[fic]: like a bullet in the back
Title: Like a Bullet in the Back
Author: knowmydark
Rating: PG-13.
Word Count: 3,672.
Genre: Romance/Crack.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Eames is accidentally shrunken to pocket-size. Arthur is forced to take care of him. Eames/Arthur, slash, One-Shot.
A/N: Whoas, a whole week since I last posted fic? I'm ashamed. inception_kink fill for this prompt, though I may have... warped the details a little, heh.
Please don't forget to comment!
--
Like a Bullet in the Back
--
Happiness hit her like a bullet in the back
Struck from a great height by someone who should know better than that
--
Surprisingly, it’s Arthur who first notices.
“Hey,” says Arthur to the warehouse at large. “Where’s Eames?”
Cobb is busy checking his Beretta, thumbing through the cartridges in the pocket of his jacket. Ariadne is drawing a complicated schematic on the whiteboard, specifically designed to confuse everyone. (Arthur knows this for an established fact. Ariadne told him, once, with a slipshod grin and Arthur’s respect for her had skyrocketed instantly.)
Only Yusuf looks like he’s interested, although interested in this particular case means wearing a thoroughly chagrined expression suspiciously close to wilting fear.
Arthur picks up on this immediately. Arthur has always been able to pick up on fear. He was a devastating ice-hockey player back in college, with a well-known propensity for whacking on shins.
His eyes narrow and Yusuf ducks his head.
“...Yusuf,” Arthur says. “Do you know where Eames is?”
Yusuf’s response is to grab a beaker and put it upside-down over something on his desk. Arthur’s too far away to see what it is, but dismisses the move as nervousness.
“Yusuf,” Arthur says. “I have a Medieval History degree. I am remarkably well-read on torture devices.”
“I have no idea where Eames is,” Yusuf squeaks.
Ariadne looks up from the whiteboard with a frown.
“Weren’t you talking to him just a moment ago?” Ariadne says. “I thought I saw him with you.”
Yusuf puts his palm over the upturned beaker. “No.”
Arthur squints.
Ariadne squints.
Cobb looks up from cleaning his handgun’s slide. He has no idea what the conversation’s about, but it involves squinting, so Cobb is immediately interested.
“Why are we squinting all of a sudden?” Cobb says. “I can’t believe you guys got started without me. That’s mean. I thought that we were all good friends, here.”
“Eames is missing,” says Arthur.
“Yusuf knows where he is,” chimes in Ariadne.
“No, I don’t,” Yusuf insists, turning green. It’s an impressive shade for Yusuf to turn, considering. “I have no idea what, uh, happened to him.”
“What happened to him?” Ariadne says. “What do you mean? And why are you clutching your beaker like that?”
“...I like it?” says Yusuf and promptly turns white.
Arthur is out of his chair and across the room in an instant, reaching for the beaker beneath Yusuf’s palm. Yusuf shouts something hysterically close to “Stop it, you’ll hurt him!”, which Arthur doesn’t pay any mind to, because firstly, Yusuf appears to have started referring to himself in third person, which more than merits some fervent violence, and secondly, because Arthur has absolutely no qualms about hurting Yusuf at this point in time.
That is, until a tiny voice shouts, “Guys, I know I’m extremely attractive, but there’s nothing uncivilised about getting in line.”
Arthur freezes.
Yusuf immediately faints.
Cobb is squinting like an industrial-grade laser, which is somewhat of an understatement.
“...Wow,” says Ariadne finally, and it’s an indication of how very fucked up they all are that she sounds more impressed than actually appalled. Arthur lets go of the beaker and stares at it. “You shrunk Eames.”
--
Arthur is worried.
When Arthur is worried, he tends to shout a lot. This is rather unfortunate for a person of only three inches, because sound waves can be quite a veritable thing when your eardrums are a few millimetres in diameter.
“Jesus!” Eames yells, clutching his ears. “Arthur, you stupid little shit!”
“I’m not the one who’s little!” yells Arthur. “Can’t you see that’s just the problem, Eames!”
“Can you put me back in my beaker!” yells Eames.
“It’s airtight!” yells Arthur. “You’ll suffocate in there!”
“That’s a slightly more dignified method of death than dying of an inner ear haemorrhage!” yells Eames.
Thankfully, at this point in time, Yusuf comes to on the warehouse floor. Arthur promptly turns all of his wrath on him. Yusuf looks suitably miserable at this, since waking up to an inconsolably apoplectic Arthur is not high on anyone’s To Do list.
“What did you give him!” Arthur yells and Yusuf looks like he’s going to faint again.
“Nothing,” says Yusuf. “I didn’t give him anything. He drank it himself. It was just on my bench. One moment we were having a perfectly amiable discussion about quantum physics and the meaning of life, and the next moment, he’d drunk something out of my flask. I couldn’t stop him in time. It wasn’t my fault.”
Arthur whirls on Eames.
“Is this true!” Arthur yells.
“Darling,” says Eames, and spreads his hands. “We were talking about the meaning of life. It seemed apt to consume a mysterious beverage in order to have more to contribute to the conversation.”
Cobb intervenes before Arthur can blow an artery. “Look, we need to be more rational about this. Yusuf, how long is Eames going to stay like that?”
“I don’t know,” says Yusuf.
“But you made it,” says Cobb.
“It’s a mysterious beverage,” Yusuf points out. “If I knew, it wouldn’t be mysterious, would it?”
