[fic]: this new sort of mating ritual
Title: This New Sort of Mating Ritual
Author: knowmydark
Rating: PG-13.
Word Count: 4,283.
Genre: Romance/Crack.
Disclaimer: Don't own, etc.
Summary: Guys&Dolls!AU. Eames is the consummate gambler in New York who makes a bet that he can seduce anyone. Arthur is the uptight Mission-worker who, unfortunately, turns out to be that 'anyone'. Eames/Arthur, slash, One-Shot.
A/N: Don't look at me like that. You guys knew this was coming. inception_kink fill for this prompt. It's best if you see the movie Guys and Dolls before reading this (it has Marlon Brando in it, what is there not to love), but if you haven't seen it, then this storyline should still make sense, it's just that some jokes will appear a bit random. But they're not really. Not intentionally, anyway.
Please don’t forget to comment!
--
This New Sort of Mating Ritual
--
Yusuf is at the barbershop.
This is not a place Yusuf likes to be, primarily because his family has been a proud advocate of facial hair for several generations now. Yusuf always has to try and avoid being seen through the windows. He’s not particularly keen on getting disowned.
“Hey,” Ariadne hisses from her place by the window. “Get up! Saito’s headed towards us, get up.”
Yusuf pokes a curly head out from under the nearest sink.
“He’s just going to ask about Cobb,” Yusuf says. “And the crap game. You just have to deny everything.”
“I can’t plausibly deny everything on my own,” says Ariadne. “I need moral support. Now get over here.”
“I can support you from under the sink,” says Yusuf.
Ariadne makes her five-seconds-from-explosion face.
When Saito finally walks in through the door, Ariadne is smiling and Yusuf is right next to her. He’s not smiling. He’s looking nervously out of the windows, which of course makes him appear criminally suspicious, which of course makes Saito walk up to him.
“Mr Yusuf,” Saito says politely.
“Lieutenant Saito,” Yusuf says. “I’m innocent.”
“You and Miss Ariadne are Dominick Cobb’s best friends,” says Saito. “I doubt that you are ever innocent. You two are practically his right-hand men.”
“Hey,” says Ariadne. “I’m a woman, Lieutenant.”
“I apologise, I meant no offense,” says Saito and inclines his head accordingly. “If you could tell me where he is holding his levitating crap game - ”
“Floating,” says Yusuf. “It’s a floating crap game.”
“And we’re not going to tell you where it is,” says Ariadne. “Because it’s not real. Because it doesn’t exist.”
“I have bought every single conceivable locale where Mr Cobb may think to hold it,” says Saito. “I have even bought the back of the police station. Even though I am the police station. So you can tell Mr Cobb that it’s better for him just to cancel his floating crap game for tomorrow night, otherwise I shall have no alternative but to arrest him for gambling in a public place.”
“Is that a threat?” says Ariadne.
“It is a gracious request,” replies Saito. “With painful consequences if you do not comply.”
“That does not sound particularly gracious,” says Yusuf. “Sometimes I wonder how you ever became Lieutenant.”
“I bought the department,” Saito says.
“Well, figures,” says Ariadne as Saito goes out.
--
Dominick Cobb is sitting on the curb outside with his head cradled dejectedly in his hands.
Ariadne nudges him with her foot.
“Hey,” she says. “What are you doing here? You just missed the Lieutenant.”
“I know,” says Cobb. “He wants me to cancel the crap game tomorrow.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be organising it, then?” says Ariadne. “Or have you already found us a good place to hold it?”
“That’s just the problem, Ariadne,” wails Cobb. “I can’t find a single suitable place. Saito has bought out every disreputable nook that I can think of, and no-one will host for us. Except Fischer. But he wants a thousand upfront, and I don’t have that sort of cash lying around.”
There’s a moment of communal glumness at this.
“How am I ever going to get back to my children?” says Cobb.
“But your children are here,” says Yusuf. “In New York. You live with them.”
Cobb kicks at the grate of the gutter with his shoe. “I’m so broke I couldn’t even buy them an anniversary present.”
“Whoa,” says Yusuf. “You married your kids?”
Cobb squints. “Anniversary of their birth, Yusuf.”
“Don’t you have some lettuce tucked neatly away from the last time you shot crap?” Yusuf asks.
Cobb takes a deep and fortifying breath.
“No,” he says. “I haven’t shot crap in a while.”
“Why not?” Yusuf asks.
“Mal won’t let me,” says Cobb.
“I think I’ve told you before,” says Yusuf, “but you naming your crap games is very bizarre.”
“It’s not my fault I can’t shoot her,” yells Cobb. “It’s not my fault I can’t seem to shoot crap anymore.”
“Look,” says Ariadne, bending down at the waist to yank Cobb to his feet by his suit lapels. “We’ll just have to resolve this in a different way. Don’t you know that the rumour is Eames is in town?”
“Eames?” says Yusuf. “Who the hell is Eames?”
“He once bet me a clean two thou and a half that the sky would turn green if I flashed him my thong,” says Ariadne. “Needless to say, he lost, though he didn’t seem very upset about it. He’ll bet on absolutely anything, Cobb. He’s loaded.”
“But I don’t have a thong,” says Cobb.
“I’m not telling you to go flash him,” says Ariadne. “I’m telling you to bet him a thousand on something that you know that he’s definitely going to lose. That way, you can get the money for Fischer, hold the crap game, collect your usual commission and get back to your children. It’s idiot-proof.”
“But I don’t even know where Eames is,” says Cobb.
“Well, it’s your lucky day, then,” says Ariadne, “because I do.”
--
Eames is radiant.
This is perhaps not the appropriate word, since Eames is wearing a bright blue suit. ‘Fluorescent’ would probably be more apt. ‘Radioactive’ in the scientific lexicon.
“What is that you’re asking for, Cobb?” Eames says, reclining in their shared diner booth in that recognisably leisurely way that the lucky and loaded tend to recline.
“Inception,” says Cobb.
“Speak English,” says Eames. “None of this dreadful American talk. What is inception supposed to stand for? If it’s sex, then the bet is most definitely on. If it isn’t, tell me right from the start and I’ll take my cheesecake somewhere else.”
“It’s sex,” says Cobb.
“Oh, good,” says Eames. “I’ll take it.”
“Don’t you want to hear the terms?” says Cobb.
“Look, Cobb,” says Eames, “let me tell you a story. On the day I left home to make my way in the world, my daddy took me to one side. ‘Son,’ my daddy says to me, ‘I am sorry - ’”
“Eames,” says Cobb. “Is this relevant.”
