FIC (Inception): We're As Innocent As Can Be
Title: We're As Innocent As Can Be
Author: blue_fjords
Word length: ~3000
Rating: PG-13/R
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, Arthur, Eames, Cobb, Ariadne, Miles, Browning, Yusuf, Philippa, Mr. Whiskers
Warnings: None.
Summary: Written for this prompt on inception_kink: Five times that someone walked in on them and THOUGHT they were having sex but they weren't, and one time someone walked in and thought they weren't having sex, but they were. I made the last one a two-parter, so there are really seven times all told.
A/N: Title is shout-out to Barnaby Tucker. Love me some "Hello, Dolly!" Also posted on AO3 here.
Cobb
Cobb has never liked any of Arthur's lovers. Mal would always raise her eyebrows and give him a pointed look when he complained about the latest Julia or Cosette or Rick (damn, but he was the worst!) that was hanging around Arthur. No matter what Mal thought, his dislike of these miscreants had nothing to do with any latent sexual leanings he himself had for Arthur. No, Julia was needy, Cosette annoying, and Rick was jealous of Cobb. After Rick, Arthur kept his love life strictly separate from his Cobb life (real life).
Which was why it came as something of a shock when Cobb spotted Arthur and Eames together, in the doorway of a cafe on their third day in Paris as a team. There was LEANING. Cobb was no fool; he'd seen "While You Were Sleeping" (six times, boy did he love his Sandra Bullock; he was the only person in the world who'd circled his calendar for the release date of "All About Steve"). He knew what leaning meant, thank you very much. He stood across the street and squinted through the dusk. Not only was there leaning, but Arthur was breathing hard and Cobb couldn't see Eames's hands. Dear God, there were people walking their dogs on this street! THERE WAS A MIME! Would no one think of the poor mime?!
Cobb had to do something, and fast. He could yell, but that would be undignified. He could send Arthur a text, that would distract him, but what would he say? He stood there in a stew of indecision until he heard his name being called.
"Cobb?"
Arthur had somehow crossed the street, Eames trailing him. Cobb gave Arthur a very subtle once-over, checking his crotch for anything out of place. Eames raised a brow, looking disturbingly like Mal, but all he said was, "Dinner? You're looking a bit peaky."
Cobb nodded. He'd do it for the mimes.
***
Yusuf
Contrary to popular opinion, Yusuf did not indulge in his own compounds recreationally. He'd known one too many chemists who'd fallen into a Somnacin black hole and he was much too wily for that. No, when he wanted to alter reality, he preferred a good old-fashioned pan of pot brownies. Or, if ovens were in short supply, Sangria with lots of bits of fruit floating in it. Mmmm, getting his Vitamin C and a buzz, what could be better?
He'd found a nice little Spanish restaurant a few blocks from their warehouse, debated asking Ariadne to join him, decided against it, and worked through the bottle of Sangria on his own. His vision was perhaps a bit fuzzy by the time he stumbled back to the warehouse. He needed something there, he couldn't remember what, but he was sure it was important.
And look, Eames was still there! He'd ask Eames. Though come to think of it, Eames looked a little preoccupied. Yusuf could see his face in the window cut in the door of their floor, all strained and red. And then he grunted. It sounded suspiciously like "Arthur!"
Yusuf was many things - a gentleman, a scholar, a butcher, a baker, a candlestickmaker - but above all, a scientist. A scientist with a head full of Sangria who thought: hypothesis - Arthur is fucking Eames against the door. It was only natural that he had to prove it.
Unfortunately, the head full of Sangria negated any stealth. He pressed his face to his side of the window and yelled "Hallo, Piglet!"
"Yusuf! Push, there's a good fellow!" Eames gasped out. Yusuf blinked. He would have to rearrange his hypothesis to accommodate a threesome which, to be honest, was not something he was really looking for from Eames and Arthur. But for science… he pushed against the door, Eames pulled, and everyone wound up dogpiled on top of Arthur. Who was most definitely dressed, in trendy yoga pants and a t-shirt, and not fucking anybody.
