Fic: Death, be not Proud [Inception]
Title: Death, be not Proud
Character/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, Mal/Cobb
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: Character death (kind of)
Author's Notes: Written to fulfill the prompt "blood loss" for hc_bingo and for the prompt on inception_kink : "Five times Eames died in a dream, and one time he died in reality."
I.
They say the first time is like flying. Some New Age touchy-feely philosophy about the soul separating from the body as the mind embraces death for one brief, blinding moment before consciousness. They say it's the ultimate freedom, peace and liberation like no other feeling in the world, waking or sleeping. They say it's like the best orgasm, the most uninhibited high - a taste of Heaven.
And guess what? They're all a bunch of bloody idiots.
The first time Eames dies, the only thing he tastes is plaster and concrete because a fucking roof decides to cave in on top of him.
He's certainly not the best in the business (yet); he's straight off the streets as a pickpocket and a con man, testing the waters and trying his luck in the new game everyone's been talking about, subconscious security. He's given a gun and told to do his job. Which is, basically, stand there and be human roadblocks, because he's expendable. Cannon fodder.
He's a bit disappointed, to be honest. Like any boy with delusions of grandeur he always wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, preferably with a gorgeous piece of eye candy on his arm to be the Bonnie to his Clyde. Instead he gets crushed to death and skewered by the massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling of the opera house.
Lovely.
- * - * -
It takes Eames a week to stop wincing at the sight of the chandelier in the lobby of his hotel.
II.
The Cobbs are fast rising stars in the trade: Dominic, the hawk-eyed extractor with an eidetic memory and more successes than any other and his wife Mal, a multi-talented beauty who can forge, build, and remain effortlessly flawless while doing so. Eames himself is rapidly ascending the ladder with a reputation as the man who can literally become anything (for a price), but it's still a surprise when he gets a call from the Cobbs requesting his assistance on a job.
Of course, he says yes.
It's a simple enough plan: get in, get out, get gone. Eames's part is already done - posing as the mark's groom-to-be and shamelessly informing her he'd been sleeping with her best friend for the past four months (She was a tiny little thing, five foot two at most, but she had one hell of an arm. He considers asking her out for a coffee after the job, if just to help soothe the angry red hurt of such a betrayal.) and he's leaning casually against the brick exterior of the nearby school building, cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes sweeping casually over the dreamscape.
Dom is sitting on a bench at the playground, talking softly to their mark, comforting her and quite possibly flirting just a bit as well in order to get the information they need. Mal's doing a nice job of acting the part of a mother with her newborn in a stroller, sitting on the other bench a little ways away.
As it turns out, their mark actually used to be an army brat, and has a mind more militarized than Dom expected, because as Eames casually flicks ash away from his fingers, he suddenly sees a small red roving dot hover, then settle dead in the center of Mal's forehead. And truly, it's none of his business, he tells himself, because his part is already done - but Mal is a lady and for all his flirting and suave charmer front, Eames was brought up to always give a woman the respect and honor she's due - and he's already racing over from his post before he can tell himself not to, fingers reaching for the gun tucked into the back of his pants, mouth opening to yell a warning.
"DOWN!"
The bullet ricochets off the park bench and Eames slings his arm around Mal's shoulders, literally flinging her to the rough asphalt and covers her slender frame with his, and may or may not have accidentally put his hands somewhere he really shouldn't. There's no time for an apology though, because the mark is screaming, Dom is busy shielding her from her own subconscious as bullets slice through the air, and -
-and with a sharp pain to the temple, everything fades to black.
- * - * -
When the Cobbs wake up, Eames braces himself for a tongue lashing at the very best and a sharp slap to the face from the formidable Mrs. Cobb (to add to the bruise he can already feel forming on his jaw, the result of their mark's fierce but fully justified temper), but Mal simply smiles and shakes her head fondly, if a little exasperatedly. "Men. Always think that the lady needs protecting. First Arthur, now you." She rolls her eyes good-naturedly and mutters something in French.
"Arthur?" Eames asks quizzically, out of the need to say something after her mini-rant, and Mal smiles, bright and beautiful, her eyes filled with mirth.
"Our point man," she tells him, something warm and affectionate filling her tone, not unlike a proud mother at her son's graduation. "He couldn't take the job today, but he'll be around for the next one." She sneaks a look over at her husband, who's currently packing up the PASIV in its metal briefcase, and pats Eames on the arm with a smile. "I'll introduce you to him."
