[inception fic] Hero Today [3a/7]
Title: Hero Today [chapter three, part a]
Word Count: ~5500
Rating: R
Warnings: Arthur/Eames. Profanity, violence, and sensitive themes, but mostly just the first one in this chapter.
Summary: Help_pakistan fic for zeto . 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: This chapter did not go anywhere it was supposed to, but the characters insisted on stopping to moodily undress each other and get lost in flashbacks. What can you do?
Sorry for the delay, loves.
**
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
"But why does Nietzsche think the night has no stars, nothing but bats and owls and the insane moon?"
- William Butler Yeats
**
Arthur catches himself with his hands before his face smashes against the pavement, and Eames goes down with him to one knee, hand still tight on his uninjured arm.
The impact makes his bullet wound flare like an old light bulb, and Arthur bites down on his tongue.
"Shit," Magnificent Man is saying, and attempting to struggle to his feet. Arthur darts a hand out, twisting his fingers in the green cloth around Magnificent's neck and holding him down.
"What the--" he says, pulling back. Arthur lurches forward until he's a hairsbreadth away, lips brushing against the whorl of Magnificent's ear, and this close he smells like sharp and bitter sweat and some piney aftershave.
"Eames," the word crawls off of Arthur's tongue.
Magnificent jerks, yanking himself out of Arthur's grip and clamoring to his feet. Arthur's hand slides down the smooth second-skin on his shoulder and this time he hits the ground harder.
Arthur is panting hard, and Magnificent's movements are like confessions in motion.
"Fuck," Eames says from above him. "Fuck fuck fuck, and quadruple fuck. How the fuck-- What--"
Arthur pulls himself up slowly, hissing as he puts pressure back on the wound on his shoulder. The blood is hot and makes his glove stick to his suit.
Arthur glances over to where Saito is still standing, hands clasped behind his back, and the man raises an eyebrow at him.
"You dropped your accent," Arthur whispers to Eames, and Eames shudders like a wet dog and says fuck again.
"And here I always thought you just had some sort of speech impediment, no, that was just your terrible fake American accent. Do you really think we sound like that?" Arthur is babbling.
Eames runs a hand over his head, making his short hair ruffle and stand on end. His fingers ghost nervously over his domino mask, tangle in the cloth over his mouth, and finally settle.
"That doesn't explain," he hisses to Arthur. "How the hell you knew it was me."
"I," Arthur says, voice low, "I make you coffee, Eames."
Eames stiffens. ". . . Arthur?"
Arthur nods weakly.
Eames lets out a low whistle. "Can't say I expected that."
"I'll say," Arthur says. "I mean, you're a businessman. You're. . . Eames. And apparently you also traipse about town in a cape calling yourself Magnificent Man. Why the hell would you call yourself Magnificent Man?"
"It's because I'm magnificent," Eames says. "Vinny."
"If I may?" Saito breaks in and Arthur clicks his teeth shut. "Perhaps you two should carry on this conversation someplace other than a residential street with a fleet of armed men eager to kill us all almost certainly about to show up at any moment?"
The two superheroes pause.
"Right."
"Okay."
"Soon as we're clear, you're talking," Eames says flatly, and there's something like a viper in his words, still and deadly and waiting to strike.
Arthur can only nod.
"I know where we can go."
**
It is, surprisingly enough, not the most awkward cab ride of his life. There was that incident in Paris with the hooker and the banana daiquiri and the fourteen reams of lycra that he prefers not to talk about. But this one is definitely close. The cabbie stares at the two costumed men and the placid businessman sandwiched between them, until Saito slips him a handful of bills too quickly for Arthur to count and suggests that he take a vacation someplace far away for a few weeks.
"This is the place?" Eames asks, slamming the car door behind him. The taxi speeds off and in the wake of its engine the street seems abruptly quiet.
"Yeah," Arthur says tiredly. It's not as nice as the neighborhood they've come from, but it's still pretty upscale. The houses are all angles and fashionable lines and modern sheets of dark glass.
Arthur walks up the front path on silent feet, Eames and Saito trailing behind him. The light from a tv is flickering through the blinds, the electric blue of shark tanks.