"Whaaa?" Yusuf asked.
Eames quickly twisted and brought his knee up between Arthur's shoulder blades and pushed Arthur's head against the floor. "Yield!" he yelled, triumphant.
"It doesn't fucking count, Eames, you used backup!" Arthur spit out.
"Adaptability, darling! You need to roll with the punches."
Arthur rolled them then, winding up with his knees on either side of Eames's chest and his arse on Eames's tummy. "I think I can roll just fine, thanks."
Three things occurred to Yusuf then: 1) he was not getting laid tonight, 2) a glass of Sangria would be perfect right now, and 3) Arthur and Eames had the most homoerotic self-defense sessions ever.
***
Browning
Browning loved to crush people. It was a perk of being the right-hand man to the most powerful man in the room. And now that Maurice was inching closer and closer to death's door, it was also the best part of his day. It was tough work running an empire from behind the scenes - he took enjoyment where he could find it.
Today he had set his sights on Harold. Harold was old (anyone older than Browning was considered old. This line changed every year out of necessity) and worse, he was boring. Browning was going to catch him as he made his way down the immaculately polished executive hallway from the executive kitchenette for his daily spot of executive tea at 4:00 sharp. There was a little-used room down that hallway that Browning liked to jump out of, a sort of dignified and chilling version of a jack-in-the-box. Browning approached the room at 3:55 through the back hall and paused, his hand on the door knob, when he heard a voice inside.
He perked up. He seldom got the chance to overhear salacious gossip, seeing as how he scared everyone shitless. Maybe he would get the opportunity to crush two people today. He pressed his ear to the door.
It sounded like his newest hire, Charles or Carlton or Hank or somesuch. The man's name wasn't important, the names of his references, on the other hand, were, and they had been most impressive.
"You're being stubborn, darling. You need to loosen up, undo that top button."
Ooh, it was already promising.
"Oh, well, if Cobb said so, then by all means!"
Ah, jealousy. Browning had three ex-wives. He knew that tone well.
"I know! I didn't mean - would you just let me get a word in - Jesus, Arthur!"
Boyfriend. Browning would add it to the file.
"It's difficult when we're so far away."
Excuses. Another thing Browning knew well.
"There's no one here who can do what you do."
Browning smirked. Mindless flattery.
"What was that? Are you asking for my help?"
Smug bastard.
"Take it out, Arthur. Arthur! Go on then, do what I say."
Bossy, but maybe his Arthur liked it like that.
"Now stroke it to get the drips out."
That was probably the most un-sexy way Browning had ever heard it referred to.
"I'd take mine out, but…"
Browning turned the knob. He was not going to jump out at Harold from a room that smelled of spunk. The new hire looked up, startled, and fumbled with his phone. His trousers were, thankfully, still buttoned.
"Have to run, darling."
They stared at each other for a moment. Browning gave him what he hoped was a powerful and intimidating look, instead of a lecherous leer, and said, "Full points for using a hidden room for… that. Now get back to work."
He ignored the man's slightly bemused look and quick exit, and peeked out the other door. Harold was just rounding the corner with a full mug of hot tea. Oh, this was going to be good.
Browning, you magnificent bastard, he thought to himself, and threw the door wide open.
***
Miles
Miles was known to his students as a stickler for clean lines, attention to detail and the marriage of form and function. He had sad puppy-dog eyes that had only grown baggier and saggier since the unmentionable tragedy in his family. So his full-bellied laugh upon opening his latest package from California would have shocked anyone who'd had a hold of his syllabus.
James had sent a picture for Cobb. It looked like Martians baking pies on a beach, with a circus in the background. There was not a straight line to be seen, and no way could that elephant? Mammoth? Cobb's arse? balance on that tricycle, but it was the best thing Miles had seen all semester. And not really being a bitter old bastard, he decided to swing it by the warehouse to show Cobb.
He wasn't supposed to know about the warehouse, at least its location, but he did. Mal hadn't inherited her inquisitive nature from empty air, after all.