“Not really,” says Eames. “But the point of the story is that a man should never turn down an opportunity for sex. My daddy was always wise like that. I make it a point to always follow his excellent advice.”
“Then if I bet you that you won’t be able to seduce a person of my choice by tomorrow night at the latest, then are we on?” Cobb says.
“We are on,” says Eames. “Name the person, Cobb.”
“I won’t name him,” says Cobb. “I’ll show you instead.”
--
“You’re not serious,” says Eames some ten minutes later, looking in through the window at the man inside.
“You’re a gambler,” says Cobb. “He works in a Mission. It’s a perfect match, once you look past those two points.”
“His day-job is to rant about how all of us gamblers are destined to burn in Hell,” Eames points out.
“Well,” says Cobb.
“Well,” says Eames.
“At least he looks very pretty when he does it,” says Cobb.
--
“You’re a sinner,” Arthur repeats, brow cocked, “and you’d like to repent. Is that it, Mr Eames?”
“I overheard that you hadn’t many sinners,” says Eames. “I just thought I’d rectify the situation.”
“We are a Mission,” Arthur says. “We only take genuine sinners.”
“I’m genuine,” says Eames. “I’m sinning right now.”
Arthur looks at him doubtfully with his lips pinched together.
“You don’t look like you’re sinning to me,” he accuses.
Eames puts on his most reasonable-sounding voice and spreads his hands in the universal I’m-so-harmless gesture. It’s deceptive. Eames is very rarely reasonable and most definitely never, ever harmless.
“It’s not my fault you’re wearing a uniform that makes me want to ravish you,” Eames says. “If you’re serious about helping sinners resist temptation, you’ll have to stop being a bloody temptation yourself.”
The sharp flush that goes up to Arthur’s ears could be shyness or fury, Eames can’t really tell.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Arthur says.
“I’m going to have to refuse,” Eames replies.
“Please don’t make me hit you over the head with God’s Word,” Arthur says, and reaches for the nearest Bible.
Eames eyes it. It looks heavy and leather-bound.
It also, like the Wrath of God, looks painful.
“Alright, sweetheart,” Eames says and shrugs. “I’ll leave you to sort out your anger issues, but don’t think you can frighten me off with a book. I’ll be back in my quest to have sex with you.”
“No, you won’t,” says Arthur.
“Yes, I will,” says Eames.
“What on earth did I do to deserve this,” Arthur mumbles and rubs at his temple with the pad of his thumb.
Eames gives Arthur’s pert backside a whap with his palm as he leaves.
“No idea. But thank God for me, love.”
--
Yusuf is munching on a hot dog while trying to peer over Ariadne’s shoulder. This results in ketchup on Ariadne’s scarf. Ariadne is furious. Cobb has to separate them. Cobb has to pop an Atenolol to soothe a dangerous hike in blood pressure.
By the time they’ve sorted the melee out, Eames has left. Arthur’s there in the Mission alone.
Arthur looks like he’d happily snap someone’s neck.
Yusuf cheers.
“One point to Cobb,” Yusuf says.
--
Eames comes back barely two hours later and leans against the Mission’s doorjamb. He’s changed into a different suit this time, pinstriped and dark, and it actually fits him well. Arthur is busy preparing for the Thursday prayer meeting when he catches a glimpse of Eames.
Arthur glares.
Arthur’s proving a difficult nut to crack, Eames thinks. This is rather unprecedented. Eames is good at seduction, but only the kind which involves an inappropriate wink and a colourful stream of unprintable slang, and typically this gets him just what he needs. Not with Arthur of the Oh-Pious-Heart, though, apparently. Eames would say that he enjoys the challenge of this, but the cling of Arthur’s uniform to his hips is not a challenge, it’s a rather frustrating cock-tease.
One which Eames has bet one thousand dollars on, too.
Eames should really start being more wise with his cash.
“Darling,” Eames says. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start again. I’m Eames.”
“Go away,” says Arthur.
“Are you actually going to throw me out when I’ve come crawling and begging for salvation?” says Eames. “Oh, Arthur, that’s cruel. That’s hypocritical. That’s like that story about the man who got mugged and no-one except that Samoan would help him. You can be the Samoan.”
“Samaritan,” Arthur corrects. “Not Samoan.”
“Are you discriminating against Polynesians?” says Eames.
“Look,” Arthur says and stands up from his desk, brass buttons marched up in a row to his throat. “Let’s get a few things straight. I work for the Church. I am not in a position to have sex with you.”
“Permit me to turn you around on that desk and we can remedy that pretty quickly,” says Eames.
Arthur scowls.
Eames waggles his eyebrows at him.
“I don’t think you want to repent at all,” Arthur says. “I think you’re trying to drag me down to Hell with you.”
“I’ll settle for dragging you down to the floor and tearing off all of your clothes,” Eames points out.
“I’ll have you know,” Arthur says icily, “that I am not in the market for a one-dollar solid gold watch.”
There’s a pause.
“Who said anything about watches?” says Eames.
“It’s a metaphor,” says Arthur, deepening his scowl, “and it means that I’m not going to fall for your con.”
“It’s only a con if someone is faking,” says Eames. “I’m not faking. I want to have sex with you very, very much.”
This doesn’t really seem to make anything better, if the look on Arthur’s face is anything to go by. Or the fact that Arthur’s hand has started to inch towards the Gideon Bible. Again.
Eames braces himself. Love hurts, after all.
“I’m saving myself for The One,” Arthur says with a low, warning tint to the sound of his voice. “If you think that I’m going to give myself up on some fly-by-night Broadway romance, Mr Eames, you’re mistaken. I’m not quite as easy as that.”
“I can buy you dinner first if it’ll make you feel better,” Eames offers. “I know a rather neat little place in Havana. It has music. Serves questionable alcoholic drinks. Great view. I guarantee you’ll be extremely impressed.”
For some reason, Arthur doesn’t look extremely impressed.
On the contrary, Arthur looks thoroughly unimpressed.
“You’re rather bad at this sales-pitch thing,” Arthur says.
“You’re rather bad at this swoon-at-my-feet thing,” Eames says.
“Perhaps I don’t want what you’re offering,” says Arthur. “Perhaps I doubt your motive, Mr Eames.”
Eames blinks. “I thought my motive was obvious. The situation’s not really that complicated.”
“I’m not going to have dinner in Havana with you so you can get me drunk,” Arthur says, very dry.
