Inception Fic: And the Pattern Breaks
Mar. 1st, 2011 01:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
out_thereTitle: And the Pattern Breaks
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Word Count: 1,000 words.
Summary: Arthur knows that within a week, Eames will show up on his door, no matter which city he chooses. Like Arthur knows Eames kicks the covers in his sleep and makes perfect boiled eggs, white cooked and yolk still runny. Like he knows this visit will last for a month, maybe two, before one of them answers a call and has to be somewhere else.
Notes: Forslodwick's picfor1000 challenge. Thanks to emef for betaing and vastly improving the ending.
My prompt was:
Arthur rents a car and spends two hours navigating LA's ever-frustrating traffic. LA has embraced the concept of rush hour and expanded it to most of the working day. Arthur appreciates such relentless ambition, but he doesn't enjoy it.
Arthur's spent most of the last twenty hours physically asleep but mentally awake. He's exhausted and jumpy, but he still drives better than half the idiots on the road.
Unsurprisingly, Arthur gets to San Francisco over-caffeinated and restless inside his skin.
***
For the first thirty or so hours, Arthur sleeps. Without chemicals, without alarms, without dreams.
In between, he wanders around the rented Victorian apartment in old jeans and bare feet, helps himself to food he bought on the way here. Then he goes to the back of the house and settles on the balcony overlooking the garden. He spends hours picking at microwave dinners, staring at the patterns in the paved path as the wind rustles through high branches of the trees.
There's a city behind him, but it's nice to ignore it for a while. He likes the feel of sunshine warm on his face, the smell of fresh air, and Arthur stays there until his back stiffens and his eyes feel gritty. Then he goes back inside to sleep it off.
***
By the fifth day, Arthur's got his diurnal rhythm back. It's the little things that get lost during a job: waking up to sunshine, going to sleep when it's dark. Arthur can live like that indefinitely, but there's no reason to continue it out of habit.
***
On the seventh day, Eames knocks on the door wearing a cheekily orange shirt and carrying a potted palm. "Housewarming gift," he says when Arthur lets him in.
"Short-term lease," Arthur says, rolling his eyes. He isn't surprised. He's been expecting Eames for the last two days. "Housewarming gifts seem a little preposterous."
"You and your love of fancy words."
"Preposterous. Synonyms: outrageous, absurd, ridiculous, silly," Arthur recites, leading Eames and his potted plant into the kitchen, "your sense of style."
Eames settles the palm in the corner of the kitchen. Arthur pulls down a coffee mug and half fills it with water, passing it to Eames. For a moment, their fingers touch and Eames looks up, stretching the moment. "You love my sense of style," Eames says, smiling.
***
There's a second bedroom, but Arthur doesn't draw attention to the fact.
***
"Have you burned the pictures yet?" Eames asks, sitting cross-legged on the wooden balcony, eyes closed against the afternoon sun.
Eames means the photographs taken for the job, the surveillance shots of the mark and his family. Arthur likes written notes and physical print-outs. He likes folders of information he can touch. He especially likes the finality of burning them when the job's done.
Eames knows it. The same way he knows Arthur likes renting in a new city after a successful job, likes being low-key and overlooked while waiting for the possible fall-out.
The same way Arthur knows that within a week, Eames will show up on his door, no matter which city he chooses. Like Arthur knows Eames kicks the covers in his sleep and makes perfect boiled eggs, white cooked and yolk still runny. Like he knows this visit will last for a month, maybe two, before one of them answers a call and has to be somewhere else. It might be a year before they cross paths again.
"Not yet," Arthur says, watching the speckled sunlight catch on translucent green leaves.
***
Eames never shows up with a suitcase, so these visits always include a day of brushing through clothes shops, Eames reaching out to feel everything before he tries it on. Eames likes cottons and linens, texture over form. Arthur likes the line of a suit; he looks at the silhouette first, then the subtle shades to make the outfit whole. Eames picks clothes based on the feel of the fabric.
Arthur follows sedately, watching Eames finger jackets, shirts and pants. Arthur keeps his own hands in his pockets.
***
They've done this before. It's the closest thing Arthur has to routine in his world. In six months time, they'll probably do it again.
***
They pull a trash can onto the balcony. Eames lights the fire while Arthur empties his briefcase of files. They both feed the pages to the flames.
"All done?" Eames asks when his hands are empty.
Arthur's favourite shot, a photo taken in Kyoto back when Saito was the mark, starts to curl and brown in the heat. He watches as Saito's daughter, tiny and too serious on her way to school, burns to ash. "That's all of it."
***
After five weeks, Eames gets a call. "Yeah, possible," he says, and, "Where is it?" and, "Let me think about it."
Eames negotiates the price over several calls, but Arthur knows he'll be gone within a week.
***
"You could always come," Eames says, both of them sitting on the hard decking of the balcony. He has one beefy arm behind Arthur's neck and there's too much light pollution to see the stars tonight.
Arthur knows this part. This is where he says he has a job of his own, says Dom needs him. This is where he shrugs it off and pretends it doesn't matter.
"Why not?"
***
Arthur returns keys, organises flights and then drives them both to San Francisco airport. Eames talks about the job, his favourite casinos in Madrid, museums he swears Arthur will love. He fills the silence until they're waiting at the gate, watching the other travellers until the boarding announcement.
"I didn't think you'd say yes," Eames says, hitching his bag onto his shoulder and joining the queue.
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "You'd rather I refused?"
"'Course not. Just…" Eames shrugs. "Wasn't expecting it."
Arthur stands in line, patiently waiting for it to move. "There wasn't a valid reason to say no."