Arthur peels his hand off of his bleeding shoulder and knocks once, twice. The tv shuts off and for an instant all is black.
Arthur can hear footsteps through the door and see vague shadows moving behind the peephole, and then a familiar voice asks through the heavy door, "What are you doing here?"
"Fox," Arthur says. "I need your help."
"Who are they?"
"They're with me, they're. . . we're in trouble."
"Well, what the hell are you doing bringing it to my doorstep, huh? What if the kids were here?"
"You know I wouldn't have come if they were," Arthur says quietly.
"Oh, so you've been keeping tabs on me then, I see."
"I'm just trying to help."
"I like to think I can take care of myself. I was the one who taught you all this shit, Vindicate. Or whatever the hell you're calling yourself nowadays."
"Fox," Arthur says. Biting his lip, he pulls his hand away and holds it up to the peephole, the blood dripping down it lurid red and glistening in the dim light. "Let me in, please."
There is a brief pause.
"Shit," Fox says. The muffled sound of retreating footsteps echoes through the door, and then a series of suspicious bangs and crashes from farther away.
"Is this guy going to help?" Eames asks from behind him, sounding completely devoid of any confidence that the answer is actually yes.
"Of course he is," Arthur says. And then there are footsteps, and the metallic thump of a deadbolt being slid open, and the door swings open in front of them.
Fox is wearing flannel pants and a t-shirt and a slightly dusty domino mask over his eyes.
"Had to dig this out," he says, pointing to the mask. "You have any idea how long it's been since I've worn it?"
"Yes," Arthur says.
Fox sighs. "Well, come in then. Sit down. Try not to bleed on the sofa."
Arthur steps through the doorway, and before he can make it out of the hall there is the clatter of claws on hardwood and he gets a crotchful of eager hound dog.
"Hi, boy," Arthur says, stroking down velvety soft ears. The blood on his hand leaves the dog's fur sticky. A damp nose nudges the palm of his hand, and the dog gives a soft whine. "Miss me?"
"Down, Zero," Fox says, and the dog ignores him entirely. Fox sighs again, heading for the living room, and Arthur and his entourage follow after, Zero trotting happily around his ankles.
Fox is lugging a heavy black case, which he sets with a sharp thud onto the coffee table.
"Sit," he tells Arthur. "And tell me what's going on."
Arthur sits. Eames and Saito mimic his motion, Eames slouching on the suede and Saito sitting with a kind of grace. Eames' foot is twitching on the floor and Saito's hands smooth down his trousers one too many times, but the effect isn't entirely ruined.
Zero circles himself three times and flops down to the floor at Arthur's feet, brown eyes flickering beneath his whiskered brows, muzzle resting on his front paws, watching the four of them.
"For starters," Fox continues, opening up the case to a familiar array of syringes and needles and rolls of elastic bandages, and then sitting down next to Arthur on the couch, "Who exactly are they?"
"That's Magnificent Man, you've probably seen him on the news before, right? He's part of the Legion, too. And that's Saito, head of Proclus Global. Saito, Eames -- this is Fox."
"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fox," Saito says smoothly.
"Who calls themselves Magnificent Man?" Fox grumbles, pulling out antiseptic. "And you, your costume is terrible. Don't you people pick themes anymore?"
"It's because I'm magnificent," Eames says matter-of-factly.
"I'm not a vigilante," Saito explains. "I'm a businessman."
"I'm both," Eames says cheerfully. "And apparently that cat is out of the bag, right, Vinny?"
Fox shakes his head. He turns to Arthur and asks, "You want pain killers?"
"No," Arthur says tightly.
"Fantastic," Fox says. "Howabout you take some anyways?"
He rattles a little orange bottle in Arthur's general direction. Arthur shakes his head, and Fox just raises an eyebrow. They stare at each other.
Finally, Arthur huffs, and Fox grins. He pries open the childproof cap and pours out a handful of little white pills. Arthur takes them with a glare.
"Oh, quit it, they're not the kind that mess with your head anyways," Fox says, and gestures at the blood-stained suit. "This fancy costume of yours have a zipper or something?"
