PROMPT FILLS? DON'T MIND IF I DO
I want to officially start a club for people who write stories about nothing/where nothing happens. WHO'S IN
Prompt: Arthur has to stitch together Eames's wound.
The first thing Arthur had done was to use his tie as a tourniquet around Eames’s elbow, slipping easy, cruel knots into the silk. As Eames had kicked the wall in response to the pain, the second thing Arthur had done was retrieve a handle of cheap vodka from a duffel and take a deep swig from it.
“I was hoping that was for me,” Eames had said, hand still clamped around the gash in his arm.
“It is,” Arthur had replied. He’d taken another swig before handing it to Eames. “Drink it,” he’d ordered, unnecessarily.
Eames is still in the process of obeying. Vodka has never been his drink of choice -- he associates the smell with blood and injury, something he’s had quite enough of at this point -- but he finds he doesn’t mind so much now, sitting safe in a hotel room and three-quarters of the way into the bottle. Meanwhile, Arthur is standing by the dresser, tinkering around with something or other.
“Arthur,” Eames says too loudly. Blood is getting all over the sheets. “Arthur, I’m bleeding.”
Arthur finally drags a chair over and sits down, tossing some kind of rolled-up tool pouch onto the bed. The sweater is off and his sleeves are rucked up past his elbows. A single shirt-tail is hanging out of his pants, which delights Eames to no end.
“I’m bleeding,” Eames says again with a grin.
“I see that,” Arthur says, and for him, this is almost indulgent. “Did you drink enough?”
Eames slurs, “I’m getting there.” It might be an understatement. The only way he’ll be more out of it is if Arthur hits him over the head with the bottle.
“I don’t need to tell you to hold still, correct?” Arthur asks. “I could just knock you out.”
“That sounds lovely, although, and forgive me for being so blunt, how do I know you wouldn’t knock me out and just leave it at that?”
“It’s a possibility,” Arthur concedes. “But leaving you to bleed to death would be taking the cheap way out.”
“And you’re anything but,” Eames finishes.
He stares openly at Arthur, who pretends not to notice as he plucks the almost empty bottle from Eames’s grip.
“Just hold still, Eames,” is all Arthur says.
He proceeds to pour the leftover contents onto Eames’s forearm, flooding the wound with 90 proof. No warning, no nothing. Eames really shouldn’t be surprised, but still -- he barks out a string of curses, feels pain throughout every inch of him as if he’s been lit aflame and fire is consuming him from the inside out.
Then the pain ramps down and fades to a dull throb, just as quickly as it had come. When Eames opens his eyes again, his forehead is clammy and Arthur is already finishing up the first stitch. There’s nothing to say, really. Eames just watches with watery eyes. Arthur looks at him and repeats, “Stay still.”
Eames coughs. “I’m not the one coming at you with a needle.”
“But you did come at me with a gun just a few minutes ago.”
Eames pats Arthur’s cheek, accidentally getting some blood on his jawline. “In a dream. And that was for your own safety, you humorless tit.”
Arthur actually smiles, but probably only because he’s so focused on the stitching that he forgets about keeping up the usual blank front. He pinches the skin with forceps, ties three knots, and snips the thread. Again. And again. Eames watches with fascination -- the easy punctures, the rhythmic clicks of the hemostats, the steadiness of Arthur’s hands.
When the wound is about halfway sewn, Eames says, “You’re quite competent.”
“Comes from practice.” Arthur glances up at him. “I was a SARC.”
“A SARC,” Eames repeats. The word feels funny in his mouth. He makes a tiny noise and shifts a little, completely forgetting about the situation at hand until Arthur lays a palm on his good arm and says, “Eames.” His voice is sharp.
“Sorry, sorry,” Eames mumbles.
“You’re going to have a nasty scar,” Arthur says quietly.
More of the vodka is washing in to Eames’s system. He keeps blanking out and coming to again, and each time he’s startled at the sight of Arthur leaning in so close, putting him back together through a single row of neat, black stitches, spiky like caltrops in Eames's skin.