To everyone’s surprise, Cobb’s face lights up at this like a Christmas tree at a shopping mall.
“Really?” says Cobb. “So he’ll stay this small until - well, until God-knows-when, basically?”
“Uh,” says Yusuf.
“Yes,” says Ariadne.
“No,” shouts Arthur, vehemently.
“No, but seriously, this is great,” says Cobb. “Phillipa was just telling me the other day how she’s torn all the limbs off her Barbie dolls. I mean, since Eames is now this small, I can just give her Eames to play with, instead.”
“I thought we were being rational!” yells Eames. “And I’d like to keep all of my limbs, Cobb, thanks!”
“You should have thought about being rational,” yells Arthur, “before you drank the goddamn thing!”
“I’m over the age of eighteen!” yells Eames. “I’m capable of giving informed consent!”
“Informed consent involves being informed!” Arthur yells.
“I’m an adult!” yells Eames.
“You don’t act it!” yells Arthur.
“That’s because I like being underestimated!” yells Eames.
Arthur bends at the waist unexpectedly, and Eames actually takes a step back in surprise, vaguely nervous.
Arthur pokes Eames right in the chest.
It’s a mild-mannered poke, as far as pokes go, but it has enough momentum behind it to send Eames onto his arse with an undignified “Oof!”
“You’re three inches tall,” Arthur points out, voice rough with yelling and irritation. “I don’t really think it’s possible, Mr Eames, to underestimate you in your current state.”
Eames glares.
Arthur just glares right back.
Finally, Eames heaves himself to his feet.
“You’re such a bully,” Eames mumbles grumpily. “Go and pick on someone your own bloody size.”
--
Arthur ends up being the one to take him home, because Yusuf has a vast array of cats and Ariadne is a girl (“I’m not a pervert,” Eames says). Out of all of them, Cobb seems the most enthusiastic, but Eames clings onto Arthur’s pinky in a death-grip when Cobb volunteers to take him home.
“I won’t let her rip you to shreds,” Cobb wheedles. “You just have to let her cut your hair and change your clothes, perhaps, but that’s all, I swear.”
“I’m not letting a nine-year-old girl change my clothes,” Eames shrieks and burrows further into Arthur’s hand.
“It’s not that much of a bad idea,” Arthur says. “The way you dress, you should be lapping up all the style tips you can get.”
“I hate you,” Eames says into Arthur’s palm, but he doesn’t let go.
So Arthur’s stuck with him.
It’s the most infuriating thing for all of thirty minutes, after which it just continues right on in being the most infuriating thing. The ten-minute drive back to Arthur’s apartment spirals into forty-five minutes of disaster proportions when Arthur makes the mistake of putting Eames on the dash. Apparently, this Eames takes as spoken permission to imitate those terrible Elvis-things delusional people sucker onto their dashboards. Arthur has always rather expressly hated them, but hates them more, now that Eames is impersonating one.
“You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog,” Eames hollers at him, gyrating his hips on Arthur’s dashboard cover.
“Shut up, I’m trying to drive,” Arthur says in what he hopes is a fairly non-murderous voice.
“I’m trying to connect with your culture,” says Eames. “If I manage to insult you along the way, that’s just a bonus. But it’s not the main purpose. Really.”
Arthur briefly contemplates locking Eames in the glove box, but that would suffocate him.
Suffocating Eames is becoming less and less of a moral issue the longer the drive goes on, Arthur finds.
Which, of course, doesn’t quite explain why, when Arthur drives over a speed-bump too quickly and Eames very nearly plunges onto the gearshift, Arthur’s right hand immediately shoots out to catch him before Eames can break every last one of his bones.
The distraction is somehow just enough to make Arthur run his car into a pole by the road.
It’s not a big accident. Arthur hadn’t been driving too fast. But there’s a sizeable dent on Arthur’s Hyundai that hadn’t been there five minutes ago.
For a long, long moment they don’t say anything.
And then, Eames squirms against Arthur’s clenched hand.
“This gives a whole new meaning to fisting,” says Eames, and Arthur drops him instantly onto the car seat.
“I hate you,” says Arthur, extremely deadpan.
“I’ve already said that, darling,” says Eames.
--
By the time they get home it’s already dark. Eames pokes his head out of Arthur’s shirt pocket as Arthur fumbles blearily with his apartment keys.
“Buh,” says Eames. “I’m so bloody dizzy. Every time you turn, I get tossed around in here.”
“If you throw up in my shirt,” Arthur says, “I will throw both you and the shirt in the wash. Where you will drown, if everything goes to plan.”
“But that would permanently ruin your shirt,” Eames points out.
“Your death would make it all worth it,” says Arthur.
“You are a cruel, sadistic person,” says Eames.
Arthur hums. “I know my priorities.”
--
Arthur makes fried rice. Eames makes a mess. Eames amuses himself by scooping up peas and kicking them across the kitchen counter, whooping whenever they pass through the gaps between the rungs of the spatula.
Afterward, they sit in front of the TV and watch Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants. Eames is unnaturally engrossed in it. Arthur keeps trying to grab the remote, but Eames has armed himself with a toothpick and shows absolutely no scruples in using it.
“Ugh,” Arthur says after his third unsuccessful try. His hand has begun to resemble a sieve. “You’re vicious.”
“I’m guarding my rights,” says Eames.