III.
Arthur is impeccably dressed, standing tall at Dom's right hand like he wasn't made to stand anywhere else, a stone statue dressed in a sinfully tight black pinstriped suit with slicked back hair, features arranged into a poker face unreadable even to Eames, who has been reading the tells of countless strangers and friends alike for years. He's incredibly young, almost scarily good at what he does, and bloody gorgeous.
He also, Eames learns in a very short amount of time, has one very large stick up his arse.
"Come now darling," he practically purrs, the pet name rolling of his tongue like water off a duck's back. "Live a little, yeah? What's one glass of champagne as we wait for Mr. Brown to show? All work and no play makes Arthur one very dull boy."
Arthur raises an eyebrow and easily ducks away from the hand Eames extends to ruffle his hair and shoots him a cool, unimpressed look. "Are you always this unprofessional on the job?"
He's really not (and even though he'll never admit it to anyone but himself, that accusation stings just a bit), but being around the prim and proper point man suddenly makes Eames more mischievous than a five year old boy concocting plans to mercilessly torment the pretty little girl who sits beside him in school (except Arthur doesn't have any pigtails to pull, so that's out). He wants to push, because that's what he's good at, wants to see what's behind that suit Arthur wears like armor, wants to see if he can get the other man to smile every once in a blue moon, wants to see if Arthur even knows how to smile and if he has dimples.
Sadly, Eames doesn't get to discover the answers to any of his questions or wonderings, but he does get a very good show of Arthur's capabilities - and Dom sure wasn't waxing poetics when he called his point man the best in the business. When the shit hits the fan and they become the best of friends, Arthur responds by taking out as many as the projections as he can with an eerie calm and masterful skill.
When Eames hits the ground with a curse and a seven-inch carving knife in his stomach, Arthur turns around with mesmerizing grace - and cooly shoots him in the head.
IV.
"Oh," Eames murmurs, as the gun in his hand gives a sad, small little click. "Oh, bloody hell."
The last thing that crosses his mind is the brief wonder of how such an anal-retentive, clean-cut, well put together man like Arthur has a subconscious that is this messed up (there are men coming out of the ceilings with bloody chainsaws - yes, it's messed up), this lethal, this unpredictable, and so fucking scary.
V.
Oh, this is bloody fantastic.
Eames glares at the locked door to the mark's safe, at the five inch thick glass wall that makes him feel oddly like a rat in an observation cage, and at the yellow smoke starting to seep in through the vents in the ceiling. Of course he would have to get caught in the faux safe with the triggered alarm system while Cobb wanders into the real one. Sometimes, being a forger is still entails being used as cannon fodder just as much as in the beginning, when he first started to play the game.
His mind is getting fuzzy now, and his legs buckle, sending the forger slumping gracelessly to the floor. Gassed to death, he thinks idly, contemplatively. Well, that's a new one.
"Eames!" Bang. Bang. "Eames!"
His heavy eyelids lift momentarily, and to his surprise, he sees Arthur on the other side of the glass wall, banging on the barrier with his fist. The normally unflappable and polished point man looks a mess - his tie is loose, suit askew, hair windswept and falling over his face - and through the pain of the invisible fist starting to clench its fingers around his lungs, the forger grins, because it's the messiest he's ever seen Arthur - and just like Eames suspected, he's still as beautiful as ever.
With his last choked breath, he tries to speak but can't, and Arthur's horrified eyes follow him into the dark.
- * - * -
Arthur stares mutely at him for a moment after Eames pulls the IV needle out of his wrist and takes deep breaths of sweet, clean air. The point man's face is neither annoyed nor frustrated, which seem to be the default settings in relation to Eames, and Arthur opens his mouth as if to say something, but turns away just as swiftly, ripping the line out of his own arm.
"Oh for Christ sake," Eames mutters under his breath, and finally decides that enough is bloody well enough.
Later, as he nurses his swollen jaw, Eames thinks back to the moment he grabbed Arthur's arm, felt the biceps flex under his fingers, and crushed their lips together - and smiles, because it was worth it.
I.
Arthur's suit is turning red. It's the nice Armani one too, the one the point man wore to their first dinner together. The dry cleaners are never going to get the stains out, and Eames is sorry for that. He tries to tell Arthur so, but a cough rattles his chest and his lungs make a wet sucking sound, like a suction tube. Or like a man who's drowning in his own blood.
