Inception || Arthur &/+ Eames???? with Ariadne cameo idefk
Title: Surname
Rating: G/All
Word Count: ~2,100
Warnings: None? ._.
Notes: Inspired by something I saw I THINK on the inception_kink thing or whatever but uh too lazy to locate? ;; It also ran away from me. I DON'T even know. I'M POSTING THIS and running away back to class sigh. Filled a few prompts on the meme but first name-attached foray into Inception-land fic lksfjlsdjds possibly a grievous error because the fic in this world tends to be so amazing lol standards sob and it figures it's all circumstance no substance but whatever sob. I liked this movie a lot more than I ever thought I would and crack is crack is crack........there's no real excuse.
Arthur's last name is something he has buried deep and good in the recesses of what one can only define as a forest's worth of paperwork -- a sizable forest's worth. The point man did not know when he was five, nine, thirteen, nor seventeen respectively that he would become the kind of man whose last name being concealed would do him more than a lick of good; that was just pleasant, circumstantial coincidence with the fact that had Arthur been destined to do nothing more than walk in circles he would still have gone to every proverbial length to smother his surname into gratifying obscurity. He did go to great lengths too, borderline questionable lengths (though no bodies were involved) that he will be disclosing to Charon when he crosses over, a.k.a never, not ever, he's sure the worms in the ground will make a fantastic audience, etc, etc, etc. His intent exists in such fiercely rapt commitment that the idea of anyone knowing his last name is downright laughable.
Still, when Eames shows up with a copy of Le Morte D'Arthur, Arthur only barely represses a twitch -- a sinking, sinking, suspicious, suspicious twitch that seems to twist itself right down through to his toes, toes that curl unhappily inside of criminally expensive shoes.
There. Is. No. Fucking. Way. He. Knows.
. . .
But Arthur is particularly snappish toward the forger for the remaining days leading up to the job, just in case.
(Even though there is No Fucking Way He Knows™.)
Eames replies with the wit and poise of a proper English gentleman even though he is really no particular kind of a gentleman if a gentleman at all. This only further aggravates the point-man into such things as religiously murderous silences and finally ignoring Eames when he can. In Arthur's case, ignoring is the equivalent to having the pre-1989 Berlin Wall standing between him and the perceived offense. If there is one thing more impossibly vexing than someone who talks back all of the time it is someone who talks back and seems for all the world as if anyone else's criticism might as well be the voice of the Peanuts adults -- incomprehensible and so completely dispensable.
. . .
Arthur, eyes glued to the screen of his computer and as good as excavating his less than merry way through a document with text the size of sea monkey halves -- possibly newborn sea monkey halves, not that that is actually possible (he hopes). He looks tired to anyone watching but everyone is relatively wrapped up in their own things be it actual work -- really one must hope -- or...or...
The point man swears that he feels the twitch in his temple before he hears the forger's laughter but this may just be an eagerness to be annoyed with the man lest anything else get felt before that. Whatever the case, dark eyes peer over the laptop, brow arching at the obnoxiously cheerful and genuinely amused guffawing going on in the northeast quarter of the warehouse.
"Some of us are trying to work, Eames!" This is stated with The Greatest Restraint, maybe too much because the man being addressed doesn't so much as glance at Arthur, Arthur who tells himself that it irks him so only because it's rude to outright ignore someone. Never mind how he hasn't spoken to Eames nor even looked at him if possible for nearly forty-eight hours. That's different; it wasn't like the Englishman was trying to address him, a thought which also turns uncomfortably behind his eyes but he stuffs it soundly away as Ariadne walks into his line of vision -- his line of vision which is still situated on Eames who finally looks like he's recovering from his sides splitting.
Pity, that.
"What are you laughing at?" she asks, straight to the point and non-judgmental for the moment, tucking hair behind her ear that has strayed out of its sloppy ponytail, which somehow makes her more affable, kinder looking that is. At this, Eames actually turns to glance up at her, then rolling his chair to the side a bit so that the architect can take a look herself. Her brow rises. Arthur is still watching. "That dragon looks like it's made of playdough," she decides, her own eyes going sidelong, as if she's dubious that anyone would watch this, even for the laughs; because Ariadne herself just finds the crudely computer generated fantasy beast offensive to her aesthetic. If someone is going to make a dragon, she reasons, make a dragon. Not a playdough...whatever that is. She hesitates to continue to think of it as a dragon. Eames, meanwhile, no surprise, is completely unabashed as he grins at her.
