it's weird to have a vibrating cat on your head (meiface) wrote in chineseink,
it's weird to have a vibrating cat on your head

[INCEPTION] 4 Arthur/Eames ficlets

Attempting to overcome writer's block by having my flist prompt me for spontaneous comment-fics! Slightly cleaned up and reposted here for posterity/archiving purposes/etc.

These are the Inception ficlets! Tomorrow or later there will be posts for kpop, Hawaii Five-0, and miscellaneous fandoms.

For cherrybina: Arthur/Eames, pink ♥

flush, PG, 286 words

There's a trend that Eames is starting to pick up on, one that makes him curious. Eames is a people-watcher, has to be for the job, so he's seen it all: the good, bad, ugly, and bizarre. It takes something special to really hook his interest these days and damn if the way Arthur flushes pink doesn't just draw him in.

It's not like Arthur doesn't sweat like the rest of them, doesn't flush from the exertion of the job; he's human, in the end, even in the dreams. But this particular flush starts low on Arthur's throat, warm against his neck and collarbone and edging underneath the wide-open collar of his shirt. It's a rare sight, rare enough that Eames pays attention every time he sees it, until he starts noticing the pattern.

There's a thing Eames does, a nervous habit if you will, a sort of way to ground himself during the job; he picked it up a year or two ago, in Croatia maybe or Romania. Doesn't matter now, really, here in Rio: here it's sticky hot and Eames is running his thumb over his gun, smooth metal of his Browning under his fingers as he runs through plans A through G in his head. He's thinking, he's focused, and Arthur's staring at his hands, pink around the edges and Eames is sharp enough to notice.

Arthur flicks his eyes away as soon as Eames looks up, mouth flattening and brows furrowing. Arthur, Eames thinks with a little curl of contempt, a delicious edge to the interest piquing under his skin, is a piece of work.

(After the job, he decides. Maybe after the next one. It won't do to confront him now.)



the simple gift I prize, PG, 930 words

"Are you jealous?" Ariadne asked brightly, chin in her hands as she beamed at Arthur. She was taking way too much pleasure at this, she knew, but it was too much fun to see Arthur scowl like that.


"Well, don't be lonely." She patted his arm. "I'll always be here for you."

Arthur didn't bother looking up from his laptop where he was furiously typing up an essay on Byron and why anyone who hated him was clearly an ignoramus who merely didn't understand him. His elbow knocked into his half-empty cup of coffee, which Ariadne rescued from an untimely death.

"Thank you, Ariadne," he said, and she didn't know whether it was sarcastic or not.


"You're glowering, Arthur."

"Who is friends with a CIA agent?" Arthur demanded. "No, really. Who is friends with a CIA agent. Are they even allowed to have friends? Are they even allowed to talk to their parents?"

Ariadne's glance flicked to the other side of the crowded Sigma Chi house, where glimpses of Eames and Chris were visible through the crush of bodies clutching signature red plastic cups. Her brow scrunched in thought. "I think they're allowed time off," she ventured doubtfully. "I mean, they work for the government, and the government gets, like, every federal holiday off, right?"

"I don't think the CIA works like that, Ariadne."

Chris had tilted his head close to Eames's, mouth tucked next to his ear. Eames was grinning, easy and broad, and it made Arthur's hands clench. Since Chris had swept into town all...CIA glitz or whatever, Arthur had barely seen his stupid roommate. Eames was probably crashing at Chris's swanky hotel room, paid for by the government and Arthur's tax dollars. Arthur disapproved. You know, as a concerned taxpaying citizen.

"Whatever," said Ariadne, knocking her shoulder into his. "You could stop trying to crush your cup like a Neanderthal with something to prove and just talk to them."

"Right," said Arthur grimly. "We'll bond over Romantic English poets to the tune of Ke$ha's newest single."

"You never know."

Arthur just looked at her.

"Hey, you recognized Ke$ha! There's more to you than your bizarre love for stuffy 19th century poets and your hot British roommate. Who knows, there's probably more to him than movie star looks and the ability to shoot a gun." And then she was dragging him across the room, heedless of the tipsy people they bumped into on the way. Arthur felt his stomach swoop. Oh god.


"He likes Byron," Arthur despaired into Ariadne's shoulder. "He's a CIA agent who likes Byron and shoots guns and is movie-star attractive and stupidly charming--" There was no way Eames didn't like him, at this rate.

"I, uh, can hear you," said Chris.

"Me too," said Eames, looking at Arthur funny.

"He's a bit sloshed, this one," said Ariadne, petting Arthur's head. He muffled his groan in her hair.

"Arthur," said Eames and he was frowning a bit, his lower lip pink and slick from the alcohol, and Arthur was a little distracted, maybe. "Arthur, are you interested in Pine here?"

Chris snorted. "I'm still right here."

"No!" said Arthur, glaring at Eames, who was clearly a total moron. "Why would you say that? Asshole."

"Well, he shares your deplorable taste in Byron, for one--"

"You're just an ignoramus who doesn't understand Byron!"

"Wordsworth is by far superior--"

"Are you deliberately this obtuse or is it a natural talent? Anyone can tell--"

"Fucking A, Arthur--"


There they went again. Ariadne sighed heavily. "Oh my god, can we not have this argument again? For the four hundredth rendition?"

Eames and Arthur looked at her with varying degrees of drunkenness and abashment, stopped mid-argument. Chris just looked entertained, the bastard, and hid a grin behind his cup.