Arthur nods, chewing and dry-swallowing. "It unhooks in the back."
He twists enough that Fox can get to it, feels him trace his fingers along Arthur's spine until he finds the seam, and feels Eames' eyes searing his skin, branding him with his gaze.
Fox peels the suit off of his shoulders and Arthur hisses and clenches his teeth together tightly around the whimper that's threatening to escape. Zero brushes his nose against Arthur's shin, tail thumping sympathetically on the floor.
"Apparently all that money can't get you something that can stop a bullet, I see," Fox says. He pulls Arthur's arms carefully out of his sleeves, lets the top half of the suit pool around his waist.
"I went though a window earlier without a scratch," Arthur defends. "I'll take what I can get."
"Worth it then, I suppose?" Fox asks, examining the bloody bullet hole with light fingers. Arthur flinches beneath the ghosts of his touch.
"You know signing on with the Legion wasn't exactly my first option," Arthur says around his tight jaw.
"I retired, Fennec. But you were doing just fine on your own."
"I wasn't doing fine, I was barely scraping by, and you weren't there," Arthur says hotly.
"You had other choices."
"No I didn't! You left, Fox, and you didn't leave me with any!"
"Hey, don't put this on me, I'm not the one that signed my soul over to the devil!"
"I'm not the one that married a supervillain!"
Fox's hands stutter on Arthur's arm and he sucks in a deep breath between his teeth, a hissing noise right next to Arthur's ear. He draws back with a start and it's cold in the void he leaves next to Arthur's bare skin.
Arthur freezes.
"I'm sorry," he breathes out, after the thunderclap of silence.
Fox sighs, scrubbing his hand across the bridge of his nose, making his mask crumple. "It's okay."
"Er, sorry to interrupt this little reunion," Eames says. "But hang on a minute -- Fox. You're Golden Fox, aren't you?"
"You know of any other Foxes in this business?" Fox asks drily. "'Course you don't, they don't want to risk trademark infringement."
"My god!" Eames says eagerly. "You're really Golden Fox! You were the greatest!"
"Yeah," Fox says without any trace of modesty. "I was."
He's gone back to cleaning Arthur's wound with deft hands. Arthur is biting his lip, partly from the pain, partly because of Eames' fanboying, and mostly because sitting this close to Fox after all that's happened is a little much.
"And that means. . . Vindicate. You were Fennec?"
Arthur sighs, and very carefully doesn't look at Eames. "Yes."
"With the little ears?"
"Yes."
"Oh my god!"
Arthur sighs again. "Yes."
"Fennec," Fox's mouth twitches. "Smallest of the foxes. You'd been following me around for months, I was annoyed. Plus, you were really short as a kid."
"I grew," Arthur grumbles.
"I'll say," Eames says. "You fit in that little blue costume rather well."
"Watch it," Fox snaps. "He was fifteen when he started out in that little blue costume."
Eames holds up placating hands. "I just can't believe you were the sidekick of the actual Golden Fox. Well, fuck, I can't believe you're Vindicate, but you know what I mean."
"Where exactly did you pick this one up, Fennec?" Fox asks, and Arthur has known him more than long enough to tell when he's raising an eyebrow at him, even behind a mask.
"That's the trouble," Arthur says, ignoring Eames' insulted noise of protest. "The thing is, I think. . . we think. . . The Legion of Tomorrow is trying to kill us."
Fox gives a one-shouldered shrug. "Can't say I'm surprised. What happened? And how's Mr. Armani over there fit in?" He gestures towards Saito.
"It's Yves Saint Laurent," Arthur and Saito correct at the same time. They glance at each other over the coffee table, and Saito gives him an amused incline of his head.
Arthur also knows Golden Fox well enough to tell when he's rolling his eyes. "Whatever. Just tell me what happened."
"The Executive called me in. For a personal meeting. He wanted me to. . . deal. . . with Mr. Saito here," Arthur swallows. "He gave me a gun."
He can feel all three of their gazes on him. Fox's hands have gone still in the midst of bandaging his arm.