“I don’t feel normal,” Eames manages to say.
“I slipped you a sedative,” Arthur says, candid and unashamed.
Eames just nods. “Ah,” is all he says. It explains the heaviness of his body, but not the way his breath is hitching like it is. Not that strange feeling in his throat.
It seems like an eternity before Arthur is moving away, packing the tools back into the pouch and applying some kind of gel onto the wound with his bare fingers. He tapes a patch of gauze on as well.
“This is lidocaine. It should numb it a little. Keep it clean, don’t get the gauze wet. Take a few aspirin later and I’ll change the dressings tomorrow,” Arthur explains. He wipes his fingers clean with a towel, leaving behind pinkish streaks. “You’re all right?”
Eames hums. He feels himself nodding off. “Took the cheap way out after all,” he declares.
“Good night, Eames,” Arthur says after a pause.
The mattress rebounds a bit when he rises. Eames can hear the bathroom light click on, and then the faucet starts running -- cleaning the tools, Eames thinks groggily. Just before he falls asleep, he realizes that Arthur will stay there while Eames sleeps, and he’ll be there when he wakes up.
He’s sure of it, in fact.
Prompt: High School AU. Eames is on the wrestling team, Arthur is on the school paper and is forced to cover one of the matches.
Eames’s tattoos are horrid. That doesn’t stop anyone sitting in the bleachers from openly staring at them.
“He probably got them done illegally,” says Arthur. When he gets no response, he adds, “And chose the design while blindfolded.”
“He probably did get them done illegally,” Ariadne finally agrees, but in an entirely different tone.
Arthur glances around. Ariadne is watching with her mouth slightly open, as is Cobb, but he’s occasionally tearing his eyes away to scrutinize his own body. Mal is watching Cobb with a slight smile. She pokes him on the thigh and says, “The muscular type? You like it, really?”
“I don’t like it, really. I just think it’s admirable.”
Ariadne snorts. Arthur says, “Maybe he’s actually twenty-six, masquerading as a high school student because he couldn’t make it in real life.”
“You spin such wonderful stories, Arthur,” Ariadne says. Now she has her elbow on her knee, chin propped up on her hand, and a glazed look in her eyes.
Cobb is still watching as well, one hand wrapped around his opposite arm. In all honesty, Arthur thinks he knows how Cobb feels; despite having grown almost half a foot since freshman year, Arthur is still thin, can still fit into clothes he wore in middle school. Compared to these sweaty, grunting wrestlers -- well, the expression on Cobb’s face says it all.
At least Cobb plays soccer. Arthur collects Lomography cameras and mostly sits in his room.
A movement out in the center of the gym catches Arthur’s eye -- it’s Yusuf, waving as he rips off his headgear and jogs over to the bleachers. Arthur isn’t sure that what Yusuf does counts as wrestling, per se; it might actually be a strange combination of wrestling, judo, street-fighting, and what looks like reflexes borne from years of getting tackled by his brothers out of nowhere.
“Hey,” Yusuf pants when he comes to stop in front of them. “So, you’re good, right? You’re going to write the story?”
“I’m just covering the match,” Arthur says. “But yeah, I’ll probably come around and ask you guys for some quotes, if that’s okay.”
“Sure, sure. Let me know if you have any questions.” Yusuf flashes a grin before heading into the locker rooms.
“Okay.” Mal stands up and slings her messenger bag over her shoulder. “As much as I hate to leave this beautiful view, I have to get to the library before it closes.”
Cobb stands up as well, and then it’s kind of weird to just have the two of them remaining, so all of them file out of the bleachers and head out. As they walk, Ariadne rubs Arthur’s shoulder, then loops her arm through his.
“Good luck on the article. If you have to keep sitting in on practices, you’ll probably smell like ball sweat by the end of the week,” she says brightly, her hair immediately whipping into Arthur’s face as soon as they step outside.
What Arthur doesn’t mention is that he doesn’t have to sit in on the practices. He’s just supposed to cover the match. It’ll be a blurb on a sidebar, if anything. But he figures that watching the practices will provide him with journalistic integrity or whatever.
