DC in April (Inception, Eames, Arthur/Eames) - COMPLETED

[Owlinatree]

MASSIVE thanks to ithadtobesneezing on tumblr for being the best cheerleader/beta I could have asked for; here is (tentatively the first half of) an Arthur/Eames story! I’m really proud of it tbh please enjoy Eames pretending he’s not a mess 

Fandom: Inception

Pairing: Arthur/Eames

Character: Eames (allergies)

“It's a process of becoming, isn't it, love?” Eames has been asked how he makes choices for a forge. “If it serves the job, then I let the forge reflect what the mark wants. Really, it's just a matter of being.” Arthur pointedly refuses to ask any more questions, lest Eames get the impression he cares (he does).

The case they’re working is beneath both of them, a simple in-and-out extraction for an insecure millionaire, barely taking them two days to find that, while the wife finds the sex abysmal, she hasn’t cheated on the man. She also has no idea that he’s a drag queen; a rather mediocre one, a conclusion which took the entire second day for the team to agree upon. They all pocket their cash and the hush money for the whole drag thing—honestly, did he think they wouldn’t notice?—and go on their merry ways.

⸻⸻⸻

Arthur doesn't meet up with Eames again until April. This time, it’s a more complicated job; the client is an American government official, the mark an American politician. The extraction and necessary preparations take place in Washington DC, where the cherry blossoms have reached their peak, trees of all kinds debuting soft green buds. It’s a sure sign that spring is fast approaching, something which has Arthur uncharacteristically excited. This upturn finds the point man swivelling idly on his office chair, typing information into the schedule they have planned for the job. He’s not even angry when he finds out that their current forger has gotten the sack; the man was green as the new leaves just outside the windows, and Arthur’s plan has contingencies anyway.

“Yes, I’m aware that he isn’t looking for a job, but this will be worth his time. He’ll have to find a way to be here.” Arthur eases back in his chair, seeming to be entirely engrossed in his laptop. Eavesdropping isn’t exactly glamorous; he can't get caught, not if he’s to continue to feign omniscience.

“Agent Perez, I understand that you are unhappy with the previous forger,” Cobb says, “and I have made sure he’s no longer with this project, but Mr. Eames is not taking jobs at this time of—”

“I don't damn well care if he's on the best vacation of his life; this is a matter of great political and legislative import, and he will be paid handsomely for his work. We need a forger.” An Arthur less practiced at stoicism might have faltered, jolting in recognition. “I won't allow you to entrust another subpar lowlife with the future of the United States. Find a way to get him here. Your current status is secure at the hands of some important government personnel, and—Mr. Cobb, you should understand—your position is fragile and you have very little bargaining power. I don't care if you need to call in a life debt; you will get the best forger in the business to our nation’s capital, and he will work this job.”

So it is Eames, then, who is to be pulled out of London for some job that sounds about as important as any other. Governments are funny about dreamshare; strange ideas about objective good and global impact. It's all the same motivations and it's all the same work, but Arthur doesn't feel the need to correct the paychecks he receives.

⸻⸻⸻

The office they have been given is fairly soundproof, which makes it all the more jarring when the buzzer sounds. Arthur even raises an eyebrow, he’s so put out.

Their architect, a jaded senate staffer called Rowland, gets up to answer. “Yes?”

“I’ve been told to be here regardless of personal circumstance. Would you so happen to be representing the Yankee government?” Rowland’s omnipresent forehead crease seems to deepen, and she unlocks the door rather than responding.

“Brilliant, thanks!”

The door opens and closes, bringing with it a tasteless amalgamation of paisley and—are those hammer pants? Arthur is dumbfounded.

“Arthur, darling, how are you? It has to have been at least a month, but you seem to be wearing the same thing!” Arthur blinks. The pants are still there.

“Eames.”

“Oh, come on, love. This is where you tell me that it’s an entirely new suit and point out the completely different weave of your cummerbund.”

“I’m not wearing a—are those actual fucking hammer pants?” Eames beams in response, the bastard.

“You wouldn’t believe the extra room they afford.” A leer and a lecherous wink later, Arthur returns to typing furiously, ears searing and mouth firmly pursed against a treacherous smile.

⸻⸻⸻

“I won't be going under until the job,” Eames says.

Perez is seemingly unhappy with this. “I'm sorry, could you repeat that? We have an extraction in three days and you're going to, what, lounge about and jump in with a prayer?”

“No need for histrionics, pet. I’ll still do the necessary preparations, but I can't take somnacin at the moment.”

“You are aware that you work in dreamshare, yes?”

“I've a touch of hayfever.” He sniffs for effect. “Can't mix cetirizine and the PASIV, I’m afraid.”

“He's right,” Shannon interjects. “The dosage can't be predicted with an antihistamine in his bloodstream. The whole dream could be thrown off.”