“You’re watching a movie for girls,” Arthur says. “Teenage girls.”
“Don’t be so elitist,” says Eames.
“Are you having an identity crisis?” says Arthur. “If so, please don't have it here on my couch. I like to keep every piece of furniture in my apartment as unsullied as possible.”
“Don’t act so hoity-toity,” says Eames. “I took a peek at your DVD rack, you know. I know that you own My Best Friend’s Wedding. And The Notebook. And Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle.”
Arthur doesn’t go red. At least, not too much.
“Charlie’s Angels is a perfectly valid film,” Arthur says, a tad defensively. “There are guns. And an intelligent script. Sort of.”
“And Cameron Diaz,” Eames adds, wistfully.
“What, Diaz?” says Arthur in mild disgust. Arthur has nothing against Cameron Diaz, and she really does have some very nice legs, but for some reason when Eames appreciates her Arthur finds that a bitter taste enters his mouth. “I used to think your bad taste was only in clothes, but it appears I’ll have to revise that, and soon.”
“Oh, darling, don’t be jealous,” Eames croons.
“I’m not jealous,” snaps Arthur.
“If you say so,” says Eames.
“Ugh,” Arthur says and gets up off the couch. He returns to it not five seconds later to rescue Eames from between the seat cushions, and Eames comes up with a ten cent coin, looking breathless and far too proud of himself.
--
“I want a shower.”
Arthur pauses in towelling his hair. “You want a shower.”
“That’s what I said,” says Eames.
“But you’re tiny,” Arthur says and looks at him, at where Eames is sitting on the bedside table with his back propped up by the digital clock. Ten-thirty. “And you don’t even have fresh clothes.”
“You can put me in a cup,” Eames suggests. “And drizzle water over me with a watering can.”
“I’m not putting you in a cup,” Arthur says. “I actually have to drink from those.”
Eames does end up in one of Arthur’s mugs, although Arthur firmly draws the line about giving Eames a toothbrush to scrub his back with. Arthur also refuses to wield a watering can. The problem with clothes, though, is a legitimate one and while Eames scrubs his hair with Palmolive hand lotion, Arthur dumps Eames’ clothes in a second mug. He sloshes them around with detergent for a bit, rinses them, and then dries them with a blow dryer. Eames is two verses deep into Bad Romance when Arthur’s finally done being a laundry maid, but when Arthur’s about to tip the water out he notices something at the bottom of the mug.
It’s a poker chip, in miniature. Eames’ totem.
Arthur clears his throat.
“Eames,” Arthur says and tries not to look at it. “Hold your breath.”
“I - what?” Eames says, and frowns.
“Hold your breath,” Arthur says a second time before tipping the water from the second mug straight into the one Eames is standing in. Eames comes back up spluttering and swearing a storm.
“What’d you do that for?” Eames says. “That was cold.”
“I can’t touch your totem,” Arthur points out.
For a moment, Eames just stares at him. And then Eames ducks back into the water, bubbles coming up as he fumbles around, resurfacing with a graceless lurch that sends soapy water everywhere. Eames’ chin just touches the top of the mug and when Eames rests his arms on the smooth white rim, right hand clenched around something there in his fist, Arthur stares.
Eames has a lot of tattoos. Flush against the ceramic, they’re almost obscene.
Arthur tries not to think too much about that.
Eames is a topic Arthur tries not to think about, often.
Arthur only sometimes, rarely, succeeds.
When Eames opens his mouth after almost a minute, his voice is quiet and strangely sincere. “Thank-you. For not - looking at it. You know.”
Arthur’s not very good with accepting thanks. More often than not, he just lets it pass.
“So I guess we’re still in reality, then,” Arthur says, and nods towards Eames’ closed hand.
“Yes,” Eames says. “Unfortunately.”
“Do you think you’ll ever be normal again?” says Arthur. “That’s a rather loose definition of normal, though, mind you.”
A small grins curls lazily across Eames’ mouth. “It’s not my fault I’ve always been extraordinary, dear.”
“You could actually be stuck like this forever,” says Arthur. The grin slips a little on Eames’ face. “Doesn’t that bother you in the least? You won’t ever be able to work another job. Unless someone out there patents mini IVs or something equally ridiculous.”
“I could always do recon work,” Eames says. “I could crawl under doors and eavesdrop and so on.”
“You’re not small enough to crawl under doors,” Arthur says. “You’d get stuck. And then I’d have to come rescue you.”
There’s a pause.
“If I never changed back,” Eames says, finally, “would you let me stay here with you?”
Arthur stares.
“As ludicrous and inconvenient as it sounds,” says Eames, “I trust you. More than anyone else.”
“Cobb won’t actually let anything happen to you, you know,” Arthur says.
Eames simply looks at him.
“And Ariadne won’t think you’re hitting on her,” Arthur says. “And Yusuf can always lock up his cats.”
Eames just looks.
“And I’m sure that Saito could hire someone especially trained to look after dwarfs - ”
“Arthur,” says Eames.
Arthur clears his throat. Stalling has never really worked for him.
“Alright,” Arthur mumbles, and tries not to think about how the idea doesn’t actually grate on him that much. “Alright, you can stay. For a while, I suppose. Just don’t break anything. And don’t blow up the house.”
Eames pouts, but he’s smiling. “You’re no fun at all.”
“If you want fun, I’m sure Phillipa would be up to it,” says Arthur.
