(05) → the brightest firefly in my jar (1/3)
title: the brightest firefly in my jar
pairing: arthur/eames
summary: the lookout au: before he was arthur, he was chris pratt. he is in paris with a beautiful french woman who knows his name and loves him and all he thinks of is the way eames looked at him.
Before he was Arthur, he was Chris Pratt.
*
Christopher Arthur Pratt.
And now he goes by Arthur. You can’t really blame him for wanting to be disassociated with the fucked-up guy who shot a man straight through the chest and assisted a bank robbery.
Funny how Arthur blames himself, regardless. Chris Pratt, before, was pretty awesome.
*
After the incident, he left Lewis.
It might not have been the right thing to do at the time, but he didn’t know any better. Maybe Lewis just wanted him to go - he’d brought enough trouble with him, after all.
“You take care of yourself,” Lewis had told him, fingers brushing over the labels by the door. “I’ll leave these here,” he whispered in a moment of often unseen softness. “In case you come back.”
He doesn’t.
*
When he first meets Dom, he leaves him in the dark. It isn’t exactly casual conversation to introduce yourself through your felonies. Then again, Dom was never really big on small talk.
Mal, on the other hand…
“You have a scar on your arm,” she whispers, fingers tracing over it. “Will you tell me what happened?” She does not meet his eyes, just loops nonsensical patterns over the network of scar tissue and Arthur shivers.
He tells her everything, mostly.
Mal looks up, and Arthur tries very hard to keep his words in his mouth or he’ll screw this all up. “My lips are sealed,” she whispers, bringing a finger to her mouth, pink and glossy, bubblegum lips, and just like that, she rises. “Dom, let’s go out to a nice restaurant this evening. My father has been dying to speak with you.”
She turns, the smile on her face fleeting and equally lovely. “Will you join us, Arthur?”
*
Mal speaks in soft tones, always a whisper but never quiet, and Arthur easily becomes transfixed by her. She keeps herself locked up, never tells you everything but always tells you something, and Arthur thinks she might be the most beautiful and frustrating puzzle he’s ever known.
“Do you dream, Arthur?” Mal asks this for no reason at all. He is sitting on the couch dictating Frost poems to Dom, because Dom is fascinated by the simple words and the elegant tales and he always wants to teach Arthur something new. Something beautiful.
The first thing Dom taught him was Mal.
“I don’t know,” Arthur says, frowns, because he doesn’t ever think about these things. “Sure, doesn’t everyone?”
And Mal gives him this look, because she knows more than Dom does about what happened. Dom knows Arthur is malleable and can hold a gun. Mal knows these things and more.
“Do you dream, Arthur?” She asks again, a hush hush of lips and tongue and Arthur stares at her mouth, hears Dom’s pencil scratching against the paper.
“If I do, I don’t ever remember them,” he admits, and that’s all Mal needs to hear.
“Arthur, I would like to show you something.”
*
Mal tells him to lie down, so he does, and part of his mind wonders if she’s going to kiss him, because when a woman wants you to lie down in her bed and has bubblegum lips and soft eyes, they kiss you. But Mal just leans over him and combs her fingers through his hair once, trailing her hand downward to his wrist. She takes it in her hands, cradles it in one and holds the needle steady in the other.
“Trust me,” is all she says before she sets up the PASIV and Arthur shuts his eyes.
*
*
*
He does not dream.
*
When Arthur wakes, it’s as if he merely blinked, extended darkness behind his eyelids and nothing more, because Mal is still next to the bed and the sun is still watching him from the window and nothing’s changed at all.
“What did you dream of?” She asks softly, always curious, and Arthur wonders if that fascination is reserved for him.
“I didn’t,” Arthur says, wonders if this is all wrong, because Mal’s face changes, a subtle twitch of her cheek.
“Sleep, then,” she says, pressing a kiss to his forehead before finding Dom.
*
“He cannot construct his own dreams naturally,” Mal whispers.