“Look, I’ve not had a heads-up about this case until just now, so I’ll need the three days to get them out of my system.” Perez glares for a second at Eames, who cocks an eyebrow as if to remind him of just who’s responsible for the three day timeframe.

“You'd better know what you're doing.”

“Wouldn’t have dragged me across the bloody ocean if I didn’t.”

The day falls into a predictable jumble of internet stalking and clean sketches of painfully average locations, and Arthur sinks into the comforting routine of it all.

⸻⸻⸻

Eames displays precious few signs of his burgeoning discomfort as the extraction draws close. Arthur notes each of them obsessively. He should probably just ask Eames out, but instead he settles for meticulously categorizing each quirk of the man’s behavior.

⸻⸻⸻

“Mr. Eames, you’re—huh. Actually here before lunch.”

“As much as it may pain you to acknowledge, darling, I am a professional. I do professional things like showing up to work and the like.” Eames undercuts this by lounging back luxuriously in his chair. Arthur ponders such a paradox with a low, unintelligible grumble into his second cup of coffee.

“What, love? Are you that put out by my sparkling presence?” Eames places one melodramatic hand over his eyes, exhaling in affected grief.

“I believe it was you who said earlier that there was, what, ‘no need for histrionics?’”

Eames looses a small hum of agreement, lifting his ridiculous frappuccino toward the point man. “I suppose you think that was an answer.”

“You're tolerable most of the time, okay?” Arthur sees a crooked grin draw across the half of Eames’ face that isn't still obscured by his free hand.

“I do believe that's the nicest thing you've said to me yet, darling!” Eames still hasn't moved his hand, which is now drifting back and forth in a lazy seesaw of a motion.

“Are you rubbing your eyes? Stop that.” The hand drops suddenly, Eames squinting in a semi-guilty expression, and oh. The forger’s eyes are completely bloodshot, lids hooded and puffy.

“But it feels so good,” Eames says wistfully, fingers creeping back to worry at the edge of his left eye. Arthur leans across the desk to smack them away.

“You’re a child, I swear.”

“I’m so itchy, though,” Eames says with a groan. “Nnngh. Arthur, save me.”

⸻⸻⸻

Arthur glances at Shannon to ask about the logistics of the sedation in the particular mark. As he enters in the information to his spreadsheet, he hears a soft sound from Eames’ direction.

“Hh-egsh!” It's directed into one pinstriped shoulder, which shudders with the force of the sneeze. Arthur glances at the other man with carefully composed disgust writ on his face.

“You know quite well that allergies aren't contagious, darling.”

“That doesn't mean that you shouldn't cover your nose.”

“My hands are full! What would you have me do, drop everything to adhere to your arbitrary preferences?” Arthur sighs pointedly and swings his chair around so that he's no longer facing the forger. He spins back around when he hears Eames’ breath scissor again.

“What in the hell is that?”

“Arthur, you know what a-iihh! Eh-gishh!” Eames catches this sneeze in a square of glaringly neon orange flannel. “You know what a handkerchief is.”

“Do you buy these things with the express purpose of upsetting me?”

“I would never!” Eames blows his nose heartily, eyes closed against the safety vest-colored affront which he’d bought just that morning. It was worth every bit of the dollar forty-nine he’d paid to see the point man’s gelled hair stand on end.

“Bless you,” Arthur adds absently, already back to his spreadsheet. Eames picks his papers up from the floor, where they had been dropped when he’d hurriedly swapped them for his garish handkerchief.

[Garnet]

5 hours ago, Owlinatree said:

“No need for histrionics, pet. I’ll still do the necessary preparations, but I can't take somnacin at the moment.”

“You are aware that you work in dreamshare, yes?”

“I've a touch of hayfever.” He sniffs for effect. “Can't mix cetirizine and the PASIV, I’m afraid.”

Quick read-through of this at work, but I had to quote this bit. Your whole set-up is brilliant, but I have a special soft spot for situations where a character knows they should be on X medication for Y but can’t for Z reason. There’s such a lovely sense of resigned dread about it. 

I’ll be back to comment properly later (possibly once/if I remember what the hell happened in Inception — my roommate had me watch it semi-recently but holy shit was there a lot going on). In the meantime, you are a great writer and I’m always impressed by your talents.

[Kicker]

I have this sort of fascination with melodramatic sick characters. And while I've never really associated Eames with melodrama, this is great; this works so well. 

On 4/5/2018 at 7:37 PM, Owlinatree said:

“Are you rubbing your eyes? Stop that.” The hand drops suddenly, Eames squinting in a semi-guilty expression, and oh. The forger’s eyes are completely bloodshot, lids hooded and puffy.

“But it feels so good,” Eames says wistfully, fingers creeping back to worry at the edge of his left eye. Arthur leans across the desk to smack them away.

“You’re a child, I swear.”