“You don’t have to be drunk,” Eames compromises, making to sit atop Arthur’s desk. He aborts this when Arthur deliberately reaches for the Gideon Bible. He stands instead. “You can be perfectly sober when we finally have sex. I’m not picky. So long as we actually have sex.”
“There won’t be any sex in Havana,” says Arthur.
“What if I bought you something in exchange?” says Eames. “Just name it. I’ll buy it for you. Anything.”
Arthur’s fingers go very still on the page. Eames understandably misinterprets the gesture and instantly scoots out of whacking range.
“Mr Eames,” Arthur says. He sounds dangerous. “I would have you know that I’m not for sale.”
“Darling, everything’s for sale,” Eames says, and then adds, “My daddy once told me that.”
“Get out,” Arthur says.
“I - what,” says Eames.
“I have a Bible and I’m not afraid to use it,” Arthur says. “If you don’t believe me, you can stay and I’ll demonstrate.”
--
“Oh, look guys,” Ariadne says brightly. “Arthur just threw a Bible at Eames.”
“Perhaps it’s a new sort of mating ritual,” says Cobb.
Yusuf sighs, shakes his head. “Young people nowadays.”
--
Eames comes back with a gigantic bunch of flowers.
He stays out of both whacking and pelting range.
Arthur’s glare when he catches sight of Eames is especially designed to eviscerate.
“Love,” Eames says with an effulgent grin that anyone with a Bible-shaped bruise on the forehead has absolutely no right to have, “I bring flowers.”
“I suffer from hay-fever,” Arthur snaps back. “Go away.”
“Only if you come to Havana with me.”
Arthur narrows his eyes.
Eames’ grin starts to slip.
“I have a Bible,” Arthur starts and Eames practically flees.
--
The next time Eames arrives with a huge tray of chocolate, wrapped up in pink paper and tied with a bow. Arthur’s halfway through making a cup of coffee and pauses with the kettle still in his hand.
“Now before you get all offended, pet,” Eames says, “I’ll have you know this is Lindt. None of that crappy Red Tulip stuff. This is Swedish. There are umlauts all over the place.”
“I’m allergic to chocolate,” Arthur says.
Eames stares.
And stares.
And stares.
And stares.
“Holy fuck,” Eames says when he finds his voice. “Arthur, how on earth do you even survive?”
--
Arthur’s polishing up his tambourine - which is a thoroughly manly instrument, thank-you - when the sound of Eames’ unwelcome voice filters in through the door from the street outside.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day,” Eames is bellowing.
“No,” Arthur yells. “You most certainly shall not.”
“Thou art more lovely and more temperament - ”
“It’s temperate,” Arthur yells. “Get it right, already.”
“Rough winds do shape the darling bugs - ”
“Ugh,” Arthur yells and then covers his ears. His ears hurt. His head hurts. “How is this my life.”
--
Eames is singing.
This is an unfortunate fact since Eames, by anyone’s standards, can’t sing.
What’s infinitely more unfortunate is that he’s singing in public about Arthur’s lips like a scarlet ribbon, neck like the tower of David, breasts -
“Eames,” Arthur yells. “I don’t have any breasts.”
“I can’t help it,” Eames yells. “I’m just following the poem.”
“Quoting pornography is not going to make me want to go to Havana with you,” Arthur yells.
“That’s blasphemy, Arthur,” Eames yells back. “The Bible is not pornography. The Song of Solomon is very legitimate. I’m singing on behalf of The Man - you’re singing on behalf of The Woman. It’s your turn. You’re supposed to tell me about my eyes like doves beside a flowing creek and my thighs like columns of alabaster, set in sockets of gold - ”
“What,” Arthur yells. “What does that even mean.”
“Well,” yells Eames. “I think ‘sockets’ refers to - ”
“Stop,” Arthur yells. “Just - stop, okay.”
“I’ll stop if you come to Havana,” Eames yells. “Otherwise I’m just going to keep on singing.”
“If you keep singing, I’ll call the police,” yells Arthur. “I’ll make certain they arrest you immediately.”
Eames tips him a grin from his place by the road underneath Arthur’s second-floor window ledge.
“Did you hear me,” yells Arthur. “Immediately.”
“You can’t arrest me for quoting the Bible,” yells Eames.
--
“Wow,” says Ariadne from around the corner. “Public humiliation seemed to work a treat.”
“What?” says Yusuf.
“What?” says Cobb.
“Arthur just agreed to go to Havana with Eames,” says Ariadne.
--
Eames may be gloating.
Just a little bit.
This gloating ends up being very short-lived when Arthur arrives at the cab-rank still wearing his uniform, buttoned-up and prim and very maroon, and suddenly all Eames can think about is how lovely Arthur would look undone. Luckily, Eames’ brain-to-mouth filter is in place due to several introductions to the Gideon Bible and Eames doesn’t voice this thought aloud. Instead, he settles for subtly ogling Arthur’s rather miraculous arse.
“Mr Eames,” Arthur says glacially four hours later when they’re walking along a Cuban street. “Stop staring at my ass.”
Not so subtly, then.
Arthur isn’t holding a Bible this time, but the Guidebook looks thick enough to do damage. Arthur has spent the past five minutes extolling the history of every street they walk past, reading out huge, unwieldy chunks from the Guidebook, and doing an admirable job of not meeting Eames’ eye.
“I’m not staring,” says Eames. “I’m worshipping. Does that make me a heathen? Are you going to redeem me?”
The corners of Arthur’s mouth twist up. “I think you’re beyond redemption by now.”
“You can show me God in other ways,” says Eames and leers at Arthur suggestively.
Arthur stares.
Eames just keeps right on leering.
And then Arthur turns pointedly back to his Guidebook. Eames takes a pre-emptive step away from him.
Just in case.
But Arthur doesn’t throw the book.
“This church is for the most part Spanish baroque, built of native limestone,” Arthur says.
--
“Milk,” Arthur says.
Eames can feel a headache coming on, which is really not the best way to spend a first date - but then again they are sitting in a bar in Havana and Arthur is insisting on nothing but milk.
“Arthur,” Eames says, trying hard to be patient. “This is not how this whole thing is supposed to work.”
Arthur purses his lips and the light from the bar slants across his smooth cheekbones, the planes of his face. “Why don’t you tell me how this ‘whole thing’ is supposed to work, then.”
