Prompt Post No. 13
Welcome to Round 13 of the Inception Kink Meme. This post will be closed to new prompts once it reaches five thousand comments.
New Prompting System
- Prompt post will temporarily close to new prompts at 2000 comments.
- Forty-eight hours later, post will reopen to new prompts and temporarily close again when 4000 comments are reached.
- Forty-eight hours ( Read more... )
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Arthur is still actively not thinking about what Eames said on the phone hours later, when he’s stirring his pasta sauce with one hand and has Magdalena, drooping, in the other arm. “It’s because you kick your legs around so much,” Arthur explains. “You wear yourself out, Mags. You have only yourself to blame.”
Magdalena’s eyes are narrowed into tiny little slits, and it’s almost like she’s glaring. But Arthur’s pretty sure she’s just exhausted. Her hands are fisted in his shirt--a white v-neck tee, because he’s learned his lesson about holding babies in fancy shirts--and her cheek is rubbing on his shoulder, back and forth like she could wear it down, like she could shave away at it until it lost its edge. Until the sharp angle of it was soft and rounded and the perfect pillow for her tiny head.
Arthur lowers the heat on the stove and takes Magdalena into the small study where he keeps his bookshelves. There’s not much here; most of Arthur’s books are in his Paris apartment. But he’s got a couple of mass market sci-fis, a dictionary/thesaurus, The Letters of Allen Ginsberg, My Ishmael, though he doesn’t know where Ishmael is (maybe still at his mother’s house?), and a bunch of children’s books he and Eames went out and bought for Magdalena. “If I have to read Goodnight Moon one more time, I’m putting you on the streets,” Arthur says.
“Pab.”
“Yes, I know,” Arthur says mournfully. “That was terrible of me. Let’s pretend it didn’t happen. You’ll never remember it anyway.” He shifts her to the other arm, then squats, searching the bottom shelf. It’s not as if she actually knows what she’s being read. She just likes words. She just likes noises. God knows she makes enough of her own. Sometimes, she’ll be sitting with Arthur, and she’ll just go off. She sounds like a dying lawnmower with just a hint of walrus, but hey, as far as she’s concerned, she’s communicating. “How about Hitchhiker’s Guide,” Arthur suggests. Magdalena stares blankly back at him, and her eyelids droop farther. “No? Not your kind of humor, huh? Not yet, at least. Hey! There’s a new Clive Cussler out, we can go get it? Eames is always laughing at my Cussler books, but he’s not around, is he. Nope. Just you and me, and if you can stay awake long enough, you, me, and Clive.”
“Nack!” Magdalena says, which is followed by a chuckle and then some more drooping. She maybe even falls asleep there for a second.
“Even a seven-month-old is mocking my literary choices. It’s not like I think he should be winning any awards or anything…”
In the end, Arthur just drops her off in her crib. She’s tired enough to conk out right away, without the aid of books or music or even a lullaby. The lullaby thing is new, although Arthur isn’t too sure the Happy Days theme song counts as a lullaby, and it will probably cease to be once Eames gets back. But Magdalena seems to enjoy it, whenever he sings. Babies can’t really tell the difference between a good voice and a bad one. They don’t know tone either. So it’s not like Arthur thinks that Magdalena thinks he’s a good singer. She just likes the noises. And the attention. And Arthur likes to give her attention. “Goodnight,” he whispers, instead of thinking himself in circles. It’s only six, and she’s sure to wake again, but better safe than sorry.
Arthur heads back to the kitchen and finishes his pasta and still, resolutely, does not think about what Eames said to him on the phone.
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He likes to think he’s grown a lot since fourth grade, not just his height and muscle mass, but mentally and emotionally. Yet still, he feels that swelling in his throat, that pressure behind his eyes like T-Rex has just proven yet again that Charlotte is cooler, and has risked her life just to hide under a bed with no dirty socks.
But Arthur is an adult now, and while yes, this is a child at stake, not a smelly sea critter, he’s grown to be quite the rational human. And cooler than Charlotte.
He grabs his Glock from the nightstand drawer, just in case, and makes his way into the family room where, sure enough, Eames is sitting on the couch, Magdalena lying in his lap. Arthur tosses his gun to an empty chair before going over to join them. He stops short when Eames looks up, his eyes going wide for the briefest of moments. He looks back down at Magdalena then. “Did Arthur wear a tee-shirt the whole time I was gone?” he asks her.
“Aaaa,” is Magdalena’s response, eloquent as always.
“And sweatpants, too,” Eames marvels, his eyes drawn back to Arthur. “I never get to see you dressed down, Arthur. It’s always business casual with you.” Eames is smiling, a little quirk to his lips like he means it as a joke, and it is, Arthur’s sure it is, but his heart falls anyway.
“You said you liked my suits.” It’s out before he can rein himself in. He hopes it was in his head, the way he sounded, so sad and betrayed and like a child, but Eames is looking at him like that’s exactly how he sounded, like he’s got an apology pursed right on his lips, so Arthur shakes himself loose and wills away his blush and nods to Eames’s lap, where Magdalena is gurgling cluelessly up at him. “Has she eaten yet?”