“I’m so itchy, though,” Eames says with a groan. “Nnngh. Arthur, save me.”

This entire interaction, for example, is divine, thank you very much. Everything about this section here kills me.

I get really excited when I notice that a writer has incorporated allergic reactions other than just sneezing. Eames' eyes acting up is such a sweet detail (and a severely underused allergy symptom imo?). Also, him being totally annoying and asking Arthur to "save" him? I don't know if that was foreshadowing or what, but I am here for it. 

This is so fun, and quick paced and just generally amazing. If you choose to update this, I'll def keep my eye out for it. 

[Owlinatree]

On 4/6/2018 at 3:43 AM, Garblin said:

Quick read-through of this at work, but I had to quote this bit. Your whole set-up is brilliant, but I have a special soft spot for situations where a character knows they should be on X medication for Y but can’t for Z reason. There’s such a lovely sense of resigned dread about it. 

I’ll be back to comment properly later (possibly once/if I remember what the hell happened in Inception — my roommate had me watch it semi-recently but holy shit was there a lot going on). In the meantime, you are a great writer and I’m always impressed by your talents.

 Garnet!! You're too kind omg thank you! I also love this kind of situation, especially when the character knows exactly what they should be doing, but can't do that, so they know exactly what the ensuing fiasco will bring. aagh it's such a Good Thing (also resigned dread is so good; i think it's definitely a "better you than me" kind of thing with characters lol)

To be honest, I don't know how much the makers of inception wanted to make everything super clear, if that makes sense? It's got an air of affected mystery about it that I really love. Basically, what you need to know is that there's a reverse heist to be carried out in a weird alternate dimension (dreams) and there is a team assembled to carry this out, of whom a third are super capable (arthur, eames) a third are somewhat compromised but undoubtedly skilled (cobb, ariadne, yusuf) and a third are purely brought along by necessity (saito, fischer). All of them fill some sort of character type, and their interactions with each other serve in place of backstories (with the exception of fischer.) To explain the plot itself would spoil lots of things, but suffice it to say that it's complicated and has to do with the process (and ramifications) of planting an idea in someone's head. My Arthur and Eames are pretty much retired from inception (creating ideas) itself, and work mainly in (dream-technology-assisted) information extraction. Feel free to send me questions about the movie; I'm more than willing to answer them!

On 4/14/2018 at 9:26 PM, Kicker said:

I have this sort of fascination with melodramatic sick characters. And while I've never really associated Eames with melodrama, this is great; this works so well. 

I think it works for him, too! I'm not sure quite how to articulate this, but I really like the idea of Eames as a melodramatic sick person in certain scenarios /only/ because I think he uses melodrama very specifically and intentionally in order to keep control of a situation. I think of him as, for the most part, expressing himself as supremely unaffected and chill, but when he can't do that, he's able to manipulate others' perception to let him keep control of his own image. Eames playing up certain things buys him some wiggle room, so to speak.

On 4/14/2018 at 9:26 PM, Kicker said:

This entire interaction, for example, is divine, thank you very much. Everything about this section here kills me.

I get really excited when I notice that a writer has incorporated allergic reactions other than just sneezing. Eames' eyes acting up is such a sweet detail (and a severely underused allergy symptom imo?). Also, him being totally annoying and asking Arthur to "save" him? I don't know if that was foreshadowing or what, but I am here for it. 

thank you!!!  So do I, honestly. Especially in the inception universe, if one wants only part of an allergic reaction, there's always dreams! I love writing Eames being annoying, and in particular, being extra annoying to arthur. I'm super stoked that you liked that detail (i did too, haha) 

 not exaaaactly foreshadowing, because I suspect Eames could figure his way through just about anything, but (yeah)  I think Eames trusts somewhere around two people in the whole world around whom he can be vulnerable/to have his back, and he's definitely (at this point, at least) okay letting down his facade around Arthur.

On 4/14/2018 at 9:26 PM, Kicker said:

This is so fun, and quick paced and just generally amazing. If you choose to update this, I'll def keep my eye out for it. 

Thank you again! I'm actually like 2k+ words into the second half of this thing, but I'm a tiny bit stuck on whether it's...tonally a good continuation? It's definitely coming soon, when I can find the confidence to finish and post. 

I so appreciate you taking the time to respond to the story; I maybe went a bit overboard in response; whoops! 

[Owlinatree]

Ok here is part 2! I think it's done, but I'm definitely still writing this fandom. I think it suits my quirks lol

(still eames still allergies)

The job goes well, a simple matter of gathering leverage for elementary extortion; anyone would be hard-pressed to point out a hitch in the carefully coordinated heist. Arthur has, however, built his career on not being just ‘anybody,’ and a hitch is exactly what he finds. More than that, a hitch is what could have ruined the whole thing.