"Yes, I imagine it is," and he says it so brightly that Ariadne smiles back at him and it's charming really, the petite brunette with her wry expression and her half-bohemian, half-just-got-out-of-bed look standing and sharing this moment of normality with the ever-relaxed Eames who gestures now at the screen. "But it's quite funny, truly. If you can keep your food down over the computer-animated schlock then you might be surprised," and that's the simplest, easiest pitch Arthur has ever heard but it must work because Ariadne sits down and just when Arthur manages to stop staring, just when he begins to fasten his pupils to the tiny text again, Ariadne's laughter breaks out across the warehouse in a staggering echo. She has the sheepishness to cover her mouth but not enough of it to actually be sorry and Arthur can tell that too. He barely resists hitting his head against the table once, pinching the bridge of his nose instead. When the dallying party returns to working, or decides to rather, Eames says something that sounds like Well? and Ariadne holds up both hands as if in placation.
"I give, it's funny, like you couldn't tell," she rolls her eyes at him before pursing her mouth in a quirky frown. "...does he even have a last name?"
Arthur carefully continues to type.
"Who? Him?" Eames jerks a finger at his computer.
"Everyone else does...oh I guess Guinevere doesn't does she?"
Arthur does not let his head sink down between his shoulders; Arthur is not a turtle, though perhaps he wishes he was one briefly -- very briefly.
"No, only royalty has that privilege, apparently," the forger fairly drawls.
Arthur is glad he is not holding a pencil because it would be in halves right now.
"Pendragon is a ridiculous last name anyway," Ariadne all but declares as she turns entirely back ot her own workspace, looking back only to shrug noncommittally at Eames who replies:
"Oh I don't know. I rather like the sound of it, myself. Sort of fairytale, undoubtedly...but sort of dignified as well."
Arthur, who for all the world can't tell if Eames is joking or not -- though he does recognize the Doctor Who reference and indulges no time to decide how he feels about that--, hits the backspace key and holds it for half a page; what he's been typing for the last part of this conversation turns out to be the repertoire of the American keyboard hashed together three times over.
. . .
By the end of the week Arthur reverts to treating Eames with some modicum of normality, which is to say they get into kindergarten verbal spars only twice or three times a day instead of ten; also Arthur desists in the cold-shoulder tactic, which to anyone else would make it clear in and of itself that there is more at hand here. Who ever uses the cold-shoulder tactic with anyone except for someone they like, after all? Possibly, Arthur's people skills have never been as thoroughbred as Eames'. By the end of the job itself Arthur is almost comfortable believing what he tells himself he believed before: no one knows his last name, no one inclusive of Eames. Never mind the book. Never mind that stupid BBC re-imagining. Never. Mind.
Because again, there's just no fucking---
"So."
If Arthur was a statue, bronze probably so that pigeons could land on him because this is how he feels right about now, only then would he be a stiller sight than he is presently with the forger just barely keeping to his own personal space, and even then not really because he's leaning against Arthur's desk.
"What?"
The Actor's Studio would decidedly not find this very riveting but this isn't a movie, isn't a television show, isn't a book, isn't a game.
It's just them and Arthur doesn't look further into it than that.
"You've been exceptionally reminiscent of a hurricane Arthur, I'm sure you're quite aware. I was simply wondering why." Just like that, feathered in that accent and fed with undertones when a person makes the curious mistake of eye contact with the forger, but his words are quite plain in their own right, frank even which is something Arthur generally has great appreciation for. At present, he wastes time folding his hands in his lap and slouching back in his chair a little more as if to better peer at Eames, scrutiny a fine cover for Not Knowing What to Say, usually. Paradoxical even.
"It's nothing," he hears himself say more than he plans to say it, and to be fair it's quite true, at least at the moment.
"Of course," again with the drawl. Arthur's hands tighten across themselves, but it's imperceptible. "Well then, I'm so glad we got that all aired out." The sarcasm could be lost on no one but least of all Arthur who rather excels at it himself. When Eames' back is to him, Arthur relaxes a fraction only to sit ramrod straight when his eye catches the book peeking out of the forger's coat pocket.
"Why are you reading that?" He asks and tries to make it sound as neutral as inhumanly possible, because at this rate only inhuman levels of neutrality will do of course. Blue-green eyes veritably gleam back at him.
"Wouldn't you like to know." Not a question. A statement. He's got him and he knows it and Arthur considers reminding Eames that he can kill him and make it look like an accident, act of God, or attack by playdough dragon if he wishes. Then the forger smiles, smoothing his way back in the younger man's direction only to stand at his desk again, leaning with his hands on it this time. The fact that he says nothing is fantastically excruciating.
