Happy Christmas Dahling.
Title: Creativity
Rating: PG-13 (Sorry Meo, you know I can't write smut. :P)
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Gift for: raapsteeltje
Beta'd by: rocketgirl2
“Where’s Cobb?” Arthur’s footsteps echoed in the warehouse as he stepped through the large, steel doors.
Eames rolled his eyes without any real malice. “He took his kids to Disneyland,” he said. “He’s trying to work off some of his ‘absent parent guilt’.”
“And where’s Ariadne?” Arthur asked.
Eames grinned wickedly. “She went with him. Something about never getting the chance as a child.”
Arthur held in his sigh, straightening himself as he faced Eames. “So... What do we do then?”
“Well, Cobb left a note,” Eames answered, waving the piece of paper in front of Arthur’s face.
Arthur snatched it from his hands.
Arthur: Go over the plan with Eames. It’s his job we were working on anyways. -Cobb
And then, scribbled as an afterthought:
Try to be nice. Please.
“Is that meant for you or for me?” Arthur asked. Now that Cobb was back in parent mode he was less “ruthless, reckless thief” and more “kind-hearted peace maker”. Arthur wasn’t sure how to deal with it. While technically it may have been better, he wasn’t sure he liked being told to “be nice” as if he was some unruly toddler with a penchant for hogging the best toys.
Eames shrugged, his eyes flicking from the note to Arthur’s face. “Both, I suppose. So what’s this job?”
Arthur motioned to the chairs. “First, into the dream.”
“Mysterious,” Eames said with a wink- only to be disappointed by a stony look from his coworker, who ignored him in favour of setting up the equipment.
They settled themselves into chairs-- not lawn chairs this time; real, government-issue chairs, with cushions and everything.
“See you on the other side,” Eames said.
****
“Right. So the scenery is yours and the projections are mine, right?” Arthur said as they walked through the streets of a city that strongly resembled New York.
“Yes, Arthur,” Eames drawled, “this isn’t my first time.”
The edge of Arthur’s mouth tugged upwards in what couldn’t quite be labelled as a smile. “Right. So the more you change something, the more my projections will become aware of you? And this is especially problematic in minds that have security?”
Eames nodded impatiently, waving his hand to tell Arthur to move on.
“Okay, I had this theory. What if we, as invaders, take on the personas of people the target would project?”
“You mean become someone they’d dream about?” Eames asked.
“Yes,” Arthur said.
“But we’ve done that. I mean, I’ve done that.”
“That’s where I got the idea-”
“So I’m inspiring, am I?” Eames asked with an impish grin.
A faint tint of pink bloomed on Arthur’s cheeks. “The mission gave me the idea. Those projections fought us, yes, but I would have been willing to bet that you, had you been alone, would not have been noticed. And it becomes even more effective if we can emulate the dreams that person would be having. For instance, a man often dreams of beautiful women, but even better would be a specific beautiful woman, say, the secretary he’s been lusting after. Or maybe he would dream about his wife, but it’s not just about taking his wife’s personality and acting it out. If he suspects his wife is cheating on him, we give him a dream where is wife is cheating on him. We look at his subconscious and we predict what it would naturally dream about.”
Eames did his best not to look impressed. “So we distract his mind and his projections with something his mind would come up with on its own. We create a scenario he would dream about and insert into it the question we want answered. There’s a greater chance of success because even secure minds could be tricked into believing that it is not an extraction but a natural dream.”
“Exactly. Which is where you come in. We all have our talents-”
“And your talent would be?” Eames interrupted.
Arthur gave him a withering look and continued without answering: “Yours is the uncanny ability to take on different forms in dreams. So we need you to teach us. Or, well, me.”
Eames grinned from ear to ear. “So you’re asking for my help.”
“The team-”
“You’re asking for my help.”
Arthur’s fists tightened at his sides. “Yes.”
“Of course I’ll help. Relax, Arthur,” Eames said, with a smile that did not relax Arthur in the slightest.
***
“The key,” Eames said, standing behind Arthur and putting his palm under the back of Arthur’s hand, “is imagining. It’s like building in dreams. You have to imagine what it would feel like to be the body you’re transforming into. You have to imagine the difference in height. You have to be able to imagine what it would like to smell a certain way, to have breasts, to be able to run faster or jump farther. It’s like dreams where you can fly.”
