache in his hand explodes, shooting up his arm, but right now he doesn't have the luxury of pain.<br \/><br \/>\"Go,\" he hisses at Eames, \"before I change my mind.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames' smirk gets just a little bigger, and that's more like it. That's the Eames worth hating.<br \/><br \/>It must be some sort of sickness, because Arthur finds himself grinning back.<br \/><br \/>Gingerly, Eames lifts Arthur's fist, brushing off flecks of glass from the fabric, covering Arthur's hand with his own. Arthur's breath catches in his throat; Eames leans in, his lips brushing against the edge of Arthur's ear.<br \/><br \/>\"You know,\" whispers Eames, \"you could have kicked it down instead.\"<br \/><br \/>And he grabs a corner of the tattered shirt and runs, the glass crunching under his feet, the shirt unwinding behind him, trailing like a ribbon. Arthur looks down at his hand, where his flesh is raw and smudged with blood.<br \/><br \/><i>It doesn't hurt anymore, though,<\/i> he thinks.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Monday morning, the envelope -- sent to <i>ARTHUR, DARLING<\/i> -- is bulging with a box.<br \/><br \/>\"Tell me,\" says Ariadne, \"is it the chocolate of love?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Yusuf is a terrible influence on you,\" says Arthur. \"Go away or I won't share any.\"<br \/><br \/>But instead, it's a carton of band-aids. Tiny ones for children, with Disney princesses all over them. Arthur chuckles in spite of himself, and pries the note out from inside the poker chip.<br \/><br \/><i>HOPE YOUR HAND IS HEALING ALL RIGHT,<\/i> it says. <i>FOUND YOUR BLOOD ON THE REMAINS OF MY SHIRT. I RELIZE THIS NEXT PART MAY SOUND A BIT DODGY BUT I WANTED YOU TO KNOW: I TOSSED OFF INTO IT ALL NIGHT LONG.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Arthur frowns.<br \/><br \/>\"Yusuf,\" he calls. \"What does it mean-- to toss off?\"<br \/><br \/>\"What?\" asks Yusuf. \"Who's talking to you about tossing off?\"<br \/><br \/>\"No one,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Well, you know, it's,\" says Yusuf, and does something very obscene with his hands.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, god,\" mutters Arthur, as all the blood in his body rushes to his face. Of course only Eames would think to combine well-wishing, Disney princesses, and masturbation into a single package, then wrap it up in poor spelling and hurl it at a detective sworn to arrest him. Of course.<br \/><br \/>\"Look, Arthur,\" says Ariadne from her cubicle. \"Eames updated his website.\"<br \/><br \/>She points to the menu where there's a section titled CURRENT MARK.<br \/><br \/>\"Is this a public version of those advance notices he's been sending you every Friday?\" she asks.<br \/><br \/>\"What would be the point in that?\" wonders Arthur. \"Try clicking.\"<br \/><br \/>She does. In gigantic orange font, larger than the main menu, it says <i>CURRENT MARK: THE HEART OF ONE DETECTIVE ARTHUR.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"No,\" groans Arthur. \"No, please, no.\"<br \/><br \/>Just when he thinks it can't possibly get any worse, Ariadne scrolls down and a picture pops up on the page. It's hazy like it's been taken zoomed in through several windows. It's <i>him,<\/i> it's Arthur, in nothing but tight black boxer briefs, eyes fixed on something outside the frame and reaching up to towel off his hair.<br \/><br \/>Arthur just gapes.<br \/><br \/>\"Wow,\" says Ariadne, \"you've been working out.\"<br \/><br \/><i>EVERYONE,<\/i> it says below the picture, <i>THIS DELISHIOUS CUPCAKE IS MINE, THANK YOU.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"It is not,\" yells Arthur. \"It is so totally not yours!\"<br \/><br \/>When he comes into the office on Tuesday, Arthur's cubicle has been completely vandalized. Pictures of Eames from his official website have been printed and thumbtacked all over his walls, and interspersed are speech bubbles made of post-it notes.<br \/><br \/><i>DETECTIVE ARTHUR PLEASE BE MY BRIDE,<\/i> says one.<br \/><br \/><i>THAT DETECTIVE ARTHUR,<\/i> says another, <i>WHAT A DELISHIOUS DREAMBOTE.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Inevitably, one of the grainy phone camera pictures has a cartoon penis drawn in black marker over Eames' crotch. Arthur makes it a point to rip that one down first.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Friday's note is addressed, simply, to <i>LOVE.<\/i> Yusuf does a double take as he hands it to Arthur, and Ariadne rolls her eyes.<br \/><br \/>\"It's a British thing,\" mumbles Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"No, it's an Eames thing,\" says Yusuf. \"It's an Eames thing for <i>you.<\/i> It's a throbbing, aching, painfully hard Eames thing f--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Why do you have this unhealthy obsession with erections?\" asks Arthur, and retreats to a corner for peace.<br \/><br \/>\"Every man has an unhealthy obsession with erections,\" Yusuf calls after him.<br \/><br \/><i>IS YOUR HAND WELL ENUGH TO SHOOT WITH?<\/i> says the letter. <i>THERE'S A TOURING MODILIANI COLLECTION IN TOWN. WE SHOULD GO SEE IT TOGETHER. 1AM.<\/i><br \/><br \/>The absurdity of it all suddenly strikes Arthur, and he starts laughing. He's been seeing an obnoxious criminal every weekend for over two months now, an unscrupulous bastard with a mouth he could stare at for days, who can steal the best from the best and still manage to misspell his way through life. And no matter what private weakness may have previously led Arthur to clemency, this Sunday, their showdown is to the death.<br \/><br \/><i>Wait,<\/i> thinks Arthur, <i>with a mouth what?<\/i><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>When he hears that the Modigliani exhibit is scheduled to be displayed in Saito's mansion, Arthur is apprehensive. After all, it's his fault that Saito had his Bacon lifted. But surprisingly enough, Saito personally requests that Arthur arrange the security around the Modigliani event.<br \/><br \/>\"You're the best at what you do,\" says Saito, \"and you're trying the hardest to do what you do. If anything, your previous experience should spur you on to achieve a different result this time.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Saito,\" says Arthur, \"you are the most impressive human being I know.\"<br \/><br \/>This time, he places snipers inside nearby buildings, aiming at every open window of Saito's house. There are ground units waiting on the first floor, and an air unit that hovers overhead. Everything and everyone is set, including Arthur. He rests a hand on his pistol and listens for footsteps.<br \/><br \/>This time, there are none. Arthur has his back to the balcony window, and when the curtains billow out, he first thinks it's the silk before he realizes there are arms around his shoulders.<br \/><br \/>\"This house brings back memories,\" says Eames, hot against his neck.<br \/><br \/>\"Forget them,\" says Arthur. \"I know I'm trying.\"<br \/><br \/>He slides his hand down to his holster, but Eames is there first, lacing their fingers together.<br \/><br \/>\"There's no rush,\" says Eames. \"It's not one yet.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You're here early,\" says Arthur. \"What do we do while we wait?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Don't even ask,\" says Eames, and his lips trail up Arthur's jaw, a slight rasp of stubble as they slide across skin.<br \/><br \/>Arthur twists his head away and slips out of the loose embrace.<br \/><br \/>\"There's no rush,\" he says. \"Besides, I don't date outlaws.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You might change your mind,\" says Eames. \"How's your war wound, darling?\"<br \/><br \/>They're still linked by their fingers, and Eames raises Arthur's hand up like he's going to kiss it. The pads of his thumbs are rough, and they pass over every last bit of the back of Arthur's hand like they need to know it from memory. All the cuts are closed, and only the deeper ones have plain band-aids over them.<br \/><br \/>\"Were the princesses too much for you?\" asks Eames, and in the dark he sounds amused.<br \/><br \/>Arthur is about to answer, but then it catches his eye; a subtle shift in the corner of his vision, the shadow of a person in the building across from the balcony. Eames is blind to all else but the contours of his hand, but Arthur sees the sniper tense, and there's something about the movement that says--<br \/><br \/>--he's going to shoot.<br \/><br \/>And in that moment, Arthur realizes that he can't do it.<br \/><br \/>He just can't do it.<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Get down,<\/i>\" he shouts, and hurls himself at Eames. A window shatters across the street, and in an instant it feels like his shoulder bursts into fire, the impact knocking him off his feet-- and he hits the floor as his breath rushes out of him, and it hurts, nothing like a cut-up hand, the agony eating away at him and twisting his insides, and dimly he can hear Eames yelling something and turning him over, but the words don't make any sense and <i>everything hurts.<\/i><br \/><br \/>It's so bad that he forgets where he is, forgets what has happened, but a single clear thought cuts in through the churning fog.<br \/><br \/><i>This is the stupidest fucking thing I have ever done,<\/i> he thinks.<br \/><br \/>And he lets his head fall back.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Edith Piaf is warbling from somewhere far away. <i>J'irais d\u00e9crocher la lune, j'irais voler la fortune, si tu me le demandais.<\/i> There's a soft whistle beneath her voice, and a smell of lavender. He is lying on what feels very much like clouds.<br \/><br \/>Naturally, Arthur assumes that he has died and gone to heaven.<br \/><br \/>But when he cracks an eye open, he sees Eames sitting on the other side of the room, his feet up on a desk.<br \/><br \/>\"Not heaven, then,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Eames. \"Still alive.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Oh,\" says Arthur, and closes his eyes again. \"Good.\"<br \/><br \/>The chair creaks, and footsteps pad across the floor. Eames' hands are warm as they ghost across Arthur's skin, and it's through the whisper of fabric and flesh that Arthur pieces things together. He's on a bed -- Eames' bed, presumably orange -- and his shoulder has been wrapped tight with bandages, passing under his arm and across his chest. No shirt, but Arthur feels that this isn't the right moment to be flustered.<br \/><br \/>\"You'll be all right,\" says Eames. \"There's the bleeding, and your ribs are bruised, but nothing bedrest won't fix.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You should take the kettle off,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Welcome to my humble abode,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>Arthur tries to sit up when Eames brings the tea, but his shoulder is bad on one side and his ribs are bad on the other. So he lets Eames prop him up against the pillows, handling him slowly like he has fragile stickers all over him. That angers him.<br \/><br \/>\"I'm not an invalid,\" says Arthur. \"In case you forgot, I got shot trying to save your sorry ass.\"<br \/><br \/>\"That still makes you an invalid,\" says Eames. \"Just a very stupid one.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I know,\" says Arthur. \"I remember thinking that.\"<br \/><br \/>\"And a very brave one,\" says Eames. \"It's Monday. Shall we converse, or would we prefer that we wrote a note instead?\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur tests the tea with his tongue and looks around the room. There's only one, excluding the nook of a bathroom off to one side, which is a disconcertingly humble abode indeed for a jewel and fine art thief. None of what he stole is anywhere in the room.<br \/><br \/><i>Of course,<\/i> thinks Arthur, bitterly. <i>Must have sold them off to his clients.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"Evidently you prefer the notes,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I don't even know what those are for,\" says Arthur. \"Do you have a code of honor or something? Do you prefer a challenge? What's the point of telling me to show up, if you're going to run away?\"<br \/><br \/>\"It's nothing like that,\" says Eames. \"If there's something to be done, I'd rather get it done with as little effort as possible.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Then why,\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"If I didn't send the notes,\" says Eames, \"how would you know where to wait for me?\"<br \/><br \/>\"What!\" yells Arthur. \"I don't-- I don't wait for you! I mean, I wait for you, but only so that I can arrest you!\"<br \/><br \/>\"Really,\" says Eames, archly.<br \/><br \/>\"Don't flatter yourself,\" says Arthur. He crosses his arms.<br \/><br \/>\"I've got a question for you, then,\" says Eames. \"Why did you let me go, that time with the brooch and the mirrors? And why did you take the bullet for me?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Those are two questions,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"It's a two-parter,\" says Eames. \"Actually, it has multiple parts, because those aren't the only two times you've let me go.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You're just luckier than you think,\" says Arthur. \"That's all.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You never checked where the updates to my website were coming from,\" says Eames. \"You never traced my envelopes. You never sent any lines out looking for the whereabouts of the stolen items.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur sets his jaw.<br \/><br \/>\"I don't think you ever really wanted to catch me,\" says Eames. \"Why is that?\"<br \/><br \/><i>Why,<\/i> Arthur asks himself, because there's truth in that. Eames is a very good thief, but no one is good enough -- or lucky enough -- to get away with almost a dozen jobs, week after week, with no variance in method. And Arthur did know Eames well enough to pinpoint the brooch he would target. Eames was right. Arthur had let him go.<br \/><br \/>Arthur remembers the dread of a weekend spent at home, nothing to do and nowhere to be. But that wasn't all of it. It wasn't all about his restlessness. He'd thought of Eames, in front of that mirror -- the lost website, the abandoned poker chips -- and he hadn't wanted that to end, either.<br \/><br \/><i>Just one last time,<\/i> he had thought, <i>I want to see him again--<\/i><br \/><br \/>Arthur's eyes go wide as it dawns on him.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, shit,\" he says, and brings a hand up to his mouth, because he's either going to scream or vomit.<br \/><br \/>\"More tea?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"No, just-- leave me alone,\" mutters Arthur, \"my world is crumbling right now.\"<br \/><br \/>He darts a glance up at Eames, and to his horror, notices that Eames is smirking. Eames <i>knew.<\/i> Eames had known long before Arthur did.<br \/><br \/>\"You,\" begins Arthur, pointing a finger in Eames' smug face.<br \/><br \/>\"And thus it comes to him,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I don't believe this,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"You started to root for me,\" says Eames, \"and then you started to fall in love with me.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Shut up,\" yells Arthur, \"oh god, please <i>shut up.<\/i> I work for the police! I help wronged citizens! I don't root for criminals-- or fall-- fall in-- <i>fall in love with them--<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>\"The thing is, Arthur,\" says Eames, \"you're an outlaw. You've just forgotten how to be one.\"<br \/><br \/>He takes the teacup from Arthur's hand and sets it down on the floor, and straddles him on the bed. There is a hideously orange blanket, two pairs of pants, and presumably two pairs of underwear between them, and still Arthur backs up all the way to the headboard.<br \/><br \/>\"Just because you button all of your buttons up,\" says Eames, \"doesn't mean you're meant to live in a cage. You might get annoyed at bad spelling, but you're an outlaw, Arthur. You don't belong in this life.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames is much too close, Eames-- who has been not much more than footsteps to Arthur for as long as he has known him. Suddenly they're pushed together, two to a bed, and Arthur doesn't know what to do now that they aren't hiding from each other.<br \/><br \/>And he thinks of grey felt cubicle walls, the swipe of his ID as he checks in every morning. He's brought back by the heat of Eames' hand curling around his cheek.<br \/><br \/>\"I've been thinking of expanding my operation,\" says Eames. \"I'm looking for a point man.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur swallows away the lump in his throat.<br \/><br \/>\"The box of band-aids you sent me,\" he says. \"I left it in my office drawer.\"<br \/><br \/>\"We'll get you another,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>It's a couple Fridays before the Division of Burglary and Theft receives an envelope in the mail. It's sent to <i>Det. Yusuf and Det. Ariadne.<\/i> Inside is a hollowed-out red acetate die, a key, a polaroid picture, and the usual poker chip.<br \/><br \/><i>I'm sorry I didn't get to say goodbye,<\/i> says the note folded into the die. <i>It all happened a bit fast. I did try to do one last good thing for you-- go to First Unity Bank and ask for vault 528. This is the key. Inside will be everything Eames has stolen so far, with the exception of the Bacon triptych. None of the other items were commissioned for theft by clients, and should now be returned to the original owners. Tell Saito that I apologize for the Bacon and that I will attempt to procure it for him as quickly as possible.<br \/><br \/>Eames and I are overseas and plan to remain so in the foreseeable future, which I find preferable, since I have no intention of stealing from your jurisdiction. I probably won't ever be coming back, though I might reconsider that if Cobb gets married to the division chief's daughter. Don't look for me when that happens. You won't see me.<br \/><br \/>I hope this finds you well.<br \/><br \/>Arthur.<\/i><br \/><br \/>The polaroid is of the thousand lights and high beams of Charles de Gaulle, curving like mountains, like flight.<br \/><br \/>There's only a short fortune-cookie strip of paper in the poker chip.<br \/><br \/><a href=\"http:\/\/www.arthurandeamesstealthings.com\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"nofollow\"><i>WWW.ARTHURANDEAMESSTEALTHINGS.COM,<\/i><\/a> it says.<br><br><br>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/5044.html?view=comments#comments","category":["eames\/arthur","au"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/4726.html","pubDate":"Mon, 18 Oct 2010 06:55:28 GMT","title":"Scenes from a Life Under Wraps","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/4726.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Saito\/Arthur, trace amounts of Cobb\/Arthur and Eames\/Arthur if you Coob-squint very hard<br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> It's a mutually beneficial business arrangement and mutually beneficial sex. Arthur can end it any old time he wants. Any time of day.<br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> ...So basically I have this shameful thing for kept man Arthur, and then <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"two_if_by_sea\" lj:user=\"two_if_by_sea\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/two-if-by-sea.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/two-if-by-sea.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>two_if_by_sea<\/b><\/a><\/span> wrote a <a href=\"http:\/\/two-if-by-sea.livejournal.com\/244688.html\" target=\"_blank\">Saito\/Arthur music challenge meme fic<\/a> and it was amazing, so I was like OH, THAT'S SUCH A GOOD IDEA! Except it turns out that I failed completely at the challenge flj;ldnlr; anyway this is sort of the less-well-written, more-traditionally-shaped, kept-man-kept-man companion piece to that fic, perhaps? In a generous world?<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/>How does it go again, Arthur has heard it before--<br \/><br \/>He thinks he can unravel anything he sets his mind to. That's always Arthur's mistake.<br \/><br \/>Saito makes all the sense in the world as he leans over a table on his private plane, and yet Arthur can't fumble past the tangle of the coiled wildcat strength beneath his skin. The way he inches into the air between them.<br \/><br \/><i>You are not obligated to take the job,<\/i> says Saito. <i>If you prefer, this will remain a gift, a private vacation to reward your professionalism during our previous venture together.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>That wasn't me at my most professional,<\/i> says Arthur. <i>You should have invited Cobb.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>I doubt he wishes to leave his family again quite so soon,<\/i> says Saito.<br \/><br \/>The scent of the wine wafts heady where it pools in the bottom of Arthur's glass.<br \/><br \/><i>You will enjoy the work,<\/i> says Saito.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>He does, of course. That's always Arthur's mistake.<br \/><br \/>It's corporate espionage on a completely different scale, and he feels like he's moving the world under his hands, shifting and steering the course of history. All of it from the dim cocoon of his room in Saito's private mansion.<br \/><br \/>Saito lets him choose from the best, and there's something close to ridiculous in that, a point man building a team around himself. But he pulls a slick job with an extractor from South Africa who might have become better than Cobb, an architect out of Malaysia who can cut entire cities out of glass.<br \/><br \/><i>You know where to wire the money,<\/i> says Arthur, strap of his duffle bag digging into his shoulder.<br \/><br \/><i>Let me make my standing offer more explicit,<\/i> says Saito. <i>If you don't have anywhere else to be, Mr. Arthur, you may remain here.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Arthur unpacks everything and when he falls asleep that night, against the cool whisper of the pillowcase, he dreams. He can't remember what it is, but he wakes up with the sun on his face.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>It's not entirely clear to him what Saito wants from him, what he has that Saito wants-- why Saito allows him to pad around his mansion barefoot, spend days in the archives of disbanded code-level dreamshare projects. Why Saito sends limousines to drive him back to the house.<br \/><br \/>Until he returns to find a new suit draped out over his bed, and then he thinks, <i>Oh.<\/i><br \/><br \/>It fits him like it was poured around him, and he's distracted with a gnawing disappointment all through dinner. Saito lets him brood, and Arthur drinks too much wine because he doesn't want to talk.<br \/><br \/>He can barely stumble out of the car, and he thinks he must seem some fantastic sort of disgrace, leaning into Saito's arm as he tugs at his tie. He presses his palms against Saito's chest, and he says, <i>Well? What are you waiting for?<\/i><br \/><br \/>Saito looks down at him, sharp and dry.<br \/><br \/><i>Sleep off the alcohol, Mr. Arthur,<\/i> he says. <i>I will see you in the morning.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Arthur slides down against his door and locks it behind him. He's hot inside his new suit and he jerks off in quick furious strokes to let out the burn, and he thinks of the spice and leather of Saito's cologne when he comes.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/><i>I don't want this fucking buildup,<\/i> says Arthur. <i>Do it or let me go.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Arthur,<\/i> says Saito, <i>I have never made you stay.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Of course you did,<\/i> says Arthur, and he's ranting now, pacing the floor of the penthouse living room like a banquet hall, his voice ringing off the walls. <i>Giving me that bedroom, getting me access to off-limit research archives-- those fucking suits, the dinners, this fucking shirt. What are you playing at?<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>It's your decision,<\/i> says Saito, <i>whether that's what it takes to make you stay.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Arthur falls into a chair and looks up at Saito, and he thinks, <i>What is my weight in gold?<\/i><br \/><br \/>Saito fucks him there in the living room of the penthouse, up against the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Tokyo. Arthur braces himself with his hands against the glass, and Saito fills him hot as he gasps and turns his head away, feeling the wet fog of his breath under his cheek. It's like every city light in the distance is staring straight into him.<br \/><br \/><i>Open your eyes,<\/i> Saito tells him. <i>You will have to get used to being looked at.<\/i><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>The first international board meeting he sits in on, Saito says, <i>This is my personal assistant,<\/i> and curiosity sizzles through the room.<br \/><br \/>Arthur sits at Saito's right, taking notes too small for anyone else to read. It's not a difficult meeting to follow, and he's gone through most of the minutes from previous sessions. But then a representative from the Netherlands says something about a rival company's plans for a subsidiary, and Arthur remembers intel from a job a couple months back. The projected timeline is wildly off.<br \/><br \/>He slides a hand over Saito's knee, curling his fingers around his leg. He tilts his head and brings his lips to the edge of Saito's ear, and he murmurs, <i>Bullshit.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Saito turns to him, nose brushing against his cheekbone, and says, <i>Thank you. I'll keep that in mind.<\/i><br \/><br \/>He can <i>feel<\/i> the temperature in the room spike a little higher. It's dizzying. He lets the meeting continue a few more minutes before he leans in again, eager for the rush, this time with his hand coming to toy with the lapel of Saito's jacket.<br \/><br \/><i>When we get back,<\/i> he says, <i>I want you to fuck me open over the couch.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Saito nods, and beneath the desk, his foot knocks against Arthur's.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Arthur works for Saito however he can. There aren't any more extraction jobs, but he shares what information he has, combs through his rolodex for contacts that might help. He lets Saito spread him out and fuck him any night he wants. Saito has firm hands, <i>grown-man<\/i> hands.<br \/><br \/>In exchange, Arthur receives ties, suits, crushed-silk robes he belts across bare skin. Arthur makes Saito spread him out and fuck him, even when Saito hesitates. And Arthur asks for sparring partners.<br \/><br \/>He crouches low in Saito's basement gym, ducking past a swing, and he pivots and snaps out a kick behind a man's knees. He feels like a live wire, alight to the tips of his fingers. Saito comes to watch him beat the shit out of some sorry bastard. Arthur lets momentum spin him around and cracks the heel of a hand into a man's jaw.<br \/><br \/>Later, wet and loose from the workout and the steam of the shower, he lets Saito run his fingers through his curls and nail him up against one of the padded corners of the boxing ring.<br \/><br \/><i>Magnificent,<\/i> says Saito. <i>I'd like to continue to watch you.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Always knew Krav Maga would get me laid,<\/i> pants Arthur. He reaches behind to push a finger inside himself, along the line of Saito's cock, and Saito groans into his neck.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Eames arrives without asking first, and Saito is too polite to acknowledge his displeasure. Of course Eames knows; it's probably exactly why he didn't ask. He's prodding at the limits of his insolence.<br \/><br \/>But it's clear that Saito doesn't like being crossed even if he does like Eames, and when Arthur says he'll take the job, Saito only slides a hand down against the small of his back. The touch is light but Arthur shudders with it, and knows that Eames is watching the way Saito's fingertips linger there.<br \/><br \/><i>I want to drive to the airport,<\/i> says Arthur, and Saito says, <i>It is your car to do as you see fit.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Eames gapes when he sees it, and he reaches out for it reverently. <i>Bloody Koenigsegg,<\/i> he says.<br \/><br \/>And then he turns to Arthur, his mouth drained of humor, and he asks, <i>What the hell are you doing, Arthur?<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Don't you like it?<\/i> asks Arthur. <i>It goes faster than I'll ever need it to.<\/i><br \/><br \/>He leans against the hood of the car and Eames narrows his eyes at him.<br \/><br \/><i>You're looking good,<\/i> he says. <i>It agrees with you.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>What, Japan?<\/i> asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/><i>No, I meant,<\/i> says Eames, <i>being kept.<\/i><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>He returns to an empty house and a small package on his pillow. Saito is in Finland; it's a silver wristwatch, sleek like fish scales, and Arthur clasps it closed and waits for Saito.<br \/><br \/>They only see each other at the shareholders' meeting in the morning, and Arthur slips into his seat at Saito's side, crosses his legs, slotting back easily into his place. Saito doesn't say anything, but his hand comes to nudge past the hem of Arthur's jacket. His thumb rubs slowly across the edge of a hipbone, and stays there until the meeting ends.<br \/><br \/>In the empty room, Saito pulls Arthur toward him with his fingers hooking against the watch.<br \/><br \/><i>Is that what this is?<\/i> asks Arthur. <i>Are you shackling me?<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>You are always free to leave,<\/i> says Saito.<br \/><br \/><i>Did you miss me?<\/i> asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>Saito draws the blinds, lays him out against the desk and takes him there, pressing his thighs apart as he rocks into him. Arthur hisses and digs his fingers into his notes, the ink smudging into a blur as the paper tears and crumples.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/><i>There's this new restaurant,<\/i> says Arthur, <i>I thought that maybe this weekend--<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>This weekend,<\/i> says Saito, <i>I will be away.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>That's fine,<\/i> says Arthur. <i>You have business, I have business. The archive digging I've been doing came in really handy in Fresno, did I tell you? There was this bit about tweaking the sedative levels to time the collapse of the dream to the extractor's progress, so you could actually use the architectural destruction as a means to infiltrate the--<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>My daughter,<\/i> says Saito. <i>It's her twelfth birthday.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Oh,<\/i> says Arthur, <i>well.<\/i><br \/><br \/>And then he says, <i>I mean, I knew you'd been married.<\/i><br \/><br \/>And then he says, <i>What? What are you looking at me for?<\/i><br \/><br \/>He's not a bit closer to unraveling Saito than he ever was, and when Saito says, <i>Who are you thinking of,<\/i> he feels dirty and sore all over. He pushes blue eyes out of his mind, what it's like to never be quite enough.<br \/><br \/><i>Tell her happy birthday,<\/i> he says, and then he asks, <i>does she know who I am?<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Do you?<\/i> asks Saito.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Saito catches up with him in Sapporo where he's running a job for AltaTech. He's climbing the stairs up to his rented room, and suddenly Saito is slamming him up against the hallway wall, and his breath leaves him in a rush of air.<br \/><br \/><i>It's not going to screw with Proclus Global,<\/i> says Arthur, <i>this is for the robotics arm of AltaTech-- not the energy subdivision--<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>You were very quick to leave,<\/i> says Saito, and his grip around Arthur's wrists is hard enough to bruise.<br \/><br \/><i>You said I could,<\/i> says Arthur. <i>Didn't you?<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>I didn't say I wouldn't find you,<\/i> says Saito.<br \/><br \/>His room is a dingy, dusty hole, and it's the only time that Saito ever hurts him. Afterwards Arthur curls up on the chill of the floor and runs his hands over the ache of his tailbone, his shoulders chafed raw. Saito wipes him up with a wad of cheap tissues from under the coffee table.<br \/><br \/><i>Will you come home?<\/i> asks Saito.<br \/><br \/><i>This man,<\/i> thinks Arthur, <i>is a hundred years old. I don't understand him and I let him fuck me for trinkets.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Yes,<\/i> he says.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>This is what Eames says to him in the Koenigsegg as they drone along the road to Narita International.<br \/><br \/><i>Nobody ever really cares about those little pins and magnets you get in return for donating money,<\/i> he says, <i>but it turns out that a lot more people do donate when they're given those useless bits of rubbish. Do you know why?<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Better than nothing, I suppose,<\/i> says Arthur.<br \/><br \/><i>It's because the rubbish gives them an excuse,<\/i> says Eames. <i>Because otherwise, they'd be donating out of the goodness of their hearts, and nobody likes to think of themselves as charitable.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Because it's a weakness,<\/i> says Arthur.<br \/><br \/><i>Yes,<\/i> says Eames. <i>Do you like this car?<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Look at it,<\/i> says Arthur, <i>wouldn't you?<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Considering its retail value,<\/i> begins Eames, and then he goes quiet.<br \/><br \/><i>Eames,<\/i> says Arthur, <i>it's not that complicated. He keeps me clothed, keeps me fed, gets me into private libraries and fundraiser dinners where I get to shake hands with a hundred potential clients. I provide him with intel, stand by for any jobs, and if there's sex, it's excellent sex between two consenting adults.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>So it's an even trade, then?<\/i> asks Eames.<br \/><br \/><i>I'd say I'm getting the better deal,<\/i> says Arthur.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>He still can't speak a lick of Japanese, but he's picked up enough of it to understand snatches of conversation. He waits for the elevator and someone in the crowd behind him whispers, <i>He and Saito-san--<\/i> and someone else asks, <i>What is he?<\/i><br \/><br \/>Instead of lunch, he unlocks the door to the roof of the building, where he leans out over the ledge and lets the wind beat against his suit. New, of course. From Saito.<br \/><br \/>His phone rings.<br \/><br \/><i>Let me tell you something,<\/i> says Eames. <i>You know what you're doing? You're opening your legs and hoping it'll--<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>It's none of your business,<\/i> says Arthur. <i>You're drunk, Eames.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>I can come pick you up,<\/i> says Eames. <i>Anytime you want.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>I can leave on my own,<\/i> says Arthur. <i>Anytime I want.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>I was afraid of that,<\/i> says Eames. <i>Would he stop looking for you, if you told him to?<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Yes,<\/i> says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>He turns the phone off and shoves it into his pocket. The door creaks open behind him, and Saito shields his eyes against the sun.<br \/><br \/><i>What are you doing here?<\/i> he asks.<br \/><br \/><i>Just getting some air,<\/i> says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>Saito runs a thumb over the ridges of Arthur's watch.<br><br><br>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/4726.html?view=comments#comments","category":["saito\/arthur","eames\/arthur","cobb\/arthur"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/4471.html","pubDate":"Sat, 16 Oct 2010 21:45:32 GMT","title":"Bit of Tail","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/4471.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Eames\/Arthur<br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> Arthur is part cat in their shared dreams, which Eames considers a good reason for flagrant misuse of Yusuf's compounds. (He's right. It's a pretty good reason.)<br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> ...So there is this recent surge of... CATBOY ARTHUR... haha, I mean, it is actually very thoughtful, very emotionally poignant, and you can find the fics and art archived at <a href=\"http:\/\/jibrailis.livejournal.com\/51189.html\" target=\"_blank\">Super Librarian Nancy's post over here,<\/a> but... what is behind this cut is just PWP catnip porn. :'( Just-- if you are even remotely interested in ARTHUR WITH CAT EARS AND A CAT TAIL AHAHA;NFEK;AJR hop on over to that post stat!<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/>This part of the story begins back in Mombasa.<br \/><br \/>\"What,\" Yusuf says, as Eames stares mutely at the cat on the floor, \"he's all right. It's just catnip.\"<br \/><br \/>\"It's quite a reaction,\" says Eames. \"Very physical.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, it's full-body,\" says Yusuf, shooing the cat out of his way. \"Inside and out. They go absolutely mad for it.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I wonder,\" says Eames, \"does it do anything for humans?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Not like that, no,\" says Yusuf. \"But it's mildly calming-- I add it to some of my lighter formulas. As a sedative substitute.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You <i>add<\/i> it to--\" says Eames, and blinks. \"Wait, Yusuf, you have dreamshare compounds with catnip in them? Are they for sale? Can I have them? Can you give them to me? Aren't we friends?\"<br \/><br \/>It turns out that Yusuf drives a hard bargain for anyone that he knows can afford to pay out their nose. Eames would haggle, but he's much too distracted with the thought that catnip might work differently on someone who is partially cat in the dreamscape. Consumed with the mental images, he hands Yusuf a functioning credit card and signs the piece of paper he receives in return.<br \/><br \/>\"You will enjoy these,\" says Yusuf. \"They're very gentle on the system. Very organic.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I will enjoy them,\" says Eames, dazedly. \"I will, Yusuf. I will enjoy them.\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>But it's about a week after his arrival that Eames remembers the purchase. He'd tucked the vials into the hidden compartments of his carry-on, padded and safely locked away, and then he'd managed to forget about them when he returned and promptly got lost in Arthur again.<br \/><br \/>He rummages in his closet for his bag and reaches inside; the vials are still there, unharmed.<br \/><br \/>When they lay out the PASIV that night, Eames doesn't even try to hide his grin.<br \/><br \/>\"I have a surprise for you,\" he says. \"Courtesy of Yusuf.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Yusuf?\" Arthur frowns. \"Does he know about--\"<br \/><br \/>\"No, but these,\" says Eames, \"these are dreamshare compounds laced with catnip.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I see where this is going,\" says Arthur, and the corner of his lips twitches into a smile.<br \/><br \/>\"Cheers, then?\" asks Eames, holding up a vial.<br \/><br \/>Arthur clinks one against his.<br \/><br \/>\"Cheers,\" he says.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"Oh, fuck,\" says Arthur, \"Jesus, Jesus, fuck.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What?\" asks Eames. \"What's wrong?\"<br \/><br \/>Personally, he doesn't notice anything out of sorts. The share is clean, as anyone would expect from something crafted by Yusuf, but nothing seems to be terribly unusual. But Arthur is pacing the floor, jerking to a stop every so often to snap his head to one side, sniffing, pacing, and sniffing again.<br \/><br \/>\"It's <i>everywhere,<\/i>\" says Arthur, \"I can't tell where it's strongest, fuck, wow, I need to find it, where is it?\"<br \/><br \/>His hands ball into a fist, unfurling back out, flexing back in. He drums the tips of his nails against his palm and turns on his heel, cocking his head as he looks at Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Hmm,\" he says, \"that would make sense-- since we're in your dream--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Me?\" asks Eames. \"You can smell catnip on me?\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur leans forward, brows furrowing, and inhales.<br \/><br \/>\"I think so,\" he says. \"I think--\"<br \/><br \/>He stumbles a couple steps toward Eames like he's being yanked into it, following his nose, and his tail swerves in restless arcs behind him. One furry ear twitches and pricks forward.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, yes,\" he says, \"it's definitely-- mm, Eames, hey, uh--\"<br \/><br \/>\"What is it?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>Arthur rocks forward on the balls of his feet, and Eames can see his pupils contract into slits as he breathes in, letting the catnip hit him, flood him from the inside. Then slowly, they expand-- and his eyes <i>melt,<\/i> dark and blown beneath his lashes.<br \/><br \/>\"Can I,\" he whispers, \"can I smell you?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Well, certainly,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>Arthur all but dives into his arms. He doesn't stop moving, doesn't stop shifting, any of him, and his hands wander all across Eames's chest, too eager to linger for long, feeling out the shape of his arms. Tracing the muscles in his back, coming to grip him around his shoulders, pulling him in close. And Arthur buries his face in the side of Eames's neck, nosing at the jump of his pulse, breathing in deep through his nose like he wants the air to settle in his lungs forever, but the breath that leaves him is hot and shallow against Eames's collarbone. Eames shivers at the heat across his skin, and Arthur clutches him a little tighter, dragging his teeth lightly over sinew.<br \/><br \/>\"You, it's you,\" murmurs Arthur, nipping a trail up Eames's jaw. \"You smell so fucking fantastic, oh, god, Eames. I want to-- I just want to--\"<br \/><br \/>He rolls his hips into Eames's, his spine cat-liquid, and the hard unmistakable lines of their cocks grind against each other. Arthur groans into Eames's ear, impatient, the sound shooting straight down to his crotch.<br \/><br \/>\"Fuck, fuck,\" says Arthur, hands sliding to Eames's belt, \"I'm going to suck you until you're hard enough to fuck me, Jesus, oh, fuck, I hope you taste as good as you smell, <i>god.<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" says Eames, \"fuck yes,\" and he lets Arthur push him onto the bed, as Arthur paws at his zipper and yanks his pants down to his ankles. He's half-hard from anticipation, and Arthur looks at it with his eyes glazed over, his throat bobbing.<br \/><br \/>\"God,\" says Arthur, \"I'm-- my mouth is fucking <i>watering,<\/i> fucking Christ--\"<br \/><br \/>He puts his hands on Eames's thighs and kneels, takes Eames into the heat of him, and he's right, his mouth is so <i>wet<\/i>, spit shining all along Eames's length when he draws his head back. It's better that way, because Arthur's tongue is sandpaper-rough, and it would hurt if it were any dryer, but beneath the coat of saliva it's just right, the scrape of it tantalizing as it teases at his cock.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, fuck,\" chokes Eames, \"that's--\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur laps at him with little kitten licks, his eyes half-mast, lips stretching around him. He curls his fingers around the base of Eames's cock and licks all around his head, flashes of the red of his tongue tracing the slit, a fingertip stroking the outline of the vein at his underside.<br \/><br \/>Eames braces his toes against the floor, knees aching from the strain, and he can't stop his hips from bucking into Arthur's mouth. Arthur opens wide and stretches out his raspy-slick tongue, dragging it slowly all the way up Eames's cock, their eyes locked together, and Eames's breath catches in his chest.<br \/><br \/>\"You do,\" says Arthur. \"You taste great, fuck, Jesus.\"<br \/><br \/>He wraps his lips around him and hollows in his cheeks, dipping his head in closer, pulling away, and his human nails clench into Eames's hips and even the pang of the pain makes the blood rush to Eames's cock. Arthur's throat moves around him, and his tail swishes against the floor, sweeping sinuous across it. Then he gives Eames's erection one last, long suck, and lets it slip from his mouth.<br \/><br \/>\"Fuck,\" mumbles Arthur through swollen lips, \"I can't-- this catnip thing is really--\"<br \/><br \/>He tugs his own pants down, tearing them off, and kicks his boxers away when he steps out of them. He wets two fingers with his mouth, the shape of them an indecent bulge against his cheek, and then he braces himself with a forearm across Eames's thigh and arches his back and slips them inside himself.<br \/><br \/>\"Yes, <i>fuck,<\/i>\" he hisses, head falling forward. The tip of Eames's cock slides against the side of his face, and pre-come and spit trace a streak up the curve of his cheek, as he trembles and breathes hot sighs against Eames's skin.<br \/><br \/>\"Tell me,\" says Eames, \"what it feels like.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I think,\" pants Arthur, \"I think I'm ready, I'm so-- my fingers, they're just-- sinking in, I'm in to the knuckle, and I didn't even have to-- oh, fuck, <i>damn<\/i> it,\" he says, as his head jerks and he pushes his ass back into his hand, fucking himself onto it.