“Then we need to teach him. We’ll put him in our dreams and let him understand the landscapes first, give him the technical aspects, then let him see what he can do with that information.”
Arthur presses his ear to the door, feels like a misbehaving child, but he needs to know if there’s something wrong with him. Moreso than he already knows, that is.
“He is perfect for this,” Mal says. “I know he is. He is soft, Dom. We need someone like him. I love him.”
“You love everyone, Mal,” Dom counters, and Arthur doesn’t doubt this. But Mal laughs, a high titter and he can picture the curve of her neck, dark and sloping.
“Yes, but he is different, Dom. He is beautiful. I want Eames to meet him. Do you think he will come visit?” She huffs. “He never visits. We do six jobs in a row and nearly get killed by that crazy Volesto man and he suddenly has no time for us.”
Arthur pulls away from the door, climbs back into bed and rubs at the raw spot on the inside of his arm. Eames, he thinks, and sleeps.
*
Eames is not as easy to get close to as Mal.
He is brash and unpredictable and he has a deep, throaty laugh that Arthur falls in love with immediately. But he does not fall in love with Eames, he tells himself. He won’t.
Mal takes him through her dream alone, first. Eames stares at him curiously for a very long time before Arthur shuts his eyes.
They are in Paris.
He is in Paris.
He is in Paris with a beautiful French woman who knows his name and loves him and all he thinks of is the way Eames looked at him.
And Arthur panics, because this isn’t real, and how will he know if he’s awake, and how will he know if he’s dead, and how will he -
“Ssh, Arthur. Isn’t it beautiful here?” Mal leans in, their noses brushing together and she smells like daisies, like a five year old girl in a field of flowers with the sun at her back and the world at her fingertips, and Arthur drowns in it, in her.
And then they wake up. And that’s it.
*
After that, he goes into Dom’s dream. Dom dreams in shades. He builds the most extraordinary buildings but never finishes them, leaves parts undone and messy and cloudy, like a haze over the whole world and yet it still feels real. It’s dreamy almost, nothing ever in full color, just a sweeping rush of architecture and fog.
Dom stands next to him, Mal at his side, and says, “build.”
He doesn’t. He can’t.
He stands and stares hopelessly, and Mal lets go of Dom’s hand and holds Arthur’s instead, fingers warm between his. “Build, Arthur,” she coos.
And he does.
*
Arthur builds eclectically, in nonlinear ways. His buildings are skewed but strong, triangular bases with rhombus tops and spurts of color. Nothing in his architecture makes sense. It shouldn’t be possible for things to be built this way and for people to receive it naturally.
Not people. Projections, Dom explains.
When a projection senses an intrusion, they turn on you. Dom has enough time to explain this, very briefly, before they are after them.
Dom’s projections do not like Arthur’s buildings. They will kill him, Dom says. And Mal is suddenly screaming “WAKE HIM UP” and Arthur’s heart seizes and then he’s in bed.
He wakes calmly.
Mal trembles next to him, shivers, and Arthur stares.
*
Eames’s dream nearly destroys him.
They are in upstate New York. It’s midday, sun shining, people strolling happily. Eames says “I’ll go easy on you” and Arthur hates him for it.
Eames dreams in vibrant hues and reflections. Every building strong, structured, mirrored so that the whole world is lit up, somehow. Arthur builds next to a skyscraper, a slanted storefront of muted greens, and just like that, the projections are onto him.
“Dom should have taught you this first,” Eames says, people running for the both of them. Arthur doesn’t know what’s going to happen. He realizes, quite consciously, that’s he afraid.
Eames shouts over the noise of them. “You’re going to die, Arthur!” And Arthur’s breath hitches. “But you’ll wake up, all right, darling? This is a dream!” There’s a huge surge of panic that takes him by force and Eames keeps yelling. “You die, you wake up! Do you understand?”
Arthur nods a second before they get him.