“What? I. Yes, she’s. Yeah. She has. Arthur, I--”
“She’s gonna be saying dada soon,” Arthur continues, the picture of calm, and Eames must take the hint because he shuts up about it, about Arthur’s stupid little slip but honestly? Eames said he liked Arthur’s suits. And Arthur likes doing things that Eames likes, because emotions are fucking stupid like that, so Arthur wears suits. On the job it’s not problem, he’d have done it anyway, but Arthur’s been putting on slacks and a button down to watch The Office with Eames, he’s been donning cufflinks to go to Mickey fucking D’s, and it’s not as though he was trying to entice Eames. It’s not like seduction-by-menswear was ever really an option, but he did it because Eames said he liked it, when all Arthur really wanted was a pair of jeans and some nice, warm flannel.
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“You’re such a guy,” Arthur laughs. Eames thinks those huge blowouts of his, that anger-filled, occasionally violent hysteria can be resolved with an apologetic nod of the head and a silent pact to never speak of it again. “I’m not asking you to open up to the very depths of your soul,” Arthur says, exasperated. They’ve had this conversation many times, much to Eames’s displeasure. “I just want us to talk things out when they go to shit, and I want to know when something is bothering you.” Arthur’s always been good at picking things apart, pulling them into tiny little pieces and presenting them back to their owner, for them to sort through and reorder and put back together as they see fit.
“I didn’t exactly grow up in a very caring, concerned environment, Arthur,” Eames says, as if Arthur needs reminding.
“Then don’t you want Magdalena to?” Arthur asks. “Wouldn’t you rather she have the support that you didn’t?” Share something with me, Arthur wills, Tell me one fucking thing that I don’t have to pry out of you.
“She’ll never love us,” Eames says, suddenly serious. He’s wearing a strange expression, fighting the pain he knows must show. Eames’s forgeries are one thing, flawless and impeccable. But he can’t build a mask for himself to save his life. “I was doing a bit of research,” he continues, eyes cast down. “The mother lets out some chemical, when she gives birth. Some hormone of sorts, and the moments immediately following are crucial for the mother/child relationship. It bonds them, you know?”
“Hey,” Arthur says. He finally moves, settling down next to Eames and resting an awkward hand on his shoulder. He means it to be tender, comforting, which Eames must know, because he relaxes just slightly. “Don’t worry about it. She has to love us, if we feed her. At least until she’s self-aware enough to know any better.”
“Not helping there, Arthur.”
“Right. Of course. Sorry.” Arthur looks down at Magdalena, her head tilted curiously up at the two of them. She’ll love them. Of course she will. Because that’s just it: she won’t know any better. They’re criminals. Not the petty kind, either. They’re tough stuff, Arthur and Eames. But Arthur’s mom was kind of a loony, and he loved her. And Eames’s parents, they were criminals, and they left him, a ten year old boy, on the steps of a hospital, and still, Eames loves them. “She’s going to love us, Eames,” Arthur says, sure of himself. “And besides, her mom had a Caesarean. They didn’t have that mother/child bonding shit either. We’re on a level playing field.”
Eames snorts. “So crude, my Arthur,” he says, ten kinds of fond, smiling down at Magdalena. But Arthur can tell his words had the desired effect, and Eames is making stupid faces at Mags, and she’s laughing, laughing, laughing up at him, and Arthur’s smiling, too, and he’s Eames’s Arthur, and he still hasn’t thought about the Lord of the Rings comment, and that kiss on the head never made things awkward, though they haven’t talked about it, but Arthur supposes all that can wait.
“Everything went well, I presume?” Arthur asks. Eames seems to be all in one piece, and Arthur just accepts the head nod this time. He won’t force Eames to talk about it. “You hungry?” he asks, standing from the couch. He hasn’t eaten yet, and he’s got scrambled eggs on the mind.
“No. I’m knackered, though.”
“Then go to sleep.”
Eames looks torn, his eyes drooping and dark, his shoulders slumped, but he’s clinging to Magdalena like leaving her again is the last thing he wants to do. “Nah. I’ll have myself a little lie down later.”
Arthur just snorts. “I’ll make you some tea.”
“Mmm. You’re lovely,” Eames says, and Arthur rushes into the kitchen before Eames can see him blush.
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“Mmm,” Eames mumbles, stirring. He looks up, one arm wrapped around Magdalena, and his eyes go soft. “I like these,” he says, soft and sincere and earnest as all hell, his fingers skimming the waistband of Arthur’s sweatpants. His fingernails scrape just slightly against the skin of Arthur’s hip, where his tee-shirt’s ridden up, and it takes every ounce of concentration not to let the plate and mugs shatter to the floor. Eames has got this smile on his face, this lazy, soft, personal little smile that Arthur just adds to the list of things he has to sort through, things he has to burn his mind with, and then his hand drops from Arthur’s waist, and reaches out for one of the mugs. “Caffeine, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Arthur lies. It’s herbal.
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And now I have to go to work :(
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OMFG I LOVE THIS SO MUCH! I just cannot get enough of this fic! God, the backstory you've created for Arthur and Eames and the UST between them that's practically a fourth person living with them and wonderful, sweet Magdalena. I love it all!
Eames: Of COURSE she'll love you! Moral quandaries aside, you're her papas.
Arthur: JUMP. EAMES. Wait until he no longer has a baby in his arms and then JUMP! HIM!
Magdalena: I LOVE YOU AND YOU ARE PERFECT! &hearts
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captcha: father's etncu
WOT!
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