<br \/><br \/>\"Don't be greedy,\" says Eames. \"Share the fun.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Ha,\" says Arthur, eyes bright and black, \"move back, give me room-- I'm going to ride you so hard you'll bleed out your ears--\"<br \/><br \/>Eames can't do it fast enough. He scoots back on his elbows, half raising his torso to watch Arthur wriggle out of his shirt, and Arthur crawls onto the bed to straddle him, cock flushed and nearly knocking against his stomach, all gorgeous, lean lines stretching above Eames.<br \/><br \/>Arthur splays his hands out over Eames's ribs and positions himself, before he lowers his body and he's taking him in, swallowing him down, and Eames feels Arthur's ass give and part around his cock, god, pliant and pulsing tight all around him, and he has to look away to distract himself, trying to keep from coming too soon. Arthur looks down at him, flushed and breathless but still somehow imperious, and he bares his teeth in a grin and then Arthur's ass comes to rest against his groin, his tail draping over Eames's leg, and Eames knows, he's in all the way.<br \/><br \/>\"What the <i>fuck,<\/i>\" gasps Eames, \"are you on <i>fire<\/i> or something, Jesus Christ--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Catnip,\" says Arthur, \"we should always do this with-- oh, fuck, I can't control-- <i>oh,<\/i> god--\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur's insides are gripping Eames's cock like he's trying to milk him to climax, and he's so hot it feels like they're both melting. Eames gives his hips a little jolt just to test it out, and it makes Arthur yelp in surprise, ass closing in around Eames, squeezing him, leaving both of them groaning with lights flashing through their vision.<br \/><br \/>\"Look, love,\" says Eames, \"I'm going to hold out for as much as I can, but...\"<br \/><br \/>\"I know,\" says Arthur, \"I don't think I can, for long, this is too--\"<br \/><br \/>The tips of Arthur's ears flutter as he starts to move, his eyes drifting closed, little noises slipping from him as Eames's cock rubs against his insides. And Eames loves seeing him like this, sleek and beautiful and eager above him, but especially like <i>this,<\/i> with his tail a serpentine pattern against the sheets, impossibly more graceful than he is outside of dreams, craving Eames with every bit of the animal in him.<br \/><br \/>\"Pussycat,\" says Eames, \"tell me how you like it.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Fuck, just like this,\" pants Arthur, \"inside me, like you're splitting me open--\"<br \/><br \/>Eames tilts his hips to meet Arthur screwing back onto him, reaches behind Arthur to feel himself sliding in and out of that slick hole, and Arthur <i>purrs<\/i> at the touch, soft in his chest. He grabs Eames by the collar and pulls him up close, keening at the angle of his cock shifting inside him, and kisses him, the taste of Eames's pre-come still bitter on his thin feline tongue. Eames meets the butterfly flick of it, chases it into Arthur's mouth, licking across the ridges behind his teeth.<br \/><br \/>\"Yeah, that's right,\" says Eames, \"you ride it out.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur moans against his lips and his arms come to wind around Eames, his cock gliding against Eames's stomach, and the thrusts of his ass turn erratic and desperate as he moves faster, breath stuttering in his throat. He puts his whole back into it, fucks himself on Eames's cock, the springs of the mattress creaking beneath them.<br \/><br \/>\"F-fuck, Eames,\" says Arthur, \"oh, <i>god,<\/i> it feels--\"<br \/><br \/>He comes with a shaky gasp, smearing himself all over Eames, and his ass clenches almost painfully tight around him, quick uneven squeezes of his cock like wringing him dry. Eames curses, the world going white, and he thrusts into Arthur a few more times before he's coming inside him, spending himself in that ass, and Arthur's still sensitive from his own orgasm, whimpering as Eames keeps rocking into him, but he gamely presses back until Eames slows, lets his hands fall to the bed.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" says Arthur, faintly, and brushes his fingers across the lines of his own come he's made. He licks his hand clean, eyes wet as he meets Eames's.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, darling,\" says Eames. \"Let me return the favor.\"<br \/><br \/>He catches Arthur up by his armpits and raises him, Arthur making indistinct but heated sounds in his throat as Eames's cock leaves him. And Eames lays Arthur out on the bed on his stomach and pushes his tail up and out of the way, dips his tongue into the spent mess of his ass, as Arthur flinches and bucks into the sheets.<br \/><br \/>\"God, what,\" whines Arthur, \"<i>oh--<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>\"Just cleaning you up,\" says Eames, and just keeps licking into him, tonguing away the come he finds there, and he thinks that maybe -- just a little -- he might know what it feels like to be a creature that navigates the world through taste, the flavor of sex sharp, filling his mouth.<br \/><br \/>Arthur's thighs are wide and slack beneath him, and he shudders and opens himself up for Eames, the two of them taking each other inside, sharing themselves like sharing dreams. His tail bats against the back of Eames's neck, and the fur tickles him, alight with afterglow as he is.<br><br><br>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/4471.html?view=comments#comments","category":["pwp","eames\/arthur"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/4127.html","pubDate":"Tue, 12 Oct 2010 13:43:31 GMT","title":"\u6771\u4e9e\u7d30\u4e9e LOVE SONG TOUR","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/4127.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Eames\/Arthur<br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> In an attempt to woo Eames the way he implies he would like to be wooed, Arthur asks for a little help from his friends throughout East Asia. Unfortunately, the cosmos conspires against him.<br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> Haha, no, I don't speak it :'( Thank you to <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"kiwimangoodness\" lj:user=\"kiwimangoodness\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/kiwimangoodness.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/kiwimangoodness.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>kiwimangoodness<\/b><\/a><\/span> and <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"fouenpassant\" lj:user=\"fouenpassant\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/fouenpassant.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/fouenpassant.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>fouenpassant<\/b><\/a><\/span>! &hearts; And no thanks to Formspring, who made this possible, but is broken at the moment, which is frustrating.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/>Their landlady is lovely, built like a stork with her magnificent silver hair sweeping back over her ears, but the problem is that she takes a liking to Eames. She presses the key to the house into his palm, patting the back of his hand, murmuring something in Armenian like a secret into his ear as she tugs her suitcase out the door. Eames looks enchanted.<br \/><br \/>\"Have a safe trip, Veronika,\" he calls after her.<br \/><br \/>\"Really?\" asks Ariadne. \"You're on a first-name basis with her?\"<br \/><br \/>\"It was a rapid relationship,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"It lasted ten minutes,\" says Yusuf.<br \/><br \/>\"It was a <i>very<\/i> rapid relationship,\" says Eames. \"What can I say? I have a weakness for people who say kind things to me in languages I don't speak. It's very charming. It's like listening to a particularly esoteric bit of poetry.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Huh,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Of course you disapprove,\" says Eames, \"though I haven't the faintest why.\"<br \/><br \/>Ariadne spots a pool out past the balcony and throws her bag onto a couch, whooping. Eames and Yusuf lug the equipment upstairs, and Arthur stares after them for a long while, silent.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>They've scheduled the job around it, so it's all right for work to grind to a halt when Arthur leaves for a series of conferences dotted across East Asia. Ariadne spends most of her time floating outside in the pool with sunglasses that cover half her face, sighing <i>I love Pasadena<\/i> every so often. Yusuf continues experimenting, but idly, and he ends up mixing drinks about as often as he does chemicals. Eames goes out for a walk and makes friends with all the dogs within a 50-mile radius.<br \/><br \/>Cobb joins them, as soon as summer break starts for his children and they can travel to Greece with their grandparents. Saito is strangely unoccupied, as usual, and hosts a wine tasting party for the entire neighborhood when he arrives for an extended vacation. Cobb has some contacts in Oregon that he invites down for the occasion. It's a party that takes three days for all the guests to leave.<br \/><br \/>Things have calmed down a bit when Cobb receives an e-mail from Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"He wants a video conference,\" says Cobb.<br \/><br \/>\"What for?\" asks Ariadne. \"Oh, no, is he going to yell at us for having fun?\"<br \/><br \/>\"He's the one traipsing about all of East Asia,\" says Eames. \"If he can't have fun, he has no one but himself to blame.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You know he's just going to sulk if we don't indulge him,\" says Yusuf. \"He'll hold the intel hostage and refuse to fly back.\"<br \/><br \/>They indulge him. Ariadne puts on a shirt with sleeves, and Cobb shaves the tangle of his beard, discovering that his razor has started becoming rusty in the meanwhile.<br \/><br \/>\"This is how you get tetanus,\" he says, horrified.<br \/><br \/>\"I'll run out for an extra,\" says Eames. \"Say hello to Arthur for me, tell me how constipated he looks when he hears I've been doing well.\"<br \/><br \/>They pull up their chairs around a laptop. Arthur shows up on screen with a young woman they've never seen before.<br \/><br \/>\"Greetings from Changhua,\" says Arthur. \"Everyone, this is Mingxia.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Extractor by trade,\" says Mingxia. \"Though I've done nothing but teach Arthur Mandarin for the past couple of days.\"<br \/><br \/>\"To be precise,\" Arthur says to Mingxia, \"mostly you just taught me pronunciation.\"<br \/><br \/>\"There wasn't time for much else,\" she says.<br \/><br \/>\"What's going on, Arthur?\" asks Cobb.<br \/><br \/>\"There's something I want all of you to listen to,\" says Arthur. \"Especially Eames.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" says Saito, \"Mr. Eames is--\"<br \/><br \/>But Arthur is pulling up a guitar from below the desk, and Mingxia walks out of the shot, her hands appearing back onscreen with a sketchpad that says A VERY IMPORTANT LOVE SONG FROM ARTHUR TO EAMES IN CHINESE.<br \/><br \/>\"Uh--\" says Yusuf.<br \/><br \/>Arthur strums a couple of chords, glaring intently at the strings like he expects them to perform at their highest capacity, and Mingxia turns the page, where it says, I DON'T WANT ANYBODY ELSE.<br \/><br \/>\"\u6211\u5176\u4ed6\u4eba\u90fd\u4e0d\u60f3\u8981,\" sings Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"...Wait, Arth--\" begins Ariadne.<br \/><br \/>\"\u7576\u6211\u60f3\u8d77\u4f60\u5c31\u8981\u89f8\u6478\u81ea\u5df1,\" he sings.<br \/><br \/>WHEN I THINK ABOUT YOU, says the sketchpad, I TOUCH MYSELF.<br \/><br \/>\"\u54e6\u6211\u5176\u4ed6\u4eba\u90fd\u4e0d\u60f3\u8981--\"<br \/><br \/>OOH I DON'T WANT ANYBODY ELSE<br \/><br \/>\"--\u4e0d\u8981\u4e0d\u8981\u4e0d\u8981--\"<br \/><br \/>OH NO OH NO OH NO<br \/><br \/>\"--\u53ea\u6709\u4f60\u4f1a\u4f7f\u6211\u8d76\u7d27\u8ffd\u4e0a--\"<br \/><br \/>YOU'RE THE ONE WHO MAKES ME COME RUNNING<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Arthur,<\/i>\" yells Ariadne, pushing her face up against the microphone, \"listen, Arthur, <i>Eames isn't here right now.<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>\"\u53ea\u6709\u4f60-- what?\" Arthur's hand stills on the guitar. \"What do you-- where is he?\"<br \/><br \/>\"He, uh,\" says Cobb, \"went to buy some razors.\"<br \/><br \/>\"...Oh,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>Nobody says anything. Mingxia's hands disappear with the sketchpad.<br \/><br \/>\"Hey,\" says Yusuf, \"if I may, I'd like to suggest that you write your own song for seducing Eames, next time-- 'I Touch Myself' may be appropriate but I can't help but feel that he would award you bonus points if creativity were somehow inv--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Cobb,\" says Arthur, \"I will e-mail you with a list of further dates for video conference calls.\"<br \/><br \/>\"...Okay,\" says Cobb. \"Arthur, um--\"<br \/><br \/>The screen goes blank.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Eames comes back twenty minutes later with a plastic bag in his hand and a Twizzler in his mouth.<br \/><br \/>\"What did I miss?\" he asks.<br \/><br \/>\"Nothing,\" says Ariadne. \"Nothing.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Nothing,\" says Yusuf. \"Arthur says hi.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Really?\" asks Eames, raising his eyebrows. \"What's gotten into him? So he's decided he wants to be nice to me all of a sudden?\"<br \/><br \/>\"It appears so,\" says Saito, delicately.<br \/><br \/>Arthur wants 8 in the morning the Tuesday next for a second video conference, and though they offer up some feeble protests, he says that the time difference leaves him no choice. They gather around the laptop with pillow creases on their cheeks, hair piled on top of their heads, bleary except for Saito who has somehow already gone on a run, made himself a protein shake, showered, and changed into a clean shirt and slacks.<br \/><br \/>\"It's midnight in Fukuoka,\" says Arthur. \"And this is Hanae.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Recon and surveillance expert,\" she says. \"Just for today, though, I'll be handling the cue cards.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Yusuf,\" says Arthur, \"you'll be glad to know that I've taken your advice.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What advice,\" asks Yusuf, weakly.<br \/><br \/>\"I have written a song,\" says Arthur, and brandishes his guitar. \"It's called, 'Japanese Love Song'.\"<br \/><br \/>\"That's...\" says Yusuf, \"that's a very accurate title, I presume.\"<br \/><br \/>Hanae's hands slide onto the screen, and the paper she's holding up says, JAPANESE LOVE SONG.<br \/><br \/>\"\u76bf\u6d17\u3044\u306e\u9593\u306b\u3001\u30a2\u30f3\u30bf\u306e\u4e8b\u3092\u8003\u3048\u3066\u3044\u308b,\" sings Arthur.<br \/><br \/>WHILE WASHING THE DISHES, I THINK ABOUT YOU<br \/><br \/>\"\u6383\u9664\u306e\u9593\u306b\u3001\u30a2\u30f3\u30bf\u306e\u4e8b\u3092\u8003\u3048\u3066\u3044\u308b--\"<br \/><br \/>WHILE CLEANING, I THINK ABOUT YOU<br \/><br \/>\"--\u30b7\u30e3\u30ef\u30fc\u306e\u9593\u306b\u3001\u30a2\u30f3\u30bf\u306e\u4e8b\u3092\u8003\u3048\u3066\u3044\u308b--\"<br \/><br \/>WHILE TAKING A SHOWER, I THINK ABOUT YOU<br \/><br \/>\"--\u30a6\u30a9\u30fc\"<br \/><br \/>WHOA-A<br \/><br \/>\"...Wait,\" says Ariadne. \"Guys, where's--\"<br \/><br \/>\"--\u6599\u7406\u306e\u9593\u306b\u3001\u30a2\u30f3\u30bf\u306e\u4e8b\u3092\u8003\u3048\u3066\u3044\u308b--\"<br \/><br \/>WHILE COOKING, I THINK ABOUT YOU<br \/><br \/>\"Where's Eames?\" asks Ariadne.<br \/><br \/>\"--\u30af\u30ea\u30fc\u30cb\u30f3\u30b0\u306e\u9593\u306b\u3001\u30a2\u30f3\u30bf\u306e\u4e8b\u3092\u8003\u3048\u3066\u3044\u308b--\"<br \/><br \/>WHILE DRY CLEANING, I THINK ABOUT YOU<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, shit,\" says Cobb, looking around, \"he was here just a minute ago!\"<br \/><br \/>\"--\u4f55\u3082\u3092\u51fa\u6765\u306a\u304f\u3066\u3001\u30a2\u30f3\u30bf\u306e\u601d\u3044\u51fa\u306b\u803d\u3063\u3066--\"<br \/><br \/>I CAN'T DO ANYTHING, I'M LOST IN MEMORIES OF YOU<br \/><br \/>\"I think he went to the restroom and fell asleep,\" says Yusuf.<br \/><br \/>\"--\u30a6\u30a9\u30fc\"<br \/><br \/>WHOA-A<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" says Ariadne, \"<i>Arthur,<\/i> the thing is-- Eames isn't-- Eames isn't here anymore.\"<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Did he leave?<\/i>\" asks Arthur, his eyes wide.<br \/><br \/>\"No, uh,\" says Ariadne, \"we think he might have fallen asleep in the bathroom.\"<br \/><br \/>Nobody says anything. Hanae clears her throat.<br \/><br \/>Saito gets to his feet and starts clapping.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>They decide to try 8 in the evening, the next time around. Nobody manages to work up the nerve to tell Eames anything, and the only person who might have the courage -- Saito -- declares that it is not his policy to interfere in matters of the heart.<br \/><br \/>\"Love is something that must be won by those who are in love,\" he says.<br \/><br \/>\"That is touching,\" says Yusuf, \"but if you notice Eames missing, you'll say so, right?\"<br \/><br \/>\"That, I promise,\" says Saito.<br \/><br \/>They clear the table to make room for the laptop, pushing aside Yusuf's equipment, Cobb's diagrams, Ariadne's Nutella. Everyone sneaks a glance at Eames out of the corner of their eye, but he seems oblivious to their attention, chin resting casually on his hand.<br \/><br \/>\"Before I do anything else,\" says Arthur, \"I want to make sure that Eames is present.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm here,\" says Eames. \"Good god, are you going to tell me off for missing the last two chats we've had?\"<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Arthur, \"I-- no, I'm-- no, not...\"<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" says Ariadne, \"are you stuttering?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm in Seoul,\" he says, ignoring her. \"It is currently two minutes past noon, and I have Kang with me-- Cobb, you've met him before.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Good to see you again,\" says Kang.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, hey, I remember you,\" says Cobb. \"You had that weird obsession with floor-to-ceiling windows.\"<br \/><br \/>\"It is most definitely not a weird obsession,\" says Kang. \"I have a healthy respect and admiration for natural light, okay, there's nothing weird about wanting to integrate a living area into the surr--\"<br \/><br \/>\"This reunion is very touching,\" says Arthur, \"but can we get back to my mission, please?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Right, right,\" says Kang, and pulls out a notebook. Arthur arranges the strap of the guitar around his neck.<br \/><br \/>\"Is this one called 'Korean Love Song'?\" asks Yusuf.<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Arthur. \"It's called 'A Love Song in Korean'.\"<br \/><br \/>KOREAN LOVE SONG, says the notepad.<br \/><br \/>\"Actually--\" begins Kang, peering at it.<br \/><br \/>\"I'm going to start singing,\" says Arthur, and sings, \"\ub300\uccb4 \uba87 \ubc88\uc744 \uc774\ub798\uc57c \ub418\uaca0\ub0d0--\"<br \/><br \/>HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO DO THIS<br \/><br \/>\"--\uc0ac\ub78c\uc774 \uc560\uac00 \ud0c0\ub294\ub370 \ub9d8\ub300\ub85c \ub418\uc9c0\ub3c4 \uc54a\uace0--\"<br \/><br \/>I'M DESPERATE HERE AND NOTHING'S WORKING OUT<br \/><br \/>\"--\uc57c \ubbf8\uc2a4\ud130 \uc784\uc2a4 \ub0b4 \uc0ac\ub791\uc744 \uc880 \ubc1b\uc544\uc8fc\uc9c0 \uadf8\ub798--\"<br \/><br \/>HEY MR. EAMES HOW ABOUT YOU ACCEPT MY LOVE<br \/><br \/>\"--\ub098\ub791 \ub2e8\ub780\ud55c \uac00\uc815\uc744 \uafb8\ub824\ub098\uac00 \ubcf4\uc790\uace0--\"<br \/><br \/>LET'S TRY A LITTLE DOMESTICITY TOGETHER<br \/><br \/>\"--\uadf8\ub7ec\uba74\uc11c \ubc24\uc5d0\ub294 \ubc24 \uc77c\uc744 \ud558\ub294 \uac70\uc9c0--\"<br \/><br \/>AND AT NIGHT WE CAN ENGAGE IN NIGHTTIME ACTIVITIES<br \/><br \/>\"...Wait,\" says Cobb. \"What?\"<br \/><br \/>\"--\ub0a0 \ud5c8\ub355\uc774\uac8c \ub9cc\ub4e4\uc5b4 \ubcf4\uace0 \uc2f6\uc9c0 \uc54a\uc544?\"<br \/><br \/>DON'T YOU WANT TO MAKE ME PANT FOR IT?<br \/><br \/>Ariadne gasps.<br \/><br \/>\"\ub0a0 \uae54\uace0 \uc5f4\uace0 \ub9cc\uc838\uc11c \uc6b8\ub9ac\uace0 \uc2f6\uc9c0 \uc54a\uc544?\"<br \/><br \/>DON'T YOU WANT TO PUSH ME DOWN, OPEN ME, TOUCH ME, MAKE ME SOB?<br \/><br \/>\"<i>He made me translate this,<\/i>\" Kang yells from offscreen.<br \/><br \/>\"\ub9d8\ub300\ub85c \ud558\uac8c \ud574 \uc904 \ud14c\ub2c8\uae4c \uc77c\ub2e8 \ub098\ub791 \uc0ac\uadc0\uc790--\"<br \/><br \/>I'LL LET YOU DO WHATEVER SO PLEASE GO OUT WITH ME<br \/><br \/>Arthur shreds a furious series of notes and ends up sounding completely silly because he is playing on an acoustic guitar, but at last he rips out a long, dragging final chord and snaps his head up, eyes glinting.<br \/><br \/>Nobody says anything.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" says Yusuf, at the back of his head. \"Eames?\"<br \/><br \/>Eames doesn't say anything.<br \/><br \/>\"Hello,\" says Ariadne, and pokes his arm with a finger.<br \/><br \/>Eames's hand slips from underneath his chin, and his head goes crashing onto the table.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, great,\" groans Yusuf, \"he drank from that beaker, didn't he-- oh, <i>very smart,<\/i> greatest forger alive. Very smart.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What?\" asks Arthur, clutching the neck of his guitar. \"What happened?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Apparently your future boyfriend decided he was thirsty,\" says Yusuf, yanking Eames up by his hair, \"and thought it would be a good idea to drink the sedative I was working on.\"<br \/><br \/>\"How was he supposed to know it was a sedative?\" demands Arthur. \"Why don't you keep these things out of reach?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I had assumed that he was not a five-year-old child!\" protests Yusuf. \"And why are you on his side, you're not going out yet!\"<br \/><br \/>\"Did he hear <i>anything?<\/i>\" asks Arthur. \"Oh my god, what the hell is this, who do I even blame anymore--\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>It turns out Eames hadn't heard a single word of Arthur's song. The last thing he says he remembers is Cobb and Kang yelling at each other about something.<br \/><br \/>\"Windows, I think,\" he says, helpfully.<br \/><br \/>Arthur returns to California a few days later, and they reserve a booth at a ritzy bar to cheer him up for the universe evidently being determined to sabotage his love life. They tell Eames that it's to celebrate his return.<br \/><br \/>\"That's out of the ordinary,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur had a difficult trip,\" says Cobb. \"He's-- he's allergic to rice.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Really?\" asks Eames, frowning, \"what about all of that takeout that we--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Sometimes, allergies develop in response to overexposure,\" says Yusuf. \"It may be precisely because of all the takeout Chinese food that he is now apparently allergic to rice.\"<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Really,<\/i>\" says Eames, but Yusuf puts on his goggles, which gives him just the right amount of scientific emphasis needed to curtail the argument.<br \/><br \/>Arthur looks very weary when he arrives.<br \/><br \/>\"I watched five in-flight movies,\" he says. \"I couldn't sleep a wink.\"<br \/><br \/>They drive him straight to the bar, where he gives Eames a quick glance before sliding into the booth after him. Saito follows, and the rest of the team perch on the opposite bench. They eye Arthur nervously, but he seems determined to pretend that he hadn't just been frantically wooing Eames over video conference calls with a series of badly-pronounced songs in foreign languages.<br \/><br \/>It takes him five martinis (which are basically just gin) and three gin-and-tonics (which are basically just gin) to break.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" he's saying, shaking Eames by the shoulder, \"Eames, Eames, hey, Eames.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Yes, Arthur,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"So there's this thing that happened,\" says Arthur. \"Because you said-- remember you said-- about it being like poetry?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I... don't, to be honest,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"You <i>did,<\/i>\" says Arthur, and jabs a finger into Eames's chest. \"So I took the hint, you know? Because that's what you like. And I was in Taiwan, so I asked Mingxia for help, and that was before Yusuf told me I should write something, so maybe it wouldn't have worked anyway.\"<br \/><br \/>\"All right,\" says Eames, \"darling, I have no bloody idea what we're talking about--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Yes, well, of course you don't,\" says Arthur, \"you went off to buy razors or something else stupid, I mean honestly, who does that, you can't leave to buy razors when I'm about to serenade you, asshole.\"<br \/><br \/>\"When you're--\" Eames coughs. \"Wait, when you're-- when you're about to <i>what?<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>\"Nothing!\" yells Arthur. \"We said-- everybody said we would never talk about it again, oh my god, it was supposed to be-- we weren't going to talk about it, who mentioned it? We promised!\"<br \/><br \/>\"You mentioned it, Arthur,\" says Cobb.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh,\" says Arthur. \"Yeah, okay, whatever, the point is-- the point is, it wasn't something I wrote but it was awesome, okay, and then the next one from Japan was even more awesome because I wrote it, and the one from Korea, that was fucking awesome too, except you sedated yourself instead of listening to it, good job.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What are these songs?\" Eames asks the rest of the team imploringly. \"What songs?\"<br \/><br \/>\"<i>My love songs,<\/i>\" says Arthur, pulling at Eames's ear. \"They were so awesome, Eames, you would have totally fallen in love with me if you'd heard them. No, don't argue with me, I know you would have, I ran dream simulations-- you totally fell for it every single time, you were like, oh, Arthur, I love you and can't wait to kiss you on the mouth in a romantic way, and I was like, Jesus Christ, finally, and then as soon as I got back you'd throw me onto that big coffee table in the living room-- except none of that ever happened because you wouldn't listen to my songs, why not, why don't you love me.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames's jaw has fallen open, and he stares at Arthur like he's just uncovered an alien beneath his skin.<br \/><br \/>\"Goddammit, Eames,\" says Arthur, \"why don't you love me?\"<br \/><br \/>He drains the last of his gin, and he fixes his eyes on the bottom of the glass, his expression settling into what he would call <i>brooding<\/i> but is really just a drunken pout.<br \/><br \/>\"Asshole,\" mutters Arthur.<br \/><br \/>He turns toward Saito.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames is an asshole,\" Arthur tells him. \"Why couldn't I love someone more attainable? Like Claudia Schiffer?\"<br \/><br \/>\"She <i>is<\/i> a beautiful woman,\" says Saito.<br \/><br \/>Arthur sniffles, and his head tips onto Saito's shoulder.<br \/><br \/>Nobody says anything.<br \/><br \/>\"He's going to start crying in his sleep, you know,\" says Cobb, eventually. \"He's going to get your suit wet.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I have been wept on before by heartbroken lovers,\" says Saito. \"It turns out that tear stains are very easy to remove.\"<br \/><br \/>He slides a careful hand in under Arthur's cheek and tilts him the other way, onto Eames's shoulder.<br \/><br \/>\"The songs,\" says Ariadne, \"they were really very sweet.\"<br \/><br \/>Haltingly, Eames brushes Arthur's hair out of his face.<br \/><br \/>\"I'll have to ask if I can hear them,\" he says. \"I'm sure they were.\"<br><br><br>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/4127.html?view=comments#comments","category":"eames\/arthur"},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/4082.html","pubDate":"Mon, 04 Oct 2010 14:20:15 GMT","title":"It's Automatic","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/4082.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Eames\/Arthur<br \/><b>Original prompt:<\/b> <a href=\"http:\/\/community.livejournal.com\/inception_kink\/7339.html?thread=10555307#t10555307\" target=\"_blank\">Bang bang, we're beautiful and dirty rich<\/a><br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> Beautiful, dirty, rich, ambitious, lost, found, running, chasing, young, immortal, out of time, out of breath, one summer, in Taipei, in love, so in love.<br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> If you look at <a href=\"http:\/\/pics.livejournal.com\/weatherfront\/pic\/0000650d\" target=\"_blank\">this piece of art<\/a> by <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"dumbimps\" lj:user=\"dumbimps\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/dumbimps.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/dumbimps.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>dumbimps<\/b><\/a><\/span> before reading the fic, there will be absolutely no need for you to read it at all, because it captures everything I ever wanted to say so much better than I ever could-- and it's beautiful, god, it's <i>beautiful.<\/i> &hearts; So please look at it after the fic, you guys this picture is just. It's so heartbreakingly gorgeous. :'(<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/>Seventy-two days after Arthur has come and gone, Eames strolls into the subconscious of the head developer at Murus. Seventy-two days, too long for any hint to linger even in the waking world; and there are no footprints in dreaming, besides.<br \/><br \/>Arthur has left only two things behind. One, the impeccable results of the job he was hired to do, and two, the equally impeccable job he has done in sabotaging it.<br \/><br \/>\"The safe is on the third floor,\" says a subconscious security guard, inscrutable in sunglasses. Six or seven of them surround Eames like bodyguards, their movements sharp, the grips on their guns merciless, just the way Arthur would like it.<br \/><br \/>\"Anyone but me and they'd be ripped apart,\" says Eames, impressed.<br \/><br \/>\"Mr. Arthur has also left you a message,\" says the guard.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"He says to look for him at the Grand Formosa,\" says the guard. \"Under Frank Bacon.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'll keep that in mind,\" says Eames. \"Lead the way.\"<br \/><br \/>They weave through the projections populating the office building. Murus is a Taiwan-based startup that aims to create a large-scale solution for bypassing the Golden Shield firewall. The Chinese government has made no official move yet, and word on the market is that Murus is looking to be acquired by someone bigger. Corporations all around the world are buzzing at the opportunity, and everyone is dying to know what the next step in the merger process is, who is ahead in the race so far.<br \/><br \/>Murus wastes no time in hiring one of the world's foremost subconscious security experts to militarize the minds of all high-ranking employees. Arthur answers their call.<br \/><br \/>Several companies waste no time in hiring one of the world's foremost mindheist thieves to extract further information on the buyout. Eames answers <i>their<\/i> call.<br \/><br \/>Then Arthur and Eames answer each other's calls.<br \/><br \/>This is the third con of its kind they pull. Arthur provides the mark with the best militarization training that money can buy, but leaves an Eames-shaped hole in the fence as he works. Months later, hired by competitors and other interested parties, Eames drops into the mark's subconscious and receives VIP treatment from the security detail left by Arthur.<br \/><br \/>They split the payout evenly, because neither of them would have it otherwise.<br \/><br \/>\"Thank you for your work, ladies and gentlemen,\" Eames tells the guards. The safe swings open.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>It's been years since Project Somnacin was disbanded, and as dreamshare went civilian, so did Arthur and Eames. In their youth and enthusiasm, they overshot it slightly, perhaps; they didn't stop at civilian. They went mercenary.<br \/><br \/>They meet on a job for Old Man Patterson, whose nerves, it turns out, can't take the strain. He retires to the countryside with his cut, and Arthur and Eames drift together, into one job after another, into one bed after another. But even that's more than a year ago, and now Eames knocks at the door of Arthur's room at the Grand Formosa, grinning and waving through the peephole.<br \/><br \/>\"It's open,\" comes Arthur's voice.<br \/><br \/>\"Don't mind me, then,\" says Eames, and tucks his hand inside his jacket. He's carrying several briefcases, and they're unwieldy enough to put him at a disadvantage. He pushes the door open anyway.<br \/><br \/>There's a flurry of movement from the far side of the room, and Eames drops the briefcases to the floor, whipping out his Jericho in the same breath. He only barely makes it; Arthur has rolled into sight and is crouching on one knee near the foot of the bed, the barrel of a Kalashnikov aimed straight for Eames' face.<br \/><br \/>For a moment they don't say anything, just stare down the lengths of each other's guns. The windows are open and a breeze stirs their hair.<br \/><br \/>\"You're outclassed,\" says Arthur, softly.<br \/><br \/>\"Not really,\" says Eames. \"You look good.\"<br \/><br \/>He does. Arthur looks well-rested, fresh from his extended vacation. He's in a vest and a button-down, and Eames wonders if that means he's bothered to dress up a little for the occasion. The fabric of his trousers stretches tight across a bent thigh, long and deadly, and the curl of his fingers around the gun makes Eames' mouth go dry.<br \/><br \/>\"Not so bad yourself,\" says Arthur, and slides the gun back under the bed, straightening up.<br \/><br \/>\"Hello, Arthur,\" says Eames. \"One of these days, I'll just take the money and run.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You know I'd find you,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"And you know I only do this for your amusement,\" says Eames. \"Honestly, it's not like we'll <i>actually<\/i> shoot each other-- well, not in real life, anyway. And when I asked for the payment in cash, let me tell you, their faces--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Is that it?\" asks Arthur, looking toward the briefcases.<br \/><br \/>\"Yes,\" says Eames. \"Prepare for an obscene amount of money in untraceable American dollars.\"<br \/><br \/>At that, Arthur's body leans a bit in the direction of the briefcases. His tongue darts out and swipes at his upper lip, like he's heard of something delicious, like he can't wait to <i>taste<\/i> the money, and it's with that flash of his wet tongue that Eames knows, Arthur is turned on as all hell.<br \/><br \/>\"I've always wanted,\" says Arthur, and can't even finish his sentence.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>The dollar bills fill the bathtub about a quarter-way deep. Stray bits of paper crumple beneath their feet as they lurch out of their trousers, the empty suitcases lying discarded beneath the sink. Arthur breathes quick and shallow, his eyes unfocused, and he fumbles with the buckle on Eames' belt like he can't take the trouble to be precise.<br \/><br \/><i>Oh, Arthur,<\/i> thinks Eames.<br \/><br \/>They topple into the bathtub and slip on the smooth surface of new money, and Eames tears Arthur's vest open, his shirt, licking up the tense lines of Arthur's chest, and Arthur groans and clutches to the edges of the tub. They're both hard and already leaking onto the bills, so Eames isn't too careful as he coats his fingers with the lube.<br \/><br \/>\"I have the best fucking ideas,\" pants Arthur, his pupils blown, his hair a wreck.<br \/><br \/>\"Enjoying your own depravity?\" asks Eames, pushing a finger into Arthur. The clench of muscle there is answer enough, and Arthur throws his head back, baring his throat.<br \/><br \/>\"Fuck,\" he gasps.<br \/><br \/>Eames hitches Arthur's legs up around him, and Arthur bends easy, sliding a little down the slope of dollar bills. Arthur, Arthur. Cool as cool gets, but his blood runs too hot. Arthur lives like he's speeding down a highway, angry and reckless and much too fast. Arthur lives like twenty-seven is as old as he'll ever get.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" said Eames, a few weeks back, watching the way the cafe lights filtered through his lotus flower tea. \"We can't keep this up forever.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Keep what up forever?\" asked Arthur. He was sipping at his coffee and rifling through an English newspaper.<br \/><br \/>\"All of it,\" said Eames. \"The job, for one. We get away with a lot right now because mindheist is so new, but soon enough, they'll wisen up. They'll know what we're up to.\"<br \/><br \/>\"We'll do it some other way, then,\" said Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"It's not just the job,\" said Eames. He tugged the newspaper down, caught Arthur's eye. \"It's about <i>this.<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" said Arthur, \"there is no <i>this.<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>\"You can't run forever, Arthur,\" said Eames. \"You won't stay twenty-seven. You'll have to slow down someday. We can't always do this, point guns in each other's faces and topple into bed, fuck-and-run job after job like it's all we need.\"<br \/><br \/>\"It's all we've got,\" said Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"We could have more,\" said Eames.<br \/><br \/>Arthur stirred his coffee, spoon clinking against porcelain.<br \/><br \/>\"If you want,\" said Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Here's something to think about,\" said Arthur. \"Just five years ago, only a handful of people in the entire world knew anything about dreamshare. All the rest went on living their lives, <i>we<\/i> went on living our lives, bored and complacent like we'd learned everything there was to learn.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" said Eames, a low warning.<br \/><br \/>\"And then Project Somnacin started recruiting, and it was like we'd been living blind,\" said Arthur. \"In the space of a few short weeks, I realized -- <i>you<\/i> realized -- that nothing had ever been the way we thought it was. There was an entire field we never knew existed. This <i>bourne,<\/i> Eames. This subconscious <i>universe.<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>\"What does this have to do with--\" said Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"There's this guy in Paris, called Cobb,\" said Arthur. \"He's working with his wife and his father-in-law to expand the use of dreamshare for academic use. He's been trying to turn me legitimate. Not a day goes by that this technology doesn't change someone's life, Eames. We're living in a world that can't hold still.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Makes you think,\" said Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I mean it,\" said Arthur. \"You think I can't run forever-- and maybe you're right, maybe I can't. But if I keep running until I drop down dead, until someone or something drops me dead, isn't that the same thing, really?\"<br \/><br \/>\"You're twenty-seven,\" said Eames, and pretended that the bottom of his stomach hadn't just fallen out. \"Most people think they're invincible, at that age.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Yes, well,\" said Arthur, \"I'm not most people.\"<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" said Eames. \"You're not.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Neither are you,\" said Arthur.<br \/><br \/>Arthur's lips crooked into a smile, and on anyone else, Eames would have called it a gesture of admiration or acceptance. But Arthur didn't admire Eames, didn't accept Eames, never had and never would.<br \/><br \/>\"Where are you staying?\" asked Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"We'll get to that when you finish the job,\" said Arthur, snapping open the newspaper.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Arthur at twenty-seven is so bright, so innocent in his feral cruelty, that Eames can't imagine him any younger. Twenty-seven is as old as he'll ever get, and twenty-seven is as young as he ever was.<br \/><br \/>Eames, too, is still young. He's only thirty. But this sort of fire is something he can't understand, the drive that doesn't let Arthur linger on his indiscretions, cherish his bad habits like Eames thinks they're meant to be enjoyed. <i>Maybe it's because I'm not twenty-nine,<\/i> thinks Eames. <i>Maybe it changed me, being on the other side of a number like a precipice.<\/i><br \/><br \/>It makes him wonder what Arthur was like when he was nineteen.<br \/><br \/>\"What were you like,\" he asks, \"when you were nineteen?\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur makes an impatient noise in his throat and digs his heels into Eames' back, drawing him in deeper. Eames takes the hint, rolling his hips into Arthur's, gripping the brim of the tub where Arthur's hands are. Then Arthur's hands shift, and their fingers slot into place-- lacing together.<br \/><br \/>With anyone else, it would be a gesture of something tender. But Arthur isn't tender; Arthur is twenty-seven and made of stone and sinew beneath his skin like silk.<br \/><br \/>\"Harder,\" says Arthur, flushed and ragged. His legs wrap around Eames. Every time they rock together, bits of paper money flutter, coming to rest between them, sticking to their flesh. Arthur moans and the sound echoes off the bathroom tiles, and he's all loose limbs thrown across a pool of cash. Eames fucks him as gently as he will allow. It's not gentle at all.<br \/><br \/>Eames looks into the closed disapproval of Benjamin Franklin's face as he comes, Arthur shuddering and tightening beneath him. Eames pulls out when he catches his breath, peels the condom off and tosses it into the bowl of the toilet. He falls back onto Arthur, and they're covered filthy with semen, and sweat, and money.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" says Arthur, and Eames dreads him demanding another round, because he doesn't know if he can. But Arthur doesn't say anything else. Just closes his eyes and brings his hands up to tangle in Eames' hair, trailing down lower like falling asleep, coming to rest on the small of his back.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Eames pulls on his trousers and scoops all the money back into the briefcases. He lifts Arthur to get to what's underneath him, and Arthur is slack in his arms like he never is when he's awake. There are bruises starting to bloom on his hips, on his elbows, because crisp bills aren't much of a cushion to begin with. Eames thinks that maybe he should air the bills out to dry before he tries to deposit them, if only out of common courtesy. Arthur is a warm dead weight.<br \/><br \/>He scrapes the tub free of every last dollar, locks the briefcases shut, and puts on his shoes. Arthur looks like a businessman who's had too much champagne at a reception, still half dressed and careless in repose. Eames plugs the bathtub and starts a slow trickle of water, and he leaves.<br \/><br \/>It's about an hour later that his phone buzzes in his pocket.<br \/><br \/><i>You took my cut,<\/i> it says. <i>And my suit is ruined.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Thats my price,<\/i> he texts.<br \/><br \/><i>Then you're the priciest whore I've ever had,<\/i> texts Arthur.<br \/><br \/>Eames is checking the number of remaining metro stops until his hotel, and he doesn't remember his thumbs moving across the letters until he looks down and reads, <i>Youre the first john ive ever loved.<\/i><br \/><br \/>He doesn't know what that word is doing there, how that word got there, <i>loved,<\/i> so he pushes the clear button until the screen wipes blank, delete, delete, delete. The air conditioning is too strong and there are goosebumps down his neck.<br \/><br \/><i>When are you leaving?<\/i> he texts back.<br \/><br \/><i>Thursday,<\/i> texts Arthur. <i>Departure is at 2300. Terminal 1.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>You sound like you want me to see you off,<\/i> texts Eames.<br \/><br \/>It takes twenty minutes for Arthur's next message to arrive.<br \/><br \/><i>Thought maybe you'd want to return my cut,<\/i> it says.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>When Eames thinks that he wants Arthur to settle down, he's not being delusional. It's not about white picket fences near the Alps, a mathematical mean of children playing with border collies, nor is it even about civil ceremonies and discreet gold rings. He doesn't think he wants that for himself, anyway.<br \/><br \/>But what <i>does<\/i> he want for them-- that's what stumps him. He doesn't know. He wants Arthur to-- something, wants Arthur to stop living like he's running from life, and if only Eames could grab him and hold him still until he stopped struggling, maybe then everything would be all right.<br \/><br \/>Arthur is twenty-seven. It might be too much to ask from him.<br \/><br \/>Eames pretends that what he wants is a lavish wedding, both of them in white, where he dips Arthur low to the ground before kissing him silly as the guests shriek and applaud. He knows that Arthur will have none of it, and attempt to compromise; and maybe what comes out of that compromise will be what Eames has wanted all along. Arthur has a knack for making him happy.<br \/><br \/>Arthur also has a knack for making him feel like he's lost in the alleys of an unfamiliar city, all the streetlights blown out and the air heavy with smoke, and he's looking desperately for something but he's forgotten what it is, so he keeps walking, choking, looking. He tries not to think about that.