Someone grabs at his arm. Another at his leg and he lands face first on the ground. He screams, a wave of terror threatening to drown him because he’s been here before, a helicopter whirring above him, blood on his face, the whole world smashed and broken. They crush him, people clawing and pushing and the weight is too much and I can’t breathe they’re crushingmeI’mgoingtodie Eames Ea-
He wakes up screaming, sobbing, choking on his own breath and Mal shouts. “Why did you do that to him, Eames? He wasn’t ready!” and Eames apologizes, and Arthur’s never heard him sound more genuine, and he clutches at the sheets and cries because he was dying. And Dom is standing in the corner, worriedly, and Mal is squeezing his hand and leaving because he needs water and Eames sits down next to him and takes Arthur’s face in his hands and he breathes.
“You die, you wake up. It was a dream, you’re fine, darling.”
Arthur’s fingers are digging into Eames’s wrists because he hates him for doing that but he had to learn eventually and Eames is swiping at his cheeks, pulling him into his lap and speaking so quietly that Arthur can’t hear him.
“I’ll give him the water, Mal,” he hears him say, and those same hands tilt his head, help him drink, and Arthur’s still shaking, imaginary blood on his face, in his hair, coating the wound that destroyed Chris Pratt.
For a while, Eames just sits there, the water on the table and his fingers in Arthur’s hair. Arthur imagines Eames is never like this naturally, that this side of Eames is a gift few have received.
This is another part of Eames he falls in love with. But he does not fall in love with Eames.
“First time is never easy for anyone, I don’t think,” Eames speculates, and Arthur wonders if he’s been there, wonders, vaguely, still choking on his own breath, if Eames had anyone to hold him, to tilt his head back, and then wonders why he cares so much anyway.
*
The second time is just as bad.
As is the third, fourth, fifth, and Dom finally cuts in and says, “I don’t think he’s cut out for this. The projections aren’t always so merciful.” And Mal says, “You need to have faith in him. Mr. Eames is here with him and we are having a baby.”
She leans in and kisses him, and Dom is pulled under by the spell of her lips.
A baby, Arthur thinks. What would Mal be with a baby?
*
Next part
pairing: arthur/eames
summary: the lookout au: before he was arthur, he was chris pratt. he is in paris with a beautiful french woman who knows his name and loves him and all he thinks of is the way eames looked at him.
Before he was Arthur, he was Chris Pratt.
*
Christopher Arthur Pratt.
And now he goes by Arthur. You can’t really blame him for wanting to be disassociated with the fucked-up guy who shot a man straight through the chest and assisted a bank robbery.
Funny how Arthur blames himself, regardless. Chris Pratt, before, was pretty awesome.
*
After the incident, he left Lewis.
It might not have been the right thing to do at the time, but he didn’t know any better. Maybe Lewis just wanted him to go - he’d brought enough trouble with him, after all.
“You take care of yourself,” Lewis had told him, fingers brushing over the labels by the door. “I’ll leave these here,” he whispered in a moment of often unseen softness. “In case you come back.”
He doesn’t.
*
When he first meets Dom, he leaves him in the dark. It isn’t exactly casual conversation to introduce yourself through your felonies. Then again, Dom was never really big on small talk.
Mal, on the other hand…
“You have a scar on your arm,” she whispers, fingers tracing over it. “Will you tell me what happened?” She does not meet his eyes, just loops nonsensical patterns over the network of scar tissue and Arthur shivers.
He tells her everything, mostly.
Mal looks up, and Arthur tries very hard to keep his words in his mouth or he’ll screw this all up. “My lips are sealed,” she whispers, bringing a finger to her mouth, pink and glossy, bubblegum lips, and just like that, she rises. “Dom, let’s go out to a nice restaurant this evening. My father has been dying to speak with you.”
She turns, the smile on her face fleeting and equally lovely. “Will you join us, Arthur?”
*
Mal speaks in soft tones, always a whisper but never quiet, and Arthur easily becomes transfixed by her. She keeps herself locked up, never tells you everything but always tells you something, and Arthur thinks she might be the most beautiful and frustrating puzzle he’s ever known.