Journalistic integrity. Definitely.
Prompt: Arthur has to stitch together Eames's wound.
The first thing Arthur had done was to use his tie as a tourniquet around Eames’s elbow, slipping easy, cruel knots into the silk. As Eames had kicked the wall in response to the pain, the second thing Arthur had done was retrieve a handle of cheap vodka from a duffel and take a deep swig from it.
“I was hoping that was for me,” Eames had said, hand still clamped around the gash in his arm.
“It is,” Arthur had replied. He’d taken another swig before handing it to Eames. “Drink it,” he’d ordered, unnecessarily.
Eames is still in the process of obeying. Vodka has never been his drink of choice -- he associates the smell with blood and injury, something he’s had quite enough of at this point -- but he finds he doesn’t mind so much now, sitting safe in a hotel room and three-quarters of the way into the bottle. Meanwhile, Arthur is standing by the dresser, tinkering around with something or other.
“Arthur,” Eames says too loudly. Blood is getting all over the sheets. “Arthur, I’m bleeding.”
Arthur finally drags a chair over and sits down, tossing some kind of rolled-up tool pouch onto the bed. The sweater is off and his sleeves are rucked up past his elbows. A single shirt-tail is hanging out of his pants, which delights Eames to no end.
“I’m bleeding,” Eames says again with a grin.
“I see that,” Arthur says, and for him, this is almost indulgent. “Did you drink enough?”
Eames slurs, “I’m getting there.” It might be an understatement. The only way he’ll be more out of it is if Arthur hits him over the head with the bottle.
“I don’t need to tell you to hold still, correct?” Arthur asks. “I could just knock you out.”
“That sounds lovely, although, and forgive me for being so blunt, how do I know you wouldn’t knock me out and just leave it at that?”
“It’s a possibility,” Arthur concedes. “But leaving you to bleed to death would be taking the cheap way out.”
“And you’re anything but,” Eames finishes.
He stares openly at Arthur, who pretends not to notice as he plucks the almost empty bottle from Eames’s grip.
“Just hold still, Eames,” is all Arthur says.
He proceeds to pour the leftover contents onto Eames’s forearm, flooding the wound with 90 proof. No warning, no nothing. Eames really shouldn’t be surprised, but still -- he barks out a string of curses, feels pain throughout every inch of him as if he’s been lit aflame and fire is consuming him from the inside out.
Then the pain ramps down and fades to a dull throb, just as quickly as it had come. When Eames opens his eyes again, his forehead is clammy and Arthur is already finishing up the first stitch. There’s nothing to say, really. Eames just watches with watery eyes. Arthur looks at him and repeats, “Stay still.”
Eames coughs. “I’m not the one coming at you with a needle.”
“But you did come at me with a gun just a few minutes ago.”
Eames pats Arthur’s cheek, accidentally getting some blood on his jawline. “In a dream. And that was for your own safety, you humorless tit.”
Arthur actually smiles, but probably only because he’s so focused on the stitching that he forgets about keeping up the usual blank front. He pinches the skin with forceps, ties three knots, and snips the thread. Again. And again. Eames watches with fascination -- the easy punctures, the rhythmic clicks of the hemostats, the steadiness of Arthur’s hands.
When the wound is about halfway sewn, Eames says, “You’re quite competent.”
“Comes from practice.” Arthur glances up at him. “I was a SARC.”
“A SARC,” Eames repeats. The word feels funny in his mouth. He makes a tiny noise and shifts a little, completely forgetting about the situation at hand until Arthur lays a palm on his good arm and says, “Eames.” His voice is sharp.
“Sorry, sorry,” Eames mumbles.
“You’re going to have a nasty scar,” Arthur says quietly.
More of the vodka is washing in to Eames’s system. He keeps blanking out and coming to again, and each time he’s startled at the sight of Arthur leaning in so close, putting him back together through a single row of neat, black stitches, spiky like caltrops in Eames's skin.
“I don’t feel normal,” Eames manages to say.
“I slipped you a sedative,” Arthur says, candid and unashamed.
