Fic & Art: Chimera - 2/4
Title: Chimera: The Goat
Author/Artist: bauble & enoughglitter
Rating: R
Team: Angst
Prompt: lies, sex
Warnings: Prostitution
Word Count: 1,250 words
Summary: Alternate Reality where Eames is a dream!hooker and Arthur is the client that keeps coming back. Set within the world of Inception, but diverging from the events of canon. Second chapter in a 4 part WIP.
Chapter 1: Lioness Passant here, now with additional art!
Eames wakes up to the sound of Yusuf repeating his name, and to the rather insistent (and unpleasant) shaking of his shoulders. “You have another appointment,” Yusuf says.
Eames blinks, hard, and tries to shake off the persistent grogginess that accompanies dream-death. “I’m nowhere near ready for a back-to-back.” He sits up and tries to remove the IV, but Yusuf stops him.
“Sorry,” Yusuf says. “Management says you have to. The client pays upfront and he’s a repeat customer with long-term potential.”
“Can’t someone else handle it? I just got out of a very realistic four hour long buried alive scenario.” Eames rubs his eyes and tries to push back the phantom smell of damp soil, the memory of its texture in between his fingers and toes still too vivid.
“We tried, but he specifically requested you.” Yusuf sounds apologetic as he passes Eames a file. "It's someone you saw about a month back-Arthur.”
It takes a few seconds for the name to sync up to a face in Eames' mind. When he opens the file he’s only half-surprised to find that the memory and dream do, indeed, match the physical reality. “He liked the hot blonde. I referred his file to Tadashi.”
“And Tadashi followed your notes down to the letter in an appointment with Arthur two weeks ago, but apparently no one but you will do,” Yusuf replies. “Today Arthur asked specifically for the person he met with in his first appointment and not the second.”
Eames scans the folder, which is comprised mostly of security camera photos of Arthur sitting in the waiting room, reading a magazine. The background search turned up nothing-not surprising, considering Arthur Penrose probably isn’t his real name. What’s more intriguing, however, is that he’s been paying the hefty fees in cash; no wonder management wants to keep him around. "The intake sheet says he's been here for over an hour. Couldn’t you get one of the others to pretend to be me?”
“Already tried,” Nash says, sitting up in one of the other beds, rubbing at his wrist. “Even did your Lady Eve, but he didn’t buy it. Shot himself right out of the dream.”
“Shot himself out?” Eames repeats. “Who the hell-”
“I know,” Yusuf says. “Needless to say, he was displeased about the ruse and demanded you or his money back.”
“Great.” Eames pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do we know what he wants aside from me?”
Yusuf and Nash shrug unhelpfully, and Eames sighs as he lies back down on the bed. “Alright then. Put me under and I’ll deal with him.”
* * * * * *
“I hear you’ve been looking for me,” Eames says as he makes his way down the museum hallway, to the room where Arthur is studying a painting with great interest. Eve’s heels click lightly across the pink and green marble flooring.
“In a manner of speaking,” Arthur says, looking back over his shoulder. His neck is a smooth, elegant line, and Eames is struck again by how very handsome and youthful his face is. “They sent me some hack pretending to be you.”
“Some hack?” Eames echoes, pretending to be offended as he halts a few feet away from Arthur. “How do you know that wasn’t me?”
“Not nearly insolent enough. And she seemed to actually understand the meaning of the phrase, ‘the customer is always right.’” Arthur turns his face back towards the painting again, as if in dismissal.
“I know how to do my job,” Eames says, voice sharpening in spite of himself. “What people really want and what they think they should want are often vastly different things.”
“You think I don’t know what I want?” Arthur’s tone is amused, smug.
“I think you’re a pain in my arse,” slips out before Eames can stop it. He winces; this is why he doesn’t do back-to-back appointments-because he gets tired, his judgment becomes compromised, and he loses track of the part he’s supposed to be playing. This is especially true when the client in question is one Eames actively wants to have sex with as himself-or, in this case, have sex with again.
Arthur laughs and turns to face him fully. He’s wearing a three-piece suit, cream jacket and pants with a darker waistcoat, all marvelously fitted to the lean body underneath. Eames remembers everything: the compact muscle, the scarring across his arms and chest, the shock of dark hair against pale skin.
Eames trades in idealized bodies and idealized sex daily. One more body shouldn't affect him like this. And yet.
“Can you do her?” Arthur asks as he jerks his chin towards the Warhol on the wall. Thankfully, it’s nine squares of Marilyn in hot pinks and blues as opposed to soup cans (Eames has forged inanimate objects in the past, but none of the endeavors could ever have been considered unqualified successes).
