Specificity, darling

Fic: Proverbial Phrases

2011-06-17T03:19:16Z

Two Big Bang Theory drabble challenges. I got Third Place for the first drabble and First Place for the second one.

Drabble One: Better sit beside him than in his place

“You're sitting in my chair,” Sheldon informs Zack.

“And?” The other man doesn't seem to get it.

“And it's my chair. No one sits in my chair.”

“Well, you're someone, aren't you?”

“Yes. What's your point?”

“If you're 'someone' and 'no one 'sits in your chair then you can't sit in your chair,” Zack points out.

Sheldon opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He snaps it shut again, looking like he wants to refute the statement.

There is a short silence and the rest of the room waits with bated breath, wondering what his next move will be.

“Zack, Zack, Zack. Have you never heard the Old English saying, 'Better sit beside him than in his place'?”

“Well, sure. You can sit next to me if you want,” the broad-shouldered brunet offers kindly.

“That's not what I meant...” The physicist twitches.

“So what did you mean?” Zack asks, scratching his head.

Sheldon twitches again, looking like he's having convulsions as his right eye spasms uncontrollably. “Just give me my seat back!”

“Whoa, easy there,” Zack says as he relents, holding his hands up. “All right, all right. Here you go.”

Sheldon sinks into his seat, letting out a small sigh of contentment as all is right with his world again.

“Oh, by the way,” Zack pipes up. “You're wrong. The saying is an Irish one.”

Drabble Two: Do not add legs to the snake after you have finished drawing it

Out of nowhere, Sheldon speaks up, “You know what saying makes no sense at all?”

“Is this a trick question?” Leonard asks warily, cracking open his can of soda.

The other man continues as if he'd never spoken at all. “Do not add legs to the snake after you have finished drawing it.”

Leonard considers the proverb, trying to test it out from all sides, views and angles. He can't come up with a single thing. “All right. Why doesn't it make sense?” he finally asks.

“Because everyone knows that once you add legs to a snake, it's not a snake anymore. It's just a giant lizard.”

End

Fics: Rubber Duckies. Colourful Songs. For the Record.

2011-06-17T03:12:55Z

Three short drabbles for another Big Bang challenge.

Fic: Rubber Duckies
Author: zeto
Word Count: 400+
Genre: Attempts at humour
Prompt: Happy

“What is happiness?”

The question has been plaguing him all day.

At first, Howard thinks it is obvious. Big assets like a mansion, a nice car, hundreds of video games and two hot blondes with even bigger...assets.

But as his day progresses, he finds himself thinking that there has to be more to it than just that, and before long he is contemplating on what the others would define as happiness.

Howard chuckles to himself. He imagines that Raj's happiness includes becoming a well-hung billionaire named the Indira Gandhi of particle astrophysics. One with wings, of course.

No doubt for Penny, it would be making it big in L.A. and landing a role in a popular TV show.

For Leonard it would, of course, be Penny and their smart and beautiful (not to mention imaginary) children.

The engineer's thoughts are naturally led to Sheldon, since it is through Leonard that Howard has been afflicted with the socially-awkward prodigy's presence. He ponders on Sheldon's type of happiness but decides the headache is not worth the effort. At the very least though, he figures it's something complicated and confusing, much like the man himself.

As he slides into his warm and frothy bubble bath at the end of a long day, Howard decides to stop thinking about the others and concentrate on his own happiness. He settles down, glass of red wine near his side, and carefully wipes his hands clean, gingerly sliding his new comic book free from its sleeve. He can almost smell it; that fresh, new comic book scent he is sure all new comic books exude.

Ahhh, yes... this, he decides, is happiness.

All of a sudden the phone rings (how dare it?!) and cuts through his downtime. In a vain attempt, the young man tries to ignore it. It's a shame it's accompanied by the distinctly-shrill voice of his mother.

“HOWARD! IT'S THE PHONE!”

“I hear the phone!”

“THEN WHY AREN'T YOU ANSWERING IT?”

“I'm in the bath, ma! Why aren't you answering it?”

There's silence, and Howard figures his mother has answered it. He flips open the first page of his comic.

“HOWARD! IT'S FOR YOU. IT'S YOUR FRIEND, LEONARD! THE SHORT ONE!”

“Well, tell him I'm busy!”

“I'LL TELL HIM TO CALL YOU BACK AFTER YOUR BATH TIME, AND DON'T LET THE RUBBER DUCKIES GET STUCK IN THE DRAIN AGAIN!”

He twitches, and decides that, yes, happiness must be moving out and finding a place of his own.

The end!

Fic: Colourful Songs
Author: zeto
Word Count: 200+
Genre: Attempts at humour
Prompt: Blue

Shel-don Coo-per noun \ˈshel-dən\ \ˈkü-pər, ˈku̇-\
A biologically-male person with a B.S., M.S., M.A., Ph.D. and Sc.D. A Caltech theoretical physicist, visiting professor, Tuvan throat singer. A lover of musicals, Lord of the Rings and comic books. Geek. Child prodigy. OCD. Socially-inept. Tall. Skinny. Reacts adversely to caffeine and alcohol. Also, Valium. A logical person with an eidetic memory and an IQ of 187.

Yes, Penny thinks to herself, Sheldon Cooper is a man of many things.

This, however, is not something she had ever expected of him.

Well, Sheldon on stage in front of a massive crowd isn't so implausible after a slutty Cuba Libre or two. Sheldon singing on aforementioned stage isn't so odd either. His song choice however...

“It's all because of you,
I'm feeling sad and blue
You went away,
Now my life is just a rainy day
And I love you so,
How much you'll never know
You've gone away and left me lonely.”

“Sheldon, I didn't know you were a fan of Sukiyaki,” Penny pipes up with a grin as the rambunctious crowd cheers him off the stage.

“Sukiyaki?” He repeats, giving her a strange look. “That isn't Sukiyaki. That was Utada Hikaru. In Japan, her country of origin, the last name goes first. She's very popular there.”

Penny refrains from rolling her eyes. Just barely. "I know who Utada Hikaru is!"

"You shouldn't end your sentences with the word 'is'. The correct thing to say would be, 'I know who is Utada Hikaru'."

The blonde's grey eyes narrow. "Oh yeah? Well, what's the correct way to remove microphones from throats?"

As the physicist is about to reply, he hears the karaoke machine start up the familiar strains of another favourite song and he quickly claims the microphone again.

“But I see your true colours
Shining through
I see your true colours
And that's why I love you
So don't be afraid to let them show
Your true colours,
True colours, are beautiful,
Like a rainbow.”

Penny refrains from rolling her eyes. Barely. She wonders what song is next. Probably something like Lady in Red, given the theme of the last few songs.

Sheldon bows to the audience's applause and just as he is about to make his exit, the next song comes on.

“Oh yay! Colors of the Wind!” He exclaims and proceeds to spend the rest of the night hogging the microphone.

END

Fic: For the Record
Author: zeto
Word Count: 200+
Genre: Attempts at humour
Prompt: Your Face is Stupid (though it can also fit under the category of 'games' as well since I mention both tennis and Age of Conan)

Leonard returns to the couch, passing Penny a bowl of popcorn. Giving her a slight nudge, he quietly prompts her to scoot over.

Now would be a disastrous time to interrupt the entertainment, just when it's getting good. Like any decent tennis match, the two of them watch with rapt fascination, heads simultaneously sweeping back and forth, from one side to the another.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Well...well, your face is stupid then!”

“Your hair is stupid!”

“Your mom is stupid!”

“Your--your shoes are stupid and leave my mom out of this!”

“You started it!”

“No, you started it!”

“You started it and your Age of Conan character is stupid!”

Howard's eyes widen, mouth dropping in shock. “...That was below the belt and entirely uncalled for!”

“You insulted my hair!”

“Well, you insulted my mother!”

“As if that's hard to do!”

At that moment, Sheldon shuffles into the living room. “Howard, you're an idiot.”

The Jewish brunet glares.

“Raj, Penny's in the room.”

The astrophysicist manages a tiny, high-pitched 'eep' before his hands fly up and clamp over his mouth.

Just before he turns and leaves, having accomplished his mission for peace and quiet, Sheldon has one last thing to say though.

“And for the record, both your characters suck.”

THE END!

zeto @ 2011-06-15T05:32:00

2011-06-15T12:26:16Z

Boys
***************

Girls
************

Text
***********

White
**********

Glasses
************

Crack
Title: Too Much Information
Author: zeto
WC: 550+

All in all, it had been a fairly ordinary, typical day for Sheldon. He'd gotten up at his usual, watched Doctor Who on the telly while consuming a bowl of Big Bran. Leonard had risen shortly after, and the two had gone about their usual routine.

They'd gone in to work, had lunch with Howard and Raj in the cafeteria at their usual table without inadvertently coming onto strange, if handsome, men, and then gone about their merry ways, finishing up another productive day at Caltech. Well, productive for him anyway. He wasn't certain if the others managed to accomplish much and he knew Howard hadn't gotten anything done. After all, the man didn't even have a doctoral degree.

Leonard had driven him home at the end of their workday and he had spent a shirt while conversing with Amy Farrah Fowler. She'd relayed an amusing anecdote about crazy honey badgers, and if Sheldon were a Harry Potter fan, he would have had a new-found respect for Hufflepuffs. As it was, he just hoped he'd never run into one of those animals anytime soon.

Dinner had been a quiet affair as Raj had been called away to a conference and Penny apparently had a hot date with some guy she'd accidentally spilled a dish on at the Cheesecake Factory at lunchtime. The man somehow had been charmed instead of churlish when she'd begun to apologize and had insisted in taking her out to dinner to make up for it.

Sheldon, of course, didn't see what the man had to make up for. After all, he'd been the wronged party. But it meant a Penny-free evening and Sheldon was all for that.

Yes, all in all, it had been a nice, normal day.

Until Sheldon received a text shortly before his bedtime. He'd just changed into his jammies, the red ones since it was a Monday night, brushed and flossed his teeth and had been about to slide under the covers when his cell phone had gone off, making that familiar little noise. The phaser-sound he'd set his incoming-text tone to.

He'd checked his messages and found a text from Howard, opening it up to read it.

And that was all it had taken to ruin a perfectly good day. One hundred and seventy-nine characters. Three periods. One comma. Such a tiny little thing, really. But with such far-reaching consequences.

It was kind of tragic, really. Howard "Ham-Fisted" Wolowitz, though not a doctor like the rest of the gang, had become something of a friend to Sheldon. Despite his unusual obsession with quirky belt buckles, his numerous failed attempts to woo Penny and his sister Missy, Sheldon thought he might actually miss the shorter man.

He shook his head, tsking.

There really wasn't any other option. Nope. It looked like murder was his only choice left.

And really, if anyone asked, it was Howard's fault in the first place.

After all, no one would fault him for taking revenge for being the wrong recipient on the end of a drunken text that should have gone to Bernadette, correct?

Especially when aforementioned text included something along the lines of Howard mentioning that he'd be bringing the chocolate syrup over for some “fun times tonight” and that he “couldn't wait to see that sexy little outfit, the one with the lace and garter belt”.

There really was such a thing, Sheldon decided, as too much information.

Fic: Of Flesh and Bone

2011-06-14T16:47:15Z

Title: Of Flesh and Bone
Author: zeto
Recipient: ravenna_c_tan
Rating: R
Word Count: 2500~
Warnings: Dub con, slash, angst, dark, one-sided Snaco.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling. I don't own these characters.

Summary: Years down the road, Draco finds out the hard way, that Snape is still alive.

Notes: So I wrote this fic about half a year ago and never got around to posting it. It was written for the Snaco Exchange and I had a lot of fun writing it. I may have snuck a line or two from Inception in here somewhere. :P My thanks to TK for the beta. The rest of the mistakes are mine. And no, this isn't the HP fic I was talking about in my last LJ entry (which was two months ago). This is a different fic. X_x I need to work on posting in a timely manner.

Draco is twenty four years old.

He is twenty four and he has never felt older, nor more alone. Lucius hadn't made it. Despite being spared from Azkaban, the fall from grace had affected him more deeply than Draco or Narcissa could ever have fathomed. Physically, the head of the Malfoy family had been fine. But something inside had undergone a transformation, a metamorphosis. Invisible, irrevocable. Lucius Malfoy had finally suffered a blow from which he could not recover, and his fragile empire had finally fallen like a house of cards falling prey to a strong gust of wind.

~*~

Lucius had slowly changed from the proud tall man people feared, revered and hated into a pitiful ghost of a shell, a mere shade of his former self. Narcissa had tried very hard to maintain a cheerful facade, to pretend everything was all right as the family bore on in silence. But Draco had found it impossible to stomach. Their manor, once resplendent and lavish, now creaked and moaned with the ghosts of those who had been murdered behind closed doors. It had become a tomb, and Draco had come to loathe every room, every corridor, every mirror and painting. He had come to despise the opulent carpets, the rich, velvet drape and curtains, the crystal chandeliers. A gilded, gleaming cage but a cage nonetheless.

Draco had hated it. Every moment of it. But if there was only one thing he had gained from the choices he had made and the knowledge attained too late, it had been that in the end, the only people on his side were his flesh, bone and blood. In the end, he had only had his mother and father be there for him. So the moment he had finished his 'eighth year' at school, Draco had returned home and resigned himself to an empty life in an empty manor. Certainly, his father and mother still walked the halls but some days they had felt more like paper-thin waifs or murky ghosts than corporeal flesh.

It seemed as though they had a personal Dementor stalking the very halls and rooms of the manor, slowly draining what little joy had been left.

Draco had lived in the manor, day in and day out, feeling as though he was fading into the wallpaper. And perhaps he had been. Perhaps one day, he would have woken up and found himself trapped in the walls, in the very brick, glass and wood of the manor, nothing more than a dusty memory.

It had been the morning of his twentieth birthday when his mother had come to him, and told him to leave.

Draco had protested. A feeble, token attempt to persuade his mother to change her mind. But in the end, he had packed a small suitcase and left for London, hoping to make a name for himself and restore the reputation of the Malfoy's.

~*~

Wizards and witches it seems, have long memories, especially when they've been wronged. Everyone seemed to take a perverse pleasure in kicking him out of their establishments. Some of them don't even let him get his name out before they tell him they're not hiring. Others, the worst of the lot, allow him an interview, ask for references and even go so far as to give him a tiny tendril of hope before they boot him out. The smug smiles on their faces, tell him otherwise; they are looking to hire but not Malfoy scum. Not a Malfoy. Never a Malfoy.

~*~

Draco is twenty four years old, and he hasn't once set foot back on the soil of the manor. He's come close a few times, to putting ink to paper, spinning falsehoods about his life and his job, making it appear as though things are fine, as though he's not wasting away in London, and sending an owl to his mother about a visit, but at the last minute, he always changes his mind.

It's taken him two years but he finally gets hired. An elderly lady has him stocking shelves, sweeping floors and taking inventory in her dusty, old shop full of forgotten curios. It's undignified, beneath a Malfoy, but when one has nothing left, it's really not that undignified after all, is it?

Mrs. Beaumont eventually comes to trust him and leaves him to close shop each night; her aching bones can't handle the long hours anymore and her own lazy son 'has better things' to be doing.

One night, Draco gets caught in a sudden snowfall after closing up. He has no desire to return to an empty home, heat up his lonely meal for one and eat his pitiful food, so he ducks into a dimly-lit pub. He expects to be kicked out, asked to leave if he's lucky or physically removed from the tavern if he's not.

Turns out the barkeep doesn't care so long as he has Galleons to spend and he doesn't bother the other patrons.

And that's how it starts.

One Firewhiskey at a little pub after a long day at work. It burns on the way down, settling in the pool of his stomach like liquid fire. It warms him up and allows him to forget the failures that litter his life.

Soon it turns into a drink or two after work once a week or so.

Then it's a couple of drinks a couple times a week.

Then it's three drinks. Four. Five.

Pretty soon, if Draco isn't at work, he's in the pub. It's better than being alone, and there's the added bonus of not having to think. About his life. About his past. About the mistakes that continue to plague him at the corners of his consciousness. About the latest letter that's arrived by owl from his mother: Lucius died in his sleep. She writes him this missive but they both know the truth; Lucius Malfoy had died a long, long time ago. There had been nothing left of the man in the end.

He's just finished his fifth drink tonight. Draco morosely studies the bottom of his mug. Maybe it has something to offer him, but no, it is discouragingly empty and the last dregs incessantly mock him instead. He signals to the quiet bartender and asks for another.

The broad-shouldered young wizard takes one look at him, considers the glassy look in his eyes and slurs of his words and shakes his head.

Draco's eyes darken and his jaw clenches. Perhaps it's the alcohol clouding his mind, but he foolishly pulls his wand out and--

He gasps, as a fist closes around his wrist, the grip hard and painful enough to leave reddening marks on his pale flesh.

“You stupid, foolish boy,” a familiar voice sneers. “Surely you've lost your wits if you think you can get away with hexing someone, given your position, your status in the Wizarding World.”

Draco looks up, mind swimming with liquor. Recognition flashes through his eyes before the booze decides to finally take over and he passes out.

~*~

When he wakes the next morning, a drum playing a merry tune along the front of his skull. A rhythm-less, offkey tune. Rolling over, Draco shrinks from the bright glare of morning sweeping in through the window. He licks his dry lips and then runs his tongue over the roof of his mouth; it tastes like sawdust.

Biting back a groan, he brings a hand over his face and wipes his eyes. His memory leads him on a merry chase and the events from the night before come back to him in a hazy rush.

Jackknifing, Draco's eyes widen. The sudden movement has him groaning. This, he decides dimly, is what regret must feel like. A relentless, pounding staccato in his head.

The pain doesn't dissuade his thoughts though. Draco is absolutely certain he saw Professor Snape last night. Black, piercing eyes, pale skin and black, lanky hair, the man is distinctly memorable. And in Draco's eyes, regardless of what happened all those years ago, regardless of where they are in life now, the man will always remain his professor.

Gingerly rising from his bed, Draco is careful not to jostle his head. He meanders to the kitchen and makes himself a cup of tea. It probably won't help his hangover, but it wouldn't hurt. As he adds a touch of cream to his drink, he realizes how disparagingly empty is his fridge, housing a lonely carton of milk, some wrinkly vegetables and a slab of hard butter; it feels like a sad metaphor for his life. Carrying the hot mug to the small, little living room, he's about to take a sip when he stops dead in the doorway.

What little colour his face has is lost completely at the sight of the apparition sitting in his ratty, old armchair. The mug falls from nerveless fingers, plummeting to the floor and shattering upon impact. An expletive explodes from his lips when the scalding liquid splashes his feet.

Snape, of flesh and bone, is perched on his chair. He raises an eyebrow, eyeing the mess on the floor.

Draco opens his mouth, finds himself unable to think of anything to say and snaps his mouth shut. It takes a few moments for the gears in his brain to start turning.

“You...you're dead,” he finally blurts.

“I beg to differ,” Snape dryly replies. “Seeing as I am sitting here, in this dismal, cold little flat of yours.”

Draco straightens his posture, spine stiffening with something he hasn't felt in a long time, something that if he were to examine a little more closely, he might qualify as anger or rage. “Yes, well, no one is holding you here against your will. If you're here to insult me, don't bother.”

“Perhaps,” comes the voice, silky as Draco remembers, and just as deadly in its wit and barbed reply, “I wouldn't have to be here if you weren't trying to do yourself in.”

“I am doing no such thing. Don't tell me the Vow is still in effect? You fulfilled that duty years ago.”

Somehow, two minutes with Snape has Draco reverting back to his former self. Filled with fury and an underlying wisp of fear, he feels sixteen again.

“I see you still just an irrational, little boy.”

Clenching a fist, Draco's eyes fall to the floor, zeroing in on the broken ceramic shards strewn about his feet.

“Why are you here?” the blond finally asks through gritted teeth.

There is a long pause.

Draco resists the urge to fidget, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek instead.

“Despite...what you may think,” Snape says slowly, “I am not always a cruel man.”

Something finally occurs to Draco. “How did you know where to find me?”

“Because unlike you, I haven't been living in this dumpy squalor, filled with regret, waiting to die alone.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“If your father were--”

“My father is dead.”

Snape hardly looks surprised at the news. It hits Draco like a sledgehammer to a brick wall.

“You--you knew. How...?”

“Because I was there.”

Unlike you. The two words hang unspoken, between them, like a ghost or a heavy mist cloaking a city.

Draco's mind jump-starts, ideas, truths and half-formed notions spinning like a vortex. “My mother asked you to--”

“Your mother had nothing to do with it,” comes the starkly-cryptic reply.

“You...and my father?” Draco chokes out as he gets it. Finally.

“Do you have something against that?” inquires the older wizard, voice carefully devoid of emotion.

The blond's jaw works, lips twisting and pressing into a flat line. He is certain his nails have drawn blood, digging into his palms as they are.

Snape studies his former student, hooded eyes glittering, calculating. “Or perhaps...you are jealous?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Draco retorts as he hastily pulls his wand out and finally spells away the wasted tea and broken mug. The action gives him an excuse, a moment to recollect himself and try and turn the tables. “You disappeared for years. How? Why? Why come back now?”

“You think I was lying or joking when I told you simpletons I could teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory and put a stopper on death? It would appear you've learned nothing. You disappoint me, Draco.”

“Well, if I'm so disappointing, why don't you just leave then?”

In a flash, Snape is on his feet and across the room. His hands shoot out and lock onto Draco's wrists, startling the other into dropping his wand. It clatters against the floor and rolls away. The younger wizard tries to break free, push Snape away, but instead, he finds himself shoved against the wall, one arm locked and barred across his neck.

“Do not mistake me,” hisses Snape, pressing his arm against Draco's throat, cutting off his supply of oxygen. “I can be kind but do not provoke me, Draco.”

Draco chokes, Adam's apple bobbing as he viciously tries to draw in breath. He grabs Snape's arm, struggling violently, desperately. It doesn't take long for little black spots to swim across his vision, edges of his sight graying out. He wonders if this is Snape's intent; to kill him in his own flat. He hopes not but Draco's always known he's been very talented at raising tempers. Even as he summons his anger, he discovers it doesn't give him enough strength to break the hold Snape has over him. And, to his sinking realization, Draco finds himself incredibly aroused. He's hard to the point of pain. So much so that he actually stops fighting.

Snape laughs, the sound cruel and cutting; he knows exactly why Draco has stopped resisting. He can feel the rock-hard evidence pressing against his thigh. “Is this what Lucius' precious heir, his only son has been reduced to? Rutting shamelessly in this squalid, ramshackle, little box? No better than a common whore on the streets, I see. I thought you were better than that, but it seems I am mistaken after all.”

Draco is twenty-four and he can't even answer, thrusting hard against his former professor. His eyes slide shut as the heat and friction between them rises and rises. He feels a lithe, warm hand cup him through his slacks, pressing against his erection. Then deft digits undo his zipper and snake inside, sliding around his arousal. Draco sucks in a stilted breath, biting down hard on his lower lip. He fights down a moan, rutting against his former professor with undisguised want. It doesn't take much to get him off; lithe fingers and hot breath against his ear, with softly taunting words, and then his climax hits him, hard and sudden, soiling his trousers. He collapses against the wall, inhaling great gulps of air, when Snape abruptly pulls away.

Snape's next words echo in his mind and throughout the room even as the older man steps back, spells the mess from his fingers, the rest of him still pristine and unruffled as ever, and disapparates without warning. The words sting, delivered with their usual vitriol and poison. Draco is certain they will remain imprinted in his memory for a long time to come.

“You're nothing but a child still.”

The words he hears, however, are something else entirely.

You're simply not good enough.

FINITE

This is proof that I can write dark, angsty fics!

I have hope for Team Angst after all!

If you're interested in Arthur/Eames, writing or drawing, please join. The more the merrier. The last day to sign up is the 17th.

Feedback is, as always, much appreciated.

Fic: School Blues

2011-04-05T08:55:36Z

Title: School Blues
Pairings: Arthur/Eames
Rating: G
Word Count: 600+ words
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's. I don't own these characters.
Summary: The frustration of his class finally gets to Eames.
Note: AU, University. Written for keelain because classes can be hard and I wanted to encourage her! ♥

He watches Eames from the corner of his eyes. He's always watching. There's just something about Eames that captivates his attention so easily, so effortlessly.

The broad-shouldered youth is watching the middle-aged woman at the front of the room. She paces back and forth, her hands moving expressively. Eames' hands are moving too, but he hardly notices it.

Arthur does.

And he watches as Eames shreds a piece of paper from his notebook. Rip, rip, rip. His large fingers, tearing the paper into tiny, tiny little white and blue fragments, littering his pants, desk and the floor with confetti. Arthur almost feels sorry for the janitor who has to tidy the lecture halls afterwards.

As soon as the lecture is over, Eames is the first one shooting out of his seat and taking off as though a pack of hell-hounds are tight on his heels, snapping at his shoes. He'd been packed even before the end of class.

Arthur shoves his things into his backpack, not caring for once, the shape or condition of his books. Racing after Eames, he follows the British youth ducking outside. Once out there, he loses sight of Eames, but the familiar scent of cherry cigarillos and smoke tells him exactly where he is.

He tracks the smell to a small alcove, and finds Eames on the ground, sitting against the wall, knees drawn to his chest. The unruly-haired brunet slides down and joins him. He doesn't say anything, doesn't speak, doesn't even look at Eames. Instead, he watches the clouds in the sky. Watches them form, watches them fade. Watches as they make their trek across the great banner of blue.

The cigarette slowly burns down, whittled away, bit by bit, until there is nothing left but ashes and the filter. Eames fiddles with his lighter, flicking it several times, but he doesn't light up again. Finally, after what seems like hours, he speaks up. His voice, sounds so unlike his usual cheerful, boisterous self. His voice, instead, is small and uncertain.

“Arthur, I just--”

“You don't have to say anything,” he interrupts gently.

“No, I just...We're two lectures in and I can't...figure out anything. Every time I walk into that room,” he says, jabbing his thumb in the general direction of the classroom, “I feel like I'm all right. Like I understand it. But the moment I walk out, the moment I'm home and cracking open the books, it's all lost on me again.

“I can't do it, Arthur. I just. Can't,” he whispers.

“Yes, you can,” the younger disagrees.

“No, Arthur, you don't--”

“This is what you want, right? This. All of this.”

Eames nods.

Arthur gets onto his knees, turning to face his friend, taking his hands and holding them tight. He can't imagine it; he can't imagine not seeing the blue-grey eyes, sparkling with light and laughter. He can't imagine a day without seeing those familiar warm lips, curved up with into a Mona Lisa smile, secretive and knowing.

“Then I'll study with you. After class; we're both free. Every night. I can explain things to you, I can help you,” he promises earnestly.

“Arthur, I can't ask you to--”

“You're not. I'm offering,” he says firmly, as he looks straight into Eames' eyes, never once blinking or breaking his gaze. “And I don't take no for an answer.”

A pause.

Then Eames nods. “All right. Just on one condition.”

