Fic: Every breath you take (Inception, PG-13)
title: Every breath you take
author: ilovetakahana
word count: 923
fandom: Inception
pairings: Ariadne/Mal, background Eames/Arthur
rating: PG-13
notes: Lots of guns, lots of BAMFness, and Mal is alive.
Written for
kink_bingo. Kink: breathplay. My card is here.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org.
Smoke and dust hanging in the air. Ariadne breathes, as quietly as she can. Sucking in each breath through her teeth. Every few seconds the building shudders, and the overhead beams are already creaking in protest.
Her hands are still steady on the rifle she's dreamed up, a near-copy of Eames's SIG SG 552, and she thinks Mal might be proud, if only she could see her now. Here she is standing at the end of a hallway. If anyone's going to try sneaking up on Mal from here, Ariadne will be able to take them out within a hot second. Arthur has insisted she dream herself some body armor, and so she's wearing a heavy ballistic vest. There are thick doors protecting her back.
The doors lead into the room with the safe, and Mal is inside the room, attempting the extraction.
Ariadne is her final line of defense.
The radio receiver in her ear crackles to life and Eames is muttering at her: “You might have incoming, ducks.”
“Oh, great,” Ariadne mutters back. “I thought you and Arthur were here to stop that from happening?”
“We're doing our best,” Arthur cuts in angrily. “This dream's just plain fucked up. Be ready.”
“Tell me something I don't already know,” Ariadne and Eames say, almost at the same time.
And then there's a footstep, and Ariadne manages to cut off most of her gasp, and she brings the rifle up to a ready position. It's a heavy gun, and her pockets are weighed down with extra magazines, and her helmet is making her sweat. She's worried, for Mal and for the others, though she knows they'll shrug it off. It's enough to make her want to hyperventilate, but carefully, because Ariadne needs air but not the grit swirling at her feet.
The air is cold as it whistles past her teeth. Her jaw is starting to cramp. This is a dream, but she has a feeling she's going to need a painkiller for the phantom pain anyway, once they wake up.
A shadow appears at the far end of the corridor. Breathe, Ariadne. As you were taught. Deep and even. And bring up your elbows. It's like rereading a manual, and she gives it her best effort. The gun's muzzle is miraculously not shaking.
The man at the other end abruptly swings into view, and a fleeting glance tells Ariadne everything: a disheveled suit, his shoulders heaving, the pistol tracking toward her, the blank stare of a projection.
Ariadne draws a bead on him and fires: two in the chest, one in the head.
The projection vanishes before he hits the floor.
Ariadne scoops up the bullet casings almost by rote, drops them into one of her less-than-full pockets.
Another deep breath, and she's back on guard, and she mutters into the radio: “Next.”
“Okay, Ariadne, you have just officially scared me,” Eames says. “Do you normally sound cold after you've shot someone?”
“I sound cold?” And just like that, the world rushes back in. Ariadne inhales in shock, coughs out the grit, blinks and looks down at her steady hands. The weight of the gun.
“You did. Not now,” Arthur says. And then: “Mal, sit-rep.”
“Get out, both of you,” Mal says. “Ariadne, five minutes.”
“I've never met a lock that could beat you,” she says. “How long is that document exactly?”
Mal sighs, a gusty breath. “I'm on page 88 of 100.”
Eames whistles. “That is a lot of secrets.”
“I'm going to demand overtime pay for this, don't worry,” Mal growls. “Now let's get on with it. Wake up, sanitize the place, be ready for us.”
“Got it,” Arthur says, and bang, and he's silent.
“That's my cue,” Eames says. “Geronimo.”
“That means it's up to you, ma petite,” Mal says, quietly, in Ariadne's ear.
Ariadne sighs. “Isn't it always?”
“Ah, so true. I would be lost without you.”
“Damn right you would be, if only because you'd use me as the fucking red thread,” and Ariadne grins, although there's no one there to see it.
Flash in the corner of her eye, and Ariadne gasps and goes cold, and she pulls the rifle back up and there's someone coming for her, the rifle goes off and the projection is gone, and the adrenaline won't let her catch her breath, and then there is a hand clamped over her mouth.
A hard palm, long and slender fingers. The nails are painted dark purple. The fingers are digging bruises into her cheeks already. Mallorie?! My Mal? Not a projection!
“Breathe,” that familiar voice whispers. Warmth, so near her skin, and Ariadne shivers, slowly points the rifle toward the floor. “That's it. Follow me.”
She tries to talk against the hand over her mouth, but she's getting lightheaded. It's hard to breathe through her nose, and it's not even good air. “You're done? Your top? Are you....”
“I'm the real one,” Mal croons. “Do you trust me?”
Ariadne nods, frantically. Always.
“Then trust me, and breathe, and relax.”
Cold blade against her throat.
Ariadne relaxes, now. Mal has been training in knife-fighting again, and this is exactly the knife she uses.
A jolt of light and pain, and she takes one more breath, hears it whistle through the gash in her throat.