Eames has melted into the mark’s wife, stubble fading into amber skin, eyes darkening, voice accented slightly, hair shot through with silver and shoulders drawing back. Arthur is decidedly not impressed (he is) and watches only to ensure the success of the mission (to marvel at the ease with which Eames is no longer Eames).

It’s fortuitous, then, that Arthur has been watching so closely, because he’s able to catch the moment at which Eames’ carefully crafted façade falters, to recognize the waver in speech before it becomes a waver in the forge.

“Ryan’s on your ass about the HSA vote, but I told him you were a sure bet, so you won’t have to go to that dinner party.” Their mark is a moderate up for reelection in a swing state. He can’t be a sure bet on anything, not if he wants to keep his seat.

“Honey, you know I told you to leave politics to me. I’ll have to call him back.”

“So you lied to me? You promised that we’d get this week to ourselves!”

“It’s not like that. I can’t be a Republican lapdog—the DCCC would have a field day! I need to preserve my PR; the election’s in two months!”

“Oh, I see. Your wife goes out the window the moment your precious image is endangered. It’s good that I know where your loyalties lie.”

“Baby, no, we talked about this. I’m only going to vote with the party if we get that grain subsidy I’m going to ask for.” Arthur rolls his eyes, but jots this down nevertheless. Apparently, the FBI needed to pay several hundred thousand dollars to hire highly specialized experts in cutting-edge technology, all in order to uncover the most-Kansas-man-in-existence’s most predictably Kansas motivation. “I can’t show my cards yet. I’m a congressman, not a goddamn teleprompter!”

“I don’t give a shit what you vote, or what color the wheat in Yoder is! I care that you want dinner with the speaker of the house more than you want dinner with your wife! I care that youhh, that you want to—” Oh, shit. Arthur weighs his options, realizing that they have mere seconds before Eames sneezes and risks losing his forge. They’ve gotten what they need, but it’s vital that the congressman not realize that this wasn’t a normal dream.

Fuck it. Arthur concentrates on manipulating the dreamscape for a moment, and relaxes minutely when corn starts to sprout through the floor, tearing apart the house with deafening cracks. He sprints through the forest of green stalks, pulling aside Eames-the-wife while their mark stares in wonder at the massive ears of corn.

Eames shakes his head roughly, now back to his normal shape, as the need to sneeze returns, crushing his nose behind his wrist in order to harshly stifle two. The dream has become significantly more ridiculous as Arthur’s attention shifts to the forger, corn beginning to pop exuberantly, so he grasps Eames by the elbow and runs them out to the porch, off the steep drop designed just for this purpose.

They awaken, Cobb still soundly asleep though the dream must be collapsing without the point man there to maintain it. Eames immediately strides out of the suite, while Arthur nods at Rowland, taking a more leisurely pace as he walks to the stairs. There is only one security camera in the building—it’s in the elevator, which Eames will take. Eames plays the harried businessman well, providing perfect cover for Arthur to slip out through the lobby.

Arthur checks his watch in the stairwell before pushing into the lobby, reassured when he hears a familiar voice filter through an unfamiliar southern accent.

“I’d like to check out from room Z27?” Arthur hides a snicker. They’d purchased the room as cover for the extraction, and Eames had bemoaned having to pronounce the room number in his American accent.

“Arthur, just change the room. Zed twenty-seven, indeed.”

“Zee twenty-seven.”

“Yes, darling, I’m still perfectly aware of your country’s language deficiencies, but you won’t catch me bastardizing the bloody alphabet a second longer than I must.”

“I’m sorry, the room’s already booked.” Arthur had clicked out of the webpage then, with gusto.

“I have my room key right here, one second—” Eames turns to catch Arthur leaving, smiling slightly before he buries his face in the crook of his elbow. “IIh-GSH! Snff! Ugh, sorry, here you go.” He slides the key card across the counter, pulling a face at the closing door and the pollen which follows it inside.

“No problem! We’ve got tissues right here, if you need. Alright, so I’m just going to charge that to your card, and if you can sign here, you’ll be all set!” Eames withdraws a tissue from the box on the desk as he scrawls somebody’s signature, wrinkling his nose against the rough paper. He regrets, for a moment, that his current handkerchief is pepto-bismol pink and patterned with Hello Kitty faces, if only because now he has to subject himself to the cheap hotel Kleenex. His phone buzzes, a text from Arthur alerting him to his getaway vehicle.

“My ride’s here, gotta jet!”

“Good luck out there! Here, you look like you’ll need these.” The overeager concierge passes Eames a travel pack of tissues, and he eyes them warily as the warm evening beckons. He nods a farewell, slipping on a pair of sunglasses as a futile shield against the barrage of pollen soon to follow, and pushes outside into the awaiting sedan as quickly as he can.