Eames blanches. Arthur has to bite his lip hard not to laugh, but it’s a very close thing. Very close.
--
In the second week, Eames finds the single gold cufflink Arthur lost months ago behind Arthur’s chest of drawers. Eames comes out sneezing hard and covered in dust, and Arthur agrees to the watering can just that once. From that day, Eames makes it a business of his to go about finding little odds and ends in the nooks and the crannies of Arthur’s house, laying every small treasure on Arthur’s desk for Arthur to find when he comes back home.
--
Arthur starts buying DVDs.
She’s the Man.
Ella Enchanted.
Hannah Montana.
Eames watches every one of them twice, toothpick-free, his head pillowed on Arthur’s thumb. It can’t be particularly comfortable, but Eames doesn’t complain, so Arthur doesn’t, either.
--
In the third week, Eames goes missing.
Arthur tears through the flat, every horizontal surface, even checking the fridge because with Eames, you can’t tell. Arthur roots through the bedclothes, the couch cushions, looks behind the TV, looks behind the bookshelves, checks under the bed, checks the bathroom cupboards, behind the shower curtain, behind the toilet, then under the bed again, then through the sock drawer, then inside the closet, checking the pockets of all of his coats, yelling Eames, Eames, Eames, Eames, going through all the shelves in the living room, checking windows, hoping the cat next door didn’t get in, though if it did and that’s the reason that Eames is gone Arthur’s going to shoot the damn thing, and its owners, too.
After half an hour and not a sign of Eames, Arthur collapses on his living room couch and stares at the opposite wall for a while.
He calls Cobb.
“Did you kidnap Eames,” Arthur yells. “If you’ve given him to Phillipa as a birthday present, I will drive right over and break your arm.”
But Cobb hasn’t seen Eames. Ariadne hasn’t, either.
Yusuf quivers on the other side of the line for ten minutes until Arthur hangs up on him.
Arthur’s just on his way out to confront Snowball from next door when he barrels into something unmistakeably solid the moment he wrenches open the front door.
It’s Eames.
Of course, Arthur doesn’t realise this until they’re both sprawled on the landing outside Arthur’s flat. Eames is back to his original size, wearing a pair of Arthur’s sweatpants and one of Arthur’s baggier shirts. Eames is also carrying a takeaway box of some sort.
Eames was also carrying a takeaway box of some sort.
Eames looks around him at the very sorry remains of Wok On In beef and lemongrass noodles.
“Bugger,” says Eames, very ruefully. “There goes that.”
Arthur props himself up on his elbows.
Eames winces as the sharp points dig into his ribs.
“You,” Arthur yells. “Where the fuck have you been.”
“Getting dinner,” says Eames. “As you’ve probably noticed by now.”
“Why the fuck did you go and get dinner,” yells Arthur. “We talked about this. You’re supposed to stay in the house. I looked all over the place for you, in the fridge, everywhere. I called Cobb. I called Ariadne. I called everyone. I was just about to go over to number four and blow their family pet to smithereens.”
“What, Snowball?” says Eames, looking horrified. “I like Snowball. Why on earth would you blow him up?”
“Because I thought he’d eaten you, stupid,” Arthur yells.
“Well, I’m still here,” says Eames. “And I’m still unconsumed.”
“If that’s an innuendo, then it’s a terrible one,” Arthur yells. “And I don’t know why you couldn’t have left me a note. You’re not tiny anymore. You could’ve let me know.”
Eames’ face softens just the slightest bit.
“I’m sorry that I worried you, pet,” Eames says.
“I wasn’t worried,” Arthur grumbles and doesn’t meet Eames’ eye. “I just didn’t want to have to explain to everyone why you were found jammed down a Persian’s oesophagus.”
Eames laughs.
Arthur suddenly realises that Eames’ hand is resting casually on Arthur’s left hip.
Arthur tenses.
Eames’ laugh dies down very fast.
For a long, long moment they just stare at each other, Arthur trying very hard not to hold his breath. Eames is warm and it’s bleeding through Arthur’s clothes, both sets, settling into Arthur’s skin and making it difficult for Arthur to think. There’s something that needs to be said right now, or done, perhaps. Arthur’s not sure what.
Eventually, Eames makes to clear his throat, just a short, quick bob of his Adam’s apple.
“So,” says Eames.
Arthur clears his throat, too. “So.”
“I can move out if you want,” says Eames.
There’s a pause.
“Or I could not,” says Eames. “I could stay and help you find that tie you said yesterday you couldn’t find anymore.”
“I bought Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants,” says Arthur.
There’s a pause.
Arthur realises that he’s somehow slid forward, mouth hovering just over Eames’ own. Eames’ hand has nudged under Arthur’s shirt, fingers brushing the side of Arthur’s waist.
“I could stay,” says Eames.
Arthur stares at him.
“You could stay,” Arthur says. “Yes, I - suppose you could.”
Eames beams at Arthur like a hundred volt torch. “I will stay. You can’t get rid of me, now.”
“You’re assuming that I want to,” Arthur points out and Eames kisses him, just like that. “I don’t.”
--
The End.
--
A/N: Haa, so much silliness. I'll go back to writing fics with substance soon, I swear. In the meantime, I think my muse has decided to make up for five years of crack-drought by churning out nothing but crack, what.
Please don't forget to comment! And feel free to check out my other Inception fics, or my other kinkmeme fills!