“I never had flying dreams,” Arthur confessed.
Eames looked at him, surprised. “Of course you haven’t,” he remarked dryly, “You have the creative power of a rock. You probably dream about filing or researching or whatever it is that you do.” Arthur elbowed him lightly in retaliation, and Eames grunted and let out a huff of a laugh. “But you can start small, with the hands. Imagine them wider, and longer. Imagine what it would feel like to have more flesh.”
Eames could hear Arthur’s breathing, see his chest moving. His own pulse hammered in his ears. A few bystanders were starting to look at him suspiciously. “Try.”
Arthur closed his eyes (Eames could feel it, rather than see it; he could sense the way Arthur’s long lashes brushing against his cheek and his face muscles relax and his skin smooth-- dreams were odd that way) and exhaled slowly.
Nothing happened.
Cars sped by on the road and Eames stepped back to lean against the brick wall of an aging apartment building.
“Try again.”
Arthur scrunched up his face, his nose wrinkling. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding.
Nothing happened.
“Again,” Eames said, “Feel what having someone else’s hands would be like.”
This went on for an hour. And every time Arthur failed, the passing citizens looked more and more hostile, glancing at Eames with pursed lips and disapproving frowns.
Arthur looked ready to punch Eames in the face. But he didn’t. Because Arthur was civilized. His anger flashed and sparked behind his eyes, but he wouldn’t let it reach his face.
“It’s not working,” Arthur said, with an edge to his voice.
Eames stepped forward and grabbed Arthur’s hand and slowly and carefully smoothed out the muscles in his palms, spreading Arthur’s fingers.
A shiver went up through Arthur’s arm, and Eames crooked his head for a second and met the other man’s eyes.
“Imagine you had something large in your hand.”
Arthur blushed.
“Like an anvil,” Eames continued. “And it’s too heavy for you to lift, it’s too large to hold. Now imagine your hand growing to accommodate-”
Slowly Eames looked and saw Arthur’s fingers start to lengthen.
Arthur’s eyes were widening as his palm expanded and--
Someone bumped forcefully into Eames, who dropped Arthur’s hand as it shrank back to normal.
Another, a sweet-looking old lady, whacked Eames’ shins with her cane.
“Fuck!” Eames shouted.
He was then smacked by a child who looked to be around seven, slapped by an angry blond woman and pushed violently by a middle-aged man with a bald spot.
Arthur halfheartedly attempted to hide his laugh-- to which Eames responded with a glare.
Arthur shrugged. “Can’t help it! It’s my subconscious.”
Then Eames smiled in a predatory way.. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
He grabbed Arthur’s hand and, quite unceremoniously, pushed him against the brick wall. Arthur let out a little “oomph” and winced.
“Let’s test your little theory out,” Eames said, and then kissed him.
Arthur, surprised, wrapped his fingers around Eames’ elbows, as Eames gently grabbed his hips and pressed forward. Arthur felt his knees go weak and bend; he let out a low moan, and Eames moved his hands up and under Arthur’s shirt, palming his bare skin. For a moment their lips moved together, soft, and Eames’ body rested, heavy, against Arthur’s thin frame.
When Arthur’s hands moved to the buttons on Eames’ shirt, Eames pulled away, triumphant. Arthur blinked in confusion.
“The projections stopped,” Arthur said.
“Yes. They aren’t suspicious if it’s something you normally dream about.”
Arthur looked horrified: his eyes shot open and he moved as if to speak, then shut his mouth. Eames still leaned over him, enjoying the way the blush spread from Arthur’s cheeks to his neck.
“It’s not that I blame you,” he said, his breath ghosting against Arthur’s ear, “though if I had known that was why you were such a-”
“Shut up,” Arthur said.
“-stick in the mud I would’ve done something-”
“Shut up.”
“-about it sooner. The quiet ones are always-”
“Eames, shut-”
“-more fun.”
“Up.”
They stood there for a second, Eames grinning and Arthur glaring.
“Didn’t we have something to do?” Arthur asked.
“Work, work, work,” Eames tutted, “you know, I really think that can wait.”
“But what will we tell Cobb?”
