[inception fic] Hero Today [1/7]
Title: Hero Today [1/7]
Word count: ~3400 for this chapter
Rating: R
Warnings: Arthur/Eames. Violence, profanity, sex, some potentially sensitive themes. Unbetaed.
Disclaimer: Inception is owned by someone far more awesome than me. In this fic, there are also homages, references, and uncouth theft of various films, television series, novels, and comic book runs. Including but not limited to: Batman, Superman, Spider-Man, Nightwing, Deadpool, Daredevil, Iron Man, X-Men, the Punisher, Watchmen, the Justice League, the Matrix, Die Hard, and many, many more I can't remember at the moment.
Summary: For the help_pakistan auction. AU. Arthur is a barista by day and the masked superhero Vindicate by night. Life would be good, if he wasn't hopelessly in love with the businessman who visits his coffee shop every morning. Oh, and if somebody wasn't trying to kill him.
A/n: For zeto , who won it. And a million thanks for the awesome prompt, and then letting me go crazy with it. Hope you like, darlin.
(And yes, it was supposed to be a thousand word fic, and we're three thousand words in and I still haven't gotten to the meat of your prompt. I'm sorry!)
**
Chapter One
I believe it is the nature of people to be heroes, given the chance.
- James A. Autry
**
Arthur is fixing Mrs. Lee her white chocolate peppermint mocha (double shot, extra whipped cream) when the little bell dings brightly on the door. He glances up, and swears as hot coffee spills over his fingertips. He fumbles with the cup for a moment, skin smarting.
"Careful," a familiar voice says, hands reaching over the counter-top to carefully pry the soggy cardboard cup out of his fingers and set it down. "You all right?"
"Fine, Mr. Eames. Just clumsy," Arthur says, cheeks hot. From the steam. Of the coffee. Which is right next to him, billowing warm wet clouds up into his face. Yes.
"Best run some cold water over that, don't want to blister," Eames says. He examines Arthur's knuckles, working them carefully with his calloused skin.
"Right. Yes. Could you. . . let go of my hands?" Arthur asks.
Eames glances up, a quick flash of white teeth that eases into a lopsided smile. "If I must."
Arthur tugs his hands out of Eames' grip, giving him a look.
"I'll make you a new mocha in just a minute, Mrs. Lee, I'm sorry about that," Arthur calls.
The little old lady gives a dismissive wave of her hand, not glancing up from her crossword.
"What's a six-letter word for "describes dashing deeds?""
"Heroic."
"Arthur."
Arthur raises an eyebrow at Eames, faucet squeaking as the cool water splashes over his knuckles.
"What?" Eames grins. "You're the only one in the entire country who can make a decent cup of tea. That's nothing if not dashing, darling."
Arthur turns off the water, wiping his hands on his apron. "Are you here for your usual?"
"Oh, I dunno, I was thinking I'd try something new. Spice things up a bit. Can you do spicy, Arthur?"
"I can do all sorts of things, Eames. Most of them involving hot water and steamed milk. What would you like today?" He sets about making Mrs. Lee a new drink.
"Your autumn specials are out, yeah? Howabout something with pumpkin, then," Eames says, leaning against Arthur's counter-top. The blue light on his headset is blinking slowly, and sometimes Arthur forgets that Edward Eames actually works for a living, doesn't simply live off of tea and flirting.
Arthur nods. "Size?"
"Large. Oh, did you mean the coffee?"
Arthur rolls his eyes. "One large cinnamon pumpkin mocha latte coming up. Whipped cream?"
"Always."
"Fantastic. Are you looking forward to the holidays then?"
"Oh, quite. Tramping about the neighborhood wearings masks, getting sweets from utter strangers, frightening small children, watching the girls in indecently lovely costumes. And then, of course, there's Halloween."
"Indeed," Arthur says, and he can feel the smile on his face. "Mrs. Lee, your peppermint mocha is ready."
He hands the woman her coffee and wishes her a good day.
"So, Arthur, tell me you're dressing up for Halloween this year. What are you going as? Sailor? Cowboy? Shirtless fireman?"
"Is that a profession?" Arthur asks, pulling down a lever to fill Eames' cup with steaming water.
"A very hot one."
Arthur considers denying him his coffee just for that pun.
Eames continues, "Gladiator? Police officer? I'm sure you could find a use for the handcuffs. Superhero?"
"I'm not sure I could pull off the tights," Arthur shrugs, the can of whipped cream hissing as he tops off Eames' drink.
Carefully, he licks the extra cream off of his fingertips one after another, curling his fingers so they glide against the wet underside of his lip and fold back into his palm. He glances up when he's finished to give Eames a bright smile and hand him his cup. "Careful it's not too hot."
"I'm sure you'd look just fine in tights," Eames says, blinking, and slides a few bills across the counter. "Or out of them."