Arthur tilts his head. Waits for it.

“You let me take you out on a date this Friday.”

He stares, surprise flashing through him. Surprise and something else. Arthur thinks it might be his heart, trying to beat its way out of his chest. He thinks it might be hope.

“And Arthur.” Eames pulls the younger man toward him, lips barely brushing Arthur's ear, sending a shiver through him.

“I don't take no for an answer either.”

END

I wrote this literally in an hour and just posted it as an insta-drabble. So uh...yeah. I hope you guys like it anyway!

Feedback is much appreciated. :3

zeto @ 2011-04-04T17:32:00

2011-04-05T00:29:41Z

Two short drabbles here. Written ages ago. Weiss Kreuz for mereprototype and Inception aimlesstravels.

Warning: Not for kiddies! Also, contains slash and BP.

Blood and Blade

Ken smirked slowly.

The darkness in his eyes sent a tiny little thrill down Aya's spine but even if the older man wanted to protest, the leather glove stuffed in his mouth said otherwise. A mangled hiss still escaped his lips though, when he felt something sharp pierce the flesh on his back.

It wasn't deep but pain was still pain no matter what, and Ken was so very good at inflicting it.

Aya felt the blood trickle down his skin, imagined the ruby red liquid dripping down his body and groaned into the leather, biting down hard.

Tossing his claws on the floor, where Aya could see the scarlet-tinged metal, could know exactly what had touched his skin, Ken leaned forward and dragged his tongue across the wound.

The redhead shuddered, kept his eyes glued to the mirror in front of him as the brunet pressed into him, filled him, hard, hot and relentless.

Warning: Not for kiddies! Also, contains slash.

Bars and Blowjobs

Arthur winces before he drags Eames away from the bar. He throws an apologetic look at the bartender who merely chuckles and shakes his head.

Clearly it's nothing new to him, but Arthur still feels embarrassed on Eames' behalf. Not that he thinks Eames is actually capable of that particular emotion, being the shameless flirt that he is.

"Come on, you big lush. Let's get you home," he can't help but laugh.

It's one thing to thank your bartender for making a proper drink. It's another to thank him by offering to blow him.

As Arthur hustles Eames out the door, he carefully but firmly pulls Eames' hands away from his ass.

The older man actually pouts.

"Eames," Arthur rolls his eyes with good-natured exasperation.

"Well, you won't let me blow the bartender," he shrugs before he staggers into Arthur, sending them both tumbling to the ground.

They land in a tangle of flailing limbs and grunt as they hit the pavement hard. Arthur groans, and stares up at the night sky, asking the deities what he did to deserve this.

The deities, of course, don't answer.

Eames sits up slowly, and takes stock of himself, nodding carefully. "Ow," he says plaintively.

Arthur lifts his head and casts a half-hearted glare. "What do you mean 'ow'? I'm the one who landed on the ground. You landed on me," he makes a face and drops his head back on the ground with a thunk, wincing when a dull pain flares in his head.

"You're right. I apologize," Eames enunciates each word succinctly.

Arthur shakes his head. "Never mind. I'll send you the dry cleaning bill later."

Eames pauses. A beat.

"How about a blowjob to make up for it?"

Fic: Love Syndrome

2011-04-03T07:47:08Z

Title: Love Syndrome
Pairings: Robert/Ariadne, Arthur/Eames and Yusuf/Ariadne
Rating: PG 13
Word Count: 5.5K
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's. I don't own these characters.
Summary: One man's drive to possess the woman of his dreams.
Warning: Post movie.

He sleeps.

He dreams.

And dreams and dreams.

He lives. He breathes.

And wakes. He wakes and blue eyes flicker open.

Silence, save for his quiet, even breathing, in the darkness of the night.

His lips part, forming the words though no sound escapes.

I remember.

~*~*~*~

I love the sound of the rain. These days though, it's hard to hear much of anything. But sometimes I close my eyes, and it all comes rushing back.

The warmth of your body against mine, thigh to thigh, shoulder pressed to shoulder. Your sweat-slick skin and the undeniable scent of your juniper and evergreen cologne mixed with the heady aroma of your cherry cigarillos. A scent that is yours and yours alone. The sound of your laughter, rumbling from your chest. The open window, drifting lightly in the breeze as the rain falls outside our apartment. Falls and falls and falls.

I never did get over you. Never really tried.

Just...drifted through life in a haze. Half awake, half asleep in a dream.

I don't think I ever told you, but I loved you.

I loved you, right up to the very second you walked out of my life on a rainy Sunday afternoon. I loved your smile and the way your lips would curve up into that familiar grin. The one that always sent a little shiver through my body, settling into a gentle warmth in my belly. Your fashion sense that no one seemed to appreciate except for yourself (though I secretly did as well). Your hands, so large but infinitely gentle when they held me. Your fingers laced through mine. I loved the way you gasped my name as we loved one another, as we made love on a lazy Monday morning. The way you would tighten around me, teeth sinking into your lower lip when you came.

I loved everything about you, even the stupid little things that made me mad. Like the way you never remembered to close the cap on the tube of toothpaste. Or the way you'd read one of my books and leave it on the coffee table when you were done instead of putting it away. I even loved and hated the way your feet were always cold, even under the covers.

I miss you. I probably don't think I do, but you'd be wrong. I miss the way you'd make me that perfect cup of Earl Grey tea when I'm feeling under the weather. The way you'd send me a postcard every single day when we were apart for more than two or three days. I miss the sight of your coats crowding the closet, your shoes next to mine.

You always made this place feel lived in. You were the one who made it worth coming home. You made it more than just a house. A home. Our home.

Shutting his eyes, Arthur sags into the window seat as though his own weight is too much for him. He leans his head back until it gently meets brick and plaster. He snaps his little black book shut and lets it fall into his lap.

He writes, not because he wants to, but because he wants to get all his thoughts out. Wants to get rid of them. As though, by laying them to ink, he's laying them to rest. But the thoughts, the words, they never rest. They just circulate in his mind, growing and growing.

After a few moments, though he's not sure how many, he gets up, setting his book on top of the small stack of books already on his work desk. Dragging his weary body to the bathroom, he strips and, for once, doesn't bother to neatly hang his clothes. Instead, they fall into a haphazard pile on the floor. Arthur just can't bring himself to care.

Under the hot shower, he tries to relax but the thoughts never leave him. He's not the type to let things go. Hell, he still thinks about the Stein job and every little error that eventually ended up having them torn to shreds.

Under the scalding stream of water, it takes the Point Man a few moments to realize his doorbell is ringing.

Shit. He'd forgotten Ariadne would be dropping by to pick up some texts for her class. Arthur has a vast collection of texts on Escher and the Architect, ever the brilliant student, wanted to study them.

Hurriedly, he finishes his shower. Stepping out and dripping water, he gives his hair a quick scrub with a towel before wrapping another around his waist. He shuffles to the his front door and pulls it open, without even bothering to check the peephole.

“Sorry, I forgot the time,” he apologizes, letting her in.

She stifles a chuckle as she enters.

“I'm going to find some clean clothes. I left the books on my work desk by the window,” he explains as he wanders up the stairs of his converted loft, to his open bedroom.

Ariadne doesn't stay too long as she has an early class in the morning, along with another session in the work shop.

~*~*~*~

Arthur reclines in his chair, two seats away from Eames, yet so very aware of his former lover. He hasn't once glanced at the other man but he can feel the sharp blue-grey eyes watching him. He fights back to urge to return the gaze with his eyebrow arched in a what-are-you-finding-so-fascinating-this-time-Mr-Eames sort of fashion.

Eames hasn't paid this much attention to him since they split.

To say Arthur is confused is a vast understatement. It's weird, he thinks to himself. You sound so close but it feels like you're so far.

Before he can ruminate any further though, Cobb calls his name and draws his attention back to the white board.

“Of course it shouldn't be a problem. Two layers may as well be standard these days,” young man comments.

The group breaks for lunch soon after, and though Arthur can tell Eames wants to talk to him, he quickly volunteers Ariadne to grab lunch with him and engages her in a conversation about her latest project in her architecture class, all the while pretending not to see the piercing gaze directed at him from Eames. It's rather cowardly of him, but Arthur doesn't want to speak with Eames. Doesn't want to look at him. Him with his eyes that seem more blue then grey sometimes, and more grey than blue on rainy days.

The two return, arms filled with paper bags of delicate pastries, meaty sandwiches and caffeine from the cafe two blocks over. The one that always smells utterly incredible to any passerby, the one that's always crowded and busy with young professionals, students from the near-by university, and small families.

There isn't much time for talk while they eat and then it's back to hitting the books.

Somehow, though Arthur's not sure exactly how--which is how he always feels around Eames-- uncertain and off-balance--he makes it through the rest of the day without any contact with Eames.

There's an undercurrent flowing through the air, leaving the group charged but restless. It makes for a tense meeting and everyone is eager to adjourn for the day though no one dares to voice it out loud.

Once outside though, Eames grabs his arm, quickly putting a halt to any idea of escape.

“Arthur, what is this?”

The brunet looks at him blankly before scrutinizing the sheaf of parchment in Eames' hand from a few inches away.

“At first, I thought it was a prank. The handwriting is a fairly good imitation of yours but I'm the best in the business; takes more than a shabby forgery to get the best of me. And yet...the details, down to the most minute little thing, are spot on.”

Frowning, he erases the distance between them and takes the piece of paper. Dark brown eyes widen almost imperceptibly but the Forger is nothing, is not perceptive, and he tracks every movement Arthur makes.

Instead of speaking to Eames though, he turns and shoots a glare at Ariadne. She looks back at him with wide eyes, palms up to profess her innocence.

“Well, if it wasn't you, who did it then?”

“I did.”

As one, everyone turns to stare at Yusuf.

“I was at Ariadne's when I found this black book in the stack of texts you lent her. I thought it was part of the collection.”

Arthur's mind flashes back. He remembers setting the book on his work desk...right on top of the pile of Escher texts. It was a simple mistake on his part; the aftermath though, is anything but. The Point Man frowns. “And you didn't think to close the book once you realized it was personal?”

Yusuf gives a half shrug. “I think I speak for all of us when I say we were getting tired of the animosity and the tension between you and Eames.”

Arthur casts a quick glance at Cobb and Ariadne, noting the way they carefully avoid his gaze. “Ariadne,” he asks as he resolutely keeps from looking at Eames, “Can I stop by and pick it up right now?”

Shaking her head, she mentions something about having dinner with a friend.

“Hm, can I drop by after? Around nine?”

Ariadne nods her assent and then the group falls into an awkward silence before everyone goes their separate ways.

That night, at nine o'clock, to the second, Arthur is about to rap sharply on her door when a tingly prickles creeps up his spine. His heart drops to the bottom of his stomach and with a heavy hand, he tries the door.

It opens.

At first glance, Ariadne's place seems immaculate. Until Arthur reaches her desk. Her chair is overturned, her mug shattered on the wooden floor. Arthur hurries over and kneels down. From the odd splatter of liquid--coffee, he smells--on the floor, he deduces that she'd probably put a fight, thrown the mug at the intruder—intruders?--before being overpowered. Arthur hopes the coffee was scalding.

He pulls out his cellphone immediately. Begins dialling without a second thought.

“Arthur,” answers Eames, surprise evident in his tone. “I--you--I've been meaning to call you. We need to talk--”

“Ariadne's gone,” he abruptly interrupts.

“What?” Eames sucks in a sharp breath.

“Can you--”

“--call the others. I'm on it,” finishes the British man before hanging up.

It doesn't occur to him to wonder why he'd called Eames first. Though it didn't escape his notice that he didn't even need to ask Eames to call the others.

Within half an hour, Cobb, Yusuf and Eames are there.

“What makes you think--” begins Cobb.

“The door was unlocked, her drink definitely wasn't spilled so much as it was thrown, her chair overturned and--”

“Her totem,” Yusuf softly murmurs, picking up her hollowed bishop. “She'd never leave it behind.”

It doesn't take them long to formulate a plan. Eames gets to work, hacking into the apartment's security system to review the tapes; perhaps they'd luck out and find something on the camera at the front entrance. Cobb calls in a few favours while Arthur and Yusuf determine a list of possible suspects. Fortunately the list is short, as Ariadne only works with them part of the time.

“We can rule out Beckett. Ariadne sat out that one.”

“What about Ralston?”

“I'll get Jacobs to check in on her.”

~*~*~*~

Ariadne awakes to find herself in a windowless room, lying on a thin bed.

Taking a deep breath, the Architect, tries to remain calm, rubbing her wrists unconsciously. She checks herself over, detailing no physical damage, thankfully. Then she rises, and tries the door. Locked, of course. She hasn't expected any less.

She studies her surroundings. The bed is bolted down, its heavy metal frame useless to her. The mattress is bare. The entire room is empty and grey. It's empty, grey and entirely unfamiliar. The door is also metal; even if it were wooden, with her slight frame, Ariadne would have a hard time doing any damage to it.

She remains, for now, a prisoner.

She sits, and begins to think, to plan.

~*~*~*~

“Did you think I wouldn't find out?” Robert Fischer asks softly, blue eyes unreadable.

Ariadne, without playing the innocent, shakes her head. “How?”

“At first...I thought it was merely a bizarre dream. But then I remembered one of the things they covered when they trained me. Mr. Charles; a ploy to deceive me. Tell me I'm dreaming to gain my trust. It was a well-played tactic, and I almost fell for it.”

“What changed?” She questions, genuinely curious.

“You want the truth?” He asks, though it's rhetorical. “You.”

Her brown eyes flash with surprise.

“I keep dreaming. The same dream over and over. It's mere seconds but I remember it so vividly. Your hand on my cheek, your hair flying in the wind, your voice asking if I'm all right. At first, I thought it just that; a dream. But night after night, it's the same thing. And then I realized; you're real. Flesh and bone, not mere imagination.”

“What do you want then? You want us to tell you what we did to you? Reverse it?” she asks as her eyes flicker, for just the barest instant, to the door behind.

“You won't make it. I have guards posted outside this door,” he informs her, ever-so casual.

“You make a habit of this? Kidnapping women for kicks? Those guards know what kind of boss they work for?”

Robert smiles slowly as he draws closer to her, bending his head, lips gently grazing her ear. “With enough money, anyone can be bought.”

~*~*~*~

The next time she wakes up, she's in an entirely different room. Plush red carpet, a canopy bed with satin sheets and lavish pillows, a large mahogany closet in the corner, filled with rich dresses, all satin and silk, she investigates. Two doors; one locked and the other leading to an elegant bathroom of marble counters, a toilet with a heated seat, a bathtub that looks hand-made with its asymmetrical edges and a gilded mirror with a golden frame. Relieving herself in the bathroom, Ariadne can't help but notice that though the door closes, there's no lock.

Back in the bedroom, she pauses. There's a small circular table by the windows but that's not what has her halting. She is drawn to the tray of food; she is certain it hadn't been there when she had initially woken up. Feeling hunger set in at the smell of the food, Ariadne helps herself to it. Although a part of her doesn't want to partake in any food, she knows she needs to keep up her strength, both physical and mental. It's all delicious. Not that she had expected Fischer to dine on anything less than gourmet.

She wonders how long she's been captured. Judging by the level of her hunger, and the sunlight filtering in through the windows, which are are barred, of course, as she immediately discovers, she estimates it's been perhaps half a day.

By now, the others must have figured out she's missing. She wonders if they'll charge in, guns blazing and grenades primed.

She can only hope they deduce that--

~*~*~*~

“It's Fischer,” are the first words out of Eames' mouth when Arthur drags his sleep-deprived body over to the computer.

“What? Are you certain?”

There is no reaction, save for the most minute tightening in his jaw.

“Eames?”

“Even after all this time, you just don't trust me, do you.” He bites out, whirling around in his chair to glare at Arthur.

The question, which isn't a question at all, catches Arthur off guard. He fumbles for a reply.

Shaking his head, Eames shoots to his feet, knocking the computer chair back.

“Eames--”

“You still don't get it. You still don't--” He snaps his mouth shut.

--understand that I left because you don't trust me. The thought finishes itself in Arthur's head, as all the tiles fall into place, like a puzzle fitting together seamlessly.

And just like that, he realizes.

Taking a step towards the other man, Arthur is about to speak, to reach out and grab Eames' arm--

“Have you guys found anything?” Yusuf asks as soon as he enters the room, Cobb right behind him.

The moment is gone. Any chance of repairing what has been lost is gone. From the look in Eames' eyes, Arthur's not sure if there will be another chance again. The realization sends a dull ache through his belly.

“It's Fischer. I was watching the security tape and from the time Ariadne comes home until the time Arthur arrives, only a handful of people are seen. Two are her neighbours down the hall, coming home, arms laden with groceries. A young blond man arrives at half past seven, and leaves with what appears to be his date, a lovely redhead. And these two,” Eames explains, gesturing to the computer.

The video is paused shortly after eight p.m. Two men catch the door just as the couple are leaving.

“I ran a search on all five and everyone checks out, except for these two. They don't live in the building. Upon further research, I found out they're working for one Robert Michael Fischer.”

“So that begs the question, did he find out the truth and he's exacting revenge or did something go wrong when we went under?” Cobb murmurs.

“We'll find out when we go get her back,” replies Yusuf.

“If we can find her. Since Ariadne's disappearance, Fischer has virtually dropped off the face of the planet,” Eames interjects.

“What about the men that took her? If we can find them, we can get them to talk,” Arthur suggests.

“That's a good place to start,” Cobb says with a nod. “Yusuf, do you think you could concoct some sort of composition to induce sleep just in case?”

“I've already got--

~*~*~*~

“--something in mind,” Fischer tells Ariadne as he leads her into what appears to be his own library.

Entire walls made of shelves and shelves of books; hundreds upon hundreds of books with a ladder to reach the upper echelons. There's a fireplace at the opposite end of the room with two large easy chairs. It almost looks cozy.

Almost.

She stands in the doorway, a frown slowly furrowing her brow.

Pausing, he turns back. “Is something the matter?”

“You never did answer my question. What do you want from us?”

Silence falls between them, heavy and thick, like a snowstorm.

“I don't want anything from the others. Just you. To stay here. To be with me.”

Her mouth falls open, forming a near-perfect circle.

Fischer closes the distance between them. Reaching his hand out, he gently cups her chin and closes her mouth. His thumb lightly traces her lower lip before he leans in and kisses her. It's warm and gentle, sending a tiny shiver racing down her spine.

Shock leaves her immobilized before sense returns. Her hands fly up, pressing against his chest. Before she can shove him away and break free though, quick as lightning, Fischer grabs her wrists, trapping her.

“What is wrong with you?” she demands, anger lighting her brown eyes. “Do you think you can just--”

--build a prison of memories to lock her in?

Ariadne freezes, sucking in a tiny gasp of air. A small part of her, the part she's been trying to ignore ever since she'd woken up in this strange place, starkly reminds her that she's without her totem.

“What's wrong?” Fischer asks her, wondering why she's stopped struggling.

Is she dreaming? Is she awake? She's not sure anymore.

Shaking her head, she presses her lips together. She's not about to give him even more leverage over her; as far as she knows, he's clueless about totems.

“I just...want to go home,” she finally answers without actually answering him. “Just let me go home.”

“I can't,” he whispers, staring straight into her eyes.

“Why not?”

“I am nothing without you,” he confesses to her. “Look, I know you and the others did something to me. Changed something. Made me different--and I should be angry, I should be exacting revenge but somehow, I just--nothing matters without you here.”

Ariadne swallows hard, feeling queasy as something heavy sinks to the pit of her stomach. A small part of her wants to throw up. She feels panic setting in, her skin breaking out in a cold sweat, her breath coming faster. Biting down hard on her lower lip, she focuses on the pain and holds her breath for a long moment before letting it out, exhaling slowly.

Revenge, she could deal with. But this? This was something else entirely.

~*~*~*~

“Look, you can yell at me and tell me off later but right now, we need to get Ariadne back,” Arthur quietly says to Eames. He speaks up to include the others, “A couple of contacts came through. Pulled in a couple of favours but we have her location.”

“But what if I want to talk now?” Eames murmurs. His voice, his posture, his body language, they all show signs of calm and serene but the glint in his eyes says otherwise.

“Eames,” he says through gritted teeth. “You're angry with me, I get that. But not now.”

“Oh, angry doesn't begin to cover it.”

Arthur shuts his eyes, looking away as he lets out a soft breath. He steels himself before looking straight into Eames' eyes, eyes he once knew so well, knew better than his own. “Please.”

The Forger doesn't react.

A beat. Then two.

Then shaking his head, Eames gives a half chuckle though there's nothing funny at all. “Fine.”

~*~*~*~

A week passes though Ariadne refuses to give Robert even an inch.

He invites her to join him for a picnic, to enjoy the lovely weather but she remains cooped inside her room, her prison.

He spends his evenings with her, listening to classical music and reading by the fire.

He tells her about his childhood, his father, the empire he could have had.

He tells her about his mother. The few precious memories of her that he still retains. The scent of her perfume, like lilacs and roses. The sound of her laughter that always made him feel safe and warm inside. Her favourite lullaby she'd always sing to him after tucking him in. Her death when he was eleven.

Ariadne shakes her head. “I know what you're doing. What you're trying to do.”

“And what would that be?” he asks, voice flat.

“Well, it could be that you're trying to gain my sympathy by telling me of your misfortunes, of your life. Trying to make me relate to you, to make me feel for you. To make yourself more 'real' to me.

“Stockholm Syndrome,” she concludes simply.

“I'm not a bad person!” he bursts out before he gains control of himself, the spark of emotion waning. His next words are much, much softer, leaving him sounding almost lost. “I just...need you.”

She looks away for a moment, uncomfortable. Turning back, she catches his eyes. So very, very blue. Not quite like anything she's ever seen before. “Look, Fischer--”

“Robert.”

“...Robert,” she capitulates after a pause. “I simply cannot be who or what you want me to be.”

~*~*~*~

“Two cars or one?” Cobb asks.

Arthur opens his mouth. “On--”

“Two,” interjects Eames. “I'm riding with Arthur.”

Exchanging glances, Cobb and Yusuf give slight shrugs. “Fine by us,” Cobb agrees.

“Wouldn't want to get in the way of a marital disagreement,” Yusuf mumbles to Cobb with a deliberate cough, looking every which way except at Arthur and Eames.

“Subtle.” Arthur casts a glare at the Chemist.

“Remember. This is just a retrieval. We're not looking to do any damage. A quick in and out,” Cobb reminds as they split up.

Reaching the car, Arthur pulls out the keys. “I think I ought to drive,” he says without looking at Eames.

“Why can't I?” inquires the other man.

“You're upset--”

“So what? You think I can't reign in my emotions while I'm driving? Is that it? You--”

--just don't trust me. You never have and you never will.

“No. That's not what I--” Arthur gasps, words cutting off with a small cry when Eames abruptly slams him against the side of the car, effectively trapping him against metal and glass.

“Just shut up, Arthur. I'm tired. I'm tired of all this. Of you not trusting me. Of this stupid fight. I'm tired of everything I can't say to you because--”

This time, Arthur cuts Eames off. By sliding his hands around the back of Eames' neck and pulling him in for a heated, angry kiss. It's full of raw emotion. All tongue and teeth, fighting to gain control. Biting down fiercely before soothing with gentle nips. It's angry and hurt and pain. It's everything unspoken. All the things they wanted to say but didn't have the words for. All the emotions they'd bottled up and buried since they'd parted.

Eames tastes exactly like he remembers; all cherry cigarettes and slightly sweet like the Earl Grey he favours. It's familiar, so very familiar and yet, it feels so new. Like Arthur is remembering a memory from so long ago.

“Eames, I'm--”

“--Sorry,” finishes the Forger. “I know. Me too.”

They kiss again. Slower this time. A little more gentle. Arthur buries his fingers in Eames' hair.

“I'm glad you stopped using that atrocious hair gel,” he mutters against Eames' lips. “I hate the feel of it.”

“Darling, you do realize that's a tad hypocritical of you seeing as you slick your hair back everyday,” grins the other man.

“Don't care,” he mumbles. “I'm going to throw your gel out as soon as I can.”

Eames laughs even as he pulls Arthur against him firmly, slipping his arms around the younger man's back, and then they're kissing again--

Until a car screeches to a halt just a few yards away, honking loudly. Yusuf leans out the passenger window, smirking before he calls out, “Get a room!”

The two jerk apart, simultaneously throwing glares at Yusuf and Cobb.

“Let's go get Ariadne and then you two get a room,” Cobb corrects with a laugh before speeding off before Arthur can find something to throw at them.

The car ride is mostly quiet, but not entirely uncomfortable; the both of them know there's still a lot to be said but it's a start. Arthur knows there's probably a lot of anger they still have to deal with, hurt feelings and misconstrued messages, a lot of unresolved issues, but it's a start.

“So about that journal entry--”

“Yusuf is a dead man when we've gotten Ariadne back,” Arthur cuts him off quickly. He refuses, absolutely refuses to blush--because he's cool, collected and unflappable, and he certainly did not spill his guts out in his journal damnit--and resolutely keeps his gaze on the road ahead.

Eames chuckles, the sound low and knowing, and it sends a cool shiver skating over Arthur's skin, a warm pool settling in his belly.

“What's so funny?”

“Kissing someone to put a halt to an argument. You're turning our lives into one giant cliché, Arthur.”

“Oh, shut up.”

~*~*~*~

Ariadne enters what appears to be Fischer's personal office. There's a shelf laden with tomes and texts, a small fireplace and a massive oak desk. Curious, she explores the room, her nimble feet sinking into the deep blue carpet as she quietly studies her surroundings. On the desk, there are a few personal knickknacks. Of its own accord, her hand reaches out and gently picks up a picture frame.

A slender woman is caught unaware by the camera, laughing as the wind almost steals her hat. She wears a sundress, bluer than the sky on a warm Spring day, and her dark chestnut brown hair with hints of red, curls in loose waves, flying in the breeze. She is frozen in time, eternal. She is, laughter and warmth. She is, beauty and grace.

Out of nowhere, Fischer gently tugs the photo from her hand.

“Who is she?” Ariadne asks him, trying to calm her racing heart; he'd startled her, appearing so silently and suddenly.

“She was my mother,” he answers.

Ariadne glances up at him as she tells him, “She's beautiful.”

“Yes, she was,” Fischer agrees, simply, as he sets the photograph down. He pauses for a moment, fighting with himself.

Tilting her head, Ariadne can tell he wants to say something. She waits for him.

“Do you..Would you like to join me for dinner?”

She glances down at his desk, her brown eyes caught by the image of Fischer's mother. “What was her name?”

“Eden.”

Ariadne makes for the door.

Fischer shuts his eyes, steeling himself as she once again rejects him.

She stops, linger in the doorway, her hand coming up to rest on the door-frame, fingers curling around the smooth edges. She glances over her shoulder as she calls back to him, “Dinner sounds lovely...Robert.”

~*~*~*~

Two voices. Both male.

“So what then? We just wait?”