“Do you dream, Arthur?” Mal asks this for no reason at all. He is sitting on the couch dictating Frost poems to Dom, because Dom is fascinated by the simple words and the elegant tales and he always wants to teach Arthur something new. Something beautiful.
The first thing Dom taught him was Mal.
“I don’t know,” Arthur says, frowns, because he doesn’t ever think about these things. “Sure, doesn’t everyone?”
And Mal gives him this look, because she knows more than Dom does about what happened. Dom knows Arthur is malleable and can hold a gun. Mal knows these things and more.
“Do you dream, Arthur?” She asks again, a hush hush of lips and tongue and Arthur stares at her mouth, hears Dom’s pencil scratching against the paper.
“If I do, I don’t ever remember them,” he admits, and that’s all Mal needs to hear.
“Arthur, I would like to show you something.”
*
Mal tells him to lie down, so he does, and part of his mind wonders if she’s going to kiss him, because when a woman wants you to lie down in her bed and has bubblegum lips and soft eyes, they kiss you. But Mal just leans over him and combs her fingers through his hair once, trailing her hand downward to his wrist. She takes it in her hands, cradles it in one and holds the needle steady in the other.
“Trust me,” is all she says before she sets up the PASIV and Arthur shuts his eyes.
*
*
*
He does not dream.
*
When Arthur wakes, it’s as if he merely blinked, extended darkness behind his eyelids and nothing more, because Mal is still next to the bed and the sun is still watching him from the window and nothing’s changed at all.
“What did you dream of?” She asks softly, always curious, and Arthur wonders if that fascination is reserved for him.
“I didn’t,” Arthur says, wonders if this is all wrong, because Mal’s face changes, a subtle twitch of her cheek.
“Sleep, then,” she says, pressing a kiss to his forehead before finding Dom.
*
“He cannot construct his own dreams naturally,” Mal whispers.
“Then we need to teach him. We’ll put him in our dreams and let him understand the landscapes first, give him the technical aspects, then let him see what he can do with that information.”
Arthur presses his ear to the door, feels like a misbehaving child, but he needs to know if there’s something wrong with him. Moreso than he already knows, that is.
“He is perfect for this,” Mal says. “I know he is. He is soft, Dom. We need someone like him. I love him.”
“You love everyone, Mal,” Dom counters, and Arthur doesn’t doubt this. But Mal laughs, a high titter and he can picture the curve of her neck, dark and sloping.
“Yes, but he is different, Dom. He is beautiful. I want Eames to meet him. Do you think he will come visit?” She huffs. “He never visits. We do six jobs in a row and nearly get killed by that crazy Volesto man and he suddenly has no time for us.”
Arthur pulls away from the door, climbs back into bed and rubs at the raw spot on the inside of his arm. Eames, he thinks, and sleeps.
*
Eames is not as easy to get close to as Mal.
He is brash and unpredictable and he has a deep, throaty laugh that Arthur falls in love with immediately. But he does not fall in love with Eames, he tells himself. He won’t.
Mal takes him through her dream alone, first. Eames stares at him curiously for a very long time before Arthur shuts his eyes.
They are in Paris.
He is in Paris.
He is in Paris with a beautiful French woman who knows his name and loves him and all he thinks of is the way Eames looked at him.
And Arthur panics, because this isn’t real, and how will he know if he’s awake, and how will he know if he’s dead, and how will he -
“Ssh, Arthur. Isn’t it beautiful here?” Mal leans in, their noses brushing together and she smells like daisies, like a five year old girl in a field of flowers with the sun at her back and the world at her fingertips, and Arthur drowns in it, in her.
And then they wake up. And that’s it.
*
After that, he goes into Dom’s dream. Dom dreams in shades. He builds the most extraordinary buildings but never finishes them, leaves parts undone and messy and cloudy, like a haze over the whole world and yet it still feels real. It’s dreamy almost, nothing ever in full color, just a sweeping rush of architecture and fog.