"Well, I did ask you," Arthur confirms in what he hopes is a dry tone, but it sounds a bit thin even to him.
"Yes, yes you did," and if possible, Eames' agreement is more taxing than his debate.
"So?" Pulling teeth. That's what this has become, and more and more Arthur realizes he should have seen it coming anyway.
"So is it true?" A question for a question. Arthur blinks at that, blankly even, which Eames takes as the cue to lean in closer, officially breaching what constitutes as Personal Space. Going rather statuesque again, Arthur refuses to budge.
"Is what true?"
A beat. A heartbeat maybe. Or the throb in one's head before imminent homicide. Funny how close together those things end up sometimes.
"Does royalty only have that privilege?"
Arthur blanches, a testament to blanching all over the world because he's quite pale already.
To right said world's balance, Eames leans back and laughs, his face growing rosy the more raucous that laughter becomes before petering off.
"Really, Arthur, I'm shocked. Does Cobb know? I think he would want to know his best friend is---" this sentence ends in an exclamation of surprise that is only half mocking as Arthur stands and covers the insufferable man's mouth with his hand.
"Do me a favor, and shut up." The fact that Arthur phrases it like that is all but an invitation and Eames would be a liar if he said he didn't consider it, but Eames is a gambling man and he knows how to bide his time if he has to. Arthur isn't looking at the other man's eyes, but if he was he would catch a pivotal shift, a deepening of the color and a contrast only manifested from a quiet intent that's been there all along. As it is, they may both be better off for him missing it, but as Arthur draws his hand away Eames commits the closeness to memory, not meant to be intimate in the least but some things just end up being that way regardless. This time it is Eames' turn to hold up placating hands as he takes a polite step backward.
"All right, all right," he says, and it's not saying anything to most people but Arthur understands fully. Eames has no intention of sharing what he knows, and maybe Arthur could have predicted that, but it is a human tendency to desire confirmation from the subject, a directness that the absence of can make one a bit sour as the past week's events prove. And on top of all of that, it's not the least bit lost on Arthur Pendragon that Eames doesn't give straight answers to just anyone.
Again, he doesn't think further on it, but for now the point may be that he thinks of it at all.
There will be other days for 'further'.
Rating: G/All
Word Count: ~2,100
Warnings: None? ._.
Notes: Inspired by something I saw I THINK on the inception_kink thing or whatever but uh too lazy to locate? ;; It also ran away from me. I DON'T even know. I'M POSTING THIS and running away back to class sigh. Filled a few prompts on the meme but first name-attached foray into Inception-land fic lksfjlsdjds possibly a grievous error because the fic in this world tends to be so amazing lol standards sob and it figures it's all circumstance no substance but whatever sob. I liked this movie a lot more than I ever thought I would and crack is crack is crack........there's no real excuse.
Arthur's last name is something he has buried deep and good in the recesses of what one can only define as a forest's worth of paperwork -- a sizable forest's worth. The point man did not know when he was five, nine, thirteen, nor seventeen respectively that he would become the kind of man whose last name being concealed would do him more than a lick of good; that was just pleasant, circumstantial coincidence with the fact that had Arthur been destined to do nothing more than walk in circles he would still have gone to every proverbial length to smother his surname into gratifying obscurity. He did go to great lengths too, borderline questionable lengths (though no bodies were involved) that he will be disclosing to Charon when he crosses over, a.k.a never, not ever, he's sure the worms in the ground will make a fantastic audience, etc, etc, etc. His intent exists in such fiercely rapt commitment that the idea of anyone knowing his last name is downright laughable.
Still, when Eames shows up with a copy of Le Morte D'Arthur, Arthur only barely represses a twitch -- a sinking, sinking, suspicious, suspicious twitch that seems to twist itself right down through to his toes, toes that curl unhappily inside of criminally expensive shoes.
There. Is. No. Fucking. Way. He. Knows.
. . .
But Arthur is particularly snappish toward the forger for the remaining days leading up to the job, just in case.
(Even though there is No Fucking Way He Knows™.)
Eames replies with the wit and poise of a proper English gentleman even though he is really no particular kind of a gentleman if a gentleman at all. This only further aggravates the point-man into such things as religiously murderous silences and finally ignoring Eames when he can. In Arthur's case, ignoring is the equivalent to having the pre-1989 Berlin Wall standing between him and the perceived offense. If there is one thing more impossibly vexing than someone who talks back all of the time it is someone who talks back and seems for all the world as if anyone else's criticism might as well be the voice of the Peanuts adults -- incomprehensible and so completely dispensable.