♥
[There is now FANART for this by the awesome shichiloaf!]
Author: knowmydark
Rating: PG-13.
Word Count: 3,672.
Genre: Romance/Crack.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Eames is accidentally shrunken to pocket-size. Arthur is forced to take care of him. Eames/Arthur, slash, One-Shot.
A/N: Whoas, a whole week since I last posted fic? I'm ashamed. inception_kink fill for this prompt, though I may have... warped the details a little, heh.
Please don't forget to comment!
--
Like a Bullet in the Back
--
Happiness hit her like a bullet in the back
Struck from a great height by someone who should know better than that
--
Surprisingly, it’s Arthur who first notices.
“Hey,” says Arthur to the warehouse at large. “Where’s Eames?”
Cobb is busy checking his Beretta, thumbing through the cartridges in the pocket of his jacket. Ariadne is drawing a complicated schematic on the whiteboard, specifically designed to confuse everyone. (Arthur knows this for an established fact. Ariadne told him, once, with a slipshod grin and Arthur’s respect for her had skyrocketed instantly.)
Only Yusuf looks like he’s interested, although interested in this particular case means wearing a thoroughly chagrined expression suspiciously close to wilting fear.
Arthur picks up on this immediately. Arthur has always been able to pick up on fear. He was a devastating ice-hockey player back in college, with a well-known propensity for whacking on shins.
His eyes narrow and Yusuf ducks his head.
“...Yusuf,” Arthur says. “Do you know where Eames is?”
Yusuf’s response is to grab a beaker and put it upside-down over something on his desk. Arthur’s too far away to see what it is, but dismisses the move as nervousness.
“Yusuf,” Arthur says. “I have a Medieval History degree. I am remarkably well-read on torture devices.”
“I have no idea where Eames is,” Yusuf squeaks.
Ariadne looks up from the whiteboard with a frown.
“Weren’t you talking to him just a moment ago?” Ariadne says. “I thought I saw him with you.”
Yusuf puts his palm over the upturned beaker. “No.”
Arthur squints.
Ariadne squints.
Cobb looks up from cleaning his handgun’s slide. He has no idea what the conversation’s about, but it involves squinting, so Cobb is immediately interested.
“Why are we squinting all of a sudden?” Cobb says. “I can’t believe you guys got started without me. That’s mean. I thought that we were all good friends, here.”
“Eames is missing,” says Arthur.
“Yusuf knows where he is,” chimes in Ariadne.
“No, I don’t,” Yusuf insists, turning green. It’s an impressive shade for Yusuf to turn, considering. “I have no idea what, uh, happened to him.”
“What happened to him?” Ariadne says. “What do you mean? And why are you clutching your beaker like that?”
“...I like it?” says Yusuf and promptly turns white.
Arthur is out of his chair and across the room in an instant, reaching for the beaker beneath Yusuf’s palm. Yusuf shouts something hysterically close to “Stop it, you’ll hurt him!”, which Arthur doesn’t pay any mind to, because firstly, Yusuf appears to have started referring to himself in third person, which more than merits some fervent violence, and secondly, because Arthur has absolutely no qualms about hurting Yusuf at this point in time.
That is, until a tiny voice shouts, “Guys, I know I’m extremely attractive, but there’s nothing uncivilised about getting in line.”
Arthur freezes.
Yusuf immediately faints.
Cobb is squinting like an industrial-grade laser, which is somewhat of an understatement.
“...Wow,” says Ariadne finally, and it’s an indication of how very fucked up they all are that she sounds more impressed than actually appalled. Arthur lets go of the beaker and stares at it. “You shrunk Eames.”
--
Arthur is worried.
When Arthur is worried, he tends to shout a lot. This is rather unfortunate for a person of only three inches, because sound waves can be quite a veritable thing when your eardrums are a few millimetres in diameter.
“Jesus!” Eames yells, clutching his ears. “Arthur, you stupid little shit!”
“I’m not the one who’s little!” yells Arthur. “Can’t you see that’s just the problem, Eames!”
“Can you put me back in my beaker!” yells Eames.
“It’s airtight!” yells Arthur. “You’ll suffocate in there!”
“That’s a slightly more dignified method of death than dying of an inner ear haemorrhage!” yells Eames.
Thankfully, at this point in time, Yusuf comes to on the warehouse floor. Arthur promptly turns all of his wrath on him. Yusuf looks suitably miserable at this, since waking up to an inconsolably apoplectic Arthur is not high on anyone’s To Do list.
“What did you give him!” Arthur yells and Yusuf looks like he’s going to faint again.
“Nothing,” says Yusuf. “I didn’t give him anything. He drank it himself. It was just on my bench. One moment we were having a perfectly amiable discussion about quantum physics and the meaning of life, and the next moment, he’d drunk something out of my flask. I couldn’t stop him in time. It wasn’t my fault.”
Arthur whirls on Eames.
“Is this true!” Arthur yells.
“Darling,” says Eames, and spreads his hands. “We were talking about the meaning of life. It seemed apt to consume a mysterious beverage in order to have more to contribute to the conversation.”
Cobb intervenes before Arthur can blow an artery. “Look, we need to be more rational about this. Yusuf, how long is Eames going to stay like that?”
“I don’t know,” says Yusuf.
“But you made it,” says Cobb.
“It’s a mysterious beverage,” Yusuf points out. “If I knew, it wouldn’t be mysterious, would it?”