“No, we don't.”

“But we can't--”

“I know.”

“One of us has to stay.”

“Right, but who?”

A third voice pipes in. “I'm going in.”

“But I thought you don't go into the field?”

“For this, I will,” is all he says before, gazing down at the sleepers. His hands slides into his pocket, gently tracing the little golden chess piece.

“I'll stay then.”

“No, I don't want us to get separated. Not after we just got back together.”

The first voice smothers a snicker but it escapes anyway. “Now who's the giant, walking cliché?” the voice is light, teasing.

“Didn't we tell you two to get a room?”

“You know what? I'll stay. Then I won't have to watch two you mushy lovebirds.”

~*~*~*~

Ariadne is sitting beneath a large willow tree, a heavy book on her lap as she leans against Robert.

She glances up momentarily, certain she's hearing things. Her mouth falls open, and then she's leaping to her feet, book forgotten as it tumbles to the grass. Quick as a fox, she throws her arms around Yusuf's neck, burying her face in his chest as she breathes in the familiar scent.

“What took you guys so long?” she mumbles. “It's been days!”

“It's only been one day,” corrects Arthur.

“What do you...” her voice trails off, realization slowly sinking into her eyes as she glances up at them.

Yusuf pulls something from his pocket. “I know you're not supposed to let anyone touch your totem but you left yours behind.”

Her fingers reach out, almost as if she's afraid to touch it. She hesitates for a few seconds before curling her finger around the little chess piece.

It's hers.

“You can make a new one when we get home,” Yusuf reassures her.

She stares at him, torn, wavering between wanting to believe him and uncertain if she can. After all, even if they leave 'dream', if that's what it truly is, how can she be certain she's returned to reality and not another level of dreaming? How can she be certain of anything anymore? She feels a little bit like Alice, lost in Wonderland. Fallen down the rabbithole, with no way out.

"How can I trust this? How can I trust you?" she asks, swallowing hard.

He pulls her aside, staring straight into her eyes. Eyes he knows as well as his own. Eyes he knows better than his own. "Please," he whispers.

Eames and Arthur approach Fischer. Fischer, who is still on the grass, fingers tightly clutching the book, knuckles white, hasn't moved.

“Why?” Arthur demands.

“I needed time. Time to show her,” he softly replies, rising carefully to his feet with his palms up as Eames and Arthur train their guns on him.

“Well, the show's over. You've lost her,” Arthur retorts and shoots Fischer in the face.

~*~*~*~

Five sets of eyes flicker open.

While they had been sleeping, Cobb had taken the opportunity to tie up Fischer, just in case.

“You're just going to leave me here?” Fischer says incredulously, jerking at the rope tethering him to the bed.

“Oh, don't worry. We'll order a dozen pizzas for you. The delivery man should be here in an hour or so,” Yusuf cheerfully says to their former mark as they leave him behind. “Hope you like anchovies.”

~*~*~*~

Cobb rides with Arthur and Eames this time; Ariadne mentions something about wanting to pick up something to modify; a new totem.

“Are you all right?” Yusuf asks her, concern layering his voice. “You're awfully quiet.”

She glances at him and gives him a slight smile. “Yeah. I'm just a little tired.”

Yusuf nods, taking her for her word.

As she stares out the passenger side window, she thinks of eyes so very, very blue. Not quite like anything she's ever seen before.

The End

So this was the fic I was working on for the bigbang_land final challenge. >_> Apparently I only doubled the minimum requirement. But I found that the fic just made more sense as a longer piece of work.

Anyway, this is my first piece of Inception with other pairings along with my usual Arthur/Eames. I hope it came out all right!

Feedback is, as always, much appreciated. :3

Fic: Near Perfect

2011-04-01T21:22:33Z

Title: Near Perfect
Author: zeto
Pairings: Arthur/Eames
Rating: G
Warning: AU, fluffy goodness
Word Count: 1.5K
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's. I don't own these characters.
Summary: In which Arthur is adopted by a cat.
Note: This is for fabberline. :3 You're always so supportive and wonderful, hon!

The first time Edie goes missing, Arthur doesn't think much of it. Being on the seventh floor has never stopped her from having an adventure before. All she really needs is a few inches of an open window, and since Arthur hates the thought of her being cooped up inside all day, he's more than happy to let her have free reign in the neighbourhood.

She's never gone for more than a couple hours at a time and she's always back by bedtime, ready to curl under the covers, safely cocooned in Arthur's arms.

Except this time.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Edie had always been somewhat of a fierce, independent little thing. Arthur had been coming home after a long shift at the café one night and he'd been so tired, he hadn't even noticed his little ghostly stalker. He had tried to shoo her away when he saw her pawing at his door but she'd had none of that and had apparently followed him all the way home. To this day, Arthur still isn't sure how she tailed him four blocks and hitched a ride on the elevator with him. After a fantastic battle of wills and lengthy staring contest (in which he had lost spectacularly) Arthur finally let her into his apartment.

He had opened up a can of tuna for her, given her a little saucer of milk and then gone to sleep. Come morning, his graceful feline friend was gone. She'd evidently taken her leave through the open window in his bedroom.

And that had been the end of that. Or so Arthur thought.

A couple of nights later, Arthur had been curled up on his couch, watching some comedy about geeky boys and their non-existent love lives. He'd nearly jumped out of his skin when something brushed against the back of his neck. As it was, he'd practically fallen off the couch.

Jerking around, he'd found himself nose to little pink nose with a smug-looking, white little cat. She preened, calmly perched on the back of his sofa. Given the way he felt, Arthur had a feeling he was no longer the master of his own apartment, much less his own couch.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It's getting near dawn and Arthur is still restlessly tossing and turning. Edie isn't really his cat (because really, who is he kidding? It's more like he's her human at this point) but that doesn't mean he doesn't miss her. Doesn't worry, worry, worry. It makes his forehead wrinkle as sleep eludes him.

Finally, he gets up and slides his feet into a pair of slippers. Shuffles to the front door and lets himself out. A tiny little part of Arthur's brain is wondering at his sanity for looking for a cat in the middle of the night in his fuzzy, blue slippers. A cat that isn't even his. Another tiny little part of Arthur's brain figures his sanity was scared off that very first night Edie followed him home.

He's hardly taken more than a couple of steps outside when he notices Edie in the hallway. Arthur crosses his arms and taps his foot. “Edith La Môme Piaf!” he scolds her, using her full name. “I've been going crazy, wondering where you were, wondering if maybe you'd gotten run over by a train, or worse yet, catnapped by a couple of wayward, little children.”

Edie ignores him.

“Don't make me give you a curfew,” he threatens.

She licks her paw.

“Or take away your Salmon Saturdays.”

She sniffs.

“You'll be the death of me one day.” Arthur shakes his head, giving up the cause. He knows a lost one when he sees it.

It's been over half a year since she's moved in and he has yet to win a single argument against her.

Edie: 528, 491
Arthur: 0

Just then, a low chuckle reaches his ears. Arthur stiffens and turns, catching sight of a tall, broad-shouldered stranger, leaning against the door of Apartment 707.

“Do you always have one-sided conversations with cats?” comes a British drawl.

Embarrassment heats his cheeks and Arthur turns red. Great, now his neighbour probably thinks he's absolutely nuts.

“I'm Eames,” the stranger continues, pushing away from the door and holding his hand out. “I moved in last week.”

“Arthur,” mutters the brunet, taking his hand for a quick shake.

“I'm quite pleased to meet you, Arthur,” purrs the other man, drawing out the 'R' in his name as he holds onto Arthur's hand for just a shade longer than appropriate before releasing it. “So her name is Edith Piaf? She's a lovely gal.”

Edie slinks over to Eames and nudges his leg. He obligingly leans down to scoop her into his arms but finds her leaping up and curling about his neck instead. Laughing, Eames scratches her between her little ears and she immediately begins to purr, purr, purr.

Traitor, Arthur scowls inwardly. Then he realizes Eames is still talking to him. “Pardon?” he says with a blink. He's certain he misheard the other man.

By the slightly-crooked smile on Eames' lips, Arthur is certain the other man is laughing at him. Rather, still laughing at him.

“I asked if you would like to come over for a drink.”

“Right now?” Arthur stares at him.

“Why not?”

“I'm wearing my pyjamas! And blue slippers!”

“And you look absolutely lovely, I promise you,” Eames tells him.

“That is not the point,” counters Arthur as he refuses (absolutely refuses, he tells himself) to be flattered in any way, shape or form.

“So if you have no other objections...” says Eames as he ushers Arthur into the apartment, shutting the dor.

“I don't even know you,” he protests weakly as he wonders, what if he's a crazy axe murderer?

“I'm not a crazy axe murderer,” assures Eames while Edie leaps from her perch to explore her new territory.

“What?” Arthur spits out. “I didn't say--”

“No, but you're thinking it,” Eames chuckles, tapping Arthur on the nose.

The brunet scowls, batting the hand away.

“Besides, if I were a bad guy, would your cat trust me?” reasons the other man.

“All right then. Coffee, two cream and two sugar, please,” the brown-eyed barista acquiesces. He's not used to having anyone make his coffee for him. It comes, he figures, from working in a coffee shop.

While they wait, Eames throws open the balcony curtains and opens the sliding glass door, gesturing for Arthur to join him.

“So what do you do?”

“I work in a coffee shop part-time and I'm studying full-time. Just your typical poor, starving student,” Arthur replies. “You?”

“I'm an artist. Photography mostly but I do dabble in other mediums as well.”

“I'd like to see your works,” Arthur asks without asking. It's an invitation without being an invitation. Perhaps Eames isn't a crazy axe murderer after all. He seems nice enough; Arthur wouldn't mind getting to know him a little better. And the accent doesn't hurt.

The sun is barely creeping over the horizon, and Arthur has to admit, the view is rather lovely. Edie mewls at him and he leans down to pick her up, absently scratching under her chin. She purrs contentedly in his arms, a warm bundle of sleek white fur.

Eames disappears for a couple of minutes, and returns with two steaming mugs. Edie, clever little thing that she is, leaps from Arthur's arms and settles right in the middle, between the two men, her tail curling around Eames' ankle. He passes one of the drinks to Arthur.

“This isn't coffee.”

“I don't actually have any but I promise you, this tea is just as good. No, better, I dare say.”

Arthur takes a sip. It is good. Really good, but he's not about to say so because Eames looks like he's dying to know. Arthur can tell he's bursting to ask for his opinion on the tea. The pyjama-clad man bites back a smile and takes another drink instead. It's time the tables were turned, he figures.

“Well?” Eames finally demands. “Don't tell me you don't like it. I make a mean cuppa tea and you know it.”

Arthur glances to the east, watching the sun as it spills out, flooding the city with light. The clouds and the skies are bathed in breath-taking tones of rose and gold, streaked with purple and violet. The other buildings remain dark, its tenants most likely still asleep. The streets are quiet, except for the occasional car passing by underneath. Dewdrops slowly form on the balcony railing. He's in his pyjamas, sipping tea with a near-perfect stranger and his cat. It's just a little bit cold but the tea is hot. And he's never felt more serene or at peace.

“It's perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

The End

Feedback is, as always, much appreciated. Just a cute, little ficlet to get me back into the groove of writing. Hopefully I am here to stay~!

Fic: Nor Breath Nor Motion

2010-10-20T23:30:27Z

Title: Nor Breath Nor Motion
Author: zeto
Characters/Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Word Count: 3.4 K
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's. I don't own these characters.
Summary: Two-for-one fill. Inception Kink Meme fills found here and here. Arthur goes to a summer party and falls in love, but he forgets in the morning.
Note: ;-; Still not a sequel to "A Promise Made". Sorry, lovelies. Bonus cookie: can you spot the Firefly line? Also, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is a lovely poem written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. <3

So far, Arthur has had a bottle of Corona, two Crispy Crunch shots, a Burt Reynolds and a lick of salt, followed by a shot of tequila and a bite into a lime wedge. Ah, good, ol' fashioned classic, that one.

No, wait. That's not right.

So far, Arthur has had a bottle of Corona, three Crispy Crunch shots, a bottle of Stella, two Burt Reynolds and a lick of salt, followed by a shot of tequila and a bite into a lime wedge.

No, that's not right either.

So far, Arthur has had--oh, to hell with it. Arthur has had a lot of alcohol. Let's leave it at that.

There he is, our dashing, young hero of this tale. Our intrepid, clever champion. Our sharp-witted, handsome victor--oh, who are we kidding?

There he is, our skinny, drunken protagonist.

He's eighteen, school is about to commence in the fall and the Wellington twins are having a final summer bash before their parents return from their anniversary cruise.

Everyone who is anyone is there, and Arthur wonders how he got invited. He suspects it has something to do with his sister. After all, he's not much more than a shrimpy (skinny, you're just a little skinny, his mother insists, and you need to eat more) bespectacled (those glasses make you look intelligent, dear....Thank you, mother, for the years of 'four-eyed Arthur' and schoolyard bullying that resulted in me insulting the uncouth neanderthals with words they can't even comprehend and thus sending the bullies into tears.) teenager with a penchant for words with more than three syllables, poems and neurobiology. What kid in high school even knows what neurobiology is anyway? This one apparently.

His sister is tall, leggy and she's got, what his classmates like (and like to call) a ''perfect hourglass figure”. She's also got, what his classmates don't like, something of a brother-complex. In other words, in her words, “If Arthur doesn't show, I don't show.” It likely stems from their close bond as siblings; the Wellingtons aren't the only set of twins in the school after all.

Arthur isn't sure where she's run off to at the moment though. He imagines Aurora (apparently his parents had a thing for faery tales, lucky them) is flirting with Jackson, and he doesn't blame her one iota. Jackson is intelligent, witty and he devotes two hours a week at the local animal shelter. His shiny, red Camaro doesn't hurt either. His shiny, red Camaro that he named Shelley. That's right, as in Mary Shelley. As in Frankenstein. Frankenstein...which also just happens to be the name of the abandoned puppy Jackson had adopted a couple of years ago. He has a great smile, with the cutest dimples and he maintains an A average effortlessly.

Jackson, Arthur decides and nods stalwartly to himself, is a keeper. A keeper and also possibly non-existent because. How. Can. He. Be. Real? Arthur is even willing to bet the guy has perfect penmanship. And, if Aurora ever decides she doesn't want him, well, Arthur's more than willing to step up to the plate. At least he is while he's got more liquid courage than blood running through his veins.

At the moment though, there is no one in the kitchen and Arthur isn't willing to go looking for his sister or her hot soon-to-be boyfriend. That would require effort. Instead, the brunet finds himself staring at the dark grey fridge as though it holds the answer to life, the universe, and everything.

A candlemark later, he decides, no, no that fridge doesn't hold the answer. He suspects though, that the answer may very well be forty-two.

Frowning, Arthur experimentally pokes at a magnet on the fridge. After a moment, his slender fingers start to skate across the smooth surface, plucking off the bright pieces of plastic and cupping them in one palm. Tongue peeking out from between thin, pink lips, he begins to build a story.

He pressed a
kiss to her palm
and ghosted
his fingers
a

There are literally dozens upon dozens of the tiny magnets, in a multitude of colours, and Arthur finds himself lost in the task. He jerks like a startled deer when a husky, smooth voice breaks the silence in the kitchen and a handful of the magnets tumble to the ground, clattering against the white kitchen tiles.

Turning bright red, Arthur quickly kneels down to hide his face; there are plenty of hot guys and girls, the alcohol is flowing free, the music is practically rocking the walls and here he is, in the kitchen alone, playing with fridge magnets.

He takes his sweet time collecting the pieces, hoping the intruder will take his leave as quickly as possible.

Instead, Arthur is shocked to find the stranger kneeling next to him, helping him pick up the pieces. After they are done, and Arthur manages to snag the last bright blue “E” from beneath the corner of the refrigerator, they rise at the same time.

“Thanks,” Arthur mumbles, holding his hand out to take back the magnets.

To his immense surprise, the stranger returns the alphabet letters but deliberately picks out a crimson “L” from Arthur's palm. Slides it carefully next to the “A”.

Without even thinking about it, Arthur is already picking his next letter.

And the other man is matching him, letter for letter, and together, they are building a story made of hard plastic and bright colours. It's short; they have no beginning or ending. And hell, the middle's pretty weak, as far as Arthur is concerned, but they are working with what they have.

Arthur feels a little bit faint, as though he's not entirely there. As though he's disconnected from his body and he's merely watching the scene play out before him. Eventually, they run out of letters and that's it. Their story is finished. Or at least, as finished as it will ever be.

Despite the fact that this is obviously someone who is as weird as Arthur, who builds stories from refrigerator magnets in the middle of an alcohol-laden party, he still feels mighty embarrassed (oh thank you, alcohol, for multiplying and boosting all emotions) and without looking at the stranger, Arthur turns to make his escape.

“Hey,” the other man quietly speaks up. “Aren't you going to read it? We worked hard on it. Great, isn't it?”

He flushes dully, eyes darting to the kitchen appliance for a split second. “Yeah, it's really something.”

“Read it to me.”

“What?”

“Read it to me,” the other man repeats, and the accent makes itself known. It's British, through and through.

Arthur feels like he's in a unlit tunnel. Everything around him is dark and blurry, and the light at the end is so far away. Even sound is taking a long time to reach his ears, tinny and faint when it does. He shakes his head. “I...I should go.”

“Please.”

That one word. And he comes undone.

Returning his eyes to the fridge, Arthur reads over their poem quickly in his head, just once to make sure he has it right. Opens his mouth, “He pressed a kiss to her palm...”

The strange, young man captures his hand, and Arthur's voice falters. Hazel eyes, framed by the most amazing lashes Arthur has ever seen on any man, watch his face as pair of warm, full lips press into the centre of his palm. Arthur sucks in a quick, little breath, making a tiny, strangled noise in his throat. He swallows hard, something sharp and harsh caught in his throat.

“...and ghosted his fingers along her skin, warm and light.”

“You are she in that story,” the other man murmurs.

He feels the large but graceful fingers release his hand only to reach up, trace his cheek, the touch light but sure. His heart is beating like a drum, knocking at the walls of his chest, trying to climb its way out. He's torn between leaning in for more and running away. Running away, protecting himself. But in the end, he does nothing and simply stands there, absorbs the warmth like a flower soaking in the sunlight.

It is that exact moment when Arthur falls in love. Not that he realizes it.

There is a burst of laughter right outside the kitchen and it's like a jolt of pure electricity to Arthur's system. He jerks away, red-hot heat flooding his cheeks. Mumbling something, some sort of excuse, any excuse, and then he flees the room, seeking sanctuary in another part of the house.

*~*~*~*

Half an hour later, Arthur carefully stacks his empty can of Heineken on top of the other ones. The other empty cans. His empty cans. Well, they're not all his. Maybe just one or two. Because that would be a lot of alcohol. He pulls back and squints at the bridge he's built before nodding to himself and dusting his hands off. He had wanted to build the Penrose stairs but alas, physics still apply, even to the drunk.

A tiny little part of his mind thinks, if he drinks enough, he won't remember the kitchen scene come morning. Actually, if he thinks about it now, the scene is already a little bit fuzzy around the edges.

He nearly jumps out of his skin, and he barely manages to hold back a yelp, when someone grabs him by the elbow and drags him into a dark, dingy little room in the basement. The shelves are lined with jars and cans, and from the ceiling hangs onions and other vegetables. It's a cellar, Arthur realizes.

“What the--” he starts, all affronted indignation.

“Ssh,” the other person hushes him and shuts the door behind them. “Hide and seek. Last people to be found are the winners.”

With the use of his cellphone, the other man finds a couple of pillars of boxes for them to hide behind. It takes a moment but then the voice begins to sink in. It's the man from the kitchen.

Arthur groans and resists the urge to hit his head against the shelves.

How is this his life?

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” he mutters, pretending not to recognize the other. If Arthur is lucky, perhaps he won't be recognized either.

“You are she in that story,” he says quietly.

Fucking hell. No such luck, damnit.

“My name is Thomas but everyone calls me Eames.”

“Arthur,” he replies unwittingly before it hits him that maybe he ought to have lied and made up a name. But it's too late now.

“It suits you,” Eames tells him.

“Shut up.”

“It's true,” insists Eames.

“Shut up,” Arthur scowls and shoves the other man against the wall. “You're impossible, you know that, right?”

And then he practically attacks the other man, trapping him against the wall, roughly jamming their lips together. It hurts because Arthur misjudged the distance but then the pain peters out and all that's left is the heat, the taste of his lips laden with alcohol.

Arthur is expecting to be shoved away now. And also possibly punched in the face. Because who just assaults someone out of the blue like that? Assaults them with their lips. Any...second now...Eames is going to...kiss...him back.

Holy. Fucking. Hell.

The British guy is kissing him back. He tastes like Baileys and cherry cigarettes; a combination that should, by all rights, be disgusting, but to his consternation, Arthur finds it pleasing. Very pleasing.

Arthur pulls back. “Wait, wait. What are you doing?”

Eames blinks, confused. “Well, I don't know about you, but in the UK, we call this snogging.”

“You--aren't you--do you always just kiss random strangers?” an offended Arthur demands, because the thought of Eames making out with anyone willing is just. Not on.

“Just the cute ones,” comes the tongue-in-cheek reply. “Mmm, all right then. I'm Eames. I'm twenty. I attend the local college. I wrestle on the men's team. I like Wordsworth and Coleridge. I also have a thing for cute guys with glasses.

Besides, I wouldn't really label us as strangers. We write poems together.”

That is a very valid point, a small part of Arthur's brain decides before it shuts down on him, short-circuited by the feeling of the hard-on against his thigh. He finds himself helplessly rubbing against it, shifts his hips and undulates against Eames, delighting in the groan he receives. The friction from his denim jeans sends little bolts of heat coursing through him, settling deep in his belly.

Then Eames is kissing him this time, all soft heat and dry lips.

Arthur feels the older man's tongue snake out, trace slowly along his lower lip before sliding into his mouth and he lets out a tiny, little sound, muffled by the other man's lips. He feels Eames' cock twitch in response. The older man's fingers glide underneath his shirt, map out the curves and dips along his back, memorize each and every single inch and it feels like Eames is etching his journey into Arthur's skin. The scent of Baileys and cherries is overwhelming.

It's a slow, sensual seduction of Arthur's senses, like a growing fire with flickering flames licking and teasing the logs in a hearth, gradually devouring from the outside in. His eyes flutter shut, and he lets himself.

Fall.

Just fall.

Sinks into the emotions the older man draws from him and kisses him back hungrily. His own hands curl loosely about Eames' neck. His cock is so hard, it's painful and the urge to bite Eames' lower lip is overpowering. So he gives in and bites down in the fleshy, full lip, and is rewarded with another groan.

If he had known, perhaps Arthur would have tried harder to commit the older man into his memory. Imprint his taste, his touch, his scent into his very being.

But come morning, all he will remember is a rough voice, made husky with desire. The other man grinding their groins together, bringing them closer and closer to the edge, their movements getting more and more frantic until they climax, soiling their underwear. It had felt naughty, filthy and just downright fantastic. Arthur will barely recall getting hard again within minutes and simultaneously thanking and damning his teenage hormones. He'll only just be able to remember how he came again and again, pressed against the walls in the cellar, surrounded by dusty shelves.

*~*~*~*

The memories of that night are stacked in a corner of his mind, dusty and forgotten. It has been a long time since the Point Man has given them any thought.

That however, is about to change.

It starts off like any other day.

He's the first one at the warehouse but the others slowly trickle in shortly after him. As usual, the last one to arrive gets the honour of retrieving drinks for everyone else.

Hallowe'en is fast approaching. Which means screaming, rowdy kids, fireworks, a plethora of candy and the inevitable arrival of tacky, so-called nightmare-inducing movies. It is something Arthur is very much not looking forward too.

Secretly though, he doesn't mind the kids. In fact, he loves children. Philippa and James are prime examples. It's once children have hit a certain age that he begins to develop a dislike for them. Arthur is of the mind that babies and children up to age ten are fine. Once they begin to develop attitude though, he figures they ought to be locked up until they reach their twenties.

What the Point Man is looking forward to, however, is pumpkin season. Pumpkin bread, pumpkin chai lattes, pumpkin doughnuts, pumpkin cake and most importantly, pumpkin pie.

When Yusuf returns, bearing drinks, Arthur is delighted to see his favourite pumpkin chai latte. He takes a slow sip, savouring the first taste of the spicy drink, careful not to burn his tongue.

They settle in and Arthur passes out the dossier on their latest mark, the author of a popular novel series. He overhears a snippet of conversation between Ariadne and Eames.

“I know everyone's heard the line:

Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.

But personally, I prefer this stanza:

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.”

Arthur casts a startled look in his direction as he is about to hand the last of the copies to Cobb.

Eames catches it and raises an eyebrow. “Why, yes Arthur. I have read a poem. Try not to faint. In fact, I like Wordsworth and Coleridge.”

I attend the local college...

I wrestle on the men's team...

I like Wordsworth and Coleridge...

I like Wordsworth and Coleridge....

...Wordsworth and Coleridge....

Feeling himself freeze up, the papers slip from his nerveless fingers and Arthur's heart skips a beat. Then another. He feels all his blood immediately rush south, and bites down on his lower lip.

The sheets flutter to the ground, forgotten like an overdue library book or yesterday's meatloaf.

*~*~*~*

The next day, Arthur arrives at the warehouse last, which affords him the onus of picking up the drinks. It's the first time in a long time that he's been the last one to show up and Ariadne even comments on it.

The reason for his tardiness stems from his lack of sleep. He doesn't elaborate; he may or may not have spent the better part of the night wanking himself raw to the thought of Eames, that night in the cellar. Their bodies pressed together, all heat and delicious friction. Mouths fitting together like a well-made puzzle, hands greedily skimming over every inch of skin.

When Cobb squints at him, asking him about his glasses, Arthur barely manages to refrain from throwing his hands up in frustration. Instead, he tells his nosy, busybody colleagues that glasses are easier to deal with due to his lack of sleep and time.

It has nothing to do with the fact that Eames has a thing for men with glasses.

Nothing at all.

Right.

And at the end of the day, when they're having dinner at a restaurant nearby, if he so happens to ask for a can of Heineken, which he's never ordered before, well, that's his choice.

“I swear, you're acting very odd today, Arthur,” Ariadne says, giving him a curious look. “You were late, you're wearing glasses, and I don't think I've ever seen you drink Heineken, much less any beer at all. Are you coming down with something?”

Saito even offers the services of his on-call physician.

His glare is somewhat offset by the heat in his cheeks, which he attempts to fight off but he knows he's failed miserably as he fumbles with an excuse.

It is fortunate for him when their food arrives and the conversation is diverted to the topic of food.

*~*~*~*

In the morning, Arthur makes a point of being especially early. His outfit is perfectly pressed and immaculate. His glasses are nowhere to be seen, much to Cobb's amusement and Eames' chagrin.

“I thought you looked quite dapper in those glasses, darling.”