<br \/><br \/>\"If I asked you to come someplace with me,\" Eames had said once, \"would you come with me?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" said Arthur, \"would that be a date?\"<br \/><br \/>\"If you want,\" said Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Yes,\" said Arthur, shrugging, and from anyone else's mouth, it would have really meant <i>yes.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Eames took him into a dream where they sat at a long dinner table, laden with candles and plates of food. Eames had projected Arthur's entire family into the setting, the best he could do from the one family portrait in Arthur's wallet. The picture was missing Arthur, but the family had Arthur's dark hair, his smooth jaw.<br \/><br \/>\"It's not that I mind,\" said Arthur's mother. \"Children grow up, they move out.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Mother,\" said Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Sometimes to ridiculous places like Cincinnati,\" she said, \"or Boise, Idaho.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Then you never see them again,\" said Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"You'd think they'd at least pick up a phone,\" she said. \"Try the green beans, Arthur. How will anybody want to love you when you're so skinny?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm watching my salt,\" said Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"You need to feed him better,\" she told Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"You need to convince him to let me feed him,\" said Eames. \"I'd do a good job of it, you know. What I can't cook, I'd buy. I might be a crook but I'm a very wealthy one.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Is that all you have to offer him?\" asked one of Arthur's sisters. \"Money for food?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Of course not,\" said Eames, \"I--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Does he even want you?\" asked another sister. \"Arthur, this is it? This is what you're settling for?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" said another sister, turning to him, \"don't be a schmuck.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I thought this was <i>my<\/i> dream,\" protested Eames.<br \/><br \/>Arthur drank his water, dabbed at his mouth with the napkin.<br \/><br \/>\"That's the subconscious for you,\" he said. \"Never does what you want it to.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You're no good for him,\" Arthur's mother told Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Well,\" said Arthur, \"this has been a pleasant evening. Nice to see you again, Mother.\"<br \/><br \/>He gave her a ginger hug around her shoulders, and waited for Eames to pull out his gun. When Eames aimed for his forehead, Arthur closed his eyes. With anyone else, it would have been a gesture of trust, but Arthur just looked like he was tired. Like he couldn't stand to see Eames anymore.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" said Arthur when they woke up, \"my household is not a Woody Allen movie.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm sorry that your Jewish heritage is irresistibly exotic to me,\" said Eames.<br \/><br \/>That was that.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Thursday, Eames miscalculates the distance between his hotel and Taoyuan International. He runs all the way to the entrance of terminal one, his shirt filling with sweat, hardly able to breathe for the humidity. It's already nine o'clock, and he thinks Arthur must have left already, on a plane to god knows where, silent until the next time they fall into each other.<br \/><br \/>But he gets to the door and Arthur is waiting there, leaning against a wall.<br \/><br \/>\"Hello,\" says Eames, wheezing.<br \/><br \/>\"Not your most dignified arrival,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I thought that if I waited,\" says Arthur, \"you might show up with a few briefcases for me.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames stumbles past the awning, trying to catch a breeze, but it's stifling and sweat is running down him in rivulets.<br \/><br \/>\"Not a chance,\" he says. \"You'll just have to take your next job with me. Then you can steal my share and call it even.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Do you need to sit down or something?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Eames. \"You need to go, don't you?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I mean, yes,\" says Arthur, \"but--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Just came to see you off,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>Arthur is about to answer, but then the heavens split open above, and relentless <i>meiyu<\/i> rain pours down like the sky is trying to drown them. It's a Taiwanese summer rain, so thick you can't see, a fine mist filling the air. Warm but heavy, so heavy. There isn't the slightest warning. Eames is rooted to the ground in surprise, soaked through in a matter of seconds.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh,\" says Arthur. \"Wow.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames splutters and furiously blinks water out of his eyes, already wet but fully intending to step out of the rain, when he feels the tentative pressure of hands on his chest.<br \/><br \/>\"Thanks for coming,\" says Arthur's voice, indistinct through the drum of the rain.<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" he says.<br \/><br \/>\"I'll see you again,\" says Arthur. From anyone else, it would have sounded like a promise, not a goodbye.<br \/><br \/>Soft and slick, Arthur kisses him on the corner of his mouth, the rain running between them. Eames is about to pull him in closer when he catches himself, and instead he shoves his hands into his pockets, stock still until Arthur moves away.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" says Arthur, \"I didn't think you'd bring the briefcases.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You know what I was thinking,\" says Eames. \"I was thinking, with anyone else but you, this would be romantic.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur cocks his head to one side, frowning.<br \/><br \/>\"Why with anyone else but me?\" he asks.<br \/><br \/>\"Because,\" says Eames, and he swallows, then he says, \"You should be checking in.\"<br \/><br \/>The rain is already letting off a little, but all of Arthur's front is wet. The drops of water bead in his hair, in his lashes, and Eames can't stop looking. Can't stop wanting, can't stop-- he clenches his fists a little tighter.<br \/><br \/>\"Should I?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Yes,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>He's shifting his weight in front of the token dispensers in the metro, the rain still sloshing in his shoes, when his phone buzzes. He's surprised that it's still working.<br \/><br \/><i>Call me,<\/i> it says. Arthur's number.<br \/><br \/>\"Hello,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Where are you?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Still at the airport, it's not eleven yet,\" says Arthur. \"I'm at the bar.\"<br \/><br \/>\"All right,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Do you know why I'm at the bar?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Why are you at the bar?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Because I'm pissed at you,\" says Arthur. \"I'm pissed that you took all my money. I don't do this work for charity. You took all my fucking money and I'm fucking pissed about it.\"<br \/><br \/>\"We discussed this,\" says Eames, \"on the next job--\"<br \/><br \/>\"By the way, that's a lie,\" says Arthur. \"I don't give a shit about the money.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Except when you want to fill a bathtub with it just so that we can fuck,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Except then,\" says Arthur. His laughter is rough. \"That's all I want, Eames. I want to fuck in piles of money, wave guns in people's faces, buy expensive suits, steal from assholes, and drink martinis until I die.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I know,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Really?\" asks Arthur. \"Is that what you think I want?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Tell me something, Mr. Eames,\" says Arthur. \"Why is it romantic with anyone else but me?\"<br \/><br \/>Eames rests his back against the wall, fiddling with the metro token, running his finger across the raised lettering. <i>Because, Arthur, it's because of the way you are. It's because you're twenty-seven and you're running too fast to see me flagging you down. It's because I'm standing here with my hand out for you, and all you can think of is the finish line, the burning, crashing end you think is coming for you, when all you have to do is just slow down. When all you have to do is turn around.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"I knew you wouldn't bring the briefcases,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"What?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I was waiting,\" says Arthur, very slowly, \"I was waiting for you.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You don't mean that,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Why do I have to get drunk just to talk to you?\" asks Arthur. \"Why do I have to-- why can't I talk to you when I'm actually there with you, why do I have to get drunk and get out a phone before I-- do you know why?\"<br \/><br \/><i>Because when we're face to face, all you see is the stagnation I can offer you, and it disgusts you to think that you could settle for anything like me.<\/i> The back of Eames' head hits the wall, and he slides down, flipping the token over and over again in his hands. <i>Because you're twenty-seven and you're looking for something fantastic. You want something I could never give, or be, or attempt to be. Because you're too good for me and you know it.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"It's because you frighten me, Eames,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Why would I ever--\" begins Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"It's not the way you draw a gun,\" says Arthur, \"or the way you slip in and out of minds. It's because you spoil me. Because for everything I do, you tell yourself, <i>This is just Arthur being Arthur.<\/i> And it makes me wonder, if I were any other way-- would I be someone else? If this is the way I am now, is this the way I'm going to be for the rest of my life?\"<br \/><br \/>\"That's not a bad thing,\" says Eames. \"Arthur, I don't-- I don't want you to change.\"<br \/><br \/>\"But I <i>will,<\/i>\" says Arthur. \"God, Eames. I'm twenty-seven. Back at the hotel in the bathtub, you wanted to know what I was like when I was nineteen. Well, when I was nineteen, I wanted to be a doctor.\"<br \/><br \/>\"So you're more Jewish than you think,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Listen,\" says Arthur. \"I wanted to be a doctor, Eames. Can you imagine? When I was nineteen, I thought I was going to save the world. And look at me now. I'm a career fucking criminal stealing ideas from people's heads. I fuck other career criminals in bathtubs filled with money.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Is your mother disappointed?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Don't, Eames,\" says Arthur. \"Please.\"<br \/><br \/>They're both silent for a little while. The metro token dances across his knuckles.<br \/><br \/>\"I've known you for maybe a year now,\" says Arthur. \"Whether you like it or not-- whether <i>I<\/i> like it or not, I'm going to change. Twenty-seven is young.\"<br \/><br \/>\"So is thirty,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"But you-- Eames,\" says Arthur, \"but you <i>know<\/i> yourself in a way that-- Eames, I'm nothing like you. Of course you know that.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I know,\" says Eames. \"It's why I love you.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur lets out a long, shuddering breath, a rush of air that echoes through Eames' entire body. And in that moment, Eames is frightened-- of Arthur, of the damage he can do, of the sheer naked boldness of those words-- and he considers snapping his phone shut and disappearing, running like Arthur is running, changing his name and becoming someone else. But then Arthur says,<br \/><br \/>\"It's why I love <i>you,<\/i>\" carefully, quietly, clearly like he's right there with him.<br \/><br \/>\"Come now, darling,\" says Eames before he can stop himself, \"I don't need your pity. I didn't call you to listen to you lie. I don't need you to humor me.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I wish you didn't read people so well,\" says Arthur. \"Maybe then you'd look again, for once, and maybe you'd really see what you do to me.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I annoy you,\" says Eames. \"I fuck you, sometimes. But that's all I do.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Somewhere along the way, you decided you knew who I was,\" says Arthur. \"And now, when you look at me-- you're not looking at me, Eames. What you see, that's me when I was twenty-six. That's not me anymore.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You still push me away,\" says Eames. \"I'm not feeling the love, Arthur. I'm really not.\"<br \/><br \/>\"When you first started to love me,\" says Arthur, \"you decided I would break your heart. And that's all you're waiting for now, Eames. You're just waiting for me to break your heart. But not everyone loves like you do, so quick and hot and sure of yourself, because not everyone knows themselves like you do. The way you know yourself to turn into everyone else. Usually, people-- what I mean to say is, I-- I think I know what I want, and then I lose it again, and it's a long mess more than anything else, Eames. It's confusing and it's frustrating.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur breathes in, again that rush of air, like he's bracing himself.<br \/><br \/>\"But in all of that chaos, you keep-- <i>I<\/i> keep finding myself inevitably returning to the same thought,\" says Arthur. \"I meet you in Copenhagen, in Rio, in Taipei, and it always circles back into my head, stronger and stronger-- <i>I think I'm in love with him.<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>The words are a string of heated syllables.<br \/><br \/>\"<i>God help me,<\/i>\" whispers Arthur, \"<i>but I think I'm in love with him.<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" says Eames. \"Arthur.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You only think I'm pushing you away,\" says Arthur, \"because nobody knows how to pull like you do.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I don't mean t--\" he begins.<br \/><br \/>\"And I'll get there, one day,\" says Arthur, \"but that's not today or tomorrow. Maybe it won't even be next year. But I want you to know that I'm only twenty-seven, I don't know the first thing about me, and I'm changing, Eames-- I'm very slow at it, and it's little by little, but I'm letting you sink in.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames grips the metro token and thinks that it's massively, colossally unfair that there's an entire airport between them, that he can only hear the smile in Arthur's voice.<br \/><br \/>\"I'm learning you,\" says Arthur. \"Is it all right for us to wait together?\"<br \/><br \/>And Eames knows what he has to do.<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" he says, and he's surprised at how shaky his own laughter is. \"Arthur. You frighten me. You frighten me because you think I'm honorable enough to wait. I'm not just going to sit around on my arse and <i>wait<\/i>. I'm going to wear you down. So as long as we're waiting for you, I'll pull you as hard as I can. I'll make an honest man of you yet.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Fine words from a criminal,\" says Arthur. \"I'm touched.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Don't forget,\" says Eames, \"I'm no good for you.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Of course you're no good for me,\" says Arthur. \"But don't forget who's been breaking the law with you all this while. I'm no good for you either, Mr. Eames.\"<br \/><br \/>Distantly, Eames hears a garbled noise over the PR system on the other end of the line. It's the boarding call.<br \/><br \/>\"I'll see you again,\" says Arthur, and it sounds nothing like a goodbye.<br \/><br \/>\"Yes,\" says Eames. \"You'll see me again.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I may not be any good for you,\" says Arthur, \"but I promise that I'll be worth your time.\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Once, Eames had thought that what he wanted was to hold Arthur still, to keep him from running, and he thought that would make everything all right.<br \/><br \/>He'd had it all wrong.<br \/><br \/>He can let Arthur run, let him thirst for the fantastic, let him fill bathtubs with money and blow up entire blocks of buildings. He can let Arthur be twenty-seven and beautiful, just the way he is, just the way he would never be again.<br \/><br \/>All he has to do is keep pace. How could he have thought that the right thing was to wait, to stand still and try to catch Arthur's eye? Arthur isn't running from anything, and it's all right for him to run. Through twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine. He's only running, running to feel the wind, and Eames is right there with him, breaking the law, filling bathtubs with money, blowing up entire blocks of buildings.<br \/><br \/>By the time they meet again in Auckland, a week before Arthur's twenty-eighth birthday, Eames has picked out one of those totems that everyone is talking about. <i>You'll be wanting one too,<\/i> he tells Arthur. <i>It helps you distinguish between dreams and waking.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>What's yours?<\/i> asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/><i>Poker chip,<\/i> he says, holding it out of reach. <i>Because I'll never say no to taking a chance.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Arthur smiles at that, like he knows what it means. But what he doesn't know is the feel of the chip in Eames' hand, the way it moves across his fingers. It's the exact same size and weight as a Taiwanese metro token.<br \/><br \/><i>God help me,<\/i> thinks Eames when he touches it, <i>but he's in love with me.<\/i><br><br><br>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/4082.html?view=comments#comments","category":"eames\/arthur"},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/3708.html","pubDate":"Sun, 03 Oct 2010 14:26:15 GMT","title":"It's All Fun and Games (Until Someone Loses Their Heterosexuality): PART 3","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/3708.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Eames\/Arthur<br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> The third installment of a four-part comic about Arthur, Eames, their mutual unwillingness to lose a game that neither knows how to play, and Ariadne's frustration at the world.<br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> THE THIRD PART OF THAT WHICH I AM STILL ASHAMED TO CALL A COLLABORATION BECAUSE I DID SO LITTLE FOR IT :'( IT IS THE SECOND-TO-LAST PART YOU GUYS I WILL BE SO SAD WHEN IT IS OVER and everyone should have <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"platina\" lj:user=\"platina\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/platina.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/platina.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>platina<\/b><\/a><\/span>'s babies.<br \/><br \/><a href=\"http:\/\/community.livejournal.com\/eames_arthur\/398888.html\" target=\"_blank\"><b>CLICK HERE OR REGRET IT FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE<\/b><\/a>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/3708.html?view=comments#comments","category":["eames\/arthur","comic"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/3321.html","pubDate":"Wed, 29 Sep 2010 12:18:58 GMT","title":"Deja Fucking Deja Vu","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/3321.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Eames\/Arthur, Nash\/Arthur<br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> Nash is this, Nash is that, but it's far more likely that Nash is just something in between. <br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> Alphabetically I did put the Eames\/Arthur first, but... Eames is hardly in this at all, haha :( Mostly it is about Nash, which really means, mostly it is about everyone but Eames.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/>The curtains are drawn against the Guyanese sun. It filters through in a haze of dust motes, warming the room anyway, and you're choking in the baking-oven heat of it. Of course the fan is broken.<br \/><br \/>There's not much in your life that works anymore. You stare down the door, locked and bolted, and your eyes are probably bloodshot because it stings to keep them focused. It's hot as all fuck and they're taking their sweet fucking time. You've been waiting for them a long while now, two years maybe. You knew this would happen the moment you hit the ground running.<br \/><br \/>You pour yourself a mouthful of brandy from the bottle. <i>Brandy is a cold man's drink,<\/i> you think, and it's two hundred fucking degrees inside but you're cold and the brandy helps a little bit. Your hands are shaking and a splatter of alcohol ends up on your shirt, a long stain like piss across your front. It sticks to the skin beneath.<br \/><br \/>It feels fucking disgusting, but hey. Listen. It's going to get uglier before it's over.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>You're the best employee that the dream rental has, because you'll work from seven to two the next morning straight, and you know better than to ask any questions. You've even got a list of regulars; that makes it feel like some classy whore shit, but the tips turn everything all right.<br \/><br \/>One day you're hosting a lunch break dream for one of these regulars, some sweaty rich bastard that works uptown. He strolls through his favorite Japanese garden, the one he's made you dream for him so many times that you don't even have to check the blueprints anymore to call it up. He does his meditative breathing exercises, jerks off into a grove of bamboo trees, whatever it is he comes to this dream for. You sit at a pavilion and wish that the tea came with a waitress you could fuck.<br \/><br \/>When the five minutes are over and the two of you wake up, he stands there fiddling with his cuffs instead of leaving. It makes you uneasy.<br \/><br \/>\"What do you want,\" you ask him.<br \/><br \/>\"Nash,\" he says, \"how would you like a job?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I've got a job,\" you say.<br \/><br \/>\"A real one,\" he says. \"With the amount of practice you've had dreaming, you could be out there making serious money. I think you've got the talent. I could talk to some people I know, if you're interested, have them come over sometime next week.\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>That's how you end up sitting across the pavilion from a pair of dicks in suits called Cobb and Arthur. Your customer is at your back, like he's having you judged, like he's selling you off.<br \/><br \/>\"It's crisp enough,\" says Arthur, not looking around. \"But much too boring. Much too dull.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, that's because--\" starts the customer, flustered, \"this is according to my specifications, you shouldn't-- I'm sure Nash could add some details to your liking, if you hired him. This is the way I prefer it, that's all.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur's lip curls in contempt. You find yourself staring at his mouth.<br \/><br \/>\"What do you think of mazes?\" asks Cobb.<br \/><br \/>\"Mazes?\" you ask. \"I don't think anything of mazes. They're fucking <i>mazes<\/i>. Why would anyone have an opinion on mazes?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Let's drop this,\" says Arthur. \"Obviously he's an idiot.\"<br \/><br \/>\"My god,\" you say, delighted, \"you're an asshole, aren't you?\"<br \/><br \/>You mean for it to be a compliment, but Arthur's jaw tightens and he moves like he's going to jump on you. Cobb puts a quick hand on his arm, and he leans back against the railing, defeated.<br \/><br \/>\"Tell me,\" says Cobb, \"what sorts of customers do you get here?\"<br \/><br \/>\"In the morning before work,\" you say, \"people want courage. They ask for dreams about beating shit up, hunting, winning races. During the lunch hour, people like to take a few minutes off and rest. Beaches are popular. After work is for the sad shit; that's when you get asked for the dreams about ex-wives and flying.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What about at night?\" asks Cobb.<br \/><br \/>\"Around midnight, they start asking for the whores,\" you say.<br \/><br \/>\"Wonderful,\" says Arthur. \"We're about to hire a dream rental pimp to be our architect.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Hold on, Arthur,\" says Cobb. \"How long does it take you to set up a rented dream?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Ten minutes, if I have to read the blueprint from scratch,\" you say. \"Around two, otherwise.\"<br \/><br \/>\"How many blueprints would you say you're familiar with?\" asks Cobb.<br \/><br \/>\"All the popular ones,\" you say. \"Five hundred, maybe.\"<br \/><br \/>\"And you work nineteen hours a day?\" he asks.<br \/><br \/>\"With the time difference,\" you say, \"it's a lot longer than that.\"<br \/><br \/>Cobb looks at Arthur, a silent <i>How about that?<\/i> Arthur shrugs, shoulders jerking, like he's trying to shake off an insect. You think you could grow to like him.<br \/><br \/>\"What do you know,\" says Cobb, \"about extraction?\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>You know fuck all about extraction, but they try to explain it to you. Mostly you understand what they're rattling on about. But what's important to you is that this is the first really illegal thing you've ever done, and the prospect of becoming an outlaw prickles under your skin, until you feel ready to combust with the promise of glamor.<br \/><br \/>\"How much do you make?\" you ask them. \"For every job, I mean?\"<br \/><br \/>\"It's not about the money,\" says Arthur, sharp. You think you like him already.<br \/><br \/>\"Then what do you do it for?\" you ask. \"Cobb? Hey?\"<br \/><br \/>\"He needs the money,\" says Arthur, before Cobb can answer.<br \/><br \/>\"Look, boy scout,\" you say, \"we all need the money. That's the point of money. You're supposed to want it.\"<br \/><br \/>\"That's not what I'm in it for,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"You noble little shit,\" you say, but it doesn't sound as fond as it did inside your head.<br \/><br \/>When you've all done enough for the day and you're packing up, Arthur tells Cobb to go on ahead. Cobb frowns, and you wonder if you're going to get the fucking daylights beat out of you. You look down at Arthur's hands, at the stretch of fine skin over his knuckles, and you decide that you wouldn't put it past him.<br \/><br \/>Arthur doesn't punch you. Only clears his throat and fixes his eyes on something far past you.<br \/><br \/>\"We don't usually work with inexperienced dreamers,\" he says. \"And we never take advice from our clients.\"<br \/><br \/>\"But you know I'm good enough,\" you say. \"You hired me.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Nash, I don't know how to put this to you,\" says Arthur, \"but there is a real shortage in manpower right now in the dreamshare community. A decent architect is hard to come by, and in the absence of anyone with real building skills or creativity, we were desperate enough to look for someone with a repertoire.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Just hold the fuck on,\" you say. \"I can do this job.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You're going to have to,\" he says. \"Anyway, if it falls through, the client only has his own recommendation of you to blame.\"<br \/><br \/>\"So what's this talk about?\" you ask.<br \/><br \/>\"I don't like you,\" says Arthur. \"But it doesn't have to be a problem.\"<br \/><br \/>You feel your heat rise at that, and you think you're going to punch him, pulverize his fucking cheekbone to shattered little pieces. You'd much rather see blood on his face than anything as closed as that quiet disapproval. Your nails dig into your palms and you open your mouth, about to tell him to go fuck himself, but that's not what ends up coming out.<br \/><br \/>\"What?\" you ask instead. \"What did I do wrong?\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur does you both the courtesy of refusing to answer.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>They have you build an office building for the job. You're good with office buildings, because every other moron wants to dream about setting fire to one, holding their breath in glee as HR goes up in a rush of flames. Cobb and Arthur want it to be seventy stories high, which is maybe a little taller than what you're used to, but it's nothing you can't handle.<br \/><br \/>The client wants the attendees list for some bigshot conference that's coming up, and according to Cobb, the mark is going to want to store the info in the locked cabinets on the seventieth floor. There's some kind of fucked-up logic behind it that you don't really give a damn about. But you're in one of your practice runs where you're walking around in that glittering monolith you've imagined for yourself, and Jesus, but you feel fucking badass.<br \/><br \/>\"Try changing the landscape,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Like how?\" you ask, looking down at the sidewalk miles below you. \"Should I green it up? Plant some trees?\"<br \/><br \/>A row of little shrubs sprouts up to line the roads, and a car swerves out of the way, honking.<br \/><br \/>\"Keep going,\" says Arthur. \"Change something bigger. I want to show you something.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Sure,\" you say, and you consider the bank across the street.<br \/><br \/>It's <i>your<\/i> dream, all of it, and there's nothing to stop you. You're good as fucking God in this world. So you picture mushrooming explosions, bright against the cityscape, and the bank goes up in smoke before your eyes. There's screaming, people spilling out of the wreckage. The rubble shudders and crashes to the ground. There's the spidery wail of sirens in the distance, and you look back at Arthur, to see if he likes the mess you've made.<br \/><br \/>\"That should do it,\" he says.<br \/><br \/>\"What are you showing me?\" you ask, as the door crashes open.<br \/><br \/>Arthur swings out of the way, and the projections see you first, straight in their line of vision against the window. It's a mob of soft, fleshy office workers, in their glasses and their bad cologne, but they look like they'll tear you to pieces. The one in the front is holding a knife. They <i>are<\/i> going to tear you to pieces.<br \/><br \/><i>Shit,<\/i> you think, <i>shit,<\/i> because what the fuck is going on? Your dream isn't supposed to turn on you like this. You pound against the window, willing it to give and melt out of the way, but you can't concentrate hard enough to change anything. You never should have listened, never should have left the dream rental. That bitch is holding a <i>knife,<\/i> fuck, <i>that bitch is holding a knife she's holding a fucking knife--<\/i><br \/><br \/>You wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, hands clutching at your chest. That fucking bitch tore it right open, and the pain echoes inside your body like a cave.<br \/><br \/>\"Fuck,\" you're shouting, \"fuck, you fucking assholes--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Nash,\" says Arthur, \"<i>Nash,<\/i> listen. You're awake.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm fucking <i>dead,<\/i>\" you spit, trying to claw inside your shirt. \"She <i>stabbed<\/i> me!\"<br \/><br \/>\"When you die in a dream,\" says Arthur, \"you wake up.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, well, that's great, that's just great,\" you say when the words manage to make sense to you, \"can't you just tell me how that works? I just got stabbed with a fucking knife, Jesus fucking Christ--\"<br \/><br \/>\"I thought you should experience it first in a controlled environment, just in case,\" says Arthur. \"Wouldn't want you to panic on the job.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Am I going to <i>die<\/i> on every goddamn job?\" you yell. \"Do I just get killed over and over again?\"<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Arthur, and he catches you by your wild stuttering hands. \"I'm the one that makes sure you don't.\"<br \/><br \/>He puts his fingers to your wrist, steady on your pulse. Slowly you calm enough to feel his touch. And though you know it's your own heartbeat pounding through your head, you wish it were the thrum of Arthur's blood instead, some sign of life beneath the clockwork monster that he is. God, his skin is cool as marble.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>The job goes fucking beautifully. For something that apparently nobody wants to do, the paycheck is fucking awesome, and you cash all of it as soon as you get your hands on it. You sit in your underwear on a pile of hundred-dollar bills, and you hold one up to the lighter until it catches fire and crumples in your grasp. You burn money, one bank note after the other, until your eyes water from the smoke and you stumble outside to the balcony, where you thrust your hands out into the air and watch the ashes dance away.<br \/><br \/><i>Jesus fuck,<\/i> you think, <i>I'm a fucking criminal.<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>I'm an outlaw,<\/i> you whisper into another handful of ashes, and you touch that dry bitter heap with the tip of your tongue. You eat your own money and you fall asleep to some shit piece of porn you're too wired to watch.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Where you think it falls apart is on the Cobol job. Apparently your mark isn't actually your mark, and you have to take on another job to make up for your failure on the current job, or apparently there's going to be some big fucking trouble. It's fucking chaos. But you're just the architect, you don't make the deals, so you figure there's an out for you even if the shit really hits the fan.<br \/><br \/>Arthur's in a foul mood, though. He storms off to his hotel room, door snicking politely closed behind him, and you give him two whole hours before you knock with a bottle of brandy in your hand.<br \/><br \/>\"So what do we do now?\" you ask.<br \/><br \/>\"Now we extract from Saito,\" says Arthur. \"Because that's what our damn job is.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Christ, calm down,\" you say. \"What's the matter with you? I'm the one that got the axe in my back, what the fuck.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You think this is a joke,\" snaps Arthur. \"You think you're on some kind of crazy adventure, where you get to play at breaking the law and being on the run.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Is this about that sweet piece of ass in the red shirt?\" you ask. \"Did you see her tits, though? And she was giving me eyes, too, before she got a hold of that axe.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You're a fucking idiot,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"It doesn't hurt to have a sense of humor,\" you say.<br \/><br \/>Arthur's down to his undershirt and his slacks, and he's sitting at the coffee table cleaning his gun. You don't know shit about guns but it's something long and smooth and black, and it's just like him, all polished and fucking ruthless. You think if you had to carry a weapon, though, it ought to be something bigger. Something that blows shit up.<br \/><br \/>You watch the shift of his shoulders, and you wonder how he made it out of the dream. If they shot him, and if he bled. You wonder if he bleeds.<br \/><br \/>\"I'm sure you have a sense of humor,\" you tell him.<br \/><br \/>\"Fuck you, Nash,\" he says.<br \/><br \/>\"I'm curious,\" you say, \"does your blood run hot? Are you even alive?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Not everyone is as excitable as you,\" he says.<br \/><br \/>He puts his gun back together again, fingers light across metal. Your throat is parched from the brandy so you knock back another mouthful.<br \/><br \/>\"I think you're a dead man already,\" you say.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Where it really falls apart is on the Saito job. Fucking Saito with his fucking carpet, that psycho son of a bitch. You know that the chopper's supposed to be there for you on the roof, but fuck, you know that asshole is going to find you. You think of him laughing, pressing his face into the carpet, and you think he'll probably kill you with his own bare hands.<br \/><br \/>Oh, you're fucked. You're so fucked. You try to imagine what it would feel like to die, but you keep coming up short. There has to be something past the axes and the knives and the bullets, something there instead of breaking free into the waking world, relief seeping into you like sunlight. There has to be something-- or maybe there's nothing, absolutely nothing, not even static, not even darkness, just nothing.<br \/><br \/>You pace the floor of your hotel room, and you don't know how long you have. Saito's going to shoot that fucking chopper right out of the sky. Crazy fucking asshole. And you're going to drop like a fucking bird, all your limbs on fire, your head on the pavement like a watermelon cracking open-- and then nothing, and nothing, and nothing, fuck.<br \/><br \/>Fuck. You just made a fucking bank account. Chicks smell the money on you, and if that doesn't work out, there's always hookers. It's not that you want to fuck someone. It's that you want to live. So maybe your mother's dead, your father's dead, your sister's dead -- actually, your sister's alive -- but it's not your sister that matters, it's <i>you.<\/i> You don't want to live so that you can wire her your paycheck at the end of every fucking month, you suppose you love her but she can go fuck herself, what you want is, you don't want to die. You really don't want to die.<br \/><br \/>That's really all there is. You want to live, you need to live, because you don't know what the alternative is. This dying business, you're not so sure you'd be very good at it.<br \/><br \/>Arthur, now Arthur, <i>he'd<\/i> be very fucking good at it. He's as good as dead already. You think of him spread out on the floor in one of his damn suits, pale and unsmiling, and what's the difference, then? Isn't that how he always is?<br \/><br \/>Only maybe, there might be a puddle of blood beneath him, the only patch of color in the room. Warm to the touch, Arthur's blood. The only living thing about him.<br \/><br \/>You think, if someone slit your throat, you'd flop around like a fish drowning in the open air.<br \/><br \/>You have Saito's number.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Saito's a fucking nut case. You babble yourself dry in front of him and he laps it all up, and then he decides he's too honorable to consider you anything but scum. That's a good fucking deal he's got himself there. Doesn't even need to thank you for your betrayal. Though what makes it betrayal, anyway-- what makes Cobb and Arthur your responsibility?<br \/><br \/>So Saito, who steals people's wives, who won't trust his chief engineer enough to share his expansion plans, who gambles with street rats in his off time, that Saito thinks he's too fucking high and mighty for your bullshit. He leaves you for the vultures.<br \/><br \/>They drag you away, your heels skidding against concrete. Arthur looks disappointed, but of course he looks disappointed. You're not worth his anger.<br \/><br \/>What you mean to do is rail at him, tell him he can go shove his notions up his fucking ass, see how long Cobb will care. They're only loyal in the sense that floating cadavers are loyal to the river. They just don't know how to swim against the current, because they don't know how to <i>live.<\/i><br \/><br \/>But you open your mouth and you know, what you'll end up doing is apologizing. God, what the fuck is the matter with you. So you shut your fucking mouth. Arthur grows smaller and smaller in the distance, and he doesn't stop frowning your way.<br \/><br \/><i>What?<\/i> you want to ask. <i>What did I do wrong?<\/i><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Cobol finds you, just like Saito said they would. Woodruff finds you. A personal fucking touch.<br \/><br \/>\"If it isn't our little rat friend,\" he says. \"Hello, Nash.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Two whole days to track me down,\" you say. \"Aren't you off your game?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Don't pretend you've got a mouth on you,\" he says. \"I know you're about to shit yourself.\"<br \/><br \/>Someone cracks you across the jaw with the butt of a gun, agony rattling through your skull. You know the role an action hero is supposed to play. You should hack up a glob of spit right in Woodruff's face, kick him in the balls, and go down in a blaze of glory at the very least.<br \/><br \/>Well, but it's too late for that. You're already his little rat friend, and besides, Saito betrayed you first. And you want to live, you want to live, oh god.<br \/><br \/>\"We found his mistress,\" you mumble, because the corner of your lip is split. \"I can take you to her.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm not interested in his private life,\" says Woodruff.<br \/><br \/>\"No, you don't understand,\" you say. \"She's married. She's-- her husband is a government official.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You think her husband can bring down Saito?\" asks Woodruff. \"Who the fuck is she married to?\"<br \/><br \/>\"It's not her husband,\" Jesus fuck, try to remember what Cobb said, \"it's Saito's petroleum interests in Venezuela-- he's sneaking around because he has a business stake in his governmental contacts, so he-- he can't afford to cross--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Petroleum,\" repeats Woodruff.<br \/><br \/>Your head is fucking killing you.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>You take them to Sonia, and you sit outside the hotel room as you listen to her cry. You pushed her around once, stole her purse. You didn't really mean any harm. She's still sobbing when the door opens again, and Woodruff and a bunch of other assholes leave her in the room.<br \/><br \/>\"What now?\" you ask Woodruff. \"What do I do now?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Whatever you want,\" he says. \"It's none of my business.\"<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" you say, \"that's not our agreement, you said--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Nash,\" he says, \"you fucking idiot.\"<br \/><br \/>They nail you in the stomach hard enough to pin you to the wall, and wheezing for breath, your ribs probably cracked, you crawl inside the room where Sonia screams and throws a lamp at you.<br \/><br \/>\"Sonia, hi,\" you gasp, \"would you like something to drink?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Who the hell are you?\" she asks.<br \/><br \/>\"I'm one of the good guys,\" you say.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>You make it almost a week in Caracas before some other company catches up with you. They have a name, sure, but what the fuck does it matter. What matters is that they string you up on a meat hook, are they fucking serious, a meat hook, and they want to know why the fuck Proclus Global is withdrawing from Venezuela.<br \/><br \/>\"Because the CEO can't keep his fucking dick in his pants,\" you shout. \"What the fuck do you want me to do about that?\"<br \/><br \/>You don't even mean to hold out, because there's no sense in fighting, but you're bruised and bleeding by the time you realize what they want. You tell them about Fischer Morrow's plans for the oil pipeline up the east coast of Africa. When they let you down, the gashes down your arms run through your track marks. You've never gone this long without dreaming before.<br \/><br \/>They put you on a plane to Cambodia.<br \/><br \/>\"Can't I go somewhere cooler, for once?\" you ask.<br \/><br \/>\"Don't be clever,\" they say, \"because you're not.\"<br \/><br \/>In Cambodia, Cobol finds you again. Shouldn't have run your damn mouth about the oil pipeline deal. They break two of your fingers before you tell them about that other company's share in an intermodal transportation and construction conglomerate. A few days later, in an English newspaper, you read that the head of the off-road trucking division has been found dead in his apartment.<br \/><br \/>You've got your fingers in splints but someone breaks another one before you tell them what you told Cobol.<br \/><br \/>\"Fuck,\" you scream, \"are you going to break my whole fucking hand--\"<br \/><br \/>That's what Proclus Global does when they catch you in Kigali. You nearly bite your tongue off, and you have to write with your left hand what they want to know -- Cobol's involvement in the death of the transportations man -- as your blood dribbles out the side of your mouth.<br \/><br \/>You learn to talk faster. In Burkina Faso, you don't bleed at all. At some point, the Venezuelan government becomes involved. You ditch their tail in Mumbai but get caught by some other assholes instead. They say they're employed by Cobol's archenemy. You laugh before they slam your forehead into a desk, and then you tell them that Fischer Morrow may renege on the whole oil pipeline deal.<br \/><br \/>That last one is a lucky guess, because all you really know about it is that Old Fischer is dead and that Young Fischer is a fucking pussy. You don't expect the whole goddamn company to break up.