Inception fic: I Am Not Yours
Title: I'm Am Not Yours, Not Lost In You
Fandom/Pairing: Inception, Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Wordcount: 476
Series: Quest for Quotes, an ongoing compilation of donated favorite quotes that I'm using as prompts for whenever I have free time.
Notes: From the quote given to me by birddi. It's old, now, because I was going through ym stuff after falling off the bandwagon, and thought, "Hey, I haven't posted this yet." Much thanks to towel_master, for forever betaing my stuff. Cut text/title from the poem I Am Not Yours by Sara Teasdale.
You can find the MASTERLIST OF FILLS HERE.
Summary: They aren't in love.
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"I don't pretend to know what love is for everyone, but I can tell you what it is for me; love is knowing all about someone, and still wanting to be with them more than any other person, love is trusting them enough to tell them everything about yourself, including the things you might be ashamed of, love is feeling comfortable and safe with someone, but still getting weak knees when they walk into a room and smile at you." -Unknown
-o-
Arthur doesn’t love Eames.
He knows this, as they lay in bed together after another job pulled off miraculously, blazing guns stored under pillows and in drawers by the bed for easy access. His left leg is draped over Eames’s right, his face buried in Eames’s neck, his arm resting casually across Eames’s waist.
Eames is complicated.
Eames is a puzzle.
Eames is sometimes so impossible to understand that Arthur can’t even begin to think about spending more than three minutes in a room with him, yet he never wants to leave.
But that’s okay, because Arthur is complicated and sometimes impossible, too.
The truth is, Arthur knows very little about Eames. He knows that Eames is British-actually, not just pretending to be-but Arthur doesn’t know which province he’s from. He knows that all of Eames’s tattoos have stories behind them, but Eames won’t tell him what the stories are.
Eames can speak four languages besides English, but Arthur doesn’t know which ones.
Eames has a favorite color, and a favorite song, and a favorite book. He has a favorite places, favorite things, and a favorite time of day, too. But Arthur doesn’t know any of these things.
That’s okay, though.
It is, because all Eames knows about Arthur is that he’s American. That he’s brilliant, deadly, and has no imagination. He doesn’t know that Arthur is from the South, or that he speaks French, German, and Italian fluently. He doesn’t know that Arthur reads The Alchemist whenever he has a free moment, that he always likes to watch the sun set, or that he bakes whenever the hell he feels like it.
This is because Eames doesn’t love Arthur, either.
They pull away from each other, finally, and Eames stretches. The lines of his back are long, and Arthur reaches out a hand to trace one of the ink splendors flowing across the broad shoulders. Eames shivers.
“When is this from?” Arthur asks, because he never gives up.
Eames turns to look at him, calculating, and finds him sleepy and open and interested. He turns, and takes Arthur’s hand in his own, debating.
“I got it when I was sixteen,” he says.
And Arthur smiles, a little, and says, “My favorite color is blue.”
-o-
The truth of the matter is this: Arthur doesn’t love Eames, and Eames doesn’t love him.
Yet.
---------
I really like this one, now that I look at it again. I might have some other old stuff lying around, too, so you all might hear from me again soon. :)
Fandom/Pairing: Inception, Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Wordcount: 476
Series: Quest for Quotes, an ongoing compilation of donated favorite quotes that I'm using as prompts for whenever I have free time.
Notes: From the quote given to me by birddi. It's old, now, because I was going through ym stuff after falling off the bandwagon, and thought, "Hey, I haven't posted this yet." Much thanks to towel_master, for forever betaing my stuff. Cut text/title from the poem I Am Not Yours by Sara Teasdale.
You can find the MASTERLIST OF FILLS HERE.
Summary: They aren't in love.
-----------
"I don't pretend to know what love is for everyone, but I can tell you what it is for me; love is knowing all about someone, and still wanting to be with them more than any other person, love is trusting them enough to tell them everything about yourself, including the things you might be ashamed of, love is feeling comfortable and safe with someone, but still getting weak knees when they walk into a room and smile at you." -Unknown
-o-
Arthur doesn’t love Eames.
He knows this, as they lay in bed together after another job pulled off miraculously, blazing guns stored under pillows and in drawers by the bed for easy access. His left leg is draped over Eames’s right, his face buried in Eames’s neck, his arm resting casually across Eames’s waist.
Eames is complicated.
Eames is a puzzle.
Eames is sometimes so impossible to understand that Arthur can’t even begin to think about spending more than three minutes in a room with him, yet he never wants to leave.
But that’s okay, because Arthur is complicated and sometimes impossible, too.
The truth is, Arthur knows very little about Eames. He knows that Eames is British-actually, not just pretending to be-but Arthur doesn’t know which province he’s from. He knows that all of Eames’s tattoos have stories behind them, but Eames won’t tell him what the stories are.
Eames can speak four languages besides English, but Arthur doesn’t know which ones.
Eames has a favorite color, and a favorite song, and a favorite book. He has a favorite places, favorite things, and a favorite time of day, too. But Arthur doesn’t know any of these things.
That’s okay, though.
It is, because all Eames knows about Arthur is that he’s American. That he’s brilliant, deadly, and has no imagination. He doesn’t know that Arthur is from the South, or that he speaks French, German, and Italian fluently. He doesn’t know that Arthur reads The Alchemist whenever he has a free moment, that he always likes to watch the sun set, or that he bakes whenever the hell he feels like it.
This is because Eames doesn’t love Arthur, either.
They pull away from each other, finally, and Eames stretches. The lines of his back are long, and Arthur reaches out a hand to trace one of the ink splendors flowing across the broad shoulders. Eames shivers.
“When is this from?” Arthur asks, because he never gives up.
Eames turns to look at him, calculating, and finds him sleepy and open and interested. He turns, and takes Arthur’s hand in his own, debating.
“I got it when I was sixteen,” he says.
And Arthur smiles, a little, and says, “My favorite color is blue.”
-o-
The truth of the matter is this: Arthur doesn’t love Eames, and Eames doesn’t love him.
Yet.
---------
I really like this one, now that I look at it again. I might have some other old stuff lying around, too, so you all might hear from me again soon. :)