To everyone’s surprise, Cobb’s face lights up at this like a Christmas tree at a shopping mall.
“Really?” says Cobb. “So he’ll stay this small until - well, until God-knows-when, basically?”
“Uh,” says Yusuf.
“Yes,” says Ariadne.
“No,” shouts Arthur, vehemently.
“No, but seriously, this is great,” says Cobb. “Phillipa was just telling me the other day how she’s torn all the limbs off her Barbie dolls. I mean, since Eames is now this small, I can just give her Eames to play with, instead.”
“I thought we were being rational!” yells Eames. “And I’d like to keep all of my limbs, Cobb, thanks!”
“You should have thought about being rational,” yells Arthur, “before you drank the goddamn thing!”
“I’m over the age of eighteen!” yells Eames. “I’m capable of giving informed consent!”
“Informed consent involves being informed!” Arthur yells.
“I’m an adult!” yells Eames.
“You don’t act it!” yells Arthur.
“That’s because I like being underestimated!” yells Eames.
Arthur bends at the waist unexpectedly, and Eames actually takes a step back in surprise, vaguely nervous.
Arthur pokes Eames right in the chest.
It’s a mild-mannered poke, as far as pokes go, but it has enough momentum behind it to send Eames onto his arse with an undignified “Oof!”
“You’re three inches tall,” Arthur points out, voice rough with yelling and irritation. “I don’t really think it’s possible, Mr Eames, to underestimate you in your current state.”
Eames glares.
Arthur just glares right back.
Finally, Eames heaves himself to his feet.
“You’re such a bully,” Eames mumbles grumpily. “Go and pick on someone your own bloody size.”
--
Arthur ends up being the one to take him home, because Yusuf has a vast array of cats and Ariadne is a girl (“I’m not a pervert,” Eames says). Out of all of them, Cobb seems the most enthusiastic, but Eames clings onto Arthur’s pinky in a death-grip when Cobb volunteers to take him home.
“I won’t let her rip you to shreds,” Cobb wheedles. “You just have to let her cut your hair and change your clothes, perhaps, but that’s all, I swear.”
“I’m not letting a nine-year-old girl change my clothes,” Eames shrieks and burrows further into Arthur’s hand.
“It’s not that much of a bad idea,” Arthur says. “The way you dress, you should be lapping up all the style tips you can get.”
“I hate you,” Eames says into Arthur’s palm, but he doesn’t let go.
So Arthur’s stuck with him.
It’s the most infuriating thing for all of thirty minutes, after which it just continues right on in being the most infuriating thing. The ten-minute drive back to Arthur’s apartment spirals into forty-five minutes of disaster proportions when Arthur makes the mistake of putting Eames on the dash. Apparently, this Eames takes as spoken permission to imitate those terrible Elvis-things delusional people sucker onto their dashboards. Arthur has always rather expressly hated them, but hates them more, now that Eames is impersonating one.
“You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog,” Eames hollers at him, gyrating his hips on Arthur’s dashboard cover.
“Shut up, I’m trying to drive,” Arthur says in what he hopes is a fairly non-murderous voice.
“I’m trying to connect with your culture,” says Eames. “If I manage to insult you along the way, that’s just a bonus. But it’s not the main purpose. Really.”
Arthur briefly contemplates locking Eames in the glove box, but that would suffocate him.
Suffocating Eames is becoming less and less of a moral issue the longer the drive goes on, Arthur finds.
Which, of course, doesn’t quite explain why, when Arthur drives over a speed-bump too quickly and Eames very nearly plunges onto the gearshift, Arthur’s right hand immediately shoots out to catch him before Eames can break every last one of his bones.
The distraction is somehow just enough to make Arthur run his car into a pole by the road.
It’s not a big accident. Arthur hadn’t been driving too fast. But there’s a sizeable dent on Arthur’s Hyundai that hadn’t been there five minutes ago.
For a long, long moment they don’t say anything.
And then, Eames squirms against Arthur’s clenched hand.
“This gives a whole new meaning to fisting,” says Eames, and Arthur drops him instantly onto the car seat.
“I hate you,” says Arthur, extremely deadpan.
“I’ve already said that, darling,” says Eames.
--
By the time they get home it’s already dark. Eames pokes his head out of Arthur’s shirt pocket as Arthur fumbles blearily with his apartment keys.
“Buh,” says Eames. “I’m so bloody dizzy. Every time you turn, I get tossed around in here.”
“If you throw up in my shirt,” Arthur says, “I will throw both you and the shirt in the wash. Where you will drown, if everything goes to plan.”
“But that would permanently ruin your shirt,” Eames points out.
“Your death would make it all worth it,” says Arthur.
“You are a cruel, sadistic person,” says Eames.
Arthur hums. “I know my priorities.”
--
Arthur makes fried rice. Eames makes a mess. Eames amuses himself by scooping up peas and kicking them across the kitchen counter, whooping whenever they pass through the gaps between the rungs of the spatula.
Afterward, they sit in front of the TV and watch Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants. Eames is unnaturally engrossed in it. Arthur keeps trying to grab the remote, but Eames has armed himself with a toothpick and shows absolutely no scruples in using it.
“Ugh,” Arthur says after his third unsuccessful try. His hand has begun to resemble a sieve. “You’re vicious.”
“I’m guarding my rights,” says Eames.
“You’re watching a movie for girls,” Arthur says. “Teenage girls.”