It occurred to him that he perhaps should have called ahead when he walked in on a scene of debauchery straight out of one of his wife's romance novels.
Arthur, whom Miles had known since the days Arthur's hair had fallen in curls to his shoulders, young Arthur was kneeling in front of another man. Miles didn't know him, but he practically screamed 'Shifty bastard, hide your wallet!' Paisley, really?
"Terribly sorry," Miles mumbled, looking anywhere but at them. "But would you happen to know when Dominic Cobb will be back?"
"Miles?" Arthur asked, and dear God, it sounded like his mouth was full. "Have you met Eames?"
"Pleasure," the Shifty Bastard said. "Cobb took Ariadne to an exhibit across town. I daresay they'll be gone for another couple of hours."
"Oh," Miles said.
"You're welcome to stay and wait," Shifty continued, and really, that was going too far. Miles considered himself a bit of a free-thinker, a progressive, perhaps even 'laidback' (on some days), but Arthur was still that curly-haired teenager in his mind. There was no way in hell he was going to hang around while sweet (actually, he'd never been sweet) Arthur sucked a Shifty Bastard's cock. Eames probably wasn't even his real name.
"That's quite all right, quite all right," Miles said, trying not to stammer. "I'll just leave this for him," he deposited the envelope on an empty desk, "and I'll ring in the future. Er, carry on."
He beat a hasty retreat.
"Jumpy fellow," he heard Shifty say to Arthur, and then Arthur's voice answered him.
"Maybe he just doesn't like you," Arthur suggested. "Now look down. See, these pants look so much better without the pleats! Take them off so I can finish, or I'll stab you with one of these needles."
***
Ariadne
Pure creation, she'd called it, and she hadn't been wrong. Still, she had to stifle a giggle at what Eames's subconscious had added to her designs. The dancing girl motif had not been in any of her drawings, though she had to grudgingly admire his attention to detail.
One of Eames's projections winked at her and swayed past, her hips moving in a slow rolling walk that drew the eye. Ariadne was still a little freaked out by projections, but that one wasn't so bad.
"Ariadne," Cobb called from down the hall. "Where do these stairs go?"
"Storage rooms in the basement."
"I'm going to inspect them - you check out whatever modifications Eames has made."
Ay, ay, Captain, she said silently to his back. She stepped out of the service hallway and into a grand ballroom. Never having been in a grand ballroom herself, she'd drawn inspiration from Titanic, Beauty and the Beast and Susie Marlow's Barbie Dream House. The orchestra pit in the corner, though, that wasn't her.
Moaning reached her ears as she drew closer. Her face flamed. It sounded like Arthur, shit, this was going to be so awkward.
"Eames," Arthur moaned, and Ariadne froze. "I need - I need -"
"It's okay, I've got you," Eames murmured, his voice thick.
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit! She turned, but the squeaking of her chucks gave her away.
"Ariadne? Is that you? Get over here!"
She startled at the note of command in Eames's voice and was at the edge of the orchestra pit before her mind really processed what she was getting into.
It wouldn't have mattered. It was not at all what she'd thought.
Eames leaned against the conductor's stand, clasping a very bloody Arthur to his chest. Arthur looked like someone had tried to run him through. Blood leaked out between his fingers, between Eames's fingers, out of the corner of Arthur's mouth.
"What happened?" she gasped, running towards them. Mal, it had to be Mal, they were so screwed.
"It's my fault," Eames said mournfully. "I added knights in shining armor in the grand entrance. I suppose Arthur here got jealous. Silly bastard," he added, fondly, to Arthur. And then leaned down to kiss his bloody mouth.
"Wait…" Ariadne said slowly, rocking back on her heels. Arthur was kissing back almost feverishly. This was-
"What the hell?" Arthur - another Arthur - exclaimed from the top of the pit, his gun drawn and pointed at them. Another Eames appeared at his elbow, looked down, and promptly dropped his gun. "Eames!"