<br \/><br \/>Four separate parties start looking for you, demanding how you knew about the split. <i>I didn't,<\/i> you want to shout, <i>I didn't know,<\/i> but instead you huddle into a ship headed for Manila. You only exist in transit; as soon as you arrive, you disappear until they find you again. Your tongue heals in neat flecks of scar tissue.<br \/><br \/>You're running out of intel. In Santo Domingo you panic and promise some really absurd shit.<br \/><br \/>\"I know it was mindheist,\" you grit out, \"I can find out who did it. I can ask around.\"<br \/><br \/>You don't really know that extraction has anything to do with Fischer Morrow. But it's clear that Proclus Global is set to benefit immensely from Young Fischer's fuck-up, and Saito has ties to mindheist. Maybe there's something there.<br \/><br \/>When you ask your employers to locate someone for you, though, you're not really thinking about the signs. You're thinking about <i>him.<\/i> Like fuck he would help you, but you just need to see him again. You need to touch something clockwork. Something perfect.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"Well?\" says Arthur. \"Aren't you going to shoot me?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Oh,\" you say. \"I hadn't thought about that.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur crosses his arms and waits for you to just fucking do something already. You're not sure what your options are. Your contacts have told you that Arthur is just coming off of a job, wrapping up some paper trails before moving on, but right now he's in a hotel room you've broken into and he's sitting at the coffee table, tapping a finger against his elbow.<br \/><br \/>\"Were you going to clean your gun?\" you ask.<br \/><br \/>\"Nash,\" he says, \"who are you working for?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I don't know,\" you say. \"I can't remember.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What are you doing here?\" he asks.<br \/><br \/>\"I just needed something to lean on,\" you say, and you realize it's the truth. \"You're the steadiest thing I know.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What makes you think that I won't shoot <i>you?<\/i>\" he asks.<br \/><br \/>Oh, god, he's carved from solid ice, clear and cold and brittle. You can't even meet his eyes.<br \/><br \/>\"Please,\" you say, \"can I touch you?\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur looks at you for a long while, taking you apart, measuring you, as he finds you wanting in every way. But then he sighs and unfolds his arms, and he doesn't move away when you take a step forward.<br \/><br \/>\"Look at you,\" he says, and the ringing in your ears makes his voice sound softer than it really is. \"You look like shit.\"<br \/><br \/>And he's letting you, god, he's letting you. The bare curve of his forearms hanging by his side. Look at you-- look at <i>him.<\/i> He's so fucking perfect. You think, in that moment, that touching him will solve everything. Clockwork Arthur would never let anything around him break down, and just touching him should be enough to turn you invincible. All you want to do is live.<br \/><br \/>But like the moron you are, you've got your back to the door. As you reach out, there's a knock. It swings open behind you.<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur, your door's--\" says a voice, then startled, \"who's this?\"<br \/><br \/>You'd turn around, but right then, Arthur looks up past you.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" he says.<br \/><br \/>And you watch as something comes loose in Arthur, as he cracks apart like something hatching, something unlocking, and light floods him through and through -- so bright it's blinding -- and you watch, helpless, as clockwork Arthur sees <i>Eames<\/i> and calls his name and turns human before your eyes, turns mortal, turns fucking <i>beautiful.<\/i><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>You don't remember arriving in Warsaw. You know you bought the ticket with your own money, because there's a heavy wad of bills in your pocket, and it was already there when you agreed to take the coke off of your new friend's hands in exchange for being allowed to hole yourself up in his basement.<br \/><br \/>So you've got a little plastic bag full of lady and you're already jet-lag high, but you do two lines before you stumble outside. Someone calls a cell phone you didn't know you had.<br \/><br \/>\"Do you have the information on the Fischer extraction?\" they ask.<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" you say. \"Fuck you. Fucking assholes-- I'm done.\"<br \/><br \/>You throw the phone into the street like a tantrum will make you feel better, and you stop until you watch it get run over twice. The next time you look up, you're sitting at a bar with the bartender in your face.<br \/><br \/>\"Beer,\" you tell him. \"Get me beer.\"<br \/><br \/>He gets you whatever. Your head is buzzing and you down the entire thing. It tastes fucking awful.<br \/><br \/>\"This is good beer,\" you say. Your voice is a little too loud but the bartender doesn't seem to mind.<br \/><br \/>You look sidelong at the rest of the bar and there are these three girls perched on the far end, so you scoot a couple seats closer because they're fucking hot. They're tall and bony, blonde hair tucked up high. Models, maybe, or ballet dancers.<br \/><br \/>\"You having a good time?\" you ask them.<br \/><br \/>They titter and one of them says something you don't understand.<br \/><br \/>\"I don't speak fucking French,\" you say. \"Use English.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Polish,\" she says. \"We are in Poland.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I don't give a shit,\" you say. \"So what do you do?\"<br \/><br \/>The bartender comes to fill your gigantic tankard.<br \/><br \/>\"We are models,\" she says.<br \/><br \/>\"I thought so,\" you say.<br \/><br \/>\"What do you do?\" she asks. Her breasts press up small and firm against the front of her shirt, the outline of her bra dark through threadbare cotton.<br \/><br \/>\"Baby,\" you say, \"I'm a fucking rock star.\"<br \/><br \/>Something salty hits your upper lip and your first thought is that you're crying, but then she looks at you and gasps, and you swipe your mouth with the back of your hand and it comes away wet with blood. The beer churns inside you and you're nauseous, excuse me, and you barely make it outside before you're throwing up all over your shoes.<br \/><br \/><i>That's the way it goes,<\/i> you think, as the bile burns your throat and you wince at the smell of it. That's the way it goes. On the edges of every beautiful love story is some coked-up asshole with a nosebleed vomiting into a gutter in Poland. <br \/><br \/>You gulp in the night air when you've managed to empty yourself. There's nothing left for you to do. You've burned money, crashed cars, dodged bullets, hit on supermodels. And your clockwork monster is just a boy in love after all.<br \/><br \/><i>Aren't we all,<\/i> you think. Just boys in love.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>You don't remember leaving Warsaw. But you're in new shoes when you step off the plane, and you don't get arrested for smuggling Class A narcotics, so you suppose you must have left the cocaine behind.<br \/><br \/>Your pockets are empty. You think of-- well, you think of many things.<br \/><br \/><i>Welcome to Guyana,<\/i> says a sign. <i>Have a Great Stay!!<\/i><br \/><br \/><i>Be here till the day I die,<\/i> you think.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>That leaves you in Guyana with the curtains drawn, brandy on your shirt and sweat running down your neck. You're cold. Poland was too cold for you.<br \/><br \/>You know they're close. They'd have to be. You've made no effort to hide where you were headed, and you've been in Georgetown for nearly a week now. But you're fucking finished with this bullshit and hey, you did what you could. You'd have nothing to tell them even if you wanted to talk.<br \/><br \/>You hope they bring guns. Death by knifing-- there's a furtive ignominy in that. It's fucking pathetic is what it is. Makes you look like you got into a fight with your wife about the china. What you hope is they'll bring enough guns to paint the walls with your insides, and then they'll burn the building down and you'd see the flames from outer space.<br \/><br \/>You never bought into this totem business because you thought you were too big for that weak-time shit. But right now you wish you had something to check, something to soothe you, <i>It's okay, you're only dreaming.<\/i><br \/><br \/>But look, what if it's a dream, what then? What is there left for you to do when you wake up? Maybe it's better like this, better that it's real. <i>This is the way it goes,<\/i> you think.<br \/><br \/>And oh, there it is, the sound of the mob coming to tear you apart. Footsteps, shouting. Like smoking out a fox. Your hand knocks over the bottle and the brandy goes sloshing to the floor. If they don't come soon, the heat will stifle you first. Or you'll freeze to death.<br \/><br \/>Remember those projections in the first dream you ever built? That bitch with her knife, and the feel of your chest opening up to the air. It's like that, only you won't wake up. Nothing, nothing, nothing. None of Arthur's fingers on your wrist.<br \/><br \/>That's the crash of the front door being forced in. That's the hallway they're marching through.<br \/><br \/>\"Fucking rat asshole,\" someone says, \"he's here.\"<br \/><br \/>You're here, you're here. You ought to invite them in. The door shudders and the chain jumps. You close your eyes to wait.<br \/><br \/>But then the <i>window<\/i> next to you explodes into a burst of confetti, like precious stones in the sunlight flooding the room, and you fling your arms up to shield yourself and you throw yourself to the ground. The door slams open, and there's too much light everywhere, the midday sun and the bright flare of gunfire and the glint off of thousands of shards of glass littering the floor around you. And when you see the bodies hit the floor, you don't know what's going on, but that you don't <i>feel<\/i> like you've been shot.<br \/><br \/>And then suddenly everything is quiet, and you look up.<br \/><br \/>\"Nash,\" shouts Arthur, \"goddammit!\"<br \/><br \/>There's a heap of bodies by the doorway. Arthur's holding a gun, and you don't know shit about guns, but it's something pretty fucking big. Maybe it's what they call a machine gun, submachine gun, what's the difference, but really it's a flaming fucking sword. The sun streams in behind him, hazy around his head, a halo.<br \/><br \/>You stumble to your feet. There are grains of glass all over him, in the folds of his shirt, in his hair. His sleeves are cut up and the blood seeps through the fabric, and there's a long rip on his upper arm where a bullet must have grazed him, and he's bleeding. Arthur is--<br \/><br \/>You reach out a hand and dip your finger in that smudge of blood, and you bring it to your scarred tongue to taste it.<br \/><br \/>\"You fucking idiot,\" says Arthur, gun dropping to the floor.<br \/><br \/>It tastes like blood, like your own blood. Arthur is just looking at you, his shoulders heaving for breath, bits of glass and warm blood all over him. There are a thousand things you could say, but when you open your mouth, none of it ends up coming out.<br \/><br \/>\"What?\" you ask instead. \"What did I do wrong?\"<br><br><br>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/3321.html?view=comments#comments","category":["eames\/arthur","nash\/arthur"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/2892.html","pubDate":"Mon, 27 Sep 2010 01:30:01 GMT","title":"Dial by Fire","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/2892.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Eames\/Arthur<br \/><b>Original prompt:<\/b> <a href=\"http:\/\/community.livejournal.com\/inception_kink\/7339.html?thread=10562987#t10562987\" target=\"_blank\">Arthur and Eames suck at phone sex.<\/a><br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> This is true.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/>Before they scatter in LAX like a handful of billiard balls that roll across the table, Cobb gives them their last set of instructions.<br \/><br \/>\"Stay low,\" he says. \"Whether we like it or not, word of this job is going to spread.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Are we going to be famous?\" asks Ariadne. \"Am I going to be on TMZ?\"<br \/><br \/>\"You don't even read TMZ,\" says Yusuf.<br \/><br \/>\"My friends do,\" says Ariadne. \"I don't want them seeing pictures of me stumbling out of clubs at three in the morning with cocaine up my nose and my underwear in my purse.\"<br \/><br \/>She looks at Saito expectantly.<br \/><br \/>\"Do you need something?\" he asks.<br \/><br \/>\"No, I...\" Ariadne clears her throat. \"Funny, I thought you were going to offer to buy TMZ for me.\"<br \/><br \/>\"But you don't go to clubs,\" says Saito, \"or take cocaine.\"<br \/><br \/>\"This entire conversation is much too hypothetical to be useful,\" says Cobb. \"Good job, team, now scram!\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Eames calls Arthur first.<br \/><br \/>\"Hello, Eames,\" he says.<br \/><br \/>\"How long are we supposed to do this?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"According to Cobb, about two months,\" says Arthur. \"Then it should be all right to surface again.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I hate this part,\" says Eames. \"Two months. Christ, that's a whole new level of torture. What are you up to?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, you know,\" says Arthur. \"In my hotel, just sitting in my underwear, looking for the Food Network.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Wouldn't you rather I was looking for your prostate?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"What a threadbare come-on,\" says Arthur. \"You'd need to wait two months for that, anyway.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Don't I know it,\" says Eames. \"Hey, so I was thinking.\"<br \/><br \/>\"It should be illegal for you to think outside of a job,\" says Arthur. \"I'm dreading this already.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Have you heard about how long-distance couples keep things interesting?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"We're not a couple, Eames,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Two people, Arthur,\" says Eames. \"That makes a couple. Hear me out.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Shoot,\" says Arthur. \"Giada is on. You know how I can't resist her firecracker charms.\"<br \/><br \/>\"All right, well,\" says Eames, \"I was thinking that maybe we ought to try phone sex.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Phone sex?\" repeats Arthur. \"<i>Phone sex?<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>\"Maybe you're familiar with the term?\" asks Eames. \"Let me tell you how it goes: you lounge on a bed, I call you from very far away, I tell you about all the filthy things I'd like to do to you, and overcome with desire, you shed your trousers and proceed to orgasm very loudly into the phone. Does that sound like a good time?\"<br \/><br \/>\"And then what,\" says Arthur, \"I have to wait two months for you to actually do those filthy things to me?\"<br \/><br \/>\"There are some drawbacks to the plan,\" admits Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Giada is looking ravishing in that sweater tonight,\" says Arthur, and hangs up.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Three hours later, Arthur calls Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Should I tell you what I'm wearing?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"I think that's how it usually goes, yes,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Button-down,\" says Arthur. \"Undershirt. Boxer briefs. And my watch.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You should probably take the watch off first,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>There is a brief silence.<br \/><br \/>\"Done,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"What, that's it? All right, then--  I suppose you should undo all the buttons on your shirt,\" says Eames, \"slowly-- like they're my hands instead, like I can feel your heat of your body through the fabric--\"<br \/><br \/>\"That's ridiculous,\" says Arthur. \"You <i>can't.<\/i> That's why we're not having <i>actual<\/i> sex.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Okay, Arthur,\" says Eames, \"I don't think you know how to do this.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Of course not,\" says Arthur. \"How about I'll just take everything off first, and you can figure out what comes next?\"<br \/><br \/>There's a rustle and a tap as Arthur presumably places his phone on the nightstand. Then his fingers must work their way down his shirt, long, steady fingers, firm as a surgeon's. And the lean hardness of his torso-- pale flecks of scar tissue, the disarmingly delicate pattern of veins down his arms-- the stretch of his stomach as he pulls the undershirt up over his head. The shift of his hips as he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers, and Arthur must arch slightly off the bed, wriggling free of all those unnecessary trappings of postlapsarian modesty, and it is one <i>very fine arse<\/i> that slides back onto the sheets, and Eames wants nothing more than to touch him, <i>see<\/i> him at least, and to kiss that quiet smugness off his face, to make him writhe and gasp and buck until he <i>begs<\/i> for--<br \/><br \/>\"Eames?\" comes a voice from his phone. \"Are you there, Eames?\"<br \/><br \/>\"What?\" asks Eames, snatching his hand out of his own pants, feeling inexplicably guilty.<br \/><br \/>\"You're not much better at this, are you,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>A few days later, Eames calls Arthur. No matter how vivid his imagination might be, nothing can quite match the real thing; and in absence of Arthur himself, at least his voice might manage to help.<br \/><br \/>\"About last time,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"That didn't go very well,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"It's uncanny how when I talk to you, everything seems like it's all my fault,\" says Eames. \"And it's only when I hang up that I realize, it's as much your fault as it is mine. You're very talented at that.\"<br \/><br \/>\"But never let it be said that I don't hold up my end of a bargain,\" says Arthur. \"By the way, Eames, I'm kneeling on my bed right now.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What for?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"What do you mean, what for?\" asks Arthur. \"So that you can get me off, obviously. I'm not wearing anything-- not a scrap of clothing. Fuck, I wish it were you touching me, but I'll have to make do. It's so hot in here, Eames. I can feel the sweat running down my back, come on, tell me to work myself open for you--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Tell you to <i>what?<\/i>\" chokes Eames, his mind whirling.<br \/><br \/>\"I'd only need two of your fingers,\" says Arthur, \"god, I love it when I can feel your knuckles push inside me, and your calluses rubbing across my ass, Eames, <i>fuck,<\/i> and all I want is your cock buried deeper, moving harder, faster-- no, wait, sorry, that's faster first, and <i>then<\/i> harder-- okay, that's confusing, let me start over--\"<br \/><br \/>\"...Arthur,\" says Eames, \"are you reading this out of something?\"<br \/><br \/>There is a brief silence.<br \/><br \/>\"It was reviewed very favorably,\" says Arthur. \"I thought it would help.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Are you even actually naked right now?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Well,\" says Arthur, \"I thought I'd get to that later.\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" says Cobb, \"what are you doing to Arthur?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Absolutely nothing,\" says Eames. \"I haven't seen him in almost a month. I'm very lonely.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Why was he asking me for recommendations on how-to books about phone sex?\" asks Cobb.<br \/><br \/>\"Look,\" says Eames, \"I'll have you know--\"<br \/><br \/>Cobb hangs up on him.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" says Ariadne, \"what are you doing to Arthur?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Why is everyone asking me that?\" demands Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I heard you were trying to get him into phone sex,\" says Ariadne.<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur is twenty-nine! He's a grown man!\" yells Eames. \"Why are all of you mothering him like this? Why isn't anyone worried about <i>my<\/i> innocence?\"<br \/><br \/>Ariadne screams with laughter.<br \/><br \/>\"Okay,\" says Eames, \"that was only mildly amusing--\"<br \/><br \/>Ariadne laughs, and laughs, and won't stop laughing.<br \/><br \/>Eames hangs up on her.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>After about a week of careful planning, Eames is ready to tackle the challenge once more.<br \/><br \/>\"I must say, I'm a little surprised that you're so bad at this,\" says Yusuf, settling into the couch.<br \/><br \/>\"You people have such rigid preconceptions about me,\" says Eames. \"I am a man of multiple dimensions. Sometimes, in some of those dimensions, specifically in the ones that concern phone sex, I will end up not being as experienced as you so unfairly believe I must be.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm not sure if it's okay for me to feel victorious,\" says Yusuf. \"But I do.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames calls Arthur, who answers on the first ring.<br \/><br \/>\"I think it's time for a rematch,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"It's not a fight,\" says Arthur. \"But all right, we will handle this with all the enthusiasm and hormonal excitement that we usually reserve for fights. Bring it on, Mr. Eames.\"<br \/><br \/>\"So,\" says Eames, \"what are you wearing?\"<br \/><br \/>\"What a <i>trite<\/i> opening,\" says Yusuf.<br \/><br \/>Eames gestures furiously at him, but it's too late.<br \/><br \/>\"...Eames,\" says Arthur, \"is there someone there with you?\"<br \/><br \/>\"No!\" says Eames. \"That would be immensely awkward!\"<br \/><br \/>\"Unless it's someone who already knows how embarrassing you can be,\" says Arthur. \"Someone you've known for several years. Someone you met in Mombasa.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Yusuf is there?\" comes a faint voice from Arthur's end of the call.<br \/><br \/>\"...Arthur,\" says Eames, \"is there someone with you?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Hold on,\" says Arthur, \"let me explain--\"<br \/><br \/>\"That's Saito!\" exclaims Yusuf. \"Hello, Saito!\"<br \/><br \/>\"Yusuf!\" says Saito. \"How have you been doing?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Quite well for myself, actually!\" says Yusuf. \"I mean, it's nothing compared to the vast fortunes you've amassed, but all in all, I've been very lucky in my ventures so far.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I congratulate you on your industry,\" says Saito. \"Are you in need of an investor, by any chance?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Why is <i>Saito<\/i> there with you?\" yells Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"There are children in Cobb's house!\" yells Arthur. \"And I couldn't very well ask Ariadne!\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>It's been about a month and a half when they speak again.<br \/><br \/>\"We've already made contact with the other members of the team,\" says Eames, glumly. \"There's no real reason why we can't just see each other.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Not the same,\" says Arthur. \"Yusuf is very low-profile still, and Saito is technically a civilian. But we have tracks, Eames. We'll just have to wait out the rest of this month.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I think I'm becoming lopsided,\" says Eames. \"You know, because I only use the one arm for the wanking.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Good chance to practice ambidexterity,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Cut that out,\" says Eames. \"You're being unfair. Don't act like you're so composed, like you're perfectly fine where you are, Arthur. I know you miss me. I know you miss my penis.\"<br \/><br \/>There's a brief silence.<br \/><br \/>\"Your penis a little more than you,\" says Arthur, but his voice is soft.<br \/><br \/>\"I'll take what I can get,\" says Eames. \"Do you think about it? When you're rubbing one out?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, god,\" says Arthur, \"all the time.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames feels the back of his neck run hot, and the salt breeze from the sea isn't nearly enough to quench the burn.<br \/><br \/>\"Tell me,\" he says, hand tightening around the railing.<br \/><br \/>\"I like to lie back when I do it,\" says Arthur. \"I don't even take my underwear off all the way, I can't wait that long-- it just catches around my ankles, and I prop my knees up, and I spread my legs-- I pretend you're leaning over me, with your breath in my ear, <i>telling<\/i> me to spread my legs. And I'm already so fucking hard, but I want to draw it out, the way you always draw it out, so I-- so I suck my fingers wet and pretend they're yours, and I fuck myself until I can't stand it anymore, Eames, oh, god, and it's never enough, never right like the way your cock fills me up--\"<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Oh my god,<\/i>\" breathes Eames, and his phone falls from his nerveless grip.<br \/><br \/>He watches it plunge into the endless blue depths of the Aegean.<br \/><br \/>He doesn't even go inside, just falls into a chair there on the balcony and masturbates like there's no tomorrow.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>It takes Eames days to discreetly get his hands on a new phone.<br \/><br \/>\"It's about time,\" says Arthur, frosty.<br \/><br \/>\"I'm sorry,\" says Eames. \"I dropped my phone into the ocean, and--\"<br \/><br \/>\"I can't believe you just stopped calling,\" says Arthur. \"After I went on and on like that! Do you think it was easy for me? Do you think I wasn't expecting something from you in return?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Wait,\" says Eames, \"you're confusing your embarrassment for hatred again--\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur hangs up on him.<br \/><br \/>Eames calls back.<br \/><br \/>\"It's been almost two months,\" he says. \"Screw the last week, let's meet. I'm in Los Angeles.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Wrong continent,\" says Arthur, and hangs up.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"Turkey?\" guesses Eames, when he lands.<br \/><br \/>\"Slightly warmer,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Do you mean I should try for a warmer climate, or do you mean I'm getting closer?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"What do you think?\" asks Arthur, and hangs up.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"I really thought you'd be in Paris,\" says Eames. \"You're always in Paris.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Not this time, Mr. Eames,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Am I warmer?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Slightly,\" says Arthur, and hangs up.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"I'm at Stockholm-Arlanda,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Even warmer,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Should I head east or west from here?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Try east,\" says Arthur. \"When's your flight?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I can arrive at Vantaa at half past five today,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Maybe I'm there,\" says Arthur, \"maybe not.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You're in Vantaa,\" says Eames. \"When I catch you, I'm going to--\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur hangs up.<br \/><br \/>Eames corners him at the information desk at Helsinki-Vantaa, when the night outside is already dark through the slanting panes of glass, and Arthur's face is pale as a slice of the moon under the fluorescent lights of the airport.<br \/><br \/>\"Hot,\" says Arthur. \"Burning hot.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'll have you know there was nothing to be embarrassed about,\" says Eames. \"I dropped the phone because of how fucking aroused I was. By you. I just wanted you to know that. For your information.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Suffice it to say,\" says Arthur, \"we both appear to be terrible at this phone sex thing.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Maybe that's all right,\" says Eames. \"After all, we are perfect in all other respects. We must have some flaws in order to remain human.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur smiles, despite himself, and takes Eames' suitcase from him.<br \/><br \/>\"What are your feelings toward my penis right now?\" asks Eames as they stroll out into the open air.<br \/><br \/>\"Hot,\" says Arthur. \"Burning hot.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Never leave me again,\" says Eames. \"Two months! It seemed interminable.\"<br \/><br \/>\"True,\" says Arthur. \"It was about two months too long to go without this.\"<br \/><br \/>And he moves briskly past Eames, a gloved hand brushing across the front of Eames' trousers, almost curling -- for the briefest of moments -- around the bulge he finds there. If he didn't know any better, Eames would think that Arthur was leering.<br \/><br \/>Eames doesn't know any better. He never has.<br><br><br>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/2892.html?view=comments#comments","category":"eames\/arthur"},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/2803.html","pubDate":"Thu, 23 Sep 2010 02:52:27 GMT","title":"Desiderata","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/2803.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Eames\/Arthur, also somewhat Ariadne\/Arthur, Cobb\/Arthur, Saito\/Arthur, Yusuf\/Arthur<br \/><b>Original prompt:<\/b> <a href=\"http:\/\/community.livejournal.com\/inception_kink\/3434.html?thread=3833194#t3833194\" target=\"_blank\">Eames has noticed something interesting about Arthur. It seems that everyone he meets falls a little bit in love with him and he never notices a thing.<\/a><br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> Eames doesn't deal in fractions.<br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> Oh, god, I feel like I am spamming everyone and everything, but there is so much of this crap left...! I wish there were a way to post backdated entries to communities. :(<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/>Arthur, <i>Arthur.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Arthur like gunsmoke.<br \/><br \/>Stray-cat Arthur, always leaning away from a touch. <i>Were he a bird,<\/i> thinks Eames, <i>he would be a swallow.<\/i> Bloodhound Arthur, hellhound Arthur. Teeth only bared to bite. Fire-and-ice Arthur, stick-in-the-mud Arthur, never-knows-best Arthur.<br \/><br \/>Arthur, who follows Edith Piaf like a sailor to his watery awakening. Explosive Arthur, clean-kill Arthur, silent and polite. Arthur, whose hands are warm. Arthur.<br \/><br \/><i>Arthur.<\/i> Eames says that name out loud and tastes it on his tongue like nothing, like only so much air, worn away to just a string of sounds. Long lazy vowels and muted consonants. Arthur, the taste of his name like nothing. Gunsmoke Arthur.<br \/><br \/>Arthur is nothing because Arthur is everything. Absolutely everything.<br \/><br \/>He's driving Eames crazy.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>He sees it first in Ariadne. And that would be all right, wouldn't it, because Ariadne's just a college girl. She's allowed her little crushes.<br \/><br \/>Except it's not a little crush; Eames doesn't know what it is. He doesn't know what to call something this quiet, this steady, where the girl doesn't blush or stammer when she speaks. Leave it to Ariadne to confuse him.<br \/><br \/>She's in her own dream, practicing impromptu construction, raising cities from the ground and paving roads like cursive loops. Arthur is there with her because she's still learning. Eames is there with them for no real reason.<br \/><br \/>\"Still not fast enough,\" says Arthur, as a row of Beaux-Arts buildings sprout to line the street.<br \/><br \/>\"This is as fast as I can go,\" says Ariadne.<br \/><br \/>\"Don't imagine them one after the other,\" says Arthur. \"Think of them all at once. The unit isn't buildings; the unit is streets. Try again.\"<br \/><br \/>This time, they come up together, but so slowly that Ariadne stops herself halfway through.<br \/><br \/>\"I can't hold that much detail in my head,\" she says. \"These aren't cardboard boxes, Arthur! These are full-grown buildings!\"<br \/><br \/>\"Try again,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>Ariadne sets her jaw, buries her chin in the folds of her scarf.<br \/><br \/>\"Have some heart,\" Eames tells Arthur. \"You're going to make her cry.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur doesn't say anything. But Ariadne crosses her arms over her chest, clears her throat, and digs the heels of her feet into the asphalt.<br \/><br \/>\"No, he's not,\" she says, and a behemoth wall of stone shoots up right in front of them.<br \/><br \/>\"That nearly took off my nose,\" gasps Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"No one's going to cry,\" she says. The force of her words knocks a hole clean through the building, and they walk through the tunnel -- now lined in red sandstone -- to a flat grey wasteland where the horizon is empty again. The hole closes up behind them.<br \/><br \/>\"Build, Ariadne,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"I intend to,\" she says.<br \/><br \/>By the end of their hour Ariadne can raise a whole block in one go. When she takes a deep breath and tilts her head back, a storm of ultramodern skyscrapers rushes up all around them, her hair flying in the wind. Eames shields his eyes to see them stretch toward the sun, blinding reflections of light on glass and metal. They are perfectly formed, down to every last visible staircase. Ariadne smiles. All the blinds in all the windows shutter shut with a clap like thunder.<br \/><br \/>Then it's the end of their hour and they drift awake in their chairs, blinking the room back into sight.<br \/><br \/>\"That was good,\" says Arthur. He hands Ariadne a cup.<br \/><br \/>\"I know,\" says Ariadne, and drinks. \"Thank you.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur stands to put the cup in the sink. And Ariadne must have forgotten about Eames, sunk deep into his chair, because she chases Arthur with her eyes and doesn't even try to hide it. It's quiet, and it's steady; it's no schoolgirl crush. And nothing so desperate as a full-blown love, something that would knock her off her feet, heady and breathless as a block crammed full of skyscrapers.<br \/><br \/>What is it, then. Eames frowns as the words come to him; Ariadne is slightly in love with Arthur.<br \/><br \/><i>Slightly in love,<\/i> he thinks to himself, and finds it unfathomable. He never does anything <i>slightly.<\/i> What does that even mean-- slightly.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Unfathomable or not, that's how it starts. Soon after he realizes that Ariadne is slightly in love with Arthur, Eames can't stop noticing it everywhere, all the other ways in which people seem to enjoy this ridiculous <i>slightly in love with Arthur<\/i> business.<br \/><br \/>Cobb, perhaps, is allowed to indulge himself. He's known Arthur the longest, and so many years and jobs do have a tendency to bring people together, excuse the platitude. Maybe it can't be helped, with Cobb. But then there's Yusuf, and there's Saito, and neither of them really have any excuses for staring after Arthur like that. Arthur rummages in the cabinets for a file on a past job, and everyone's heads turn to look at him from across the room. Yusuf is resting his chin in his hands, and his grin is turning dangerously soppy.<br \/><br \/><i>This is ridiculous!<\/i> Eames wants to shout. <i>Do you people have no shame!<\/i><br \/><br \/>The notion of Eames lecturing anyone on the subject of shame is shocking enough that it startles Eames himself. <i>What have I become,<\/i> he thinks, and wants to run away. Yusuf keeps asking Arthur to hand him things just so that their fingers can touch. Cobb can't so much as brush against Arthur before he jumps back like he's been burned.<br \/><br \/>And Eames spends hours and days trying to figure it all out. He's losing sleep. Because Arthur is a catch, he can see that -- the shift of trim muscle beneath the rustle of fabric, smart as a whip and loyal as anything -- but he doesn't understand how absolutely <i>everyone<\/i> seems to be in love with him.<br \/><br \/>He's slowly banging his head against the edge of a desk, when Saito slides into the seat across from him.<br \/><br \/>\"That might hurt,\" says Saito.<br \/><br \/>\"I wish it would,\" says Eames. \"Maybe then I'd forget.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What is troubling you so much?\" asks Saito.<br \/><br \/>\"Never mind,\" says Eames. \"You wouldn't understand.\"<br \/><br \/>Then it occurs to him that yes, Saito would understand. Saito understands exactly what he needs to know. And Saito is the only one who wouldn't go behind Eames' back to alert the others that he has been prying, asking questions that he already knows are stupid.<br \/><br \/>\"What is it about Arthur?\" he demands.<br \/><br \/>\"Pardon?\" asks Saito.<br \/><br \/>\"You know what I'm talking about,\" says Eames. \"I've seen you with him. I've seen you watching him. I know you call him over to your couch to talk for hours at a time, even when you don't really have anything to say. Why is it Arthur? What is it about him?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Very observant, Mr. Eames,\" says Saito. \"Save for when you claimed that I have nothing to say.\"<br \/><br \/>\"That's irrelevant, isn't it,\" groans Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Actually, it is very relevant,\" says Saito. \"You demonstrate what a difficult art it is to listen well. Our young Mr. Arthur, on the other hand, is a phenomenal listener. Something else you might have observed.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I,\" says Eames, because he hasn't.<br \/><br \/>\"His company is extremely enjoyable,\" says Saito. \"You ought to try it sometime.\"<br \/><br \/>And just as suddenly as he arrives, Saito is gone. The conversation doesn't help Eames at all, because he doesn't see how Arthur's ability to listen applies to everyone in the team. <i>When Ariadne was building in her dream,<\/i> he thinks, <i>Arthur didn't do much in the way of listening. He was a right slave-driver, if he was anything at all.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"Ariadne,\" he asks her, as obliquely as he can, \"is Arthur a good listener?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Is he?\" she asks. \"He's all right, I guess. What is this about?\"<br \/><br \/>\"What is he good at?\" he asks.<br \/><br \/>\"Well, he's an excellent teacher,\" she says. \"At least I think so. Does that help?\"<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" he says. \"But thanks anyway.\"<br \/><br \/>He moves to ruffle her hair, but she ducks her head out of reach.<br \/><br \/>\"You know how I hate that,\" she says. \"I'm not a child.\"<br \/><br \/>It hits him like a sack full of bricks. His eyes go wide, and Ariadne waves a hand in his face, her distant voice asking, <i>Eames, are you there? Hello?<\/i> but right then he's basking in the bright flood of knowledge.<br \/><br \/>\"You're not a child,\" he says. \"Of course.\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Ariadne's just a college girl, but either college girls are nothing like he remembers, or they never were what he thought they were. Ariadne doesn't do little crushes, because she's not a little girl. Ariadne loves, quiet and steady, like an adult.<br \/><br \/>Arthur teaches her like he's teaching an adult. Arthur is everything Ariadne has wanted from their team, since the moment she ventured into their world on tiptoes, a head shorter and a decade younger than everyone else. She's their architect-- not their pet, not their daughter. She's not a child, and she wants them to remember. Arthur does.<br \/><br \/>Bits and pieces start falling into place. Saito, who knows almost no one outside of business, just a scattered string of mistresses across continents. Yusuf, who isn't a walking, talking chemistry set, and lights up at the smallest hint of appreciation. Cobb, who always charges headfirst into things, too fast and too focused to see.<br \/><br \/>And Arthur, who is everything to everyone. Arthur, who listens to Saito, who thanks Yusuf for his work, who covers Cobb's back with easy grace.<br \/><br \/>Arthur is everything. Absolutely everything.<br \/><br \/>Arthur turns heads, but not in the way a pretty face makes you do a double-take. Arthur is like the trailing scent of fresh bread, stilling footsteps as people pass by, held captive by the pull of hunger. And when they breathe in, they feel their hearts lift; they haven't tasted anything yet, but the smell of it makes them think otherwise.<br \/><br \/>Just being near Arthur is enough, and it makes people think that they hold something of him. Like a whiff of scent in their lungs. Arthur like fresh bread, given so freely. Arthur, so easy to love.<br \/><br \/><i>How,<\/i> wonders Eames, <i>does he even manage? How is he everything all at once?<\/i><br \/><br \/>After all this time, that's something he still doesn't know the answer to.<br \/><br \/>Arthur is driving him crazy.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>It takes him four sleepless days to work up the nerve to ask, not because he has suddenly grown timid, but more because asking is a form of admitting defeat. Eames doesn't like to lose, but he also wouldn't like to die. The questions are killing him, eating away at him, and he would rather surrender than quit life altogether.<br \/><br \/>Haggard and bloodshot, he corners Arthur after hours, near stumbling as he traps him up against the wall. He drops his head on Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur doesn't even flinch.<br \/><br \/>\"All right,\" he slurs indistinctly. \"I give up. You win, Arthur.\"<br \/><br \/>\"As pleasing as that is,\" says Arthur, \"were we fighting over something?\"<br \/><br \/>And even caught between Eames' hands, Arthur is so impeccable and unafraid. It's so impossible to ever defeat him that when Eames opens his mouth, he feels futile tears choking his throat.<br \/><br \/>\"I just-- I just need to know,\" he says, \"if you're doing it on purpose.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What am I doing on purpose?\" asks Arthur. \"Eames, you're not making any sense.\"<br \/><br \/>\"How could you do it on purpose,\" says Eames, \"I mean, how possibly. You'd have to know so much-- you'd have to know exactly what everybody wants-- how could you, Arthur? How possibly?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Do you need to take a moment,\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"I do not need to take a moment!\" shouts Eames. \"I've taken all the moments I can, and I still have no idea! Just tell me, Arthur, tell me if you're doing it on purpose. Tell me how you knew Saito wanted someone to listen-- or how you knew to talk to Ariadne like that-- I haven't the faintest and you're driving me crazy. Fuck-all insane.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"They're all arse over tit for you, do you know that,\" says Eames. \"All slightly, just slightly, because none of them can even do that, be in love proper, all the way instead of just slightly. But it's all for you. And frankly, I can't blame them, because who turns down everything they've ever wanted? Wouldn't that be stupid?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" Arthur tries again.<br \/><br \/>\"And you have no idea what I'm talking about because you <i>aren't<\/i> doing it on purpose,\" says Eames. \"That's even worse. You're the absolute worst, do you know that? The absolute worst. God, I have no idea what you are. What are you? Are you real?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Yes,\" says Arthur, and he curls a hand around the back of Eames' head, pulls him in closer. That's the last thing Eames expects, and it floors him completely, leaving him gaping for words.<br \/><br \/>\"This is just massively unfair,\" says Eames, muffled in the crook of Arthur's neck. \"You know everything without even trying.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Maybe that's why I'm the best point man around,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"I am vanquished,\" says Eames. \"Pretend I'm waving a white flag. Congratulations, Arthur.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Hey,\" says Arthur. \"Maybe the how of it isn't so important after all. Maybe it doesn't matter how I do it.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What is, then?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Maybe it's <i>what<\/i> I do,\" says Arthur. \"What's the only thing you want, Eames? If I've been giving everyone what they want, then what have I given you?\"<br \/><br \/>The question seems so odd to him, because he has never considered it before. But why not-- he's a part of the team, and he has as much of a right to call Arthur his own as anyone else does. Arthur, whose embrace circles around half the world. Arthur like fresh bread.