(no subject)
Wrecking Ball
750 words
For cobweb_diamond's prompt at harlequincepted: First time Arthur had to borrow some of Eames' clothes.
Getting an administrative assistant’s job is easy enough for Eames. Or, to put it honestly, faking a CV and getting four people to stand in as references is easy enough for Eames. Heller Porter & Weil hire him almost immediately.
Strange as it is, sometimes a regular 8-5 job is almost soothing in short stretches. Eames wakes up in his subletted apartment, showers with disgustingly expensive products, picks out a suit from the closet that’s arranged in color gradients from light to dark -- only in blue and grey, of course, and a lone tan one for weekends --, and eats a wholesome breakfast before hopping onto the subway along with thousands of other commuters. He even has a special comb to make sure that his hair is perfect in its sidepart. It’s all very charming.
The workload is enough to keep him busy for the entire eight hours, nine if he counts the hour lunch he spends choking down a sandwich at his desk. Then he gets back on the subway and stops for some takeout before arriving back at the apartment, where he has a pick of watching primetime television, a made-for-TV movie, or porn, while juggling chopsticks with one hand and surfing unsavory websites with the other. He’s lucky to have the time and energy for a quick wank before he passes out for the night.
“Sometimes I go to happy hour,” Eames says. “Sometimes I even show up to the office hungover.”
“I’m glad to hear you’re enjoying it,” Arthur says on the other end. There’s a pause, and then: “Why do you have multiple mesh shirts?”
“I gave you permission to go through my things, not to pry into my private life.”
“Multiple,” Arthur stresses. “One would be questionable in and of itself, but multiple.”
“My interests are many and varied,” Eames says, padding barefoot to the fax machine. “I’m sending over a few documents now,” he adds, and punches in his own phone number. “Have you found what you need?”
“Yeah, this will work. I’ve contacted some people to help me out,” says Arthur. “Got the fax, thanks.”
Eames sniffs at an open container on the counter, then decides to toss it. “What did you take? Is it too much to hope for that you chose the mesh shirts?”
“Preserving an element of surprise,” is all Arthur says before hanging up.
*
A few days later, Eames is sitting in on a meeting. The seminar room has an entire wall made of floor-to-ceiling windows, which would provide for a spectacular view if not for the fact that HP&W is located downtown. All Eames can see are more skyscrapers and a lone window-washer on a cherry picker, methodically working his way across the wall.
It takes him an embarrassingly long time to identify said window-washer as Arthur.
Eames leans back in his chair and sticks the end of his pen into his mouth to distort the smile that’s threatening to appear. Arthur is wearing a plain white tee and one of Eames’s old flight suits with the torso rolled down and the arms tied around his waist. Completing the ensemble are the aviators that Eames had left on his dresser, and the cap that he bought at Narita duty-free.
Eames stares and stares, distracted one moment by Arthur’s economical movements, and then the next by the loose fit of the shirt, and how the flight suit hangs just the slightest bit low on his hips. Seeing his own clothes on Arthur is fascinating in a way that he can’t quite pinpoint, though he indulges it to the fullest. He taps his pen against his teeth and thinks about the worn seam on the inside of the left knee; he wonders how hard Arthur had had to cinch the arms of the flight suit to get it to stay up.
As plans go, Eames has to admit that this is a good one. With Arthur’s photographic memory and his current position, he’ll have no problem memorizing the layout of the east end of the top floors, which is a place that Eames still can’t get access.
who did you have to pay off for the crane lift, Eames can’t help texting. He doesn’t actually care about the crane lift.
It’s hard to tell, what with the sunglasses and all, but Eames can almost swear that Arthur catches his eye, mouth curled into a smile as if he knows exactly what Eames is thinking. All of it.
750 words
For cobweb_diamond's prompt at harlequincepted: First time Arthur had to borrow some of Eames' clothes.
Getting an administrative assistant’s job is easy enough for Eames. Or, to put it honestly, faking a CV and getting four people to stand in as references is easy enough for Eames. Heller Porter & Weil hire him almost immediately.
Strange as it is, sometimes a regular 8-5 job is almost soothing in short stretches. Eames wakes up in his subletted apartment, showers with disgustingly expensive products, picks out a suit from the closet that’s arranged in color gradients from light to dark -- only in blue and grey, of course, and a lone tan one for weekends --, and eats a wholesome breakfast before hopping onto the subway along with thousands of other commuters. He even has a special comb to make sure that his hair is perfect in its sidepart. It’s all very charming.
The workload is enough to keep him busy for the entire eight hours, nine if he counts the hour lunch he spends choking down a sandwich at his desk. Then he gets back on the subway and stops for some takeout before arriving back at the apartment, where he has a pick of watching primetime television, a made-for-TV movie, or porn, while juggling chopsticks with one hand and surfing unsavory websites with the other. He’s lucky to have the time and energy for a quick wank before he passes out for the night.
“Sometimes I go to happy hour,” Eames says. “Sometimes I even show up to the office hungover.”
“I’m glad to hear you’re enjoying it,” Arthur says on the other end. There’s a pause, and then: “Why do you have multiple mesh shirts?”
“I gave you permission to go through my things, not to pry into my private life.”
“Multiple,” Arthur stresses. “One would be questionable in and of itself, but multiple.”
“My interests are many and varied,” Eames says, padding barefoot to the fax machine. “I’m sending over a few documents now,” he adds, and punches in his own phone number. “Have you found what you need?”
“Yeah, this will work. I’ve contacted some people to help me out,” says Arthur. “Got the fax, thanks.”
Eames sniffs at an open container on the counter, then decides to toss it. “What did you take? Is it too much to hope for that you chose the mesh shirts?”
“Preserving an element of surprise,” is all Arthur says before hanging up.
*
A few days later, Eames is sitting in on a meeting. The seminar room has an entire wall made of floor-to-ceiling windows, which would provide for a spectacular view if not for the fact that HP&W is located downtown. All Eames can see are more skyscrapers and a lone window-washer on a cherry picker, methodically working his way across the wall.
It takes him an embarrassingly long time to identify said window-washer as Arthur.
Eames leans back in his chair and sticks the end of his pen into his mouth to distort the smile that’s threatening to appear. Arthur is wearing a plain white tee and one of Eames’s old flight suits with the torso rolled down and the arms tied around his waist. Completing the ensemble are the aviators that Eames had left on his dresser, and the cap that he bought at Narita duty-free.
Eames stares and stares, distracted one moment by Arthur’s economical movements, and then the next by the loose fit of the shirt, and how the flight suit hangs just the slightest bit low on his hips. Seeing his own clothes on Arthur is fascinating in a way that he can’t quite pinpoint, though he indulges it to the fullest. He taps his pen against his teeth and thinks about the worn seam on the inside of the left knee; he wonders how hard Arthur had had to cinch the arms of the flight suit to get it to stay up.
As plans go, Eames has to admit that this is a good one. With Arthur’s photographic memory and his current position, he’ll have no problem memorizing the layout of the east end of the top floors, which is a place that Eames still can’t get access.
who did you have to pay off for the crane lift, Eames can’t help texting. He doesn’t actually care about the crane lift.
It’s hard to tell, what with the sunglasses and all, but Eames can almost swear that Arthur catches his eye, mouth curled into a smile as if he knows exactly what Eames is thinking. All of it.