"I - you know as well as I that the subconscious is a jungle of - of-Ariadne, be a love and move out of the way."
Ariadne scrambled back as Eames raised his gun again and shot first the projection of himself and then the projection of Arthur in their heads.
An awkward silence descended on the ballroom. Ariadne had a zillion questions, but the other two were red-faced with anger, embarrassment and feelings, she just knew it. She'd have to wait for Cobb.
"Excellent maze, Ariadne," the man himself said, strolling into the ballroom. "Everyone set? We have fifteen seconds before the kick."
Arthur and Eames spent the fifteen seconds not looking at each other, Ariadne spent it looking at them and Cobb spent it singing under his breath.
Ariadne caught the words. Tale as old as time, both a little scared, my heart will go on.
***
Philippa
Philippa's favorite holiday was Arbor Day. Anyone could like Christmas, but she was a Cobb, and she marched to the beat of her own drummer. This Arbor Day was the first since her father came back, and it was especially wonderful because Arthur was visiting. Arthur got Arbor Day.
The last Friday in April dawned sunny and bright. Philippa pulled on her special planting clothes (overalls and an orange t-shirt, galoshes were still by the back door) and ran to Arthur's room.
"Arthur!" she whispered excitedly, pushing open the door and tiptoeing to the bed. "Wake up!"
Arthur's hair was sticking up all over the place and he was kind of smushing Mr. Eames into the bed. They had a guest room, other than the one reserved for Arthur. Mr. Eames would have been a lot more comfy there. At least he wouldn't have to sleep with his face pressed into a pillow.
"Philippa!" His voice sounded all rough and scratchy, like a frog. "It's really early, sweetheart."
"It's Arbor Day, the best day of the year!" she exclaimed.
"I love trees," came a muffled voice from the pillow. "Especially after a lie-in."
Philippa giggled. Mr. Eames was British, like Grandpa, and British people said funny things like 'blimey' and 'lie-in' and 'wanker.'
"Mr. Eames is silly. The best time to plant is first thing in the morning!"
"Yeah, okay, give us about twenty minutes-"
"Half an hour," Mr. Eames interrupted, and spit out his pillowcase.
"-half an hour," Arthur continued. "And then we will be yours to direct for all tree-planting and breakfast-making activities."
Philippa chewed her lip. "Pinky swear?"
"Uh, verbal pinky swear," Arthur said quickly. His hands were beneath the covers, even though it wasn't that cold. Mr. Eames must hog all the warmth.
"Okay," she agreed. "Half an hour, back porch, be there or be square!"
She marched out, pulling the door shut behind her.
***
Mr. Whiskers
Mr. Whiskers managed to scuttle in before Philippa got the door closed. This guest room was his favorite room in the house, thanks to the fuzzy blanket on the bed and the patch of morning sun that streamed through the side window.
Unfortunately, the bed was occupied by two adult men fucking their brains out.
Humans were so inconsiderate, Mr. Whiskers thought grumpily. These two specimens had been invading his special places all over the house for the past week, to rut and touch and lick and suck and nuzzle and stroke and kiss and grunt and moan and sigh and purr. Mr. Whiskers had thought he had the monopoly on purring in this house, but the hairier one purred loud enough to wake the dead when the leaner one fucked him. And to add insult to injury, now the lean one was playing with the hairy one's balls. Mr. Whiskers hadn't had balls in eight years.
He planted his furry ass down in the middle of the floor and yowled.
"Shit!" the hairy one exclaimed, and groaned, white stuff leaking from beneath their entwined fingers over his nether regions.
"Fuck, Eames!" the lean one gasped, his face contorting just as Papa burst into the room.
"Mr. Whiskers! Is he okay? Oh my God!!!"
There was a lot of yelling after that. Mr. Whiskers cleaned his paws.
He was feeling quite smug until later that afternoon when he chased a floating ball of lint into the back shed and came across the two men again, naked and sticky and fast asleep in each other's arms.
Le sigh, he thought, and curled up with his back against the hairy one's back.