"Don't try to speak, you idiot," Arthur snaps harshly from above him, and Eames tilts his head back against the other man's arm, staring blearily up into Arthur's face - at the deep frown, at the tightness around his mouth, at flash of anger in his eyes and if not for the barely noticeable tremble of his lips, Eames would have thought Arthur was angry at him. "Stop trying to talk. Save your breath."
He's sorry for a lot of things, Eames realizes suddenly, abruptly, like a dizzying epiphany. All the silly, stupid things he's done for so long - like hogging the covers at night. Arthur never likes sleeping without any covers. Or...or like buying ice cream and gleefully eating it right in front of Arthur when they both know he's lactose intolerant. That was mean. Or like that time he scared the poor girl at the coffee shop out of her wits because she winked at Arthur when handing over his drink and Eames didn't like it one little bit. Or...or...
A drop of something lands on his shirt, and with a start, Eames realizes that Arthur's crying. And suddenly he hates himself, hates that he's making Arthur cry, hates that this is reality and there's nothing to wake up to after this, hates that Arthur's kneeling in some godforsaken back alleyway and most likely dirtying his perfectly pressed trousers as well, hates that there are some boys stupid enough in the world to really go around with switchblades and kitchen knives, hates that his sharp tongue and big mouth make for really bad combinations that result in instances like this.
He hates that he's dying, and can't do a damn thing about it. But he doesn't want Arthur to worry, because...because...well, just because.
"Eames." Arthur's shaking him now, and there's a touch of panic in his voice. "Eames!"
"Don't worry," he manages to whisper, although he's getting colder now (and that is a worrying thought indeed), and wants nothing more than to cling to Arthur with all his remaining strength. He tries to grin and it must be a gruesome sight, because he can feel the blood filling his mouth and Arthur flinches. Eames feels the flinch more than he sees it, feels it in Arthur's fingers that are pressed against the wound that's still sluggishly seeping blood. "I'll see you on the flip side, love."
He reaches up to gently brush a tear away from Arthur's face, and his fingers - red from clutching at the ragged stab wound in his side - never make it.
Character/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, Mal/Cobb
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: Character death (kind of)
Author's Notes: Written to fulfill the prompt "blood loss" for hc_bingo and for the prompt on inception_kink : "Five times Eames died in a dream, and one time he died in reality."
I.
They say the first time is like flying. Some New Age touchy-feely philosophy about the soul separating from the body as the mind embraces death for one brief, blinding moment before consciousness. They say it's the ultimate freedom, peace and liberation like no other feeling in the world, waking or sleeping. They say it's like the best orgasm, the most uninhibited high - a taste of Heaven.
And guess what? They're all a bunch of bloody idiots.
The first time Eames dies, the only thing he tastes is plaster and concrete because a fucking roof decides to cave in on top of him.
He's certainly not the best in the business (yet); he's straight off the streets as a pickpocket and a con man, testing the waters and trying his luck in the new game everyone's been talking about, subconscious security. He's given a gun and told to do his job. Which is, basically, stand there and be human roadblocks, because he's expendable. Cannon fodder.
He's a bit disappointed, to be honest. Like any boy with delusions of grandeur he always wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, preferably with a gorgeous piece of eye candy on his arm to be the Bonnie to his Clyde. Instead he gets crushed to death and skewered by the massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling of the opera house.
Lovely.
- * - * -
It takes Eames a week to stop wincing at the sight of the chandelier in the lobby of his hotel.
II.
The Cobbs are fast rising stars in the trade: Dominic, the hawk-eyed extractor with an eidetic memory and more successes than any other and his wife Mal, a multi-talented beauty who can forge, build, and remain effortlessly flawless while doing so. Eames himself is rapidly ascending the ladder with a reputation as the man who can literally become anything (for a price), but it's still a surprise when he gets a call from the Cobbs requesting his assistance on a job.
Of course, he says yes.
It's a simple enough plan: get in, get out, get gone. Eames's part is already done - posing as the mark's groom-to-be and shamelessly informing her he'd been sleeping with her best friend for the past four months (She was a tiny little thing, five foot two at most, but she had one hell of an arm. He considers asking her out for a coffee after the job, if just to help soothe the angry red hurt of such a betrayal.) and he's leaning casually against the brick exterior of the nearby school building, cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes sweeping casually over the dreamscape.
