So, um, Inception is life. Christopher Nolan is a (cruel and capricious) god. And Arthur/Eames are icing on the very delicious, multi-layered sundae that was Inception.
And this is my first crappy Arthur/Eames fanfic. Sorry it's of such poor quality...I was pressed for time, and I rather wanted to have something for my new ship up before the week was over.
~LS
Ariadne unhooks her peacoat from the wirerack, fumbles in the woolen pocket for the smooth rounded nodule that contains precious, stolen images of her team. Cobb scowls at the tiny camera, his back mostly turned (a criminal's habit); a spinning top hovers between his finger and thumb, rubbed to shininess. Yusuf blushes pleasantly, fresh from the hairstylist's; he traded in his enthusiastic mop for close-trimmed curls upon his arrival in Paris. Eames and Arthur share a shot, the former engaged in feats of legerdemain, the latter half-focused on the screen of his computer. The Forger is infectiously cheerful, oozing sex and vibrance; the Point Man is reserved, dark eyes disengaged from his polite smile. The dissimilarities in the picture are striking, beautifully blending, and Ariadne thinks of her friend who majored in some sort of Art and wonders if she ought to have it painted. (and oh, wouldn't they get a kick out of that)
Of course, it had been Arthur's reservation, his emotional cordoning-off, that had led their pseudo-relationship after the inception to a sizzling halt. Arthur was always distracted, sharp, a soul too old for Ariadne's tastes.
"Hey," she calls out to the warehouse, spacious and shadowed; the sky is already a lovely shade of midnight blue, electricity sparkling in windows and streets. "I'm heading out."
What she doesn't tell whoever might be listening is that she has a date with a young man she graduated with. They're all her brothers (in spirit, not in blood), and she hates the thought of Eames picking the lock on the young man's apartment door, of Yusuf blending compounds that will make him helpless while Cobb and Arthur steal ideas from his head.
"Is anyone here?"
Something in the back is humming, a sweetly mechanized sound that reminds her of rain and the sticky-stale smell of a first class cabin. She stuffs her phone into the pocket of her peacoat, drapes it over her forearm as she slips curiously into the "communal space" (Cobb likes large words now that he has time for them). It's a Formica table surrounded by lawn chairs, picked up in a cheap store somewhere and neatly folded in the depths of Arthur's luggage. The PASIV is connected, the soft central button depressed; two IVs disappear into the delicately veined crooks of Arthur and Eames' respective elbows. Not for the first time, Ariadne notes the intriguing swirl of ink on Eames' right bicep (he would never answer her honestly).
The corners of Arthur's eyes are soft, crinkled like a smile and Ariadne looks at the assortment of IV's, the liquid rush of somnacin into her partners' veins; she is overwhelmed by the urge to see what dream they could be sharing. They have nothing in common but the job... Eames' playful flirtation and Arthur's threadbare tolerance are the only indication that they have any history prior to the inception. Her index finger traces a coffee ring on the table and she thinks of her young man, her chance to become a lover slipping with each moment she wastes here. The one time she entered Cobb's dream without permission, she had wriggled her way into the deepest, darkest subconscious she had yet encountered. What horrors (or wonders, no need to be pessimistic) could linger in Arthur's subconscious? In Eames'?
Ariadne makes her choice.
Dreamspace
It's cold, briskly unforgiving, the taste of snow lingering sweetly in the air. Ariadne blinks in an attempt to regain her equilibrium and rubs her lotion-smooth hands together to fight the sudden chill. She's standing beside a river she distantly recognizes, near the base of a large white Ferris wheel whose brightly bubbled cars hang enticingly over darkness laced with ice. A woman wearing a knit cap and matching scarf frowns at Ariadne, who came unprepared into the winter dreamspace. The Architect quickly forges a replica of her reliable peacoat, completely aware that she's earmarked herself as a potential intruder, someone who doesn't belong (Arthur's so sensitive). Ariadne won't be able to linger here for long.
The dreamspace is Arthur's creation, it must be; everything is so wonderfully neat, each line precise and parallel. Eames' dreams are a joyful tangle of color and sight and sound. Smoky pubs and busy tropical streets are more to his taste...this is too refined for that.
A door swings open somewhere behind her, and she turns away from the luminescent eye of the wheel in time to see Arthur and Eames walking out of a warmly lit shop. They're each wearing appropriate winter attire, Arthur's jacket dark and plain (just like the rest of him), Eames' jacket a soft fawn that doesn't even begin to match his faded pink, 1970's-inspired shirt. The latter is carrying two paper cups with steam puffing out of their lids, small twin dragons.
"Arthur darling," he says. "Not to rush, but these are hot as hell."
"Oh, you've been?" Arthur asks. The Englishman's face softens, unusual eyes (grey? green? blue?) following the thin lines and hard angles of Arthur's face.