"I didn't," Arthur says defensively. "Everybody's alive, aren't they?"
Eames clears his throat but doesn't say anything.
Arthur looks up at Fox, searching fruitlessly for the gaze hidden behind his mask. "I didn't, Fox. I wouldn't."
"Vindicate," Fox says quietly. "I know."
Arthur closes his eyes as he breathes out. "He gave me Saito's schedule, told me to have it done by tonight. What he didn't tell me,"
"Or me," Eames cuts in.
"Is that Magnificent Man was also going to be there. Without a gun," Arthur says. "Things got a bit messy, Fischer's -- that's the guy Saito was meeting with -- men nearly turned us into Swiss cheese, and then Mr. Victory showed up and gave me this little souvenir. He wasn't keen on joining us, and you know what they say."
"If you can't beat 'em, shoot 'em?" Eames guesses.
"Exactly," Arthur finishes. "What I don't get, though, is why."
"Because the Executive is clearly an evil bastard?" Fox suggests.
Arthur shakes his head. "No, that's obvious. I mean, why go about it that way? If he wanted us dead, why not just have one of his men kill us straight off?"
"Look at it this way," Eames says. "From the Executive's point of view, there's no way he can lose. Either I succeed, and Saito ends up in his hands, and you're left at the mercy of both Saito's and Fischer's rather irritated bodyguards. You end up in police custody, arrested for both breaking and entering and vigilantism, you're superheroing days over -- or, more likely, you end up floating face-down in the Pacific. And if you succeed, well, most likely both Saito and I are dead. Either way, that's two of his targets down, and one more left as an obedient little lapdog. All killing us out right would give him is two dead heroes with bodies to get rid of and crimes to cover up himself. The only thing he didn't count on, of course, is our scintillating personalities hitting it off and us deciding to team up."
Arthur considers it for a moment, and then nods. Eames is brilliant, but of course Arthur already knows that.
"Why now?" Fox asks. "You've been working for Legion for what, five years now, Vindicate?"
"Four," Arthur says.
"What did you do, steal the last sausage roll from the Executive during the last annual Legion of Superassholes brunch?"
Arthur glares.
"Present company excepted, of course," Fox says, smiling.
Eames laughs, and Arthur turns to him. "Or maybe he got sick of that godawful colour palette you've got going on, Magnificent."
"Hey now, at least you can tell I'm supposed to be one of the good guys! What about you, skulking about in the dark with your gloomy little costume? How many people think you're some thief when they first see you?" Eames shoots back.
"It's refinement, Magnificent. A concept I'm certain you're entirely unfamiliar with," Arthur says.
"Gentlemen," Saito says archly. "While I'm quite sure all of you have irritating flaws, can we focus on more plausible reasons as to why the head of the Legion sent you to kill me tonight?"
"He only sent Vindicate to kill you," Eames corrects. "I was just going to kidnap you and turn you over to an evil mastermind."
"Yes, thank you," Saito says. "Now, any ideas?"
The room falls quiet.
"Well, he's probably planning something. . ." Arthur starts.
"Oh, wonderful, we've narrowed it down to 'he's planning something.' Top-notch work there, Detective Tights," Eames says.
"I don't hear you coming up with anything productive," Arthur snaps.
"All right, that's enough," Fox says, raising his hands up. "God, it's like herding cats. Look, I'm sure you're all exhausted, why don't we take a break, get something to eat? Vindicate, you're all patched up -- go on into my room and find some clothes, okay? This fancy suit of yours isn't dry-clean only, is it?"
He pokes at the bloodstained cloth. Arthur tears his glare away from Eames and shakes his head. "No, it's fine. I'll throw it in the wash, thanks."
Fox shrugs. Arthur gets up from the couch, stepping carefully over the half-asleep Zero. He hears footsteps settling on the hardwood and the creak of suede and turns. Eames is standing up.
He gestures at Arthur's half-removed suit, the folds of the elastic cloth around his waist, the pale crests and shadows of his naked skin, chest heaving in the gloomy light. "Why don't I help you out of that?"
Too tired to argue, face hot, Arthur only nods.
**
Part b