It was actually quite comfy.
Author: blue_fjords
Word length: ~3000
Rating: PG-13/R
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, Arthur, Eames, Cobb, Ariadne, Miles, Browning, Yusuf, Philippa, Mr. Whiskers
Warnings: None.
Summary: Written for this prompt on inception_kink: Five times that someone walked in on them and THOUGHT they were having sex but they weren't, and one time someone walked in and thought they weren't having sex, but they were. I made the last one a two-parter, so there are really seven times all told.
A/N: Title is shout-out to Barnaby Tucker. Love me some "Hello, Dolly!" Also posted on AO3 here.
Cobb
Cobb has never liked any of Arthur's lovers. Mal would always raise her eyebrows and give him a pointed look when he complained about the latest Julia or Cosette or Rick (damn, but he was the worst!) that was hanging around Arthur. No matter what Mal thought, his dislike of these miscreants had nothing to do with any latent sexual leanings he himself had for Arthur. No, Julia was needy, Cosette annoying, and Rick was jealous of Cobb. After Rick, Arthur kept his love life strictly separate from his Cobb life (real life).
Which was why it came as something of a shock when Cobb spotted Arthur and Eames together, in the doorway of a cafe on their third day in Paris as a team. There was LEANING. Cobb was no fool; he'd seen "While You Were Sleeping" (six times, boy did he love his Sandra Bullock; he was the only person in the world who'd circled his calendar for the release date of "All About Steve"). He knew what leaning meant, thank you very much. He stood across the street and squinted through the dusk. Not only was there leaning, but Arthur was breathing hard and Cobb couldn't see Eames's hands. Dear God, there were people walking their dogs on this street! THERE WAS A MIME! Would no one think of the poor mime?!
Cobb had to do something, and fast. He could yell, but that would be undignified. He could send Arthur a text, that would distract him, but what would he say? He stood there in a stew of indecision until he heard his name being called.
"Cobb?"
Arthur had somehow crossed the street, Eames trailing him. Cobb gave Arthur a very subtle once-over, checking his crotch for anything out of place. Eames raised a brow, looking disturbingly like Mal, but all he said was, "Dinner? You're looking a bit peaky."
Cobb nodded. He'd do it for the mimes.
***
Yusuf
Contrary to popular opinion, Yusuf did not indulge in his own compounds recreationally. He'd known one too many chemists who'd fallen into a Somnacin black hole and he was much too wily for that. No, when he wanted to alter reality, he preferred a good old-fashioned pan of pot brownies. Or, if ovens were in short supply, Sangria with lots of bits of fruit floating in it. Mmmm, getting his Vitamin C and a buzz, what could be better?
He'd found a nice little Spanish restaurant a few blocks from their warehouse, debated asking Ariadne to join him, decided against it, and worked through the bottle of Sangria on his own. His vision was perhaps a bit fuzzy by the time he stumbled back to the warehouse. He needed something there, he couldn't remember what, but he was sure it was important.
And look, Eames was still there! He'd ask Eames. Though come to think of it, Eames looked a little preoccupied. Yusuf could see his face in the window cut in the door of their floor, all strained and red. And then he grunted. It sounded suspiciously like "Arthur!"
Yusuf was many things - a gentleman, a scholar, a butcher, a baker, a candlestickmaker - but above all, a scientist. A scientist with a head full of Sangria who thought: hypothesis - Arthur is fucking Eames against the door. It was only natural that he had to prove it.
Unfortunately, the head full of Sangria negated any stealth. He pressed his face to his side of the window and yelled "Hallo, Piglet!"
"Yusuf! Push, there's a good fellow!" Eames gasped out. Yusuf blinked. He would have to rearrange his hypothesis to accommodate a threesome which, to be honest, was not something he was really looking for from Eames and Arthur. But for science… he pushed against the door, Eames pulled, and everyone wound up dogpiled on top of Arthur. Who was most definitely dressed, in trendy yoga pants and a t-shirt, and not fucking anybody.