“Don’t be so elitist,” says Eames.
“Are you having an identity crisis?” says Arthur. “If so, please don't have it here on my couch. I like to keep every piece of furniture in my apartment as unsullied as possible.”
“Don’t act so hoity-toity,” says Eames. “I took a peek at your DVD rack, you know. I know that you own My Best Friend’s Wedding. And The Notebook. And Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle.”
Arthur doesn’t go red. At least, not too much.
“Charlie’s Angels is a perfectly valid film,” Arthur says, a tad defensively. “There are guns. And an intelligent script. Sort of.”
“And Cameron Diaz,” Eames adds, wistfully.
“What, Diaz?” says Arthur in mild disgust. Arthur has nothing against Cameron Diaz, and she really does have some very nice legs, but for some reason when Eames appreciates her Arthur finds that a bitter taste enters his mouth. “I used to think your bad taste was only in clothes, but it appears I’ll have to revise that, and soon.”
“Oh, darling, don’t be jealous,” Eames croons.
“I’m not jealous,” snaps Arthur.
“If you say so,” says Eames.
“Ugh,” Arthur says and gets up off the couch. He returns to it not five seconds later to rescue Eames from between the seat cushions, and Eames comes up with a ten cent coin, looking breathless and far too proud of himself.
--
“I want a shower.”
Arthur pauses in towelling his hair. “You want a shower.”
“That’s what I said,” says Eames.
“But you’re tiny,” Arthur says and looks at him, at where Eames is sitting on the bedside table with his back propped up by the digital clock. Ten-thirty. “And you don’t even have fresh clothes.”
“You can put me in a cup,” Eames suggests. “And drizzle water over me with a watering can.”
“I’m not putting you in a cup,” Arthur says. “I actually have to drink from those.”
Eames does end up in one of Arthur’s mugs, although Arthur firmly draws the line about giving Eames a toothbrush to scrub his back with. Arthur also refuses to wield a watering can. The problem with clothes, though, is a legitimate one and while Eames scrubs his hair with Palmolive hand lotion, Arthur dumps Eames’ clothes in a second mug. He sloshes them around with detergent for a bit, rinses them, and then dries them with a blow dryer. Eames is two verses deep into Bad Romance when Arthur’s finally done being a laundry maid, but when Arthur’s about to tip the water out he notices something at the bottom of the mug.
It’s a poker chip, in miniature. Eames’ totem.
Arthur clears his throat.
“Eames,” Arthur says and tries not to look at it. “Hold your breath.”
“I - what?” Eames says, and frowns.
“Hold your breath,” Arthur says a second time before tipping the water from the second mug straight into the one Eames is standing in. Eames comes back up spluttering and swearing a storm.
“What’d you do that for?” Eames says. “That was cold.”
“I can’t touch your totem,” Arthur points out.
For a moment, Eames just stares at him. And then Eames ducks back into the water, bubbles coming up as he fumbles around, resurfacing with a graceless lurch that sends soapy water everywhere. Eames’ chin just touches the top of the mug and when Eames rests his arms on the smooth white rim, right hand clenched around something there in his fist, Arthur stares.
Eames has a lot of tattoos. Flush against the ceramic, they’re almost obscene.
Arthur tries not to think too much about that.
Eames is a topic Arthur tries not to think about, often.
Arthur only sometimes, rarely, succeeds.
When Eames opens his mouth after almost a minute, his voice is quiet and strangely sincere. “Thank-you. For not - looking at it. You know.”
Arthur’s not very good with accepting thanks. More often than not, he just lets it pass.
“So I guess we’re still in reality, then,” Arthur says, and nods towards Eames’ closed hand.
“Yes,” Eames says. “Unfortunately.”
“Do you think you’ll ever be normal again?” says Arthur. “That’s a rather loose definition of normal, though, mind you.”
A small grins curls lazily across Eames’ mouth. “It’s not my fault I’ve always been extraordinary, dear.”
“You could actually be stuck like this forever,” says Arthur. The grin slips a little on Eames’ face. “Doesn’t that bother you in the least? You won’t ever be able to work another job. Unless someone out there patents mini IVs or something equally ridiculous.”
“I could always do recon work,” Eames says. “I could crawl under doors and eavesdrop and so on.”
“You’re not small enough to crawl under doors,” Arthur says. “You’d get stuck. And then I’d have to come rescue you.”
There’s a pause.
“If I never changed back,” Eames says, finally, “would you let me stay here with you?”
Arthur stares.
“As ludicrous and inconvenient as it sounds,” says Eames, “I trust you. More than anyone else.”
“Cobb won’t actually let anything happen to you, you know,” Arthur says.
Eames simply looks at him.
“And Ariadne won’t think you’re hitting on her,” Arthur says. “And Yusuf can always lock up his cats.”
Eames just looks.
“And I’m sure that Saito could hire someone especially trained to look after dwarfs - ”
“Arthur,” says Eames.
Arthur clears his throat. Stalling has never really worked for him.
“Alright,” Arthur mumbles, and tries not to think about how the idea doesn’t actually grate on him that much. “Alright, you can stay. For a while, I suppose. Just don’t break anything. And don’t blow up the house.”
Eames pouts, but he’s smiling. “You’re no fun at all.”
“If you want fun, I’m sure Phillipa would be up to it,” says Arthur.
Eames blanches. Arthur has to bite his lip hard not to laugh, but it’s a very close thing. Very close.
