Fic: Oh my Magenta [Inception]
Title: Oh my Magenta
Character/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, Phillipa (mentions of Cobb, Ariadne, Saito)
Rating: PG (for language)
Word Count: 1,918
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: Fluff. YES, THAT'S RIGHT. I wrote FLUFF.
Summary: "Pink," is all he can manage as a wide grin spreads across his face. "Bright pink."
Author's Notes: Written for the prompt on inception_kink : "Cobb has the team over for dinner of something, and Arthur lets Phillipa paint his nails BRIGHT PINK and of course, it gets everywhere."
By profession, Eames is a forger, a liar, a thief. But by nature, he's a charmer.
They say that pure talent is discovering yourself, and then revealing your find to the world, but Eames does one better: he's a chameleon, a mirror, a projection who can slip in and out of guises with the greatest of ease, reflecting the desires of the hearts of many a man or woman. Silver tongue, pearl teeth, suave accent (he can fake twenty-five different ones, the part where he really is British is merely a bonus) - he's a sweet talking Casanova, a scruffy outlaw with a roguish grin and quick fingers, James Bond sans the fancy gadgets - all depending on the job, the mark, the necessity.
It's who he is, and has always been; whether it was trying to talk the authorities out of jailing his mum on grounds of whatever she'd done ("she's a bit touched in the head, officers; please, just let me take her home") or talking his way out of a wet paper bag, he always has a clever quip or a smooth retort. There are times when merely a small pout or jaunty wink will do, but what's the fun in that? Few are the number of people who can match Eames in wit and speech (a certain poncy point man comes to mind), and fewer still are those who know how to shut him up, either with their fists, a well-timed barb, or other means (such as the magnificent view presented by a marvelous pinstripe-clad arse).
Right now though, Eames is, for the first time in a very long time, speechless. He crosses his arms over his chest, leans against the doorjamb, and stares.
The room is a dull, muted shade of lilac purple, a color both comforting and lovely; the furnishings are neither lavish nor sparse, consisting of the adequate fittings for a young girl plus a few extra knick-knacks here and there. That in and of itself it not the strange sight, for Eames has seen this room many times since a year ago, after the successful inception (word is, Robert Fischer is making headway in a business of his own, something that has nothing to do energy. Arthur keeps tabs on the former Fischer heir, because no matter how distant he tries to present himself as, Eames knows the point man has a much bigger heart than he likes to let on.) and Cobb's joyful reunion with his children. It's been a year since he'd escaped the wrath of Cobb's little girl (with a rather nasty bruise on his shin) and became her Uncle Eames, since he finally plucked up the courage to, after close to a decade of wishing and wanting and waiting from afar, make Arthur his darling.
Phillipa sits in the middle of the room, very much a queen in her own domain, head bent studiously over her task, cornsilk hair spilling over her shoulders and framing her face. Her tongue peeks out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrates as only a little girl can, gripping the tiny brush in her small fingers and painstakingly moving it back and forth, back and forth on its canvas. Aforementioned poncy point man cum darling sits cross legged in front of her on the rug, smiling fondly at the top of the little girl's bowed head as he watches her at her task, a soft upturning of his lips that never fails to melt something inside Eames' chest.
He shouldn't be surprised, really. He's seen Arthur interact with Cobb's children, seen how they climb on top of and all over their Uncle Arthur, how fiercely Arthur loves little James and Phillipa, as if they are his own. But still, as Eames stands there and watches Phillipa carefully dip the tiny brush back into the bottle of bright color, withdraw it once again and apply the polish to Arthur's nails, the only thing that escapes from his throat is a half-strangled, half-chuckle sound.
"Pink," is all he can manage as a wide grin spreads across his face. "Bright pink."
It's actually a bit of magenta, Eames thinks, but before he can amend his former statement to say as much, Phillipa looks up and her face brightens, literally brightens like a sunflower raising its head toward the sun, and Eames remembers then just how much he's come to love this little girl himself, not just because Arthur does or because she was the one who (literally) kicked some sense into him.