<br \/><br \/>\"I think, more than anything,\" says Eames, slowly as he hears himself speak, \"I want a riddle to solve. I want to find someone difficult, someone I can't see straight through and mimic as easy as breathing. I'm sick of being this good at what I do. I want someone I don't understand, someone tangled enough for even me to find whole.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Then maybe--\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, god,\" groans Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"--maybe that's the only part that matters,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"It's true, I've lost,\" says Eames. \"I've <i>really<\/i> lost. I'm done for.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm the riddle,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"You're the riddle,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I've got you, then,\" says Arthur. \"Good. I'm glad.\"<br \/><br \/>And Arthur smiles-- his eyes narrow and his dimples flash, Arthur, whose hands are warm. His mouth curves into a smile like a knife, like a hook, and for an instant something flickers through that impenetrable mystery; something of the Arthur beneath, the Arthur who isn't everything, the Arthur who isn't for everyone, but just <i>Arthur<\/i>, plain and simple--<br \/><br \/>\"I'll unravel you someday,\" says Eames, \"and then what will you do?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Don't be so sure,\" says Arthur. \"You've already lost once.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You should know something, though,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"What is it?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"I don't do anything slightly,\" says Eames. \"When I do something, I do it all the way. This is me warning you. I'm giving you fair notice.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur, Arthur like gunsmoke -- bloodhound and hellhound and all -- fire-and-ice Arthur, stick-in-the-mud Arthur, never-knows-best Arthur, every one of those things and maybe none of them at all, explosive Arthur, clean-kill Arthur, he spreads his hands and leans back against the wall.<br \/><br \/>\"Do your worst,\" he says.<br><br><br>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/2803.html?view=comments#comments","category":["saito\/arthur","ariadne\/arthur","eames\/arthur","cobb\/arthur","yusuf\/arthur"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/2536.html","pubDate":"Mon, 20 Sep 2010 22:31:52 GMT","title":"Porncaptor Arthur \u2605 In the Line of Duty","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/2536.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Eames\/Arthur<br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> After he accidentally releases a magical set of porn DVDs, Arthur must become the Porncaptor that seals them back in order to save the world from some obscure disaster that won't even be mentioned yet. Eames, the guardian of the DVDs, is there to aid him in this quest. With his penis.<br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> This is a... sort of a... Cardcaptor Sakura AU. Therefore it only makes about as much sense as CCS does, which is to say, <i>not a whole lot at all,<\/i> haha. Possibly it is also... almost as shameless as CCS. XD Oh! And please tell me about some popular porn scenarios that you think Arthur and Eames should re-enact, because <small>this is actually a two-parter.<\/small> (Entire concept brought to you by <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"platina\" lj:user=\"platina\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/platina.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/platina.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>platina<\/b><\/a><\/span> and <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"kiwimangoodness\" lj:user=\"kiwimangoodness\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/kiwimangoodness.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/kiwimangoodness.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>kiwimangoodness<\/b><\/a><\/span>.) And possibly this is a spoiler but <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"platina\" lj:user=\"platina\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/platina.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/platina.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>platina<\/b><\/a><\/span> took some responsibility for this madness and drew <a href=\"http:\/\/pics.livejournal.com\/weatherfront\/pic\/0000gw1h\" target=\"_blank\">this inimitably fantastic piece of wonder<\/a> which I can't tell you what it's about so look at it after you finish slogging through the fic! <i>But it's beautiful.<\/i><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/>It happens after Saturday dinner at Professor Cobb's house.<br \/><br \/>\"Please feel free to look around,\" says Mal, his professor's ravishing French wife. \"I will bring desserts for you.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'll get the table cleared,\" says Cobb.<br \/><br \/>So Arthur wanders off out of the dining room, peers at family photographs, cranes his neck up the stairway to the second floor. Eventually he finds his way to the library, where he runs his finger along dusty leather spines and considers the cheerful prospect of the new academic year.<br \/><br \/>Then he discovers, tucked in discreetly among volumes of German philosophy and French poetry, a long nylon case.<br \/><br \/>\"Professor Cobb,\" he calls, out of common decency. \"Professor Cobb?\"<br \/><br \/>There's no answer, so he slides the case out of the bookshelf. It's a curious thing, to say the least; there's some sort of faux bois engraving attached to the front, and when Arthur looks at it from closer up, he can see that it's a carving of a naked man, with a sturdy build and a rather well-endowed penis.<br \/><br \/><i>Funny souvenir from a vacation trip,<\/i> thinks Arthur, and is about to put it back.<br \/><br \/>But then the case starts to shake violently in his hands, and the zipper down its side begins to slide open, a blinding light shining through the widening gap. Arthur drops it to the floor in alarm, and throws his arms up to shield himself from the glare.<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Professor Cobb!<\/i>\" he yells.<br \/><br \/>\"Ah, a college town,\" says a strange voice. \"This should be interesting.\"<br \/><br \/>The light has subsided, and Arthur lowers his hands tentatively. He's not sure what he's expecting, but he's certainly shocked by the sight of the man from the cover of the nylon case, still stark naked, standing fully-formed in the middle of the floor, stretching as his joints crack into motion.<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Who are you,<\/i>\" asks Arthur, dangerously close to shrieking, backing up against the wall.<br \/><br \/>\"You awoke me,\" says the man, \"who are <i>you?<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"So let me get this straight,\" says Cobb. \"This CD case that we picked up as a joke during our honeymoon is actually a container for a set of porn DVDs that have the potential to bring about a terrible disaster?\"<br \/><br \/>\"But then where are the DVDs?\" asks Mal.<br \/><br \/>\"Excellent questions, expositionary dialogue couple,\" says the naked man, slouching against the sink with Mal's dishrag draped artfully across his groin. \"After Master Saito used some very neat magic to seal the secrets of his porn empire into a series of DVDs, he created a guardian to watch over the case, so that the information would not fall into the wrong hands.\"<br \/><br \/>\"And you're the guardian,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" he says. \"And you are?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" he replies, because it seems polite.<br \/><br \/>\"Well, Arthur, the DVDs are gone because you accidentally released them,\" says Eames. \"If you don't gather them back, it could lead to some very tragic results for you and your loved ones.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I have to gather them back?\" asks Arthur. \"But how do I do that?\"<br \/><br \/>\"It requires some cooperation,\" says Eames. \"You see, what's really missing is the thousands of porn scenarios that the DVDs used to contain. I'll teach you exactly how to seal each scenario back into DVD form, but the way you summon a specific scenario is, you have to re-enact it with the guardian of the DVDs--\"<br \/><br \/>\"<i>You're<\/i> the guardian,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Yes,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I-- what?\" asks Arthur, as his mind tries to wrap around this new development. \"I have to-- I have to re-enact-- I have to have sex with you? <i>Thousands of times?<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>\"Surprise,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Are you <i>serious?<\/i>\" chokes Arthur. \"I'm not-- no way, what, I'm not doing that! I don't want-- this is ridiculous! I'm not having sex with you! I'm perfectly fine with my low-key lifestyle of masturbating in private and maybe occasionally sleeping with a girlfriend when I happen to have one, thank you very much!\"<br \/><br \/>\"I don't think you understand,\" says Eames. \"You opened the DVD case.\"<br \/><br \/>\"It was an accident!\" protests Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"No, no, you see, the thing is,\" says Eames, \"only very specific people can manage to open the case at all. You've been chosen to be the Porncaptor, Arthur, because you're qualified for the job. It's your destiny.\"<br \/><br \/>\"How am I qualified,\" asks Arthur, dreading the answer.<br \/><br \/>\"Well, apparently,\" says Eames, \"you're an insatiable cockslut.\"<br \/><br \/>Cobb spits a mouthful of coffee all over the table, and Mal tilts her head to one side, looking at Arthur very curiously. Arthur can feel the blood rush to his face, because now his academic advisor and his wife have been informed that he is cosmically ordained to crave cock, and he stammers something, <i>I refuse,<\/i> or <i>Don't even think about it,<\/i> but of course the worst part of it all is, Eames turns out to be right.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Arthur only acquiesces after he has thrown the DVD case into the river about a dozen times, because Eames always shows up back in his dorm room, bits of gravel in his hair and water gliding slowly down the broad expanse of his chest. <i>How bad can it be,<\/i> he reasons to himself. <i>It's just sex. No one's getting hurt. And besides, as far as guys go, Eames is really not the worst-looking option.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"Okay, fine,\" says Arthur, as Eames towels off his hair. \"But you have to-- you have to tell me how to-- I've never... you know.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Don't you worry,\" says Eames. \"We'll teach you how to seal the DVDs before we summon them.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I meant,\" says Arthur, \"the whole... sex with a man... thing.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, I won't need to teach you anything about <i>that,<\/i>\" says Eames. \"Trust me. Your body will know what to do.\"<br \/><br \/>He winks, actually <i>winks,<\/i> and Arthur feels something hotter than shame settle in the pit of his stomach before he grabs a pair of sweatpants and flings it in Eames' face.<br \/><br \/>Eames says that they'll start with a scenario that Arthur can feel relatively familiar in, and that's how Arthur finds himself sitting on the edge of his bed, turning his cell phone over and over in his hands. He clenches his eyes shut and takes a deep breath before he dials, nausea washing over him as he waits out the tone.<br \/><br \/>\"Hello,\" answers Eames, static crackling through his lazy drawl.<br \/><br \/>\"Hi, uh--\" says Arthur, \"I'd-- I'd like to place an order.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What would you like to have?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I'd like a-- a m-m--\" Arthur inhales slowly, then says, on the verge of tears, \"a meat lover's special. With extra sausage.\"<br \/><br \/>\"A meat lover's special,\" says Eames. \"With extra sausage.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Yes, that's what I want, okay,\" says Arthur, and at least he is glad that he doesn't ever have to say that in his life ever again.<br \/><br \/>There's a knock on his door.<br \/><br \/>\"Pizza delivery,\" calls Eames from the other side.<br \/><br \/>\"Right,\" says Arthur, snapping his phone closed. Somehow he stumbles to the door, and when he swings it open, Eames is standing there with a box of pizza low in his hands.<br \/><br \/>\"Shouldn't you... hand it to me?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Don't you want to check for the extra sausage topping first?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, er-- all right,\" says Arthur, and opens the top of the box.<br \/><br \/>He really needs to abandon any and all hopes for normalcy when he's dealing with Eames, because they just keep getting shot down. What he finds inside the box is indeed meat lover's pizza, except Eames has taken his dick out of his pants and draped it across the top of the pie, where it lies nestled among the toppings like a snake in the grass. A <i>trouser<\/i> snake.<br \/><br \/>\"...Isn't that hot?\" asks Arthur, aghast.<br \/><br \/>\"I cooled the pizza off first,\" says Eames, like it explains everything.<br \/><br \/>\"Are you sure that this is what happens when someone in a porn video requests extra sausage?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Only sometimes,\" says Eames. \"Give us a tissue, will you, love?\"<br \/><br \/>Eames dabs at his penis with the tissue, but apparently the pizza is cold enough that it hasn't really-- <i>Jesus Christ, is this happening for real,<\/i> thinks Arthur. <i>Am I seriously looking at a dick that's going to be inside of me in a couple minutes, being glad that it doesn't have pizza grease all over it? Because that's what I need to do to save the world? Is this my life?<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"What now?\" he asks out loud.<br \/><br \/>\"You should probably pay me,\" says Eames. \"For the pizza.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, right,\" says Arthur. \"I-- uh, apparently according to this scenario, I don't... I don't have any money. So--\"<br \/><br \/>\"So,\" says Eames, \"I'll just have to take my payment out of your sweet virgin arse.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, god,\" says Arthur, and flops onto the bed.<br \/><br \/>Eames is on him immediately, flipping him onto his stomach. Arthur feels the rush of air hit his bare thighs as Eames pulls his jeans off of him, then the tugging of his boxers past his ass, his knees, his feet.<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" says Eames, \"you have got a truly magnificent arse. I just wanted to tell you that.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Thanks a lot for the compliment,\" groans Arthur. \"Now please shut up and just-- do your thing, with the... loosening, whatever that entails--\"<br \/><br \/>\"It entails you feeling things you've never felt before,\" says Eames, and smiles very brightly.<br \/><br \/>Eames starts slow, to his credit, just palming the curve of Arthur's ass, running his fingertips over Arthur's hipbones, following the dip of his spine at the small of his back. He slides his hands up Arthur's thighs, inch by slow inch, and Arthur shivers, feeling goosebumps prickle all over his skin.<br \/><br \/>\"You like that?\" asks Eames. His voice has gone low, into something throaty, guttural, and there's a hint of a laugh around its edges. It thrums through Arthur like a vibration, and Arthur doesn't answer, just balls his hands into fists beneath his pillow.<br \/><br \/>Then Eames slips an arm under Arthur's hips, right below his waist, and lifts him up onto his knees.<br \/><br \/>\"What-- what are you doing,\" demands Arthur, \"why are you--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Angle's better this way,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>It makes Arthur's back arch up over the bed, his ass in the air, and yet the humiliation of it all doesn't quite feel like anger. It borders dangerously on anticipation. Eames slides the rough side of his thumb down the cleft of Arthur's ass, and god, already it feels so much better than he thought it would, the slight friction tantalizing, and Arthur's hips jerk against thin air as the touch gets closer and closer to <i>right there,<\/i> oh, but it pauses just shy of its mark, lingering warm below his tailbone.<br \/><br \/>\"Ready?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I was born ready,\" says Arthur, teeth gritted, but it comes out much too husky to sound insouciant.<br \/><br \/>\"Actually, in this case,\" says Eames, \"there's some truth to that.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur looks behind him, at Eames squeezing out a tube of lubricant over his fingers, and ducks his burning cheeks back into the pillow. Eames' hands seem suddenly and impossibly huge, like they could take Arthur apart with ease, and his fingers are thick and blunt, coated slick with lube.<br \/><br \/>Eames circles his hole, his touch feather-light, and Arthur feels it everywhere, in his ass, his spine, the strain on his thighs struggling to hold him up. And Eames presses the tip of his finger right up against him, almost dipping inside him, <i>almost,<\/i> god, so <i>close.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"There's nothing to be scared of,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I'm not <i>scared,<\/i>\" says Arthur, \"I'm just-- oh, <i>fuck,<\/i> shit, fuck--\"<br \/><br \/>Whatever he means to say fizzles out in the circuitry of his brain, because Eames pushes a finger inside him, slow but certain, and all his nerves seem to explode in sensation at once. Arthur groans into a mouthful of his pillow, bracing his tongue against the linen, as he feels every last groove in Eames' finger, each knuckle entering him in turn.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, god,\" he's saying, muffled and indistinct, \"god, fuck, <i>Eames--<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>\"--love, relax, come on,\" says Eames, and bits of his voice keep getting lost in the roar of white noise in Arthur's ears, \"you have to relax-- fuck, you're tight--\"<br \/><br \/>It's like nothing he's ever had. Eames is petting his back, soothing, pressing quick kisses to the swell of his ass, telling him to <i>relax, Arthur, relax,<\/i> but it's only when Eames is in as deep as his finger will go, and finally stops moving inside him, that Arthur can even breathe without getting dizzy.<br \/><br \/>\"That was,\" says Arthur, in more of a rasp than anything, \"that was...\"<br \/><br \/>\"I've only got the one finger in,\" says Eames, and crooks it a bit, as if to demonstrate.<br \/><br \/>\"<i>No,<\/i>\" says Arthur, \"don't, just-- give me a moment, Eames, wait.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You were never curious?\" asks Eames. \"Never wondered about asking one of your girlfriends to touch you here?\"<br \/><br \/>\"We just,\" says Arthur, \"never progressed to the stage in our relationship where I asked her to sodomize me.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Don't be dramatic now,\" says Eames. \"How are you doing? Can I add another?\"<br \/><br \/>\"You might as well,\" says Arthur, and closes his eyes, steeling himself.<br \/><br \/>Eames pushes in a second finger, and Arthur feels it coaxing him wider, feels the distant pleasant ache of his hole stretching around Eames' fingers. Eames scissors in, twisting, turning, stroking Arthur's insides like he's looking for something, and dimly Arthur registers the sodden patch beneath his cheek, knows that he's panting into his pillow, unable to stop himself, the sound ringing inside his head.<br \/><br \/>\"Fuck,\" he says, \"fuck--\"<br \/><br \/>\"You know,\" says Eames, thoughtfully, \"this is really beyond-- I mean, I knew you'd be sensitive, you'd have to be, but <i>this<\/i>--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Are you mocking me,\" manages Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Heavens, no,\" says Eames. \"I'm appreciating you.\"<br \/><br \/>And then Eames finds whatever it is he's been searching for, because a sudden bolt of lightning runs up Arthur's spine, crashing against the base of his skull like a tidal wave. It tears the air from his lungs, dazzling as a long electric shock, and with fireworks in the edges of his vision, Arthur gasps, shaky and wet, before he can stifle himself.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, god,\" he breathes, \"what-- <i>what<\/i> was--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Let me introduce you,\" says Eames, \"to your prostate.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames drags his fingers across that spot again, like he's trying to gently scrape something free of him, and Arthur's head jerks back and he moans, all hot desperation. He feels himself clench around Eames' hand, feels the shape of his fingers nestled deep inside him, and it feels <i>amazing<\/i> but god, he wants more, he needs <i>more<\/i>.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames, please,\" he says, \"again, right there--\"<br \/><br \/>\"You're getting greedy,\" says Eames. \"Now that you know what you're in for, I think it's time to take it up a notch.\"<br \/><br \/>He starts to draw his fingers out of him, in careful, deliberate increments, and Arthur can think of nothing else but how much he'd hate to lose the feeling of Eames moving inside him, nudging him where it makes him see stars. Arthur whimpers, tightening unconsciously, trying to keep that solid heat from leaving him empty.<br \/><br \/>\"It's all right,\" says Eames, smooth. \"I've got you.\"<br \/><br \/>He rubs the pad of his thumb across the shaft of Arthur's cock, and it's only then that Arthur realizes, he's completely and painfully hard, before he's even been touched. He bites down on his lips to keep from coming right then and there, tries to distract himself from the tips of Eames' fingers brushing against his hole, the damp leak of precome on his stomach.<br \/><br \/>There's no warning, no sound of zippers edging open, no countdown before he feels the head of Eames' cock pressing, teasing against him. Arthur regrets it as soon as he turns his head to look at Eames; the whole flushed length of him is intimidating, dark and thick, and Arthur swallows in some mix of dread and hunger. But the smile that curls around Eames' lips is wry, a bit fond, indulgent, and it calms Arthur's nervous trepidation in a way he can't quite explain.<br \/><br \/>\"It'll get easier once the head's in,\" says Eames. \"Try and relax for me, all right?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Okay,\" says Arthur, \"I-- I guess I'm ready.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames wraps a hand around Arthur's cock, and there's a brief twinge of pleasure before Eames is sliding into him, stretching him open, and oh, god, Arthur is taking him in, gasping, making way as Eames pushes himself forward. It's at once like and nothing like his fingers, the same comforting weight, but so much thicker, <i>better,<\/i> and hesitantly Arthur pushes back a little, testing the pace, but Eames stops with the head of his cock resting inside him, breath coming heavy.<br \/><br \/>\"Is that good?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"You're huge,\" groans Arthur, tangling his fingers into the sheets.<br \/><br \/>\"Why, Arthur,\" says Eames, \"what a lovely thing to say. Thank you.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I mean,\" says Arthur, \"I don't know if you'll-- I don't-- how does the rest of that even <i>fit?<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>\"Usually, with a lot of time and effort,\" says Eames. \"In your case-- time, effort, and a good amount of natural talent.\"<br \/><br \/>\"So now you--\" begins Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Now,\" says Eames, \"we fuck.\"<br \/><br \/>He moves his hand across Arthur's erection, jerking him off slowly, and Arthur's insides spasm around Eames entering him --  every last bit of skin against skin, flesh against flesh -- and it's like he's filling up, like all of him is rearranging, shifting to fit the hard length of Eames inside him. Arthur is ablaze, god, choking on the feel of Eames taking over him, burning from the tips of his fingers down to his toes, all of him tingling, unsettled, sensitized.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh-- f-fuck,\" he stutters, hitching his hips up higher, \"Jesus fucking Christ--\"<br \/><br \/>And it should feel foreign to be so full of someone else, but Eames leans in until his chest is flush with Arthur's back, balls against Arthur's ass, his breath washing over the back of Arthur's neck, stirring his hair, and Arthur has never felt so complete ever before in his life.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" he says, \"Eames, oh, my god.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You're doing well, pet,\" says Eames. \"I'm in.\"<br \/><br \/>Lightly, he traces where they join, and Arthur can tell how taut he's stretched, how obscene it must look, and the thought of his body bent and opened to let Eames in is intoxicating, almost overwhelming. He squirms back, pressing his ass against Eames' crotch, panting.<br \/><br \/>\"Hey,\" he says, \"I think you should-- come on, you should move--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Gladly,\" says Eames, braces himself, and pulls back out -- almost to the tip -- before thrusting <i>in.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Sparks explode behind Arthur's eyes, as Eames aims for the the bundle of nerves inside him, hits it time after time, devastating in his precision. It rips noises out of Arthur he didn't even know he could make, sweet and undone, and all the fight drains out of his limbs as Eames surges into him. His legs tremble beneath him and his knees threaten to give out, and he sinks against Eames' arm, pliant as warm wax, propped up only by the strength of that grip around his waist.<br \/><br \/>\"Fuck, <i>oh,<\/i>\" he moans, \"harder, Eames, harder--\"<br \/><br \/>\"My prodigy,\" Eames laughs into his ear, a rumble that shoots straight to his groin. \"You were made to do this, god, you feel-- all tight and silky inside--\"<br \/><br \/>The words are filthy against his skin, and Arthur shudders, rocking back in earnest to meet Eames driving into him. He's flushed through with the impossible heat of arousal, and he feels the sweat bead in the palms of his hands, along his spine, trickling down his sides when he and Eames grind into each other. Arthur tries to inhale, a long ragged sob, but Eames keeps jolting the breath from him, and his ass just <i>melts<\/i> hot around Eames, so eager for it, and it's like he's never really had sex ever before in his life.<br \/><br \/>They can't last long, either of them, and Arthur is almost alarmingly sensitive, every inch of his body crackling to life, as Eames' rhythm turns erratic and he lets out a soft curse, teeth just grazing across Arthur's shoulder. The sensations rolling over him are impossible to prepare for, and Arthur just bites into his pillowcase, spreads his knees wider, and and lets Eames fuck him completely silly.<br \/><br \/>Just as he starts to feel his balls draw tight, the building pressure of imminent release, he sees a faint shimmer out of the corner of his eye. It's a vague sort of mist swirling just a little above the bed, and it hovers in place, iridescent. It's the trace of one of Saito's porn DVDs.<br \/><br \/>\"It's here,\" says Eames, harsh, hips snapping into Arthur, \"you know what to do--\"<br \/><br \/>Hand outstretched, Arthur fumbles for the designated Key of the Porncaptor on the dresser next to him, the Key that looks like a dildo, the Key that <i>is<\/i> a dildo, really, for all intents and purposes, rubbery in his numb grip and unapologetically purple. He manages to get his fingers around it somehow, and he points it shakily at the hazy shimmer.<br \/><br \/>\"Dildo which hides-- which hides the powers of arousal,\" he pants, \"under contract, I-- fuck, <i>oh,<\/i> god-- I, Arthur, command you-- <i>fuck,<\/i> Eames-- <i>ejaculate!<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>He nearly loses it on the last word, as Eames chooses that moment to <i>screw<\/i> into him, holding himself deep in place, and Arthur has just enough time to groan, <i>Return to your true form, porn DVD,<\/i> before he's coming all over Eames' hand, closing in around the cock inside him, and he feels Eames tense before he's coming too -- spurting inside Arthur, warm and wet -- and the dildo falls from Arthur's grasp as the shimmer solidifies into a gleaming bright DVD, landing on the mattress beside them.<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Fuck,<\/i>\" coughs Arthur, feelingly, shivering through the aftershocks.<br \/><br \/>\"Congratulations,\" says Eames, though he has to pause for breath a few times, \"you just sealed your first porn DVD.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur turns it over with a finger, where the label on the front says, <i>YOUR PIZZA IS THE SCENE OF MY PENIS.<\/i> It doesn't quite seem to make sense, but he's too exhausted to argue, spent and utterly <i>plundered.<\/i> Eames slips out of him, and even that small movement makes Arthur's cock twitch in interest, as Eames slides past the tight ring of muscle. Arthur lets himself go limp against the bed.<br \/><br \/>\"So,\" says Eames, \"how does it feel?\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur thinks of the orgasm that's just been wrenched out of him, the sated ache in his ass, of Eames' body pressed up against his, of the racing of their heartbeats in sync, of the thousands of DVDs left for him to seal, and he swallows and closes his eyes.<br \/><br \/>\"I think I love you,\" he says.<br><br><br>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/2536.html?view=comments#comments","category":["eames\/arthur","au"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/1822.html","pubDate":"Fri, 17 Sep 2010 12:27:07 GMT","title":"En Route to Transylvania","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/1822.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Eames\/Arthur<br \/><b>Original prompt:<\/b> <a href=\"http:\/\/community.livejournal.com\/inception_kink\/3434.html?thread=2994026#t2994026\" target=\"_blank\">Vampire Arthur.<\/a><br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> Vampire Arthur, Goatherd Eames, sitting in a farming village in an undetermined historical time period, k-i-s-s-i-n-g, oh my god, this song doesn't even fit the meter.<br \/><b>Warnings:<\/b> This story plays INCREDIBLY fast and loose with vampire mythology, so if you take it very seriously, I am so so so sorry :(<br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> The amount of awesome that <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"dumbimps\" lj:user=\"dumbimps\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/dumbimps.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/dumbimps.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>dumbimps<\/b><\/a><\/span> doles out on a regular basis is enough to power a large metropolitan area for several years, for example, <a href=\"http:\/\/pics.livejournal.com\/weatherfront\/pic\/00002wcd\" target=\"_blank\">this picture<\/a> of vampire Arthur, and also <a href=\"http:\/\/pics.livejournal.com\/weatherfront\/pic\/000016ra\" target=\"_blank\">this other picture<\/a> of vampire Arthur, how is her art so hot, ahhh!! And <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-deleted  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"innueneko\" lj:user=\"innueneko\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/innueneko.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/innueneko.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>innueneko<\/b><\/a><\/span> makes the world a beautiful place by drawing <a href=\"http:\/\/pics.livejournal.com\/weatherfront\/pic\/00007zc8\" target=\"_blank\">Arthur and Eames and goats<\/a>, oh god, I'M DYING, I CAN'T HANDLE THIS &hearts;<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/>Eames is driving his goats back home in a late spring drizzle, sitting in a rattling six-goat cart with the rest of the herd trailing behind him, when he sees one of the goats veer off toward a ditch.<br \/><br \/>\"Goat,\" he yells after it. \"Get back here!\"<br \/><br \/>The goat, in the manner of most other goats, doesn't listen. Eames has to rein the cart to a stop, climb out, and slosh through mud just to get to the troublemaker.<br \/><br \/>\"You're not supposed to be an independent thinker,\" he tells the goat.<br \/><br \/>It bleats in response, and returns to gnawing at something in the underbrush. Eames peers to see what it is, shaking the rain from his eyes, fumbling through the branches.<br \/><br \/>It's a shoe. Nearby is a foot. There are also a pair of very nice pants, long since ruined beyond salvaging but made of some posh townsperson fabric nonetheless. Someone is wearing the pants. There is a man in the underbrush. Eames grabs hold of an ankle, braces himself, and tugs.<br \/><br \/><i>Definitely a townsperson,<\/i> thinks Eames. The man he pulls from the grass is too well-dressed to be from anywhere else. Jacket, waistcoat, cravat. There's a hat lying further into the woods, but the soil is turning to slush and his goats are becoming impatient.<br \/><br \/>Eames puts a hand to the man's neck, where he finds the the trace of a pulse.<br \/><br \/><i>I just saved someone really fancy,<\/i> thinks Eames. He is impressed with himself.<br \/><br \/>The man fits easily into his cart, and Eames wades through the mud all the way home, because he doesn't know what else to do. He tries to whistle something to keep himself company, but the rain keeps running into his mouth.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"Are you in?\" comes Ariadne's voice from outside his door. \"Open up, Eames!\"<br \/><br \/>She's holding his new footstool above herself, but her shoulders are still wet and she bursts in as soon as she can.<br \/><br \/>\"Where should I put this?\" she asks.<br \/><br \/>\"Toss it somewhere in the bedroom,\" says Eames. \"It looks great, by the way.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Yeah,\" she says, and disappears into the bedroom. \"It's all birch. At first I thought maybe it would be too classy for you, but since you're faking that operation per--\"<br \/><br \/>Suddenly she goes quiet, there's the thud of the footstool hitting the floor, and Ariadne pokes her head back into sight.<br \/><br \/>\"Someone died on your bed,\" she whispers.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, I forgot about him!\" says Eames, and comes to join her. \"He's not dead. Unless he died sometime within the last ten minutes. I picked him up on my way back-- not really sure what to do about him, though. Would he make a passable scarecrow?\"<br \/><br \/>\"He's awfully pale,\" says Ariadne.<br \/><br \/>\"But breathing,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>They contemplate the man currently soaking puddles into Eames' sheets, a few streaks of mud still left down the side of his face, pale and dark and impossibly still.<br \/><br \/>\"I wonder what he was doing around here,\" says Ariadne. \"Maybe he had business in town.\"<br \/><br \/>\"He was going the wrong way, then,\" says Eames. \"I don't know. He couldn't have anything to do in our village. Even I have hardly anything to do in our village. I don't think anyone ever has anything to do in our village.\"<br \/><br \/>The man stirs, his fingers twitching. His lips part.<br \/><br \/>And Ariadne freezes.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" she hisses under her breath, her eyes wide. \"Oh my god, Eames. His teeth.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What is it?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"No, keep your voice down,\" she says. \"You're screwed. That, on your bed-- that's a vampire.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames is surprised, but not exactly frightened.<br \/><br \/>\"It's a rather sorry-looking one, then,\" he says.<br \/><br \/>\"Please tell me you're not going to keep him,\" says Ariadne.<br \/><br \/>\"What do vampires eat?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"You,\" says Ariadne. \"And me. And pretty much everyone. You <i>idiot.<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>She smacks him on the arm, and even though the top of her head only comes up to his chest, she's a carpenter and a blacksmith and it hurts when she means for it to hurt.<br \/><br \/>\"Do you think he'll settle for steak,\" asks Eames, rubbing at the sting.<br \/><br \/>\"Well, you've already let him in,\" says Ariadne. \"You better hope he settles for steak.\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Yusuf's tavern is called <i>The Concoction.<\/i> It's really the only thing worth mentioning about their village, in Eames' opinion, because Yusuf is about two hundred years ahead of his time in the art of mixing drinks and hangover cures. He's also a decent cook when need calls for it.<br \/><br \/>\"My most loyal customer,\" he says, when he sees Eames walk in.<br \/><br \/>\"Hey,\" says Eames. \"Can't stay for long today, though. I got someone waiting.\"<br \/><br \/>From the far side of the bar where they've been engaged in deep conversation, Saito and Cobb snap their heads toward him, and leer in disconcerting unison.<br \/><br \/>\"Yeah, I wish,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"No?\" Cobb raises an eyebrow. \"Who is it, then?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I picked up a vampire,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Eames,<\/i>\" gasps Yusuf. \"You brought a <i>vampire<\/i> into-- Eames, Eames, this is <i>terrible for business.<\/i> Oh, no.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Calm down,\" says Eames. \"I'll buy all the raw steaks you've got. Beef, lamb, goat, whatever. And I'll come back for more.\"<br \/><br \/>\"All right, wow, that's a lot of steaks,\" says Yusuf. \"So I'll let it go for now. But don't you dare tell anyone else about this. My clientele is limited as it is.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Mum's the word,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I can't help wondering, Mr. Eames,\" says Saito, \"if it is wise of you to be inviting vampires into a village without the permission of the man who owns said village.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You don't really own the village,\" says Eames. \"You just lease out the land.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I could if I wanted to,\" says Saito.<br \/><br \/>\"He was lying facedown in the mud,\" says Eames. \"What was I supposed to do? He looks lightweight, anyway. I could probably take him. Look, I'll get him the steaks, and then I'll kick him straight out, all right?\"<br \/><br \/>\"It is actually not that important,\" says Saito. \"There are bigger concerns to attend to. Have you heard of what Fischer is doing with his land?\"<br \/><br \/>\"That's his business, why don't you leave him to it,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"On the contrary,\" says Saito, \"our village is the only thing standing between him and his total ownership of this entire municipality. If he doesn't implement crop rotation soon, imminent erosion and depletion of nutrients will lead to virtually barren soil. Come harvest, this will result in our village having to shoulder a much heavier share of the tax burden.\"<br \/><br \/>\"There's only one way we can solve this,\" says Cobb, \"and that's through inception.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I don't even know what that is,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Fischer won't plant anything but corn because it's in the highest demand,\" says Cobb. \"So we're going to plant beans all over his farmland while he sleeps. He may have an existential crisis, because is one really a bean farmer if one has been unknowingly coerced into being one? How does one ever know whether one's crop choices have been made by free will? How do you know you weren't incepted into goat farming, Eames? How do any of us know anything? Is the redness I perceive the same as the redness you perceive?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Yusuf,\" yells Eames, \"I need those steaks.\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>It's pitch dark when Eames gets back, and he hasn't left any lamps on. So it startles him to walk into his bedroom and find, peering out at him, a pair of eyes that lock with his.<br \/><br \/>\"You're up,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>There is no response. Eames strikes a match and lights up the lamp, the dull yellow glow casting shadows around the room. The man -- the vampire, really -- has propped himself up into sitting position, shoulders sagging against the wall behind him, motionless but for his eyes.<br \/><br \/>\"I brought you steak,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>And those eyes, keen and unblinking, flicker to the package in his hand. <i>He can probably smell the blood,<\/i> thinks Eames. <i>I wonder what that's like.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"What's your name?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>The man swallows, forehead furrowing with exertion. When he speaks, his voice is a rasp, and barely audible through the hum of crickets in the distance.<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" he says.<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" repeats Eames. \"Let's get some food in you.\"<br \/><br \/>He edges the sprawl of Arthur's legs to one side of the mattress, still damp with rainwater and stained with dirt. Arthur is a mess. There's mud in his hair, down his face, all over his clothes, and he's whiter than bedsheets beneath the grime-- but it's a difficult comparison to make, because Eames' sheets are now even less white than usual.<br \/><br \/>Eames drapes a long flank of steak across a plate. Arthur looks down at it.<br \/><br \/>\"What's the matter?\" asks Eames. \"Oh, sorry, is beef-- does eating beef go against your religious beliefs?\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur's lips move a little.<br \/><br \/>\"Sorry?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"...Fork,\" says Arthur. \"Knife.\"<br \/><br \/>It's easier to just get him the utensils instead of trying to raise an objection at the request, and therefore Eames does so. Then, when Arthur makes a gesture that Eames is unfortunately perceptive enough to understand, it's easier to just cut the steak for him instead of trying to raise another objection at the request. And therefore, led down the path of least resistance, Eames does so.<br \/><br \/>Eames feels ridiculous bringing the sliver of meat to Arthur's mouth, but there's something very distracting in the stretch of Arthur's neck as he tilts his head. When the taste of blood first hits Arthur's tongue, his hand shoots up and grips Eames around his wrist, cold and brittle and suddenly strong.<br \/><br \/>\"Whoa,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>And Arthur's eyes slide closed and he moans, low in his throat, and Eames feels everything run hot where Arthur's fingers press against his skin. The lamplight jumps wildly in its cocoon of glass. The color floods back to Arthur's cheeks, his hand melts off of Eames' wrist, and he snatches up the knife and demolishes the steak before him.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"I apologize for my rudeness,\" says Arthur. \"Now that I've finished my meal, I hope I can prove better company.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames, Ariadne, Saito, Yusuf, and Cobb all stare from where they've formed a semicircle on the floor.<br \/><br \/>\"The steak did do you good,\" Ariadne manages to say.<br \/><br \/>\"Does 'better company' mean that you won't try to, you know,\" says Yusuf, \"eat us?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I don't hunt,\" says Arthur, haughtily, like it's a mark of his pedigree.<br \/><br \/>\"That only makes you a terrible vampire,\" says Eames. \"Maybe if you hunted, you'd have eaten something, and you wouldn't have ended up on the side of the road with my goat eating your shoe.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I have standards,\" says Arthur. \"I don't touch people or livestock, either. I also wouldn't normally travel in daylight, but I was in a hurry at the time.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Where were you going?\" asks Ariadne.<br \/><br \/>\"Transylvania,\" says Arthur. \"I have family there.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You're a long way from Transylvania,\" says Cobb.<br \/><br \/>\"I mean to continue as soon as I can,\" says Arthur. \"It's been a long journey. I had to cross an ocean to get this far, and then I didn't even have the energy to break my rules and chase down game. Unfortunately, Mr. Eames, it seems I'll have to impose upon your hospitality until I'm fit to travel again.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Just Eames will do,\" he mumbles. \"Shouldn't you send word to your family or something?\"<br \/><br \/>\"It's all right,\" says Arthur. \"They're not expecting me.\"<br \/><br \/>\"In the meantime, as you are my guest,\" says Saito, \"I will provide you with the necessary amenities.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Why is he <i>your<\/i> guest?\" demands Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"He does own the whole village,\" says Cobb.<br \/><br \/>\"It shouldn't be long anyhow,\" says Arthur. \"Couple days at the most.\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>A couple days pass, and then a couple weeks, and Arthur doesn't go anywhere. The steaks out in the icehouse seesaw back and forth in number. At first Arthur insists on sleeping in the barn, presumably hanging upside down from the rafters, because that's what vampires do.<br \/><br \/>\"Except you only sleep in the daytime,\" says Eames, \"and I only sleep at night. You could just use the bed.