Fic: The Uncommitted Technique (Inception, G)
title: The Uncommitted Technique
author: ilovetakahana
word count: 659
fandom: Inception
characters: Arthur, Eames, Mal, Cobb, Ariadne
rating: G
notes: Arthur, the martial arts, his thought processes, and sparring.
Written for
kink_bingo. Kink: bodies and body parts. My card is here.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org.
Arthur schools his mind into stillness. A deep breath. Clean air, the lingering damp coolness of dawn, his breath a thin puff hanging in his eyes. A pulse of energy down his nerves. He rolls his shoulders, wills a lightness down his muscles into the very tips of his fingers.
Another breath, as Mal taught him. She had been the best of them, and she had taught Arthur a better way to fight, a distinct awareness of himself and his surroundings. It was Sun Tzu and Musashi and Wing Chun all at the same time - and none of them, in the end. Combat in the key of Mal. The entirety of the self, the transcendence of self, the refinement of self.
A step forward. He closes his eyes. And he flows, as easily as wind and water, attack and defense. Now his hands are open and loose, now they are tight fists, and he slides through his forms. One foot braced on the ground and then the other; he kicks and rolls, he dodges and leaps.
His hand is a sword is a rock is the point of a spear. His foot is the counterweight. Muscles and nerves singing together.
He imagines his opponents, now. In his mind's eye Mal is throwing a blade expertly, carelessly, from hand to hand. The intricate passes luring inexperienced eyes in. Arthur keeps his eyes on her face, even as he trusts his body to carry him out of danger and now he can feel his feet leaving the earth. He dances and flips and he braces himself on his hands, kicks around in all directions before he rolls himself back into a ready stance. Patience, patience, and he knocks her out, finally, a kick to her temple and he snatches the knife from her, drives it into her throat. His knuckles white against the skin of his hands, the tendons cording from wrist to shoulder.
The next attacker is Cobb - he will probably never call him Dom again, not after the two years of running together, not after the terrifying dreams of the Fischer job. This Cobb fights in a closed-hand style, is almost a boxer instead of a pugilist, and Arthur relies even more on his feet. He parries with a sweeping kick and that's all the opening he needs, the split-second before Cobb puts both fists back up and Arthur punches him, three body shots and finally a solid blow straight into his nose.
Arthur takes a deep breath. Ariadne is grinning at him and she's spinning a quarterstaff in his mind. Radius of proscription, her extended reach, her speed and agility more than filling in the gaps in her defense. Grabbing the weapon from her might be out of the question. He will have to play her out, and he spends a lot of time whirling away from her and the faint whistling of her weapon. She doesn't leave him much room to breathe; but when he sees his opportunity, it's over in two hits - one to break the staff, the other to break her neck with a well-placed strike to her chin.
“Arthur.”
And he opens his eyes, he slows down, and the sun is clearing the horizon and there's a familiar hum of ache and weariness in his bones.
Eames is leaning on the door to the porch, a cup of tea in his hand, and Arthur smiles, walks forward - and quick as lightning his hand is moving, like a blade to Eames's throat.
A lazy motion, and he's being blocked, and the teacup is still steady in Eames's other hand.
They're frozen together for a long moment, and then Arthur's grin grows and he kisses the tip of Eames's many-times-broken nose, and they drop their attacking and defending hands at the same time.
Eames laughs, and Arthur steals a sip of his tea, and asks, “Breakfast?”
“Ready for you.”
author: ilovetakahana
word count: 659
fandom: Inception
characters: Arthur, Eames, Mal, Cobb, Ariadne
rating: G
notes: Arthur, the martial arts, his thought processes, and sparring.
Written for
kink_bingo. Kink: bodies and body parts. My card is here.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org.
Arthur schools his mind into stillness. A deep breath. Clean air, the lingering damp coolness of dawn, his breath a thin puff hanging in his eyes. A pulse of energy down his nerves. He rolls his shoulders, wills a lightness down his muscles into the very tips of his fingers.
Another breath, as Mal taught him. She had been the best of them, and she had taught Arthur a better way to fight, a distinct awareness of himself and his surroundings. It was Sun Tzu and Musashi and Wing Chun all at the same time - and none of them, in the end. Combat in the key of Mal. The entirety of the self, the transcendence of self, the refinement of self.
A step forward. He closes his eyes. And he flows, as easily as wind and water, attack and defense. Now his hands are open and loose, now they are tight fists, and he slides through his forms. One foot braced on the ground and then the other; he kicks and rolls, he dodges and leaps.
His hand is a sword is a rock is the point of a spear. His foot is the counterweight. Muscles and nerves singing together.
He imagines his opponents, now. In his mind's eye Mal is throwing a blade expertly, carelessly, from hand to hand. The intricate passes luring inexperienced eyes in. Arthur keeps his eyes on her face, even as he trusts his body to carry him out of danger and now he can feel his feet leaving the earth. He dances and flips and he braces himself on his hands, kicks around in all directions before he rolls himself back into a ready stance. Patience, patience, and he knocks her out, finally, a kick to her temple and he snatches the knife from her, drives it into her throat. His knuckles white against the skin of his hands, the tendons cording from wrist to shoulder.
The next attacker is Cobb - he will probably never call him Dom again, not after the two years of running together, not after the terrifying dreams of the Fischer job. This Cobb fights in a closed-hand style, is almost a boxer instead of a pugilist, and Arthur relies even more on his feet. He parries with a sweeping kick and that's all the opening he needs, the split-second before Cobb puts both fists back up and Arthur punches him, three body shots and finally a solid blow straight into his nose.
Arthur takes a deep breath. Ariadne is grinning at him and she's spinning a quarterstaff in his mind. Radius of proscription, her extended reach, her speed and agility more than filling in the gaps in her defense. Grabbing the weapon from her might be out of the question. He will have to play her out, and he spends a lot of time whirling away from her and the faint whistling of her weapon. She doesn't leave him much room to breathe; but when he sees his opportunity, it's over in two hits - one to break the staff, the other to break her neck with a well-placed strike to her chin.
“Arthur.”
And he opens his eyes, he slows down, and the sun is clearing the horizon and there's a familiar hum of ache and weariness in his bones.
Eames is leaning on the door to the porch, a cup of tea in his hand, and Arthur smiles, walks forward - and quick as lightning his hand is moving, like a blade to Eames's throat.
A lazy motion, and he's being blocked, and the teacup is still steady in Eames's other hand.
They're frozen together for a long moment, and then Arthur's grin grows and he kisses the tip of Eames's many-times-broken nose, and they drop their attacking and defending hands at the same time.
Eames laughs, and Arthur steals a sip of his tea, and asks, “Breakfast?”
“Ready for you.”