"I was thinking I'd just stay in this year, actually," Arthur says. "Guess getting dressed up in a costume like that isn't really my thing."
"You should try broadening your horizons," Eames says. "Do something exciting."
Arthur shakes his head. "I'm not an exciting kind of person. I'm really just relentlessly ordinary, I suppose."
"At any rate, you make extraordinary coffee," Eames says, taking a long drag of the scent wafting out of his cup.
"Why, thank you. Here, before you go, take a scone, all right?"
He pulls one out of the glass case before Eames can say anything, tucking his chin down because the steam has brushed over his face and pinked his cheeks once again. He drops the scone in a paper bag and hands it over. "They're a day old, anyways, you know, might as well get rid of them before they go bad."
"Those aren't the day old scones," Tadashi says, walking behind Arthur back to where he's left his comic. "The day old ones are over-- ow!"
"Sorry," Arthur says, pulling his foot back. "Shouldn't you be cleaning the tables?"
"Yeah, yeah," Tadashi says, scowling and rubbing his shin. He plops his earbuds back in and snags a dishcloth off the rack, giving Arthur another dirty look as he heads off.
"Good kid," Arthur says brightly, watching him bob his head in time to a beat they can't hear as he wipes down the glossy tabletops.
"I'll bet," Eames says, smiling. "Thank you for the scone. But I'm afraid I do have to be going, Arthur dear. I've got a nine o'clock appointment and my assistant always gets catty when I'm late for those kinds of things."
"Oh, of course," Arthur says. "Yeah. Well. Eames, I. . ."
"Yes?" Eames says.
Arthur swallows. "You. . . have a good day. Enjoy your drink."
"I always do," Eames says, winking as he heads out the door. The bell jangles happily as the door shuts behind him, and Arthur sighs, leaning back heavily against the back counter and tugging at his collar.
"Dude, you are really pathetic," Tadashi says, pausing from gathering up loose stirring sticks and damp tea bags to give Arthur a look that's half exasperation, half scorn, and mostly sympathy.
"Shut up," Arthur says. He tugs Tadashi's comic book towards him and tries to focus on Spider-Man's one-liners, and not think about anything involving horrific paisley, or full lips around the rims of coffee cups, or cool hands gently holding his burned knuckles.
**
It's a hot night in L.A. and the blood is slowly congealing on Arthur's gloves.
He'd found a hooker and a man who wasn't inclined to pay for it in a back alley off Willowbrook. The girl had fallen to the dirty ground when Arthur had yanked the man off of her, scrambling back on bleeding knees until she'd gotten her feet beneath her. She'd run off in a clatter of high heels and the man in Arthur's grip had gotten his nose broken on his knuckles.
He'd left him bound and gagged in a dumpster. Safer for him there, really. And Arthur had made a call, the police would show up soon. Eventually. Probably.
Now Arthur stands on the hotel rooftop, scanning the streets below. The wind is cool up here, right beneath the dull city sky, prickling against the tight black fabric clinging to him.
South Central is noisy this time of night, dawn ready to haul itself up over the horizon any minute now. Car horns and squealing tires and shouts and the sharp sound of glass breaking. Muffled from this height but still noticeable. The noises of a city moving relentlessly forward, like ocean breakers, smashing itself into pieces against the shore.
Arthur shakes himself, gives one last look at the idle streets and heads for the fire escape, sliding the rails and jumping from platform to platform until his feet hit the decaying asphalt.
He sets off down the sidewalk, skirting the edges of the orange glow of the streetlamps, heading past the dead brick buildings with their boarded-up windows and graffiti skins.
A lazy bull of a car, shiny in the skyglow, rolls by on sluggish tires. Lights off, and Arthur can make out the silhouettes of at least four figures, the muffled undecipherable language of voices buried beneath pounding stereos and the metal walls of cars.
He flattens himself against the wall. The bass resounds through him for a moment and then it is gone and he keeps moving.
Even this early it's still hot, hotter down on the streets where the breeze is clogged. They're having an Indian summer, and the leaves in the parks are dying in beautiful ways but the grass is already dead and brown and ugly, the sun still soaks into the black tarmac. Tempers rise with the temperature and the heat wave drags a crime wave along with it, and Arthur's had his hands full.
Los Angeles is too much for Arthur to handle, of course, too much for any man to handle, and what he does, it's like sweeping sand from the shore. Bailing out the sea. And it's useless and stupid and it's something he has to do.
Besides, out here in this city, this time of night, he's not really Arthur, anyways. He's not the hard-working barista with an apron over his waistcoat and his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He's not the abandoned kid who spent his summers in Paris learning the right way to run and his nights at the Y learning the dirty way to fight and his days on these dirty streets just learning to survive. He's not the stupid man who's hopelessly, desperately, achingly, wonderfully, terribly in love with a businessman who teases him and drinks too much tea and doesn't love him back. He's not relentlessly ordinary. Out here he's not Arthur Anderson.