“Just drive.” Arthur frowns slightly in response, complying as his companion sweeps off his sunglasses with a groan and rubs both palms up and down his face vigorously. “I swear, this is the last time I take a spring job in this bloody pollen magnet of a swamp.”

“We’ll be at the apartment in five minutes, Eames.”

“I’ll put myself together for that, then.” Eames had decided to stay with Arthur at the DC apartment they co-own after the job, where he’d before hoped to have mind-blowing sex with one attractive point man, but where he now just wanted to succumb to a proper sneezing fit in peace.

“You don’t have to do that. The neighbors won’t be put out by a sneeze or two.” Eames shakes his head, because he knows that if he lets himself start now, he won’t be able to stop at a ‘sneeze or two.’ Best not to try and convey this to Arthur, lest he risk losing his already-tenuous control. He presses a firm knuckle to the bridge of his nose and focuses on quelling the irritation rising in his sinuses, only opening an eye when a low ding indicates that the car is parked and the door open. It’s all he can do to stagger out of the passenger seat and remain mostly upright, one arm over Arthur, while he lets the other man slam the car door and lead them into the building.

“Evening, Mister Levi.”

“Good evening, Daniel. I’m afraid James isn’t feeling too well tonight.” Bless Arthur and his critical thinking. Eames squeezes his shoulder in appreciation, stepping into the elevator when its chime sounds. He has barely another two minutes to fend off his hayfever; surely he can manage that much.

Eames clamps his index finger and thumb at the tip of his nose, where the relentless, pollen-induced itch converges. He hazards a few hitching breaths through his mouth, squinting harshly against the overwhelming need to clear out the source of his irritation. The floors whir past them, but Eames is only able to keep track of the escalating urge to, it would be so easy now, the elevator opens before them, he lets Arthur guide as he stumbles along, hears the satisfying crunch of the key and the crash of the door and then encompassing silence, there, he can—

“James, we’re h—”

“ihh-gESH! EGSHoo! eh-iggTCH! gSH-uh! hhhhii-ETSCH-eISCH-EHGSHiew!”

“We’re home.” Arthur finishes lamely, thrown by the intensity with which Eames has succumbed to his allergies.

“hg-ESCH!” Eames agrees.

“Can I get you—no, wait, I’ll find your handkerchiefs.” Eames could cry in gratitude. Hello Kitty’s soggy countenance mocks him from its vantage point in his hands. He sneezes viciously into the sodden pink folds in retribution. Repeated retribution.

“I was right! You really did buy those to fuck with me!” Arthur has returned from the bedside drawer brandishing a handful of Eames’ normal handkerchiefs, soft flannel squares of nondescript greens and blues. “You know, I think I’ll keep these as evidence that you live to make my life ridiculous.”

“Ehh-gisshx! Snnf-snff!” Eames lodges his protest, one hand clutching the thoroughly-defeated pink rag to his nose, the other grabbing blindly at Arthur. “Snff!”

“Alright, okay, okay! Goodness, Mr. Eames.” There follows the weight of a handkerchief in his hand, as Arthur takes pity on the forger, whose hitching breaths signal the arrival of another fit. Eames immediately drops the now useless feline monstrosity—and really, why would he, of all people, want a handkerchief with cats on it?—to the floor, gesturing impatiently for the rest of the fabric. Arthur dutifully presses the rest of them into his hand before returning to the bedroom.

Eames drives his next wave of sneezes into a fresh handkerchief, using another to scrub roughly at the rest of his face. He groans through thick congestion when he tries (and fails) to blow his nose. What, even, is the point of all the fucking fluid in his sinuses if he can’t even move any of it through his nose? Eames dabs angrily at his useless nostrils, which seem to still have both leaking and dripping down perfectly. He mops at his eyes with yet another cotton square, venturing a solid rub to his waterline with his knuckles while Arthur is out of the room.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“About wh-hih!-what?”

“Eames, your eyes will be sore enough without you attacking them.”

“I’ve ndo idea what you’re od about.” Eames hears himself let out an involuntary moan of pleasure as he continues to knuckle at his abused eyes, momentarily easing the bright-hot itch that lays across his face.

“From the noise, you’re either jacking off next to the door or being a idiot and further irritating your eyes. Since neither are acceptable, I repeat. Don’t even think about it.” Eames stops, grumbling to himself itchily. Is that an adverb? If it isn’t, he’s just created it. He feels the telltale prickle of yet more sneezes working their way through his tortured sinuses and sighs sadly, using the heel of his palm to mash his nose about in a vain attempt to quash the upcoming event. It squelches. He has about half a second to consider the pitiful antics of his nose before the quivering object in question sends him pitching forward into another useless set of sneezes.

