Title: The Application of Torque
Title: The Application of Torque
Author: louie x
Rating: PG-13
Series: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Word Count: 2449
Disclaimer: Not mine, not in anyway mine. Were it so, I would be as awesome as Christopher Nolan.
Summary: Capture is a mere hindrance that can be ended with the proper degree of leverage.
Wrenches are a tool; they grip and twist, allowing the tightening of bolts or nuts in order to maintain a secure hold.
A wrench is also the term for when an extraction goes awry.
Such as when a mark has a subconscious army with military training and has the money to hide that kind of information from Arthur's skilled fingers. Things like that are frustrating, at the least, and can blow their cover.
Arthur's not fond of getting killed as a means of waking up, but he's missed the kick that brought the others out. Hours have passed; his arms bound as extensions of the dreamer's unconscious batter him instead of tearing him to pieces in a terrible death.
It's… unnerving to be captured.
The room he's in reminds him of something from Wall Street in New York. Tall glass windows with the sun setting over water nearby. Could he turn and see, Arthur thinks he might even spy a bit of the Statue of Liberty. The chair he is cuffed to, however, makes it so he has the heat of the sun digging into the back of his neck while the cuffs around his wrists bite into the flesh there.
He grits his teeth and pulls on his arms once more. The guard at the door barks a command to stop squirming and Arthur glares in return. Were he left alone, it would only be a matter of leverage -and perhaps a dislocated shoulder or two- to break the wooden chair arms and free himself. The cuffs are black metal, stylish at least, but they keep his hands in sight and Arthur hates to admit the thought that he's nervous.
His jaw aches from the sucker punch that initially caught him off guard. He counts the pulsing points along his chest where his ribs protest from what might be a few cracks when he struck a cement wall.
Arthur has had better days, better jobs, and better experience removing wrenches from the works. He sighs firmly through his nose upon seeing a bloodstain ruining the neat press of his Armani pants. Few people truly respect clothes these days, he thinks with annoyance. Even though it is just a dream, Arthur takes a certain sense of pride in looking his best even when the mark has no need to lay eyes upon him.
The door across the room opens, the thick metal dragging across the floor with a groan upon the smote stone tile. Again, Arthur thinks, so disrespectful. A man walks in -the well-guarded mark- with a beautiful blond on his arm. His shoes make no sound as he walks in, stopping two arm lengths away from where Arthur is forcibly seated.
"Ah, I see you're not minding the accommodations," the man says in French. Beside him, the woman laughs coyly against his shoulder. Her arm is draped through the mark's, painted nail tipped fingers lightly stroking over the man's chest as she presses as much of herself against his body without directly inviting him into her slinky black dress. She pouts her full lips, standing on tiptoe to breathe in sweet words against the mark's ear.
He grins and drags her in for a hot kiss. The mark speaks afterward, his lips lightly stained from her lipstick, "It seems my lovely friend here thinks that you are too young, too handsome, for this work and need more comfortable surroundings. I can only assume that you're to be rescued and not likely you would be abandoned here since extraction is rarely done alone. Personally, I wanted to hang you by your thumbs from the ceiling." Arthur watches the two with disinterest, just calmly breathing while he waits for a point.
The woman smiles and walks over, strangely confident despite the obvious hostage situation occurring. Her heels click and Arthur glances down the length of her mile-long legs to take in the red soles of Christian Louboutin studded blue sandals. She gives a soft kick to the inside of his left foot, knocking his legs open wider and sits down in Arthur's lap.
He clenches his teeth behind closed lips as she leans in to dot soft kisses along his jaw.
"I want you to tell me of your job here and whom it is that you work for." The man across the room says. Arthur tips his head away from the woman, saying nothing to the demands posed to him. She draws his attention back with a soft touch to his chest, idly fixing his silk tie with a sharp tug of the knot. "Darling," she says, voice soft and meant just for Arthur's ears. He lifts his head and stares at the woman, no longer caring about the man still talking, still questioning, at the edge of his awareness.