. . .
Arthur, eyes glued to the screen of his computer and as good as excavating his less than merry way through a document with text the size of sea monkey halves -- possibly newborn sea monkey halves, not that that is actually possible (he hopes). He looks tired to anyone watching but everyone is relatively wrapped up in their own things be it actual work -- really one must hope -- or...or...
The point man swears that he feels the twitch in his temple before he hears the forger's laughter but this may just be an eagerness to be annoyed with the man lest anything else get felt before that. Whatever the case, dark eyes peer over the laptop, brow arching at the obnoxiously cheerful and genuinely amused guffawing going on in the northeast quarter of the warehouse.
"Some of us are trying to work, Eames!" This is stated with The Greatest Restraint, maybe too much because the man being addressed doesn't so much as glance at Arthur, Arthur who tells himself that it irks him so only because it's rude to outright ignore someone. Never mind how he hasn't spoken to Eames nor even looked at him if possible for nearly forty-eight hours. That's different; it wasn't like the Englishman was trying to address him, a thought which also turns uncomfortably behind his eyes but he stuffs it soundly away as Ariadne walks into his line of vision -- his line of vision which is still situated on Eames who finally looks like he's recovering from his sides splitting.
Pity, that.
"What are you laughing at?" she asks, straight to the point and non-judgmental for the moment, tucking hair behind her ear that has strayed out of its sloppy ponytail, which somehow makes her more affable, kinder looking that is. At this, Eames actually turns to glance up at her, then rolling his chair to the side a bit so that the architect can take a look herself. Her brow rises. Arthur is still watching. "That dragon looks like it's made of playdough," she decides, her own eyes going sidelong, as if she's dubious that anyone would watch this, even for the laughs; because Ariadne herself just finds the crudely computer generated fantasy beast offensive to her aesthetic. If someone is going to make a dragon, she reasons, make a dragon. Not a playdough...whatever that is. She hesitates to continue to think of it as a dragon. Eames, meanwhile, no surprise, is completely unabashed as he grins at her.
"Yes, I imagine it is," and he says it so brightly that Ariadne smiles back at him and it's charming really, the petite brunette with her wry expression and her half-bohemian, half-just-got-out-of-bed look standing and sharing this moment of normality with the ever-relaxed Eames who gestures now at the screen. "But it's quite funny, truly. If you can keep your food down over the computer-animated schlock then you might be surprised," and that's the simplest, easiest pitch Arthur has ever heard but it must work because Ariadne sits down and just when Arthur manages to stop staring, just when he begins to fasten his pupils to the tiny text again, Ariadne's laughter breaks out across the warehouse in a staggering echo. She has the sheepishness to cover her mouth but not enough of it to actually be sorry and Arthur can tell that too. He barely resists hitting his head against the table once, pinching the bridge of his nose instead. When the dallying party returns to working, or decides to rather, Eames says something that sounds like Well? and Ariadne holds up both hands as if in placation.
"I give, it's funny, like you couldn't tell," she rolls her eyes at him before pursing her mouth in a quirky frown. "...does he even have a last name?"
Arthur carefully continues to type.
"Who? Him?" Eames jerks a finger at his computer.
"Everyone else does...oh I guess Guinevere doesn't does she?"
Arthur does not let his head sink down between his shoulders; Arthur is not a turtle, though perhaps he wishes he was one briefly -- very briefly.
"No, only royalty has that privilege, apparently," the forger fairly drawls.
Arthur is glad he is not holding a pencil because it would be in halves right now.
"Pendragon is a ridiculous last name anyway," Ariadne all but declares as she turns entirely back ot her own workspace, looking back only to shrug noncommittally at Eames who replies:
"Oh I don't know. I rather like the sound of it, myself. Sort of fairytale, undoubtedly...but sort of dignified as well."
Arthur, who for all the world can't tell if Eames is joking or not -- though he does recognize the Doctor Who reference and indulges no time to decide how he feels about that--, hits the backspace key and holds it for half a page; what he's been typing for the last part of this conversation turns out to be the repertoire of the American keyboard hashed together three times over.
. . .