"Whaaa?" Yusuf asked.
Eames quickly twisted and brought his knee up between Arthur's shoulder blades and pushed Arthur's head against the floor. "Yield!" he yelled, triumphant.
"It doesn't fucking count, Eames, you used backup!" Arthur spit out.
"Adaptability, darling! You need to roll with the punches."
Arthur rolled them then, winding up with his knees on either side of Eames's chest and his arse on Eames's tummy. "I think I can roll just fine, thanks."
Three things occurred to Yusuf then: 1) he was not getting laid tonight, 2) a glass of Sangria would be perfect right now, and 3) Arthur and Eames had the most homoerotic self-defense sessions ever.
***
Browning
Browning loved to crush people. It was a perk of being the right-hand man to the most powerful man in the room. And now that Maurice was inching closer and closer to death's door, it was also the best part of his day. It was tough work running an empire from behind the scenes - he took enjoyment where he could find it.
Today he had set his sights on Harold. Harold was old (anyone older than Browning was considered old. This line changed every year out of necessity) and worse, he was boring. Browning was going to catch him as he made his way down the immaculately polished executive hallway from the executive kitchenette for his daily spot of executive tea at 4:00 sharp. There was a little-used room down that hallway that Browning liked to jump out of, a sort of dignified and chilling version of a jack-in-the-box. Browning approached the room at 3:55 through the back hall and paused, his hand on the door knob, when he heard a voice inside.
He perked up. He seldom got the chance to overhear salacious gossip, seeing as how he scared everyone shitless. Maybe he would get the opportunity to crush two people today. He pressed his ear to the door.
It sounded like his newest hire, Charles or Carlton or Hank or somesuch. The man's name wasn't important, the names of his references, on the other hand, were, and they had been most impressive.
"You're being stubborn, darling. You need to loosen up, undo that top button."
Ooh, it was already promising.
"Oh, well, if Cobb said so, then by all means!"
Ah, jealousy. Browning had three ex-wives. He knew that tone well.
"I know! I didn't mean - would you just let me get a word in - Jesus, Arthur!"
Boyfriend. Browning would add it to the file.
"It's difficult when we're so far away."
Excuses. Another thing Browning knew well.
"There's no one here who can do what you do."
Browning smirked. Mindless flattery.
"What was that? Are you asking for my help?"
Smug bastard.
"Take it out, Arthur. Arthur! Go on then, do what I say."
Bossy, but maybe his Arthur liked it like that.
"Now stroke it to get the drips out."
That was probably the most un-sexy way Browning had ever heard it referred to.
"I'd take mine out, but…"
Browning turned the knob. He was not going to jump out at Harold from a room that smelled of spunk. The new hire looked up, startled, and fumbled with his phone. His trousers were, thankfully, still buttoned.
"Have to run, darling."
They stared at each other for a moment. Browning gave him what he hoped was a powerful and intimidating look, instead of a lecherous leer, and said, "Full points for using a hidden room for… that. Now get back to work."
He ignored the man's slightly bemused look and quick exit, and peeked out the other door. Harold was just rounding the corner with a full mug of hot tea. Oh, this was going to be good.
Browning, you magnificent bastard, he thought to himself, and threw the door wide open.
***
Miles
Miles was known to his students as a stickler for clean lines, attention to detail and the marriage of form and function. He had sad puppy-dog eyes that had only grown baggier and saggier since the unmentionable tragedy in his family. So his full-bellied laugh upon opening his latest package from California would have shocked anyone who'd had a hold of his syllabus.
James had sent a picture for Cobb. It looked like Martians baking pies on a beach, with a circus in the background. There was not a straight line to be seen, and no way could that elephant? Mammoth? Cobb's arse? balance on that tricycle, but it was the best thing Miles had seen all semester. And not really being a bitter old bastard, he decided to swing it by the warehouse to show Cobb.
He wasn't supposed to know about the warehouse, at least its location, but he did. Mal hadn't inherited her inquisitive nature from empty air, after all.