Dom is sitting on a bench at the playground, talking softly to their mark, comforting her and quite possibly flirting just a bit as well in order to get the information they need. Mal's doing a nice job of acting the part of a mother with her newborn in a stroller, sitting on the other bench a little ways away.
As it turns out, their mark actually used to be an army brat, and has a mind more militarized than Dom expected, because as Eames casually flicks ash away from his fingers, he suddenly sees a small red roving dot hover, then settle dead in the center of Mal's forehead. And truly, it's none of his business, he tells himself, because his part is already done - but Mal is a lady and for all his flirting and suave charmer front, Eames was brought up to always give a woman the respect and honor she's due - and he's already racing over from his post before he can tell himself not to, fingers reaching for the gun tucked into the back of his pants, mouth opening to yell a warning.
"DOWN!"
The bullet ricochets off the park bench and Eames slings his arm around Mal's shoulders, literally flinging her to the rough asphalt and covers her slender frame with his, and may or may not have accidentally put his hands somewhere he really shouldn't. There's no time for an apology though, because the mark is screaming, Dom is busy shielding her from her own subconscious as bullets slice through the air, and -
-and with a sharp pain to the temple, everything fades to black.
- * - * -
When the Cobbs wake up, Eames braces himself for a tongue lashing at the very best and a sharp slap to the face from the formidable Mrs. Cobb (to add to the bruise he can already feel forming on his jaw, the result of their mark's fierce but fully justified temper), but Mal simply smiles and shakes her head fondly, if a little exasperatedly. "Men. Always think that the lady needs protecting. First Arthur, now you." She rolls her eyes good-naturedly and mutters something in French.
"Arthur?" Eames asks quizzically, out of the need to say something after her mini-rant, and Mal smiles, bright and beautiful, her eyes filled with mirth.
"Our point man," she tells him, something warm and affectionate filling her tone, not unlike a proud mother at her son's graduation. "He couldn't take the job today, but he'll be around for the next one." She sneaks a look over at her husband, who's currently packing up the PASIV in its metal briefcase, and pats Eames on the arm with a smile. "I'll introduce you to him."
III.
Arthur is impeccably dressed, standing tall at Dom's right hand like he wasn't made to stand anywhere else, a stone statue dressed in a sinfully tight black pinstriped suit with slicked back hair, features arranged into a poker face unreadable even to Eames, who has been reading the tells of countless strangers and friends alike for years. He's incredibly young, almost scarily good at what he does, and bloody gorgeous.
He also, Eames learns in a very short amount of time, has one very large stick up his arse.
"Come now darling," he practically purrs, the pet name rolling of his tongue like water off a duck's back. "Live a little, yeah? What's one glass of champagne as we wait for Mr. Brown to show? All work and no play makes Arthur one very dull boy."
Arthur raises an eyebrow and easily ducks away from the hand Eames extends to ruffle his hair and shoots him a cool, unimpressed look. "Are you always this unprofessional on the job?"
He's really not (and even though he'll never admit it to anyone but himself, that accusation stings just a bit), but being around the prim and proper point man suddenly makes Eames more mischievous than a five year old boy concocting plans to mercilessly torment the pretty little girl who sits beside him in school (except Arthur doesn't have any pigtails to pull, so that's out). He wants to push, because that's what he's good at, wants to see what's behind that suit Arthur wears like armor, wants to see if he can get the other man to smile every once in a blue moon, wants to see if Arthur even knows how to smile and if he has dimples.
Sadly, Eames doesn't get to discover the answers to any of his questions or wonderings, but he does get a very good show of Arthur's capabilities - and Dom sure wasn't waxing poetics when he called his point man the best in the business. When the shit hits the fan and they become the best of friends, Arthur responds by taking out as many as the projections as he can with an eerie calm and masterful skill.
When Eames hits the ground with a curse and a seven-inch carving knife in his stomach, Arthur turns around with mesmerizing grace - and cooly shoots him in the head.
IV.
"Oh," Eames murmurs, as the gun in his hand gives a sad, small little click. "Oh, bloody hell."
The last thing that crosses his mind is the brief wonder of how such an anal-retentive, clean-cut, well put together man like Arthur has a subconscious that is this messed up (there are men coming out of the ceilings with bloody chainsaws - yes, it's messed up), this lethal, this unpredictable, and so fucking scary.