He could tell his nose that it’s not worth trying to clear the pollen that’s taken residence in his person—he should know, he’s tried to blow his nose several times tonight—but instead he settles in, resigned, for the latest round of expulsions. Arthur returns just in time to find Eames gearing up for the last sneeze of that particular bunch, eyes narrowed to slits and mouth gaping. Eames is miserably propped against the wall, one arm flung to the side for balance, the other hand clutching a limp handkerchief in the general area in front of his face.

He tips forward, bending with an “eh-giSH!” which lacks the sharpness of the night’s initial sneezes. Arthur somehow doesn’t attribute this to an improvement in his condition, worry buzzing low in his stomach.

“Take a shower. I got a change of clothes for you.” He worries just a little bit more when, rather than taking the opportunity to suggestively invite Arthur into the shower with him, Eames merely dips his head in acquiescence and shuffles toward the bathroom. Arthur doesn’t try to hide that he follows Eames closely, slipping past him to open the bathroom door. Inside, the shower is already running just hotter than he himself likes it, so that the steam can loosen some of the congestion that Arthur can hear snagging each of Eames’ breaths.

⸻

It soon becomes apparent why Eames didn’t want company in the shower when a renewed flurry of sneezing echoes past the walls of the bathroom between snippets of a truly upsetting attempt at humming Say My Name. Arthur has sat himself on the living room couch, trying to think of something useful to do, while the steam and water allow Eames to finally go about properly ridding himself of his congestion. He’s somewhat taken aback by the endurance of this allergy attack, and impressed by the way Eames hadn’t let on how affected he was until after the job. Also, he’s horrified by the current jazzy rendition of classic Destiny’s Child. Arthur’s a professional; he can respect professionalism when professionalism is displayed.

These musings are interrupted by the sound of another sneeze, which in turn is interrupted by the clatter of several mostly-empty plastic bottles, themselves interrupted by Eames’ deafening shout.

“Bloody fuck!” Arthur, after a moment of panic, slides his pistol back beneath its cushion of residence, raising his eyes briefly toward the ceiling.

“I’ve not died, thanks for asking!” Eames’ voice is a wreck, reedy and cracked, completely fading out in the last syllable. The shower has paused.

“You sound less congested.”

“Arthur! I always knew you were an optimist!” Eames stage whispers cheerfully before resuming his shower. Arthur, very much out of his depth, escapes to the kitchen, setting water to boil in lieu of a response to such absurdity. He’s not too far to hear Eames coughing painfully, not too far to escape his own pervasive worry. Arthur pulls a bottle of honey from the cabinet, where he’d set it yesterday after stopping by the farmer’s market on his way home, glaring at the small amber bear. He doesn’t even like honey.

⸻

At some point while Arthur makes tea for both of them, Eames finishes up in the shower and wanders out. He has the left sleeve of his thermal scrunched by his elbow, and scratches absently at his wrist as he comes into the kitchen. Arthur marvels for a moment at this softer version of the forger; hair poking up here and there, sweatpants just this side of too short. His face belies the allergy attack that he’s still working through; his normally sharp bone structure is hidden behind histamine-induced swelling, eyes ringed in angry red.

Arthur is … not exactly a people person. He can understand basic motivations and the like, but subtleties escape him. He ends up shoving a mug of tea, heavily doctored with honey, at Eames, less with words and more with a grunt of intent. Eames, bless him, seems to understand, breaking into a soft smile before accepting the proffered drink. They perch on the kitchen stools, Eames cupping the mug in his hands and Arthur swivelling to and fro, uncertain. It’s quiet, skirting the line of awkward.

“What’s that?” Arthur cringes as he asks. Way to preserve the moment.

“Pardon?”

“On your wrist.”

“Hmm? Oh, I guess I must have touched some plant. It’s alright, love. Happens.” Arthur remembers, suddenly, that he’s wearing the suit which he wore whilst sneaking through a bush earlier. He looks down at his shoulders where, to his horror, there’s a streak of yellow dust where Eames had rested an arm earlier.

“Oh, crap. That was my fault. Fuck.”

“‘S’alright; I’ve had hives before. Just, shower, I guehh...iihh!—not again—heh…ihGXT! hhNGt!” Eames lets out a tiny whimper, pushing the heels of his hands into his cheekbones. The stifles have clearly not helped to mitigate the intensity of his sneezes, hunching Eames forward and worsening the sinus headache he’d developed. Arthur twitches forward to offer assistance, aborts the motion, and pops off his stool somewhat clumsily.

“‘M’okay, love. Nothing dangerous.”

“I’m going to shower. And strip.” Eames is feeling well enough to pull a crooked smile, raising his eyebrows.

“See that you do that.” Arthur has left, again. He’s talking to nobody. Eames takes quiet comfort in Arthur’s agitation, seeing it for the concern it is. He sips at the tea Arthur made for him, American though it may be, pausing for a second when he tastes honey.

Arthur despises honey.