The woman smirks, the perfect line of her ruby lips curling at the edges and opens her mouth just enough to flash her tongue behind perfectly white teeth. Sitting on the bed of her tongue is a small silver key, one intended for the cuffs binding Arthur still.
"Darling," she repeats and Arthur hopes his poker face is as good as the others complain it is. That his eyes haven't given anything away as, for the first time since the missed kick, Arthur feels himself relax. Her hand lightly traces the bruising along his eye and jaw, lower lip jutting out in a soft pout. "They have been so cruel to you, so unkind, love."
Arthur closes his eyes when she kisses him, exhaling through his nose as one of her arms slides around his shoulders. He thinks he can hear the mark protest, some sort of swear in a language that Arthur doesn't care to attempt to translate any longer. Her tongue sweetly pushes past his lips and into his mouth, the heavy metal of the key fitting perfectly between Arthur's teeth and his cheek.
The mark grabs her arm and drags her away from Arthur. He bites down on the metal at seeing her body fall, the thin frame being carelessly knocked aside by a firm, backhanded slap. She cups her face, turning it away from the men in the room and her hair falls over her shoulder to hide her away.
Arthur traces the simple lines of the key with the tip of his tongue. The mark closes the distance between them, grabbing Arthur's collar and yanks him forward as far as his restraints would allow. "You will tell me who hired you, now!" he shouts.
Like a ripple shifting the air, they all notice something has changed. The man turns, glancing over his shoulder to take in what was once a pretty girl -probably from a bar, but it's a dream, the lack of a beginning is normal- that now holds a shotgun on the guard by the door. She smiles and licks a bit of blood from the corner of her lips before firing off single round. It smashes the guard into the wall, dead and useless to the mark now.
Arthur lifts his legs and kicks as hard as he can, sending the man stumbling backward. He uses the lapse in time to lean his head forward; twisting the key held in his teeth within the lock to free his right hand, then unlocks the other. Crossing between the mark and the woman, Arthur thinks he shouldn't be smiling so wide at knowing it is now Eames holding the shotgun in a charcoal gray business suit at his back.
"There you are, darling," he says with a grin despite the blood on his teeth. "Good to see you back on your feet."
"Helpful but late, as always, Mr. Eames," Arthur replies. He takes two long strides forward and slams his foot across the mark's face, knocking the man into a mild state of unconsciousness. Turning, Arthur raises his brows, finally feeling the exhaustion of the day. "How long until the next kick?"
"Thirty-seconds give or take."
Eames rests the shotgun on his shoulder but there's a mocking smile on his roguish face. Arthur exhales again, feeling strangely self-conscious at being rescued but Eames of all people. The forger steps forward, closing the space between them and reaches up, thumb dragging lightly over Arthur's lower lip. He withdraws his hand, the fingertip stained from the lingering color of red lipstick.
Arthur refuses to even humor the thought that the heat in his face is due to him blushing. "Give or take," he mimics, enough of a teasing tone to wipe some of the self-satisfaction from Eames' face. He waits until the man's smile falls, feeling every fleeting second as it ticks on by. He waits until that last moment of control flickers out to grab Eames by his jacket and push him up against the nearest flat surface. To press a kiss against his that would rival the one that the blond -Eames- had given him earlier.
The music starts just as Eames starts to return the gesture. He maintains his grip on his shotgun, but uses his free hand to draw Arthur close up against him. Pressed chest-to-chest and hip-to-hip, Arthur bites Eames' lip to get the man to open up further. The groan, unexpected for both men most likely, that slips past Eames' mouth is tandem with his cock heating up and giving a lively jump against Arthur's thigh.
Arthur opens his eyes and takes in the sudden change of surroundings. Cobb has one hand on his shoulder, worry written all over his face, while Eames is waking up in a nearby chair. His mind remembers the aches his body should have but he reaches for his totem as soon as he's free of the IV, rolling the die around restlessly in his palm to stave off residual pains.