“They're a hassle to keep clean,” Arthur replies with a shrug. “Not to mention, they keep sliding down my nose.”

“That's a shame. Anyway, I got you something,” Eames carries on, presenting him with a little gift bag.

Arthur pulls out the bulky but neatly-wrapped gift, giving Eames a questioning look.

“Just open it,” the other man urges, with a fond, exasperated tone.

Frowning for a moment, the Point Man considers the package. He shrugs to himself and tears off the paper to reveal a pack of refrigerator magnets, in a multitude of hard plastic and bright colours. His head jerks up, and he stares at the older man.

Eames remembers. All this time. All these years later.

“You had forgotten. I didn't want to push you; I was just waiting for you to remember.” Eames says simply.

You are she in that story.

END

Feedback is, as always, much appreciated.

Pic: The Special Hell

2010-10-10T19:19:07Z

So! epistolic wanted a little Eames on his knees (for Arthur of course).

This is what I did with my polymer clay figurines that I got from the amazing nataliadarimini for her Help Pakistan offer:

Yes, I just may very well be going to the special hell. As Sheperd Book says, "you're going to burn in a very special level of Hell. A level they reserve for child molesters and people who talk at the theater."

xD

Fic: And, Having Writ

2010-10-07T17:53:58Z

Title: And, Having Writ
Author: zeto
Characters/Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2.5 K
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's. I don't own these characters.
Summary: Inception Kink Meme fill found here.
Note: Not a sequel to "A Promise Made". Sorry, lovelies. ;-; But I'm almost done with that one. Just struggling with the ending. :/

Eames is twenty eight. He has hazel eyes that sometimes seem more blue than green and more grey than blue. He's built like a brick house, with a tall frame and broad shoulders, but make no mistake, it's all muscle and sinew and long, lean limbs, wrapped into one complete package.

This is true.

Eames is not one for regret. He believes in living life to the fullest, with love and laughter. He doesn't like to dwell on past mistakes or second guess himself. When he was sixteen, he never met a beautiful boy and he never fell in love. Eames has never been in love in his life.

This. This is false.

Eames was nineteen when he fell in love. And the boy wasn't beautiful. He was simply ordinary. All brown hair and pale skin, coupled with large brown eyes. A completely normal boy. Almost boring even. Except for when he smiled. Because when he smiled, he changed. His eyes lit up and his cheeks dimpled and there was this glow about him that fascinated Eames to no end.

In the eyes of everyone, that boy was ordinary but to Eames, he was so much more.

He was everything.

Eames still remembers the nights spent sharing nervous kisses, fingers laced loosely together as they watched the sun set. He remembers the sky, all lit up with vivid purple splashes and unending golden streaks. He remembers the stars peeking out through the indigo veil of the sky. He remembers running his hand through dark, silky locks as warm lips pressed against his own, ever-so hesitant and shy. He remembers lying on the thin cotton blanket, sharing body heat as they searched for constellations, counted the stars and made wishes on the falling ones.

He remembers making his wish, eyes squeezed shut.

I wish...we could be in love forever.

He remembers sharing an ice cream cone on a hot, blazing summer day. The sky was a bright, cornflower blue and not a single cloud marred the horizon. Kids chased one another with water guns, a dog playfully splashed a little girl in the water park. Frisbees flying through the air and laughter floating out over the air.

Eames remembers the cold winter days, tucked beneath the fleece blanket on the couch. Sipping mugs of steaming, marshmallow-laden hot cocoa, enjoying the fire crackling in the hearth. He remembers the tacky Christmas movie on the telly. The one they both secretly love but are too embarrassed to admit. He remembers ripping open his present and finding the hand-knit scarf inside. He remembers Arthur gently looping it around his throat, the bold red and gold pattern clashing with his green sweater.

He remembers Arthur's slender, lithe digits undoing the bow and carefully peeling away the paper to reveal his photo framed with a smooth, mahogany frame. It's them; two small figures lying at the crest of a hill, fingers pointing at the night sky as they made their wishes. Arthur's eyes had lit up and it had sent a tiny little shiver down Eames' back, skin prickling over with warmth.

Eames remembers. And he tastes the regret.

This is true.

The worst of it though, he remembers with crystal clarity.

He remembers the fights. Not even 'the big one', though he does remember that one all too clearly. It's the little ones that get to him, when he's lying in his bed at night, staring at the ceiling, a single shaft of moonlight slanting across his covers and the wall.

He remembers coming home from school one night, after an angry phone call from Arthur. One with raised voices on both sides, that ends with him slamming his phone down on the receiver. He remembers driving home at quarter to eleven, Kansas belting out on his radio, only to find Arthur curled up in their bed when he arrives, the fruits of his labour in the kitchen gone cold. He remembers the devastation in those chocolate brown eyes when Arthur tells him that it's okay, it's only their anniversary and not a big deal, really.

He remembers lipstick smeared on his collar like a cheap souvenir or a tacky cliché from a soap opera. And Arthur's carefully-blank face when he asks Eames where the lipstick had come from. He remembers the younger man silently pleading him to lie, to make up an excuse, any excuse because the truth would just be too hard.

He remembers dialling Arthur's cellphone. The endless ringing, the standard voicemail message before the tell-tale beep.

Darling, where are you? It's late.

Hey, it's me. Could you pick some rhubarb on the way home? Call me back.

Arthur, are you coming home soon?

Mmmarthur, I missh you. I'm sorry. And before you assshk, no, I'm not drunk. At all. Not even a little teensy bit. A teensy little bit.

He remembers coming home one to day find Arthur's clothes and shoes, his cologne and ties, his comb and toothbrush all gone. Simply gone. It was as though every piece of evidence of his existence had been wiped clean from Eames' life and the only thing left had been a missive on his pillow. Except it wasn't even a missive. Just three words in elegant black ink. Scrawled on a scrap piece of paper in Arthur's hand.

Eames, good bye.

This. This is true.

He remembers crumpling the piece of parchment, balling it up in his fist, angry and fuming. Then tearing it up into a dozen tiny little pieces before regret overcomes him and he carefully tapes it back together. He remembers knocking all this things from his dresser, throwing a vase against the mirror only to have ceramic and glass shatter under the impact, raining thousands tiny glittering shards onto the carpet. He remembers pulling out the lighter from his pocket and lighting up in the house. A habit Arthur had hated and had helped him kick. He remembers the trail of cigarette butts scattered over the floor and he remembers taking that tiny snippet of paper and setting it ablaze. He remembers the scent of smoke and burning tape all too easily.

This. This is false.

Eames is twenty eight. He sits alone outside a little café, nursing his cup of cold tea. Every day he stops by the café after work and orders his Earl-Grey-no-cream-no-sugar-thanks-love.

Every day like any other, he slowly sips at his tea until it goes cold, fingers running over a worn fragment of paper, creased a thousand times over, ink faded to a light grey. He has the handwriting memorized. Each elegant curve of the 'o', the fancy loops, the sharp spike in the 's'.

Today though, today is not like any other day.

Not that Eames knows this.

After the tea is finished, he stands and tosses the paper cup into the recycling bin. Just then a gust of wind sweeps through and his scrap of paper is sent tumbling into the road, pulled from his fingers. Freezing, Eames can only stare when it lands in a puddle by the side of the road.

He chases after it, heart in his throat.

However, by the time he arrives, the parchment is ruined, the ink smeared into an illegible mess with only the capital 'e' in his name and the 'bye' still visible. Leaning down, Eames is about to pluck it up, wondering if he could blow dry it at home. Wonders if it's still salvageable.

Instead, slender, lithe digits beat him to it.

“Here,” someone murmurs, holding it out.

Eames looks up and suddenly, all the air is sucked out of his lungs.

“Arthur,” he breathes out.

“Hello Eames,” says a voice he hasn't heard in over five years but one he still knows so very well. The brown-eyed young man glances down at the piece of paper, inhaling sharply. “This...this is...”

In a flash, he's yanking the paper back and stuffing it into his pocket. “It's not what you think.”

“Isn't it?” Arthur gently asks.

Glancing off to the side to avoid Arthur's knowing eyes, Eames is startled to see a young woman with a child at her hip. He doesn't know how he had missed seeing her. She has long, dark curls cascading down her back and a quizzical smile on her crimson lips. It is the child though, that has his heart thudding dully. The boy is the spitting image of Arthur, with those laughing, dark eyes and the brunet locks and the dimples in his smile.

Eames can feel a dull ache in his chest.

The dull throb turns into a sharp spike when Arthur introduces them to Eames.

“This is Jocelyn and Trystan. Say hi, Trystan.”

The small little boy smiles shyly at Eames and offers a piece of candy, waving it at him insistently. Eames finds he has no choice but to take the sticky, ruby red jujube.

“Jocelyn, this is Eames. He's...”

“We met in college,” Eames quickly slides in when Arthur falters.

The brunette straightens up. “So this is Eames. I've heard so much about you,” she smiles warmly as she extends her hand.

Eames gives it a short shake, making sure it's the hand without the sweet stuck to his palm.

“Would you like to join us? We're just on our way to dinner. I'm sure you and Arthur have so much to catch up on.”

This couldn't possibly be any more miserable of a day. In fact, Eames is certain even a root canal would be less painful.

“Ah, no, I shouldn't. I'm...busy tonight and I wouldn't want to interrupt your dinner.”

“Oh please, it's no trouble. We'd love to have your company. Right, Arthur?” Jocelyn jabs Arthur with a careful elbow, keeping Trystan balanced with what can only be months of practice, grace and agility.

“Right,” Arthur uncomfortably chimes in, resisting the urge to fidget. He's never been one for restless movement and he's not about to start now.

And that's how Eames finds himself in front of a classy and ridiculously-expensive steakhouse known as Gotham.

Just as they are about to enter the establishment, Jocelyn pauses and pipes up in an ever-so casual voice, “Oh, you know what? I just realized, I forgot something important at home; Trystan's bottle. And you know how fussy Trystan gets without his bottle.”

“What are you talking about, Jocelyn? You just said--”

A careful stomp to this foot shuts Arthur up quite effectively.

“Arthur, I left his bottle at home,” she smiles through her clenched teeth. “Why don't you and Eames go ahead and have dinner together? It will give you a chance to get re-acquainted. It was lovely to meet you, Eames.”

With that, she's gone in a whirl of a red and black polka-dotted dress, her scarlet Fluevogs clattering against the pavement and Trystan waving his chubby little fingers, sticky with the sugar of jujubes.

Eames and Arthur are left gaping after her, more than a little confounded and speechless. It takes them a minute to get their vocal cords in proper working order again.

“Er, Arthur?”

“Yes, Eames?”

“Did your wife just...set you up with me?”

Arthur frowns, forehead knitted in confusion, before slowly speaking, “Eames, I don't know how you got the idea but Jocelyn...she's not my wife.”

“Wha—are you certain?”

The younger man laughs lightly, and Eames can feel something in his chest squeezing tightly, like a vice clamping down on his heart. “Yes, I am fairly certain I'm not married. Jocelyn is my sister and Trystan is my nephew. Actually, I haven't dated since...”

Eames' head lifts up, staring at Arthur. “Since when?”

The brunet feels his cheeks heat, and he is certain he's turned an unbecoming shade of red. In vain, he fervently wishes he could control the blood vessels in his cheeks. “Since college.”

A tiny spark flares in Eames' chest. He isn't certain what it is but he thinks if it could be anything, it possibly feels like the first stirrings of tentative hope blooming. He holds the door open and gestures for Arthur to go first.

“You mean...since me?” Eames softly asks.

Arthur doesn't answer. “Look, maybe this is a bad idea. You're busy as you said. We should just...”

“No, Arthur, wait. That night. When you left...I didn't mean...it wasn't what...” Eames stops himself, running a tired hand over his face. “This isn't coming out right. What I mean to say, is that I never meant to hurt you. I was a right arse back then.”

“Eames, I don't want to talk about that. It's over. We're over, and we can't go back to that.”

“I never got over you or forgot you,” he plows on desperately. “Do you remember that night when we counted the stars? When we made up those stories about the constellations and then we saw that shooting star? And we both shut our eyes and made our wishes. Do you know what my wish was?”

Arthur finds himself unable to look away from Eames and his hazel eyes that sometimes seem more blue than green and more grey than blue.

“I remember holding hands with you, eyes shut so tightly and the words in my head, the ones I whispered to myself, 'I wish we could be in love forever'.

I've never regretted anything in my life before except for one thing, Arthur. The night I broke your heart.”

“Do you know what I wished for that night, underneath millions of stars?”

Eames swiftly takes in a quick breath of air and holds it, heart pounding so hard, he is certain it will burst inside his chest like a supernova exploding except if it does, it will unfortunately be a lot less pretty and a lot more messy. Also, a lot more painful, he imagines.

Then Arthur speaks and Eames' brain shuts down entirely. “I wish I could spend the rest of my life with this man.”

It takes him a long moment to collect his thoughts; they're going at a million miles an hour, stumbling over one another, all starts and finishes, only half-processed and not very well put-together at all, but all of them are tinged with a touch of hope.

“Arthur. I know you said we can't go back to that. To what we had. But couldn't we start over? I can't promise to be perfect. I mean, I'm so far from it. But I'll try.”

The younger man is silent for a minute. Then two. All he can think of is that night under the stars and the piece of paper, soaked by a puddle of rain with his handwriting on it. With those two words. He can't believe Eames kept it all these years and it sends a little tendril of warmth through his body. His hand, of its own accord, searches out Eames' and laces their fingers together for an instant before pulling away.

But it's enough.

END

A/N: It's weird but...I'm finding that I just can't talk about my daily life anymore. Or maybe I just don't want to talk about it. Writing fic is much easier than contemplating what's going on in my personal life. It's like an escape, it really is. Also, title taken from one of my favourite parts from The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám. <3 Admittedly though, I have many favourite parts. xD

Feedback is, as always, much appreciated.

Fic: A Promise Made

2010-09-26T15:17:07Z

Title: A Promise Made
Author: zeto
Characters/Pairing: Arthur/Eames, OC/Arthur
Warning: NC-17! Non-con!
Word Count: 1K+
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's amazing creation. I don't own these characters.
Summary: God. @_@ I...have no words for this. It's a two-for-one fill from inception_kink. Found here and here. *goes into hiding*

Arthur's nails dig into the leather couch as the older, heavy set man pushes his large, hard cock inside of him. He's biting down on his lower lip, hard enough for the taste of familiar copper to bloom on his tongue.

The blond, their mark, a man by the name of Dean Preston, grunts lowly as he grips Arthur's hips and fucks into him. “You're so tight, you little slut. I bet you're loving this.”

Shutting his eyes, Arthur wills himself to calm down, to take slow deep breaths. He's not here. He's not here. He's not braced against the loveseat in the back room of a high-end lounge. This isn't happening. It's not--it's not--

He can't stop the small gasp though, eyes flying open, when Preston suddenly slams his length all the way in without warning.

“That's right. Take it all,” he groans as be bottoms out.

Arthur bites back a little whimper, presses his head down and wills it to be over as fast as possible, doing his best to ignore the pain. He's certain Eames is watching, helpless, in the dark. Watching Arthur, naked from the waist down, being forced to fuck and pretending to like it.

They hadn't meant to let it get this far. Something had gone wrong. The sedative in the drink; maybe it hadn't been strong enough. But Arthur had had Yusuf concoct the drug, added it in himself and taken the drinks, a couple of Scotch on the Rocks to the table. Or maybe the mark hadn't taken a sip.

No. No, Arthur had watched him take a drink from his tumbler. A dim part of his mind recalled what Yusuf had said though. The bigger the target, the longer it would take for the drug to take effect. Yusuf had recommended he take a full dosage with him but Arthur hadn't been able to conceal the full amount on his person. And Preston is no waif by any means.

“You're real tight. I can see the way your hole is just eating up my cock,” the mark groans as he pulls out and shoves back in with hard, relentless thrusts. “You're loving this, aren't you?”

Arthur bites his tongue and wishes with every fibre that he didn't have to answer but he has to make it believable. “Y-Yes,” he breathes, putting a tiny little whimper into it. “I've...I've never had anyone as big as you. Oh god...”

The words send a shudder straight through Preston as he slams into Arthur, over and over. His hands caress Arthur's pale hips, his thighs, before pulling up his shirt.

Pretend it's Eames, Arthur tells himself. Pretends that's Eames' hand touching you, caressing you.

A large, warm hand takes a hold of his cock, stroking and fondling roughly, almost in time with the thrusts, spreading the come leaking from the weeping tip. Preston admires the way his pale legs are contrasted, spread across the dark burgundy leather, his shirt crumpled and soiled as he's being ruthlessly taken.

Arthur breathes back a sigh of relief when the older man pulls out completely. His relief however, is short lived when he feels a finger exploring his hole. It teases for a moment, ghosting over the winking entrance before it slips in with ease, aided by Arthur's come. Preston adds another finger and then a third and roughly finger fucks the brunet, fingers twisting inside of him, stretching him wide open, as his other hand jerking him off with practised smooth strokes.

“Fuck,” Arthur gasps sharply, trying to jerk away from the brutal treatment he's receiving. “Oh fuck--oh please, I can't—nngh, please...”

“That's right. Beg me for more,” Preston purrs into his ear before he licks the delicate rim and bites down. Hard.

His ass clenches around the digits and Preston replaces them with his cock again. Arthur swears up a storm, enough to make a sailor blush, when the blond shoves his dick back in.

“Too bad we don't have a mirror in here,” pants the older man. “I bet you're all-all needy and wanton, spread out for me like the whore you are. I wish I could see your face.”

“But I-I like this an-angle,” Arthur chokes out. “I can feel you so deep inside me, s-sir. I bet...I bet I'll feel it for days.”

It is probably the 'sir' that sends the other man over the edge. Arthur feels him jerk against his backside, making the couch creak and shudder as Preston gasps and climaxes, eyes rolling back as his whole world goes black.

The blond man slumps over and crushes Arthur into the couch.

Weakly, the Point Man attempts to shove him off but his arms are like jelly, all wobbly and frail. Instead, Eames is suddenly, there, yanking their giant brick of a mark away. He drops the blond to the carpet and kicks him hard in the ribs.

“Eames! No!” Arthur shouts, grabbing his arm and missing. He crashes to the floor instead.

In an instant, Eames is at his side, helping him up. “Darling, darling. Oh god, I am so, so sorry.”

“No, I-I'm all right. It was my fault. I thought we could do with a half dose. Just...give me a minute,” he drinks in huge breaths of air like a drowning man. “We have to keep going. He's out now. Get the PASIV.”

“Keep going--are you insane?” Eames clutches his shoulders and shakes him, hard.

Arthur grabs Eames' wrists tightly, cutting off his circulation. “Do. Not. Quit. Now. Don't let this have all been for naught. Do you hear me? We keep going. Finish the job.”

Eames' face is white. Absolutely colourless. He presses his lips together and jerks out of Arthur's grip before he turns away and stalks over to the nearest wall, pounding it with his fist. “Fuck!” He hits it again for good measure. It doesn't make him feel any better though the pain seems to calm him down a little.

“Eames,” Arthur whispers. “Please.”

The Forger shuts his eyes as a shudder wracks his body. It feels like an eternity passes before he speaks again. “Get your clothes on. I'll get the PASIV.”

Within a couple of minutes, Preston, Arthur and Eames are all hooked up. Just before Eames presses the injection activation trigger, he catches Arthur's eyes and holds his gaze.

“After this job, I will end him,” Eames promises with dead calm, eyes cold and dark with fury.

Arthur only watches him for a few moments before he nods. Once.

END

Feedback: ...Uhm...yes please? *blushes*

Fic: A Letter Unsent

2010-09-26T11:30:53Z

Title: A Letter Unsent
Author: zeto
Characters/Pairing: pre-slash (Arthur/Eames)
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's amazing creation. I don't own these characters.
Summary: Years and years before the best Point Man in the business ever existed, there was a boy. His name was Arthur, and this was a letter he wrote all those years ago.

He's sitting alone in his hotel room, elegant fingers caressing the fine crystal snifter. He sips the amber liquid and it smoothly runs down his throat, warm and silky. It settles in his belly, infusing him with heat.

Cognac.

On the table beside him is a single piece of parchment. The page is creased and wrinkled; a direct result of years of handling. The black ink on the pages is faded but still clear.

He doesn't even have to look, the words are long memorized.

Dear Strange Boy,

I have decided that our strange encounter was merely a by-product of my overtaxed and stressed out mind. Maybe some tiny little part of me was trying to remind me of the essentials in life. Trying to remind me of the things I'd lost sight of: Be happy and be yourself.

I really do hope you are real though, and not some hallucination dreamt up by my lack of sleep and lack of proper food. Yes, I do know coffee and a granola bar is not a proper meal. But neither is tea and a scone, even if the scone did taste quite good.

I want to know you. I want to ask you if you've ever read anything by William Wordsworth or Percy Bysshe Shelley. Have you ever opened a copy of The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám? I want to ask if you prefer watching the sun rise on a clear, crisp winter dawn or the sun set over the shimmering ocean on a warm summer evening? Have you ever seen a shooting star? And made a wish upon it? I did once. A long time ago. Now I don't even remember what the wish was. Or if it even came true. Maybe it did. I hope so.

I feel like I've been touched. A little mad in the head, ever since we spoke. It's like my head is in the clouds and there's no way down from there. I keep thinking about the things you said, the words we exchanged, the words we didn't.

I still can't believe I gave you my number. Will you call? Will you not? Surely I will go loony with the waiting. Even if you did call, what would I say? I have all these words, all these thoughts. And I want to share them with you but I don't know how. I keep them all inside myself, and they're waiting. Maybe you can free them.

You are a most unusual boy. You were always smiling and cheerful, bringing a joy to the room with such ease and finesse. You, who tastes of Earl Grey tea and cherries. You, who smells of laughter and sunshine. And I cannot forget you.

I don't think I'd ever want to forget you.

Yours truly,
Arthur

The crackling blaze in the hearth licks at the logs, radiant in the dark of the room.

He sits, silent, and he wonders.

What ever happened to that boy he was all those years ago? How did he end up here? He had said he didn't ever want to forget, but Arthur is afraid deep down, despite reading the letter over and over throughout the years, he already has forgotten.

Forgotten.

Everything he ever was.

To become everything he's ever hated.

END

Some days, I like to think that letter is addressed to a young Eames that Arthur met all those years ago. Some days I like to think it's addressed to someone else altogether.

Feedback is, as always, much appreciated.

Fic: Serenne Where the Sunflowers Grow

2010-09-22T12:08:52Z

Title: Serenne Where the Sunflowers Grow
Author: zeto
Characters/Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Word Count: 800+
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's amazing creation. I don't own these characters.
Summary: Arthur hurts but Eames can't do anything to help him.

It is raining.

Arthur hardly notices as he sits on a wet park bench, hands buried in his hair, dripping crimson water down his cold, clammy fingers..

It is a testament as to how lost he is, when it takes him over a full minute to realize someone is holding an umbrella over his head. On any other day, no one would be able to get within five feet of him with his awareness, much less get an umbrella over his head.

It is no ordinary day.

He slowly lifts his head up, heedless of the wet locks dripping into his eyes. His lips barely move, the faintest word spilling out, “Eames...”

“You're sopping wet, darling. Why don't we get you back inside, hm?” The Forger suggests quietly.
If Eames notices the scarlet rivulets, he doesn't say anything

It alarms him, to see Arthur looking so small and lost. To see him vulnerable and fragile. This is not the Arthur he is used to. And he's quite certain he does not like it.

The younger man gives the barest shake of his head. “I—can't.”

Eames isn't surprised by his reply. Ever since the phone call Arthur had received earlier, he had been acting strange. All stilted actions and half-broken replies.

Heedless of his own clothing, he sits down next to Arthur instead, folds up the umbrella. And they sit in the rain, letting the minutes slip by, with only the rain for a companion.

“Her name,” he says so quietly that Eames almost doesn't hear it, “ is...was Serenne. Her favourite flowers were sunflowers, so wherever we were, we would plant them. Watch them grow, even in the most barren of places. Serenne where the sunflowers grow, I used to say. Used to.”

If Eames notices the crack in his voice, he doesn't say anything.

Later, when they are back in their apartment, Eames carefully divests him of his soggy, stained clothing, helps him into the shower, himself still fully clothed and just. Wraps his arms around Arthur as the scalding water drenches them both and they simply stand under the stream and lose track of time.

Afterwards, Eames guides him out, gently pats him dry with a white towel and settles him into their bed. With tender hands, he wraps a fleece blanket around Arthur. Arthur barely even reacts.

When Eames presses a mug of steaming tea into his hands, he finally breaks the silence again.

“I'm not...I don't need this--”

“I know, darling,” replies the older man, trying for a smile. “You're the best in the business. I've seen you take out men more than double your size. You could probably break necks with your pinky.”

His smile fades before it even fully forms.

“I just...I need this,” Eames finally admits, voice a bare whisper.

Arthur takes a sip of his drink, staring at the leaves pooling at the bottom. He can feel Eames' eyes on him, those compelling blue-grey eyes, swirled with green, lanced with pain. But he doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything except drink his tea and stare at the leaves, looking for his future.

Time seems to drag on, the minutes ticking away ever so slowly.

Arthur wants to tell Eames to go away. Except he doesn't.

He wants to be left alone. Except he doesn't.

He does and he doesn't. No, he doesn't know what he wants anymore.

Except perhaps to wake up from this bad dream.

Except it's not.

Eames wants so badly to reach out, envelop the younger man in his arms, shield him from all the hurts of the world but there are some things even he is incapable of rectifying.

After a few long moments, he gives in to his urges and takes back the mug, setting it on the night table as he climbs onto the bed. Sliding his arms around Arthur, he merely holds him, pressing his forehead against the back of the younger man's neck. And he just breathes.

Takes in the familiar scent of his lover. Smoky cherry like the cigarillos Arthur favours, mixed with the scent of his cologne, a cool blend of juniper berries and evergreen.

They don't talk about it. That night. Was it only yesterday? It seems like forever ago. In the rain. The crimson-stained clothing. The way Arthur had seemed so small and fragile. Needy and hurting, but unwilling to admit it. Unwilling to ask. Silently grateful for Eames knowing without the words ever being voiced.

If Eames happens to read about the mysterious deaths of a couple of small-time criminals known for raping and killing young girls in the local newspaper, well, he doesn't say anything.

The only clue, as to the identity of the killer, is a single sunflower at the scene of the crime.

Only Eames knows the secret behind the sunflower.

END

A/N: I'm not terribly happy with this one. It feels incomplete, but this Writer's Block is just annihilating me. I don't know how to fix this block. I've tried all sorts of methods. Random writing, listening to all sorts of music, watching Inception (again, for the third time), reading the Shooting Script, looking at pictures of the ever-so-lovely JGL, reading other people's works in the fandom and other fandoms like SPN, sleeping, etc. I don't understand this block. It's not like my previous block where I just had no drive. I have all these ideas, this drive to write but I just. Can't. Ask me for prompts, for fic ideas and I've got dozens. But I can't seem to get any of the ideas written for myself.