It occurred to him that he perhaps should have called ahead when he walked in on a scene of debauchery straight out of one of his wife's romance novels.
Arthur, whom Miles had known since the days Arthur's hair had fallen in curls to his shoulders, young Arthur was kneeling in front of another man. Miles didn't know him, but he practically screamed 'Shifty bastard, hide your wallet!' Paisley, really?
"Terribly sorry," Miles mumbled, looking anywhere but at them. "But would you happen to know when Dominic Cobb will be back?"
"Miles?" Arthur asked, and dear God, it sounded like his mouth was full. "Have you met Eames?"
"Pleasure," the Shifty Bastard said. "Cobb took Ariadne to an exhibit across town. I daresay they'll be gone for another couple of hours."
"Oh," Miles said.
"You're welcome to stay and wait," Shifty continued, and really, that was going too far. Miles considered himself a bit of a free-thinker, a progressive, perhaps even 'laidback' (on some days), but Arthur was still that curly-haired teenager in his mind. There was no way in hell he was going to hang around while sweet (actually, he'd never been sweet) Arthur sucked a Shifty Bastard's cock. Eames probably wasn't even his real name.
"That's quite all right, quite all right," Miles said, trying not to stammer. "I'll just leave this for him," he deposited the envelope on an empty desk, "and I'll ring in the future. Er, carry on."
He beat a hasty retreat.
"Jumpy fellow," he heard Shifty say to Arthur, and then Arthur's voice answered him.
"Maybe he just doesn't like you," Arthur suggested. "Now look down. See, these pants look so much better without the pleats! Take them off so I can finish, or I'll stab you with one of these needles."
***
Ariadne
Pure creation, she'd called it, and she hadn't been wrong. Still, she had to stifle a giggle at what Eames's subconscious had added to her designs. The dancing girl motif had not been in any of her drawings, though she had to grudgingly admire his attention to detail.
One of Eames's projections winked at her and swayed past, her hips moving in a slow rolling walk that drew the eye. Ariadne was still a little freaked out by projections, but that one wasn't so bad.
"Ariadne," Cobb called from down the hall. "Where do these stairs go?"
"Storage rooms in the basement."
"I'm going to inspect them - you check out whatever modifications Eames has made."
Ay, ay, Captain, she said silently to his back. She stepped out of the service hallway and into a grand ballroom. Never having been in a grand ballroom herself, she'd drawn inspiration from Titanic, Beauty and the Beast and Susie Marlow's Barbie Dream House. The orchestra pit in the corner, though, that wasn't her.
Moaning reached her ears as she drew closer. Her face flamed. It sounded like Arthur, shit, this was going to be so awkward.
"Eames," Arthur moaned, and Ariadne froze. "I need - I need -"
"It's okay, I've got you," Eames murmured, his voice thick.
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit! She turned, but the squeaking of her chucks gave her away.
"Ariadne? Is that you? Get over here!"
She startled at the note of command in Eames's voice and was at the edge of the orchestra pit before her mind really processed what she was getting into.
It wouldn't have mattered. It was not at all what she'd thought.
Eames leaned against the conductor's stand, clasping a very bloody Arthur to his chest. Arthur looked like someone had tried to run him through. Blood leaked out between his fingers, between Eames's fingers, out of the corner of Arthur's mouth.
"What happened?" she gasped, running towards them. Mal, it had to be Mal, they were so screwed.
"It's my fault," Eames said mournfully. "I added knights in shining armor in the grand entrance. I suppose Arthur here got jealous. Silly bastard," he added, fondly, to Arthur. And then leaned down to kiss his bloody mouth.
"Wait…" Ariadne said slowly, rocking back on her heels. Arthur was kissing back almost feverishly. This was-
"What the hell?" Arthur - another Arthur - exclaimed from the top of the pit, his gun drawn and pointed at them. Another Eames appeared at his elbow, looked down, and promptly dropped his gun. "Eames!"