***
Eames spends most of the thirteen hour flight sleeping on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur doesn't mind at all.
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Word Count: 1,000 words.
Summary: Arthur knows that within a week, Eames will show up on his door, no matter which city he chooses. Like Arthur knows Eames kicks the covers in his sleep and makes perfect boiled eggs, white cooked and yolk still runny. Like he knows this visit will last for a month, maybe two, before one of them answers a call and has to be somewhere else.
Notes: For
slodwick's picfor1000 challenge. Thanks to emef for betaing and vastly improving the ending. My prompt was:
Arthur rents a car and spends two hours navigating LA's ever-frustrating traffic. LA has embraced the concept of rush hour and expanded it to most of the working day. Arthur appreciates such relentless ambition, but he doesn't enjoy it.
Arthur's spent most of the last twenty hours physically asleep but mentally awake. He's exhausted and jumpy, but he still drives better than half the idiots on the road.
Unsurprisingly, Arthur gets to San Francisco over-caffeinated and restless inside his skin.
***
For the first thirty or so hours, Arthur sleeps. Without chemicals, without alarms, without dreams.
In between, he wanders around the rented Victorian apartment in old jeans and bare feet, helps himself to food he bought on the way here. Then he goes to the back of the house and settles on the balcony overlooking the garden. He spends hours picking at microwave dinners, staring at the patterns in the paved path as the wind rustles through high branches of the trees.
There's a city behind him, but it's nice to ignore it for a while. He likes the feel of sunshine warm on his face, the smell of fresh air, and Arthur stays there until his back stiffens and his eyes feel gritty. Then he goes back inside to sleep it off.
***
By the fifth day, Arthur's got his diurnal rhythm back. It's the little things that get lost during a job: waking up to sunshine, going to sleep when it's dark. Arthur can live like that indefinitely, but there's no reason to continue it out of habit.
***
On the seventh day, Eames knocks on the door wearing a cheekily orange shirt and carrying a potted palm. "Housewarming gift," he says when Arthur lets him in.
"Short-term lease," Arthur says, rolling his eyes. He isn't surprised. He's been expecting Eames for the last two days. "Housewarming gifts seem a little preposterous."
"You and your love of fancy words."
"Preposterous. Synonyms: outrageous, absurd, ridiculous, silly," Arthur recites, leading Eames and his potted plant into the kitchen, "your sense of style."
Eames settles the palm in the corner of the kitchen. Arthur pulls down a coffee mug and half fills it with water, passing it to Eames. For a moment, their fingers touch and Eames looks up, stretching the moment. "You love my sense of style," Eames says, smiling.
***
There's a second bedroom, but Arthur doesn't draw attention to the fact.
***
"Have you burned the pictures yet?" Eames asks, sitting cross-legged on the wooden balcony, eyes closed against the afternoon sun.
Eames means the photographs taken for the job, the surveillance shots of the mark and his family. Arthur likes written notes and physical print-outs. He likes folders of information he can touch. He especially likes the finality of burning them when the job's done.
Eames knows it. The same way he knows Arthur likes renting in a new city after a successful job, likes being low-key and overlooked while waiting for the possible fall-out.
The same way Arthur knows that within a week, Eames will show up on his door, no matter which city he chooses. Like Arthur knows Eames kicks the covers in his sleep and makes perfect boiled eggs, white cooked and yolk still runny. Like he knows this visit will last for a month, maybe two, before one of them answers a call and has to be somewhere else. It might be a year before they cross paths again.
"Not yet," Arthur says, watching the speckled sunlight catch on translucent green leaves.
***
Eames never shows up with a suitcase, so these visits always include a day of brushing through clothes shops, Eames reaching out to feel everything before he tries it on. Eames likes cottons and linens, texture over form. Arthur likes the line of a suit; he looks at the silhouette first, then the subtle shades to make the outfit whole. Eames picks clothes based on the feel of the fabric.
Arthur follows sedately, watching Eames finger jackets, shirts and pants. Arthur keeps his own hands in his pockets.
***
They've done this before. It's the closest thing Arthur has to routine in his world. In six months time, they'll probably do it again.
***
They pull a trash can onto the balcony. Eames lights the fire while Arthur empties his briefcase of files. They both feed the pages to the flames.
"All done?" Eames asks when his hands are empty.
Arthur's favourite shot, a photo taken in Kyoto back when Saito was the mark, starts to curl and brown in the heat. He watches as Saito's daughter, tiny and too serious on her way to school, burns to ash. "That's all of it."
***
After five weeks, Eames gets a call. "Yeah, possible," he says, and, "Where is it?" and, "Let me think about it."
Eames negotiates the price over several calls, but Arthur knows he'll be gone within a week.
***
"You could always come," Eames says, both of them sitting on the hard decking of the balcony. He has one beefy arm behind Arthur's neck and there's too much light pollution to see the stars tonight.
Arthur knows this part. This is where he says he has a job of his own, says Dom needs him. This is where he shrugs it off and pretends it doesn't matter.
"Why not?"
***
Arthur returns keys, organises flights and then drives them both to San Francisco airport. Eames talks about the job, his favourite casinos in Madrid, museums he swears Arthur will love. He fills the silence until they're waiting at the gate, watching the other travellers until the boarding announcement.
"I didn't think you'd say yes," Eames says, hitching his bag onto his shoulder and joining the queue.
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "You'd rather I refused?"
"'Course not. Just…" Eames shrugs. "Wasn't expecting it."
Arthur stands in line, patiently waiting for it to move. "There wasn't a valid reason to say no."
***
Eames spends most of the thirteen hour flight sleeping on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur doesn't mind at all.