"Was that...was that a joke, pet? Did you just-"
"Yes. Try not to sound so surprised. " The taller man sounds put-out now, the humor drained from his voice. He takes his coffee from Eames' hand, and the wide palms and strong fingers hover, hollow, in the space between them for a moment. It's almost as though Eames expects Arthur to take it, to fill the emptiness with his spider-hands, his pianist's hands. He doesn't, and after a moment Eames pulls his coffee in towards his chest and holds it there. "God, it's been a long wait."
Eames says nothing.
The two men stand in comfortable silence several feet from the shop where they started, and Ariadne begins to worry about time. Would a hop into the river below kill her quickly enough, or would she have to force herself to stay under? (she still hated that, would always hate having to commit suicide to escape) A projection chooses that moment to bump into her with a muttered oath, a dark-haired young man whose features vaguely resemble those of Mr. Robert Fischer's. It isn't unusual for a Fischer to make it into their dreams these days; they had followed him so closely in the days afterward, known him so well in the dream.
She doesn't have any more time.
But as she begins inching towards the steep bank, Arthur drops his coffee cup, splashing heat on his and Eames' shoes. Ariadne stares at the cup and their wet shoes, the black fluid pulsing as it leaves the split cup; when she looks up, Arthur and Eames are wound together. The height difference has never been that significant (what Eames lacks in size, he makes up for in presence), but Arthur still lifts his shoulders as though he were kissing someone very small, pale fingers pressed into the curve of Eames' neck. The Forger grasps a handful of Arthur's coat; it is he who provides passion and depth (kissing Arthur is like kissing a block of wood. A beautiful block of wood...but there is always an element of rigidity, of stiffness).
"Hello." Arthur speaks softly into Eames' skin, but his words carry in the still air; his subconscious has barely filled the dreamspace. Everything is hushed and relaxed; Eames' laugh splits the muffled tranquility.
"Hello, darling." He rubs his thumb against Arthur's cheekbone and kisses him again, lightly. "Been quite a while since we've greeted each other properly."
"Yes it has."
"I reckon you owe me a little more than-"
A young blond woman walks in front of Ariadne, who is transfixed by the scene (Arthur and Eames...The Forger and the Point Man), and pauses to see what it is that has her undivided attention. Arthur chooses that moment to touch his lover's full lips, flushed and handsome as Eames looks back at him with something hot and insatiable in his eyes. (do you know what it is to be a lover?)It's a private moment, too intimate, and the projection makes a shocked sound when it whirls on Ariadne.
"You're a sick young lady, aren't you?" She's American, her accent bold and loud. "Spying on those two boys-"
"Dammit." There's no arguing with a projection, no convincing them not to make a scene. Ariadne turns and runs for the embankment, hears the tell-tale click of a safety being disabled. (Arthur's subconscious can be highly militant once it's felt out an intruder)
"HEY!" Arthur's voice rings in the air, alarmed and bright; Ariadne throws a glance over her shoulder and sees him following his projection, Eames pulling a weapon out of thin air. They cannot know she saw. They cannot know she was here.
The projection's gun barks twice, catching her high in the chest. She slips and spins gracelessly into the water, feels the current leeching at her body heat, towing her out into the center of the river (Arthur and Eames cannot reach her here). There is pain, then ice, and then nothing at all.
Reality
She rips the IV out of her arm, shoves it back towards the PASIV hoping that Arthur and Eames will continue their rendesvous in the dreamspace, knowing she has next to no time to leave before they wake. It's a futile hope, a futile gesture; the job has made it impossible for them to take an intrusion lightly. They will want to know who saw them, who heard what they say in their reality away from reality.
"We're awake, love." Ariadne jumps a mile at the sound of Eames' voice.
"Shit, Eames!" Her language runs away with her when she's frightened; the Forger smirks, having pressed the button he was looking for, and leans back in his lawn chair.
Arthur is still next to his lover, fingers digging into the bridge of his fine nose. She can't even begin to imagine how violated he feels, how angry he must be with her. Eames' smirk fades as the silence stiffens and Arthur lifts himself uncomfortably out of his chair, steps away from them both.
"I...I didn't-" Ariadne's apology is cut off by the sharp look on Eames' face, the unspoken warning. (Go back to bed sweetie, Mommy and Daddy need to talk to each other in private)
"Darling." Eames reaches out tentatively, touches the Point Man's freshly pressed sleeve. Arthur's arm twitches into his grasp; his brown eyes flicker towards the Forger and the creases smooth. "What does it matter, now? What changes if she knows?"
The taller man lifts his head, looks at Ariadne. She wonders what he's feeling. She wants to step in, to tell him that it's not Eames' fault and it's not his fault, she's a horrible person and she ought to have learned her lesson from Cobb and his monster-wife...
"Nothing."
And he smiles brilliantly.
Across the city, Dominic Cobb's spinning top wobbles, jerks, and grates to a stop.