Eames bats his eyelashes, suddenly heavy with old-fashioned kohl and mascara. “Would you like me to sing happy birthday or about how diamonds are a girl’s best friend?”
“Amazing,” Arthur breathes as he begins to circle Eames. “How about Elvis? Gandhi? Che Guevara?”
Eames dutifully shifts into the versions of those people at the height of their fame, basking in Arthur’s appreciative gaze. “You know there’s someone I can refer you to who specializes in celebrities and famous figures. This isn’t really my forte.”
“And yet you do it so well anyway,” Arthur says, and Eames studies him, not sure whether he’s being sarcastic or serious. Clearly, being around Arthur short-circuits his ability to engage in any sort of higher cognitive reasoning. He needs to find someone else to take Arthur on as a client immediately, before this devolves into something worse than an ill-advised and inappropriate crush.
Eames cocks the sawed-off shotgun in his arms and takes a few steps away to peer through a door. “Tell me, does one of these hallways lead into a bedroom of some sort? Much as I enjoy desecrating the temperature-controlled solemnity of a museum, marble does tend to be hell on the knees.”
“But of course.” Arthur gestures at a door that was most definitely not there a moment ago. “After you.”
Eames walks through the door first-combat boots making a rather different sound than the heels-into a Victorian bedroom, complete with a fireplace and high wooden bed stacked high with floral-patterned pillows. The walls are paneled in dark walnut, the curtains are a gauzy lace, and intricately stitched doilies cover practically every piece of furniture in the room.
“Why, Arthur.” Eames hooks a pink doily on the bed with his gun and flicks it onto the floor. “I had no idea.”
“I even threw in some rugs so the hardwood floor wouldn’t hurt your tender, delicate knees.”
“You do realize I’m wearing kneepads under this uniform, don’t you?” Eames props the shotgun against the vanity.
“And here I was, trying to be considerate.” Arthur takes a few steps forward to straighten Eames’ collar. “Now, are you interested in slipping into something a little more comfortable?”
“Are you referring to the uniform or the guerrillero heroico?” Eames shifts into Eve, still wearing the military fatigues. “Because aside from kneepads, I can assure you there’s nothing underneath the uniform.”
“I think I’m in the mood for someone-tall today,” Arthur murmurs.
Eames shifts into the male equivalent of Eve-all broad blond sunshine, chiseled jaw. “Adam, you mean.”
“Adam.” Arthur chuckles as he leans in. “Yes, I suppose he’ll do.”
Author/Artist: bauble & enoughglitter
Rating: R
Team: Angst
Prompt: lies, sex
Warnings: Prostitution
Word Count: 1,250 words
Summary: Alternate Reality where Eames is a dream!hooker and Arthur is the client that keeps coming back. Set within the world of Inception, but diverging from the events of canon. Second chapter in a 4 part WIP.
Chapter 1: Lioness Passant here, now with additional art!
Eames wakes up to the sound of Yusuf repeating his name, and to the rather insistent (and unpleasant) shaking of his shoulders. “You have another appointment,” Yusuf says.
Eames blinks, hard, and tries to shake off the persistent grogginess that accompanies dream-death. “I’m nowhere near ready for a back-to-back.” He sits up and tries to remove the IV, but Yusuf stops him.
“Sorry,” Yusuf says. “Management says you have to. The client pays upfront and he’s a repeat customer with long-term potential.”
“Can’t someone else handle it? I just got out of a very realistic four hour long buried alive scenario.” Eames rubs his eyes and tries to push back the phantom smell of damp soil, the memory of its texture in between his fingers and toes still too vivid.
“We tried, but he specifically requested you.” Yusuf sounds apologetic as he passes Eames a file. "It's someone you saw about a month back-Arthur.”
It takes a few seconds for the name to sync up to a face in Eames' mind. When he opens the file he’s only half-surprised to find that the memory and dream do, indeed, match the physical reality. “He liked the hot blonde. I referred his file to Tadashi.”
“And Tadashi followed your notes down to the letter in an appointment with Arthur two weeks ago, but apparently no one but you will do,” Yusuf replies. “Today Arthur asked specifically for the person he met with in his first appointment and not the second.”
Eames scans the folder, which is comprised mostly of security camera photos of Arthur sitting in the waiting room, reading a magazine. The background search turned up nothing-not surprising, considering Arthur Penrose probably isn’t his real name. What’s more intriguing, however, is that he’s been paying the hefty fees in cash; no wonder management wants to keep him around. "The intake sheet says he's been here for over an hour. Couldn’t you get one of the others to pretend to be me?”
“Already tried,” Nash says, sitting up in one of the other beds, rubbing at his wrist. “Even did your Lady Eve, but he didn’t buy it. Shot himself right out of the dream.”