He grins at the mug, warmed by both beverage and affection, letting the honey-laden tea soothe his throat. Eames drowses, elbow propped on the counter, enveloped by the susurrus of the shower. Arthur showers the way he does everything else; practically and without excess, the perfect backdrop to Eames’ impromptu nap.

⸻

He’s roused by a gentle shake, pulling his head up from its resting place on his fist. He’s a bit of a mess, but Arthur doesn’t seem to care as he murmurs something softly, an open kindness in his eyes.

“Whassat?” Arthur’s eyes crease in amusement.

“I’m going to bed. You’re welcome to join, if you don’t want to stay on the marble all night.” Eames runs a hand down his face, feeling the exhaustion set deep in himself.

“Right. I’ve got to call Perez to beg off a few days before research starts for the next boring government bloke, but I’ll be there.”

“Are you sure? The honey helped a bit, but you still sound like shit.”

“Thank you for your contribution, Arthur.” He’s touched, in a way. Eames stands and sways a bit, a sneeze wrenching out of him as the remaining congestion shifts. “Ehh-gishh! Ugh.” He rummages around a cabinet for a moment, before brandishing a small bottle. “Aha!”

“Were you keeping throat spray in the pasta drawer?”

“Ah. No? Well, it’s a cabinet, darling.” Arthur takes a slow, deliberate breath. He starts to respond and thinks better of it, crossing his arms and not bothering to conceal the smile that crops up.

“Make your call. I’ll stay home as well, I guess.” Eames does, affecting a smooth sort of drawl that belies a night of celebration and vice. Arthur calls after, and Perez, though predictably apoplectic, sounds considerably less bewildered when he hangs up. They bundle into bed, Arthur tucking pillows beneath Eames until he’s basically sitting up. Eames flips around to face him.

“Would you like to be the little spoon tonight?”

“I’m not even the little spoon on regular nights.” Eames can’t see Arthur through the dark, but he can just about feel the exasperated squint from where he is. “Anyway, you’ll inevitably wind up sneezing and headbutting me, and I wouldn’t want to have to murder you after I already went to the trouble of making you tea.” They settle in then, Arthur rubbing Eames’ back lightly. Eames gives in to the heady weight of his exhaustion, and is almost asleep when he remembers his original plan for the apartment.

“Right then, want to get to the wild sex marathon Perez is expecting?”

“Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”

[AngelEyes]

OMG. I Love this! So much!

6 hours ago, Owlinatree said:

The dream has become significantly more ridiculous as Arthur’s attention shifts to the forger, corn beginning to pop exuberantly, so he grasps Eames by the elbow and runs them out to the porch, off the steep drop designed just for this purpose.

LOL

6 hours ago, Owlinatree said:

“Arthur, just change the room. Zed twenty-seven, indeed.”

“Zee twenty-seven.”

“Yes, darling, I’m still perfectly aware of your country’s language deficiencies, but you won’t catch me bastardizing the bloody alphabet a second longer than I must.”

This is great.

 

6 hours ago, Owlinatree said:

Eames shakes his head, because he knows that if he lets himself start now, he won’t be able to stop at a ‘sneeze or two.’

My favorite trope.

 

6 hours ago, Owlinatree said:

Eames stops, grumbling to himself itchily. Is that an adverb? If it isn’t, he’s just created it.

I like "itchily".

 

6 hours ago, Owlinatree said:

He’s somewhat taken aback by the endurance of this allergy attack, and impressed by the way Eames hadn’t let on how affected he was until after the job.

Totally fantastic.

 

6 hours ago, Owlinatree said:

Arthur is … not exactly a people person. He can understand basic motivations and the like, but subtleties escape him. He ends up shoving a mug of tea, heavily doctored with honey, at Eames, less with words and more with a grunt of intent. Eames, bless him, seems to understand, breaking into a soft smile before accepting the proffered drink.

Awwww!

 

6 hours ago, Owlinatree said:

“Were you keeping throat spray in the pasta drawer?”

“Ah. No? Well, it’s a cabinet, darling.” Arthur takes a slow, deliberate breath.

LOL

 

6 hours ago, Owlinatree said:

“I’m not even the little spoon on regular nights.” Eames can’t see Arthur through the dark, but he can just about feel the exasperated squint from where he is. “Anyway, you’ll inevitably wind up sneezing and headbutting me, and I wouldn’t want to have to murder you after I already went to the trouble of making you tea.”

Adorable

 

6 hours ago, Owlinatree said:

“Right then, want to get to the wild sex marathon Perez is expecting?”

“Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”

Love the ending!

I would totally read more of these two from you! So feel free!

[Kicker]

Augh! I was really looking forward to this update. You're writing is so good! And I have so much to say!