--
In the second week, Eames finds the single gold cufflink Arthur lost months ago behind Arthur’s chest of drawers. Eames comes out sneezing hard and covered in dust, and Arthur agrees to the watering can just that once. From that day, Eames makes it a business of his to go about finding little odds and ends in the nooks and the crannies of Arthur’s house, laying every small treasure on Arthur’s desk for Arthur to find when he comes back home.
--
Arthur starts buying DVDs.
She’s the Man.
Ella Enchanted.
Hannah Montana.
Eames watches every one of them twice, toothpick-free, his head pillowed on Arthur’s thumb. It can’t be particularly comfortable, but Eames doesn’t complain, so Arthur doesn’t, either.
--
In the third week, Eames goes missing.
Arthur tears through the flat, every horizontal surface, even checking the fridge because with Eames, you can’t tell. Arthur roots through the bedclothes, the couch cushions, looks behind the TV, looks behind the bookshelves, checks under the bed, checks the bathroom cupboards, behind the shower curtain, behind the toilet, then under the bed again, then through the sock drawer, then inside the closet, checking the pockets of all of his coats, yelling Eames, Eames, Eames, Eames, going through all the shelves in the living room, checking windows, hoping the cat next door didn’t get in, though if it did and that’s the reason that Eames is gone Arthur’s going to shoot the damn thing, and its owners, too.
After half an hour and not a sign of Eames, Arthur collapses on his living room couch and stares at the opposite wall for a while.
He calls Cobb.
“Did you kidnap Eames,” Arthur yells. “If you’ve given him to Phillipa as a birthday present, I will drive right over and break your arm.”
But Cobb hasn’t seen Eames. Ariadne hasn’t, either.
Yusuf quivers on the other side of the line for ten minutes until Arthur hangs up on him.
Arthur’s just on his way out to confront Snowball from next door when he barrels into something unmistakeably solid the moment he wrenches open the front door.
It’s Eames.
Of course, Arthur doesn’t realise this until they’re both sprawled on the landing outside Arthur’s flat. Eames is back to his original size, wearing a pair of Arthur’s sweatpants and one of Arthur’s baggier shirts. Eames is also carrying a takeaway box of some sort.
Eames was also carrying a takeaway box of some sort.
Eames looks around him at the very sorry remains of Wok On In beef and lemongrass noodles.
“Bugger,” says Eames, very ruefully. “There goes that.”
Arthur props himself up on his elbows.
Eames winces as the sharp points dig into his ribs.
“You,” Arthur yells. “Where the fuck have you been.”
“Getting dinner,” says Eames. “As you’ve probably noticed by now.”
“Why the fuck did you go and get dinner,” yells Arthur. “We talked about this. You’re supposed to stay in the house. I looked all over the place for you, in the fridge, everywhere. I called Cobb. I called Ariadne. I called everyone. I was just about to go over to number four and blow their family pet to smithereens.”
“What, Snowball?” says Eames, looking horrified. “I like Snowball. Why on earth would you blow him up?”
“Because I thought he’d eaten you, stupid,” Arthur yells.
“Well, I’m still here,” says Eames. “And I’m still unconsumed.”
“If that’s an innuendo, then it’s a terrible one,” Arthur yells. “And I don’t know why you couldn’t have left me a note. You’re not tiny anymore. You could’ve let me know.”
Eames’ face softens just the slightest bit.
“I’m sorry that I worried you, pet,” Eames says.
“I wasn’t worried,” Arthur grumbles and doesn’t meet Eames’ eye. “I just didn’t want to have to explain to everyone why you were found jammed down a Persian’s oesophagus.”
Eames laughs.
Arthur suddenly realises that Eames’ hand is resting casually on Arthur’s left hip.
Arthur tenses.
Eames’ laugh dies down very fast.
For a long, long moment they just stare at each other, Arthur trying very hard not to hold his breath. Eames is warm and it’s bleeding through Arthur’s clothes, both sets, settling into Arthur’s skin and making it difficult for Arthur to think. There’s something that needs to be said right now, or done, perhaps. Arthur’s not sure what.
Eventually, Eames makes to clear his throat, just a short, quick bob of his Adam’s apple.
“So,” says Eames.
Arthur clears his throat, too. “So.”
“I can move out if you want,” says Eames.
There’s a pause.
“Or I could not,” says Eames. “I could stay and help you find that tie you said yesterday you couldn’t find anymore.”
“I bought Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants,” says Arthur.
There’s a pause.
Arthur realises that he’s somehow slid forward, mouth hovering just over Eames’ own. Eames’ hand has nudged under Arthur’s shirt, fingers brushing the side of Arthur’s waist.
“I could stay,” says Eames.
Arthur stares at him.
“You could stay,” Arthur says. “Yes, I - suppose you could.”
Eames beams at Arthur like a hundred volt torch. “I will stay. You can’t get rid of me, now.”
“You’re assuming that I want to,” Arthur points out and Eames kisses him, just like that. “I don’t.”
--
The End.
--
A/N: Haa, so much silliness. I'll go back to writing fics with substance soon, I swear. In the meantime, I think my muse has decided to make up for five years of crack-drought by churning out nothing but crack, what.
Please don't forget to comment! And feel free to check out my other Inception fics, or my other kinkmeme fills!
♥
[There is now FANART for this by the awesome shichiloaf!]