(Or somehow manages to, beyond all belief, convince Arthur to sit cross-legged on a Sleeping Beauty rug as she applies Oh my Magenta polish on his nails.)
"Uncle Eames!" she squeals and jumps up, arms spread wide for a hug, forgetting her task. Eames obliges by getting down on one knee, ready to catch the little whirlwind of bright, laughing eyes and skinny arms and legs. As Phillipa moves though, the edge of her flailing hand catches the tiny bottle of polish, and sends it flying.
Oh, hell.
Arthur catches the tiny bottle smoothly in his nimble, pink-tipped fingers - but of course, despite all his skill and prowess at defying gravity and all the rules of physics in a world of dreams, sadly, the rules of the real world still apply whether dealing with apples falling from a tree or an upended open bottle of nail polish. Some of the varnish ends up on the rug, some splatters against the bedpost, but most of it splashes on Arthur's charcoal suit jacket and waistcoat.
Phillipa gasps, goes still in Eames' embrace, eyes going wide. And then, she starts to cry.
Oh, bloody hell.
Eames doesn't know how to deal with crying children. And it's not because he dislikes children, on the contrary; it's just that he has no idea how to stem the flow of tears once they've started, and as he awkwardly starts to pat Phillipa's back, he inwardly panics.
Luckily though, Arthur, the clever man that he is, takes over by plucking Phillipa out of the forger's hold, drawing her into a hug of his own. "Shh," he murmurs against her hair, and then pulls back and traces the pads of his thumbs under her eyes, wiping away her tears. "It's okay, Phillipa. Don't cry."
"B-but..." the little girl sniffs, looking absolutely devastated. "But I ruined your fancy clothes, Uncle Arthur."
"It's alright. It's just a suit."
Eames gapes, because he remembers the incident a long time ago when, on a job, he had the terrible misfortune of spilling coffee all down the front of Arthur's suit. It'd actually been Cobb's fault, really; if the extractor hadn't left the PASIV lying around where half-asleep forgers bearing coffee could accidently trip over them and knock into unsuspecting point men, then Arthur wouldn't have felt the need to empty his entire clip into Eames' face when they finally went under.
(It'd been their fifth job together. Eames responded by sending Arthur another suit, perfectly tailored to the point man's slim form. Arthur had worn it on their next job together, six months later.)
Just a suit? he mouthes over Phillipa's head, and Arthur raises an eyebrow in reply, a slight twitch of the facial muscles that could stand for anything from so, what of it? to I know how to kill you and hide all the evidence, so kindly shut up while I deal with my crying niece.
"Now," Arthur says kindly, fingers moving to the buttons on his jacket, "let me take these off so that-"
"No, Uncle Arthur!!" Phillipa cuts in, batting his hands away. "It isn't dry yet. You'll ruin your pretty nails!"
Eames bites the inside of his cheek, schooling his features into perfect neutrality. "Well, I can help then, yeah?" Phillipa bobs her head in a nod of agreement and steps aside to allow him space as Eames steps in close. Arthur's left eye twitches and he tries to take a step back, but Eames catches him by the hips and pulls him back in, finally allowing himself a tiny grin. Normally, he would feel a bit odd at divesting Arthur of his clothing in the bedroom of a little girl, but as of right now, the awkwardness of the situation is the furthest thing from his mind as he carefully unbuttons and slips the suit jacket from Arthur's shoulders.
Arthur's cheeks are tinged pink; he's keeping the scowl away from his face for the sake of Phillipa, who still stands beside them, holding one of his hands and inspecting her handiwork with a look that Eames has seen on Cobb's face before - knit brow and pursed lips and narrowed eyes, but the point man's eyes are flashing a warning. "Not a word, Eames," he says sternly, pointing one lacquered fingernail at the forger.
Eames smirks. "Of course not," he acquiesces softly in reply, teasingly, and then grabs Arthur's hand before he can retract it, bending his head to kiss the back of his hand. "My pretty darling."
Arthur flushes an even deeper red and Eames winks at Phillipa, who giggles behind her hand.