“Well,” says Eames, “I’ve whisked you here to Havana. That’s fine. That’s the first step, and we’ve accomplished that. Now, I’m supposed to get you uproariously drunk, and then we can have a drunken little heart-to-heart during which neither of us have any idea what we’re talking about, and then we can dance a short tango, and start a bar fight, and you can stand on a fountain and sing about bells and then I’ll tell you that I’m in love with you and you’ll forgive me for bringing you all the way here just because someone bet me one thousand dollars that I wouldn’t be able to have sex with you.”
There’s a pause.
“That’s very specific,” says Arthur.
“You seemed the type to appreciate specificity,” says Eames. “And besides, I saw a movie once with an exactly identical storyline.”
Arthur dimples at that unexpectedly and Eames’ mouth goes extraordinarily dry.
Arthur’s eyes are a very deep shade of brown. Eames is rather surprised that he notices.
“And all this is dependent on me getting drunk,” Arthur says.
Eames belatedly remembers to breathe.
“Uh,” Eames says, intelligently. “Yes. You have to get drunk first. Yes.”
“And somewhere along the line, I have to sing about bells?” Arthur says. “Why on earth does it have to be bells?”
“It’s a metaphor,” says Eames, swaying forward a little, “and it means that you’re going to fall in love.”
“With Havana,” says Arthur. “I won’t fall in love with you.”
“Ah, well,” Eames says. “You just might. You don’t know.”
--
Eames gets drunk.
Arthur doesn’t.
This, Eames thinks, sitting by a fountain and trying to shake his wits back into his head, is most certainly not part of the entire plan, because a man who works for Save-a-Soul should not be able to hold his liquor like that.
“You started a bar fight,” Eames gets out and leans his head on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur, surprisingly, doesn’t shake him off. “I thought your lot were opposed to violence.”
“I was justified. You were dancing with a transvestite,” Arthur says. “I was two seconds away from turning blind.”
Eames frowns. “I thought I was dancing with you.”
“That is by far the worst insult I’ve ever received,” Arthur says.
It takes five full seconds for Eames to realise that Arthur is smiling, a small, sweet smile that goes right to the pit of his eyes and makes the corners of Arthur’s eyelids crinkle. In that moment, Arthur is astoundingly pretty. Eames may just be falling in love with him.
This, also, was not part of the entire plan.
“I think,” Eames says, “I’m in love with you.”
“But I haven’t even sung about bells yet,” says Arthur. “I think you’re disrupting the order of things.”
“We can skip the bells if you want,” says Eames. “I don’t mind. Just so long as you give me a kiss.”
Arthur looks at him for a very long time.
“You’re drunk,” Arthur says.
“I’m not really,” says Eames.
“No, you are,” says Arthur.
Eames snorts at that.
“You don’t have to worry about my virtue, love,” Eames says. “I’m a gambler. I don’t have any.”
“It’s not too late to repent all your sins,” says Arthur.
“I don’t intend to repent them at all,” says Eames. “I don’t intend to repent the only things that make me human and keep me real. Besides, it’d be pointless anyway. I’d go out afterward and sin all the same.”
“You could always stop sinning,” says Arthur, very wryly.
“A life without sin isn’t living,” says Eames.
There’s a pause.
“You know what the problem is, darling?” says Eames. “You’re all repentance and not a single ounce of sin.”
“I’m happy in the House of the Lord,” says Arthur.
“You’re not happy, Arthur,” Eames says.
There’s a pause.
“I always said that you lot have it wrong,” Eames says.
“The Bible isn’t just about rules,” Eames says.
“What to follow,” Eames says.
“What to think,” Eames says.
“What to do to keep out of Hell,” Eames says.
There’s a pause.
“You’ve bogged yourself down in all the specifics, so much so that you’re missing the whole,” Eames says.
Arthur raises a brow. “I’m not ‘missing the whole’.”
“Yes, you are,” Eames says and kisses him.
There’s a pause.
There’s a very, very long pause.
Arthur’s staring.
Arthur finally opens his mouth.
“Was that what I’ve missed all this time,” says Arthur.
“Darling,” Eames says. “The Bible’s all about Love.”
--
Passing out in a rhododendron bush is not a graceful end for a trip to Havana, but it happens. They miss their flight, of course. By the time Eames opens his eyes the next morning he has a hangover to rival the Apocalypse.
Arthur’s sitting in the grass right next to him. There’s a hickey on the side of Arthur’s throat.
Arthur’s smiling. There’s a small red die in his palm.
“Hey,” Eames says, though it comes out a mumble. “That’s mine. You raided my pockets, didn’t you.”
“You’re a cheat,” Arthur says.
“You’re a thief,” Eames says.
Arthur pockets the die and Eames grins at him.
--
When they finally get back to New York, they find Cobb holding the crap game underground in a sewer because he never got Eames’ one thousand dollars. Cobb is, apparently, inconsolable. Eames is subjected to several rants about levels and subterranean security and a place called Limbo, which supposedly is both a metaphor for the sewer and for Cobb’s inability to keep away from Mal.
When Eames hands Cobb the one thousand dollars, Cobb squints. His blue eyes dart to Arthur.
“You lost the bet?” Cobb says. “You didn’t sleep with him?”
“No, I didn’t,” says Eames and gives a small shrug.
Cobb stares. “I hope that’s not a conscience I hear. It’s dangerous for a gambler like you to find God.”
Arthur looks over from his place by the sewer ladder, oblivious, and raises one perfect, dark brow.
“Oh, don’t worry,” says Eames. “I haven’t found God.”
I’ve just found myself something much better, that’s all.
--
The End.
--
A/N: Just a few things if you read this without watching Guys and Dolls first and are now butt-ass confused:
"Crap(s)" is a dice game. When someone plays craps, it's said that they're "shooting crap". Since gambling was severely frowned upon/illegal in the 19-whenevers that this movie/musical is set in, if you'd wanted to play craps, you'd have had to attend underground "floating" crap games - basically, just games which change location each time so it's difficult for the police to find out where they are. Which means, of course, that people need to organise where and when these floating games occur - which, in this story, is Cobb. In exchange for setting the games up, people like Cobb rake a commission out of every game played. (But also run the risk of getting arrested, of course.)
Hopefully, this was what you were after, bookshop, for your prompt! I'm sorry I didn't cast Ariadne as Adelaide. As much as I was looking forward to Ariadne purring like a kitten and dancing in garters, I just couldn't find a way to make it work.
Please don't forget to comment, darlings! My other Inception fics are here; my other inception_kink fills are here. Please feel free to check them out, or friend me for future Arthur/Eames!