V.
Oh, this is bloody fantastic.
Eames glares at the locked door to the mark's safe, at the five inch thick glass wall that makes him feel oddly like a rat in an observation cage, and at the yellow smoke starting to seep in through the vents in the ceiling. Of course he would have to get caught in the faux safe with the triggered alarm system while Cobb wanders into the real one. Sometimes, being a forger is still entails being used as cannon fodder just as much as in the beginning, when he first started to play the game.
His mind is getting fuzzy now, and his legs buckle, sending the forger slumping gracelessly to the floor. Gassed to death, he thinks idly, contemplatively. Well, that's a new one.
"Eames!" Bang. Bang. "Eames!"
His heavy eyelids lift momentarily, and to his surprise, he sees Arthur on the other side of the glass wall, banging on the barrier with his fist. The normally unflappable and polished point man looks a mess - his tie is loose, suit askew, hair windswept and falling over his face - and through the pain of the invisible fist starting to clench its fingers around his lungs, the forger grins, because it's the messiest he's ever seen Arthur - and just like Eames suspected, he's still as beautiful as ever.
With his last choked breath, he tries to speak but can't, and Arthur's horrified eyes follow him into the dark.
- * - * -
Arthur stares mutely at him for a moment after Eames pulls the IV needle out of his wrist and takes deep breaths of sweet, clean air. The point man's face is neither annoyed nor frustrated, which seem to be the default settings in relation to Eames, and Arthur opens his mouth as if to say something, but turns away just as swiftly, ripping the line out of his own arm.
"Oh for Christ sake," Eames mutters under his breath, and finally decides that enough is bloody well enough.
Later, as he nurses his swollen jaw, Eames thinks back to the moment he grabbed Arthur's arm, felt the biceps flex under his fingers, and crushed their lips together - and smiles, because it was worth it.
I.
Arthur's suit is turning red. It's the nice Armani one too, the one the point man wore to their first dinner together. The dry cleaners are never going to get the stains out, and Eames is sorry for that. He tries to tell Arthur so, but a cough rattles his chest and his lungs make a wet sucking sound, like a suction tube. Or like a man who's drowning in his own blood.
"Don't try to speak, you idiot," Arthur snaps harshly from above him, and Eames tilts his head back against the other man's arm, staring blearily up into Arthur's face - at the deep frown, at the tightness around his mouth, at flash of anger in his eyes and if not for the barely noticeable tremble of his lips, Eames would have thought Arthur was angry at him. "Stop trying to talk. Save your breath."
He's sorry for a lot of things, Eames realizes suddenly, abruptly, like a dizzying epiphany. All the silly, stupid things he's done for so long - like hogging the covers at night. Arthur never likes sleeping without any covers. Or...or like buying ice cream and gleefully eating it right in front of Arthur when they both know he's lactose intolerant. That was mean. Or like that time he scared the poor girl at the coffee shop out of her wits because she winked at Arthur when handing over his drink and Eames didn't like it one little bit. Or...or...
A drop of something lands on his shirt, and with a start, Eames realizes that Arthur's crying. And suddenly he hates himself, hates that he's making Arthur cry, hates that this is reality and there's nothing to wake up to after this, hates that Arthur's kneeling in some godforsaken back alleyway and most likely dirtying his perfectly pressed trousers as well, hates that there are some boys stupid enough in the world to really go around with switchblades and kitchen knives, hates that his sharp tongue and big mouth make for really bad combinations that result in instances like this.
He hates that he's dying, and can't do a damn thing about it. But he doesn't want Arthur to worry, because...because...well, just because.
"Eames." Arthur's shaking him now, and there's a touch of panic in his voice. "Eames!"
"Don't worry," he manages to whisper, although he's getting colder now (and that is a worrying thought indeed), and wants nothing more than to cling to Arthur with all his remaining strength. He tries to grin and it must be a gruesome sight, because he can feel the blood filling his mouth and Arthur flinches. Eames feels the flinch more than he sees it, feels it in Arthur's fingers that are pressed against the wound that's still sluggishly seeping blood. "I'll see you on the flip side, love."
He reaches up to gently brush a tear away from Arthur's face, and his fingers - red from clutching at the ragged stab wound in his side - never make it.