On 4/19/2018 at 3:24 PM, Owlinatree said:

The job goes well, a simple matter of gathering leverage for elementary extortion; anyone would be hard-pressed to point out a hitch in the carefully coordinated heist. Arthur has, however, built his career on not being just ‘anybody,’ and a hitch is exactly what he finds. More than that, a hitch is what could have ruined the whole thing.

Eames has melted into the mark’s wife, stubble fading into amber skin, eyes darkening, voice accented slightly, hair shot through with silver and shoulders drawing back. Arthur is decidedly not impressed (he is) and watches only to ensure the success of the mission (to marvel at the ease with which Eames is no longer Eames).

First of all, great opening. Right off the bat. I really don't have much to say about this, but it was such a fun introduction to this continuation that I really felt I had to let you know. 

On 4/19/2018 at 3:24 PM, Owlinatree said:

he’s able to catch the moment at which Eames’ carefully crafted façade falters, to recognize the waver in speech before it becomes a waver in the forge.

And you followed it up oh so beautifully.

I love this idea of the forge and dream universe being affected by his sneezing? I mean, I feel like it would be anyway. But I'm so glad somebody decided to do something with that idea.

On 4/19/2018 at 3:24 PM, Owlinatree said:

Fuck it. Arthur concentrates on manipulating the dreamscape for a moment, and relaxes minutely when corn starts to sprout through the floor, tearing apart the house with deafening cracks. He sprints through the forest of green stalks, pulling aside Eames-the-wife while their mark stares in wonder at the massive ears of corn.

Eames shakes his head roughly, now back to his normal shape, as the need to sneeze returns, crushing his nose behind his wrist in order to harshly stifle two. The dream has become significantly more ridiculous as Arthur’s attention shifts to the forger, corn beginning to pop exuberantly, so he grasps Eames by the elbow and runs them out to the porch, off the steep drop designed just for this purpose.

The absurdity of what happens during his dream is so interesting. The visual stimulation of what was going on definitely contributed to my interest! I'm a sucker for surrealist environments and this part of the fic definitely catered to that. I dig it!

On 4/19/2018 at 3:24 PM, Owlinatree said:

“I’ve ndo idea what you’re od about.” Eames hears himself let out an involuntary moan of pleasure as he continues to knuckle at his abused eyes, momentarily easing the bright-hot itch that lays across his face.

“From the noise, you’re either jacking off next to the door or being a idiot and further irritating your eyes. Since neither are acceptable, I repeat. Don’t even think about it.”

And this I loved. Everything about this interaction. I love that description, "bright-hot itch". That's really good. It's probably one of the best descriptions I've heard to describe any kind of allergic irritation. And Arthur's hilarious (but sweet in a completely involuntary way because, oh that's so precious he knows Eames well enough to assume his condition and reaction) response? Killer. 

This is probably obvious, but it's exciting to find some quality Inception content. And I thoroughly enjoyed this. 

[starpollen]

On 4/20/2018 at 6:24 AM, Owlinatree said:

Eames drowses, elbow propped on the counter, enveloped by the susurrus of the shower.

I love this word.  "susurrus"  Just such a little jeweled darling of a word!    Thank you for that!

[Owlinatree]

On 4/20/2018 at 1:11 AM, AngelEyes said:

OMG. I Love this! So much!

Thank you 

 

3 hours ago, Kicker said:

Augh! I was really looking forward to this update. You're writing is so good! And I have so much to say!

 Thank you so much??? Your comments lowkey made my night, so  

3 hours ago, Kicker said:

And this I loved. Everything about this interaction. I love that description, "bright-hot itch". That's really good.

Aaaaah thank omg I worked on (and reworked) that little exchange a lot and i personally really liked how it turned out so thank you?? Their lil skills and idiosyncrasies are so fun to play with and result in some interesting interactions to play with. Also i liked "bright-hot itch" too! there's, i don't know, something past tickling or prickling, that's not quite burning, that comes with an allergic reaction that i felt like needed to be described. I'm glad you thought that an accurate descriptor!

3 hours ago, Kicker said:

This is probably obvious, but it's exciting to find some quality Inception content. And I thoroughly enjoyed this. 

You're pretty new, so you might not have read LeapYearKisses' inception drabble thread(s! there are two!) and if you haven't, definitely give them a read because they keep me happy! Thank you so much, though! You've been so kind! I was kinda craving some more inception fic, so i wrote it, and, hmm! I thoroughly enjoyed writing it as well!

 

2 hours ago, starpollen said:

I love this word.  "susurrus"  Just such a little jeweled darling of a word!    Thank you for that!

 (<---- actual footage of me when i saw that you commented on my fic) !!!!!!! I'm a bit taken aback here ahhh I adore Tommy and Haley so much omg thank you! Mmm yeah I always look for an excuse to use certain words that just...feel? nice? I'm not certain how to describe it, but the little shimmy-whisper of susurrus, almost-but-not-quite onomatopoeia is so appealing. Thank you for commenting!