By the end of the week Arthur reverts to treating Eames with some modicum of normality, which is to say they get into kindergarten verbal spars only twice or three times a day instead of ten; also Arthur desists in the cold-shoulder tactic, which to anyone else would make it clear in and of itself that there is more at hand here. Who ever uses the cold-shoulder tactic with anyone except for someone they like, after all? Possibly, Arthur's people skills have never been as thoroughbred as Eames'. By the end of the job itself Arthur is almost comfortable believing what he tells himself he believed before: no one knows his last name, no one inclusive of Eames. Never mind the book. Never mind that stupid BBC re-imagining. Never. Mind.
Because again, there's just no fucking---
"So."
If Arthur was a statue, bronze probably so that pigeons could land on him because this is how he feels right about now, only then would he be a stiller sight than he is presently with the forger just barely keeping to his own personal space, and even then not really because he's leaning against Arthur's desk.
"What?"
The Actor's Studio would decidedly not find this very riveting but this isn't a movie, isn't a television show, isn't a book, isn't a game.
It's just them and Arthur doesn't look further into it than that.
"You've been exceptionally reminiscent of a hurricane Arthur, I'm sure you're quite aware. I was simply wondering why." Just like that, feathered in that accent and fed with undertones when a person makes the curious mistake of eye contact with the forger, but his words are quite plain in their own right, frank even which is something Arthur generally has great appreciation for. At present, he wastes time folding his hands in his lap and slouching back in his chair a little more as if to better peer at Eames, scrutiny a fine cover for Not Knowing What to Say, usually. Paradoxical even.
"It's nothing," he hears himself say more than he plans to say it, and to be fair it's quite true, at least at the moment.
"Of course," again with the drawl. Arthur's hands tighten across themselves, but it's imperceptible. "Well then, I'm so glad we got that all aired out." The sarcasm could be lost on no one but least of all Arthur who rather excels at it himself. When Eames' back is to him, Arthur relaxes a fraction only to sit ramrod straight when his eye catches the book peeking out of the forger's coat pocket.
"Why are you reading that?" He asks and tries to make it sound as neutral as inhumanly possible, because at this rate only inhuman levels of neutrality will do of course. Blue-green eyes veritably gleam back at him.
"Wouldn't you like to know." Not a question. A statement. He's got him and he knows it and Arthur considers reminding Eames that he can kill him and make it look like an accident, act of God, or attack by playdough dragon if he wishes. Then the forger smiles, smoothing his way back in the younger man's direction only to stand at his desk again, leaning with his hands on it this time. The fact that he says nothing is fantastically excruciating.
"Well, I did ask you," Arthur confirms in what he hopes is a dry tone, but it sounds a bit thin even to him.
"Yes, yes you did," and if possible, Eames' agreement is more taxing than his debate.
"So?" Pulling teeth. That's what this has become, and more and more Arthur realizes he should have seen it coming anyway.
"So is it true?" A question for a question. Arthur blinks at that, blankly even, which Eames takes as the cue to lean in closer, officially breaching what constitutes as Personal Space. Going rather statuesque again, Arthur refuses to budge.
"Is what true?"
A beat. A heartbeat maybe. Or the throb in one's head before imminent homicide. Funny how close together those things end up sometimes.
"Does royalty only have that privilege?"
Arthur blanches, a testament to blanching all over the world because he's quite pale already.
To right said world's balance, Eames leans back and laughs, his face growing rosy the more raucous that laughter becomes before petering off.
"Really, Arthur, I'm shocked. Does Cobb know? I think he would want to know his best friend is---" this sentence ends in an exclamation of surprise that is only half mocking as Arthur stands and covers the insufferable man's mouth with his hand.
"Do me a favor, and shut up." The fact that Arthur phrases it like that is all but an invitation and Eames would be a liar if he said he didn't consider it, but Eames is a gambling man and he knows how to bide his time if he has to. Arthur isn't looking at the other man's eyes, but if he was he would catch a pivotal shift, a deepening of the color and a contrast only manifested from a quiet intent that's been there all along. As it is, they may both be better off for him missing it, but as Arthur draws his hand away Eames commits the closeness to memory, not meant to be intimate in the least but some things just end up being that way regardless. This time it is Eames' turn to hold up placating hands as he takes a polite step backward.
"All right, all right," he says, and it's not saying anything to most people but Arthur understands fully. Eames has no intention of sharing what he knows, and maybe Arthur could have predicted that, but it is a human tendency to desire confirmation from the subject, a directness that the absence of can make one a bit sour as the past week's events prove. And on top of all of that, it's not the least bit lost on Arthur Pendragon that Eames doesn't give straight answers to just anyone.
Again, he doesn't think further on it, but for now the point may be that he thinks of it at all.
There will be other days for 'further'.