Prying a heavy Arthur from her shoulder, Ariadne carefully transferred him into Eames's arms, draping Arthur's head strategically into the crook of Eames's neck. "Or at least wait until I make my escape," she said. "Carry on. I'll just need to borrow Mr. Pine here." She quirked an eyebrow at him and his grin broadened. He followed her dutifully as she edged away from Arthur and Eames, both of whom had lost interest in the proceedings and were blinking at each other from a very close distance.

"Devious," Chris said as they disappeared into the crowd. He had to shout to be heard over the music - Black Eyed Peas. "I like that in a woman."

"Cockblock," she replied, pointing a finger at him. "I hate that in a man."

He laughed. "Hey, I had no idea. I'm out of the way now, aren't I?" He glanced over his shoulder at the two they'd left behind. They had moved close enough to essentially breathe each other's air, still staring blankly at each other in a drunken stupor. Their lips were possibly millimeters apart. "Though it looks like they'll get there eventually."

"At the pace of a glacier, maybe." Ariadne dropped off her empty cup on a nearby end table and looked up when Chris suddenly pressed up against her side. His grin had an edge now, blue eyes dark. He really was movie star attractive-- and a CIA agent to boot?

"So tell me, what are your thoughts on Byron?"

His lines needed work, but there was no way a girl was turning this down. And after the huge favor she'd just done Arthur and his stupid roommate? Ariadne smiled back up at Chris. "I'm a Keats kind of a girl."

She deserved this.


For moleskinned: Arthur/Eames, FLAME WAR :D

shooting stars (for your attention), PG-13, 310 words

"Did you know flamethrowers are more legal than marijuana?" Eames asked conversationally.

"Watch where you're aiming that thing," is all Arthur says.

"Seriously," says Eames, and he's really not any more careful with the fucking flamethrower in his hands, "exactly how backwards is your country?"

Arthur empties his clip at the onslaught of projections and mutters, "Fuck."

Eames helpfully swings his flamethrower around and Arthur has to do a quick two-step to the left to avoid an unattractive singe on his face. "I said watch it," he growls.

"You know what else is more legal than marijuana?" Eames asks, obligingly turning his back to Arthur.

Arthur dumps his gun and bites his lip, concentrating. He conjures up a flamethrower of his own just as the ground lurches beneath his feet, throwing him into Eames. A nearby building crumbles, but the projections don't stop.

"A tank," says Eames.

"What?" says Arthur as he blazes two projections at once.

"More legal than marijuana."

"I could use a tank right now," says Arthur, because the projections just keep coming.

"What? Not having fun?" Eames beams at him and Arthur thinks the man is seriously fucked in the head. Then an arm is wrapped around his middle, jerking him backwards behind the safety of a wall as Eames produces a grenade out of nowhere, pulls the pin with his teeth, and tosses it into the crowd of hostile projections.

"Hand grenades," he says, as if Arthur honestly cares. "Also more legal than marijuana." His grin's all teeth as Edith Piaf swells in the background and Arthur doesn't know if he wants to punch him in the face or turn his flamethrower on him. Either way, they've bought enough time.

"Thank you, Mr. Eames, for the information," he says drolly and Eames just laughs at the expression on his face.

"The more you know, darling."


For cobweb_diamond: arthur/eames, groupies

five hundred chances for a first impression, PG-13, 455 words

"Out of my way," says a total asshole who elbows his way in front of Arthur.

"Excuse you," Arthur says tightly, elbowing right back. "Asshole."

The guy glances back at him and Arthur hates his face on sight. Stupidly attractive, sure, but one of those people who think they're entitled to everything in life. Like being front of the line for the meet and greet Arthur fucking pulled teeth for. It's not every day he can afford a backstage pass to meet Robert Fischer.

Jesus, just the thought of him being right in front of Arthur in five or so minutes, within touching distance. Arthur feels a bit faint. He's not about to let some douchebag get in his way.

"Don't get your panties in a twist, darling," oh my god Arthur wants to punch him in the face, what is that smug attitude, "I'm a roadie. I'm setting up."

And he ducks right under the stupid rope and Arthur is torn between hating him even more - he probably gets to talk to Fischer, Jesus Mary and Joseph, and the envy is thick in Arthur's mouth - and being wretched with mortification. What if the guy decides that Arthur's an ass and fucks with his chance to meet Fischer? What if, god, somehow lets Fischer know about the skinny dweeb at the front of the line who doesn't deserve any of his time? "Sorry," he gasps out, half-unwillingly. It doesn't come out pretty. "I'm just-- Excited."

God, now he sounds fourteen and desperate.

The guy just grins at him, condescending. "Number one fan, huh? Don't worry, you'll have your moment. Name's Eames, by the way, if you want to bitch to someone about your treatment. Fischer wants his fans to have a good experience and all."

Arthur just stares after him as the guy - Eames - disappears into the crowd of people in black t-shirts with a little two fingered salute.


Later, fumbling for coherency in front of Fischer (who is shaking his hand and Arthur is so done with feeling knock-kneed and preteen, he really is), he blurts out Eames's name. Fischer looks startled, but then a grin spreads slow across his gorgeous face.

"Yeah?" he says. "Eames, great guy. Thanks for coming, Arthur." And when Arthur gets his signed CD back, he nearly passes out to find a phone number with it.

Turns out it's not Robert Fischer's number, but Eames's. Turns out Robert Fischer, rock god and millionaire, is something of a matchmaker.

The rest of it's a long story Arthur still can't fully wrap his brain around, a year later and sprawled naked in Eames's bed as dawn creeps through the blinds and highlights a slice of Eames's cheek.

Started: 2010.11.22 | Finished: 2010.11.23
Tags: #commentfic, inception, inception: arthur/eames

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