That said, dear reader, I hope you enjoyed this fic regardless. Thanks for reading. :)

Fic: Your Psycho, Your Vertigo

2010-09-15T09:57:57Z

Title: Your Psycho, Your Vertigo
Author: zeto
Characters/Pairing: Arthur/Eames, Arthur/OCs
Rating: R
Word Count: 6K+
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's amazing creation. I don't own these brilliant characters. Lady Gaga owns the song "Bad Romance".
Summary: From little boy to the best Point Man in the business, snippets of scenes from Arthur's life that make him the man he is today.
Note: Drunk!Arthur. Lady Gaga reference: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6zMwGkY7z4. And, been waiting forever to say this, Happy Birthday, Tom Hardy! <3

Arthur is nine.

Just turned.

He isn't expecting anything. He never does. And he knows it's not because his parents don't love him. Because they do, and they aren't afraid to express it; they just happen to be practical people. He knows better than to make a big fuss.

But both of his parents are home for dinner, which is a rarity and that tells him a lot. More than words could ever convey, at any rate.

There's a small cake with fruit on top, and instead of a dirt bike or the latest remote-control car, his parents give him his grandfather's pocket watch.

It's antique, ancient but it still ticks away. It's been lovingly cared for, over the years and it shows. Inside the silver cover is an engraving. One Arthur's seen and traced over and over, throughout the years. Elegant handwriting, carved with careful devotion.

For those who dream.

Arthur handles it very carefully, thanking his parents with utmost sincerity. He knows, from the bedtime stories, that his great-grandfather had given the pocket watch to his grandfather and then his grandfather to his father when his father had turned nine. And now, now it is his.

Something he can pass on to his first born.

He feels older than nine. He feels trusted and that's a gift no amount of money can ever match.

*~*

He's seven.

Lost in the supermarket, but he's not afraid. Instead, Arthur is slowly meandering from aisle to aisle, scrutinizing all the different foods and items in the store.

Jellos and puddings in boxes; yummy food but he finds them too sweet and only likes to have them once in a while. A large red fruit he's never seen before; pomegranate. He can tell what the inside looks like from the picture of said fruit on display and he's duly fascinated by it. The contents look like luscious, red pearls, brimming to the full.

In the body cleansing aisle, Arthur is amazed at the sheer volume of different shampoos and conditioners, hair products and soaps. He recognizes the one his mother favours; a bright blue plastic container that is hard to miss.

His little legs take him to the small section of books in the store.

A well-meaning worker finds him in the aisle, reading National Geographic and takes him to customer service where she proceeds to fiddle around with the PA system. It becomes apparent that she's never actually used it before and after half a minute, Arthur points to a couple of buttons. She eyes him for a moment before shrugging, as if to say ah, what the hell, why not and follows his instructions.

The PA system crackles to life and she pages for his parents.

When his parents come rushing down the aisle, frantic worry rolling off them in waves, Arthur politely thanks the supermarket employee and calmly meets his mum and dad.

What a darling little boy, thinks the woman before returning to her work, and then she thinks of him no more.

*~*

Arthur is fourteen.

She's a tiny little thing. Maybe five feet two and a hundred pounds but no more than that. Makes Arthur feel tall, standing at five feet six, weighing in at a hundred forty-six. If he's a little reserved, she either doesn't notice or mind as she chatters away, talking about her favourite TV shows and movies. They're in the middle of the atrium, just after the school dance, waiting for their parents to come pick them up.

Without a second thought, she plunks herself on the concrete ground, heedless of the dirt. She pats the ground next to her but Arthur gives her a shake of his head.

She laughs and tells him it's only dirt. Just a little bit and what's the harm, when the clothes are going into the washer anyway? When he still refuses, she reaches up and yanks on his jacket sleeves. He nearly topples over and she laughs again. This time at him. He settles on the ground, resisting the urge to sweep the area clean first, and he tries very hard not to think about the dirt.

But after a few moments, somehow, he doesn't mind her laughter, nor at the dirt on his pants. And it has nothing to do with her grey eyes. Really. He rubs his hands together in a vain attempt to warm them up.

She pauses, mid-chatter and cocks her head. Then she tells him to clasp his hands together and hold them out in front of her.

He's a little confused but he does as she says anyway.

Then she reaches out and holds one hand open over and the other under his, hovering, not quite touching. To his surprise, her hands begin to emit a little heat. One that grows steadily warmer and warmer until suddenly, he's not cold anymore.

He opens his mouth to ask her how she's doing that but then a voice calls out to her. She manages a quick goodbye and then she's up and running. Her black hair and her green plaid dress is fluttering in the wind and then she's gone, in a clatter of Mary Jane's.

He only had the one dance with her and he never got her name but her smile and her eyes are with him for the rest of the school year.

*~*

He's twenty.

Sitting in the library, studying for finals. It's pretty late on campus and the library is practically empty. As far as Arthur can tell, there are maybe only a dozen students on the same floor as him. The student in the study carrel two seats down from him is packing up, probably ready to call it a night.

The blond rises to his feet and slides past Arthur. The cramped area affords no room to wiggle through and the young man loses his balance. His cup of coffee goes flying and lands on Arthur's textbook, spewing out everywhere.

He stares in dismay at the explosion of milky caffeine. The one dripping all over his book, and he's just happy he hadn't had his laptop out.

The blond, frantic with worry that the coffee spilled onto Arthur, apologizes profusely, looking horribly embarrassed and contrite. He offers to buy Arthur a new text and take him out for a drink to make up for the unmitigated accident. Giving an weak smile, he really hopes Arthur doesn't blow up at him.

And lucky for him, Arthur doesn't. Possibly because the man speaks with an accent; British if Arthur is any judge, and he's always been intrigued by accents. He does, however, decide to take him up on the new text and drinks.

So the blond young man grabs Arthur's wrist and tugs his pen from behind his ear. Scrawls his name and number on the palm of Arthur's hand. It tickles and the brunet resists the urge to laugh.

It isn't until a week later, when they're having drinks in the bar that Arthur realizes. Rhys with his new shirt and freshly-pressed jeans. With his tousled blond locks and his cologne that smells like wind, ocean and ice. Rhys who insists on paying for the drinks and dinner.

Oh.

And it isn't until the blond has him pressed against his bedroom door, biting and sucking on his lower lip, that it really sinks in. Has his hand roving under his shirt, exploring previously-untouched territory.

Oh.

*~*

He is twenty-six.

He is meeting Eames for the first time, a prospect he is not looking forward to. He's heard of the Forger. Best in the business, but a man with appalling taste and an incorrigible flirt, if rumours are anything to go by. Arthur isn't usually one for rumours but these one are consistent enough to have him believing.

So when the tall Forger sidles up to him, gives him a slow, appraising once over, Arthur doesn't bat an eye. Not even the strong, firm grip on his hand that lingers just a touch too long to be professional, is enough to shake him. Not even the hand encased in fine leather gloves, dyed a rich chocolate brown, feeling silky smooth against his palm.

But then Eames opens his mouth, grey eyes dark with a sly promise as he purrs, Pleased to...meet you, darling.

And fuck, Arthur swallows hard, realizing the man is British with a fucking full-on British accent. It's enough to make him hard and he's certain, absolutely convinced Eames knows it.

Just his goddamn luck.

And so begins his love-hate feelings for the infamous Forger.

*~*

He's twenty-one.

Been dating the blond man, Rhys, for half a year now. Things are going well, very well, if the sex is any indication.

They're at the top of a mountain one starry night when Rhys confesses that he'd been trying to summon the courage to ask Arthur out for the longest time, after seeing him study in the library every Thursday night from eight pm to eleven pm since the beginning of term.

Arthur hadn't even realized they'd been sharing a routine.

Rhys just smiles slightly, blushing. He finally admits the coffee had been completely on purpose because Arthur had been driving him mad, ignoring him week after week, not even noticing his very existence, two carrels down, every single Thursday night.

The brunet laughs and pulls the older man in for a kiss, cupping his jaw. They've been drinking hot cocoa, and Arthur can taste it on his lips.

And, Rhys admits, he might have been very, incredibly turned on by the way Arthur absently sucked on the tip of his pen cap while he was studying.

Arthur isn't sure if that's a hint, because if it is, it isn't a very subtle one, and he says so. Despite that, he decides to take the non-hint and ghosts his hand down Rhys' shirt, teasing along his waistband before deft fingers undo the belt.

After coming up for air, Arthur fixes his hair, looking inordinately pleased with himself. He looks even more content when the favour is returned.

Arthur is surprised but not at all unpleased to realize the blond can do these sort of things while he's wearing gloves. Dark brown leather gloves. Rhys caresses him with a hand encased in leather, sliding his hand beneath the younger man's shirt. He teases and brushes Arthur's nipples, eliciting a sharp gasp, followed by a low groan.

The cool, smooth glove feels amazing on his heated skin. Like silk, along his bare flesh. He's certain he's never been this hard in his life. The leather-bound digits ghost along his cock, stroking and caressing. Arthur is dying, fucking dying while the other man slowly slides his hand around his arousal, grips it firmly, just the way he likes, and brings him off with teasing, smooth tugs.

*~*

Arthur is eleven.

He's been grounded. Not that he can go anywhere anyway, what with his broken leg and all. But it is totally worth it.

His parents are horrified. Their perfect little boy, chasing butterflies, playing in the dirt and climbing trees. He's never done any of that before but the new boy on the block, Toby, is more than eager to make new friends with him and show him how to have fun.

And having fun includes playing in the ravine, trying to skip stones in the in the shallow pool, trying to catch fireflies at night and climbing the cherry trees, trying to snag the deep red, succulent fruits, according to the redhead.

Later on Toby would claim Arthur had been trying to fly. Arthur considers denying it but decides it doesn't really matter. Especially when Toby creeps into his bedroom, with guilty hands behind his back.

He apologizes meekly before holding out his hands.

There are freshly washed cherries.

And that makes everything okay again.

*~*

He's twenty-two.

All right, so technically he'll be twenty-two in about five hours. But no one cares. He's just another young college student, out with his friends, having a good time.

He doesn't even get a say in what they do, where they go or what they eat. Rhys has taken care of all the little details and all Arthur has to do is keep from throwing up during the course of the night.

Easier said than done when his traitorous friends are making him take a shot for ever year he's been alive. The night is very young, and he's already tipsy from twelve shots. Apparently they aren't playing around. Nothing but B-52 and tequila shots for him.

And if Rhys seems distracted, well, Arthur doesn't even really notice or blame him. The party's pretty smashing, and Arthur even more so. It must have been a big hassle to organize everything; no wonder Rhys is preoccupied.

It's nearing one in the morning when the blond half drags and half carries Arthur back to his dorm room. Rhys isn't doing so well himself. In fact, he's not sure how he manages to get Arthur to his room in one piece, considering how much alcohol he's had himself.

Lucky for them, Arthur's dorm-mate comes to investigate the noise they're making at that ungodly hour. Between the two of them, they manage to roll the brunet into bed, and to hell with his clothes, though the shoes do come off.

It's about four in the morning when Arthur drags himself out of bed. Despite his non-hangover because he's still drunk, his bladder is calling and he stumbles out of his room towards the bathroom.

He hears noises coming from his dorm-mate's bedroom. The door is open and he can't help it when his eyes flicker inside. He sucks in a sharp breath and wishes to hell he were dreaming or drunk.

Oh.

But he is. Drunk, that is, not dreaming. But that doesn't mean he's hallucinating. Because his so-called boyfriend is fucking his dorm-mate. His supposedly straight dorm-mate.

Oh.

Well, happy fucking birthday to him.

*~*

Arthur is twenty-two.

He can start over. He can. Because he can't stay there anymore. He can hardly breathe without choking. Claims it's the exhaust and pollution in the air. That's the best explanation he gives his parents.

And he knows he's disappointed them but he promises he won't fail. He's not quitting. He's just...hitting the reset button.

He'll just...transfer. Because the memories are overwhelming and they're strangling him slowly but surely.

He is twenty two and he's starting over again.

In a brand new city, with a brand new outlook on life.

He doesn't bother to get to know his new dorm-mate. Or anyone else for that matter. Instead, he immerses himself in his schoolwork. He's not studying once or twice a week now. It's every single night he's in the library.

So what, he tells himself, if he's lonely? So what if his dorm-mate thinks he's an anti-social rigid hardass who does nothing but study?

It takes the average college student four years to complete their studies. Arthur does it in two. And he does it summa cum laude.

Which makes it worth it. Right?

*~*

He is twenty-four.

He meets Dominic and Mallory Cobb through his professor-turned-friend Miles. The couple invite him to join their clinic after they put him through a few tests. The three of them are top notch at what they do. He meets the children, James and Phillipa, and they are instantly taken with 'Uncle Arthur'.

He's got a nice flat, big enough for three people. His parents are happy that he's happy. He has children to spoil, even if they are not his own, and that makes it all the better because that means he can get away with the spoiling and he doesn't have to deal with the temper tantrums.

For the first time in his life, he has money, a place to call his own and a steady, reputable job as a therapist in dreams. He's got, well, he wouldn't call Dom and Mal his friends, but they are more than mere acquaintances. He's young and the world is his oyster. Life is good. The dreams are even better, of course.

And he is happy, he tells himself. Tells his parents.

So what if it's a little white lie?

They've never hurt anyone before.

At least, that's what Arthur says to himself as he hooks himself up to the PASIV device.

*~*

Arthur is sixteen.

He is escorting his date to her front door. Her parents are in the front window, watching. They're not even attempting to be subtle. For one absurd moment, Arthur imagines the father loading a shotgun behind the curtains.

Smiling shyly, his date tells him she had a good time and she wouldn't mind catching another movie with him. They make plans for next Friday and he holds a hand out for her to shake. With a laugh that goes straight to his gut, she takes the hand and pulls him in for a kiss on the lips.

Arthur is frozen. Just for an instant.

His first kiss.

And he's not even sure what to do. His hands. Where do they go? How long are they supposed to kiss? Her parents are watching. They're going to kill him. He feels like flailing but then it slowly clicks. It all falls into place. He cups the back of her head lightly, kisses her gently for a moment or two longer before pulling away.

She smiles at him, eyes bright. She tells him not to worry about her parents. Harmless really. All bark and no bite.

He nods, a little dazed before saying his goodbyes. He's uncertain as to how he gets home and for the rest of the night, all he can taste are cherries. The flavour of gum she'd been chewing.

*~*

He is twenty-eight.

Nearly twenty-nine.

A fancy apartment, a reliable income and freedom; those are all things of the past. Instead, he and Cobb are in Thailand, having supper in dingy little cafes in no-name towns. They're in China, obvious foreigners among the Asians. They're in Scotland, where it rains more than anything else but at least they are free. They're in Australia and Arthur is slowly losing himself, driving himself mad, day by day. It's the accents. It's always the fucking accent that bring the memories crashing back. They are everywhere but home. Because Mal is dead.

Mal is dead.

She's gone and Cobb is desperately trying to find a way home. Back to his children.

And Arthur. Arthur who knows exactly what it's like to lose everything. Who knows exactly what it's like to be forced to start over. Arthur is right there with him because Cobb and Mal had given him everything. And now he has to be there for Cobb.

It is the only reason he puts up with the impossibility that is the Fischer job.

Except when Cobb leaves for Mombasa, Arthur is ready to up and leave.

He doesn't want to see Eames again.

But at least, this time, Eames isn't wearing gloves. His accent, like his sense of fashion, is still...atrocious. Yes, atrocious. At least, that's what Arthur tells himself.

Because really. Who on earth pairs a tan suit with a baby blue dress shirt and white socks?

It hurts Arthur's eyes and he says as much to Eames.

The Briton snickers, calls him an old chap, old stick-in-the-mud and pulls out a pack of cigarillos. Without even bothering to ask, he lights up in the warehouse and blows a cloud of smoke straight into Arthur's face.

Scowling, the Point Man reaches out and plucks the cigarette from Eames' fingers. He pauses and studies the fag. The green-blue-eyed man raises an eyebrow, wondering what Arthur is going to do with the smoke. Eyes never leaving the Forger's, Arthur leisurely lifts it to his lips and inhales. He purses his lips and slowly blows out, sending a stream back into Eames' face.

And fuck, Eames thinks, that's actually rather hot. He is tempted to take a hold of Arthur's jaw and suck the smoke from his very lungs.

Of course, Arthur ruins the effect by then dropping the cigarette and crushing it underneath his round-toe Oxfords. It's probably damaging the structural integrity of his shoe but he clearly doesn't care.

*~*

Arthur is twenty-nine.

It's his birthday, a week after the Fischer job. Secretly, he was thankful for the work. It was a welcoming distraction. It means he had something to think about, something to lose himself in, rather than re-living memories.

Memories that won't go away.

Now it's his birthday and he feels older than he ever has.

He's back on home soil and he can go back to dream therapy, except he's not sure it's enough anymore. He feels a little lost. Directionless.

Cobb calls everyone together to debrief before they go their separate ways for good. They don't need a warehouse anymore, so he'd invited everyone to his apartment loft in downtown LA, not his home since he doesn't mix business and personal life anymore.

Arthur plans it so he arrives at six o'clock on the dot. He opens the door and joins Cobb. Saito and Ariadne aren't far behind. Yusuf comes in shortly after. And Eames, of course, saunters in half an hour later.

Cobb attempts a glare but ends up sighing and shaking his head. Apparently telling Eames the debriefing is at five o'clock instead of six doesn't help. Getting settled in, Cobb starts off by congratulating everyone on a precarious, successful job. He goes over what went wrong and what went right, offering solutions and suggestions for the future. People chime in with their input when they want, but for the most part, it's Cobb who does the talking.

After the meeting, they decide to have one last supper together and pack up their folders of the Fischer job. As they climb out to Saito's limo, Arthur reluctantly tells everyone he has to decline.

Ariadne lets out a noise of dismay and asks him why.

He looks away for a moment, unsure how to explain. Because it's his birthday but he's never bothered to let anyone in on the fact, and though it's only dinner to them, it's much more than that for him? Every year since Rhys, he's spent his birthday alone, dreaming the night away, pretending Rhys doesn't exist.

Everyone watches him expectantly, waiting for the reason.

He claims he's feeling ill, and everyone seems to take him at face value. Everyone except Eames that is.

When he is about to pivot and head off in the direction of his hotel, the Forger reaches out and takes a hold of his arm, halting him before he can escape. He tells the group he's going to escort the younger man back to his hotel.

Arthur informs him that he's perfectly capable of returning on his own without looking at the taller man, and he pulls his arm free. He pretends he can't feel the lingering heat of Eames' hand, can't feel it scorching him through his jacket.

Grinning, Eames tells Arthur to indulge him.

The pair say their final goodbyes to the group and they separate.

As soon as they are out of earshot, Arthur stops in the middle of the sidewalk. “Why?”

“Why what, darling?” the other man feigns ignorance.

Eyes narrowing, Arthur simply studies the other man. “Why are you following me? I'm twenty eight years old, not twelve. I'm perfectly capable of walking myself back to my hotel room.”

“Twenty nine.”

“What?” He's baffled by the turn in conversation.

“You're twenty nine,” Eames quietly repeats. “Just turned.”

Arthur falls silent. Looks away, resisting the urge to fidget with his sleeves.

“I've known you for nearly three years now, Arthur.”

One simple sentence. That's all it takes. And just like that, he realizes that Eames knows.

That's how things are run in the underworld of the dream business. You have to know whom you can trust, whom you can work with. So you dig and you learn. You learn everything about your partner, your team, yet at the same time, you learn nothing. You know, and yet you don't.

Just like how Arthur knows Eames' first name. The way he drinks his tea. The way he hates having to wear polished shoes. The way Eames likes to sing Italian operas in the shower. Arthur knows how Eames first got stung by a bee when he was eight. How he broke his ankle when he was fourteen, trying to shimmy down a pipe after breaking into his high school. His first girlfriend was Cassidy Fairbanks. His first pet was Goldie Brunette, a goldfish. His first successful forgery was the mark's business partner, and yes, the man was guilty of embezzling from the company. He was also guilty of adultery, with said partner's wife, but well, they hadn't been paid to discover that.

He knows everything but at the same time, he knows nothing.

It's just one of those things.

He stops trying to get Eames to leave him alone.

A silence falls between them. It's not a very comfortable one but Arthur can't bring himself to break it, half afraid he'll make it worse.

They arrive at the four-star hotel and Arthur leads them up to the thirteenth floor of the third tower. His room faces the west, which is exactly how he likes it because he hates waking up with a face full of sunshine. Instead, he has a stunning view of the sun setting each night.

He lets himself into room 1337, and the first thing he does is head over to the mini-bar. He doesn't ask if Eames is coming in or not, and frankly, he doesn't even care anymore. Instead, Arthur pulls out the first bottle he latches on to. Vodka.

It's not his usual poison but it will suffice.

He hears the door close and lock from the inside.

He lifts a glass, turning to Eames. The other man shakes his head, merely watching Arthur. He's not usually one to turn down alcohol but he has a feeling he doesn't want any tonight. From the way Arthur skips the act of using the glass and drinks, no, chugs straight from the bottle, he's fairly certain his feelings are spot on.

The two of them watch the night take over the sky, enjoying the quiet. Streaks of red-gold fading into the city skyline. Blue merging into a dark purple-indigo mesh. The lights of the city blinking into existence. It's a lovely view, and any other night, Arthur would appreciate it.

“He was a rat bastard,” Arthur suddenly pipes up after having drained about half of the bottle.

Yes, yes he was, Eames wants to say, but he refrains.

Arthur doesn't even notice as he carefully makes his way over to the large recliner in the corner. He plops down, sloshing alcohol onto the carpet.

Eames is thankful he doesn't seem to notice. In fact, Arthur doesn't seem to even notice the Forger removing his shoes for him. Eames is just glad he doesn't get kicked in the face.

“But I'm not gay,” continues the Point Man, gesturing with his bottle. “I've had girls. A girlfriend. One. Olivia Thurlow. She was loverly. Lovely. Loverly. She had blue eyes and black hair. She never broke my heart. 'Specially not on my birthday.”

Eames shakes his head as if to say, No, of course not.

“But Rhys. That rat bastard,” Arthur slurs the name, mangles it to the point where Eames almost can't even make it out.

He joins Arthur, taking up the other recliner. Sinking into the plush leather, Eames has a feeling it will be very, very difficult to get up. He toes off his Oxfords and loosens his tie.

Arthur is watching his every action with hooded eyes. Unconsciously, his tongue darts out and gives his lower lip a quick swipe.

Eames swallows hard, and wishes for a single moment, that he'd taken Arthur up on the drink. Instead, he lets Arthur babble on. About Catcher in the Rye; no, Arthur didn't like Holden. About music; Hania's his favourite singer and that one song about magic potions and magic poisons and royal tea. About his kitten; he'd gotten her when he was five and he had named her Buttons and she had gone missing when he was eight.

After a long moment of silence, Arthur's head jerks up. “No, not you, Eames.”

Hm? Eames cocks his head. Apparently he had missed Arthur having a conversation with himself.

“No, you're nothing like Rhys,” he announces stoutly to the room at large. “Rhys was smart.”

Eames isn't sure if he ought to feel offended or not. He considers piping up, defending his own honour.

“But not that smart,” continues the inebriated Arthur, waving his free hand, punctuating his words sharply. “That rat bastard. With his accent and his eyes and his leather gloves.”

No, Rhys wasn't smart at all, if he hurt you, Eames silently tells Arthur.

The bottle is looking dangerously empty by this point. He swiftly rises to his feet and closes the distance between them. Gently, he snags the bottle and puts it on the little table between the recliners. Arthur protests, reaching for the drink.

“Darling, you've had enough. Besides, I haven't even had a single drop yet,” Eames shakes his head, a fond, lilting note in his voice.

Arthur pauses. Thinks it over, turning the phrase in his head. Nods slowly and carefully enunciates, “Right. That's hardly fair.”

Then he's kissing Eames, arms sliding around the other man's neck. It's unexpected and the sudden weight has them toppling to the wool carpet. Eames grunts; Arthur may be a skinny little thing in Eames' eyes but he's all muscle and damnit, he's heavier than he looks. He doesn't really mind though because Arthur is still kissing him. He tastes of vodka, a faint undertaste of coffee lurking through; he tastes exactly how Eames always imagined he'd taste like. Minus the alcohol, of course.

But then he pulls back, pushes Arthur away. “Darling, stop. Stop.”

“But I was sharing,” the drunken Arthur pouts and sits up on top of Eames.

He actually goddamn pouts. Nibbles at his lower lip and the sight of it just does things to Eames. Eames who has to refrain from knocking his head back against the carpet because Arthur is being cute and adorable and he's all mussed up, sitting on Eames' lap and just a little bit drunk. And. It. Is. Just. Not. Fair.

Eames has never hated his morals more than now.

“Yes, love, and I adore you for it, really, but it's late and we'd best be getting some shut eye. You can share some of your coffee with me in the morning. Does that sound fair?”

Arthur considers this carefully for a long moment.

Apparently time also moves differently when you're drunk too.

He finally nods and then settles down on top of Eames. Snuggling into his chest. The drunken Point Man begins to hum. Not only is that the last thing Eames ever expected, the song choice itself is the last one he'd ever have guessed Arthur would settle on.

“I want your ugly. I want your dishease. I want your everything. As long as it’s free,” he sings, only slightly off-key. “I want your love. Love love love~ I want your love.”

The younger man is getting progressively louder, and Eames can't deny what he's hearing anymore.

“Arthur, are you singing...Bad Romance? By Lady Gaga?”

Arthur scowls into Eames' chest. “Are you doubting the artisshtic integrity of Lady Gaga? This song has three Hitchcock ref'ences and the use of the word 'shtick'. It's pretty good for a shiksa goddess.”

“I want your psycho. Your vertigo shtick. Want you in my rear window. Baby you’re sick. I want your love. Love love love~ I want your love,” he warbles on.

The Forger can't stop smiling, wishing for a video camera. He's fairly certain this is a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. He imagines that, under different circumstances, Arthur would be a very fun drunk. Table top dancing and shirtless grinding comes to mind. He runs his fingers through Arthur's dark locks, ruining the remnants of his gelled styling. Something warm settles inside of his chest; he feels fiercely protective of the younger man, even though he knows Arthur could probably kick his arse with one hand tied behind his back.

“Eames, you and me, we could write a bad romance...” Arthur trails off. “A shuper duper bad romance. With revenge. Lots of....lots of good revenge...with gunsh and grinades...”

Eames blinks. Deciphers the drunken words carefully.

A heartbeat passes. Two, then three.

“Darling?”

He gets no reply except for a quiet murmur from the other man and he realizes the Point Man is fast asleep. An affectionate smile crosses his lips. Carefully, he manoeuvres and detaches Arthur, sliding his arms around the younger man. He's not sure how but he manages to get him into bed and undressed; Arthur, he is positive, would not appreciate sleeping in his dress shirt and bespoke suit. The wrinkles alone would probably give him heart palpitations. He would probably like sleeping on the floor even less, although technically he's sleeping on Eames and not the floor.