♥
[There is now FANART for this by the adorable staticlights!]
Author: knowmydark
Rating: PG-13.
Word Count: 4,283.
Genre: Romance/Crack.
Disclaimer: Don't own, etc.
Summary: Guys&Dolls!AU. Eames is the consummate gambler in New York who makes a bet that he can seduce anyone. Arthur is the uptight Mission-worker who, unfortunately, turns out to be that 'anyone'. Eames/Arthur, slash, One-Shot.
A/N: Don't look at me like that. You guys knew this was coming. inception_kink fill for this prompt. It's best if you see the movie Guys and Dolls before reading this (it has Marlon Brando in it, what is there not to love), but if you haven't seen it, then this storyline should still make sense, it's just that some jokes will appear a bit random. But they're not really. Not intentionally, anyway.
Please don’t forget to comment!
--
This New Sort of Mating Ritual
--
Yusuf is at the barbershop.
This is not a place Yusuf likes to be, primarily because his family has been a proud advocate of facial hair for several generations now. Yusuf always has to try and avoid being seen through the windows. He’s not particularly keen on getting disowned.
“Hey,” Ariadne hisses from her place by the window. “Get up! Saito’s headed towards us, get up.”
Yusuf pokes a curly head out from under the nearest sink.
“He’s just going to ask about Cobb,” Yusuf says. “And the crap game. You just have to deny everything.”
“I can’t plausibly deny everything on my own,” says Ariadne. “I need moral support. Now get over here.”
“I can support you from under the sink,” says Yusuf.
Ariadne makes her five-seconds-from-explosion face.
When Saito finally walks in through the door, Ariadne is smiling and Yusuf is right next to her. He’s not smiling. He’s looking nervously out of the windows, which of course makes him appear criminally suspicious, which of course makes Saito walk up to him.
“Mr Yusuf,” Saito says politely.
“Lieutenant Saito,” Yusuf says. “I’m innocent.”
“You and Miss Ariadne are Dominick Cobb’s best friends,” says Saito. “I doubt that you are ever innocent. You two are practically his right-hand men.”
“Hey,” says Ariadne. “I’m a woman, Lieutenant.”
“I apologise, I meant no offense,” says Saito and inclines his head accordingly. “If you could tell me where he is holding his levitating crap game - ”
“Floating,” says Yusuf. “It’s a floating crap game.”
“And we’re not going to tell you where it is,” says Ariadne. “Because it’s not real. Because it doesn’t exist.”
“I have bought every single conceivable locale where Mr Cobb may think to hold it,” says Saito. “I have even bought the back of the police station. Even though I am the police station. So you can tell Mr Cobb that it’s better for him just to cancel his floating crap game for tomorrow night, otherwise I shall have no alternative but to arrest him for gambling in a public place.”
“Is that a threat?” says Ariadne.
“It is a gracious request,” replies Saito. “With painful consequences if you do not comply.”
“That does not sound particularly gracious,” says Yusuf. “Sometimes I wonder how you ever became Lieutenant.”
“I bought the department,” Saito says.
“Well, figures,” says Ariadne as Saito goes out.
--
Dominick Cobb is sitting on the curb outside with his head cradled dejectedly in his hands.
Ariadne nudges him with her foot.
“Hey,” she says. “What are you doing here? You just missed the Lieutenant.”
“I know,” says Cobb. “He wants me to cancel the crap game tomorrow.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be organising it, then?” says Ariadne. “Or have you already found us a good place to hold it?”
“That’s just the problem, Ariadne,” wails Cobb. “I can’t find a single suitable place. Saito has bought out every disreputable nook that I can think of, and no-one will host for us. Except Fischer. But he wants a thousand upfront, and I don’t have that sort of cash lying around.”
There’s a moment of communal glumness at this.
“How am I ever going to get back to my children?” says Cobb.
“But your children are here,” says Yusuf. “In New York. You live with them.”
Cobb kicks at the grate of the gutter with his shoe. “I’m so broke I couldn’t even buy them an anniversary present.”
“Whoa,” says Yusuf. “You married your kids?”
Cobb squints. “Anniversary of their birth, Yusuf.”
“Don’t you have some lettuce tucked neatly away from the last time you shot crap?” Yusuf asks.
Cobb takes a deep and fortifying breath.
“No,” he says. “I haven’t shot crap in a while.”
“Why not?” Yusuf asks.
“Mal won’t let me,” says Cobb.
“I think I’ve told you before,” says Yusuf, “but you naming your crap games is very bizarre.”
“It’s not my fault I can’t shoot her,” yells Cobb. “It’s not my fault I can’t seem to shoot crap anymore.”
“Look,” says Ariadne, bending down at the waist to yank Cobb to his feet by his suit lapels. “We’ll just have to resolve this in a different way. Don’t you know that the rumour is Eames is in town?”
“Eames?” says Yusuf. “Who the hell is Eames?”
“He once bet me a clean two thou and a half that the sky would turn green if I flashed him my thong,” says Ariadne. “Needless to say, he lost, though he didn’t seem very upset about it. He’ll bet on absolutely anything, Cobb. He’s loaded.”
“But I don’t have a thong,” says Cobb.
“I’m not telling you to go flash him,” says Ariadne. “I’m telling you to bet him a thousand on something that you know that he’s definitely going to lose. That way, you can get the money for Fischer, hold the crap game, collect your usual commission and get back to your children. It’s idiot-proof.”
“But I don’t even know where Eames is,” says Cobb.
“Well, it’s your lucky day, then,” says Ariadne, “because I do.”
--
Eames is radiant.
This is perhaps not the appropriate word, since Eames is wearing a bright blue suit. ‘Fluorescent’ would probably be more apt. ‘Radioactive’ in the scientific lexicon.
“What is that you’re asking for, Cobb?” Eames says, reclining in their shared diner booth in that recognisably leisurely way that the lucky and loaded tend to recline.
“Inception,” says Cobb.
“Speak English,” says Eames. “None of this dreadful American talk. What is inception supposed to stand for? If it’s sex, then the bet is most definitely on. If it isn’t, tell me right from the start and I’ll take my cheesecake somewhere else.”
“It’s sex,” says Cobb.
“Oh, good,” says Eames. “I’ll take it.”
“Don’t you want to hear the terms?” says Cobb.
“Look, Cobb,” says Eames, “let me tell you a story. On the day I left home to make my way in the world, my daddy took me to one side. ‘Son,’ my daddy says to me, ‘I am sorry - ’”
“Eames,” says Cobb. “Is this relevant.”