The world goes dark.
Ariadne is smiling.
author: ilovetakahana
word count: 923
fandom: Inception
pairings: Ariadne/Mal, background Eames/Arthur
rating: PG-13
notes: Lots of guns, lots of BAMFness, and Mal is alive.
Written for
kink_bingo. Kink: breathplay. My card is here.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org.
Smoke and dust hanging in the air. Ariadne breathes, as quietly as she can. Sucking in each breath through her teeth. Every few seconds the building shudders, and the overhead beams are already creaking in protest.
Her hands are still steady on the rifle she's dreamed up, a near-copy of Eames's SIG SG 552, and she thinks Mal might be proud, if only she could see her now. Here she is standing at the end of a hallway. If anyone's going to try sneaking up on Mal from here, Ariadne will be able to take them out within a hot second. Arthur has insisted she dream herself some body armor, and so she's wearing a heavy ballistic vest. There are thick doors protecting her back.
The doors lead into the room with the safe, and Mal is inside the room, attempting the extraction.
Ariadne is her final line of defense.
The radio receiver in her ear crackles to life and Eames is muttering at her: “You might have incoming, ducks.”
“Oh, great,” Ariadne mutters back. “I thought you and Arthur were here to stop that from happening?”
“We're doing our best,” Arthur cuts in angrily. “This dream's just plain fucked up. Be ready.”
“Tell me something I don't already know,” Ariadne and Eames say, almost at the same time.
And then there's a footstep, and Ariadne manages to cut off most of her gasp, and she brings the rifle up to a ready position. It's a heavy gun, and her pockets are weighed down with extra magazines, and her helmet is making her sweat. She's worried, for Mal and for the others, though she knows they'll shrug it off. It's enough to make her want to hyperventilate, but carefully, because Ariadne needs air but not the grit swirling at her feet.
The air is cold as it whistles past her teeth. Her jaw is starting to cramp. This is a dream, but she has a feeling she's going to need a painkiller for the phantom pain anyway, once they wake up.
A shadow appears at the far end of the corridor. Breathe, Ariadne. As you were taught. Deep and even. And bring up your elbows. It's like rereading a manual, and she gives it her best effort. The gun's muzzle is miraculously not shaking.
The man at the other end abruptly swings into view, and a fleeting glance tells Ariadne everything: a disheveled suit, his shoulders heaving, the pistol tracking toward her, the blank stare of a projection.
Ariadne draws a bead on him and fires: two in the chest, one in the head.
The projection vanishes before he hits the floor.
Ariadne scoops up the bullet casings almost by rote, drops them into one of her less-than-full pockets.
Another deep breath, and she's back on guard, and she mutters into the radio: “Next.”
“Okay, Ariadne, you have just officially scared me,” Eames says. “Do you normally sound cold after you've shot someone?”
“I sound cold?” And just like that, the world rushes back in. Ariadne inhales in shock, coughs out the grit, blinks and looks down at her steady hands. The weight of the gun.
“You did. Not now,” Arthur says. And then: “Mal, sit-rep.”
“Get out, both of you,” Mal says. “Ariadne, five minutes.”
“I've never met a lock that could beat you,” she says. “How long is that document exactly?”
Mal sighs, a gusty breath. “I'm on page 88 of 100.”
Eames whistles. “That is a lot of secrets.”
“I'm going to demand overtime pay for this, don't worry,” Mal growls. “Now let's get on with it. Wake up, sanitize the place, be ready for us.”
“Got it,” Arthur says, and bang, and he's silent.
“That's my cue,” Eames says. “Geronimo.”
“That means it's up to you, ma petite,” Mal says, quietly, in Ariadne's ear.
Ariadne sighs. “Isn't it always?”
“Ah, so true. I would be lost without you.”
“Damn right you would be, if only because you'd use me as the fucking red thread,” and Ariadne grins, although there's no one there to see it.
Flash in the corner of her eye, and Ariadne gasps and goes cold, and she pulls the rifle back up and there's someone coming for her, the rifle goes off and the projection is gone, and the adrenaline won't let her catch her breath, and then there is a hand clamped over her mouth.
A hard palm, long and slender fingers. The nails are painted dark purple. The fingers are digging bruises into her cheeks already. Mallorie?! My Mal? Not a projection!
“Breathe,” that familiar voice whispers. Warmth, so near her skin, and Ariadne shivers, slowly points the rifle toward the floor. “That's it. Follow me.”
She tries to talk against the hand over her mouth, but she's getting lightheaded. It's hard to breathe through her nose, and it's not even good air. “You're done? Your top? Are you....”
“I'm the real one,” Mal croons. “Do you trust me?”
Ariadne nods, frantically. Always.
“Then trust me, and breathe, and relax.”
Cold blade against her throat.
Ariadne relaxes, now. Mal has been training in knife-fighting again, and this is exactly the knife she uses.
A jolt of light and pain, and she takes one more breath, hears it whistle through the gash in her throat.
The world goes dark.
Ariadne is smiling.