And since Eames has been a veritable boy scout, he figures he deserves to sleep in a bed. Arthur's is big enough for the both of them; there's a trash can right close too, just in case the closet Lady Gaga fan needs to puke his guts up in the middle of the night.

Not to mention, Eames has always wanted to sleep with Arthur. In more than simply the literal sense, but he'll take what he can get.

*~*

Arthur is twenty-nine and a day.

He rolls over and groans. The sunlight is doing its damnedest to make his brain explode, it seems. His head feels like a cacophony of a high school glee club sadly lacking in talent and mangy alley cats warbling at the moon. Moaning, he pulls his pillow over his head and tries to block out everything. He's certain he's still drunk. He has to be.

The sound of a low chuckle reaches his ears.

Arthur jackknifes up. And whimpers. His head. Clearly, that wasn't one of his better ideas.

He turns and glares at the source of the chuckle, which is now outright laughter. “What are you doing--”

Eames is a lot closer than he'd thought. Not only is the Forger in his hotel room, he's in Arthur's bed. A mere foot away. From the way he lounges across it, Arthur can see he's not wearing any shirt. The bed sheets are twisted around his hips, a stark white contrast against his tanned, lean torso.

Arthur swallows hard, eyes widening. Please, please let me still be drunk. Or asleep.

“Oh, no darling. You are very much awake,” Eames laughs and the sound is like a punch, straight to his gut.

Oh god, he'd said that out loud. Arthur wants to curl up and die. He flops back down and yanks the pillow over his head, muffled words coming out, “Go away, Eames.”

“I'm afraid I can't do that, love.”

“Please go away?” Arthur tries again.

The mattress dips slightly, and that's all the warning Arthur gets before Eames steals his pillow away.

“Arthur,” Eames breathes out. “Look. I've known you for three years. We may be coworkers but we're also teammates. I tease you because I know you can handle it. But I wouldn't hurt you. Not for the world, darling.”

Arthur studies the older man quietly. He opens his mouth, about to reply when his eyes widen. He practically vault off the bed and bolts for the bathroom. The distinct and oh-so familiar sound of retching reaches his ears.

Eames winces sympathetically. He slides off the bed a little more sedately and sets about making breakfast. And by making, he's dialling for room service.

When Arthur returns several minutes later, he's looking a little peaky.

“Are you going to be all right?” Eames asks, covering the mouth of the receiver.

The other man nods gingerly, careful not to jar his throbbing head. He steals the phone from Eames and orders for them. Toast, sausages, bacon, eggs and a coffee. When he hangs up the phone, Eames is frowning.

“You didn't order me any tea,” he remarks, raising an eyebrow.

“I know. I thought...we could share my coffee,” Arthur softly answers. “As long as you don't mind.”

Eames' lips quirk up; words cannot do justice how happy he is that Arthur remembers.

“Absolutely. You and me, darling, let's write a bad romance.”

END

Okay, I just had to post this today. To celebrate Tom Hardy's birthday (and mine), even though my fic centres around Arthur's birthday instead, haha. Happy Birthday, you handsome, devilish man. May your day be bright and warm.

My fic was going to be all serious and angsty but it turned into fluffy schmoop. Darn you, Drunk!Arthur. You de-angstified my fic. xD

*points to icon* And if anyone feels like getting me a birthday present, I would like Dat Ass please. ;)

Feedback is, as always, much appreciated. <3

Fic: Electric Blue Sheets

2010-09-14T20:32:49Z

Title: Electric Blue Sheets
Author: zeto
Characters/Pairing:Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Word Count: 1K
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's amazing creation. I don't own these characters.
Summary: My first inception_kink fill ever. Prompt found here.

As usual, Arthur is whiling away the hours, studying and researching, doing what he does best. It doesn't even occur to him to take a break.

At the moment, he's covered the entire work table with reports, records, files and articles on the mark, a Cesare Moretti; anything he can get his hands on. He's got data on how many speeding tickets Moretti's accumulated, his favourite restaurant, the slummy little bar by the wharf he frequents after particularly nasty fights with his wife, his favoured set of cufflinks, what he eats for breakfast, lunch and supper.

They're a good team, great, he would even go so far as to boast, but their mark is of a different sort. Not only is the man militarized, he's the son of the Don. And Arthur's seen The Godfather trilogy. Loved it in fact. However, that doesn't mean he has a wish to be sleeping with the fishes, and he's glad he doesn't have a prized horse.

The mark makes Fischer's subconscious look like a merry-go-round, if rumours are anything to go by. It makes Arthur glad he doesn't dream anymore. Moretti's mind could probably fabricate the things nightmares are made of.

He's so engrossed in his work, he doesn't even hear the echo of footsteps, getting progressively louder until someone reaches his side.

“I knew it!” Ariadne crows triumphantly, tossing a magazine on top of his work and crossing her arms. “I always thought you looked familiar but I couldn't quite fathom why. You're always so pristine now. With your shiny, gelled hair, your Oxfords and your bespoke suits.”

Arthur almost starts, just barely refrains from jumping out of his skin, and whipping out his 9MM Beretta. He's about to cast a half-hearted glare at Ariadne but something familiar catches his eyes. Something he hasn't seen in years but still remembers with crystal clarity. It doesn't seem possible, but it is.

How to Tell if a Man Swings your Way from Fifty Paces

Like Water or Oil?

100 Ways to Get Laid

A Man's Man

“You...how did you...why do you have a gay magazine?” Arthur sputters; he always knew his actions would come back to bite him in the ass one day. And with his luck, it would be literal.

She smirks. “My brother. What do you think I got him for his birthday when we were younger?”

Arthur presses his lips together and reaches for the glossy periodical. Damns his memory as his fingers turn to page 24 without even checking the menu.

Ariadne purrs, “Yes, no wonder I didn't recognize you. I've never seen you naked before. How old were you when the magazine came out?”

They're both drawn to the pictures of a younger Arthur, lying on a bed of electric blue sheets. Nude.

The light casts shadows along his slender frame, accentuating the curves and dips along his back, his shoulder blades, his slender hips. His unruly hair gives him a freshly-fucked vibe, as though an invisible lover has run errant fingers through the silky locks.

Another shot has him lying on his side, propped up by one arm, his tongue barely darting out, about to lick his lips. His hooded eyes pierce the camera, dark and full of promises. One hand is snaking underneath the sheets, caressing his hip. Inviting, seductive. The silken blue fabric artfully shelters his hips, just barely covering anything below. There is the tiniest hint of a dark trail of hair leading down his belly.

The third shot has him shirtless, fingers hooked into the belt loops of his leather trousers. It looks like he's been poured into them; they mold to every luscious inch, displaying his toned, curved ass. Arthur is leaning against a brick wall in the shot, smoke curling from the fag between his lips. The only other accessory he has on is a black leather collar, hugging his neck as though he's been claimed and marked.

The Point Man snaps the pages shut and shoves the magazine in his briefcase, fighting off the blush heating his cheeks. “None of your business.”

“Hey, that's my magazine!” Ariadne indignantly exclaims.

“I thought it was your brother's,” he dryly remarks, arching an eyebrow, turning the tables on her.

She coughs. “Er...yeah. Right. I-uh-have to go now. Yusuf asked me to...to grab him some...coffee...”

Arthur holds back a laugh, lips twitching as she beats a hasty retreat.

“What's so funny, love?” Eames asks when he saunters into the room and catches the look on the younger man's face.

“Oh, nothing,” he idly replies and turns back to his work.

“Does it have anything to do with Ariadne fleeing the warehouse?”

“Did you lock the door?” he murmurs, answering without answering, trailing his hand along Eames' bicep, fingers ghosting along the tanned flesh.

Eames smirks slowly. “Of course. We have the place to ourselves now.”

The man pauses for a moment, debating with himself. “I got you something. Briefcase. Page 24. Consider it an early birthday present.”

“But my birthday isn't for another two months.”

“If you don't want it...”

“I never said that,” Eames hastily replies as he goes rifling through the briefcase. It only takes a few seconds.

There is dead silence. Followed by a swift intake of air.

A few moments later, there is a pair of warm, full lips attacking his neck. Arthur tilts his head back accommodatingly. He sinks his fingers into Eames' hair. It hasn't been gelled or styled; just the way he likes it. Running his hand through the smooth, soft locks, he silently encourages Eames, sighing softly when the Forger's lips find his clavicle, kissing, biting, marking. His eyes slide shut as Eames worships his collarbone, tongue sneaking out to trace along the warm skin.

“Tell me you still have those trousers,” growls Eames, voice husky with want.

Suddenly, Arthur isn't minding his luck anymore. In fact, if it wants to be literal, he'd more than welcome it. He chuckles lowly, his other hand sliding underneath Eames' shirt, running along his taut flesh, mapping out the familiar warmth.

His next words makes Eames groan, cock twitching with interest.

“Mm, and the collar too.”

END

My first fill ever. I hope I did this correctly. ;-; Am I supposed to reveal my identity? What do I do ~~besides fill more prompts~~?

Also, I am a day early but I don't care!
Happy Birthday to Tom Hardy and me!
We're both a year older now, but probably not any wiser. xD I share a birthday with a hot, gorgeous, beautiful, amazing man. How lucky is that?

Feedback is, as always, much appreciated. <3

Fic: Monkey Bar Kisses

2010-09-08T22:04:46Z

Title: Monkey Bar Kisses
Author: zeto
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1400
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's creation. I don't own these characters.
Summary: How Eames discovers Arthur's feelings for him.

The sun is warming and soothing on his skin. It, along with the bright blue sky, heralds a perfect day. There is not a speck of cloud to be seen; just a cool, lifting wind and the occasional bird floating overhead. Arthur is perched atop of the jungle gym, feet dangling from the bars.

The playground he currently occupies is empty, as it usually is in the early evening; he doesn't mind. Instead, he just likes to sit and think and let his mind wander. He rarely indulges himself this way. After all, a man such as himself is always busy, always on the go. He's got point to run, information to ferret out, and people to puzzle out.

But just once in a while. Not very often at all, he sits. Alone, wherever he happens to be. And he simply.

Exists.

Breathes. Inhales and exhales. Slow and sure, counting his breaths one by one. It's a soothing habit he'd picked up years and years ago. Something he'd learned from his first encounter with the PASIV device. Something he'd picked up after dying. After dying and dying, again and again.

Until he's not sure whether he's lost his grip on sanity.

And so he breathes. He breathes and he sits and he exists.

Sometimes, not very often at all, he's not alone. He finds a familiar face by his side.

The first time anyone had ever joined him had been years ago. He had been seventeen. She is here again today.

He isn't anticipating her and so, to find her sitting next to him all of a sudden, is like an unexpected shot of pure adrenaline. Her presence is a little bit unnerving; she'd been dead for a long, long time.

At first, Arthur had been disturbed. Seeing his deceased mother in his dreams made him think of rocking horses and men who kills their fathers. Freud would have had a field day with him.

Today, she wears a warm, yellow summer dress. It was her favourite one and it always reminds him of summer. It reminds him of picnics in the park and endless hours on the swing. It reminds him of icy, sweet lemonade and their puppy, Trigger. Trigger, short for Trigonometry, of course.

“Mum?” he asks. “Why are you here? I haven't seen you in months.”

“More like years,” replies the raven-haired woman. “But as you well know, this is your dream, Arthur. You brought me here.”

They end up talking for over an hour, but it only feels like minutes, and even though she's not really his mother and she's not real, just a figment in his head, he feels a little bit better. Mothers have an innate way of doing that. Real or imagined ones.

The crunch of gravel underneath a pair of shoes alerts them to another presence. They fall silent and turn to face the newcomer.

“Hello Arthur darling,” comes the familiar, lazy drawl.

He can feel his mother giggling beside him. Giggling like a young school girl. Arthur very carefully avoids her gaze, knowing she has a few questions. Nosy woman; his mind is remarkably accurate and his memory is long.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Eames?” he asks calmly instead.

The older man smirks, and it sends a shiver straight down Arthur's spine, eliciting chills along his flesh. “Why are you asking me? I'm your subconscious,” replies Eames, greeting Arthur's mother with a nod.

“I see,” Arthur says slowly. “Eames, this is Ella, my mother. Mum, this is the virtual pain in my neck, Eames.” Ever so polite, even in his own head, he introduces his mother to Eames. And it's not awkward at all.

Right.

Eames hoists himself onto the jungle gym and climbs his way to the top, with the skill of a monkey. He takes Ella's hand and, instead of shaking it, he leans down and kisses the back gently. “I am delighted to meet the lovely lady who raised Arthur to be the spiffing young man he is today.”

Arthur is not amused by the girlish giggle she lets out. “Mum! Eames!”

She turns to her son, her brown doe eyes, wide with innocence. “What?”

“You're not supposed to be flirting with Eames. In my own head!” He barely manages to keep the whine of a six-year old out of his voice. It's amazing how quickly his mother and Eames can reduce him to childish antics.

A little part of him is glad neither of them are real. Tangible. It simply allows him to be free, to be as he wants. He doesn't have to be the practical, no-nonsense Point Man. He doesn't have to be rigid and a workaholic. He is simply Arthur here.

Ella chuckles and gracefully makes her way down to the ground. “It sounds to me like you're jealous, Arthur. Of me.”

Spluttering speechlessly, Arthur is at a loss for words. He can't even come up with a dignified reply to save himself and his mother strolls off, giggling under her breath.

“Care to tell me what that was about, darling?” Eames asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Don't know what you're talking about,” denies the brunet, proud of the absence of petulance in his tone.

“Now, now,” tuts Eames. “Don't play coy. Mothers know best. Maternal instinct and all that.”

Arthur finds himself turning red, heat flooding his cheeks. Suddenly, the gravel on the ground below seems very, very fascinating.

Eames reaches out and cups his chin, turning his jaw. “Arthur,” he murmurs, and it's all the warning the younger man gets.

A pair of warm, dry lips cover his own. It's a light, unassuming kiss, lasting only a moment. But it's followed by one more, and then another. Each kiss lasts only a heartbeat but they are endless and warm and gentle. Arthur is afraid to close his eyes. Afraid that if he does, he will only be alone once again when he opens them.

A small part of Arthur's mind wonders if the real Eames kisses like this. The thought is accompanied by a sharp pang; as if the real Eames would ever be interested in Arthur, let alone men.

He kisses back, taking control after a few moments. Draws a soft groan from Eames, and delights in it. He wonders what it would be like to spend eternity with Eames. Thinks that this is how Cobb must have felt with Mal.

Rulers of their own little world. Gods with boundless powers.

He'd only met Eames a few years ago. But he thinks he could spend decades more, getting to know every scar, every wrinkle, every tattoo, every touchable inch of the Forger. He wants to learn every quirk, every fear, every dream, every secret.

He wants.

Everything.

This year marks the seventh year since he's met Eames, the first four which were spent with a good deal of irritated frustration and the last three with an altogether different, but no less trying, sort of frustration. One that leaves Arthur aching and desperate and half-mad, if this dream is indicative of anything.

In here, in his dreams, he can imagine. He is free to be who he wants. Free to kiss who he wants. He can touch, possess, own the other man. Map out every inch of his skin. With his tongue.

He pulls back first, albeit reluctantly. Something had caught his attention, from the corner of his eye. Quickly, he turns and catches a glimpse of a rapidly-receding figure.

The figure is unmistakable, even from fifty paces. Arthur would never mistake that broad back, the artfully-gelled hair or the confident stride for anyone else.

It's Eames.

The real Eames.

The Point Man doesn't even have to wonder if Eames had seen. He knows the older man has seen him kissing a dream version of himself.

Oh god.

He feels his stomach turn. A tiny part of him wants to run after Eames, catch him and explain. The rest of him, the part that is winning out, wants to curl up on the gravel and retch. Heave up the meagre contents of his stomach until there is nothing left. He feels sick and feverish, and fights down the urge to panic.

Instead of doing that though, he sits on the monkey bars, hands clenching the metal, and breathes.

Slowly. Inhale and exhale. He sits and he waits for the music to kick in, waits for the dream to fade out. He's hoping by the time he awakens from this dream, Eames will be long, long gone and he won't have to explain. If he's even luckier, he can avoid the other man for a few days and by then, he can pretend nothing ever happened.

Arthur is very, very good at waiting.

He's even better at lying to himself.

END

Feedback is, as always, much appreciated. :)

Fanmix: This Waking Hour

2010-08-31T17:17:38Z

This Waking Hour; an Arthur/Eames fanmix

Title: This Waking Hour
Maker: zeto and whimsicalimages
Pairing: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Size: 80mB
Disclaimer: Arthur and Eames belong to Christopher Nolan. Songs belong to their respective artists.
Notes: My first fanmix ever (Oh, Inception, what have you done to me?). While I chose the songs, the front and back covers are purely by whimsicalimages. Thank you so, so much, darling. I could not have done it without you. <3

1) Wait Until Morning ★ Tomi Swick

2) Love During Wartime ★ The Main Drag

3) Letters from the Sky ★ Civil Twilight

4) Heartbreak World ★ Matt Nathanson

5) Runaway Train ★ Soul Asylum

6) Red Night ★ Shot the Moon

7) Don't Forget Me ★ Way Out West

8) If You Could Read My Mind ★ Stars on 54

9) Soul Surfer ★ Daiki Kasho

10) Ricochet ★ Shiny Toy Guns

11) Haunted ★ Poe

12) Momentum ★ Vienna Teng

13) Your Life is Now ★ John Mellencamp

--->CLICK ME<---

Feedback is much appreciated. And if you really love it, let whimsicalimages know. <3

Also, there are a couple of songs that aren't mp3 format, but m4a format. They should still work on iTunes though. And now, I really have to go to sleep. <3 G'night all!

Fic: Zero Damage

2010-08-31T12:08:16Z

Title: Zero Damage
Author: zeto
Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Rating: R
Word Count: 1200~
Spoilers: The movie, I guess? X_x
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's amazing creation. I don't own these brilliant characters.
Summary: I blame this entire thing on dakunut, just so you know.

Arthur stares at Eames' DVD shelf. He tries to disguise the aghast horror on his face but he is fairly certain he's failing quite, quite miserably. Sluggishly, as though he's trapped in quicksand or trying to move through water, he reaches out and plucks a thin movie case from its perch. Turning slowly, he revolves the plastic box in his hands, trying to make sense of it.

The cover is graced by two women and two men. That in itself isn't strange. It's the way the women are making out with one another, and the way the men apparently don't believe in the concept of 'personal space' that has Arthur wondering. Then again, it is Eames. That's the best explanation Arthur can come up with.

“What's the matter, darling? You look confused,” Eames enters the living room bearing two mugs of piping hot cocoa laden with marshmallows.

Jumping, Arthur fumbles and drops the movie. Luckily, his cat-like reflexes save the day and he catches the movie before it hits the carpet. But then he drops it again, as though it's burned him. This time, he doesn't bother to try and rescue it.

“Eames,” he slowly speaks, not quite certain how to phrase his question. “Why do you have a movie called Rectal Damage?”

To the Forger's credit, he doesn't blush or even bat an eye. “Would 'I was young and stupid' suffice for an excuse?”

“Well, the 'young' part you've clearly outgrown but somehow I think the 'stupid' is still lingering in there,” Arthur dryly replies before snagging his drink and sipping at the cocoa.

“Ouch,” Eames clutches at his heart. “That hurts, Arthur. Right. Here.”

The brunet refrains from rolling his eyes. “Isn't your heart on the left side of your chest?”

“Ah, but what if I have dextrocardia?” counters Eames as he gulps the cocoa.

The Point Man's eyebrows shoot up, and Eames catches the look.

“Why yes, darling, your boyfriend does know words with more than four syllables,” he says dryly. “So you might want to re-think the 'stupid' adjective.”

Arthur's lips quirk up and he finishes off his drink to hide it. “Are you trying to change the subject on me?”

“No. Is it working?”

“Not a chance.”

Eames can't help but laugh. “All right, I'll tell you the truth. It was a gag birthday gift from my last girlfriend.”

“You keep things from your exes?” Arthur hasn't considered the fact that Eames could be sentimental.

“Well, when things ended, it's never been on bad terms. Actually, I'm still on talking terms with most of them. You don't mind, do you?” Eames asks curiously.

“Of course not,” comes the immediate reply.

“I like to think that you can judge a person based on how they end their relationships,” continues the Forger.

Arthur is taken aback, but not unpleasantly so. He'd never expected such depth from the other man. It appears Eames is just full of surprises today, and it makes Arthur glad.

Just as they hunker down and settle in for a little one-on-one on the Game Cube, Eames' cellphone goes off. Arthur resists the urge to smile when he recognizes the opening strains of Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien. Rising to his feet, he heads into the kitchen with their empty mugs and retrieves a couple of pieces of fruit in the meantime.

When he returns, Eames rattling off about taunts and foot stomps.

“So what's the detail on the DPs?” Eames asks his buddy over the phone. The way he phrases it rhymes with “teepees”.

Arthur nibbles on a stemmed plum while this goes on. He nearly chokes on his piece of fruit, absolutely certain he's misheard the other man. Or at least, absolutely hoping he's misheard Eames.

Then he realizes it's a game-related thing. Computer games online, to be precise. City of Heroes, to be specific.

“You mean D.P.S. Not....DPs,” he corrects absently as he bites down on the plum. He stops, mid-chew, frowns and then slowly slides his fingers into his mouth. Somehow managing to look graceful, Arthur pulls out the stem from his plum.

Inwardly, he blames Eames for his blunder. The man is entirely too distracting.

It's Damage Per Second. Not Double.... Er, not the things people really only see in porn movies. Like...Rectal Damage, probably. Not that Arthur's seen the movie. He guesses though. With a title like that, anything is possible.

It makes him wonder if Eames actually watched it. He doesn't ask though, half afraid of what the answer is.

After a couple rounds later, and Arthur being schooled in Mario Kart, he returns the favour in SoulCalibur on the Xbox 360.

“If you want to really make this fun, we should take a drink for every round lost,” Eames remarks ever so casually.

Arthur eyes him in disbelief. “You want to take me on in SoulCal with shots? I just kicked your ass and I'm not even trying,” he exclaims with a laugh as he goes to locate a few bottles of beer.

Fifteen minutes later, he's not laughing as Eames wipes the floor with him using Olcadan. Seong Mi-na takes a less-than-graceful dive off the edge of the platform. A zero damage win for the owl man. What the hell?

“Looks like she won't be waking up anytime soon,” the older man says cheerfully as Arthur swigs from his bottle and empties it.

He glares at Eames and then eyes his yet-unopened bottle. “You were playing me the entire time.”

Eames shrugs and smiles innocently. He cracks his bottle open and takes a sip. “Perhaps.”

Later that night, as they retire to the bedroom, Arthur stops dead in the doorway. “Is that a....? Where on earth did you get that shark?”

“It's adorable, isn't it?” Eames smiles proudly. “I call her Whimsy.”

“...You named a stuffed animal 'Whimsy'?” Arthur crosses the room and picks it up, studying it with a perplexed little furrow in his brow. He's surprised at its soft, velvety fur, and he finds himself unable to resist petting it.

“Of course. I thought it was a perfectly whimsical name,” he quips. “I won that, along with a pink tricycle for Phillipa and a giant stuffed koala bear for James when I took them to the carnival last week. Want to guess what the koala's name is?”

The only answer he gets in reply is a face full of Whimsy.

“That was the worst pun I have ever heard in my life,” Arthur proclaims.

The pillow fight that ensues takes them all around the apartment. Eames wins the upperhand on the couch but he's knocked down a couple of pegs in the kitchen. Finally, he's backed into a corner in the closet and he surrenders, holding his hands up and handing over his pillow.

As Arthur leans in and presses his lips against Eames', he drops the pillow and Whimsy, and captures Eames' tanned wrists, trapping them against the back of the wardrobe. The kiss is a little hungry, messy and perfectly hot. It tastes a little bit like alcohol and the last remnants of hot cocoa.

“The name we decided on is,” he murmurs against the younger man's lips, “Padlock.”

END

A/N: The prompts I was given: Rectal damage, padlock, the phrase "Where on earth did you get that shark?", marshmallows, there needs to be a pink tricycle somewhere in this, annnndddddddddddd pillow fights. dakunut darling, I hope you liked this fic!

Feedback is much appreciated, darlings.

Fic: A Long Memory

2010-08-27T15:34:21Z

Title: A Long Memory
Author: zeto
Characters/Pairing: Eames/Arthur, Arthur/Ariadne
Rating: PG, tiny bit of language
Word Count: 2K+
Spoilers: The movie, definitely.
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's amazing creation. I don't own these bloody brilliant characters.
~~Arthur's~~Author's Note: Er...Anyone want to be my beta? ^^;
Summary: This is Arthur. This is Arthur trying to get over Eames.

Twenty One Days Ago

She gives Arthur a look. One that tells him she thinks he is crazy, that Cobb is beyond crazy and then she's gone. He has to admit, he's a little impressed by her spunk and her tenacity.

The Extractor returns to the room. Tells Arthur to have her build mazes when she comes back, because he knows she will be back. Arthur simply wants to know where Cobb will be. He doesn't expect the answer he is given though.

“Eames? No, he's in Mombasa. That's Cobol's backyard.”

Cobb tells him it's a necessary risk.

“There's plenty of good thieves.”

Tugging on his jacket, the blue-eyed man replies that he needs more than a good thief for this one. He needs a forger, and there is no one better out there than Eames. Which Arthur knows and Cobb knows. It goes without saying but Cobb has to say it anyway.

Arthur isn't sure how he feels about seeing the Forger for the first time in over three years. But he bites his tongue and gets back to work. It isn't his place to object. And it's only the one job. How bad could it be?

He knows exactly how long the flight to Mombasa is, and he knows it won't be easy to find Eames. He figures Cobb will be back in a day and a half, two days tops. Ariadne will likely return tomorrow. She'll try to stay away but the thought of dreams, of the control and manipulation, of doing the impossible will be too great a lure for her to ignore.

Arthur figures he has time. He'll be free until tomorrow afternoon. So he packs away the PASIV device, locks it up tight and goes and gets himself plastered. Drinks until he can barely remember his own name, much less Eames. Drinks until they cut him off.

Nothing but the burn of vodka. He'll be tasting it for days.

By the time he stumbles back to his hotel room, he doesn't give a damn about anything. And so what if he's not exactly happy? He's not remembering things and that's all that matters. He falls into bed, not even bothering to take off his shoes. The door is locked and bolted, and frankly, that's all that Arthur gives a damn about. As he stares at the ceiling, he congratulates himself every four or eight minutes on not thinking about Eames. At all.

Fourteen Days Ago

The team is assembled for the first time. Everyone sits (or in Eames' case, lounges) on one of the chairs and studies up on the handsome, wealthy heir to Fisher-Morrow.

“Might? We're going to need to do a little better than might.”