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur looks like he's just discovered the wheel.<br \/><br \/>He helps Eames drive his goats out to pasture in the morning, the hint of fangs flashing when he yells at them to keep in line. Sometimes he goes back to the house in the afternoon, where he curls up on Eames' bed and doesn't wake until the sun sets. Sometimes he sinks into the grass where they stop, sleeping there instead, the dandelions bright as butter against his hair. Eames watches him, because even asleep he's hell of a lot more interesting than his goats.<br \/><br \/>\"That Arthur's a looker,\" he tells Ariadne one day. \"But I guess all vampires are.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I wouldn't know,\" she says. \"I've never met one before.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Neither have I,\" says Eames, \"I guess. But still.\"<br \/><br \/>Ariadne only smiles.<br \/><br \/>Saito sends Arthur bundles of clothes, not town-slick like he was wearing when they found him, but tasteful and well-cut nonetheless. Arthur hangs them up in Eames' closet. He surveys the general effect, then rearranges everything inside into color-coded gradients.<br \/><br \/>\"What's that for,\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I can't live in chaos,\" says Arthur, and that's when Eames really knows he's staying.<br \/><br \/>Sometimes, before lunch, Arthur visits the people they know. He talks to Ariadne while she hammers away at glowing metal, about the feel of mahogany to the touch, about the way people carve whorls and curlicues into expensive drawers in the city. Ariadne listens, and occasionally her hand stills in motion.<br \/><br \/>Arthur watches over the village at night, shooing away the deers and boars that like to uproot Cobb's vegetables. Cobb is busy trying to woo a lady in town, planning the bean inception of Fischer's land, and farming his own crops with what time he has left, but it's clear that he takes to Arthur. Cobb brings him souvenirs from town, a pocketwatch, a handkerchief. Eames asks Cobb if he hasn't been spending more money on Arthur than that lady of his. Cobb denies it.<br \/><br \/>Yusuf thinks Arthur is the most conscientious person he has ever met in his life. Arthur is only really supposed to wipe down the counters and serve the orders, but he remembers the names of all the regulars and their favorite drinks. Yusuf saves the best cuts of meat for Arthur, and when the trickle of customers dies down, he slides him a tankard of blood across the bar with a paper umbrella on top.<br \/><br \/>Arthur settles in.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Eames doesn't worry about Arthur. Humans generally don't worry about vampires, unless their own lives are somehow concerned. And Arthur has been well, with the regular intake of blood in his veins; this is the Arthur that carried Eames' mattress all the way down to the river and scrubbed it free of mud, even in daylight. Arthur is all right.<br \/><br \/>If anything, he feels safer at night, when he knows Arthur is roaming the village. Maybe he's listening for raccoons, face lit by the moon. Lean and silent as he walks through the grass. Sometimes Eames dreams about him, about the gentle slope of his shoulders, about the way he smiles when the goats take alfalfa from his hand. About the smooth dip of the small of his back.<br \/><br \/>But through those dreams Eames sleeps well, because he feels safer at night.<br \/><br \/>Except when his door slams open one night and the beating of countless wings rushes inside, a furious din.<br \/><br \/>\"What the fuck,\" he exclaims. He's about to get up -- and the wings are bats, clicking and swarming in droves around his head -- when with a gust of air all the noises disappear and he's knocked back onto the bed by something much stronger than him.<br \/><br \/>\"I'm home,\" says a voice in his ear, and then there's a solid pressure around his hips.<br \/><br \/>\"...Arthur?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Hi,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"What are you doing here?\" asks Eames, and he's not sure if that means <i>here at home<\/i> or <i>here, straddling me on my bed.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"I'm drunk,\" says Arthur. His fingers dig into Eames' chest.<br \/><br \/>\"How does that even happen,\" asks Eames. \"Alcohol doesn't work on you.\"<br \/><br \/>\"It wasn't alcohol,\" says Arthur. \"I killed a wolf.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I thought you said you didn't hunt,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I don't,\" says Arthur. \"Except wolves. I try not to, but I just-- wolves do something to me, I smell wolf blood and I have to-- I have to drink it. Always. And it's like-- and it gets me all-- what's the word?\"<br \/><br \/>Eames feels Arthur laugh, warm and loose, washing across him and raising goosebumps all over his skin. It really must have been the entire wolf, because Arthur smells all over like blood. Like slaughter. And it should disgust him, or horrify him at least, but it's so wild and vicious that it's heady.<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" says Eames, alarmed. \"You need to get off.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Let me stay,\" says Arthur, and buries his nose in Eames' neck.<br \/><br \/>And it's very difficult to say no.<br \/><br \/>\"I'm not usually this much of a lightweight,\" murmurs Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Of course, darling,\" says Eames, like it would lull him to sleep.<br \/><br \/>The stench is gone by the morning, and the sunlight is merciless where it pours in through the window. Arthur is a dead weight on top of him. The last thing Eames wants to do is move, but his goats are bleating and butting at the door.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>It's Eames' turn to take the wares to the town market that month. Yusuf hands him a tall stack of pies, some pitchers sloshing with liquid. Ariadne has a fancy set of dinnerware and some jewelry boxes ready. Cobb has a sack of squash and a carefully folded note for his lady in town.<br \/><br \/>\"Can I go with you?\" asks Arthur, when Eames is hitching his goats to the cart.<br \/><br \/>\"Don't you need to sleep?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I'll do that later,\" says Arthur. \"I'd be bored if I stayed.\"<br \/><br \/>So Arthur climbs up next to him, a twelve-goat cart now, and it rattles on every bump all the way to town. Cobb's sack of squash pushes them together, thighs pressed up against each other. The day is bright.<br \/><br \/>Yusuf's pies sell the fastest, then the squash, but Ariadne's boxes fetch so much money that Eames wonders if he couldn't cheat her out of some of it. Out of the corner of his eye, he looks at Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" he says, \"don't even think about it.\"<br \/><br \/>Then someone raps on their stall, and when they turn to look, it's a woman they've never seen before. She's in a dress and hat, and she's carrying an umbrella when it's not even raining. She looks richer than the entire market put together.<br \/><br \/>\"Can we help you?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Do you know Dominic Cobb?\" she asks.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, it's you,\" says Eames. \"You're Cobb's lady.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I received his note,\" she says. \"It doesn't make any sense.\"<br \/><br \/>She waves the piece of paper in their faces, and Eames reads as far as <i>YOU'RE WAITING FOR A PALFREY--<\/i> before she tucks it back into her glove.<br \/><br \/>\"Tell him that if it's a metaphor,\" she says, \"it's a pretty terrible one. And that I'll see him on Friday.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Wow,\" says Eames, craning his head after her as she leaves. \"Cobb is in out of his depth.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"What,\" says Eames, \"that's not disrespectful.\"<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Arthur, under his breath. \"Look over there.\"<br \/><br \/>In the paths between the stalls a couple rows over, a few soldiers are talking to the merchants. They ask some terse questions, nod, then reach for a merchant's mouth. Meticulously, they turn his upper lip over.<br \/><br \/>\"What are they doing?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"They're searching for vampires,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Shit,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"They've probably got guards out on the exits,\" says Arthur. \"I think they know I'm here. They know someone let a vampire in their town.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames watches the soldiers. They're not checking <i>everyone's<\/i> teeth; they wander from stall to stall aimlessly, apparently unsure of what exactly it is that they're looking for. But they get closer, still, and they're only half a row away, the sun glinting off their armor.<br \/><br \/>\"You need to hide your teeth,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"How,\" demands Arthur. \"I can't exactly remove--\"<br \/><br \/>Eames grabs him by the collar and kisses him.<br \/><br \/>The rest of Arthur's sentence gets caught in his throat. His eyes are wide, and he only tastes a little like blood, only the lingering trace of it, but either way Eames' tongue brushes against the edges of his fangs and the feel of it is almost too much. Eames has his back to the street and he can't see when the soldiers pass them by, so he doesn't stop, even when Arthur's mouth falls open, even when he's backed Arthur all the way up against the cart. At some point Arthur pushes him off, his eyes bright, shoulders heaving.<br \/><br \/>\"Did it work?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>The cart is empty and Eames' pockets are heavy on their way back to the village. They're riding straight west, into the setting sun. Arthur's face is buried in his hands.<br \/><br \/>\"It worked, anyway,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>Arthur says nothing.<br \/><br \/>\"And it wasn't so bad,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>Arthur says nothing.<br \/><br \/>\"Of course, you agree,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>Arthur says nothing.<br \/><br \/>Eames tries saying nothing, but that just makes everything quiet.<br \/><br \/>\"I know what you're thinking,\" says Eames. \"Right now, you probably wish you could turn into bats and just fly your way back home, instead of being stuck on this cart with me.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur still says nothing, but Eames can tell that he's listening.<br \/><br \/>\"You were probably wishing that ever since back at the market,\" says Eames. \"But the sun hasn't set, so you have to stay in your body. Flying isn't an option. So you're just pretending I'm not here.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Am I that predictable,\" asks Arthur, sounding muffled.<br \/><br \/>\"To me, at least,\" says Eames, \"you are.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur lifts his head; the sun is a ball of fire, lighting stray strands of Arthur's hair, turning him gold.<br \/><br \/>\"We'll see,\" he says, and leans in.<br \/><br \/>As soon as their lips touch, the last gleaming arc of the sun dips below the horizon, and Arthur explodes into a storm of bats. Instinctively Eames reaches after him, and his fingertips scrape a leathery wing, but all those black silhouettes go pitching toward home and even though it's twilight now, the remnants of the sun are still too bright to look at dead on.<br \/><br \/>Eames doesn't realize the reins have slipped from his hands until all twelve goats get tangled up in each other and they upend into a ditch.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Nothing is safe from change.<br \/><br \/>Soldiers burst into <i>The Concoction<\/i> not long after, knocking tables over and ripping through Yusuf's sacks of flour.<br \/><br \/>\"You're hiding him somewhere,\" say the soldiers.<br \/><br \/>\"I don't know what you're talking about,\" shouts Yusuf. \"There's no one hiding here! It's a tavern!\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur is sleeping in a cloud of goats when Cobb comes running with the news. Eames is too far away to hear, but he sees Arthur's jaw tighten, and knows it's nothing good.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" says Arthur when they return home that day. \"I have to leave.\"<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"They're closing in,\" says Arthur. \"They know I'm here somewhere. We were lucky today, but they'll be coming back-- and I don't want anyone else to have to-- please tell Yusuf that I'm very sorry.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You can't go,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"They'll break everything in Ariadne's workshop,\" says Arthur. \"Or set fire to Cobb's fields. It's a good thing Saito was there today to send them back for an official decree, but they're going to get that decree, Eames. Nobody likes a vampire.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Where would you even go?\" asks Eames. \"Transylvania? To your family?\"<br \/><br \/>\"There's no one I know in Transylvania,\" says Arthur. \"I lied.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I know!\" shouts Eames. \"You've been here for months, Arthur. I know there's no one waiting for you!\"<br \/><br \/>\"Still, I have to leave,\" says Arthur. \"Please help me.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames is no pushover, but he's always made the wrong decisions.<br \/><br \/>\"What do you need,\" he asks.<br \/><br \/>\"I need blood,\" says Arthur. \"Human blood.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Oh,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Animals keep me going, more or less, but my body knows I should be drinking human blood,\" says Arthur. \"It's a whole different diet. I've been keeping it low so far, but right now I need everything I can get. Human blood will get me through a couple days at least in my best condition, and then I'll try hunting for a while, if I must-- the important thing is that I get as far away from here as possible, as fast as possible.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Is it going to kill me,\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"My god, Eames,\" says Arthur, \"of course not.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Is it going to turn me into a vampire?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Arthur. \"For that you'd need to drink my blood.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Then why haven't you done it before now?\" demands Eames. \"All this time, you haven't really been healthy? I could have given you all the blood you wanted, anytime you asked. And you never did.\"<br \/><br \/>\"We don't have much time,\" says Arthur. \"Roll up your sleeve.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames expects it to hurt a lot more than it does. But it's just a moment of pain, neat punctures through his skin, and Arthur puts his lips to his arm. That's the part that hurts. Eames tries to even out his breathing, tries to look at anything but the lamplight through Arthur's eyelashes, the curve of his mouth stained with blood, <i>his<\/i> blood.<br \/><br \/>\"We've kissed like,\" wheezes Eames, \"like five times already.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Twice,\" says Arthur. His tongue is warm.<br \/><br \/>\"Still,\" says Eames. \"This feels a lot more--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Stop talking,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur, before you go,\" says Eames, \"we have to discuss--\"<br \/><br \/>\"No, we don't,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>Eames does stop talking after that, because his blood is draining fast, and it gets harder and harder to concentrate. He's propped up on all the pillows he has, and he thinks of how his bed was covered in mud just a few months ago, how it had rained on his way home when he saw a shoe sticking out of the underbrush. His new footstool. A fork and knife.<br \/><br \/>When Arthur stands up, Eames thinks he might kiss him one last time, for good luck. For the road. But Arthur doesn't. He just straightens his shirt and turns away.<br \/><br \/>\"I never asked you for your blood because,\" says Arthur when he's reached the door.<br \/><br \/>\"Because what,\" asks Eames, blearily.<br \/><br \/>\"It was silly of me,\" says Arthur. \"I thought if I drank from you, maybe I'd like you too much.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Was it silly,\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Yes,\" says Arthur. \"The blood had nothing to do with it.\"<br \/><br \/>And he smiles.<br \/><br \/>Woozy though he is, Eames thinks that it's ironic, how beautiful Arthur looks in that moment. He looks <i>alive<\/i>, and he looks invincible, and it's really too bad that people are always the most beautiful just as they're walking away from you. Just as they shatter into hundreds of bats and leave you.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Eames tries to cover it up at first. <i>Arthur went into town to replace Yusuf's damaged property,<\/i> he says. <i>Arthur is looking over Fischer's land to see if beans will do well there. Arthur is down by the river. Arthur is up in the mountains. Arthur is at a secret vampire banquet.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Finally Ariadne pries the truth out of him.<br \/><br \/>\"You let him leave?\" she gasps.<br \/><br \/>\"You let him leave,\" says Yusuf. He looks crestfallen.<br \/><br \/>\"Mr. Eames had no choice,\" says Saito. \"The soldiers did return, and it's only because we led them through every corner of the village that we did not incur any further displeasure.\"<br \/><br \/>\"But now Arthur is gone,\" says Ariadne. \"Why couldn't he stay? Why couldn't he fight?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Fight? The soldiers?\" asks Eames. \"He can't maintain top form on animal blood. He's still strong, but not strong enough to take on that many.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Human blood, then,\" says Ariadne.<br \/><br \/>\"I nearly threw up the entire day afterwards,\" says Eames. \"I don't think I could afford to feed him that frequently.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Maybe not you alone,\" says Ariadne.<br \/><br \/>\"But you're not alone,\" says Yusuf.<br \/><br \/>\"There's five of us,\" says Cobb. \"That means once a month for each person if we let him drink every week. I think we can handle once a month.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Definitely,\" says Ariadne. \"You're such an idiot, Eames. Aren't we his friends?\"<br \/><br \/>\"They'll come again,\" says Eames, looking at the faces of the madmen around him. \"They'll know he's returned, and then he'll have to fight them-- we'll have to fight them. We'll have to kill them, if they don't stop coming.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Well,\" says Yusuf, \"I told you he was dangerous to keep around.\"<br \/><br \/>\"And we have pitchforks for a reason,\" says Cobb.<br \/><br \/>\"Perhaps Mr. Arthur will be able to feed contentedly enough on the soldiers,\" says Saito.<br \/><br \/>\"Worst that can happen,\" says Ariadne, her eyes shining, \"we'll just drink his blood. I've always wanted to visit Transylvania.\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>They stomp hay into fallow ground and light it on fire, where in the night it spells in blazing letters, <i>ITS OK<\/i> and <i>COM BACK RTHR<\/i>. Harvest passes and the first frost comes, and they keep the fire burning every night.<br \/><br \/>When the snow has melted and the ground turns damp, and the spring drizzle returns again, Eames takes to sleeping outside on his cart. Nothing will burn anymore, and Cobb says the rain is good for farming, but they would all much rather that it stopped.<br \/><br \/>Ariadne makes him a lantern twice the size of his head.<br \/><br \/>His goats become pregnant, and his goats give birth.<br \/><br \/>Eames waits.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Cobb and his lady from town get engaged and throw a party at <i>The Concoction<\/i>. They would marry, but Cobb says they need to wait, because a very important guest is away for the time being.<br \/><br \/><i>For the time being,<\/i> thinks Eames, as Yusuf pours another round of free drinks for everyone there.<br \/><br \/>He's on his way back from the party, tipsy and thoughtful, when he hears a flutter above him.<br \/><br \/>It's the sound of wings.<br \/><br \/>He stretches out his hand before he knows what he's doing, and something closes around his fingers. Tiny sharp claws like pinpricks.<br \/><br \/>And Eames hardly thinks he is allowed to breathe, but he brings his hand closer, and by the light of the hazy moon--<br \/><br \/>--bats swirl all around him, beating his face with their wings, filling the air, filling some hollow cavern in his stomach. <i>Arthur,<\/i> Eames is shouting at the top of his lungs, <i>Arthur, Arthur,<\/i> like he's going to wake the entire village, and then just as suddenly, all of the bats vanish.<br \/><br \/>\"I'm home,\" says a voice in his ear.<br><br><br>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/1822.html?view=comments#comments","category":["eames\/arthur","au"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/1591.html","pubDate":"Thu, 16 Sep 2010 03:50:08 GMT","title":"Das Vorbewusste","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/1591.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Eames\/Arthur<br \/><b>Original prompt:<\/b> <a href=\"http:\/\/community.livejournal.com\/inception_kink\/5987.html?thread=9101155#t9101155\" target=\"_blank\">Arthur likes boys, and Arthur likes girls. But the one thing that gets him hotter than anything else is intelligence. Suffice it to say: he doesn't think Eames is his type at all. But then something happens that puts the two of them alone in a brand-new setting, and Eames just switches on on a whole new level that Arthur's never seen before.<\/a> (There are a million better fills in this thread, go and read them all!)<br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> Eames navigates the preconscious world straight into Arthur's pants.<br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> The original posting dates were too much work to look up, haha. Backlog posting might be mostly alphabetical from now on!<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/>All Arthur wants is someone who won't bore him.<br \/><br \/>Well, maybe that qualifier is misleading in its simplicity. Everyone Arthur has met in his life so far has managed to bore him. He doesn't mean it with rancor, or with disdain; they aren't <i>boring<\/i> people, and a good number of them have actually been frighteningly intelligent. He loves a vast majority of all these people who have bored him.<br \/><br \/>It's just that he loves them only from the heart, a sort of soft, platonic love. Anything that sizzles hotter inevitably dies away with the first pang of boredom like a symptom of an incurable disease. As soon as they start to bore him, Arthur can only love them like he loves his family, or like he loves stray animals.<br \/><br \/>Somewhere inside the wiring of his body, his brain must have become inextricably connected to his penis. He doesn't call it a problem, because problems drag you down and keep you from greatness. He doesn't feel guilty about it, because as far as he can tell, this is just the way his mother made him.<br \/><br \/>Instead, he acts on it.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>It starts with Eleanor in the third grade. Arthur is not yet quite acquainted with the complicated world of erections, but even then he feels something spark in his spine, and all his limbs go weak whenever she performs long division in her tiny brown head.<br \/><br \/>Unfortunately, Eleanor considers human language to be an inferior substitute for the elegant perfection of numbers. With every English class and every answer she mumbles through, she slips away from him, until one day he is surprised to discover that he feels nothing for her at all.<br \/><br \/>That is the mold that sets the pattern for the rest of his life. He gets into extraction in the first place because dreamshare technology is the next hot thing, which means that to Arthur, it is almost literally the next hot thing.<br \/><br \/>He begins legitimate; he throws himself into Project Somnacin like an innocent bachelor signing up for an online dating site. <i>I'll meet some great people!<\/i> And he does. That captain is particularly promising, what is his name, Darren something-- he lasts two whole months before Arthur realizes that his intelligence only provides him with a good excuse for being stodgy. Overall it is a good year, but he runs out of candidates at around the same time that the military gets wise. He and it decide to stop seeing each other, and he becomes a criminal.<br \/><br \/>If anything, the people he works with on the illegal side of the tracks turn out to be even more fascinating. But there is always something that makes him turn away. There is Cobb (brilliant, but with no room in his heart), Nash (brilliant, but unscrupulous), Ariadne (brilliant, but too fanciful), Yusuf (brilliant, but too earnest), Saito (brilliant, but not in areas that make Arthur's knees give out)--<br \/><br \/>and then there is Eames (most certainly not brilliant at all).<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Arthur considers himself unlucky in love, so he just takes it in stride when everyone except Eames disappears after the Fischer job. Cobb goes home, Ariadne goes to school, Saito goes to work, Yusuf goes to his shop, and Nash is probably already in Hell. Arthur is in love with none of them, but even what's left of Nash would make better company than Eames.<br \/><br \/>Of course it's Eames that stays. Eames, who is nothing he wants. Who has lucky moments but no real brilliance. Eames wears suits that aren't pressed, can't spell, isn't much good at math, and is always, always, always fidgeting. <i>Always.<\/i> So of course it's Eames who calls him two weeks after the plane lands in Los Angeles.<br \/><br \/>\"You should come to Marrakech,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Why?\" asks Arthur. \"Is it a job?\"<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Eames. \"I just wanted to see you.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Then no,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"It's a job,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Is Yusuf going to be there?\" asks Arthur, hopeful.<br \/><br \/>\"He let me raid his supplies, but he's still catching up with his customers,\" says Eames. \"Come to Marrakech. It's about an heiress and her good-for-nothing boyfriend. Her father wants to know if his daughter's just a way to get to his fortune. Some light work for your time off.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur has never been to Morocco, and he's always wanted to visit the Djemaa el-Fna. The warmth of the breeze when he lands is more welcoming than the sight of Eames, waiting for him with a sign that reads LIMOSINE READY FOR HOITY-TOITY OVERDRESED AMERICAN. Especially since Eames then informs him that they are about to embark on a two-person job.<br \/><br \/>\"I don't care how easy it is,\" says Arthur. \"Two is never enough.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Yusuf gave us the compounds,\" says Eames. \"I'll forge and extract, and you can architect and point.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Those aren't even the right verbs,\" yells Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"This mark is clueless,\" says Eames. \"He doesn't even know that mindheist exists. Look, I've even done most of your preliminary research for you; this is Ricky Schafer. All Ricky Schafer cares about is how to gamble away his girlfriend's money.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Seems,\" says Arthur. \"Seems to care about. Never assume. If one always meant the other, the client wouldn't have hired us in the first place.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm very glad you're here,\" says Eames, and just like that, Arthur has apparently taken the job.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Arthur balks until Eames agrees to fly in an architect all the way from Mombasa. Tamir is a failed hotelier that Yusuf has known for seven years, poor but not desperate, honest but no pushover. He's not outstanding but he's passable, and Arthur needs the manpower. At least it's one less thing to worry about.<br \/><br \/>Tamir builds a maze of a hotel to the mark's taste, and the attention to detail is fastidious enough that Arthur briefly considers kissing him. But he looks much too impressionable, and so Arthur doesn't.<br \/><br \/>It's not a difficult job. Arthur plans it as a modest affair. They snatch Ricky Schafer just before he meets his girlfriend for their Tuesday dinner date; she'll be on his mind, and that provides a good direction for the sort of secrets he'll think to hoard away. With his cell phone, they inform her via text message that he is behind schedule. <i>Barbara im sorry im going 2 b 20 mins late xx.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Tamir dreams the first level, because you always want at least two people with experience working on the extraction itself. He distracts the projections while Arthur and Eames make their way to the basement, where they've placed a safe for Ricky Schafer's use. They're in and they're out in a quarter-hour, tops. <i>Easy-peasy,<\/i> says Arthur. <i>Lemon squeezy,<\/i> adds Eames. <br \/><br \/>Except it isn't.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"It's not opening,\" says Eames, punching in another string of numbers.<br \/><br \/>\"What do you mean, it's not opening?\" asks Arthur. \"It can't <i>not open,<\/i> it's a dream safe!\"<br \/><br \/>\"When I say it's not opening,\" says Eames, \"I mean that the safe isn't opening, Arthur.\"<br \/><br \/>\"That's ridiculous,\" mutters Arthur. He brushes Eames aside, because obviously Eames is doing something wrong. Dream safes don't have particular combinations; the mark's subconscious takes the mere presence of the safe to be security enough, and any random code ought to be enough to spring it open. But Arthur tries number after number and the safe stays stubbornly locked.<br \/><br \/>\"What happens now?\" asks Tamir. \"Do you blow it open?\"<br \/><br \/>\"No, that's direct assault,\" says Arthur. \"Much too violent. It'll set off all the alarms. We don't have nearly enough people or enough time to fend off the sort of attack that'll trigger-- fuck, why is this happening, why is his dream safe--\"<br \/><br \/>He cuts himself off, distracted by the dance of a poker chip across Eames' knuckles.<br \/><br \/>\"Will you stop that,\" he snaps. \"I'm trying to think, Eames.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Hmm,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"If you're going to be useless--\" begins Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"I think,\" says Eames, \"you two should wait here a moment.\"<br \/><br \/>Briskly, he strolls out of the hotel room. Arthur gapes and cranes his head past the doorway, turning back to stare at Tamir, then out the door again.<br \/><br \/>\"<i>What?<\/i>\" he manages to ask.<br \/><br \/>\"Here are some things I've heard about Eames,\" says Tamir.<br \/><br \/>\"I've worked with him before,\" says Arthur. \"And let me tell you, all the slander is true.\"<br \/><br \/>\"It's not really slander,\" says Tamir.<br \/><br \/>\"Then it's a lie,\" says Arthur. \"He's probably gone to get a drink or something. Why does this asshole's dream safe have a real combo? What does that even mean?\"<br \/><br \/>\"He's building from memory,\" says Eames, indistinct through the black balaclava.<br \/><br \/>He comes in with a PASIV suitcase in one hand, where an IV line trails to the wrist of a man now dragging along the floor. Arthur stares.<br \/><br \/>\"Meet Ricky Schafer,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"What are you doing?\" demands Arthur. \"Why is Ricky Schafer two levels down? Why are you wearing a ski mask?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Sorry I didn't explain,\" says Eames, pulling it off. \"We've only got fifteen minutes here, so I thought it best to go on ahead. It seems like it'll work.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" says Arthur, \"<i>what<\/i> will work?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Our friend Ricky here is burdened with a severe case of literal-mindedness,\" says Eames. \"I've seen it once before, maybe, I think that time in Caracas a couple years back. Hell on the nerves. You're checking your totem every couple of seconds just to make sure it's a dream, and that's all wrong because it's the other way round, isn't it?\"<br \/><br \/>\"You're digressing,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"So I am,\" says Eames. \"What Ricky is doing is projecting a real safe onto its dream counterpart. He's reversed the dynamics of influence-- taken a safe that exists somewhere in the real world and used it to flesh out the concept of the hiding place. It's a rare talent, being this dull. It's almost interesting.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Stop contemplating theoretical details and just focus,\" yells Arthur. \"We can't crack an actual safe, Eames! At least not in fifteen minutes-- we have about ten left, and that's a generous estimate--\"<br \/><br \/>\"We won't have to,\" says Eames, and tosses Tamir a set of headphones and a music player. \"Give us a heads-up at one minute and fifty seconds into the second level, will you? The kick should be at two minutes sharp. That gives us around twenty-five minutes down below.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Got it,\" says Tamir. \"Will the projections be a problem?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Not this early, they won't,\" says Eames. \"Don't worry.\"<br \/><br \/>He whisks out two extra lines from the PASIV case and stretches out on the floor, motioning for Arthur to follow.<br \/><br \/>\"At some point,\" says Arthur, \"you're going to have to explain yourself.\"<br \/><br \/>\"We'll have plenty of time for that in the next layer,\" says Eames. \"Dream up a casino, will you, love? Make it red -- use the color scheme from the hotel, I'll tell you why later -- and make it just a little seedy. The carpets too plush, the lights too low, you know the works.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What about a maze?\" asks Arthur, slipping the needle in under his skin.<br \/><br \/>\"Won't need one,\" says Eames. \"Twenty minutes, and we won't be bothering anything there. Under in three-- two--\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Arthur blinks asleep to the sound of laughter, and instinctively he joins in. He feels an arm around his waist and knows it belongs to Eames before he turns to look.<br \/><br \/>\"Get off me,\" he whispers, out of the corner of his smile.<br \/><br \/>\"Can't,\" Eames whispers back. His accent is American.<br \/><br \/>\"You're wearing enough cologne to kill a horse,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Don't think it doesn't pain me,\" says Eames. \"I'm in character.\"<br \/><br \/>That's true-- Eames is, outwardly at least, subtly different. His hair is longer, his stubble is scruffier. His suit is more expensive, but in poorer taste. His jaw is heavier, his nose slightly bent, and there's something tired and sordid about him.<br \/><br \/>\"Does this character make a habit of harassing his co-workers?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Not here, you're not my co-worker,\" says Eames. \"You're a pretty thing I noticed hanging about the bar. Having you here makes me look like a wastrel, and wastrels play to impress. Wastrels play to lose.\"<br \/><br \/>\"How will losing at poker help us with the job?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Makes us less of a threat. Sit on my knee,\" says Eames, then loudly, \"Fold!\"<br \/><br \/>\"I-- what?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Sit on my knee,\" repeats Eames. \"Do you want this to work or not?\"<br \/><br \/>Gingerly, Arthur lowers himself onto Eames' knee. The hand around him tightens. There are six people sitting round the table, the overhead light shrouded in cigar smoke. Ricky Schafer is across from them, in a beige suit too large for him, fiddling with his stack of chips. The round continues as Eames begins to explain.<br \/><br \/>\"We got Ricky in the real world while he was in transit,\" he says, voice low. \"His subconscious knew he was going somewhere, and in a hotel level, the only way to go anywhere is on an elevator. The two states of travel are linked in the mind. Sure enough, he was there-- I pulled on the balaclava, screamed at him to tell me what the combo for the safe is, and knocked him out. Now, the moment we activated the Somnacin and he plunged into this dream, all that was on his mind was the safe.\"<br \/><br \/>\"He doesn't even know what safe you were talking about,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Not consciously, no,\" says Eames. \"But he modeled the dream safe after something particular, and there's a particular code for that safe. The number is floating around in his subconscious.\"<br \/><br \/>\"And we're in it now,\" says Arthur. \"Where do we find it?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Ah,\" says Eames, \"there lie the intricacies of the subconscious. What we call the subconscious, Arthur, is really a catch-all term for anything the mind isn't aware of. Far be it from anyone enlightened to depend on Freud for accuracy, but his distinctions come in useful for our plight at the moment.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Which are,\" asks Arthur. There are three people left holding cards. Ricky is one of them.<br \/><br \/>\"Put very simply, the unconscious is for what is repressed,\" says Eames, \"and the preconscious is for what is forgotten. It takes a lot of work to pry anything out of the unconscious, but the preconscious is a different matter-- that's just a matter of giving the mark the right jolt, making them want to remember it hard enough. Want to know it bad enough.\"<br \/><br \/>\"And I suppose what we provide,\" says Arthur, \"is a blank slate for the mark to project what he wants to know.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Precisely,\" says Eames. \"Being threatened by a man in a balaclava puts him in a state of alertness; he knows this is something important. The continuation of the color schemes between levels causes retention of mood, and so in this level, anytime he feels a desire to know anything, that feeling will be dramatically intensified. So dramatically intensified, in fact, that he'll reach straight into his preconscious and conflate the unknowns.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Whatever he wants to know on this level,\" says Arthur, eyes widening, \"will show up as the combination for the safe.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Well done, Arthur,\" says Eames. \"Such is the beauty of <i>das Vorbewusste.<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>And maybe it's the heat of Eames' hand curling around him, and maybe it's the soft hiss of air into his ear-- maybe the sight of teeth dragging over those lips to form German consonants, maybe the German consonants themselves-- or the sheer fucking brilliance of the plan it took Eames approximately half a minute to formulate, but Arthur feels all his hair stand on end.<br \/><br \/>\"Next pot opens,\" calls the dealer.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Arthur has never seen Eames in a casino. It shouldn't come as a surprise, since the first thing anyone learns about Eames is that this is his natural element, but the inimitable cool of a consummate gambler still throws Arthur off balance.<br \/><br \/>\"And raising,\" says Eames, flicking a small pile of purple chips onto the table, almost like he's bored.<br \/><br \/>\"Careful,\" calls Arthur, clear enough for the table to hear. \"Leave something to entertain me with.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Not that I'll do that with what's in my wallet,\" says Eames. He leers and the table chuckles.<br \/><br \/>\"Raise,\" says Ricky, dipping into the burgundy. \"Let's do this.\"<br \/><br \/>\"By the way,\" Arthur murmurs into Eames' ear, \"your cards are shit.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Even you can tell,\" says Eames. \"Not for long, though. Raise!\"<br \/><br \/>The bets go once more around the circle before the players begin to fold. One after another, they slam their hands down onto the table, and Eames only runs a slow finger down the seams of Arthur's suit.<br \/><br \/>\"What about you,\" Ricky asks Eames, \"don't you have somewhere else to be?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I don't know, I'm getting good feelings from this hand,\" says Eames, and shrugs. \"I'm sure my date can wait for me to clean you out.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Is that what they call a <i>bluff?<\/i>\" Arthur asks the man next to him in a loud stage whisper.<br \/><br \/>Ricky laughs and the burgundy chips roll into the middle of the table again. It's not long until everyone else sits back in their chairs, and it's Ricky and Eames facing off across the table.<br \/><br \/>\"Raise,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>Ricky Schafer narrows his eyes.<br \/><br \/>\"Raise,\" he says.<br \/><br \/>\"Be still, my heart,\" says Eames. \"Raise!\"<br \/><br \/>\"Raise,\" says Ricky, through his teeth.<br \/><br \/>As Arthur and Eames watch their hand, Ricky tries to bore a hole through the backing of their cards by the burn of his stare. He's no natural gambler like Eames is, but he has a competitive streak, and his brows furrow as he tries to work it out. As he tries to deduce what his chances are, how far they've come, and what the hell those cards are that this stranger at his table is holding--<br \/><br \/><i>What the hell those cards could possibly be--<\/i><br \/><br \/>And the face of the cards flicker.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh,\" whispers Arthur, \"my god.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Remember it,\" whispers Eames.<br \/><br \/>The array of shit cards shifts into another array of shit cards, except this time, it's as good as gold. Two of clubs, seven of spades, four of spades, nine of diamonds. The king of hearts as the fifth placeholder.<br \/><br \/>Arthur's blood pressure spikes so fast that he has to clutch to Eames' knee for support.<br \/><br \/>\"Why don't I try my luck here,\" says Eames. \"I'll call.\"<br \/><br \/>Ricky's hand isn't anything glamorous, with a pair of sixes and a pair of eights. Eames throws his head back and curses as the dealer rakes away the chips, and Ricky raises a glass in a mockery of a toast.<br \/><br \/>\"Tough,\" he says.<br \/><br \/>\"That's probably a sign,\" says Eames, and rises roughly from the table, sending his chair skidding back. \"Guess I wasn't made to gamble. You fellas keep at it, then. I'm off to occupy myself otherwise for the night-- that must be where I spent all my luck. Come on, sweetheart.\"<br \/><br \/>He gives Arthur's ass a pat as they turn and walk away, and Arthur is too breathless to protest. <i>There's the old feeling,<\/i> he thinks, <i>the fire in my backbone.<\/i> His heart is pounding so fast that it blurs the edges of his vision.<br \/><br \/>\"Two, seven, four, nine,\" says Eames, hot in his ear.<br \/><br \/>Arthur's fingers tighten white around his arm.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>He's numb as they stumble out of the building, hardly noticing the sunlight or the milling of the crowd. They enter directly into the Djemaa el-Fna and Arthur doesn't see anything around him.<br \/><br \/>\"You dreamt up the square?\" says Eames. \"Wow, Arthur. You must have really wanted to see it.\"<br \/><br \/>Faintly Arthur notices that his real accent is back, and that the offending cologne is gone.<br \/><br \/>\"Too bad we can't tour around after the job is done,\" says Eames. \"Maybe we'll come back, in a month or two, when the heiress and Ricky wander off somewhere else and the case blows over. Right now, we have about-- five minutes to kill.\"<br \/><br \/>He stops to order something from a market stall, a cross between an egg roll and a samosa. And it really shouldn't turn him on this much that Eames is eating something Arthur doesn't even know the name for, but it does, fucking hell, <i>it does.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"Wannabite?\" Eames mumbles through a mouthful of food, and something sharp flares up in Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Just stop it,\" he snaps, snatching the pastry away from Eames. \"That act isn't going to work anymore, Eames. You just performed an entire job, on the fly, on your own, and didn't even rile up the projections. There's a point where I have to stop blaming dumb luck, and you've passed it. I think you owe me an explanation.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What's there to say?\" Eames swallows. \"Didn't you know I was good at my job?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Well, maybe,\" says Arthur, \"but that was--\"<br \/><br \/>\"That was what?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"It was--\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Intoxicating?\" asks Eames, stepping closer, up in Arthur's personal space. \"...Arousing?\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur flushes and stuffs the pastry into his mouth instead of an answer.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, hey,\" he mumbles. \"This is really good.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" says Eames, \"let me tell you an old Chinese story. It's about a monkey named Sun Wukong.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Where is this going,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"After he wreaked havoc in the heavenly world, it was decided that Buddha himself must imprison Wukong,\" says Eames. \"When the Buddha challenged Wukong to escape from the grasp of his palm, Wukong flew to the edge of the world, only to discover that the pillars he found there were the fingers on the Buddha's hand.