Cobb is on his feet, talking at Arthur while waiting for standard replies. The words are meaningless though, Arthur fully aware of the depth of a dream and how detailed his own mind can manifest itself to become. He turns to the nearest table and rolls the die, once, twice, and three times, only then exhaling the tension from a job gone bad.
Their mark is still out, still drugged up on a cheap motel bed somewhere in Buenos Aires. Arthur doesn't care much for the country, the temperature is too warm, he prefers Stateside where he can be one in three hundred million in a city where no one would pay him a second glance.
The die is replaced in his waistcoat pocket, the edges of it settling into a small worn spot on most of Arthur's clothes. Cobb is talking behind him, exchanging words with Eames to get a proper brief on just what happened with the mark in the dream. He's worried, which is kind, the man is a father after all and instincts like that are hard to override. Arthur's head aches, dehydration most likely, otherwise he would gladly tell Cobb to shove it, as he's not a memory of lost children needing to be coddled.
Eames approaches him first, however. A hand on his shoulder and Arthur tenses, shrugging the connective gestures off as he turns to face the forger with his usual well-managed snarl. A corporate face, it was called once, he distantly thinks. The hands return and Arthur reluctantly allows them to stay, to steady Eames as well as himself with the large palms resting upon Arthur's shoulders. One moves, cupping the left side of his face as Eames ducks his head gently to speak, "You all good in there, Arthur? Had us a bit worried for a while."
He thinks about the weight of the woman in his lap and the teasing flash of a key in her mouth. The pressure of a mouth against his, of Eames' mouth, both painted scarlet and lightly chapped. Eames, a subtle dreamer who's hawkish gaze is both set to devour as well as to study sets Arthur's teeth on edge. He doesn't need the scrutiny nor does he appreciate it. After all, he is not Cobb, not a man who fell to the depths and returned tainted with both experience and loss.
"I'm fine," Arthur says. He walks away from the two men and reaches into his pocket, fingers brushing the indents of the numbers upon the die as he looks over the plans for the job on a nearby table. There's no doubt they will have to go again, that they will have to dive into the man's hostile subconscious but at least they are aware of the battle ahead of them.
Cobb leaves the room, saying something about air or food, or something to drink. Things needed for a waking body that reassures them all of stable, real, surroundings. Food in dreams has no value, no weight; there is no feeling of satiated hunger. Arthur hopes he'll bring back something of true caloric value, something that will power his mind faster.
Not bothering to waste a moment, Eames turns Arthur around again, pushing him against the table but stops just shy of actually kissing the other man again. Their bodies are taut, touching from calf to chest and Arthur can feel Eames breathing, calm and steady, against his cheek. "Got something you'd like to share with the class?" Eames teases, though his voice is soft against the corner of Arthur's mouth.
They kiss, slow and calm, like they were long practiced hands at it. Arthur thinks he ought to shove the man away again, to deny him that leg-up of control which Arthur wears like the crisp suits he favors. Instead he lets Eames' hands roam, lets them draw heavy heated lines with his palms over Arthur's back before resting on the wings of his hips. He doesn't seem to mind the initial lack of gestural reciprocation, Arthur's mouth is busy enough to let Eames know his affections -unexpected, expected, desired, and loathed though they were- were not entirely one-sided.
Cobb will surely return soon and Arthur thinks to be caught in such a manner unbefitting of a professional would change how the man might see him forever. To be caught in the whims of Eames, the sort who specializes in lying and trickery, might diminish Cobb's trust in Arthur's judgment.
They're on opposite sides of the room when Cobb gets back, food in hand. Arthur is rolling the die idly as he sits by the table, and Eames looking over their still slumbering mark.
Reality wins with each and every throw of the die. Arthur can still taste the cigarettes from Eames' mouth on his own tongue and is glad he's no longer dreaming.