“Oh, thank you for your contribution, Arthur.” the Forger drawls and swivels in his chair to narrow his eyes at Arthur.

“Forgive me for wanting a little specificity, Eames. Specificity,” he repeats.

The tension between the two is palpable. It makes Ariadne think. She wonders what happened between them to create such animosity.

Ten Days Ago

“Sedation,” Yusuf replies, gesturing with one hand. Everyone's impressed with his compound and he's quite proud. Rightly so.

He tests out the first batch on Arthur, gives him a hard swat across his jaw. The Point Man doesn't even make a sound, and it's clear they've got something good going on.

When he does get Kicked out of the dream, Eames is always there. Dark eyes laughing, a slow smirk on his lips. And fuck if it doesn't make Arthur think of those sleepless nights so long ago.

Hands roaming over naked flesh. Kisses trailing down hard angles, over closed eyes. Fingers running over cool lips, memorizing every inch of skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

Regret has never tasted so bitter.

Nine Days Ago

Arthur wants to know how they're going to get out of the dream with a little more grace and aplomb than a headshot.

“A Kick,” answers the Extractor.

Ariadne asks what a Kick is, and Eames demonstrates. On Arthur.

He tips the younger man's chair back with his shoe, fighting back a smirk.

Arthur's chair wobbles back before slamming back onto cement. His book snaps shuts and he barely manages to keep from falling off the seat, arms flailing wildly. His pen almost goes flying.

The smirk emerges victoriously on Eames' face, and Arthur shoots him a dark look. One that promises retribution will be slow and painful.

Even Cobb is barely managing to hold back his laughter.

Traitor, Arthur thinks. Except he knows Cobb doesn't know. No one does. And that was the point, right? That was what he had wanted.

Seven Days Ago

He doesn't want to hurt her, but he knows he will. And he is helpless to stop himself. To stop her. To do anything but let the chips fall where they may.

Arthur damn well knows he shouldn't have kissed her. Not when what he feels can't compare to even a fraction of what crackles, what burns between him and Eames.

But he wants to prove a point. He wants to be able to look Eames in the eye, and tell him, “You don't affect me. You don't matter. You don't.”

And so when he kisses Ariadne, and pulls away, she simply looks at him, and she knows. And he knows it too. But it was worth a shot anyway. Wasn't it?

Five Days Ago

“You're supposed to be on my side,” Arthur says, trying to and not quite succeeding in hiding the hurt in his voice, the betrayal in his eyes.

“Yes but when your supposed boyfriend is caught kissing another man.... Well, I think I'm justified in getting a little of my own back,” she replies.

He hadn't meant to kiss Eames. Again. Except he did, and he doesn't have an excuse for why he did it and now things are weird between the group, especially when it had been Ariadne who had caught them. He can't wait until it's over. Until he can run away and hide until everything blows over.

“But that still doesn't mean you should be helping him. You should be helping me.”

“Arthur, I am helping you,” she patiently answers, as though talking to a slow five-year old.

“Then why are you setting me up with him?”

She studies her friend-turned-boyfriend-turned-gay-ex-boyfriend. Reaching across the table, she covers his hand with her own, warming him up.

“Maybe because I know he'll make you happy? Heaven only knows you won't let yourself be happy. And even though I still think Cobb is a total nutcase, he's not wrong. We all yearn for reconciliation. Catharsis.”

“Eames is hardly my catharsis, Ariadne. In fact, if you were to look up antonyms of catharsis, you'd find Eames there instead.”

She shakes her head. “Oh, Arthur. For all the books you read, for all that knowledge spinning inside your brain, you're amazingly dense.”

“No, you don't get it. I broke it off with him. I'm the one who ended it. I made the decision. It's not...”

He doesn't even know how to explain. That everything is his fault. That everything had been fine. Until he mucked it up. And even if he wants to fix it, and he's not saying he does, he doesn't even know where to start. And he knows if he were Eames...well, forgiveness had never been part of his vocabulary.

Two Days Ago

Arthur is already gone. The job is over. Successfully concluded, though they barely make it out with their skins intact. As it is, the Point Man isn't sure they got away completely unscathed. As far as he knows, Cobb is back home with his children. Ariadne is likely back at school. And Yusuf and Eames are probably frittering away their time in Mombasa.

He's sitting in his apartment, staring blankly at one of the paintings on the wall. Hand with Reflecting Sphere. By Escher. Every single painting in the place is something by Escher.

Despite the paintings with their expensive gilt frames and the lush carpeting and the modern, chic furniture, his apartment has never felt less like home. He has never felt more alone.

The place is immaculate. The first thing he had done upon arriving, was giving his entire apartment a thorough scrub down. The fastidious man had even gotten the grime underneath the fridge and stove. His CD rack has been alphabetized by artist and genre. The mugs in his cupboards are arranged by size and colour. And yet, something is still missing.

He shuts his eyes and all he can taste is whiskey and all he can smell are cherry cigarillos.

Dropping his elbows onto his knees, Arthur presses his palms against his eyes, fingers buried in his dark hair. He's probably ruining his posture but for some reason, that's his last concern.

Today

Arthur wakes up slowly, opens his eyes. The dream slips away from him. It's rare for him to dream and even more rare for him to remember any of it.

The only thing he recalls is the pressure of warm fingers lacing his own, and even that fades from his mind.

He sits up, feels his bones creak. Sleeping on the couch is obviously not one of his better ideas.

He thinks about Eames. And his beautiful laughter. And his heavy hands. He thinks about the ink on his skin. The scars that tell a story. He thinks about Eames' favourite colour, a mellow blue. About his favourite kind of omelette, asparagus and bacon. He thinks about the way Eames takes his coffee. More sugar than milk and more milk than actual coffee. He thinks about those grey eyes that see into the whole of him. He thinks about how Eames always makes him his infamous chocolate and strawberry pancakes after a gruelling day. He thinks about the sleepy morning sex.

He's in the middle of packing when he gets a call. And he tries to keep the disappointment from showing in his voice when he realizes it's Ariadne. From her snort, he can tell he's failed.

She wants to know if he's free for lunch.

He laughs before he can stop himself. “I'd love to join you. If my flight to Kenya is faster than the speed of light.”

“You have another job already?” she asks in dismay.

“Yes. His name is Eames. He's probably already in Mombasa, gambling away every cent he's earned,” Arthur answers before he tells her he's about to miss his cab and then he hangs up on her. Then he's out the door and on his way to Mombasa. He has one suitcase with him; he's travelling light because Cobb isn't the only one wanted in Kenya's second largest city. Cobol Engineering, as he well knows, has a long memory. But he's got nothing to lose at this point. Especially if he doesn't have Eames.

It isn't long before he's in line at the airport's security checkpoint. Standing behind a middle-aged couple with a set of squalling twins, he's beginning to wish he'd bought a first-class seat. It's not as though he can't afford it.

It's noisy, crowded and he's always hated waiting in line.

Someone bumps into him, knocking his suitcase over.

He turns to tell off the stranger and freezes.

“Now, darling. You wanna tell me why you're running into shark-infested territories?” comes an achingly-familiar drawl.

Arthur stares at Eames, mouth falling open. He doesn't even have enough sense to blink and he's half afraid that if he does, Eames will waver and disappear like a mirage in the desert. He feels a finger on his chin, shutting his mouth for him.

“Careful, love. You're liable to catch flies,” winks the Forger.

And then he's throwing his arms around the older man.

“You're here. You never left. I thought you flew back to Mombasa. You didn't leave. You didn't...” the words come tumbling out, without pattern or thought.

Eames is murmuring in his ear. Wordless noises meant to soothe.

Then it slowly sinks in, and Arthur is pulling away as though he's touched a hot element. He snaps his mouth shut, embarrassment flooding his cheeks.

“I'm sorry,” he stiffly apologizes. “I didn't mean to...”

“Arthur,” growls the Forger.

The sound travels straight to his gut. Oh god. How long has it been since he'd heard his name, spoken just like that?

“There is nothing for me in Mombasa.”

And just like that, Arthur has a feeling things just might be okay. In fact, he has a feeling things are going to be more than okay when a pair of rough, warm lips capture his own, right in the middle of the crowded airport.

END

A/N: I wanted it to be longer. But this is all I have for you. Sorry. ;-; This is also not the fic I've been working on for the last couple of days. :P But this one incepted itself into my brain and demanded to be finished, so here you go. But I hoped you enjoyed it anyway.

Formerly titled "Mellow Blue" but I didn't like that title. ^^

Feedback is, as always, much appreciated though. <3

Fic: The Man Your Man

2010-08-22T13:38:58Z

Title: The Man Your Man
Characters/Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Rating: PG
Word Count: 666
Spoilers: The movie.
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's amazing creation. I don't own these brilliant characters, except for Cathy. I just made her up on the spot. :P She's harmless though, even if Arthur says otherwise! I also don't own Old Spice.
~~Arthur's~~Author's Note: Crack, parody. I make no apologies for this. None, whatsoever. References to dice rolling/D&D. I'm...really not sure how else to explain this.

“Arthur darling, can you tell me why we've suddenly accumulated nothing but Old Spice products in the bathroom?” Eames asks, leaning against the doorway.

The brunet glances up from his papers. He's trying to come up with a good explanation, but slowly realizes there is no good explanation.

“Let me guess. Cathy?”

He gives a helpless shrug.

“Love, why is it that you can never deny her anything but I can't even get a kiss from you?” pouts the British man.

“I kiss you all the time,” Arthur protests. “Besides, it's not my fault you always seem to get the urge to kiss me when we're driving down the highway. Personally, I'd rather you keep your eyes and hands to yourself while we're going at 40 miles an hour. One day, you'll get us killed.”

“Really? That's not what you said last time,” smirks the older man as he saunters across the room, sliding his arms around his boyfriend, nuzzling his neck.

Arthur scowls but eventually caves like a failed soufflé and turns his head, catching the other man's lips in a light kiss.

“So anyway, tell me what she said...”

A Few Days Ago

Arthur stares at the script, and then back to his agent.

His agent, Cathy, who is grinning from ear to ear.

“No, absolutely not.”

“What do you mean, 'no'?”

“It's utterly ridiculous. I'll look like a fool.”

“You will not,” assures the older woman. “I've been in this business for longer than you've been walking and talking.”

“Cathy, you're thirty-one,” he deadpans.

“So?”

“So, unless you've been doing this since you were in diapers, I highly doubt you've been at it for longer than I've 'been walking and talking'.”

“Oh piffle. You always ruin my fun with your logic and common sense,” she laments.

Flipping through the script one more time, Arthur sighs. “All right, fine.”

“Oh, you will?” she claps her hands together in delight. As if she hadn't known he'd say yes. Because he always says yes to her.

One of these days, his capitulation will end up getting him killed, he swears. But for now, he's only taking a D6 roll in damage. And for some reason, for Arthur, his rolls always land on six. Without fail. At least he's not dreaming.

He takes the script home with him, and studies it like everything else he does. With frightening precision and dedication. He has it memorized, verbatim, by morning.

In the audition, he impresses the director.

And there's no contest as to who gets the part.

In the actual filming, he impresses everyone else, especially since the commercial is one single shot. His lines are delivered smooth, collected and with an amount of grace even Cathy didn't know he possesses. It takes three days but it gets done.

“Hello ladies,” Arthur smiles into the camera, his dark eyes promising wicked, wicked things.

“Look at your man. Now back to me. Now back at your man. Now back to me. Sadly, he isn't me...” he picks up a bottle of Old Spice, the foam curling around his fingers. “But if he stopped using lady-scented body wash and switched to Old Spice, he could smell like he's me.”

The scenery suddenly switches from a pristine bathroom to a car, a striped shirt falling from the sky, smoothly landing around his neck.

“Look down. Back up. Where are you? You're in a cab with the man your man could smell like,” Arthur continues.

“What's in your hand? Back at me. I have it. It's that totem you want.” His hand unfurls to reveal a spinning top.

Then all of a sudden, the totem is gone.

“Look again. The totem is now a machine gun. Anything is possible when your man smells like Old Spice and not a lady.”

Arthur's last line is coming up, and he finishes it with his usual skill and perfection as his machine gun swiftly vanishes into nothingness, replaced by another Old Spice bottle.

“I'm on a wall.”

END

Inspired by this:

and by http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=owGykVbfgUE&feature=related.

I'm not sure who made the picture but I thank them for it because it never fails to make me smile. <3

And also, thanks to sully_is_hott for bringing up Billy Mays' voice which made me think of Old Spice, which made me think of the above picture, which had to be written in fic form. xD

Feedback is, as always, much appreciated. <3

Fic: Playing the Player

2010-08-21T13:24:29Z

Title: Playing the Player
Author: zeto
Characters/Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R, language and snogging
Word Count: 1, 800+
Spoilers: The movie.
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's amazing creation. I don't own these brilliant characters.
~~Arthur's~~Author's Note: Post-movie but everyone in the group is still together at a meeting to debrief on the Fischer job, tie off all the neat ends and to celebrate. Inspired by a certain interview of the Inception Cast, and by siriuslyyellow's amazing icons of Tom Hardy winking and making me all $!#)&^$@%#&%%*!! Also, yay for armless chairs. ;) Brownie points if you know exactly which interview and which picture of Tom Hardy I'm talking about.
Also, there was a plot to this, I swear. And then it went away. *sweatdrop*

It, like all bad ideas, had seemed like a good one, in the beginning. Gambling. With a business tycoon, a college girl, a chemist, an extractor who weaves through people's minds and makes a living out of reading them, and a gambler.

Gee, what could go wrong, a voice dryly pipes up in Arthur's head.

He tells the voice to shut it and calls, matching the chips Ariadne has already contributed to the pot.

Two minutes later, Arthur's jaw drops. He quickly repairs the expression on his face and snaps his mouth shut but he is sure everyone has already seen. From the careful way Ariadne and Saito refuse to look at him, he suspects they are holding back laughter. Cobb and Yusuf have slight smiles on their faces. And Eames, well, he is outright cackling.

The bastard.

Ariadne sweeps up the chips with an apologetic at the Point Man. “I have four older brothers. Friday nights were usually Poker Night. You don't just play the cards, you play the player.”

It is half an hour later when Saito gracefully bows out, a wry smile on his lips. “Gentlemen, Ariadne, I think I shall call it a night. Even I know when it is a lost cause, as you Westerners call it.”

Yusuf wins the next two hands with Big Slick and pocket sevens.

Arthur gives him the evil eye, promising certain doom. His investment of half his remaining stack had been riding on his ace-ten and king-queen suited.

Yusuf's winnings don't last long though because the new resident Architect takes it all away, and then some. With a rueful smile, the chemist takes his leave of the group.

The hours whittle away while Cobb is whittled of his chips. He eyes Eames, eyebrows cocked in his very unique Cobb way, the one that says he knows you're upto something, and Eames gives him an easy, innocent smile. The Brit gives a careless shrug, one that reads c'est la vie.

Then Arthur is out of the game, taken down by Ariadne, this time for good. Instead of packing up and retiring for the night as Cobb has just done, he decides he wants to see how this plays out. The gambler versus the child prodigy. Though technically she's not a child anymore. But she is still the youngest of the group, by far, and Arthur figures that has to count for something.

Eventually Eames reels her in, playing her like a beloved violin, with a tiny pair. Cracks her aces. “Pair of deuce, never lose, sweetheart,” he offers her a breezy grin.

For all his knowledge and researching, Arthur knows poker isn't really something you can study. Oh, he knows one can learn all the odds, all the outs and calculate till the cows come home but Eames has made a living of reading people, learning people and becoming them; that will always give him an edge over his opponents.

It's what makes him so charming, so charismatic. He can take any volatile situation and defuse it like he were breaking up a fight between kittens.

Ariadne congratulates him on a well-played game. Seeing as it's approaching one in the morning, she takes her leave of them, bidding them a good night.

Arthur stands, ready to head back to his hotel room but Eames gives him a slow smirk.

“How about a little heads up?”

“It's getting late,” he declines. “And I've no chips.”

Eames silently pushes half of the coloured, circular tokens towards the younger man. “Let's play for knowledge. I reckon an old chap like you relishes that sort of thing. Every hand won garners the winner, that's me, by the way, a question and the loser, that's you, must answer truthfully. And whoever ends up with all the chips gets whatever he wants from the loser.”

Eyes narrowing, Arthur drops back into his seat, knowing he's taking the bait but not caring. “All right. You're on.”

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

The first hand goes to Arthur. Eames isn't sure what the question will be but he realizes he's looking forward to it.

“Who was your first forgery?”

Eames looks startled, and a little thrill blossoms inside of Arthur's chest. He obviously hadn't expected that for a question.

“I'll show you the next time we're in a dreamscape; it'll be easier,” he promises. “It's usually best to start off with something similar to your own body type first. It took me a long time to correctly forge a woman.”

Arthur checks his cards. Ten-eight off-suit. He can either bluff his way through it, and potentially win a lot of chips or he could lose a lot of chips if Eames catches on, and still have to answer a question. Or he could fold and answer without losing any ground.

The flop came. King, king, two.

Eames doesn't even bother to check his cards again. He tosses in a small stack of chips, his grey eyes never straying from Arthur's face.

Arthur calls his bet.

Without a second of dawdling, Eames adds half of.

The Point Man hesitates. Stares hard at Eames who coolly meets his gaze. He can feel the silence and the heat of Eames' gaze bearing down on him, and he fights back the urge to swallow. After a few seconds, he mucks his hand, letting out a small noise of disgust.

Eames watches him, a vaguely-amused look in his eyes.

“Your question?” Arthur finally breaks the silence, unable to take the gaze.

“What was it like in the gravity-free dream?”

Well, well. That isn't the question Arthur expects. It seems they are both full of surprises tonight. He pauses, and gives the question some serious consideration.

“This was just about the hardest thing I've ever done in my life, physically. And maybe the most fun I've ever had in my life physically...with my clothes on..."

There is an awkward silence. Eames stares at him, a little dumbfounded, brows knitted. He looks as though he thinks he misheard the younger man.

“Well, it wasn't really fun at the time. What with the projections trying to kill me, after all. But how often does one get to experience that? Probably never, unless you work for NASA.”

“Oh yes, I see it now. Point Man Extraordinaire, Arthur, fucking with NASA since 2010,” Eames laughs and the sound travels straight through Arthur, hitting him in the gut. He can't stop looking at Eames and his lush, full lips. It leaves him a little breathless, and he's beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, he's so very fucked.

Eames', leaning on one elbow, smiles back. There's something in his eyes, not quite amusement but close. “Darling, if that's the 'most fun you've ever had in your life physically...with your clothes on', I'm going to have to rectify that,” he drawls and and then he winks at Arthur.

He fucking winks. It stops Arthur's heart for an instant, and he forgets to breathe. When he does remember to inhale a few seconds later, it feels like there is something caught in his throat. And he's helpless to stop the slight blush from heating his cheeks. He looks away instead, resisting the urge to fiddle with his hands or his totem. He's never been prone to nervous fidgeting, and he's not about to start now.

“Stop that,” he mutters.

“Stop what?”

Arthur looks up. Eames, with a hungry gleam in his eyes, is still watching him like a hawk. Like he knows all of Arthur's secrets and fears and dreams. Like he knows each and every one of Arthur's guilty, dirty fantasies. Like he knows exactly how to make them all come true.

“That.”

“Darling, I don't have a bloody clue as to what you are referring to,” the Brit replies, all innocence and cheerfullness.

That's it.

The younger man sends his pile of chips towards Eames', eyes dark with annoyance. He looks ready to flip the table, and send it crashing to the ground. Rising to his feet in one fluid motion with his coat flaring, Arthur makes his way around the large, felt poker table. Confused, Eames is rising to his feet when he arrives, but Arthur places one hand on his chest and shoves. He sends the older man falling back into his seat with a slight grunt. He's lucky the other man doesn't rock back vehemently and topple to the floor instead.

“What the hell, Arthur?” he demands, affronted.

“You!” The Point Man jabs him in the chest roughly with a finger.

Eames is half expecting to be slugged. Hard.

Instead, Arthur swiftly straddles him, trapping him in the armless chair. Hands fisting in Eames' shirt, he quickly slants his mouth over Eames' and shuts him up. They kiss until they're breathless, hands roaming and tugging shirts free, mapping out smooth flesh, memorizing the curves and angles. Fingers caught in unruly brown locks, Arthur grinds down against the older man, eliciting a gasp.

“You,” Arthur mumbles against his ear before biting down on the lobe, “are such a jerk.”

Eames chuckles until he feels the teeth sink in. Breath hitching, he fights back a whimper. “Darling, are you trying to kill me here?”

“It would be no less than you deserve,” he replies.

“But we haven't even gotten to have the most fun you've ever had with your clothes on,” protested the Brit, laughter lighting up his grey eyes.

Arthur groans. “You're never going to let that go, are you?”

“Not on your life, love.”

Love. Arthur thinks he likes the sound of that. And he demonstrates just how much by kissing Eames until there's nothing left in the world but them. Until all he can hear, taste and feel is Eames.

A little while later, Eames pulls back. “Now to collect my prize,” the older man grins rakishly. “What should I claim from you, hm?”

Arthur is puzzled. “What do you mean? The game's not over yet.”

“The game, darling, concluded when you sent your chips crashing into mine. That is a clear sign of a concession.”

Arthur turns his head and glances back quickly. Sure enough, he has inadvertently gotten their chips mixed up. He resists the urge to groan, head falling onto Eames' shoulder, a muffled swear word reaching Eames' ears.

“Ah, love, don't you know? There are poker players and then there are players.”

Ariadne's words echo back in his mind as he realizes the players Eames is talking about, are of an entirely different sort. As he realizes he's been had and he's done exactly what Eames wanted him to do, the older man purrs in his ear.

“Never play a player.”

END

Feedback is, as always, much appreciated.

Fic: The Shade That Haunts

2010-08-16T15:58:52Z

Title: The Shade That Haunts
Characters/Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Rating: M
Word Count: 2000+
Spoilers: The movie.
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's amazing creation. I don't own these bloody brilliant characters.
~~Arthur's~~Author's Note: References to my other fic, Chocolate, Coffee and Gingerbread.
Summary: In which Eames discovers Arthur's Shade.

The Shade That Haunts

“Aren't you going to invite me in, darling?”

The first time he ever went over to Arthur's flat, Eames had been surprised.

“I'm trying to decide if you'll match the décor or not,” deadpanned the younger man, pretending the unexpected visit hadn't thrown him off.

It was immaculate; that wasn't so unusual, but he couldn't find a single photo, painting or picture in the apartment. Granted, he hadn't seen the inside of Arthur's bedroom (and didn't that just sound so wrong?), but the rest of the place was nothing except white walls and expensive rugs. A matching three-piece leather set in the living room; lacy, gently-wafting curtains shielding a set of doors that presumably led out onto the balcony; a pair of sturdy, large bookcases packed with novels and texts; a spacious kitchen with all the latest in high-tech gadgets and knickknacks; it all screamed 'Arthur' but Eames had honestly been expecting more.

The second time around, he'd discovered the gramophone while Arthur was brewing some coffee for them. Eames couldn't stop the little smile from forming. It was very old-style but charming amidst the 32-inch flat screen TV, and the chic chrome and glass coffee table.

He wandered over to the small stash of vinyl records. Plucking out the one with the largest amount of signs of handling, he carefully unsheathed the disc and set it on the machine. A few moments later, the opening strains and haunting voice of Edith Piaf filled the room.

Non! Rien de rien
Non! Je ne regrette rien
Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait
Ni le mal tout ça m'est bien égal.

“Ah, I see you've found my collection of vinyls,” the Point Man entered the living room, bearing two mugs of piping-hot caffeine. “That particular one was a hard find. Took me well over two months to track down an original.”

“I imagine, then, that I'd never have found a copy at all,” chuckled the Brit. “Probably cost a pretty penny too.”

“That, and an arm and a leg. Not mine, luckily.”

Eames thanked him for the sugar-laden, creamy white coffee and relieved him of it, taking a slow sip. “Aw, darling, you remember exactly how I take my coffee. You shouldn't have.”

Arthur threw a glare at him but it was only half hearted. They settled on the leather couch; Eames curled up, feet tucked under his legs and Arthur sitting up perfectly straight, body angled slightly towards the other man.

Ever since Christmas, things had been different. Though, if Arthur was honest with himself, things had always been different between the two of them. From the taunting jibes to the flirty teasing. Covert glances and secretive smiles. The lightest lingering touches.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the music of Edith Piaf washing over them.

Eventually Arthur broke the silence. “Why are you here, Mr. Eames? Surely this isn't just a social visit?”

“You can dream and design. The hotel was proof of that. I want to know the real reason you don't design dreams. I know I said you lacked the imagination and creativity to be an architect but I was only joshing you.”

There was another silence. This one seemed a tad more stifling though; Arthur had lost any trace of humour in his eyes. If Eames really wanted to know, perhaps it was better he find out now, rather than later, and better to hear it from him rather than Cobb.

There was a reason Arthur was so fascinated by the dream scape, by the world of sleepers. Eames had figured it out early on. Not the reason itself, but the fact that there was one. It didn't take a genius, and Eames certainly never proclaimed to be one, to realize that Arthur always had a reason for anything and everything he did.

The Briton however, had never expected Arthur to come right out and tell him. And he had figured, if Arthur ever did tell him, it would be under pain of torture, except he knew that even then, Arthur wouldn't cave and reveal anything, or maybe he'd have to be three sheets to the wind first.

It felt like hours later, but it was probably closer to five minutes before he spoke.

“My mother used to love M. C. Escher. So much so that she had several of his works hung up on the walls in our house.”

Eames wasn't cluing in. But he liked to listen to Arthur's voice, so he stayed quiet. It was rare for the Point Man to talk about himself, and Eames wasn't going to interrupt and lose his chance to find out more. Perhaps being in his own apartment gave Arthur a sense of security. Enough so that he was in a more talkative mood than usual.

“I used to have a copy of Waterfall with a dark gold frame, hanging right by my bed. It was her favourite one and she hung it in my room, just for me. I used to look at it at night while I lay in bed. Count the steps one by one until I fell asleep. Thirty-two steps in total. Exactly thirty-two and always thirty-two.”

The Forger thought he could see where this was going. He also thought Arthur had a smidgen of a case of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, but he decided it was prudent to keep that little fact to himself. He did like his limbs where they were after all.

“She was dying you know. Cancer, and not a damned thing anyone could do. But I wanted to give her one last gift. So I began looking. And I'm good at that. The researching. The exploring. The investigating. Then I found Cobb. I found the PASIV device.”

Arthur didn't look at Eames, not once, while he was speaking. Instead, he watched the loaded die in his fingers, turning and turning. He found it easier to talk about himself when he wasn't looking at someone else. When he couldn't see the look in their eyes when he told them the truth. The one he'd hidden away inside of himself for so long.