“Not really,” says Eames. “But the point of the story is that a man should never turn down an opportunity for sex. My daddy was always wise like that. I make it a point to always follow his excellent advice.”
“Then if I bet you that you won’t be able to seduce a person of my choice by tomorrow night at the latest, then are we on?” Cobb says.
“We are on,” says Eames. “Name the person, Cobb.”
“I won’t name him,” says Cobb. “I’ll show you instead.”
--
“You’re not serious,” says Eames some ten minutes later, looking in through the window at the man inside.
“You’re a gambler,” says Cobb. “He works in a Mission. It’s a perfect match, once you look past those two points.”
“His day-job is to rant about how all of us gamblers are destined to burn in Hell,” Eames points out.
“Well,” says Cobb.
“Well,” says Eames.
“At least he looks very pretty when he does it,” says Cobb.
--
“You’re a sinner,” Arthur repeats, brow cocked, “and you’d like to repent. Is that it, Mr Eames?”
“I overheard that you hadn’t many sinners,” says Eames. “I just thought I’d rectify the situation.”
“We are a Mission,” Arthur says. “We only take genuine sinners.”
“I’m genuine,” says Eames. “I’m sinning right now.”
Arthur looks at him doubtfully with his lips pinched together.
“You don’t look like you’re sinning to me,” he accuses.
Eames puts on his most reasonable-sounding voice and spreads his hands in the universal I’m-so-harmless gesture. It’s deceptive. Eames is very rarely reasonable and most definitely never, ever harmless.
“It’s not my fault you’re wearing a uniform that makes me want to ravish you,” Eames says. “If you’re serious about helping sinners resist temptation, you’ll have to stop being a bloody temptation yourself.”
The sharp flush that goes up to Arthur’s ears could be shyness or fury, Eames can’t really tell.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Arthur says.
“I’m going to have to refuse,” Eames replies.
“Please don’t make me hit you over the head with God’s Word,” Arthur says, and reaches for the nearest Bible.
Eames eyes it. It looks heavy and leather-bound.
It also, like the Wrath of God, looks painful.
“Alright, sweetheart,” Eames says and shrugs. “I’ll leave you to sort out your anger issues, but don’t think you can frighten me off with a book. I’ll be back in my quest to have sex with you.”
“No, you won’t,” says Arthur.
“Yes, I will,” says Eames.
“What on earth did I do to deserve this,” Arthur mumbles and rubs at his temple with the pad of his thumb.
Eames gives Arthur’s pert backside a whap with his palm as he leaves.
“No idea. But thank God for me, love.”
--
Yusuf is munching on a hot dog while trying to peer over Ariadne’s shoulder. This results in ketchup on Ariadne’s scarf. Ariadne is furious. Cobb has to separate them. Cobb has to pop an Atenolol to soothe a dangerous hike in blood pressure.
By the time they’ve sorted the melee out, Eames has left. Arthur’s there in the Mission alone.
Arthur looks like he’d happily snap someone’s neck.
Yusuf cheers.
“One point to Cobb,” Yusuf says.
--
Eames comes back barely two hours later and leans against the Mission’s doorjamb. He’s changed into a different suit this time, pinstriped and dark, and it actually fits him well. Arthur is busy preparing for the Thursday prayer meeting when he catches a glimpse of Eames.
Arthur glares.
Arthur’s proving a difficult nut to crack, Eames thinks. This is rather unprecedented. Eames is good at seduction, but only the kind which involves an inappropriate wink and a colourful stream of unprintable slang, and typically this gets him just what he needs. Not with Arthur of the Oh-Pious-Heart, though, apparently. Eames would say that he enjoys the challenge of this, but the cling of Arthur’s uniform to his hips is not a challenge, it’s a rather frustrating cock-tease.
One which Eames has bet one thousand dollars on, too.
Eames should really start being more wise with his cash.
“Darling,” Eames says. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start again. I’m Eames.”
“Go away,” says Arthur.
“Are you actually going to throw me out when I’ve come crawling and begging for salvation?” says Eames. “Oh, Arthur, that’s cruel. That’s hypocritical. That’s like that story about the man who got mugged and no-one except that Samoan would help him. You can be the Samoan.”
“Samaritan,” Arthur corrects. “Not Samoan.”
“Are you discriminating against Polynesians?” says Eames.
“Look,” Arthur says and stands up from his desk, brass buttons marched up in a row to his throat. “Let’s get a few things straight. I work for the Church. I am not in a position to have sex with you.”
“Permit me to turn you around on that desk and we can remedy that pretty quickly,” says Eames.
Arthur scowls.
Eames waggles his eyebrows at him.
“I don’t think you want to repent at all,” Arthur says. “I think you’re trying to drag me down to Hell with you.”
“I’ll settle for dragging you down to the floor and tearing off all of your clothes,” Eames points out.
“I’ll have you know,” Arthur says icily, “that I am not in the market for a one-dollar solid gold watch.”
There’s a pause.
“Who said anything about watches?” says Eames.
“It’s a metaphor,” says Arthur, deepening his scowl, “and it means that I’m not going to fall for your con.”
“It’s only a con if someone is faking,” says Eames. “I’m not faking. I want to have sex with you very, very much.”
This doesn’t really seem to make anything better, if the look on Arthur’s face is anything to go by. Or the fact that Arthur’s hand has started to inch towards the Gideon Bible. Again.
Eames braces himself. Love hurts, after all.
“I’m saving myself for The One,” Arthur says with a low, warning tint to the sound of his voice. “If you think that I’m going to give myself up on some fly-by-night Broadway romance, Mr Eames, you’re mistaken. I’m not quite as easy as that.”
“I can buy you dinner first if it’ll make you feel better,” Eames offers. “I know a rather neat little place in Havana. It has music. Serves questionable alcoholic drinks. Great view. I guarantee you’ll be extremely impressed.”
For some reason, Arthur doesn’t look extremely impressed.
On the contrary, Arthur looks thoroughly unimpressed.
“You’re rather bad at this sales-pitch thing,” Arthur says.
“You’re rather bad at this swoon-at-my-feet thing,” Eames says.
“Perhaps I don’t want what you’re offering,” says Arthur. “Perhaps I doubt your motive, Mr Eames.”
Eames blinks. “I thought my motive was obvious. The situation’s not really that complicated.”
“I’m not going to have dinner in Havana with you so you can get me drunk,” Arthur says, very dry.