- - - - -
Later that evening, at dinner, Cobb does a double take so fast that Eames hears the loud crack in his neck as the extractor stares first at his former point man's fingers curled around the silverware, then to Arthur's face, and then back to the nails, bright pink and sparkling underneath the overhead light. Ariadne takes one look and bursts out laughing ("I have that color!") and Saito merely raises an eyebrow, commenting as to how the shade is rather fetching, and compliments the point man's elegant hands.
Arthur colors in response to all the attention but can only smile as Phillipa begins to prattle on excitedly about how she needed someone else to practice upon, how she finally made the difficult choice between Passion Peach, Crimson Ardor, and Oh my Magenta, and how her Uncle Arthur has the prettiest hands in the world, maybe even prettier than Miss Morgan, her teacher at school.
Later still, as Arthur lies curled up against him beneath the sheets, Eames stares at Arthur's hands, at the fingers intertwined with his own slightly crooked ones. They're scrubbed red and a bit raw, given that Arthur had stoutly refused to take the nail polish off before leaving the Cobb residence for Phillipa's sake (and Eames understands, truly; to deny those large, earnest brown eyes would be a feat impossible for a mere man), only for the two of them to arrive home and discover the absence of nail polish remover in their residence.
His own knuckles are bumpy; his palms calloused, the mark of having his hands smashed to putty not once but twice before. His hands are crude and scarred, bearing the evidence of bar brawls, of a lifetime of living on the run, of stealing and never giving back.
Beside him, Arthur stirs and frowns slightly, nuzzling in closer to his chest. "Go to sleep, Eames," he mumbles, breath gusting lightly over Eames' skin. A lock of hair falls over his forehead and he looks so young, so vulnerable, so impossibly innocent although Eames knows that such a thought has led to the death of many a man before.
He smiles, presses a kiss to the back of Arthur's hand - those beautiful, elegant hands of an artist (of whose craft just so happens to be death) - and does so.
* - * - *
A/N: What. What is this. *flails* I wrote fluff. O__O
Character/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, Phillipa (mentions of Cobb, Ariadne, Saito)
Rating: PG (for language)
Word Count: 1,918
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: Fluff. YES, THAT'S RIGHT. I wrote FLUFF.
Summary: "Pink," is all he can manage as a wide grin spreads across his face. "Bright pink."
Author's Notes: Written for the prompt on inception_kink : "Cobb has the team over for dinner of something, and Arthur lets Phillipa paint his nails BRIGHT PINK and of course, it gets everywhere."
By profession, Eames is a forger, a liar, a thief. But by nature, he's a charmer.
They say that pure talent is discovering yourself, and then revealing your find to the world, but Eames does one better: he's a chameleon, a mirror, a projection who can slip in and out of guises with the greatest of ease, reflecting the desires of the hearts of many a man or woman. Silver tongue, pearl teeth, suave accent (he can fake twenty-five different ones, the part where he really is British is merely a bonus) - he's a sweet talking Casanova, a scruffy outlaw with a roguish grin and quick fingers, James Bond sans the fancy gadgets - all depending on the job, the mark, the necessity.
It's who he is, and has always been; whether it was trying to talk the authorities out of jailing his mum on grounds of whatever she'd done ("she's a bit touched in the head, officers; please, just let me take her home") or talking his way out of a wet paper bag, he always has a clever quip or a smooth retort. There are times when merely a small pout or jaunty wink will do, but what's the fun in that? Few are the number of people who can match Eames in wit and speech (a certain poncy point man comes to mind), and fewer still are those who know how to shut him up, either with their fists, a well-timed barb, or other means (such as the magnificent view presented by a marvelous pinstripe-clad arse).
Right now though, Eames is, for the first time in a very long time, speechless. He crosses his arms over his chest, leans against the doorjamb, and stares.
