Fic: Follow You Anywhere (The Leap of Faith) [PG-13]
Title: Follow You Anywhere (The Leap of Faith)
Author: themostepotente
Team: R♥mance
Prompt(s): Fear, Hell
Word count: 650 words
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Zombies!
Summary: Arthur would follow Eames anywhere.
Follow You Anywhere (The Leap of Faith)
Moan. Stagger. Shamble. CRUNCH!
Arthur leans over the edge of the building, but all he can see is blackness. He can't see his hand in front of his face a foot down. It reminds Arthur of the Boca Raton job and swimming in the Gulf of Mexico. He'd come home with sun poisoning and two jellyfish stings. This feels similarly. Except with face-eating zombies.
Only now there's no tang of salt-sea air on his tongue and no sand-crusted Eames in his bed. Fuck this week and Cobb's ruddy insistence he hears in his head in Eames’s voice.
Arthur scratches his nose with the butt of his Sig Sauer and turns to Eames with a frown grave enough to scar. Eames doesn't look up from his cup and saucer.
"We are deep in the shit, Eames. Deep in the shit," Arthur says, trudging over. He sits at the table at least three sizes too small for grown men. Four sizes if you agree that Eames is just a tree in paisley rayon-poly blend.
"Relax, kitten. Have some tea," Eames says. Eames's Casull .454 lies right next to the teakettle like it's part of the service.
Arthur's stomach flip-flops. He can still taste the grape soda and canned Spaghetti-O's he shared with Cobb's children earlier. Perhaps a cup of tea would soothe his nervous tension and upset stomach. He likes his tea weaker, though. Eames, however, insists on tea that would peel industrial-strength paint. One teabag for each drinker and one more for the pot. Eames hands him a cup with a mismatched saucer, and Arthur feels as though he's seated with The Mad Hatter and not some mad Englishman instead.
Arthur takes a tentative sip so as not to scald his poor tongue. The region for tasting bitter still hasn't regained its feeling from their last tea sit-down. He sets the cup down gently and meets Eames's gaze. "We need an exit strategy, Eames. It's not looking too good," he says, nodding towards the roof door. "Inside's infested, and the bolts won't hold much longer. Way I see it, we're fucked."
"I have a plan, pumpkin, always a plan," Eames says. He flashes Arthur a smile all glorious white and crooked teeth.
Arthur arches an eyebrow as he changes his Sig's cartridge. Whatever Eames's approach, there's potential for disaster. "Dare I ask?" Arthur remarks.
Eames selects a petit four to accompany his tea. Confections are like chasers for Eames. Arthur's watched Eames consume half a package of teacakes on one cuppa before.
Eames offers the plate to Arthur. "You remember our messaging system?"
Arthur refuses with a wave of his hand. He knows he won't be able to stop at one, and he considers the cavity in his rear molar he hasn't made time to fill at the dentist's. Eames and Cobb keep him too busy. Mostly Eames, he thinks with a smile. "Yes, I recall."
Fridge magnets. How could he forget? Arthur blames Peter Pan syndrome. Eames calls it whimsy. It's all very convenient.
Eames dabs delicately at the corners of his mouth. "And what did my last message say, darling?"
Arthur finishes his tea and stands. “Not to worry.” When Eames gets to his feet, Arthur wraps his arms around Eames’s strong neck and kisses him. Eames’s lips are wet and swollen when Arthur pulls away. His eyes are alight with something indescribable.
Eames reloads his hand-canon. “See you down below, love.”
“Yeah,” Arthur says a bit breathily, and he thinks, no he knows he’d follow Eames anywhere. Even into Hell.
Lucky for them, it’s not too far away. Eames catapults himself over the edge. His drop is quieter than a whisper.
Moan. Stagger. Shamble. BANG!
As if on cue, Arthur drops down with the metal ping of a shell casing.
Eames has always been and will always be Arthur’s favourite leap of faith.
-=The End=-
Author: themostepotente
Team: R♥mance
Prompt(s): Fear, Hell
Word count: 650 words
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Zombies!
Summary: Arthur would follow Eames anywhere.
Follow You Anywhere (The Leap of Faith)
Moan. Stagger. Shamble. CRUNCH!
Arthur leans over the edge of the building, but all he can see is blackness. He can't see his hand in front of his face a foot down. It reminds Arthur of the Boca Raton job and swimming in the Gulf of Mexico. He'd come home with sun poisoning and two jellyfish stings. This feels similarly. Except with face-eating zombies.
Only now there's no tang of salt-sea air on his tongue and no sand-crusted Eames in his bed. Fuck this week and Cobb's ruddy insistence he hears in his head in Eames’s voice.
Arthur scratches his nose with the butt of his Sig Sauer and turns to Eames with a frown grave enough to scar. Eames doesn't look up from his cup and saucer.
"We are deep in the shit, Eames. Deep in the shit," Arthur says, trudging over. He sits at the table at least three sizes too small for grown men. Four sizes if you agree that Eames is just a tree in paisley rayon-poly blend.
"Relax, kitten. Have some tea," Eames says. Eames's Casull .454 lies right next to the teakettle like it's part of the service.
Arthur's stomach flip-flops. He can still taste the grape soda and canned Spaghetti-O's he shared with Cobb's children earlier. Perhaps a cup of tea would soothe his nervous tension and upset stomach. He likes his tea weaker, though. Eames, however, insists on tea that would peel industrial-strength paint. One teabag for each drinker and one more for the pot. Eames hands him a cup with a mismatched saucer, and Arthur feels as though he's seated with The Mad Hatter and not some mad Englishman instead.
Arthur takes a tentative sip so as not to scald his poor tongue. The region for tasting bitter still hasn't regained its feeling from their last tea sit-down. He sets the cup down gently and meets Eames's gaze. "We need an exit strategy, Eames. It's not looking too good," he says, nodding towards the roof door. "Inside's infested, and the bolts won't hold much longer. Way I see it, we're fucked."
"I have a plan, pumpkin, always a plan," Eames says. He flashes Arthur a smile all glorious white and crooked teeth.
Arthur arches an eyebrow as he changes his Sig's cartridge. Whatever Eames's approach, there's potential for disaster. "Dare I ask?" Arthur remarks.
Eames selects a petit four to accompany his tea. Confections are like chasers for Eames. Arthur's watched Eames consume half a package of teacakes on one cuppa before.
Eames offers the plate to Arthur. "You remember our messaging system?"
Arthur refuses with a wave of his hand. He knows he won't be able to stop at one, and he considers the cavity in his rear molar he hasn't made time to fill at the dentist's. Eames and Cobb keep him too busy. Mostly Eames, he thinks with a smile. "Yes, I recall."
Fridge magnets. How could he forget? Arthur blames Peter Pan syndrome. Eames calls it whimsy. It's all very convenient.
Eames dabs delicately at the corners of his mouth. "And what did my last message say, darling?"
Arthur finishes his tea and stands. “Not to worry.” When Eames gets to his feet, Arthur wraps his arms around Eames’s strong neck and kisses him. Eames’s lips are wet and swollen when Arthur pulls away. His eyes are alight with something indescribable.
Eames reloads his hand-canon. “See you down below, love.”
“Yeah,” Arthur says a bit breathily, and he thinks, no he knows he’d follow Eames anywhere. Even into Hell.
Lucky for them, it’s not too far away. Eames catapults himself over the edge. His drop is quieter than a whisper.
Moan. Stagger. Shamble. BANG!
As if on cue, Arthur drops down with the metal ping of a shell casing.
Eames has always been and will always be Arthur’s favourite leap of faith.
-=The End=-