“Use your imagination.”
Rating: PG-13 (Sorry Meo, you know I can't write smut. :P)
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Gift for: raapsteeltje
Beta'd by: rocketgirl2
“Where’s Cobb?” Arthur’s footsteps echoed in the warehouse as he stepped through the large, steel doors.
Eames rolled his eyes without any real malice. “He took his kids to Disneyland,” he said. “He’s trying to work off some of his ‘absent parent guilt’.”
“And where’s Ariadne?” Arthur asked.
Eames grinned wickedly. “She went with him. Something about never getting the chance as a child.”
Arthur held in his sigh, straightening himself as he faced Eames. “So... What do we do then?”
“Well, Cobb left a note,” Eames answered, waving the piece of paper in front of Arthur’s face.
Arthur snatched it from his hands.
Arthur: Go over the plan with Eames. It’s his job we were working on anyways. -Cobb
And then, scribbled as an afterthought:
Try to be nice. Please.
“Is that meant for you or for me?” Arthur asked. Now that Cobb was back in parent mode he was less “ruthless, reckless thief” and more “kind-hearted peace maker”. Arthur wasn’t sure how to deal with it. While technically it may have been better, he wasn’t sure he liked being told to “be nice” as if he was some unruly toddler with a penchant for hogging the best toys.
Eames shrugged, his eyes flicking from the note to Arthur’s face. “Both, I suppose. So what’s this job?”
Arthur motioned to the chairs. “First, into the dream.”
“Mysterious,” Eames said with a wink- only to be disappointed by a stony look from his coworker, who ignored him in favour of setting up the equipment.
They settled themselves into chairs-- not lawn chairs this time; real, government-issue chairs, with cushions and everything.
“See you on the other side,” Eames said.
****
“Right. So the scenery is yours and the projections are mine, right?” Arthur said as they walked through the streets of a city that strongly resembled New York.
“Yes, Arthur,” Eames drawled, “this isn’t my first time.”
The edge of Arthur’s mouth tugged upwards in what couldn’t quite be labelled as a smile. “Right. So the more you change something, the more my projections will become aware of you? And this is especially problematic in minds that have security?”
Eames nodded impatiently, waving his hand to tell Arthur to move on.
“Okay, I had this theory. What if we, as invaders, take on the personas of people the target would project?”
“You mean become someone they’d dream about?” Eames asked.
“Yes,” Arthur said.
“But we’ve done that. I mean, I’ve done that.”
“That’s where I got the idea-”
“So I’m inspiring, am I?” Eames asked with an impish grin.
A faint tint of pink bloomed on Arthur’s cheeks. “The mission gave me the idea. Those projections fought us, yes, but I would have been willing to bet that you, had you been alone, would not have been noticed. And it becomes even more effective if we can emulate the dreams that person would be having. For instance, a man often dreams of beautiful women, but even better would be a specific beautiful woman, say, the secretary he’s been lusting after. Or maybe he would dream about his wife, but it’s not just about taking his wife’s personality and acting it out. If he suspects his wife is cheating on him, we give him a dream where is wife is cheating on him. We look at his subconscious and we predict what it would naturally dream about.”
Eames did his best not to look impressed. “So we distract his mind and his projections with something his mind would come up with on its own. We create a scenario he would dream about and insert into it the question we want answered. There’s a greater chance of success because even secure minds could be tricked into believing that it is not an extraction but a natural dream.”
“Exactly. Which is where you come in. We all have our talents-”
“And your talent would be?” Eames interrupted.
Arthur gave him a withering look and continued without answering: “Yours is the uncanny ability to take on different forms in dreams. So we need you to teach us. Or, well, me.”
Eames grinned from ear to ear. “So you’re asking for my help.”
“The team-”
“You’re asking for my help.”
Arthur’s fists tightened at his sides. “Yes.”
“Of course I’ll help. Relax, Arthur,” Eames said, with a smile that did not relax Arthur in the slightest.
***
“The key,” Eames said, standing behind Arthur and putting his palm under the back of Arthur’s hand, “is imagining. It’s like building in dreams. You have to imagine what it would feel like to be the body you’re transforming into. You have to imagine the difference in height. You have to be able to imagine what it would like to smell a certain way, to have breasts, to be able to run faster or jump farther. It’s like dreams where you can fly.”