The room is a dull, muted shade of lilac purple, a color both comforting and lovely; the furnishings are neither lavish nor sparse, consisting of the adequate fittings for a young girl plus a few extra knick-knacks here and there. That in and of itself it not the strange sight, for Eames has seen this room many times since a year ago, after the successful inception (word is, Robert Fischer is making headway in a business of his own, something that has nothing to do energy. Arthur keeps tabs on the former Fischer heir, because no matter how distant he tries to present himself as, Eames knows the point man has a much bigger heart than he likes to let on.) and Cobb's joyful reunion with his children. It's been a year since he'd escaped the wrath of Cobb's little girl (with a rather nasty bruise on his shin) and became her Uncle Eames, since he finally plucked up the courage to, after close to a decade of wishing and wanting and waiting from afar, make Arthur his darling.
Phillipa sits in the middle of the room, very much a queen in her own domain, head bent studiously over her task, cornsilk hair spilling over her shoulders and framing her face. Her tongue peeks out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrates as only a little girl can, gripping the tiny brush in her small fingers and painstakingly moving it back and forth, back and forth on its canvas. Aforementioned poncy point man cum darling sits cross legged in front of her on the rug, smiling fondly at the top of the little girl's bowed head as he watches her at her task, a soft upturning of his lips that never fails to melt something inside Eames' chest.
He shouldn't be surprised, really. He's seen Arthur interact with Cobb's children, seen how they climb on top of and all over their Uncle Arthur, how fiercely Arthur loves little James and Phillipa, as if they are his own. But still, as Eames stands there and watches Phillipa carefully dip the tiny brush back into the bottle of bright color, withdraw it once again and apply the polish to Arthur's nails, the only thing that escapes from his throat is a half-strangled, half-chuckle sound.
"Pink," is all he can manage as a wide grin spreads across his face. "Bright pink."
It's actually a bit of magenta, Eames thinks, but before he can amend his former statement to say as much, Phillipa looks up and her face brightens, literally brightens like a sunflower raising its head toward the sun, and Eames remembers then just how much he's come to love this little girl himself, not just because Arthur does or because she was the one who (literally) kicked some sense into him.
(Or somehow manages to, beyond all belief, convince Arthur to sit cross-legged on a Sleeping Beauty rug as she applies Oh my Magenta polish on his nails.)
"Uncle Eames!" she squeals and jumps up, arms spread wide for a hug, forgetting her task. Eames obliges by getting down on one knee, ready to catch the little whirlwind of bright, laughing eyes and skinny arms and legs. As Phillipa moves though, the edge of her flailing hand catches the tiny bottle of polish, and sends it flying.
Oh, hell.
Arthur catches the tiny bottle smoothly in his nimble, pink-tipped fingers - but of course, despite all his skill and prowess at defying gravity and all the rules of physics in a world of dreams, sadly, the rules of the real world still apply whether dealing with apples falling from a tree or an upended open bottle of nail polish. Some of the varnish ends up on the rug, some splatters against the bedpost, but most of it splashes on Arthur's charcoal suit jacket and waistcoat.
Phillipa gasps, goes still in Eames' embrace, eyes going wide. And then, she starts to cry.
Oh, bloody hell.
Eames doesn't know how to deal with crying children. And it's not because he dislikes children, on the contrary; it's just that he has no idea how to stem the flow of tears once they've started, and as he awkwardly starts to pat Phillipa's back, he inwardly panics.
Luckily though, Arthur, the clever man that he is, takes over by plucking Phillipa out of the forger's hold, drawing her into a hug of his own. "Shh," he murmurs against her hair, and then pulls back and traces the pads of his thumbs under her eyes, wiping away her tears. "It's okay, Phillipa. Don't cry."
"B-but..." the little girl sniffs, looking absolutely devastated. "But I ruined your fancy clothes, Uncle Arthur."
"It's alright. It's just a suit."
Eames gapes, because he remembers the incident a long time ago when, on a job, he had the terrible misfortune of spilling coffee all down the front of Arthur's suit. It'd actually been Cobb's fault, really; if the extractor hadn't left the PASIV lying around where half-asleep forgers bearing coffee could accidently trip over them and knock into unsuspecting point men, then Arthur wouldn't have felt the need to empty his entire clip into Eames' face when they finally went under.