"I - you know as well as I that the subconscious is a jungle of - of-Ariadne, be a love and move out of the way."
Ariadne scrambled back as Eames raised his gun again and shot first the projection of himself and then the projection of Arthur in their heads.
An awkward silence descended on the ballroom. Ariadne had a zillion questions, but the other two were red-faced with anger, embarrassment and feelings, she just knew it. She'd have to wait for Cobb.
"Excellent maze, Ariadne," the man himself said, strolling into the ballroom. "Everyone set? We have fifteen seconds before the kick."
Arthur and Eames spent the fifteen seconds not looking at each other, Ariadne spent it looking at them and Cobb spent it singing under his breath.
Ariadne caught the words. Tale as old as time, both a little scared, my heart will go on.
***
Philippa
Philippa's favorite holiday was Arbor Day. Anyone could like Christmas, but she was a Cobb, and she marched to the beat of her own drummer. This Arbor Day was the first since her father came back, and it was especially wonderful because Arthur was visiting. Arthur got Arbor Day.
The last Friday in April dawned sunny and bright. Philippa pulled on her special planting clothes (overalls and an orange t-shirt, galoshes were still by the back door) and ran to Arthur's room.
"Arthur!" she whispered excitedly, pushing open the door and tiptoeing to the bed. "Wake up!"
Arthur's hair was sticking up all over the place and he was kind of smushing Mr. Eames into the bed. They had a guest room, other than the one reserved for Arthur. Mr. Eames would have been a lot more comfy there. At least he wouldn't have to sleep with his face pressed into a pillow.
"Philippa!" His voice sounded all rough and scratchy, like a frog. "It's really early, sweetheart."
"It's Arbor Day, the best day of the year!" she exclaimed.
"I love trees," came a muffled voice from the pillow. "Especially after a lie-in."
Philippa giggled. Mr. Eames was British, like Grandpa, and British people said funny things like 'blimey' and 'lie-in' and 'wanker.'
"Mr. Eames is silly. The best time to plant is first thing in the morning!"
"Yeah, okay, give us about twenty minutes-"
"Half an hour," Mr. Eames interrupted, and spit out his pillowcase.
"-half an hour," Arthur continued. "And then we will be yours to direct for all tree-planting and breakfast-making activities."
Philippa chewed her lip. "Pinky swear?"
"Uh, verbal pinky swear," Arthur said quickly. His hands were beneath the covers, even though it wasn't that cold. Mr. Eames must hog all the warmth.
"Okay," she agreed. "Half an hour, back porch, be there or be square!"
She marched out, pulling the door shut behind her.
***
Mr. Whiskers
Mr. Whiskers managed to scuttle in before Philippa got the door closed. This guest room was his favorite room in the house, thanks to the fuzzy blanket on the bed and the patch of morning sun that streamed through the side window.
Unfortunately, the bed was occupied by two adult men fucking their brains out.
Humans were so inconsiderate, Mr. Whiskers thought grumpily. These two specimens had been invading his special places all over the house for the past week, to rut and touch and lick and suck and nuzzle and stroke and kiss and grunt and moan and sigh and purr. Mr. Whiskers had thought he had the monopoly on purring in this house, but the hairier one purred loud enough to wake the dead when the leaner one fucked him. And to add insult to injury, now the lean one was playing with the hairy one's balls. Mr. Whiskers hadn't had balls in eight years.
He planted his furry ass down in the middle of the floor and yowled.
"Shit!" the hairy one exclaimed, and groaned, white stuff leaking from beneath their entwined fingers over his nether regions.
"Fuck, Eames!" the lean one gasped, his face contorting just as Papa burst into the room.
"Mr. Whiskers! Is he okay? Oh my God!!!"
There was a lot of yelling after that. Mr. Whiskers cleaned his paws.
He was feeling quite smug until later that afternoon when he chased a floating ball of lint into the back shed and came across the two men again, naked and sticky and fast asleep in each other's arms.
Le sigh, he thought, and curled up with his back against the hairy one's back.
It was actually quite comfy.