“You don’t have to be drunk,” Eames compromises, making to sit atop Arthur’s desk. He aborts this when Arthur deliberately reaches for the Gideon Bible. He stands instead. “You can be perfectly sober when we finally have sex. I’m not picky. So long as we actually have sex.”
“There won’t be any sex in Havana,” says Arthur.
“What if I bought you something in exchange?” says Eames. “Just name it. I’ll buy it for you. Anything.”
Arthur’s fingers go very still on the page. Eames understandably misinterprets the gesture and instantly scoots out of whacking range.
“Mr Eames,” Arthur says. He sounds dangerous. “I would have you know that I’m not for sale.”
“Darling, everything’s for sale,” Eames says, and then adds, “My daddy once told me that.”
“Get out,” Arthur says.
“I - what,” says Eames.
“I have a Bible and I’m not afraid to use it,” Arthur says. “If you don’t believe me, you can stay and I’ll demonstrate.”
--
“Oh, look guys,” Ariadne says brightly. “Arthur just threw a Bible at Eames.”
“Perhaps it’s a new sort of mating ritual,” says Cobb.
Yusuf sighs, shakes his head. “Young people nowadays.”
--
Eames comes back with a gigantic bunch of flowers.
He stays out of both whacking and pelting range.
Arthur’s glare when he catches sight of Eames is especially designed to eviscerate.
“Love,” Eames says with an effulgent grin that anyone with a Bible-shaped bruise on the forehead has absolutely no right to have, “I bring flowers.”
“I suffer from hay-fever,” Arthur snaps back. “Go away.”
“Only if you come to Havana with me.”
Arthur narrows his eyes.
Eames’ grin starts to slip.
“I have a Bible,” Arthur starts and Eames practically flees.
--
The next time Eames arrives with a huge tray of chocolate, wrapped up in pink paper and tied with a bow. Arthur’s halfway through making a cup of coffee and pauses with the kettle still in his hand.
“Now before you get all offended, pet,” Eames says, “I’ll have you know this is Lindt. None of that crappy Red Tulip stuff. This is Swedish. There are umlauts all over the place.”
“I’m allergic to chocolate,” Arthur says.
Eames stares.
And stares.
And stares.
And stares.
“Holy fuck,” Eames says when he finds his voice. “Arthur, how on earth do you even survive?”
--
Arthur’s polishing up his tambourine - which is a thoroughly manly instrument, thank-you - when the sound of Eames’ unwelcome voice filters in through the door from the street outside.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day,” Eames is bellowing.
“No,” Arthur yells. “You most certainly shall not.”
“Thou art more lovely and more temperament - ”
“It’s temperate,” Arthur yells. “Get it right, already.”
“Rough winds do shape the darling bugs - ”
“Ugh,” Arthur yells and then covers his ears. His ears hurt. His head hurts. “How is this my life.”
--
Eames is singing.
This is an unfortunate fact since Eames, by anyone’s standards, can’t sing.
What’s infinitely more unfortunate is that he’s singing in public about Arthur’s lips like a scarlet ribbon, neck like the tower of David, breasts -
“Eames,” Arthur yells. “I don’t have any breasts.”
“I can’t help it,” Eames yells. “I’m just following the poem.”
“Quoting pornography is not going to make me want to go to Havana with you,” Arthur yells.
“That’s blasphemy, Arthur,” Eames yells back. “The Bible is not pornography. The Song of Solomon is very legitimate. I’m singing on behalf of The Man - you’re singing on behalf of The Woman. It’s your turn. You’re supposed to tell me about my eyes like doves beside a flowing creek and my thighs like columns of alabaster, set in sockets of gold - ”
“What,” Arthur yells. “What does that even mean.”
“Well,” yells Eames. “I think ‘sockets’ refers to - ”
“Stop,” Arthur yells. “Just - stop, okay.”
“I’ll stop if you come to Havana,” Eames yells. “Otherwise I’m just going to keep on singing.”
“If you keep singing, I’ll call the police,” yells Arthur. “I’ll make certain they arrest you immediately.”
Eames tips him a grin from his place by the road underneath Arthur’s second-floor window ledge.
“Did you hear me,” yells Arthur. “Immediately.”
“You can’t arrest me for quoting the Bible,” yells Eames.
--
“Wow,” says Ariadne from around the corner. “Public humiliation seemed to work a treat.”
“What?” says Yusuf.
“What?” says Cobb.
“Arthur just agreed to go to Havana with Eames,” says Ariadne.
--
Eames may be gloating.
Just a little bit.
This gloating ends up being very short-lived when Arthur arrives at the cab-rank still wearing his uniform, buttoned-up and prim and very maroon, and suddenly all Eames can think about is how lovely Arthur would look undone. Luckily, Eames’ brain-to-mouth filter is in place due to several introductions to the Gideon Bible and Eames doesn’t voice this thought aloud. Instead, he settles for subtly ogling Arthur’s rather miraculous arse.
“Mr Eames,” Arthur says glacially four hours later when they’re walking along a Cuban street. “Stop staring at my ass.”
Not so subtly, then.
Arthur isn’t holding a Bible this time, but the Guidebook looks thick enough to do damage. Arthur has spent the past five minutes extolling the history of every street they walk past, reading out huge, unwieldy chunks from the Guidebook, and doing an admirable job of not meeting Eames’ eye.
“I’m not staring,” says Eames. “I’m worshipping. Does that make me a heathen? Are you going to redeem me?”
The corners of Arthur’s mouth twist up. “I think you’re beyond redemption by now.”
“You can show me God in other ways,” says Eames and leers at Arthur suggestively.
Arthur stares.
Eames just keeps right on leering.
And then Arthur turns pointedly back to his Guidebook. Eames takes a pre-emptive step away from him.
Just in case.
But Arthur doesn’t throw the book.
“This church is for the most part Spanish baroque, built of native limestone,” Arthur says.
--
“Milk,” Arthur says.
Eames can feel a headache coming on, which is really not the best way to spend a first date - but then again they are sitting in a bar in Havana and Arthur is insisting on nothing but milk.
“Arthur,” Eames says, trying hard to be patient. “This is not how this whole thing is supposed to work.”
Arthur purses his lips and the light from the bar slants across his smooth cheekbones, the planes of his face. “Why don’t you tell me how this ‘whole thing’ is supposed to work, then.”