Dom stands next to him, Mal at his side, and says, “build.”
He doesn’t. He can’t.
He stands and stares hopelessly, and Mal lets go of Dom’s hand and holds Arthur’s instead, fingers warm between his. “Build, Arthur,” she coos.
And he does.
*
Arthur builds eclectically, in nonlinear ways. His buildings are skewed but strong, triangular bases with rhombus tops and spurts of color. Nothing in his architecture makes sense. It shouldn’t be possible for things to be built this way and for people to receive it naturally.
Not people. Projections, Dom explains.
When a projection senses an intrusion, they turn on you. Dom has enough time to explain this, very briefly, before they are after them.
Dom’s projections do not like Arthur’s buildings. They will kill him, Dom says. And Mal is suddenly screaming “WAKE HIM UP” and Arthur’s heart seizes and then he’s in bed.
He wakes calmly.
Mal trembles next to him, shivers, and Arthur stares.
*
Eames’s dream nearly destroys him.
They are in upstate New York. It’s midday, sun shining, people strolling happily. Eames says “I’ll go easy on you” and Arthur hates him for it.
Eames dreams in vibrant hues and reflections. Every building strong, structured, mirrored so that the whole world is lit up, somehow. Arthur builds next to a skyscraper, a slanted storefront of muted greens, and just like that, the projections are onto him.
“Dom should have taught you this first,” Eames says, people running for the both of them. Arthur doesn’t know what’s going to happen. He realizes, quite consciously, that’s he afraid.
Eames shouts over the noise of them. “You’re going to die, Arthur!” And Arthur’s breath hitches. “But you’ll wake up, all right, darling? This is a dream!” There’s a huge surge of panic that takes him by force and Eames keeps yelling. “You die, you wake up! Do you understand?”
Arthur nods a second before they get him.
Someone grabs at his arm. Another at his leg and he lands face first on the ground. He screams, a wave of terror threatening to drown him because he’s been here before, a helicopter whirring above him, blood on his face, the whole world smashed and broken. They crush him, people clawing and pushing and the weight is too much and I can’t breathe they’re crushingmeI’mgoingtodie Eames Ea-
He wakes up screaming, sobbing, choking on his own breath and Mal shouts. “Why did you do that to him, Eames? He wasn’t ready!” and Eames apologizes, and Arthur’s never heard him sound more genuine, and he clutches at the sheets and cries because he was dying. And Dom is standing in the corner, worriedly, and Mal is squeezing his hand and leaving because he needs water and Eames sits down next to him and takes Arthur’s face in his hands and he breathes.
“You die, you wake up. It was a dream, you’re fine, darling.”
Arthur’s fingers are digging into Eames’s wrists because he hates him for doing that but he had to learn eventually and Eames is swiping at his cheeks, pulling him into his lap and speaking so quietly that Arthur can’t hear him.
“I’ll give him the water, Mal,” he hears him say, and those same hands tilt his head, help him drink, and Arthur’s still shaking, imaginary blood on his face, in his hair, coating the wound that destroyed Chris Pratt.
For a while, Eames just sits there, the water on the table and his fingers in Arthur’s hair. Arthur imagines Eames is never like this naturally, that this side of Eames is a gift few have received.
This is another part of Eames he falls in love with. But he does not fall in love with Eames.
“First time is never easy for anyone, I don’t think,” Eames speculates, and Arthur wonders if he’s been there, wonders, vaguely, still choking on his own breath, if Eames had anyone to hold him, to tilt his head back, and then wonders why he cares so much anyway.
*
The second time is just as bad.
As is the third, fourth, fifth, and Dom finally cuts in and says, “I don’t think he’s cut out for this. The projections aren’t always so merciful.” And Mal says, “You need to have faith in him. Mr. Eames is here with him and we are having a baby.”
She leans in and kisses him, and Dom is pulled under by the spell of her lips.
A baby, Arthur thinks. What would Mal be with a baby?
*
Next part