“Shot himself out?” Eames repeats. “Who the hell-”
“I know,” Yusuf says. “Needless to say, he was displeased about the ruse and demanded you or his money back.”
“Great.” Eames pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do we know what he wants aside from me?”
Yusuf and Nash shrug unhelpfully, and Eames sighs as he lies back down on the bed. “Alright then. Put me under and I’ll deal with him.”
* * * * * *
“I hear you’ve been looking for me,” Eames says as he makes his way down the museum hallway, to the room where Arthur is studying a painting with great interest. Eve’s heels click lightly across the pink and green marble flooring.
“In a manner of speaking,” Arthur says, looking back over his shoulder. His neck is a smooth, elegant line, and Eames is struck again by how very handsome and youthful his face is. “They sent me some hack pretending to be you.”
“Some hack?” Eames echoes, pretending to be offended as he halts a few feet away from Arthur. “How do you know that wasn’t me?”
“Not nearly insolent enough. And she seemed to actually understand the meaning of the phrase, ‘the customer is always right.’” Arthur turns his face back towards the painting again, as if in dismissal.
“I know how to do my job,” Eames says, voice sharpening in spite of himself. “What people really want and what they think they should want are often vastly different things.”
“You think I don’t know what I want?” Arthur’s tone is amused, smug.
“I think you’re a pain in my arse,” slips out before Eames can stop it. He winces; this is why he doesn’t do back-to-back appointments-because he gets tired, his judgment becomes compromised, and he loses track of the part he’s supposed to be playing. This is especially true when the client in question is one Eames actively wants to have sex with as himself-or, in this case, have sex with again.
Arthur laughs and turns to face him fully. He’s wearing a three-piece suit, cream jacket and pants with a darker waistcoat, all marvelously fitted to the lean body underneath. Eames remembers everything: the compact muscle, the scarring across his arms and chest, the shock of dark hair against pale skin.
Eames trades in idealized bodies and idealized sex daily. One more body shouldn't affect him like this. And yet.
“Can you do her?” Arthur asks as he jerks his chin towards the Warhol on the wall. Thankfully, it’s nine squares of Marilyn in hot pinks and blues as opposed to soup cans (Eames has forged inanimate objects in the past, but none of the endeavors could ever have been considered unqualified successes).
Eames bats his eyelashes, suddenly heavy with old-fashioned kohl and mascara. “Would you like me to sing happy birthday or about how diamonds are a girl’s best friend?”
“Amazing,” Arthur breathes as he begins to circle Eames. “How about Elvis? Gandhi? Che Guevara?”
Eames dutifully shifts into the versions of those people at the height of their fame, basking in Arthur’s appreciative gaze. “You know there’s someone I can refer you to who specializes in celebrities and famous figures. This isn’t really my forte.”
“And yet you do it so well anyway,” Arthur says, and Eames studies him, not sure whether he’s being sarcastic or serious. Clearly, being around Arthur short-circuits his ability to engage in any sort of higher cognitive reasoning. He needs to find someone else to take Arthur on as a client immediately, before this devolves into something worse than an ill-advised and inappropriate crush.
Eames cocks the sawed-off shotgun in his arms and takes a few steps away to peer through a door. “Tell me, does one of these hallways lead into a bedroom of some sort? Much as I enjoy desecrating the temperature-controlled solemnity of a museum, marble does tend to be hell on the knees.”
“But of course.” Arthur gestures at a door that was most definitely not there a moment ago. “After you.”
Eames walks through the door first-combat boots making a rather different sound than the heels-into a Victorian bedroom, complete with a fireplace and high wooden bed stacked high with floral-patterned pillows. The walls are paneled in dark walnut, the curtains are a gauzy lace, and intricately stitched doilies cover practically every piece of furniture in the room.
“Why, Arthur.” Eames hooks a pink doily on the bed with his gun and flicks it onto the floor. “I had no idea.”
“I even threw in some rugs so the hardwood floor wouldn’t hurt your tender, delicate knees.”
“You do realize I’m wearing kneepads under this uniform, don’t you?” Eames props the shotgun against the vanity.
“And here I was, trying to be considerate.” Arthur takes a few steps forward to straighten Eames’ collar. “Now, are you interested in slipping into something a little more comfortable?”
“Are you referring to the uniform or the guerrillero heroico?” Eames shifts into Eve, still wearing the military fatigues. “Because aside from kneepads, I can assure you there’s nothing underneath the uniform.”
“I think I’m in the mood for someone-tall today,” Arthur murmurs.
Eames shifts into the male equivalent of Eve-all broad blond sunshine, chiseled jaw. “Adam, you mean.”
“Adam.” Arthur chuckles as he leans in. “Yes, I suppose he’ll do.”