Author: louie x
Rating: PG-13
Series: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Word Count: 2449
Disclaimer: Not mine, not in anyway mine. Were it so, I would be as awesome as Christopher Nolan.
Summary: Capture is a mere hindrance that can be ended with the proper degree of leverage.
Wrenches are a tool; they grip and twist, allowing the tightening of bolts or nuts in order to maintain a secure hold.
A wrench is also the term for when an extraction goes awry.
Such as when a mark has a subconscious army with military training and has the money to hide that kind of information from Arthur's skilled fingers. Things like that are frustrating, at the least, and can blow their cover.
Arthur's not fond of getting killed as a means of waking up, but he's missed the kick that brought the others out. Hours have passed; his arms bound as extensions of the dreamer's unconscious batter him instead of tearing him to pieces in a terrible death.
It's… unnerving to be captured.
The room he's in reminds him of something from Wall Street in New York. Tall glass windows with the sun setting over water nearby. Could he turn and see, Arthur thinks he might even spy a bit of the Statue of Liberty. The chair he is cuffed to, however, makes it so he has the heat of the sun digging into the back of his neck while the cuffs around his wrists bite into the flesh there.
He grits his teeth and pulls on his arms once more. The guard at the door barks a command to stop squirming and Arthur glares in return. Were he left alone, it would only be a matter of leverage -and perhaps a dislocated shoulder or two- to break the wooden chair arms and free himself. The cuffs are black metal, stylish at least, but they keep his hands in sight and Arthur hates to admit the thought that he's nervous.
His jaw aches from the sucker punch that initially caught him off guard. He counts the pulsing points along his chest where his ribs protest from what might be a few cracks when he struck a cement wall.
Arthur has had better days, better jobs, and better experience removing wrenches from the works. He sighs firmly through his nose upon seeing a bloodstain ruining the neat press of his Armani pants. Few people truly respect clothes these days, he thinks with annoyance. Even though it is just a dream, Arthur takes a certain sense of pride in looking his best even when the mark has no need to lay eyes upon him.
The door across the room opens, the thick metal dragging across the floor with a groan upon the smote stone tile. Again, Arthur thinks, so disrespectful. A man walks in -the well-guarded mark- with a beautiful blond on his arm. His shoes make no sound as he walks in, stopping two arm lengths away from where Arthur is forcibly seated.
"Ah, I see you're not minding the accommodations," the man says in French. Beside him, the woman laughs coyly against his shoulder. Her arm is draped through the mark's, painted nail tipped fingers lightly stroking over the man's chest as she presses as much of herself against his body without directly inviting him into her slinky black dress. She pouts her full lips, standing on tiptoe to breathe in sweet words against the mark's ear.
He grins and drags her in for a hot kiss. The mark speaks afterward, his lips lightly stained from her lipstick, "It seems my lovely friend here thinks that you are too young, too handsome, for this work and need more comfortable surroundings. I can only assume that you're to be rescued and not likely you would be abandoned here since extraction is rarely done alone. Personally, I wanted to hang you by your thumbs from the ceiling." Arthur watches the two with disinterest, just calmly breathing while he waits for a point.
The woman smiles and walks over, strangely confident despite the obvious hostage situation occurring. Her heels click and Arthur glances down the length of her mile-long legs to take in the red soles of Christian Louboutin studded blue sandals. She gives a soft kick to the inside of his left foot, knocking his legs open wider and sits down in Arthur's lap.
He clenches his teeth behind closed lips as she leans in to dot soft kisses along his jaw.
"I want you to tell me of your job here and whom it is that you work for." The man across the room says. Arthur tips his head away from the woman, saying nothing to the demands posed to him. She draws his attention back with a soft touch to his chest, idly fixing his silk tie with a sharp tug of the knot. "Darling," she says, voice soft and meant just for Arthur's ears. He lifts his head and stares at the woman, no longer caring about the man still talking, still questioning, at the edge of his awareness.