(It'd been their fifth job together. Eames responded by sending Arthur another suit, perfectly tailored to the point man's slim form. Arthur had worn it on their next job together, six months later.)
Just a suit? he mouthes over Phillipa's head, and Arthur raises an eyebrow in reply, a slight twitch of the facial muscles that could stand for anything from so, what of it? to I know how to kill you and hide all the evidence, so kindly shut up while I deal with my crying niece.
"Now," Arthur says kindly, fingers moving to the buttons on his jacket, "let me take these off so that-"
"No, Uncle Arthur!!" Phillipa cuts in, batting his hands away. "It isn't dry yet. You'll ruin your pretty nails!"
Eames bites the inside of his cheek, schooling his features into perfect neutrality. "Well, I can help then, yeah?" Phillipa bobs her head in a nod of agreement and steps aside to allow him space as Eames steps in close. Arthur's left eye twitches and he tries to take a step back, but Eames catches him by the hips and pulls him back in, finally allowing himself a tiny grin. Normally, he would feel a bit odd at divesting Arthur of his clothing in the bedroom of a little girl, but as of right now, the awkwardness of the situation is the furthest thing from his mind as he carefully unbuttons and slips the suit jacket from Arthur's shoulders.
Arthur's cheeks are tinged pink; he's keeping the scowl away from his face for the sake of Phillipa, who still stands beside them, holding one of his hands and inspecting her handiwork with a look that Eames has seen on Cobb's face before - knit brow and pursed lips and narrowed eyes, but the point man's eyes are flashing a warning. "Not a word, Eames," he says sternly, pointing one lacquered fingernail at the forger.
Eames smirks. "Of course not," he acquiesces softly in reply, teasingly, and then grabs Arthur's hand before he can retract it, bending his head to kiss the back of his hand. "My pretty darling."
Arthur flushes an even deeper red and Eames winks at Phillipa, who giggles behind her hand.
- - - - -
Later that evening, at dinner, Cobb does a double take so fast that Eames hears the loud crack in his neck as the extractor stares first at his former point man's fingers curled around the silverware, then to Arthur's face, and then back to the nails, bright pink and sparkling underneath the overhead light. Ariadne takes one look and bursts out laughing ("I have that color!") and Saito merely raises an eyebrow, commenting as to how the shade is rather fetching, and compliments the point man's elegant hands.
Arthur colors in response to all the attention but can only smile as Phillipa begins to prattle on excitedly about how she needed someone else to practice upon, how she finally made the difficult choice between Passion Peach, Crimson Ardor, and Oh my Magenta, and how her Uncle Arthur has the prettiest hands in the world, maybe even prettier than Miss Morgan, her teacher at school.
Later still, as Arthur lies curled up against him beneath the sheets, Eames stares at Arthur's hands, at the fingers intertwined with his own slightly crooked ones. They're scrubbed red and a bit raw, given that Arthur had stoutly refused to take the nail polish off before leaving the Cobb residence for Phillipa's sake (and Eames understands, truly; to deny those large, earnest brown eyes would be a feat impossible for a mere man), only for the two of them to arrive home and discover the absence of nail polish remover in their residence.
His own knuckles are bumpy; his palms calloused, the mark of having his hands smashed to putty not once but twice before. His hands are crude and scarred, bearing the evidence of bar brawls, of a lifetime of living on the run, of stealing and never giving back.
Beside him, Arthur stirs and frowns slightly, nuzzling in closer to his chest. "Go to sleep, Eames," he mumbles, breath gusting lightly over Eames' skin. A lock of hair falls over his forehead and he looks so young, so vulnerable, so impossibly innocent although Eames knows that such a thought has led to the death of many a man before.
He smiles, presses a kiss to the back of Arthur's hand - those beautiful, elegant hands of an artist (of whose craft just so happens to be death) - and does so.
* - * - *
A/N: What. What is this. *flails* I wrote fluff. O__O