Eames just nods. “Ah,” is all he says. It explains the heaviness of his body, but not the way his breath is hitching like it is. Not that strange feeling in his throat.
It seems like an eternity before Arthur is moving away, packing the tools back into the pouch and applying some kind of gel onto the wound with his bare fingers. He tapes a patch of gauze on as well.
“This is lidocaine. It should numb it a little. Keep it clean, don’t get the gauze wet. Take a few aspirin later and I’ll change the dressings tomorrow,” Arthur explains. He wipes his fingers clean with a towel, leaving behind pinkish streaks. “You’re all right?”
Eames hums. He feels himself nodding off. “Took the cheap way out after all,” he declares.
“Good night, Eames,” Arthur says after a pause.
The mattress rebounds a bit when he rises. Eames can hear the bathroom light click on, and then the faucet starts running -- cleaning the tools, Eames thinks groggily. Just before he falls asleep, he realizes that Arthur will stay there while Eames sleeps, and he’ll be there when he wakes up.
He’s sure of it, in fact.
Prompt: High School AU. Eames is on the wrestling team, Arthur is on the school paper and is forced to cover one of the matches.
Eames’s tattoos are horrid. That doesn’t stop anyone sitting in the bleachers from openly staring at them.
“He probably got them done illegally,” says Arthur. When he gets no response, he adds, “And chose the design while blindfolded.”
“He probably did get them done illegally,” Ariadne finally agrees, but in an entirely different tone.
Arthur glances around. Ariadne is watching with her mouth slightly open, as is Cobb, but he’s occasionally tearing his eyes away to scrutinize his own body. Mal is watching Cobb with a slight smile. She pokes him on the thigh and says, “The muscular type? You like it, really?”
“I don’t like it, really. I just think it’s admirable.”
Ariadne snorts. Arthur says, “Maybe he’s actually twenty-six, masquerading as a high school student because he couldn’t make it in real life.”
“You spin such wonderful stories, Arthur,” Ariadne says. Now she has her elbow on her knee, chin propped up on her hand, and a glazed look in her eyes.
Cobb is still watching as well, one hand wrapped around his opposite arm. In all honesty, Arthur thinks he knows how Cobb feels; despite having grown almost half a foot since freshman year, Arthur is still thin, can still fit into clothes he wore in middle school. Compared to these sweaty, grunting wrestlers -- well, the expression on Cobb’s face says it all.
At least Cobb plays soccer. Arthur collects Lomography cameras and mostly sits in his room.
A movement out in the center of the gym catches Arthur’s eye -- it’s Yusuf, waving as he rips off his headgear and jogs over to the bleachers. Arthur isn’t sure that what Yusuf does counts as wrestling, per se; it might actually be a strange combination of wrestling, judo, street-fighting, and what looks like reflexes borne from years of getting tackled by his brothers out of nowhere.
“Hey,” Yusuf pants when he comes to stop in front of them. “So, you’re good, right? You’re going to write the story?”
“I’m just covering the match,” Arthur says. “But yeah, I’ll probably come around and ask you guys for some quotes, if that’s okay.”
“Sure, sure. Let me know if you have any questions.” Yusuf flashes a grin before heading into the locker rooms.
“Okay.” Mal stands up and slings her messenger bag over her shoulder. “As much as I hate to leave this beautiful view, I have to get to the library before it closes.”
Cobb stands up as well, and then it’s kind of weird to just have the two of them remaining, so all of them file out of the bleachers and head out. As they walk, Ariadne rubs Arthur’s shoulder, then loops her arm through his.
“Good luck on the article. If you have to keep sitting in on practices, you’ll probably smell like ball sweat by the end of the week,” she says brightly, her hair immediately whipping into Arthur’s face as soon as they step outside.
What Arthur doesn’t mention is that he doesn’t have to sit in on the practices. He’s just supposed to cover the match. It’ll be a blurb on a sidebar, if anything. But he figures that watching the practices will provide him with journalistic integrity or whatever.
Journalistic integrity. Definitely.