The woman smirks, the perfect line of her ruby lips curling at the edges and opens her mouth just enough to flash her tongue behind perfectly white teeth. Sitting on the bed of her tongue is a small silver key, one intended for the cuffs binding Arthur still.
"Darling," she repeats and Arthur hopes his poker face is as good as the others complain it is. That his eyes haven't given anything away as, for the first time since the missed kick, Arthur feels himself relax. Her hand lightly traces the bruising along his eye and jaw, lower lip jutting out in a soft pout. "They have been so cruel to you, so unkind, love."
Arthur closes his eyes when she kisses him, exhaling through his nose as one of her arms slides around his shoulders. He thinks he can hear the mark protest, some sort of swear in a language that Arthur doesn't care to attempt to translate any longer. Her tongue sweetly pushes past his lips and into his mouth, the heavy metal of the key fitting perfectly between Arthur's teeth and his cheek.
The mark grabs her arm and drags her away from Arthur. He bites down on the metal at seeing her body fall, the thin frame being carelessly knocked aside by a firm, backhanded slap. She cups her face, turning it away from the men in the room and her hair falls over her shoulder to hide her away.
Arthur traces the simple lines of the key with the tip of his tongue. The mark closes the distance between them, grabbing Arthur's collar and yanks him forward as far as his restraints would allow. "You will tell me who hired you, now!" he shouts.
Like a ripple shifting the air, they all notice something has changed. The man turns, glancing over his shoulder to take in what was once a pretty girl -probably from a bar, but it's a dream, the lack of a beginning is normal- that now holds a shotgun on the guard by the door. She smiles and licks a bit of blood from the corner of her lips before firing off single round. It smashes the guard into the wall, dead and useless to the mark now.
Arthur lifts his legs and kicks as hard as he can, sending the man stumbling backward. He uses the lapse in time to lean his head forward; twisting the key held in his teeth within the lock to free his right hand, then unlocks the other. Crossing between the mark and the woman, Arthur thinks he shouldn't be smiling so wide at knowing it is now Eames holding the shotgun in a charcoal gray business suit at his back.
"There you are, darling," he says with a grin despite the blood on his teeth. "Good to see you back on your feet."
"Helpful but late, as always, Mr. Eames," Arthur replies. He takes two long strides forward and slams his foot across the mark's face, knocking the man into a mild state of unconsciousness. Turning, Arthur raises his brows, finally feeling the exhaustion of the day. "How long until the next kick?"
"Thirty-seconds give or take."
Eames rests the shotgun on his shoulder but there's a mocking smile on his roguish face. Arthur exhales again, feeling strangely self-conscious at being rescued but Eames of all people. The forger steps forward, closing the space between them and reaches up, thumb dragging lightly over Arthur's lower lip. He withdraws his hand, the fingertip stained from the lingering color of red lipstick.
Arthur refuses to even humor the thought that the heat in his face is due to him blushing. "Give or take," he mimics, enough of a teasing tone to wipe some of the self-satisfaction from Eames' face. He waits until the man's smile falls, feeling every fleeting second as it ticks on by. He waits until that last moment of control flickers out to grab Eames by his jacket and push him up against the nearest flat surface. To press a kiss against his that would rival the one that the blond -Eames- had given him earlier.
The music starts just as Eames starts to return the gesture. He maintains his grip on his shotgun, but uses his free hand to draw Arthur close up against him. Pressed chest-to-chest and hip-to-hip, Arthur bites Eames' lip to get the man to open up further. The groan, unexpected for both men most likely, that slips past Eames' mouth is tandem with his cock heating up and giving a lively jump against Arthur's thigh.
Arthur opens his eyes and takes in the sudden change of surroundings. Cobb has one hand on his shoulder, worry written all over his face, while Eames is waking up in a nearby chair. His mind remembers the aches his body should have but he reaches for his totem as soon as he's free of the IV, rolling the die around restlessly in his palm to stave off residual pains.