“Waterfall was the first dream scape I ever created. It was the only thing I could do for her, you know. Even if her body was failing her, she was alright in the dream world. It was like...living the impossible. Living inside one of his drawings. Where you can walk the paradoxical staircases, Penrose stairs. Or watch a waterfall that would never exist in real life. An endless cascade, endless stairs, endless corridors. Loops within loops.”

He used to think Arthur was so straight-laced; a veritable stick in the mud. No imagination or creativity. How wrong he was. And now Eames was beginning to wish he had been right.

“God. The look on her face. Like I had given her the world. Like everything was perfect, and she was healthy and she wasn't dying. I thought I had done the right thing.”

How Eames wished he could take the question back. Regretted asking in the first place.

“Except it hadn't been. Instead, the real world was no longer good enough for her. She hated it. Being trapped in her ailing body, in the hospital. Surrounded by the sounds and scent of death. She didn't want it anymore. She was suffering, and she wanted to escape. Back to the dreams, back to the fictional place I'd created. She didn't want reality.”

It was getting harder and harder to speak. A small lump building up in the back of his throat, choking off his voice. Setting his die down, Arthur picked up his coffee; cold now but he didn't notice or care for once. It gave him an excuse not to talk. A moment to collect himself before forcing himself to continue.

“But, as you know with dreams, there are dangers. Losing yourself, losing sight of reality. That was what happened to my mother. She didn't want reality anymore. But I couldn't take her there. I couldn't leave her there like she wanted. She...she begged me to take her back. To the place that made her happy. A place where she was healthy. A place that didn't even fucking exist. But I refused. And she hated me for it. Every single visit I made to her, she always pleaded for the escape, the dream world, and every single time I refused. It was always the first thing out of her mouth, and the last thing. She...she didn't want to see me anymore though, when I kept refusing and denying her the dream, and she died without ever going back.”

He set his drink back down again and pulled one leg up against his chest. Curled in on himself, arms slipping around his knee. Pressed a cheek against the top of the knee, facing away from Eames. It made him seem far younger than a man in his late twenties, made him vulnerable, which Eames was always certain had been impossible. Until now.

“And that, my friend, is why I don't design or create anymore. It's just...easier if I don't. It's why I can never blame Cobb for Mal. I couldn't help him and I couldn't stop him. But I couldn't save her either. Not my mother, not Mal. But isn't that how it always is?” he gave a smile but it didn't even come close to reaching his eyes. “Too little, too late. Every time.”

It was the same for Cobb, and for Fischer. And now, Eames was sick to find out, Arthur as well. A small idea formed in his head. For one fantastical moment, he considered it. He was the best Forger out there. He could do it; infiltrate Arthur's dreams, and give him his mother back. The same way he'd given Fischer his father. Yet even as he fleshed out the plan, he knew even with dreams, it was always too little, too late.

“Arthur, it's not like that. What you gave her was a gift. It was...selfless and amazing and wondrous, like you. Never think otherwise,” Eames said, even as found himself on the other end of the couch, sliding his arms around the younger man. “I just hope one day...maybe you could take me there.”

As though, by hugging the other man so, Eames could shield Arthur from all the hurts in the world, from all the bad memories and thoughts.

Arthur refrained from burying his face into Eames' neck. The words that came next were muffled.

“We all have our own personal Shade.”

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Eames watched Arthur, sleeping on his bed of silk sheets. He'd led the other man to the bedroom and tucked him in. For once, Arthur hadn't argued or put up a fight; it was a testament to how emotionally exhausted the man was. Then the Forger had gone about putting away the record and cleaning the coffee cups.

In the kitchen, he'd found a jar of cookies. Homemade from the looks of it, with a familiar aroma tickling his nose.

Gingerbread.

Eames felt a small smile creep across his face.

It didn't take long to tidy up the place. Then he pulled out his cellphone, and called in a couple of favours.

When morning came, Arthur shuffled out of the bedroom. He stopped dead in his tracks. Eames was still in his flat, sleeping on the couch with a throw pillow under his head and his jacket as a makeshift blanket. That wasn't the thing that had shocked him though.

With a racing heart, Arthur crossed the living room. He lifted a trembling hand and brushed it across the smooth canvas, surrounded by a dark gold frame. Thirty-two steps in total. Exactly thirty-two and always thirty-two. An endless cascade.

Waterfall.

It took him a couple of minutes to realize there was a note pinned between the wall and the painting. Arthur tugged it loose, feeling his heart constrict. He swallowed hard, and unfolded the piece of paper. Eames' messy, loopy scrawl.

Clutching it in his fist, he stumbled over to the slumbering Forger. He placed a hand against a stubbly jaw, thumb tracing the full lower lip. Pressed his forehead against the older man's and just breathed. Breathed in the scent of Eames. Stale cigarettes and a scent like sandalwood and water, uniquely Eames.

By the time Eames woke up, Arthur was in the kitchen, poised, composed and making breakfast. Eames wondered if the hand he'd felt was real, the brush of a set of lips against his own. The whisper of his name.

Darling. You are selfless, amazing and wondrous. Never think otherwise.

END

Feedback is much appreciated. <3

Fic: Chocolate, Coffee and Gingerbread

2010-08-13T15:25:24Z

I watched the movie and OMFG, I'm in love with Eames/Arthur. I rarely ship characters outside of books, anime and video games but for some reason, this movie just...AD*#%$CD&F*^S&DF&*FS*^F!!!! Outside of some 100-word drabbles, this is the first fanfic I've written in months and it's Inception, it's not even HP and that kinda scares me. It's over 2000 words and I did it in about three days. I've pretty much done nothing since Monday except go to work, try to recover from the cold-thing I have, sleep and scour the Internet for all things Eames/Arthur.

Title: Chocolate, Coffee and Gingerbread
Characters/Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Rating: PG-13, some swearing
Word Count: 2000+
Spoilers: The movie, I guess? X_x
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's amazing creation. I don't own these bloody brilliant characters.
~~Arthur's~~Author's Note: So. Inception has officially eaten my brain. I kid you not. Also, not beta-ed, sorry! If you find any glaring mistakes, please let me know! Thanks~!
Summary: Snippets of the kisses between Eames and Arthur.

He could still remember the first time they'd met. Arthur had stayed up all night, poring over every single detail of the Reinhardt job, but no matter which way he turned it, the mission was impossible with just him, Mal and Cobb. He wasn't giving up though. Surrender was not a word he was well acquainted nor on speaking terms with.

It was just past eight in the morning when a low chuckle filtered through his brain, awakening his senses. Still groggy, Arthur lifted his head and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand; he hadn't meant to fall asleep, papers scattered about him. He stifled a yawn and met a pair of unfamiliar, amused eyes. Eyes as mixed as a stormy sky. He jerked up, stiffening when he realized there was a stranger in their den. His gun was in his hand before his brain had even begun to catch up.

He also realized, a tad belatedly, Cobb was speaking. “...Eames. The Forger, and the answer to our current predicament.”

“No. We can do this without an outsider.” Arthur didn't have to meet the man to know he wasn't going to get along with him. There was just something about the stranger that set him on edge. Maybe because the first thing the man did was laugh at him.

“This isn't a choice, Arthur.”

Snapping his mouth shut, he tucked his gun away, he eyed the hand Eames had extended and he found himself taking a hold of it, giving it a firm, hard shake. When he tried to retract his hand, he found Eames' grip a little tighter than he'd expected.

“This isn't a dance, Mr. Eames,” he dryly remarked.

“Would you like it to be?” the other man, a Brit by the accent, purred with a gleam in his eyes.

“Hardly,” came the instantaneous reply.

If he'd known just how well the British man would insinuate himself into his life, Arthur probably would have run away, as fast and far as possible. Well, probably not, because he was Arthur, but he would have come up with a way to deter the hazel-eyed Forger.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

The first time they kissed, Arthur tasted like dark chocolate liberally sprinkled with praline pecans and cherries. That was probably because the younger man had been having a taste of those opulent, upscale truffles imported from Sweden. The ones where one single piece was probably worth about as much as Eames' tie. It was the last thing the Forger had been expecting to see Arthur splurging on, if he were honest with himself. He'd figured the slender man to be frugal and no-nonsense about his diet, like every other aspect of his life.

After all, Arthur was all crisp, clean shirts and perfectly-knotted ties. Narrow lines following the toned angles of his slender frame. Hair slicked back and tamed as though the other man were afraid of looking imperfect, unprofessional. Not a single strand out of place. Not a wrinkle on his immaculate suit. Why, Eames was even willing to bet that his nails were perfectly trimmed and polished.

It made Eames want to muss him and throw him off, just to see some emotion in those dark eyes. He wanted to ruffle some feathers, so to speak. He didn't get a chance though, because the moment Arthur realized what was going on, he'd given the Briton a hard shove, dark eyes flaring with anger.

“Don't do that again,” came the icy, hard words as he caught the slow smirk that curled the Forger's lips. It only served to anger him further and he pivoted and stalked off, missing the words that came next.

“I don't think I could stop if I tried, darling.”

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

The second time they kissed, Arthur tasted like coffee. Black coffee. Eames himself, preferred his caffeine with at least four sugars and enough cream to turn the drink into a milky-white liquid. A generous splash of Baileys never went amiss either. He knew his version of coffee made Arthur want to gag, but he'd always liked something a bit sweeter than just beans. Somehow though, Eames had a feeling he could get used to this bitter taste so long as it was accompanied by Arthur, all heat and velvet.

They were in a dream when it happened. A trial run before their job next week. It was supposed to be a relatively simple extraction. A two-man job. Except Eames couldn't seem to keep his hands and tongue to himself.

With a growl, Arthur pushed himself away from the other man and slugged him hard across the jaw.

“I thought I told you to never do that again,” he glared at Eames before pulling out his trusty Glock and shooting him in the chest.

“What happened?” Cobb asked after they were both brought out of the dream state.

“Was it really necessary to shoot me?” The broad-shouldered brunet pulled a wounded face.

Arthur's jaw tightened as he stared resolutely at the far wall, but other than that, he gave no indication that he'd heard anything. Let Eames deal with Cobb. He pulled the needle from his arm, slid off the lawn chair and left. He didn't know what Eames was playing at, but he didn't appreciate it. The idiot was trying to throw him off his game or something.

“Eames?” Cobb turned to the Brit.

The Forger gave a carefree shrug as if he didn't know how to explain Arthur's bad mood.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Don't think about elephants. What are you thinking about?

Elephants.

Don't think about Eames. What are you thinking about?

The fucking Forger.

Arthur bit back a groan, staring at the words swimming across the page. He'd been trying to study up on their latest job for the last hour, to no avail. He'd been reading the same page without actually seeing a single word. It was frustrating beyond belief. If he'd had a little less self control, he probably would have been tearing out his hair by this point. He didn't know what Eames' game was, and he didn't appreciate it.

After the inception of Fischer, he'd fully expect the team to part ways until they were needed again. Ariadne would go back to her schooling. Yusuf and Eames back to Mombasa, Kenya. Cobb to his family and Saito to his empire in Japan.

The Japanese man was the only one to take his leave and return to his corporation, satisfied with the results of the job. He'd never really been part of the team. He'd only insisted on joining in to ensure the success of the mission, after all.

Word underground had spread about an unbeatable team. A team that could do anything, do the impossible. For the right price, of course. So they'd decided to set up a base in New York City. Cobb was the only one with familial obligations. Even though the Fischer job had been “the last job” for Cobb, he still found himself yearning for the thrill of the dream scape. He mostly stayed on to mentor Ariadne though, instead of going out into the field. Ariadne had decided to complete her schooling via correspondence; the lure of dreams was too tempting. Eames hadn't mentioned anything to return to. Arthur figured it would be exactly like the last time. The Brit would stick around for a few jobs before he got bored and returned to freelancing. The money didn't hurt either, of course.

So as much as Arthur wanted to forget about the ever-so irritating Forger, they weren't going to be very far from one another. They may have had separate hotel rooms but for Arthur, out of sight did not translate to out of mind. He tossed the folder onto the mahogany desk and pushed away from the table, standing up and stretching. Shoving his wallet into his back pocket and checking for his ever-handy loaded die, the Point Man decided a walk was in order.

He unbolted the hotel door, opened it and was about to step out when he came face to face with Eames. Eames who was about to knock on his face. He hadn't been expecting anyone to be there. It would have been funny, a distant part of Arthur's mind supplied. He told the wayward thought to shut up, jerked back and slammed the door shut.

“Arthur?” came the muffled voice.

He didn't answer. For some reason, his heart was racing but he didn't know why.

“Arthur.”

“Sorry...I was expecting Ariadne,” he fibbed, the lie slipping so easily from his lips.

By the time he opened the door again, the hallway was empty.

For some reason, Arthur didn't feel like going for a walk anymore.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

The third time they kissed had been right around Christmas time, right after a successful extraction. There had been a large corporate party at a hotel. The mark was an incoming professional. The New VP. He came with a list of references and recommendations as long as Cobb's arm but the President was still uncertain about his loyalties.

It hadn't been a hard job. Have a pretty little thing named Ariadne, in a hot red dress, ply him with alcohol, take him up to a room, knock him out and search his mind for his loyalties.

The man had turned out to be clean.

“That's what I like. No complications, no sedation, nothing but an easy-in-easy-out,” Arthur commented as the trio took to a lounge to celebrate. Cobb had shown up a short while later, for a drink or two, and to debrief on the mission.

“Easy for you to say,” huffed Ariadne. “You didn't spend half the night getting pawed by a drunk man.”

“I reckon I could fix that for you, darling,” Eames grinned at the Architect with a sidelong glance at Arthur.

Drawn into a conversation with Cobb, Arthur hadn't heard the Forger's sly remark. As they whiled the time away, Arthur had lost track of the number of drinks he'd had. Normally, he kept a keen mind on such details but it was Christmas. He figured he could afford to take a breather.

The trio had all gotten separate flats to live in while they worked and when Ariadne had taken her leave of the group, citing upcoming exams, Cobb had offered to escort her home before returning to his house and his children; he didn't want to be away from them for too long, after all. That left Eames and Arthur. They settled into a comfortable silence, nursing their drinks. Bourbon for the Point Man and Whiskey for the Forger.

Arthur found himself studying the Briton, discovering humour in his choice of drink. Elegant, thick fingers wrapped around his Glencairn Glass. His dark hair, allowed to grow out and gel free, tousled ever-so carelessly. The stubble on his face, suggesting that razor hadn't touched skin in a couple of days.

If Eames had noticed the inquisitive gaze, he didn't mention it.

It was a short while later when they left the lounge. By unspoken agreement, Eames walked Arthur to his apartment. Not that Arthur needed an escort. Not that Eames was offering.

“You know what my first thought was, when I first met you?” Eames suddenly spoke up, breaking the silence.

Arthur merely tilted his head and waited.

“I thought you were the most adorable thing. Hair all mussed up, sleeping atop a pile of papers, drooling,” came the reply, accompanied by twinkling hazel eyes. “Then you woke up, opened your mouth and ruined it.”

He expected the elbow and nimbly dodged it. The boot stomping down on his, on the other hand, that was a surprise.

They came to a halt, right outside the high rise.

And this time, this third kiss, Arthur was prepared for.

Eames tasted like the gingerbread cookies he'd been nibbling on. All sweet and spice. Fortunately for him, Arthur loved the taste of gingerbread. So when the Forger had stopped him from going inside, gazing down at him without a trace of a smile for once, Arthur had simply looked back. He could feel the hand wrapped around his elbow, with the silent message, telling him to wait, telling him 'don't go'.

And when Eames slowly leaned down, giving Arthur plenty of time to back up, the Point Man hadn't moved a muscle. Instead, his eyes flicked from hazel orbs to full pink lips and back again. Then they fluttered shut when a cool mouth touched his own. His tongue darted out, chasing after the taste of gingerbread and whiskey. He bit down lightly on that full lower lip, and was delighted to hear a small groan from Eames. One hand tangled in the dark locks before cupping the back of Eames' head.

It was only the need for air that forced him to pull away, resting his forehead against Eames'.

“What are we doing, Mr. Eames?” he asked breathlessly.

There was a low chuckle that sent shivers dancing up his spine.

“If you really have to ask, darling...”

END

Feedback is much appreciated. <3

Fanfic: Beyond Shadows of Doubt

2010-06-23T18:57:46Z

Here, have a crappy fic I wrote half a decade ago. Seriously. O_o Bad writing. Bad, emo writing, hahaha! Prince of Tennis though. I blame myrafur. Yush, all her fault. >:3

Beyond the Shadows of Doubt
By: Zeto
Series: Prince of Tennis
Theme: Pink bunnies and a massacre of mascara
Length: 1800+ words
Genre: Angst?
Warnings: Half beta'ed. Italics are from the past or emphasis. I'm sure you smart people can tell which is which. Let's pretend the Fuji's have a massive house if they don't.
Pairings: Tezuka/Fuji hints.

Amidst a dark canvas of grey, the pale creature lay forgotten in the rain. It couldn't move, couldn't blink, couldn't even cry, save for the mermaid tears leaking down its face.

Eiji stared at it, somehow mesmerized by that pathetic sight. He leaned down, cold fingers reaching out and clasping onto a scraggly paw. Despite getting wet, he hugged the wet and fuzzy animal close.

"Us rejected things should stick together, nyah?" He whispered to it.

"Eiji...I-I didn't know you felt that way about me."

That should have sent off warning bells in his head; should have clued him in.

It didn't.

"Oishi, will you go out with me?" His blue, blue eyes gleamed with hope.

"I'm sorry, Eiji. You're a great friend and tennis partner but . . . I just don't feel that way about you."

"Oh..."

That had been three days ago. Three days of walking in a stupor, playing with only half his heart, stumbling around blindly until Tezuka had told him to get some rest and go home.

And Oishi hadn't even looked at him when he had trudged off the courts.

He continued through the deserted playground, sniffling as the cold and wet clung to him like a second skin. His footsteps echoed dully, nearly silent under the patter of the rain.

"Eiji!"

Blankly, he glanced up. Ah, just his sister.

"Why don't you have an umbrella?" She demanded. "Oh, never mind. It doesn't matter; just get in the house."

Oh...when had he gotten there so quickly? His feet had taken him home, without him even really noticing.

She ushered her little brother in, frowning at the stray animal.

"Eiji, where did you get that disgusting thing? Give it here. I'll throw it out." She reached for the sopping bunny, distaste curled about her face.

"No!" He glared at her with sudden, unexpected anger. "It's mine."

She started. "Eiji...okay, it's yours. Just clean it off first, okay, kiddo? Hey, I got you a new tube of toothpaste; apple mint."

He nodded numbly before making his way upstairs, tracking water all over the carpet. His sister didn't say anything, staring after her sibling.

After gingerly washing his new stuffed animal, he gently, almost reverently, placed the bunny near the heater and stripped himself of his sopping clothing. Mechanically, the redhead showered, feeling jets of burning water cascade down his slender body.

Why is it so cold?

Only when his body flushed pink did he turn the water off. Bundling himself in layers of clothing, he picked his bunny up, shuffled back to his room and climbed into bed. Snuggling into his sheets, he clasped the still-soaking bunny close and fell into a dreamless sleep.

"Are you all right, Eiji?" Fuji asked, frowning.

"Oh course I am, nyah," he flashed his usual smile.

The tensai scrutinized him for a long moment, making him feel so very aware.

"We're going to be late and then Tezuka-buchou will make us run laps. Let's go," he exclaimed before taking off.

As predicted, Fuji was right.

"You two are late. Ten laps each." The tall captain intoned without batting an eye.

"You wouldn't make me run laps, would you, Kunimitsu?" Fuji leaned in, brushing his fingers lightly over one of Tezuka's crossed arms.

"You know the rules. Hit the court, Fuji." Tezuka quietly emphasized his teammate's last name.

With his typical smile, Fuji shrugged and began to run, catching up to Eiji.

"Nee, Eiji. My parents are allowing me to throw a Halloween party."

"What's that?" The redhead asked curiously.

"It's some American tradition on the last day of October. Little kids go out, dressed up. They knock on doors and ask for candy. I heard about it from Ryoma."

"Eh? Another one of ochibi's American things?" He perked up a little.

"The party's next Monday. It's a masquerade, so dress in disguise. It starts at 8PM."

As the pair of friends finished their rounds, they picked up their rackets and joined the rest of the team, warming up.

It didn't take long before sweat dripped down the acrobatic teen's forehead; it had been a gruelling practice, stretching his limits. He reached into his pack, withdrawing a bottle of liquid. Tipping it back, he let the cool water slide down his parched throat. He didn't notice when something fell out of his bag.

"Ne, you dropped this, Eiji." Momo-chan held out the tattered rabbit. "When'd you get this?"

"That's Ishi," the redhead snatched his bunny away.

Halloween rolled around, and Eiji found himself panicking.

"Calm down, Eiji!"

"I can't! The party starts in two hours and I have no costume!" He declared, running around in his room.

"Well, put down my mascara! You've already made a massacre of three of my best wands." She made a face, retrieving her makeup.

"But-but onee-san!"

"Oh, come here. I've got a few ideas."

Eiji recoiled in sudden fear, asking with due apprehension. "What...ideas?"

She told him.

"No! There is no way I'm doing that!"

"You got a brighter idea?"

He pouted. "No, but nyah..."

The redhead stared at himself. Body encased in spandex with flashes of his flesh peeking through, disguised as stripes, fake nails glued to each finger, a swishing, black and red tail. Large, pointed ears, a simple mask covering his upper face and lips painted a soft pink. Eyes outlined in charcoal, hair heavily streaked with black until one couldn't see whether his real colour was scarlet or ebony.

"Is that me?"

"You bet your cute little kitten nose it is," his sister beamed at him proudly, tapping him on his nose affectionately.

"I look...different."

"Of course you do, dummy. You look hot. And I mean that only in a sisterly way." She assured him.

"Are you sure...?"

"Beyond the shadows of doubt. Now get your ass out the door and knock him dead."

"Onee-san! What are you saying?"

"I said, knock 'em dead, kiddo." She smiled innocently.

The redhead arrived at his best friend's house only half an hour late. Nervously, he rang the doorbell; would anyone recognize him? Maybe laugh at him?

A belly dancer opened the door. "Welcome," he-she?—murmured in a sultry tone before allowing Eiji to cross into a new realm of mystery and seduction.

He couldn't help but wonder the identity of the door attendant. A slim, shapely body hidden under swathes of scarves, face concealed.

The party was in full swing already; heated dancing, peals of laughter ringing, candy and food making its way into eager mouths.

Sheets and ribbons of silky fabric hung from ceiling to floor, dark amber light spilled across the room, simple yet effective Halloween decorations garlanded the place.

Not recognizing any faces, Eiji gravitated towards the kitchen. Surely ochibi or Momo-chan were there, eating? After all, he'd made no connection to the characters crowded in at the tables of food.

The redhead paused in his travels. Was that...Taka-san? Geared up in brown leather and hat, sideburns gone? And was that a needle in his hands?

Eiji stuttered, "T-T-Taka-san? He's that guy! From that manga! From that school!"

"Yeah, we sure know who he is now, Kikumaru-sempai," a voice dryly remarked behind him.

"Ah!" Eiji whirled around, glomping the figure behind him without even looking. "Ochibi!"

Ryoma urked but felt his face discolour as Eiji held on. "Kiku-maru-s-sempai. I can't...breathe."

"Ochibi!" Eiji happily squealed, letting go at last.

"Are you a...cat, Kikumaru-sempai?" Ryoma stared unabashedly.

"Hai, nyah! And what are you?"

Ryoma sipped at his drink, before blinking. He stood before Eiji, attired in his typical tennis gear, racquet hanging off his back. "I'm Andre Agassi."

Blinking, Eiji just stared at the young tennis player. "Um...yeah, nyah. Nee, ochibi, whatcha drinking?"

"This? Fuji-sempai gave it to me. It's a...Caribbean Pineapple."

"Ka-ri-bi-an pai-ni-app-pu-ru?"

"It's alcoholic."

"Ah, I see! But ochibi...aren't you too young to drink?"

A careless shrug from the young teammate. "Hey, isn't that Fuji-sempai?"

"Ah! Where?" Eiji twisted his body almost unnaturally, to catch a glimpse of the so-far elusive tennis tensai. He hardly even noticed the diversionary tactic and Ryoma's sly smile.

He couldn't see Fuji yet but there was Tezuka. And surely, where Tezuka was, Fuji was bound to follow. A head of light, ruffled brown hair.

Eiji darted away from Ryoma, swimming through the crowd with agile ease.

"Buchou!" He called, leaping through the crowd and nimbly landing on his feet before the captain. The acrobatic teen started. "Eh! Fuji? I thought-what are you dressed as?"

"Why, I'm Tezuka, of course," he gave a complacent smile, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his slender nose, before losing the expression on his face and donning a more stoic look.

With a nervous laugh, Eiji slunk away. "I'm gonna go look for Oishi now..."

"Eiji, he's upstairs in the study but-" Fuji helpfully called after his rapidly-retreating figure.

"Sankyuu!"

"-But he's with someone else..." Fuji finished weakly.

Reaching the stairs, he paused. Clad in a white labcoat, Inui leaned casually against the base of the banister. Spotting Eiji, the tallest tennis player of the Seigaku teamed held a small vial.

"Uhm-who are you dressed supposed to be anyway?" The cat asked.

"Why, I'm a mad scientist. 100% this drink will turn you into a-" Inui halted, voice trailing off.

"Into a what?" The redhead asked suspiciously.

Glasses gleaming, Inui fought back a small smirk. "Nothing. Want to try it?"

A shake of the head. "I-uh-need to find Oishi!" He darted upstairs, steeling his nerves. Even if Oishi doesn't like me like that, we can still be friends. Oishi will always be my friend, nyah.

He heard the low murmur of the Oishi's kindly tones. Spying the door leading to the study, he bounced in. "Nee Oishi..."

All colour drained him his face and lips. The redhead felt himself freeze.

For there was Oishi, arms wrapped around some other person. A pair of slim hands tangled in his Oishi's hair. Another mouth touching his Oishi's lips.

The couple broke apart.

"Eiji," Oishi whirled around, startled.

"Oh...sorry for interupting...I...I-gotta go!" He spun around blindly, and fled without, luckily, running into the door or walls.

Back down the stairs, without stumbling, through the crowd of happy partiers. He just ran, as fast as his agility and speed would carry him. Never once looking back.

I guess that's why Oishi doesn't like me. He thought, tears sparking in his eyes.

It took a week for the reality to truly sink in. Within that span of time, it wasn't hard avoiding his tennis partner outside of practice or matches.

He had taken to sleeping with his giant stuffed bear and bunny but somehow, that just made him more lonely.

He sat his bunny upon his windowsill, next to a small potted plant. He glanced around his empty room.

Somehow, Eiji's giant teddy never fell to the left anymore.

He knew, beyond the shadows of doubt plaguing him, he had outgrown the stuffed animal, putting it away in his closet.

"I guess..."

"I don't need it anymore."

END

Okay, I am going to sleep now. Don't flame me for the crappy writing. All I did was edit it a little bit. I didn't actually add much more to it. -_-