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"You're the monkey,\" says Eames, pointing a finger in his face. \"You're in the palm of my hand.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Don't-- don't get cocky,\" says Arthur. He curls his hands into fists to concentrate. \"Maybe I may have underestimated you, but you're nothing special.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You know better than that,\" says Eames. \"Do you want to listen to me talk about handwriting forgery? The trick, Arthur, is to treat the document as a holistic entity. You can't copy it line by line, curve by curve-- what you have to simulate is the mentality of the original creator, and to do that you need to withdraw into a solipsistic state, through the total abnegation of your own self--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" wheezes Arthur, \"oh god, stop, Eames.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Or we could discuss your taste in opera,\" says Eames. \"You probably go around telling people that you like Monteverdi, but really you have advance tickets to every major opera house for anything Puccini. You have the poster for La Fanciulla hanging on your bedroom wall.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I don't!\" shouts Arthur. \"And there's nothing wrong with Puccini!\"<br \/><br \/>\"Of course not,\" says Eames, soothingly.<br \/><br \/>\"Be professional, Mr. Eames,\" says Arthur, turning on a shaky heel. \"the job isn't over yet.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What happens when it is?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>Just then, through the bustle of the marketplace, Edith Piaf begins to play. For some reason, it starts near the end. <i>Aujourd'hui, \u00e7a commence avec toi--<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"How appropriate,\" says Eames, and he's smirking.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Two, seven, four, nine, and the safe pops open. Eames looks over his shoulder and crooks a knowing eyebrow, and Arthur remembers just in time to turn his smile into a grimace.<br \/><br \/>\"So I gather everything went well,\" says Tamir.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, yes,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"What did you do?\" asks Tamir.<br \/><br \/>Arthur is about to answer, but then he realizes that really, he didn't do anything. Just sat on Eames' knee and spent his time being arm candy. Eames could have just as well used a projection for the purpose-- in a mind like Ricky Schafer's, there was bound to be a willing lush in reach.<br \/><br \/>\"I got the code out of Ricky,\" says Eames. \"Arthur was there to watch me.\"<br \/><br \/>And that's the absolute last straw. That's as much as Arthur can possibly endure. All that easy brilliance, so much careless raw intelligence, panoramic knowledge, and a skill set he could swoon over if he isn't careful-- and on top of all that, the grandstanding designed specifically to impress Arthur.<br \/><br \/><i>To hell with being careful,<\/i> thinks Arthur, and decides to swoon.<br \/><br \/>\"Tamir,\" he says, \"I need to wrap up some loose ends with Eames-- could we have a moment in private?\"<br \/><br \/>\"No problem,\" says Tamir. \"I've had fair warning from Yusuf, you know. He told me working with you two might be a little strange.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Send him my regards,\" says Arthur, and Tamir closes the door behind him.<br \/><br \/>\"Hey, look,\" says Eames, peering inside the safe. \"What do you know.\"<br \/><br \/>There's a small velvet box with a ring inside, and a snapshot of Ricky and the heiress together. <i>For Barbara on Tuesday,<\/i> says a post-it note.<br \/><br \/>\"He's not so bad after all,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Wonderful,\" says Arthur, and pushes Eames up against the wall.<br \/><br \/>\"Are you intoxicated?\" asks Eames. \"Aroused?\"<br \/><br \/>\"How much of this was planned?\" demands Arthur. \"Is this job even real? Is Tamir even a real architect?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Heavens, yes,\" says Eames. \"I didn't really mean for the job to get so complicated. I'm good, Arthur, but I'm also immensely lucky. It isn't always one or the other.\"<br \/><br \/>\"That's not even fair,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"I'm not complaining,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>Arthur lunges forward in a kiss like a surge of current, hands knotting into Eames' shirt, and he thinks that maybe he tastes flakes of pastry on their tongues but that can't be right, can it. This is like every fling he's ever had, all rolled into one. A perfect, infuriating, fucking <i>smart<\/i> as all hell package.<br \/><br \/>\"I can't believe you noticed,\" says Arthur, drawing back only far enough to speak.<br \/><br \/>\"It was difficult not to,\" says Eames. \"You go starry-eyed for anyone with anything worth saying.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Why do you pretend, then?\" asks Arthur. \"What's the point?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I mean, my job,\" says Eames. \"It's hard to disappear into someone when you're very noticeable as yourself. I try to tone down my excellence.\"<br \/><br \/>\"But then why today?\" asks Arthur. \"Why am I allowed to know you like this?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" says Eames, \"I thought it was time you started noticing me.\"<br \/><br \/>Oh, he notices, all right. That's all he can do. Eames' lips curve up, and Arthur nearly falls into them, knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that the Somnacin is wearing off. Ricky Schafer is facedown on the carpet, still dreaming his dreams of squalid poker tables.<br \/><br \/>\"When the job is over,\" says Arthur, \"you're taking me out for dinner.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Gladly,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Also,\" says Arthur, \"I want you to say 'preconscious' again.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Preconscious,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"No, asshole,\" says Arthur, \"in German.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Ah,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>He tilts his head off the wall, mouth against the shell of Arthur's ear.<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Das Vorbewusste,<\/i>\" he says, and Arthur is in love.<br><br><br>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/1591.html?view=comments#comments","category":"eames\/arthur"},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/1373.html","pubDate":"Tue, 14 Sep 2010 12:15:21 GMT","title":"Hallefuckinglujah","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/1373.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Eames\/Arthur<br \/><b>Original prompt:<\/b> <a href=\"http:\/\/community.livejournal.com\/inception_kink\/9742.html?thread=19811854#t19811854\" target=\"_blank\">Arthur is a young priest whose faith is faltering and Eames is the sinner who makes him fall hard.<\/a><br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> ...In a dream. And then they have sex. In a story in which Arthur is not Jewish.<br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> Warning! This story contains Catholicism kink! It is also a brief break from all the backlog posting, haha.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"Forgive me, Father,\" he says, \"for I have sinned.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Of course you have,\" says Arthur, dry.<br \/><br \/>\"Do let's try to be a bit more orthodox,\" says Eames. He shifts on his half of the booth, the sound of his shoes scraping across the wooden floor, and his hand comes to wind through the grate between them.<br \/><br \/>\"All right,\" says Arthur. \"Would you like to confess your sins?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Lately,\" says Eames, \"I've been corrupting a man of the cloth.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What a rebel,\" says Arthur. \"Please indulge me with the sordid details.\"<br \/><br \/>\"It's not my fault, Father,\" says Eames. \"I haven't so much as touched him yet. But when I come to church to confess, I know it's always him on the other side, listening as I count my sins. And I try not to look at him, I try not to pretend there's anything but penitence between us, but the heat of his body tells me otherwise. I see him listening, Father. I see him in black, collar up to his chin, and I see him burn beneath his robes and I know he wants me to ruin him.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" begins Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"He wants me,\" says Eames. \"I can hear it when he clears his throat. He wants me to fuck all the religion clean out of him, make him crave something unholy. I wonder if he knows I would. I'd bend him over any piece of warm wood in this chapel, fuck him until he's begging, until he cries out in tongues and takes the Lord's name in vain when he comes.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur draws in a sharp, shuddering breath. Slowly his fingers close over Eames' hand, curling through the patterns of iron. Eames chances a look; Arthur's profile is dim, soft by candlelight, and the shadows of the grate trace a widow's-veil over the white curve of his cheek.<br \/><br \/>\"You're beautiful,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"So much for being orthodox,\" says Arthur. \"We're in church. Can't you behave for once in your life?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm behaving,\" says Eames. \"I haven't even made any priest jokes yet.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Are you wearing fingerless leather gloves?\" asks Arthur. \"Seriously?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I approach you in iniquity,\" says Eames. \"I thought it best to look the part, Father.\"<br \/><br \/>He tugs Arthur's hand toward him, lightly, and Arthur turns his head. Eames smiles.<br \/><br \/>\"Want to see what it feels like to fall?\" he whispers.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>How it begins is with the hospitalization of Mrs. Bernier. She has been in control of her late husband's glassworking fortune for a decade, and her seven children are desperate to know how the inheritance will be divvied up once she succumbs.<br \/><br \/>\"Imagine,\" says Ariadne, \"you push seven kids out of your womb, and in the end, all they want is your money.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'd give them credit for holding back this long,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>According to their client, her eldest son, Mrs. Bernier has spent the better part of the last ten years at mass. It isn't uncommon for the elderly to turn to religion, but her vehemence in turning aside from the other components of her life is unparalleled.<br \/><br \/>\"She could probably tell that her children were assholes,\" says Ariadne.<br \/><br \/>\"We try not to judge our clients,\" says Eames. \"What with us being thieves and all.\"<br \/><br \/>They agree to model the dream on the landscape of her Alsatian girlhood, where she met and fell in love with her husband as children. The end of the maze culminates in a small country chapel with a single confession booth. Eames is to accost her at the beginning of the maze, in the guise of her husband as a young boy.<br \/><br \/>\"She'll start dreaming with me telling her that she can't let anyone know about our secret,\" says Eames. \"That we'll be in trouble if she does. She won't remember what it is immediately, because I haven't really told her anything, but her subconscious will fill in the blanks as she makes her way to the chapel. A secret that concerns her husband, something that will upset people. Right now, she feels the safest in a confession booth, so that's where she'll be heading.\"<br \/><br \/>\"And I'll be waiting in the booth to intercept the information,\" says Cobb.<br \/><br \/>\"Precisely,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"There's just one problem,\" says Cobb. \"I'm Presbyterian.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You've never been to confession?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Never,\" says Cobb.<br \/><br \/>\"Well,\" says Eames, \"you know. Just fake it. Put on a robe and bluff.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm not much of an actor,\" says Cobb. \"Can't you do it? Isn't that your sort of thing?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Then I'll basically need to race her to the chapel,\" says Eames. \"And I could do the research, I suppose, but I'm inclined to plead atheist on this one.\"<br \/><br \/>Yusuf pleads Muslim, and Ariadne pleads Agnostic Upbringing Courtesy of Overeducated Liberal Parents. Everyone turns to Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"What?\" he asks. \"It's not like I-- look, <i>everyone<\/i> was Catholic where I grew up, I just--\"<br \/><br \/>\"I bet,\" says Eames, gleefully, \"I bet you were an altar boy.\"<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Everyone<\/i> was an altar boy,\" says Arthur, offended. \"It would have been odd if I wasn't one, okay? Wait, you're not really going to make me dress up as a priest and sit in a confession booth to wait for our mark just because I know what to say when she starts spouting the info-- I mean how difficult is it to tell her to go recite a couple Hail Marys--\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"To be honest,\" says Eames, \"I just wanted to see you in one of these.\"<br \/><br \/>He feels out the narrow edges of Arthur's hipbones through the cassock. Thank God they're in a practice run, because it's driving him crazy. The fit is slim through Arthur's waist, down his legs, and the lithe lines of his body are indecently obvious in the cling of the fabric, like he's asking to be traced and touched and laid bare. Eames runs a hand up the sleek length of Arthur's thigh, and Arthur jerks in his arms, holding himself upright against the altar.<br \/><br \/>\"So how do you like it?\" asks Arthur, low and dark.<br \/><br \/>\"It's enough to make me believe in God,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"What a thing to say,\" murmurs Arthur.<br \/><br \/>He leans forward, shoulders shifting beneath his robes, his neck taut above the slice of white at his throat, and kisses Eames. It's slow, their eyes drifting closed, mouths opening into each other, and every little wet sound rings through the chancel. Eames fumbles a bit with the front of Arthur's cassock before he gives up entirely.<br \/><br \/>\"There are about a thousand buttons in the way,\" he says, shaping the words against Arthur's jaw. \"Why don't we get to other things first?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Such as?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"I think,\" says Eames, \"you should suck me off.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur's lashes lower as his eyes flick to the front of Eames' pants. When he smiles, his dimples pool into shadows.<br \/><br \/>\"Thy will be done,\" says Arthur, and drops in between his legs.<br \/><br \/>Arthur wraps his mouth around his cock, a tight heat, and Eames groans and tangles a hand in his hair. His cock slides slick past Arthur's lips, and Arthur's brows are knitted in concentration, soft, almost nasal whimpers pushed out of him as he takes Eames in a little deeper. It would be funny, the way Arthur's competitive streak extends to blowjobs, how he treats them as a bizarre art form to be perfected, but it's a bit hard to laugh when Arthur opens his mouth and trails a pink tongue around the head of his cock.<br \/><br \/>\"Jesus Christ,\" grunts Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Wrong name,\" says Arthur, licks his lips, and closes in around his cock again.<br \/><br \/>Arthur's hair is a disaster area, wrecked in Eames' grip, falling in wisps into his eyes. And he looks fucked out already, lips swollen, flush across his cheekbones, eyes half-mast and unfocused, but all Eames can think about is how delicious it would be to unravel him all the way. How to edge him closer to losing it completely, thoroughly debauched, until he knows no Heaven but the thrum of sensation through his spine, and no Rapture but his own orgasm ripping him free of his body.<br \/><br \/>\"You Catholic boys,\" says Eames. \"Always the prettiest when you're on your knees.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur looks up at him, in something like a glare, but he's not at his most threatening with a cock down his throat. Or maybe that makes him more threatening, perhaps. But Arthur shifts closer and grinds up against Eames' leg, and the incongruence of it all is sharply arousing; Arthur kneeling before him, covered from neck to ankle in somber black, his erection tenting the stern drape of his robes. The sacred silence around them and the heavy dampness of their breath, the dark swell of Eames' cock bobbing out from Arthur's mouth, the faint trace of ribs on the crucifix above them.<br \/><br \/>\"Taste me like you taste Him on your tongue,\" says Eames. \"Take me in like you take Him into your body, the way you used to every Sunday like the good boy you are, letting Him melt in your mouth.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur's hands stutter up to Eames' knees, as he grabs fistfuls of his trousers and leans into him, swallows him down, and Eames feels his cock knocking against the back of Arthur's throat and <i>fuck,<\/i> but that's hot. He hisses and reaches for himself, trying to quench the pressure growing in his balls, drawing his cock back out of Arthur's mouth, because he can't let this end with a blowjob.<br \/><br \/>Even if it's a very good blowjob. He's taught Arthur well.<br \/><br \/>\"Christ tastes a hell of a lot better than you do,\" says Arthur, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.<br \/><br \/>\"Yeah?\" asks Eames. \"What does he taste like, then?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Like milk and honey,\" says Arthur, the cheeky bastard. \"Don't be jealous.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Come on,\" says Eames, and helps him up. \"The Holy Spirit isn't allowed to be the only thing moving in you.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur rolls his eyes but laughs anyway, and turns to face away from him, bracing his hands on the edge of the altar.<br \/><br \/>\"For your patience in waiting,\" he says, \"I've prepared a surprise.\"<br \/><br \/>And Arthur hitches his cassock up, bending over the altar as he raises the hem higher and higher, and oh God, blessed mother of God, but he's not wearing anything beneath his robes. The pale cream of his thighs spreading against the mahogany table, Arthur lifts the robe up around his waist, in a blasphemous striptease that makes Eames' mouth go dry and his cock throb in his grasp. Eames curses quietly under his breath, and cups his hand around the swell of Arthur's ass, smooth underneath his palm.<br \/><br \/>\"You filthy little heathen,\" he says.<br \/><br \/>\"I had a feeling we might come to this,\" says Arthur, eyes hooded as he looks behind him. \"Of course we can't resist fucking in a church.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Are we becoming predictable in our perversions?\" asks Eames, and this time, he's the one that goes down on his knees.<br \/><br \/>Arthur is probably about to shoot back with a quip, but Eames licks a long wet strip up the inside of one thigh, following the crease of his ass, and the retort dies away in his throat. Eames spreads his cheeks, thumbs ghosting over his hole, not quite pressing, just searching, and he exhales, warm, like fogging up glass. Arthur <i>trembles.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" he says, \"Eames, I don't know how many minutes we--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Don't lie in the house of God,\" says Eames. \"You know exactly how long we have.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames flicks his tongue out over the clench of muscle.<br \/><br \/>\"Twenty,\" groans Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Plenty of depravity to go around,\" says Eames. \"I'm going to make you beg before we're done.\"<br \/><br \/>\"In your wildest dreams,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"This is it,\" says Eames, and laps at the seam of Arthur's ass like he's trying to lick it apart, drags his teeth along the curve of his flesh, and he slips his tongue inside and Arthur is arching high, unsure of whether to draw away or thrust back.<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Fuck,<\/i>\" gasps Arthur, in a quick rush of air. \"Oh, God, you--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Wrong name,\" says Eames, and his tongue snags on muscle and Arthur pushes back against him in earnest, fucking himself onto his mouth, and Eames licks into that tight heat, coaxing it looser, soothing it open bit by bit. Arthur's fingers scrabble for the far edge of the altar, knuckles going white as Eames wraps his hands around his thighs, fucking him ready with his tongue.<br \/><br \/>\"Do it,\" pants Arthur, incoherent, \"now, just get in, Eames, fuck.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Not nearly,\" says Eames. \"Wait for it.\"<br \/><br \/>His fingertips circle around where his tongue dips into Arthur, tentative, and rubs against the skin there. Arthur's wet with spit and the drip of his own precome, pliant enough for a good fuck -- and he'll relax a little more, soften to let him in, once Eames gets his hand around his dick -- but they've still got time and Eames isn't about to waste a single second of it.<br \/><br \/>\"Isn't there,\" he says, \"some sort of oil around here?\"<br \/><br \/>\"The chrism,\" says Arthur, \"holy oil-- it's in the-- box over there.\"<br \/><br \/>When he reaches for it, there's a couple pewter canisters inside, and the sweet fragrance of it overtakes him when he pries the tops open.<br \/><br \/>\"What is this anyway?\" he asks.<br \/><br \/>\"Scented olive oil,\" says Arthur. \"Don't make a habit of it-- thank God we're dreaming.\"<br \/><br \/>\"It's <i>holy<\/i> oil,\" says Eames, \"how could it possibly be bad?\"<br \/><br \/>But then, what's beneath the canisters catches his eye; it's a string of heavy rosary beads, frayed out of its loop, a line of warm, wooden marbles threaded through with string. The prospect is irresistible.<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" he says, holding it up for examination, \"look what I've found.\"<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Arthur, jaw falling open, \"no, you're-- oh, my God, you're <i>not.<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>\"If we're not going to Hell already,\" says Eames, \"this won't make much of a difference.\"<br \/><br \/>\"There are boundaries,\" insists Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"We crossed it ages ago,\" says Eames, and drizzles the oil out over the beads. \"It's all right, I've checked, there aren't any sharp edges or anything. And I'd stop before I got to the cross, I don't want to hurt you. Just relax and think of redemption, darling-- let me do this--\"<br \/><br \/>He pushes the first bead in, prodding it gently past the wall of muscle, and Arthur gasps as it slides against his insides, hard and smooth and unyielding.<br \/><br \/>\"That was one of the smaller ones,\" says Eames. \"What do you recite for that?\"<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Ave Maria,<\/i>\" wheezes Arthur, \"<i>gratia plena--<\/i> fuck, Eames, you fuck--\"<br \/><br \/>\"You keep going and I'll keep going,\" says Eames, pulls lightly on the string.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, <i>God,<\/i>\" breathes Arthur, \"<i>Dominus tecum--<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>Eames lets the next bead slip inside him, and Arthur shudders, rivulets of spit and precome running down his thighs.<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Benedicta tu--<\/i>\" he says, \"<i>--in mulieribus--<\/i> oh, God, I can't--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Just one more,\" says Eames, as calmly as he can manage, dizzy with the sight.<br \/><br \/>\"--I can't, Eames,\" pants Arthur, \"<i>et benedictus--<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>His ass clenches in around the string, and swallows down the third smaller knot of wood, and the larger bead after it, greedy and ravenous, desperate for something to draw inside. Arthur's nails claw against the altar, and he whines, high in his throat.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" he's saying, \"Eames, <i>fuck,<\/i> just-- where's your fucking <i>cock,<\/i> Jesus Christ, come on--\"<br \/><br \/>He's swearing up a storm, knees bumping against the table, and he's so perfect like this, laid out and pushed to the edge. Cassock hitched up around his waist, dark and pale and flushed with arousal and shame, shaky with need, still too stubborn to beg politely. Arthur is a long, slender stretch of sinew and pride and sacrilege.<br \/><br \/>\"I've got you,\" Eames murmurs against his leg, and he's tugging the rosary beads out of him, one by one, slow as he fights Arthur unconsciously drawing them in. Arthur lets out an unsteady breath as they clatter to the ground. His hole is slick and red, so obscene when Eames slides a finger down his cleft, <i>throbbing<\/i> against his touch, and Arthur slides off toward the floor as his knees give out, before Eames catches him and hauls him up onto the altar, flat on his back.<br \/><br \/>\"You didn't even get to the Lord's Prayer,\" says Eames, and Arthur <i>snarls,<\/i> hooks his ankles up around Eames' hips, and pulls him in. Eames' cock rubs up against Arthur's, and they're groaning into each other's skin, flashing behind their eyes, so <i>close.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"Get your dick inside me,\" says Arthur, \"or I swear, like those five idiot brides that were waiting for the-- oh, fuck, I don't want to tell parables right now, you fuck, get to it!\"<br \/><br \/>\"So bossy,\" chuckles Eames, and instead of thrusting into Arthur, he twists two fingers inside him, and Arthur is like butter around him, yielding when he stretches him wider.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, fuck,\" says Arthur, \"oh--\"<br \/><br \/>\"You could never be a priest,\" says Eames, working him quick and shallow, as Arthur's hips start rocking to meet his hand. \"You burn too hot. And you fight too much.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" moans Arthur, \"I swear to God, I swear--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Let go, it's all right to be a whore,\" says Eames. \"Little Magdalene.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Fuck me,\" says Arthur, \"<i>please.<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>And it's the furious light in his eyes that tells Eames that Arthur doesn't mean it at all, that his <i>please<\/i> is every bit as venomous as all of his other threats. But <i>Fuck me, you fucking bastard<\/i> is as much an invitation as <i>Fuck me, please, you fucking bastard,<\/i> so Eames angles his cock and pushes into Arthur, a little in love.<br \/><br \/>Here he is, then, fucking Arthur on an altar in a chapel-- but in the end, it's Arthur letting him fuck him on an altar in a chapel, so the feverish heat of Arthur enveloping him, that means more than just a warm place to put his dick. It's Arthur letting him in, letting him closer, and Arthur being a little in love. Eames is giddy as he exhales, and he isn't sure if it has anything to do with Arthur's insides clenching tight all around him.<br \/><br \/>\"I'm going to move now,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Already,<\/i>\" says Arthur, endless legs wrapped against him.<br \/><br \/>Arthur gives easy when he pulls out, pushes back in, shoving the two of them into each other. Eames twines their fingers together as he drives into him, but Arthur's eyes are screwed shut, head turned to the side as he fucks himself back onto Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"What is it?\" asks Eames. \"Look, if after all this time--\"<br \/><br \/>\"It's not <i>you,<\/i>\" says Arthur, \"of course it's not you. It's-- well, above--\"<br \/><br \/>Eames follows Arthur's glance and lands on the crucifix hanging over them. The impassive face of the corpus, gazing down upon them in sorrow.<br \/><br \/>\"Look at you,\" says Eames, gentle. \"A decade since you've been to mass and you still know what guilt is.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Guess it never goes away,\" says Arthur. \"Don't mind me, I'm just-- I'll avert my eyes or something.\"<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Eames, \"look at me.\"<br \/><br \/>At that Arthur blinks, slow flutters of his lashes like he doesn't know what to say. Eames said exactly what he wanted to, <i>look at me,<\/i> but he feels like he ought to explain, so he grinds into Arthur and tries, in between huffs of breath, to tell him what he means.<br \/><br \/>\"I mean,\" he says, \"faith is what you make of it, isn't it? We don't either of us believe in luck, but we might believe in miracles--\"<br \/><br \/>The evening sun filters through the stained glass, throwing bits of color across them, and Arthur's face is a mosaic of a thousand different shades, little flecks of Heaven that dance over his skin. Eames brushes the back of his hand down Arthur's temple, chasing the flitting patterns.<br \/><br \/>\"God, I can feel the blood pound through you,\" says Eames. \"Listen-- what I mean to say is--\"<br \/><br \/>And Arthur is making those <i>noises<\/i> that Eames could probably listen to forever, and the altar creaks beneath them and the candles sway in a precarious arc, leaving drops of wax across the surface of the wood, but Arthur is listening, eyes wide, he's listening, so Eames takes a deep breath.<br \/><br \/>\"I don't care what my fucking religion is,\" he says, \"but you're my miracle.\"<br \/><br \/>And then the organs in the chapel burst into song, pipes flooding the air, <i>je ne regrette rien<\/i> winding around them and ringing off the hollow walls, and Eames says,<br \/><br \/>\"You're my salvation.\"<br \/><br \/>And Arthur smiles, a little tilt of his mouth like he's found something indescribably funny, and he says,<br \/><br \/>\"I'd fall anywhere, if it was with you,\"<br \/><br \/>and his voice is fond and the holy fire is building inside them, burning them clean as they fumble their way toward the light, and they're clinging to each other as deliverance rattles their bones, the world shattering all around them like God descending, and they gasp into waking like breaking free of the Jordan, baptized in sweat and blood and everything wicked and glorious and human.<br><br><br>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/1373.html?view=comments#comments","category":["pwp","eames\/arthur"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/1180.html","pubDate":"Mon, 13 Sep 2010 23:03:27 GMT","title":"My Paranoid Valentine","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/1180.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Eames\/Arthur<br \/><b>Original prompt:<\/b> <a href=\"http:\/\/community.livejournal.com\/inception_kink\/756.html?thread=2007028#t2007028\" target=\"_blank\">When something mundane happens that could be misconstrued as an attack, Eames immediately shields Arthur with himself without even a second thought. Cue awkwardness.<\/a><br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> Eames can't help it. He's never seen Arthur die before.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/>Through habit or convenience, Arthur usually dreams their first level. (Usually they only need one.) He's generally good at staying alive, always on the move, guns blazing. For his part, Eames is usually chatting up the mark in the bar of Arthur's dreams, or a casino, a lobby, furnished with leather and glass and early modern art framed in ornate gold.<br \/><br \/>So it's only during their fourth job together that Eames sees Arthur die for the first time. It's not even one of the bad ones; just an exploding rooftop, collapsing under Arthur, a cracked head and a snapped neck, a puddle of blood where he lands. Compared to some of the others, it's downright merciful.<br \/><br \/>But when Eames wakes up from the collapsing dream, his eyes are wide in horror, and he can't stop staring at Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"What's eating you?\" asks Arthur, frowning.<br \/><br \/>Eames can't answer.<br \/><br \/>\"Burnout?\" Arthur asks Cobb, when Eames has staggered out the door.<br \/><br \/>Cobb doesn't think so, but he calls a two-month vacation on everyone and disappears so that they can't wheedle him into taking a job.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>When they convene again, in another warehouse in another city, no one remembers two months ago. Not even Eames. They slouch in lawn chairs and discuss their misadventures, make fun of Ariadne's artist boyfriend, of Cobb's woeful battles with his preteen daughter, of Saito getting an asteroid named after himself. They make fun of everything.<br \/><br \/>Then the biryani that Yusuf has been heating up stops spinning on its tray; the microwave lets out a <i>ding<\/i>.<br \/><br \/>Eames launches himself from his chair and dives sideways, arms outstretched.<br \/><br \/>They watch him fall, grunting at the impact, rolling a couple times and coming to rest facedown at the foot of Arthur's chair. There is a moment of silence. Then Eames picks himself up, dusts himself off, and returns to sit on his chair.<br \/><br \/>\"Would you like some biryani,\" offers Yusuf.<br \/><br \/>\"Were you shielding us from microwave rays,\" asks Ariadne.<br \/><br \/>\"Don't be ridiculous, Ariadne,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>Eames looks as confused as they do.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Preparation for the job is going smoothly. Cobb has accepted an easy run (to get us back into shape, he says) and the mark is a man who knows half of the Coca-Cola formula. Yusuf is the only one who really feels any sort of moral conflict about the job.<br \/><br \/>\"What if they make us steal the other half too?\" he asks. \"Then the entire recipe will be public knowledge. And anybody could make coke, do you understand what that means? <i>Anybody could make coke.<\/i>\"<br \/><br \/>\"Yusuf, will you chill out,\" says Ariadne from the whiteboard. \"Besides, that stuff can't be good for you. My boyfriend says that it works as a contraceptive.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Well, it does work,\" begins Eames, \"if you use it as a substitute for h--\"<br \/><br \/>He's interrupted by a distant cracking noise, somewhere outside. Ariadne yelps as he leaps up and flies across the room in an instant, knocking her whiteboard over, skidding to a stop.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" says Arthur, \"what are you doing?\"<br \/><br \/>What is he doing, indeed. He's standing between Arthur and the window, covering as much of it as he can, and tucking Arthur behind himself with an arm around his waist.<br \/><br \/>\"That wasn't a gunshot?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"That was a car backfiring,\" says Arthur, extricating himself.<br \/><br \/>\"And it was like two blocks away,\" says Ariadne.<br \/><br \/>\"Huh,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>They have a good practice run in Arthur's dream, Arthur who inserts unnecessary Penrose staircases everywhere they will fit, Arthur whose projections turn from courteous to murderous in the space of a hot minute.<br \/><br \/>\"Nothing in the world as ruthless as Arthur's angry subconscious,\" says Yusuf.<br \/><br \/>\"You added a wine cellar three stories deep,\" says Ariadne. \"I tried to go down there, but obviously I got stuck on the staircase.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Only I am allowed into the wine cellar,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>They stretch their limbs and slip the needles out of their arms, stiff and languid from hours in the same lawn chairs.<br \/><br \/>Saito's phone rings.<br \/><br \/>With a roar, Eames tackles Arthur, throwing them both to the floor.<br \/><br \/>\"Ugh,\" groans Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Yes,\" says Saito, \"this is he.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What?\" asks Eames, looking around, finding only Saito on his phone and the rest of the team peering down at them. \"Where's the bomb?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Get off me,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>Eames scrambles upright, embarrassingly aware of the line of Arthur's thighs beneath him. He extends a hand, and Arthur looks at it, then he moves to take it, then he draws back, then he shifts forward, and takes it.<br \/><br \/>Wedging the phone between his chin and shoulder, Saito applauds.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>As always, Yusuf is working on a new compound. He has an impressive array of test tubes, Bunsen burners, and tiny bottles with eyedroppers set out in a corner.<br \/><br \/>\"So you leave the central nervous system in the original dream layer,\" he explains, \"but you take the peripheral nervous system a level deeper. Maybe not a whole level, but even still, your reflexes start operating on a different time scale.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Superhuman speed,\" says Arthur. Of course this would interest him.<br \/><br \/>\"Would you need a separate kick for that, when you're coming back up?\" asks Cobb.<br \/><br \/>\"It's mainly a conceptual thing at the moment,\" says Yusuf. \"But I think I--\"<br \/><br \/>As soon as he adds something to something else, a flaming fireball of fire whooshes out of the containers, momentarily engulfing the table.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames-- no--\" shouts Arthur, but Eames is already on him, pinning him to the ground.<br \/><br \/>When Yusuf coughs and wipes the ash from his goggles, the first thing he sees is Eames, frighteningly intent, with a gun in his hands aimed straight at the test tubes.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames-- no--\" shouts Yusuf.<br \/><br \/>It's too late. The explosion throws them all backward, and the flames shoot up toward the ceiling, blackening the walls. A piercing alarm begins to sound and the sprinklers switch on, drenching them where they stand. Or where they lie, struggling against their coworker's firm hand on their chest.<br \/><br \/>\"Everybody out,\" yells Cobb.<br \/><br \/>Spluttering, they gather outside the building, watching smoke mushroom out of the windows. Ariadne sneezes and shudders.<br \/><br \/>\"Wow, Eames,\" she says. \"Great job.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Is there something we need to talk about,\" hisses Arthur, wringing out his vest.<br \/><br \/>And his shirt is soaked through, clinging to his torso. Skin showing through whenever he shifts. Eames averts his eyes and drapes his own jacket over Arthur's shoulders, even though it's every bit as wet as anything Arthur is wearing.<br \/><br \/>\"Look,\" starts Arthur, \"I'm not your ward--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Ward!\" shouts Eames. \"We don't have wards anymore! We're not in the nineteenth century, Arthur!\"<br \/><br \/>\"We do so still have wards!\" shouts Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Will you just shut your gorgeous mouth and button that jacket up, darling!\" shouts Eames.<br \/><br \/>Saito starts humming Love (It Seems Like Only Yesterday).<br \/><br \/>\"I'm not blind, Eames!\" shouts Arthur, droplets of water gliding down the vein in his neck. \"I know what this is! You're just trying to--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Will you marry me?\" blurts Eames.<br \/><br \/>Arthur makes a strangled noise in his throat.<br \/><br \/>\"Okay, well, after that,\" says Eames, \"whatever you were suspecting doesn't sound so bad, does it?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Nrgh,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur has slightly low blood pressure,\" says Cobb. \"And he likes his showers scalding hot. Sometimes he talks a little in his sleep. His favorite color is mauve. If you make him come crying to me because you've broken his heart, I'm going to snap you like a piece of candy and feed you to my children.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You'd do that to your own children?\" gasps Yusuf.<br \/><br \/>\"Dominic Cobb,\" shouts Arthur, \"why are you GIVING ME AWAY.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Make him happy,\" says Cobb, and grabs Eames' hand in a manly fashion. \"You have my blessings.\"<br \/><br \/>\"This is the worst day of my life,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Pet,\" says Eames, winking at Arthur, \"your heart will be mine.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I wish I had never been born,\" says Arthur.<br><br><br>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/1180.html?view=comments#comments","category":"eames\/arthur"},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/790.html","pubDate":"Sat, 11 Sep 2010 02:48:35 GMT","title":"Thing Goes Here","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/790.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Eames\/Arthur<br \/><b>Original prompt:<\/b> <a href=\"http:\/\/community.livejournal.com\/inception_kink\/756.html?thread=1159924#t1159924\" target=\"_blank\">Eames convinces Arthur that it would be really hot if Arthur had a vibrator in him all day, and Arthur reluctantly agrees. Only to realize he's more sensitive than he thought.<\/a><br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> During eight hours in the warehouse on an ill-advised bet, Arthur discovers that Eames is a man with no scruples.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><i>9AM.<\/i><br \/><br \/>They're on a series of jobs that are more jokes than missions, quick and easy requests that Cobb takes on pro bono. \"For teamwork building,\" he says. The targets are like sheep and the team is getting good practice. Once, they go four layers deep just for the hell of it, and Saito buys everyone a drink when they wake up. \"Not that I don't buy you everything already,\" he says.<br \/><br \/>Eames is like a spoilt cat. He's well fed, he's having fun, and so naturally his thoughts turn to the only thing that's left.<br \/><br \/>\"You want me to <i>what?<\/i>\" asks Arthur, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline.<br \/><br \/>\"It's for research,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"How is my sticking a vibrator up there going to help me with work?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Makes perfect sense to me,\" says Eames. \"Our target, down-low mistress to a major political figure. Think about it. You've got to get inside her head. What is it like to be her? All that dissembling, all that humiliation, all that-- keeping inside... of things.\"<br \/><br \/>\"That is so tenuous,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"If you can keep it in the whole day long, I'll get us a hotel suite,\" says Eames. \"Fresh sheets, Arthur. Voluminous pillows. Gold brocade everywhere. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Room service when you're too shagged out to move. A real life honest-to-god jacuzzi. Not like this dump we have here.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm holding you to that,\" says Arthur, immediately. \"This is going to be too easy.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, pet,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/><i>10AM.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Arthur's face is carefully blank as he walks into the warehouse. But Eames is an actor. He observes things. He has the eye of a hawk and the libido of a rabbit. He notices the deliberate edge in Arthur's step -- like he's feeling his way, like he's learning how to move all over again -- and it gives him a private thrill to know what no one else does.<br \/><br \/>Yusuf is testing a new compound, fine-tuning the inner ear balance retention problem. He calls them over to the desk where he's arranged a rack full of liquids that look exactly the same. Eames falls back, into step with Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Piece of cake,\" Arthur whispers to him.<br \/><br \/>And the smile on Arthur's face is cocky like it is on his best days, fearless and confident and completely, transparently fake. Eames chuckles, places a hand on the small of Arthur's back, sliding his hand in under the waistcoat. Arthur's skin is hot through his shirt.<br \/><br \/>\"Really,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Really,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>Slowly Eames rubs the swell of Arthur's ass, his touch light and fleeting, and Arthur's back snaps up straight like there's lightning down his spine. He freezes in place, feet rooted to the ground, perfectly still.<br \/><br \/>\"Not as easy as you thought,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/><i>11AM.<\/i><br \/><br \/>There is not much for Eames to do outside of dreamspace. He is already the best at what he does. He decides to rest on his laurels. Today, that means lounging on a lawn chair with his feet up on a box, watching Arthur from behind as he discusses the benefits of landscape tiling with Ariadne.<br \/><br \/>\"You could try inverting the axes,\" says Arthur. \"For example, say that the entire visual field is occupied by skyscrapers, and you loop the vertical space back on itself.\"<br \/><br \/>\"But that would cause enormous problems with egress,\" says Ariadne. \"You'd get on an elevator and never be able to get out.\"<br \/><br \/>In the entire world, only Arthur and Ariadne would find any of this remotely interesting. Eames lets their voices wash over him, concentrating instead on the stretch of Arthur's pants across his ass. He's wearing charcoal today, a dark grey-brown that verges on black and clings to his hips like sin. He shifts, the fabric shifts with him, and Eames' mouth goes dry.