“Well,” says Eames, “I’ve whisked you here to Havana. That’s fine. That’s the first step, and we’ve accomplished that. Now, I’m supposed to get you uproariously drunk, and then we can have a drunken little heart-to-heart during which neither of us have any idea what we’re talking about, and then we can dance a short tango, and start a bar fight, and you can stand on a fountain and sing about bells and then I’ll tell you that I’m in love with you and you’ll forgive me for bringing you all the way here just because someone bet me one thousand dollars that I wouldn’t be able to have sex with you.”
There’s a pause.
“That’s very specific,” says Arthur.
“You seemed the type to appreciate specificity,” says Eames. “And besides, I saw a movie once with an exactly identical storyline.”
Arthur dimples at that unexpectedly and Eames’ mouth goes extraordinarily dry.
Arthur’s eyes are a very deep shade of brown. Eames is rather surprised that he notices.
“And all this is dependent on me getting drunk,” Arthur says.
Eames belatedly remembers to breathe.
“Uh,” Eames says, intelligently. “Yes. You have to get drunk first. Yes.”
“And somewhere along the line, I have to sing about bells?” Arthur says. “Why on earth does it have to be bells?”
“It’s a metaphor,” says Eames, swaying forward a little, “and it means that you’re going to fall in love.”
“With Havana,” says Arthur. “I won’t fall in love with you.”
“Ah, well,” Eames says. “You just might. You don’t know.”
--
Eames gets drunk.
Arthur doesn’t.
This, Eames thinks, sitting by a fountain and trying to shake his wits back into his head, is most certainly not part of the entire plan, because a man who works for Save-a-Soul should not be able to hold his liquor like that.
“You started a bar fight,” Eames gets out and leans his head on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur, surprisingly, doesn’t shake him off. “I thought your lot were opposed to violence.”
“I was justified. You were dancing with a transvestite,” Arthur says. “I was two seconds away from turning blind.”
Eames frowns. “I thought I was dancing with you.”
“That is by far the worst insult I’ve ever received,” Arthur says.
It takes five full seconds for Eames to realise that Arthur is smiling, a small, sweet smile that goes right to the pit of his eyes and makes the corners of Arthur’s eyelids crinkle. In that moment, Arthur is astoundingly pretty. Eames may just be falling in love with him.
This, also, was not part of the entire plan.
“I think,” Eames says, “I’m in love with you.”
“But I haven’t even sung about bells yet,” says Arthur. “I think you’re disrupting the order of things.”
“We can skip the bells if you want,” says Eames. “I don’t mind. Just so long as you give me a kiss.”
Arthur looks at him for a very long time.
“You’re drunk,” Arthur says.
“I’m not really,” says Eames.
“No, you are,” says Arthur.
Eames snorts at that.
“You don’t have to worry about my virtue, love,” Eames says. “I’m a gambler. I don’t have any.”
“It’s not too late to repent all your sins,” says Arthur.
“I don’t intend to repent them at all,” says Eames. “I don’t intend to repent the only things that make me human and keep me real. Besides, it’d be pointless anyway. I’d go out afterward and sin all the same.”
“You could always stop sinning,” says Arthur, very wryly.
“A life without sin isn’t living,” says Eames.
There’s a pause.
“You know what the problem is, darling?” says Eames. “You’re all repentance and not a single ounce of sin.”
“I’m happy in the House of the Lord,” says Arthur.
“You’re not happy, Arthur,” Eames says.
There’s a pause.
“I always said that you lot have it wrong,” Eames says.
“The Bible isn’t just about rules,” Eames says.
“What to follow,” Eames says.
“What to think,” Eames says.
“What to do to keep out of Hell,” Eames says.
There’s a pause.
“You’ve bogged yourself down in all the specifics, so much so that you’re missing the whole,” Eames says.
Arthur raises a brow. “I’m not ‘missing the whole’.”
“Yes, you are,” Eames says and kisses him.
There’s a pause.
There’s a very, very long pause.
Arthur’s staring.
Arthur finally opens his mouth.
“Was that what I’ve missed all this time,” says Arthur.
“Darling,” Eames says. “The Bible’s all about Love.”
--
Passing out in a rhododendron bush is not a graceful end for a trip to Havana, but it happens. They miss their flight, of course. By the time Eames opens his eyes the next morning he has a hangover to rival the Apocalypse.
Arthur’s sitting in the grass right next to him. There’s a hickey on the side of Arthur’s throat.
Arthur’s smiling. There’s a small red die in his palm.
“Hey,” Eames says, though it comes out a mumble. “That’s mine. You raided my pockets, didn’t you.”
“You’re a cheat,” Arthur says.
“You’re a thief,” Eames says.
Arthur pockets the die and Eames grins at him.
--
When they finally get back to New York, they find Cobb holding the crap game underground in a sewer because he never got Eames’ one thousand dollars. Cobb is, apparently, inconsolable. Eames is subjected to several rants about levels and subterranean security and a place called Limbo, which supposedly is both a metaphor for the sewer and for Cobb’s inability to keep away from Mal.
When Eames hands Cobb the one thousand dollars, Cobb squints. His blue eyes dart to Arthur.
“You lost the bet?” Cobb says. “You didn’t sleep with him?”
“No, I didn’t,” says Eames and gives a small shrug.
Cobb stares. “I hope that’s not a conscience I hear. It’s dangerous for a gambler like you to find God.”
Arthur looks over from his place by the sewer ladder, oblivious, and raises one perfect, dark brow.
“Oh, don’t worry,” says Eames. “I haven’t found God.”
I’ve just found myself something much better, that’s all.
--
The End.
--
A/N: Just a few things if you read this without watching Guys and Dolls first and are now butt-ass confused:
"Crap(s)" is a dice game. When someone plays craps, it's said that they're "shooting crap". Since gambling was severely frowned upon/illegal in the 19-whenevers that this movie/musical is set in, if you'd wanted to play craps, you'd have had to attend underground "floating" crap games - basically, just games which change location each time so it's difficult for the police to find out where they are. Which means, of course, that people need to organise where and when these floating games occur - which, in this story, is Cobb. In exchange for setting the games up, people like Cobb rake a commission out of every game played. (But also run the risk of getting arrested, of course.)
Hopefully, this was what you were after, bookshop, for your prompt! I'm sorry I didn't cast Ariadne as Adelaide. As much as I was looking forward to Ariadne purring like a kitten and dancing in garters, I just couldn't find a way to make it work.
Please don't forget to comment, darlings! My other Inception fics are here; my other inception_kink fills are here. Please feel free to check them out, or friend me for future Arthur/Eames!
♥
[There is now FANART for this by the adorable staticlights!]