“I never had flying dreams,” Arthur confessed.
Eames looked at him, surprised. “Of course you haven’t,” he remarked dryly, “You have the creative power of a rock. You probably dream about filing or researching or whatever it is that you do.” Arthur elbowed him lightly in retaliation, and Eames grunted and let out a huff of a laugh. “But you can start small, with the hands. Imagine them wider, and longer. Imagine what it would feel like to have more flesh.”
Eames could hear Arthur’s breathing, see his chest moving. His own pulse hammered in his ears. A few bystanders were starting to look at him suspiciously. “Try.”
Arthur closed his eyes (Eames could feel it, rather than see it; he could sense the way Arthur’s long lashes brushing against his cheek and his face muscles relax and his skin smooth-- dreams were odd that way) and exhaled slowly.
Nothing happened.
Cars sped by on the road and Eames stepped back to lean against the brick wall of an aging apartment building.
“Try again.”
Arthur scrunched up his face, his nose wrinkling. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding.
Nothing happened.
“Again,” Eames said, “Feel what having someone else’s hands would be like.”
This went on for an hour. And every time Arthur failed, the passing citizens looked more and more hostile, glancing at Eames with pursed lips and disapproving frowns.
Arthur looked ready to punch Eames in the face. But he didn’t. Because Arthur was civilized. His anger flashed and sparked behind his eyes, but he wouldn’t let it reach his face.
“It’s not working,” Arthur said, with an edge to his voice.
Eames stepped forward and grabbed Arthur’s hand and slowly and carefully smoothed out the muscles in his palms, spreading Arthur’s fingers.
A shiver went up through Arthur’s arm, and Eames crooked his head for a second and met the other man’s eyes.
“Imagine you had something large in your hand.”
Arthur blushed.
“Like an anvil,” Eames continued. “And it’s too heavy for you to lift, it’s too large to hold. Now imagine your hand growing to accommodate-”
Slowly Eames looked and saw Arthur’s fingers start to lengthen.
Arthur’s eyes were widening as his palm expanded and--
Someone bumped forcefully into Eames, who dropped Arthur’s hand as it shrank back to normal.
Another, a sweet-looking old lady, whacked Eames’ shins with her cane.
“Fuck!” Eames shouted.
He was then smacked by a child who looked to be around seven, slapped by an angry blond woman and pushed violently by a middle-aged man with a bald spot.
Arthur halfheartedly attempted to hide his laugh-- to which Eames responded with a glare.
Arthur shrugged. “Can’t help it! It’s my subconscious.”
Then Eames smiled in a predatory way.. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
He grabbed Arthur’s hand and, quite unceremoniously, pushed him against the brick wall. Arthur let out a little “oomph” and winced.
“Let’s test your little theory out,” Eames said, and then kissed him.
Arthur, surprised, wrapped his fingers around Eames’ elbows, as Eames gently grabbed his hips and pressed forward. Arthur felt his knees go weak and bend; he let out a low moan, and Eames moved his hands up and under Arthur’s shirt, palming his bare skin. For a moment their lips moved together, soft, and Eames’ body rested, heavy, against Arthur’s thin frame.
When Arthur’s hands moved to the buttons on Eames’ shirt, Eames pulled away, triumphant. Arthur blinked in confusion.
“The projections stopped,” Arthur said.
“Yes. They aren’t suspicious if it’s something you normally dream about.”
Arthur looked horrified: his eyes shot open and he moved as if to speak, then shut his mouth. Eames still leaned over him, enjoying the way the blush spread from Arthur’s cheeks to his neck.
“It’s not that I blame you,” he said, his breath ghosting against Arthur’s ear, “though if I had known that was why you were such a-”
“Shut up,” Arthur said.
“-stick in the mud I would’ve done something-”
“Shut up.”
“-about it sooner. The quiet ones are always-”
“Eames, shut-”
“-more fun.”
“Up.”
They stood there for a second, Eames grinning and Arthur glaring.
“Didn’t we have something to do?” Arthur asked.
“Work, work, work,” Eames tutted, “you know, I really think that can wait.”
“But what will we tell Cobb?”
“Use your imagination.”