Out here he's Vindicate. And the criminals and bastards and detritus of his city know his name, know the blue V written on his chest, and they run from him.
Arthur adjusts his mask and heads off into the shadows, ready to catch some of them.
**
"And we're here reporting live from the Second National Bank, where it appears that the supervillain Havoc has taken eighteen people hostage. It is unclear at this point what Havoc's demands are, or as to whether or not he is working under orders from the notorious organization COBOL. I'm Ariadne Alfiere, and this is Channel Six News."
Arthur glances down at the young reporter from the roof of the Kirby building, conveniently located right next door to Second National Bank. He should really have a talk with the city planners, almost no consideration at all went into preventing trespassers from traveling across the city rooftop to rooftop. He can even see an access door on the bank roof. Someone could easily jump across and go right in. Dangerous, that.
Arthur backs up a few steps and starts to run straight for the edge. He kicks off the end of the roof and then
for
one
moment
he's
flying.
(or at least it's the closest he'll ever get)
There's nothing, nothing beneath him, nothing but wind and far below the shouting onlookers and Ariadne Alfiere saying
"It looks like the superhero Vindicate has arrived!"
And then there's ground.
Arthur lands with a roll, tumbling smoothly across the rough concrete and then straightening up and running once more. He darts to the door, pulling out the slim lockpick from one of his belt pouches. Security really is shitty. No wonder someone as imbecilic as Havoc was having such a go of it.
There is a familiar, soft click and Arthur tugs the door open, disappearing into the dark.
He takes the stairs downward two at a time and thinks that the dark-haired reporter has probably corrected herself by now.
Superhero Vindicate.
Dangerous vigilante.
Arthur slides against a wall into the hallway. His eyes lock on an air vent and he figures he might as well live up to the dangerous part of his reputation.
Crawling on his elbows and knees through an air duct is not one of Arthur's favourite pastimes (it ranks somewhere between having his kneecaps shot and drinking instant coffee) and the dust is making his nose itch. Eventually, though, instead of the dull echoing of his own movements he can hear a voice filtering in through the vents, loud and brash and more than a touch psychotic.
"-- and none of you will be let go until my demands are met! A million dollars! I want a million dollars!"
"Have you seen the economy lately?" a young voice says quietly. "A million really isn't anything."
"Fine, then, millions of dollars! Plural! And when I have it, I'll start the next phase of my master plan -- world domination! First, I'll take over the city, then America, then everywhere else! I'll run everything, from the roads to the waterways! The cities to the countryside! Australia to Zimbabwe! Well, maybe not Cleveland. . . Everything will be mine, and mine to do what I will! And people will cower before me, and bow to my will, and I'll make the Legion bleed! And Havoc! Will! Reign! And there's nothing anyone can do to stop me."
Arthur figures now is the perfect time to make an entrance. He tugs on the air vent below him and
"Fuck!" he whispers as the damn thing refuses to budge. Dammit. He had wanted a dramatic entrance. "Come on, come on. . ."
His fingers scrabble on the metal edges. How the hell did John McClane do this, again?
"What was that?" Havoc's voice suddenly snaps from below. Arthur freezes.
"Is somebody out there?" the villain calls. Arthur can hear him pacing around, footsteps echoing on the marble floor. "Somebody trying to get in?"
Arthur licks his lips, tongue brushing against the synthetic edges of his mask.
"Olly olly oxen free. . . Come out, come out, wherever you are. . . " Havoc coos.
"Is it a policeman? A member of the eff bee eye?" he draws each syllable out, slowly, working his tongue over them like a fine dark roast. "Or maybe -- maybe The Legion of Tomorrow decided to send one of their little masked toys to try and stop me."
Carefully, Arthur hooks his fingernails beneath the edges of the vent, giving it a sharp jerk and twisting to the left and right, as quiet as he can. Fuck-all happens.
"Well, whoever it is," Havoc says jovially, "I hope they can dodge."
RATATATATATATATAT.
There's a storm of machine-gunfire and Arthur throws his arms over his head instinctively, scrabbling backwards in the tight space. The bullets clatter loudly against the metal duct, rapidly punching holes through it that let bright shafts of yellow light from the room below pierce through, each beam shooting up like a rocket's tail.
The duct is small and tight and far too close and Arthur can't move. He army-crawls in reverse as best as he can, shoving himself backwards with his hands, and the bullets fly crazily back and forth. From below, he hears the hostages scream.
Then there is sudden silence as Havoc ceases fire.
"Well, little hero? Are you still alive?"
"Screw it," Arthur mutters, squirming around until he can reach his right holster with one hand. His fingers smoothly catch the familiar metal he was looking for and he pulls out his gun.