<br \/><br \/>Arthur gestures at something in the far corner of Ariadne's blueprints, and he bends over the desk, much further and much more languidly than is necessary. <i>Oh, Christ,<\/i> thinks Eames, <i>he has got to be doing this on purpose.<\/i> He can't tear his eyes away from the sight of Arthur's ass on display like that, held out in the air, and the thought of the vibrator plugging that perfect ass is almost too much to handle.<br \/><br \/>Two can play at that game. Eames sneaks a hand into his pocket and finds the remote control, switching the setting to \"on\" with a flick of his finger. It's only a brief moment before he turns it off again, but the damage is done. Arthur's knuckles go white where he grips the edge of the desk, and even through layers of fabric, Eames is pretty sure he sees Arthur's ass quiver and tighten around the vibrator.<br \/><br \/>\"Are you all right, Arthur?\" asks Ariadne. \"You're all red.\"<br \/><br \/>\"It's just-- a little hot in here,\" says Arthur. There's definitely a tremor in his voice, something barely noticeable, but it hints at slipping control. Eames grins.<br \/><br \/>\"Wait, I've got it,\" exclaims Ariadne. \"I could link the inside of the building to the outside and hide the seam with a penthouse! It's Belvedere! Of course!\"<br \/><br \/>\"Outstanding, Ari,\" says Eames, and claps.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/><i>NOON.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Cobb thinks they all need some fresh air, so they decide to find a nice quiet cafe instead of ordering Chinese. Saito won't go anywhere with auto traffic running right outside the door. Ariadne won't settle for weak coffee. Yusuf prefers a large dessert selection.<br \/><br \/>\"Something light,\" says Arthur. \"Go on ahead. I need to talk to Eames about our target's work relationships.\"<br \/><br \/>Now he's the one that falls back, into step with Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Hello, darling,\" says Eames. \"How are you on this fine day?\"<br \/><br \/>\"That wasn't part of our deal,\" hisses Arthur. \"You just said I had to keep it in. There was no agreement about turning it on.\"<br \/><br \/>\"It's a vibrator,\" says Eames. \"Turning it on is kind of the point.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I was talking to Ariadne,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"I know,\" says Eames. \"I was watching. Disappointed I couldn't see your face, though.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What if she notices?\" demands Arthur. \"Eames, what if any one of them notices? How do I even begin to explain this?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Lighten up,\" says Eames-- and on a whim, he pulls back his hand and gives Arthur's ass a solid smack.<br \/><br \/>He has excellent whims. Arthur's eyes widen, a small gasp slips from parted lips, and he stops in place again with his hands clenched into fists. The rest of the team turns quizzically to look.<br \/><br \/>\"Was that a slapping sound?\" asks Yusuf.<br \/><br \/>\"Where?\" asks Arthur, and adds under his breath, \"Eames, you morally bankrupt piece of shit.\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/><i>1PM.<\/i><br \/><br \/>The strain is taking its toll on Arthur. It doesn't show to the casual observer, and everyone else is busy with their own plans and experiments, but Eames can tell that Arthur's entire body is being pushed to its absolute limit. Case in point; Arthur is minimizing all movement, curled up on a sofa and flipping through a stack of papers. He keeps returning to pages he's read before, and whenever he tries to change his posture, he hesitates, then gives up.<br \/><br \/>Oh, Arthur. So stubborn and so beautiful. Eames doesn't know why Arthur had taken him up on his offer at all, when it's obvious how responsive that pale body is, how weak to pleasure. Going a whole day must be close to torture, and every inch of Arthur's skin must be begging to be touched. Eames thinks of hardened nipples visible through thin dress shirts, and laments Arthur's fondness for three-piece suits.<br \/><br \/>The team gathers around the table, Cobb with his back turned, hovering over Ariadne's model of Washington as a labyrinth. Arthur has a faraway look in his eyes. Eames feels wicked, and when Arthur reaches out to examine a twisting paper building, he grabs him around the wrist, running a quick thumb over his racing pulse.<br \/><br \/>\"Careful with that,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Don't touch me,\" snaps Arthur, snatching his hand back hastily.<br \/><br \/>\"Hey,\" says Eames, and holds his hands up, palms outward in innocence. \"Look, love, you need to relax. Who put the stick up your ass?\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur opens his mouth, closes it, and turns brilliantly, fantastically red.<br \/><br \/>\"I mean, I know I'm an ass,\" continues Eames, trying very hard to conceal his glee. \"That's just the way I am. I'm an asshole. But you-- well, you can be such a tight-ass sometimes--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" groans Arthur. It's supposed to be a reprimand but undeniable arousal creeps into the word, into the way he says his name, trailing off into sibilant seduction like honey to his ears. Eames feels his cock twitch. But he can't resist a final jab.<br \/><br \/>\"Is that my phone ringing?\" he says, cupping his ear. \"Hard to tell. It's on vibrate.\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/><i>2PM.<\/i><br \/><br \/>\"My phone, it's on vibrate,\" says Arthur, quiet in an otherwise deserted corner of the warehouse. \"Honestly.\"<br \/><br \/>\"In my defense, there aren't a whole lot of ways you can use that word,\" says Eames. \"How are you holding up, anyway? Still think it's doable?\"<br \/><br \/>\"That hotel suite is mine,\" says Arthur. His eyes are bright. <i>Never likes to lose,<\/i> thinks Eames. That's always Arthur's problem.<br \/><br \/>\"Only a couple more hours left to go,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"But seriously, you can't touch me,\" says Arthur. \"That's cheating. It was a bet, but you didn't say you'd be trying to sabotage me the whole way through.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I want you to win, Arthur,\" says Eames. \"I also would love the opportunity to fuck in an extremely posh environment. But you have to understand--\"<br \/><br \/>Eames moves in closer, putting his mouth to the edge of Arthur's ear, and murmurs,<br \/><br \/>\"--it is very, very hard for me to keep my hands off of you.\"<br \/><br \/>The stacks of boxes all around them provide some cover. Eames takes the opportunity to steal a kiss, running the tip of his tongue along the top of Arthur's mouth, tasting the sigh that floats from Arthur's throat. It's Arthur that breaks the kiss first, his hands fisted in Eames' shirt, panting shallowly. His eyes flutter closed, a pretty flush staining his cheeks. He leans his head against the wall.<br \/><br \/>\"God, I'm dizzy,\" says Arthur. \"Can I-- am I allowed to go jerk off in the bathroom?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Of course not,\" says Eames. \"But that's a great idea. Excuse me.\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/><i>3PM.<\/i><br \/><br \/>It's getting to be almost as difficult for Eames as it is for Arthur. Eames sits on his lawn chair and ponders his next course of action. He's already gone and rubbed one out, thoughts of Arthur, Arthur, Arthur running through his mind, Arthur bent over every available surface, Arthur in the privacy of a stall sliding the slick vibrator into himself, Arthur undone and sprawled across a hotel bed.<br \/><br \/>But when he washes his hands and walks out, Arthur is there in real life, meticulously dressed and professional as always but everything about him is screaming <i>fuck me out of my mind, Eames, tear this suit off me and fuck me straight into next Tuesday.<\/i> The slight tremble in his long, graceful fingers. The indolent sway of his walk, so unlike his usual brisk business gait. The way he pauses in the middle of talking (to Cobb, to Saito, to Yusuf, to Ariadne, because he can't talk to Eames or he'd lose it altogether) to bite down on his bottom lip, the skin there momentarily paling, as he fights to keep down the noises that threaten to bubble out of him.<br \/><br \/><i>That mouth,<\/i> thinks Eames. The blood rushes back to his lip when he lets go, and like in slow motion Eames watches him lick it wet, pink tongue darting out, and if it goes on like this Eames is going to have to take another trip to the bathroom.<br \/><br \/>As if on cue, Arthur says, \"Excuse me, restroom break,\" and starts heading out.<br \/><br \/>\"You better not be doing what I think you might be doing,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I don't know what you're talking about,\" says Arthur. \"I'm just going to splash some water on my face. It's hot in here.\"<br \/><br \/>Just when Arthur is passing in front of him, Eames switches the vibrator on. Caught off guard, Arthur's knees buckle at the sudden stimulation, and he falls into Eames' arms, crumpling like paper. With one hand on Arthur's ass Eames can feel the movement of the vibrator inside him, and Arthur moans, broken and sweet, arching his back into the touch unconsciously. <br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" shouts Ariadne. \"Are you sure you're feeling okay? You've been acting pretty strange.\"<br \/><br \/>\"He'll be okay,\" Eames shouts back. \"Just overworked.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm fine,\" says Arthur, stumbling upright. He is a rather bad actor, especially when he is too flustered to think straight. Eames thinks that probably no one is fooled.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/><i>4PM.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Arthur gets the rest of the day off, though there's only an hour left. He spends it lying on his stomach on the sofa, eyes closed, breathing uneven. Eames watches him intently. From time to time he catches a shudder running through Arthur's body that makes Arthur knit his brows and bite his lip, hips tilting into the cushions.<br \/><br \/>One by one the team begins to leave. They glance in Arthur's direction worriedly as they say goodbye. Saito is the last to go, and as he checks for any stray belongings, he looks at Eames and mimes flipping a switch.<br \/><br \/>\"Don't overdo it,\" he says, and walks out the door.<br \/><br \/><i>Saito is such an adult,<\/i> thinks Eames, impressed.<br \/><br \/>The warehouse is empty now, only one dim light casting shadows across the floor. Eames sits down on the couch at Arthur's feet.<br \/><br \/>\"By the way,\" says Arthur, \"I hate you.\"<br \/><br \/>Instead of an answer Eames leans over and places a hand on Arthur's waist, slowly trailing lower, over the curve of his ass, down the inside of his thigh, coming to rest just above the back of his knee. Arthur jerks almost violently, moaning into the couch, fingers digging into the leather.<br \/><br \/>\"How about that hotel?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Yes, that hotel, we're going,\" gasps Arthur. \"Not today-- right now, just-- fuck me, fuck me now.\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/><i>5PM.<\/i><br \/><br \/>Arthur lifts his hips as Eames undoes his belt for him, his fly, tugging his pants and boxers down to bare his ass.<br \/><br \/>\"Congratulations,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>Arthur mutters something inaudible and hurriedly reaches behind him, and as Eames watches, he pushes two slender fingers into himself, and god, his moaning, it's all going straight to Eames' cock. Arthur somehow manages to guide the vibrator out, slippery and warm, and the excess lubricant drips down onto his thigh, leaving rivulets of liquid across skin.<br \/><br \/>\"Are you going to fuck me or aren't you,\" says Arthur, turning his head to glare.<br \/><br \/>There's really no question about that. Eames undoes his own pants and frees his cock, almost painfully hard, and positions himself. Arthur yields easy beneath him, pliant after hours of being otherwise occupied with the vibrator, and he's hotter inside than he's ever been. It feels like they're melting where they meet. Eames grabs Arthur's hips and pushes himself in, thrusting faster and faster, angling for the right spot, and the sofa is sticky against their skin.<br \/><br \/>\"God, you're amazing,\" says Eames, dropping kisses along the dip of Arthur's spine. He sits back against the armrest, and lifts Arthur up until he's kneeling in front of Eames, slick with sweat and fully impaled. His own weight pushes Arthur down and Eames' cock must brush against his prostate, because his ass tightens rhythmically, threatening to squeeze all the come from Eames, and his moaning, his moaning, it's shameless and desperate and it echoes around the empty room.<br \/><br \/>Arthur turns, this time to smile, his hair falling into his face. And he raises himself on his knees and slams back down, gasping, fucking himself on the cock inside him, and Eames is at a loss for words, watching his cock pump in and out of Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Fuck,\" groans Eames. He fumbles with the buttons on Arthur's waistcoat, his shirt, goddammit why does Arthur have so many buttons, and he wraps his other hand around Arthur's cock. Finally Arthur's shirt slides off, and Eames sinks his teeth into the slope of a shoulder, and Arthur goes rigid before he is coming in spurts all over Eames' hand, and his ass closes in around Eames' cock and moves all around him and he's coming too, fuck, oh sweet Jesus.<br \/><br \/>Lungs burning, Eames catches Arthur just in time as he tips over backward, exhausted.<br \/><br \/>\"Good idea, or best idea?\" he asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Arthur weakly. \"Just no.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Except totally yes,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Except-- except no,\" says Arthur. \"We're getting separate rooms at the hotel.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Except totally just the one room,\" says Eames. \"With just the one bed.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Somehow,\" says Arthur, \"you always win these arguments.\"<br \/><br \/>\"It was good for you too, darling,\" says Eames. \"Don't I know it.\"<br><br><br>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/790.html?view=comments#comments","category":["pwp","eames\/arthur"]},{"guid":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/760.html","pubDate":"Thu, 09 Sep 2010 07:21:50 GMT","title":"Buongiorno, Felicita","author":"weatherfront","link":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/760.html","description":"<b>Pairings:<\/b> Eames\/Arthur<br \/><b>Original prompt:<\/b> <a href=\"http:\/\/community.livejournal.com\/inception_kink\/756.html?thread=1148660#t1148660\" target=\"_blank\">Arthur is the son of a mafia boss. Eames is hired to protect him.<\/a><br \/><b>Summary:<\/b> And he does, through gunfire and explosions and erections and too many sweets.<br \/><b>Notes:<\/b> Oh, my god, <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-deleted  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"innueneko\" lj:user=\"innueneko\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/innueneko.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/innueneko.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>innueneko<\/b><\/a><\/span> drew <a href=\"http:\/\/pics.livejournal.com\/weatherfront\/pic\/00005sfy\" target=\"_blank\">this amazing picture<\/a> of the warehouse bit, and <span  class=\"ljuser  i-ljuser  i-ljuser-type-P     \"  data-ljuser=\"dumbimps\" lj:user=\"dumbimps\" ><a href=\"https:\/\/dumbimps.livejournal.com\/profile\/\"  target=\"_self\"  class=\"i-ljuser-profile\" ><img  class=\"i-ljuser-userhead\"  src=\"https:\/\/l-stat.livejournal.net\/img\/userinfo_v8.png?v=17080&v=915\" \/><\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/dumbimps.livejournal.com\/\" class=\"i-ljuser-username\"   target=\"_self\"   ><b>dumbimps<\/b><\/a><\/span> drew <a href=\"http:\/\/pics.livejournal.com\/weatherfront\/pic\/00003gx1\" target=\"_blank\">this absolutely adorable image cut<\/a> of Arthur, Eames, and Ariadne at the end of the story! Why are they so talented! Go confess your love for them!<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/>Cobb calls him in the middle of October.<br \/><br \/>\"I have a job for you,\" says Cobb.<br \/><br \/>\"As usual, I am unemployed,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"My son is going to be back home in a week,\" says Cobb. \"All those degrees and nothing seems to be working out, so he's thinking of trying his hand at the family business. But he doesn't like being holed up and I need a man on him. You're the best I know.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Whoa,\" says Eames, \"you have a son?\"<br \/><br \/>\"He's <i>like<\/i> a son,\" says Cobb. \"Unofficially adopted, I guess you could say.\"<br \/><br \/>That was usually how things went with this family, thinks Eames. Cobb, too, was a stray that the boss before him had taken in, may he rest in peace. A rare saint of a gangster who had done Eames a good turn, and thus his relationship with this family had begun. It wasn't that the old boss or Cobb couldn't get a woman or were limp dicks or anything pathetic like that; they just had extraordinarily bad luck with wives.<br \/><br \/>Still, the wisdom of leaving a family to a man named Dom Cobb was questionable. The phrase \"Don Cobb\" didn't exactly roll off the tongue, and \"Don Dom\" was even worse. \"Don Dom Cobb\". A travesty. Eames is mentally running through a list of acceptable Italian last names when Cobb snaps his fingers in his face.<br \/><br \/>\"Are you even listening?\" asks Cobb.<br \/><br \/>\"No,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Enjoy my company,\" says Cobb. \"You're not going to get along this well with Arthur.\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Eames is sitting on a stool in the driveway when a cab pulls up. He grinds his cigarette out with a heel, and waits for the door to open.<br \/><br \/>To his surprise, Arthur is young. Eames had imagined an aging failure, myopic and slovenly from years of bumbling through academic dead-ends. But Arthur is crisp and slim, the collar of his trenchcoat turned up, his dark eyes sharp when they find Eames standing in his way.<br \/><br \/>\"Welcome home,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Who are you?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"The name is Eames,\" he answers. \"Cobb told me you'd be back. I'm your personal guard.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Really,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>Eames extends a hand. There's an autumn breeze rustling through the trees in the backyard, golden leaves dancing down through the air. Everything is quiet but for the distant hum of music from inside the house. The sky is so blue that it hurts his eyes.<br \/><br \/>Arthur looks at his hand, and starts walking past it.<br \/><br \/>\"Look, darling,\" says Eames. \"At least let me take your suitcase.\"<br \/><br \/>He reaches for the handle and the leather of their gloves brush against each other. It's not real contact, but Arthur flinches anyway.<br \/><br \/>\"Tell Dom that I won't be needing you,\" says Arthur, and disappears indoors.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"How am I supposed to protect him if he won't let me be around him?\" asks Eames, and drains the rest of his whiskey. \"Yesterday he got Yusuf to distract me with a plate of struffoli while he snuck out and went museum-hopping. There are so many things about that scenario that I find unacceptable.\"<br \/><br \/>\"You may begin listing them,\" says Cobb.<br \/><br \/>\"One, is Yusuf just trying all the recipes he can get his hands on? I mean, he's good at it, but I need to watch my weight,\" says Eames. \"Two, museums? Security nightmare, but also, incredibly boring. And how many can you possibly stomach in a day?\"<br \/><br \/>\"The sweets, or the museums?\" asks Cobb.<br \/><br \/>\"The museums,\" says Eames. \"The sweets, I could eat for the rest of my life. That's the problem. Anyway, three, you're not supposed to run out on your bodyguard. That's how you get killed.\"<br \/><br \/>\"We're not at peace, but we're not at war,\" says Cobb. \"He's not in constant danger. Watch over him, but give him some breathing room.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I did that,\" says Eames. \"Hopped in a car and tailed him around the city all day long. Speaking of which, who drives the Bugatti? I think I came all over the driver's seat.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" says Cobb, \"that's my car.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Sorry about the semen,\" says Eames. \"It's yours, huh? I guess that's why Arthur recognized the car. He made me roll the window down and told me that I should go fuck myself.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Sounds like Arthur,\" says Cobb.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"Yeah,\" says Ariadne. \"Sounds like Arthur.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Why, though?\" asks Eames. \"I'm not bothering him. I let him go anywhere he wants, but I just need him to let me follow him.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Don't know why,\" says Ariadne. \"He's usually nice, but that's just the way he's always been to soldiers.\"<br \/><br \/>Ariadne, another one of Cobb's favorites. Still young, but so bright that rumor has it Cobb is training her to become consigliere. Eames is beat. If Ariadne can't figure it out, he has no chance.<br \/><br \/>But then, from a corner of the kitchen where he is polishing one of his beloved wakizashi swords, Ariadne's guard Saito says,<br \/><br \/>\"Neither of you were here back when things were rougher.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Back when our relationships with the other families were more strained,\" says Saito. \"That was back when we still had a raid unit. Arthur was in training to become a point man, before Cobb decided he was too valuable to let die in a firefight. He sent him off to college, and Arthur hasn't been the same since.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Damn,\" says Eames. \"Arthur knows his way around a gun?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Crack shot,\" says Saito. \"But in the meanwhile much of the violence calmed down, the raid unit was disbanded, and Arthur likes to learn but he doesn't like to sit still. If he's antagonistic toward you, it's probably not personal.\"<br \/><br \/>It begins to come together. Arthur, he of the itchy trigger-finger, can't stand the thought that he isn't the one doing the protecting. Cobb lets him leave school and come home, but only if Arthur will become the heir, not the muscle. Arthur feels caged. Arthur resents Eames. Arthur, point-man Arthur, lean and quick and light on his feet, is going completely to waste.<br \/><br \/>\"I bring sfinges,\" says Yusuf, bringing sfinges.<br \/><br \/>\"Oh, happiness,\" says Ariadne.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Eames is watching Arthur out of his rearview mirror, gaze steady through neon lights and people huddling into their coats. Arthur hooks a finger into the knot of his tie and slides it looser. Despite his fighting instincts, Arthur has the undeniable tastes of a mafia heir. His suits are always perfectly tailored, not a hair on his head is out of place, and his cologne smells like Sicilian mandarin. Eames can appreciate all of this.<br \/><br \/>But even with the growing respect for Arthur's skills and predilections, it is Eames' job to call him out on any particularly unsafe choices he might make.<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" he calls out of the window.<br \/><br \/>\"What do you want,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"If you're going to go drink, do it somewhere better,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>Arthur walks over to the car, leans in closer. His eyelashes are long and dark against his pale skin, and Eames is fascinated by the curl of steam slipping from his mouth when he speaks.<br \/><br \/>\"That bar's ours,\" says Arthur, voice low.<br \/><br \/>\"No, it isn't,\" says Eames. \"We turned it over for a racket in a bakery on Bleecker.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Ah,\" says Arthur. \"Cupcakes.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Mostly we did it for the banana pudding,\" says Eames. \"Come on, love, get in the car. I'll get you somewhere safe.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur hesitates.<br \/><br \/>\"Drinks on me,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Yeah, all right,\" says Arthur. \"What the hell.\"<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Arthur drinks like he's trying to forget. He downs another Irish Car Bomb. This fondness for whiskey, notes Eames, also seemed to be a family thing. Also the reason why hangover morning at the Cobb house was notoriously unpleasant.<br \/><br \/>\"Didn't think Saito would be the one to talk,\" says Arthur, consonants only slightly slurred.<br \/><br \/>\"He wasn't ratting you out,\" says Eames. \"Everyone worries, Arthur.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What's there to worry about?\" asks Arthur. \"I'm safe, aren't I? Thanks to you?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm not the enemy here,\" says Eames. \"I don't want to be your babysitter.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Good,\" snaps Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"I'm just here to fill your blind spots,\" says Eames. \"Is that okay?\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur is silent.<br \/><br \/>\"How about this,\" says Eames. \"I won't walk behind you, if you don't like it. But then you have to let me walk next to you. I'll fill your blind spots, and you fill mine. I'll lend you one of my Berettas. Is that a deal?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Watch who you trust with your life,\" says Arthur, with a harsh bark of laughter.<br \/><br \/>\"Hey,\" says Eames. \"It's not just anyone. I trust you.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur blinks, slowly. It takes him another Car Bomb and a shot of just whiskey, neat, before he answers. Eames spends the time watching Arthur's adam's apple bob above the collar of his shirt.<br \/><br \/>\"Yeah, all right,\" says Arthur. \"What the hell.\"<br \/><br \/>But then he cracks something like a smile, a wry corner of his mouth curving upward. After what seems like forever he turns away, breaking eye contact, and Eames realizes that he has been holding his breath.<br \/><br \/>The alcohol hits Arthur not long after, and Eames scatters bills haphazardly on the counter, trying with one hand to keep him from falling off his stool. He throws one of Arthur's arms over his shoulders and tries to stand up, but Arthur can hardly see, let alone walk. In the orange glow of the bar lights, Eames manages to get Arthur up onto his back, his grip tight around his thighs, his warm dead weight solid against him.<br \/><br \/>Some team we make, thinks Eames, not unkindly. Arthur's breath tickles his ear, and everything smells like Sicilian mandarin, whiskey, and heat.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Over time, Arthur learns to behave himself. They fall into an easy pattern, where the only thing Eames is allowed to do for Arthur is drive. Some days, they don't really go anywhere, just lounge in the kitchen and wander around the neighborhood. Once, Arthur sets an empty can of coffee on a snowy branch, and shoots it right off the tree from the other side of the street.<br \/><br \/>\"Didn't want you to feel unsafe,\" says Arthur. \"Don't tell Dom, though.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I wouldn't,\" says Eames, impressed. <br \/><br \/>But Arthur staying home means that most of their nights are left empty. When Arthur doesn't accompany him to a bar, Eames goes alone, and drinks whiskey until someone agrees to join him in a cheap motel room. Almost always, he finds himself with his arm around a brunette. They are all tall and willowy, not much chest on them, hips hard and narrow. He finds himself sniffing the napes of their necks, always coming away a little disappointed.<br \/><br \/>He has a problem.<br \/><br \/>There isn't much he can do about it. He's in the service of the Cobb family, not trying to marry into it. He can't woo the Cobb heir. He can't woo Arthur, never mind how ridiculous the word \"woo\" is, anyway. He is still Arthur's guard.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>Eames returns to his old bad habits. He drinks, he fucks, he throws up in an alleyway somewhere and he stumbles back to the Cobb house. Sometimes he drives, because he can't bring himself to care. Sometimes he takes a cab. He is never back before three in the morning, staggering across the ice-covered driveway, beating his hands together to keep them warm.<br \/><br \/>Then the weather turns biting cold and when he arrives one night, even the soldiers on watch duty are staying inside. His teeth chatter; his nose is raw. He has barely enough tact to stop himself from ringing the doorbell, because the Cobb doorbell is a loud doorbell, and he doesn't want to wake the entire house.<br \/><br \/>Instead, he returns to his old bad methods. He finds the water pipe near the garden, running up the side of the house. Grunting, he grabs it and lifts himself up, bracing his feet against the brick wall. On the second floor he finds the ledge, the window with the broken latch that he's used like this countless times before.<br \/><br \/>Only this time, when he squeezes through and tumbles inside, the room isn't empty. He freezes. Arthur is in the bed, a sliver of moonlight white across his face. Shouldn't he be using a room with a properly functioning window, thinks Eames, and that's how he knows he is still a good man.<br \/><br \/>Or maybe not. Arthur stirs, his lips slightly parted, hand slack on the sheets. Deep, regular breaths. God, he's so beautiful. Eames sinks down at the foot of the bed. The dirty thoughts are fast and numerous, but mostly, seeing Arthur there with him, he is at peace. It feels all right. He's going to keep Arthur safe, and that's what matters. He's there to make sure that Arthur can always sleep this well.<br \/><br \/>He lies back on the floor, calm like he wasn't just vomiting bile an hour ago, the thawing of his extremities a pleasant tingle, and goes to sleep.<br \/><br \/>When Arthur wakes up, he doesn't even yell, just laughs and makes Eames clean up the mud. And Eames stops drinking alone.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"Did you talk to Ariadne about this?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"She's not consigliere yet,\" Cobb reminds him, gently. \"But yes, she agrees.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I have a lot of memories of that warehouse,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>Eames, in a corner chair of Cobb's room with his lips on the edge of a whiskey tumbler, doesn't ask yet.<br \/><br \/>\"But geographical consolidation would benefit security immensely,\" says Cobb. \"Don't be too broken up about it. The new warehouse will be just as large, only it'll be on our other side of the river, and it won't smell like dirty laundry.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I know,\" says Arthur. \"This is the one I grew up with, though. Has everything been moved out?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Yes,\" says Cobb. \"But it's still officially ours, until tomorrow morning.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Can I go see it?\" asks Arthur. \"One last time?\"<br \/><br \/>Eames has never known Cobb to say no to Arthur, and Cobb is true to himself, especially so when he forbids Eames from taking the Bugatti. He doesn't mind so much, because Arthur comes to sit shotgun instead of in the backseat, and that makes any car instantly better.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>The warehouse really does smell like old laundry. Eames gags a little.<br \/><br \/>\"Must be hell in the summer,\" he says.<br \/><br \/>\"Somewhat,\" says Arthur. \"But you get used to it after a while.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur is walking slowly through every room, the sound of his shoes echoing. He takes off his gloves when he comes to a battered staircase, runs one fine-boned finger down the balustrade. His smile is a little sad, even though he tries to cover it up with a cough that stirs the dust from the steps.<br \/><br \/>\"The memories you have of here,\" says Eames. \"What are they?\"<br \/><br \/>What comes next seems to happen in slow motion. Arthur opens his mouth to explain, but whatever he says is drowned out by the rush of blood in Eames' ears, because through the window behind Arthur he sees five or six men in moving about in the security booth. And in an empty warehouse, the security booth is supposed to be empty.<br \/><br \/>\"Get down, Arthur!\" yells Eames, and throws himself over Arthur, knocking them both to the ground. A splitting din of shattered glass, and a spray of bullets hits the far wall. Plaster crumbles from the holes.<br \/><br \/>\"Fuck,\" exclaims Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Just to be clear,\" says Eames, breathless, partly because he has just dived onto a very hard floor and partly because he is lying flush against Arthur, \"that wasn't because I'm your guard and you can't take care of yourself, all right, pet? That was only because you had your back to the window--\"<br \/><br \/>But Arthur is already up and running, gun in his hand. Eames crouches below the ledge and follows him. Arthur whirls behind a pillar for cover, takes a deep breath, whips his left hand around the pillar, and shoots. The first bullet lodges into the windowsill of the security booth, and the second bullet sends one of the men toppling. There are indistinct noises of panic.<br \/><br \/>And it is completely inappropriate, but Eames is getting a little hard. The opened edge of Arthur's coat billows behind him as he speeds down a corridor. Eames forces himself to concentrate on the shooting, the ambush, how they are really in danger of losing their lives, and to maybe think a little less about the wild light in Arthur's eyes.<br \/><br \/>\"We're outclassed, in terms of firepower,\" he shouts. \"We've got to get out of here.\"<br \/><br \/>\"All the doors open toward the security booth,\" Arthur shouts back. \"Either we kill them all, or we create some sort of diversion.\"<br \/><br \/>Eames catches up with Arthur, and they pause, flattened on a stairwell.<br \/><br \/>\"What was your answer?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"What?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Your memories,\" says Eames. \"I couldn't hear.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur stares at him for a moment, then laughs.<br \/><br \/>\"I had target practice here,\" he says, \"and recon training. I know the layout like I built it.\"<br \/><br \/>\"So you like it a lot, this building?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I guess you could say that,\" says Arthur. \"Why?\"<br \/><br \/>\"I'm going to have to blow it up,\" says Eames, and pulls a handful of paper-wrapped packages from his pocket.<br \/><br \/>\"Are those portable explosives?\" asks Arthur, eyes wide. \"Why the hell are you carrying these around?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Primary weapon, when I can manage to clear enough space,\" says Eames. \"This seems like good ground for it-- that is, with your permission.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Come next morning, it won't even be ours anymore,\" says Arthur. \"We'll blow it up. Under one condition, though.\"<br \/><br \/>\"What?\" asks Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I'll do it,\" says Arthur. \"It has to be quick, before the bastards out there start calling for more soldiers. You don't know this building like I do, to set up a good chain. You'll take too long.\"<br \/><br \/>\"But Arthur,\" protests Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Do you love me?\" demands Arthur.<br \/><br \/>Eames' head goes completely blank.<br \/><br \/>\"Uh,\" he says.<br \/><br \/>\"I mean-- shit, I mean--\" Arthur flushes darkly, and he crams the packages into his pockets. \"I mean-- do you trust me, is what I meant to-- do you <i>love<\/i>-- I don't even know you! I mean, I know you, but we're not even dating! I mean-- that's not what I--\"<br \/><br \/>Eames swallows.<br \/><br \/>\"I'm leaving!\" shouts Arthur, leaping to his feet. \"Take out as many of them as you can, and run for the main gate as soon as you hear the first explosion. Fill my blind spots, I'll-- I'll see you there, I-- oh fuck me.\"<br \/><br \/>And Arthur turns and practically flees.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>It takes Eames a very long time to be able to fire a gun properly again. At last, when he isn't shaking uncontrollably and wasting bullets by sending them whizzing off into the middle of nowhere, he manages to drop another man in the security booth. There are four left. Normally Eames would consider himself more than capable of taking four on, but they have light machine guns and an excellent cover.<br \/><br \/>Fill my blind spots, says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>Do you love me, asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>Add a couple dozen more armed men to this warehouse, an earthquake, and a bloodthirsty liger or two, and it would be an appropriate metaphor for what a chaotic mess their relationship has suddenly become. The men in the booth must have spotted Arthur running somewhere on the third floor, because they start pointing and aiming somewhere above him. Eames fires off a few quick shots in succession and they duck out of the way.<br \/><br \/>Do you love me, asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>If you will permit me, Eames would have said. If that had been the question.<br \/><br \/>But his job isn't to <i>love<\/i> Arthur--<br \/><br \/>There's a deafening explosion from somewhere in the building, and all the windows on the fourth floor blow out, scattering shards of glass down below. That's his cue. Eames runs down the stairs as fast as he can, seeing out of the corner of his eye the bright flames licking the roof, the thick choking smoke. He skids around a corner. Another <i>boom<\/i> shakes the building and he's almost on the first floor, the metal storage racks falling like dominoes, then a third <i>boom,<\/i> and he's sprinting out the door as the first floor goes, the burst of fire hot at his back, the shockwave shoving him forward. Then in front of his face, the security booth implodes in a blaze of toxic orange and he throws his arms up to shield himself, debris flying all around him, everything shrouded in smoke.<br \/><br \/>Arthur, he thinks. To have set off the explosion in the booth, Arthur had to be close by. His heart in his throat, Eames looks around wildly, the hint of a camel coat, a shoe, anything.<br \/><br \/>\"Arthur,\" he yells. \"Arthur!\"<br \/><br \/>Nearly everything above ground is already on fire, but the secondary explosions would start soon underground. He can't leave.<br \/><br \/>\"<i>Arthur,<\/i>\" he screams.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" comes a voice through the ashes and gas.<br \/><br \/>He gropes blindly in the direction of that voice, toward Arthur, Arthur, who has actually just called his name for the first time, Eames realizes, but now is not the time to dwell on that because Arthur is alive, Arthur is here, and they're going to make it.<br \/><br \/>\"Are you okay,\" wheezes Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"In one piece,\" says Arthur, then winces. \"Before I blew up the booth, though, I think they-- can you check my leg--\"<br \/><br \/>Gingerly, Eames peels back the shreds of fabric. Arthur's leg is a bloody mess, but most of it just seems to be clean bleeding.<br \/><br \/>\"Must have gone straight through,\" says Eames. \"You'll be okay. God, Arthur. I shouldn't have--\"<br \/><br \/>\"Shut up,\" says Arthur, and he's smiling, even though it's strained from pain and the color is draining from his face. \"Let's get out of here, Eames. Let's go home.\"<br \/><br \/>\"I got you,\" says Eames. He tries to help Arthur back upright, but he hisses as soon as his foot touches the ground. This time, even piggybacking is out of the question, and there's cold sweat on Arthur's forehead.<br \/><br \/>\"Shit,\" mutters Arthur.<br \/><br \/>Eames makes a decision. He scoops Arthur up into his arms, because no matter how much Arthur might yell at him for it later, his first priority is to keep him safe. Arthur is lighter than he thought, or Eames is stronger than usual, with the power of adrenaline and love coursing through him or something like that.<br \/><br \/>\"This is embarrassing,\" says Arthur, and lets his head fall against Eames' chest.<br \/><br \/>Then it starts to rain. Cold winter rain like drops of ice. Arthur shudders and closes his eyes, and he is frighteningly pale and motionless but his breathing is regular, and the underground explosions start as they leave through the main gate. Silhouetted against the fire, Eames thinks that all in all, he must look pretty damn cool.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>The door creaks open. Eames has been waiting outside while Cobb has a private word with Arthur. Eames had tried to protest, Arthur just got out of surgery, don't tire him out, it's all my fault he's hurt, but Cobb only chuckled and closed the door behind him.<br \/><br \/>Eames peers into the recovery room, not quite daring to stop Cobb as he leaves.<br \/><br \/>\"What did he say,\" he asks Arthur instead.<br \/><br \/>\"Many things,\" says Arthur. \"One, that it probably wasn't a leak from inside, and that they were just expecting me to turn up where I'd spent so much of my childhood. Guess I was being predictable.\"<br \/><br \/>\"Those assholes,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"And two, that as the next heir of the Cobb family,\" says Arthur, \"I really can't afford to go around getting myself shot,\"<br \/><br \/>\"That's fair,\" admits Eames. \"What did you say?\"<br \/><br \/>\"That he'll just have to find another heir,\" says Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"You-- what?\" gapes Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"I am the heir to nothing,\" says Arthur. \"I'm just me now.\"<br \/><br \/>\"But what about succession,\" stammers Eames. \"What about Cobb? Are you going to leave now? Are you going back to school?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Dom isn't even old, he doesn't need an heir anytime soon,\" says Arthur. \"He's just so old inside, you know? He gets confused about how much time he has left. Which is a whole lot. And there's always Ariadne. If she takes a liking to it, she'll make a better don -- donna, whatever -- than I ever would have. And as for me--\"<br \/><br \/>\"What about you?\" asks Eames, dreading the answer.<br \/><br \/>\"We're at war again, so the raid unit is back,\" says Arthur, his eyes glinting. \"I'm a soldier in the service of the Cobb family. And I'm just me now-- is that okay, Eames?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Is that okay?\" repeats Eames. \"Oh, Arthur, darling.\"<br \/><br \/>And Eames sinks to one knee at the side of Arthur's hospital bed, pressing his lips to the back of Arthur's hand, because service isn't all hierarchy, where you're hired to do your job out of loyalty and a sense of duty. You can be in the service of anyone you damn well please-- and if that's someone that walks beside you, if it's someone that fills your blind spots, that's perfectly all right too. <br \/><br \/>\"I trust you,\" says Eames.<br \/><br \/><br \/><br \/><center>+<\/center><br \/><br \/><br \/>\"But what about Saito?\" asks Arthur.<br \/><br \/>\"Saito has left to join Yusuf in opening a fusion-cuisine restaurant,\" says Cobb. \"So the job is open.\"<br \/><br \/>\"But Saito can't cook worth shit,\" says Eames. \"If he didn't have that mistress to depend on, he'd starve.\"<br \/><br \/>\"And Yusuf can only make dessert,\" says Arthur. \"What kind of crap restaurant is that?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Guys, what are you saying,\" interrupts Ariadne. \"Do I sense reluctance? Do you not want to be my guards?\"<br \/><br \/>\"Are you kidding?\" Arthur tousles her hair. \"Guard to the future heir! It's possibly the only position better than point man for the raid team. Besides, my warehouse is in pieces now. It would feel wrong to train in another one.\"<br \/><br \/>Arthur jams his pistol into the holster by his side, and the cocky tilt of his hips makes Eames see stars. Dammit, he's getting hard again.<br \/><br \/>\"Eames,\" says Cobb, \"this room is an erection-free zone.\"<br \/><br \/>\"There's no such thing,\" yells Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"Which do you like better,\" begins Ariadne, \"the Bugatti or Arthur?\"<br \/><br \/>\"What a mortifying question,\" yells Eames.<br \/><br \/>\"It's not that difficult,\" says Arthur. \"One of those things, you can't have.\"<br \/><br \/>And everything is wonderful, and everything is just right. Even in wartime, even when they're both just soldiers at the bottom of the ladder, Eames can keep Arthur safe. Even when Arthur and Ariadne drag him to the Met and spend two hours arguing over the relative merits of the British Masters exhibition and the Marvels of Modern Architecture exhibition, even when he and Arthur share their first kiss in the middle of a turf battle and they both end up in the hospital because they accidentally fall off a balcony, even when they find Saito and Yusuf's restaurant gone out of business and discover the two of them working at the bakery on Bleecker street instead, it's good to be a gangster. Blind spots and all.<br><br><br>","comments":"https:\/\/tornadobelt.livejournal.com\/760.html?view=comments#comments","category":["eames\/arthur","au"]}]}}