Cobb is on his feet, talking at Arthur while waiting for standard replies. The words are meaningless though, Arthur fully aware of the depth of a dream and how detailed his own mind can manifest itself to become. He turns to the nearest table and rolls the die, once, twice, and three times, only then exhaling the tension from a job gone bad.
Their mark is still out, still drugged up on a cheap motel bed somewhere in Buenos Aires. Arthur doesn't care much for the country, the temperature is too warm, he prefers Stateside where he can be one in three hundred million in a city where no one would pay him a second glance.
The die is replaced in his waistcoat pocket, the edges of it settling into a small worn spot on most of Arthur's clothes. Cobb is talking behind him, exchanging words with Eames to get a proper brief on just what happened with the mark in the dream. He's worried, which is kind, the man is a father after all and instincts like that are hard to override. Arthur's head aches, dehydration most likely, otherwise he would gladly tell Cobb to shove it, as he's not a memory of lost children needing to be coddled.
Eames approaches him first, however. A hand on his shoulder and Arthur tenses, shrugging the connective gestures off as he turns to face the forger with his usual well-managed snarl. A corporate face, it was called once, he distantly thinks. The hands return and Arthur reluctantly allows them to stay, to steady Eames as well as himself with the large palms resting upon Arthur's shoulders. One moves, cupping the left side of his face as Eames ducks his head gently to speak, "You all good in there, Arthur? Had us a bit worried for a while."
He thinks about the weight of the woman in his lap and the teasing flash of a key in her mouth. The pressure of a mouth against his, of Eames' mouth, both painted scarlet and lightly chapped. Eames, a subtle dreamer who's hawkish gaze is both set to devour as well as to study sets Arthur's teeth on edge. He doesn't need the scrutiny nor does he appreciate it. After all, he is not Cobb, not a man who fell to the depths and returned tainted with both experience and loss.
"I'm fine," Arthur says. He walks away from the two men and reaches into his pocket, fingers brushing the indents of the numbers upon the die as he looks over the plans for the job on a nearby table. There's no doubt they will have to go again, that they will have to dive into the man's hostile subconscious but at least they are aware of the battle ahead of them.
Cobb leaves the room, saying something about air or food, or something to drink. Things needed for a waking body that reassures them all of stable, real, surroundings. Food in dreams has no value, no weight; there is no feeling of satiated hunger. Arthur hopes he'll bring back something of true caloric value, something that will power his mind faster.
Not bothering to waste a moment, Eames turns Arthur around again, pushing him against the table but stops just shy of actually kissing the other man again. Their bodies are taut, touching from calf to chest and Arthur can feel Eames breathing, calm and steady, against his cheek. "Got something you'd like to share with the class?" Eames teases, though his voice is soft against the corner of Arthur's mouth.
They kiss, slow and calm, like they were long practiced hands at it. Arthur thinks he ought to shove the man away again, to deny him that leg-up of control which Arthur wears like the crisp suits he favors. Instead he lets Eames' hands roam, lets them draw heavy heated lines with his palms over Arthur's back before resting on the wings of his hips. He doesn't seem to mind the initial lack of gestural reciprocation, Arthur's mouth is busy enough to let Eames know his affections -unexpected, expected, desired, and loathed though they were- were not entirely one-sided.
Cobb will surely return soon and Arthur thinks to be caught in such a manner unbefitting of a professional would change how the man might see him forever. To be caught in the whims of Eames, the sort who specializes in lying and trickery, might diminish Cobb's trust in Arthur's judgment.
They're on opposite sides of the room when Cobb gets back, food in hand. Arthur is rolling the die idly as he sits by the table, and Eames looking over their still slumbering mark.
Reality wins with each and every throw of the die. Arthur can still taste the cigarettes from Eames' mouth on his own tongue and is glad he's no longer dreaming.