He lunges forwards, back toward the vent, wrapping both hands around the handle of the gun. And quick as that, Arthur fires.
The grappling hook explodes outward, catching on the vent and yanking it through the duct and down. There's an echoing clamor as the hook and the crumpled vent wrapped-around it clatter on the floor.
Arthur hits the retract button and there's a zipping noise as the line rolls up and the hook zooms towards him again.
"Guess so," Havoc says. There's a tell-tale clicking noise and then the thunder of gunfire once again.
Arthur's already reaching through the hole he's made and grabbing the vent, yanking it off of his grappling hook. Bullets zip past him, close enough to feel the air current rend. He snags the grappling hook on the edge of the gap.
And then he's jumping.
He figures it's a dramatic enough of an entrance.
The line hisses as it slithers rapidly out behind him and Arthur swings through the air. For once, he kind of wishes he wore a cape.
Havoc's aiming for him but damn if the man isn't a terrible shot, and before he can really do much of anything Arthur's crashing into him, feet first.
Havoc collapses in a heap of green lycra, knees buckling, Arthur sprawling over him. Arthur figures out where all of his limbs are first, though, and in an instant he's yanking the automatic out of Havoc's hands and tossing it to the side.
He draws his fist back and punches Havoc in the face, once, splitting his lip, before the villain can start properly fighting back.
Havoc squirms under him and Arthur shifts so he's straddling him, not a position he'd really like to be in but hell, it's a dirty job. Havoc's skin is hot beneath him through the fabric and Arthur can see where his costume is damp-darkened with sweat.
Havoc laughs beneath him between gasps for air.
"Vindicate," he snarls. Well, it would be a snarl, but all in all Havoc sounds rather too happy to see him. Arthur really hopes that that's another gun poking him in the thigh. "I should have known. My old nemesis."
"I am not your nemesis," Arthur snaps. Surely, if he has a nemesis, Arthur qualifies for someone first-string? Bloodbath, maybe. Red Hawk has been pretty nasty, lately, and Arthur faces off with him every few weeks. Even Collision had hijacked of a bus full of kids just last month. Someone respectable.
"Archenemy. Sworn foe. One true adversary. My worthy opponent. Whatever you like, hon," Havoc smiles around the pointed edges of his mask.
"Don't call me hon," Arthur growls, hands twisting in the fabric of Havoc's costume and yanking him up, just to slam him back down against the white marble floor.
"All right, all right, easy with the merchandise," Havoc whines.
"C'mon," Arthur says. "Let's get you cuffed and in custody."
Havoc sneers, wincing as the expression pulls on his bleeding lip. "You think that'll stop me? COBOL will have me out in an hour. Your puny Legion is no match for our power."
"So this was a COBOL job, then? Is this the kind of thing they're stooping to now? What's that acronym for, anyways -- the "Criminals Obligated, Brains Optional League?"" Arthur says, standing up and yanking Havoc to his feet. He tugs the villain's arms behind him, pulling his handcuffs out of their pouch.
Eames was right. Arthur always does find a use for those.
"Ha ha," Havoc says. "Very funny. Come up with that all on your own?"
"I'll have lots of time to think up more when you're spending time getting to know your cellmates." Arthur says. The cuffs make a satisfying click as he snaps them on Havoc's wrists.
There's a soft clap from behind him, and then another, and soon there's the full cannonade of applause.
Arthur turns around, spinning Havoc with him.
The hostages have risen to their feet, looking at him with shining eyes. They seem okay.
"Everyone all right?" Arthur asks anyways, and there are nods all around.
"Thank you, Mr. Vindicate," a young woman says, and Arthur shrugs.
"Right, well, let's get you all outside. Better take this slow, though, don't want any trigger-happy cops getting the wrong idea."
Arthur ends up kicking Havoc out of the door first, sending him tumbling down the bank steps, and no one gets shot.
It's a good day.
His grappling gun is where he left it, and easily he glides back up as the hostages filter out. Pretty soon Arthur's on the roof again, blinking in the sunshine. He catches that reporter, Ariadne's voice.
"And a happy moment for everyone, as all the hostages come out safely and the villain Havoc is delivered to the hands of justice. All thanks to the vigilante crusader known as Vindicate. Though whether he'll be getting any thanks is up for discussion, as once again the debate has started on costumed superheroes -- should they stay outlawed? Are leagues like the Legion of Tomorrow nothing more than criminal organizations? Tune in tonight at seven where we'll have a panel of experts dis--"
Arthur loses her voice as he flies off the roof of Second National Bank onto the adjoining building. He starts running as soon as his feet are under him, crossing this roof and the next and the next, leaping and flipping and heading off into the blue day.
Fuck. He's late for work.
Chapter Two