thanks for the memories
so sometimes i respond to kink memes really quickly. and then, other times, i look back on what i wrote and go "what is this story missing?" and write some backstory. this is one of those times.
Title: Best Served Cold
Fandom: Inception
Characters: Arthur/Eames, Robert
Wordcount: 1412
Rating: R
Summary: Robert picks a pocket. It isn't appreciated.
Notes: This is a companion to another piece of mine, where everyone is psycho. I was rereading it before I posted and somehow this came about. Don't even ask. It might even turn into more, because psychos? It's just how I roll.
Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.
This was the best idea I’ve had all year, Burt thought to himself, wiping the end of his nose. He sniffed again, enjoying the sick taste at the back of his throat, and pushed his way out of the bathroom. He nodded at the bartender as he made his way back to the room at the back of the bar where the little poker table was set up.
One of the men was long gone, passed out in the bathroom he’d just come out of, drying blood caked on his face. OD’d on his own stash, the idiot. The two other men in on the game were still there, and how. They barely glanced up at him when he came stumbling back in, too busy eye fucking each other to notice him when he tripped over his own feet and went crashing into them, calculated enough not to raise suspicion. He made sure he drank enough for that earlier.
“Oi, piss off,” one of them said, tossed over his shoulder when Burt’s clumsy hands patted him down.
“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled, waving a hand vaguely. “Looking for Jarred.”
“Well, he’s not fucking here, is he?” the slighter man said, glaring up at Burt with dark eyes. Burt dropped his gaze. He used one hand to steady himself on the table and the other to grab his leather coat, hung over the back of the chair they were both trying to occupy at the same time. The bigger man, the one straddling the other, turned his head enough to glare daggers up at him.
“Do you mind?”
Burt glared back, tugging once again at his jacket. The other man, the one with the cold eyes, shifted forward and Burt nearly went flying back when his jacket was released from behind his back.
“Thanks,” he said tiredly as he shrugged his coat on. “Good game.”
The man with the dark eyes, who had introduced himself as ‘Chicago’ (and what kind of a stupid code name was that supposed to be?), snorted at him and went back to staring at the Englishman who was draped across his legs.
“I don’t like him,” the Englishman (who had introduced himself as ‘Clyde’ and then laughed uproariously when Chicago rolled his eyes at him, as though it was some kind of hilarious in-joke only the two of them were privy to) told his partner, still staring at Burt with an air of malice about him. “He’s got freakish eyes.”
“Thanks,” Burt said sharply, losing a little bit of his buzz the cocaine in the bathroom had provided him with. He patted his back pocket then hauled himself up. “I’ll be sure to tell my father you said so.”
They went back to each other, Clyde’s mouth making its way down his companion’s throat as Chicago watched Burt over his shoulder. It unnerved him enough to make him forget what he was doing. Then he shook his head and made for the door.
He made it as far as four steps down the alley before he was being slammed against the wall, his cheek scraping the brick painfully. His hands shot out to catch himself and when he was steady he let one of them slide behind him, in the space between their bodies, searching out the Ruger (stolen from his father right before he ran away) he had shoved into the waistband of his pants.
“It’s considered rude to pick the pocket of a thief, you know.” The lilt suggested it was Clyde, the Englishman, and when he was yanked around forcefully enough to slam the back of his head against the brick it was confirmed. “I don’t appreciate being swindled out of my hard earned winnings.”
Burt only had enough time to register the widening of Clyde’s eyes when he shoved the barrel of his gun under his chin before everything went black.
Arthur stood over the body calmly, sliding the knife back into its sheath smoothly so only the handle (thick and black, enough to knock a man out when enough force is applied to the correct part of his head) peeked out.
“You need to be more careful,” he told Eames, who took the opportunity to crouch over Burt’s body.
“Little prick got the jump on me,” Eames said, his hands rifling through Burt’s pockets. He came up with two wallets and a tiny vial of coke. He waved the coke enticingly in Arthur’s direction, who stared hard down at him. Eames rolled his eyes and tossed it to the side, going back to the wallet that wasn’t his. “Jesus, there’s a good five hundred in here. I’d wager the wallet cost more than that, too. Who exactly are you, son?” he mumbled, as he leafed through the notes. He pulled them out and reached up, tucking them into the front pocket of Arthur’s pants.
“Eames. I’m serious.”
Eames looked up and caught the pinched look on Arthur’s face. He made a soft sound and stood quickly, pressing a small kiss to the corner of Arthur’s mouth. Arthur remained unmoved, just stared down at the prone body at their feet.
“What happens when I’m off on a job? What’re you gonna do when someone else gets the jump on you and I’m not here to save your miserable existence?”
“You’re always there, darling,” Eames said, trying again. This time Arthur opened his mouth and allowed Eames’s tongue to curl around his. “It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t.”
With another quick peck Eames smiled and dropped once again to his knees. He pulled out the identification card from inside the ridiculously posh wallet and read it with a raised brow. “Robert Fischer? Isn’t he the son of so-and-so, the energy tycoon?”
“Who cares?”
“Aren’t they based out of Australia? Wonder what daddy did to make him run all the way to Calgary, and at such a young age.” Eames tucked the ID into the kids shirt pocket, then tucked both wallets into his own. He offered the gun up to Arthur, who shook his head. “Maybe he touched him inappropriately as a child. Maybe he made mommy touch him while he watched.”
“You’re disgusting.” Arthur told him. But when Eames looked up there was a curl at the corner of Arthur’s mouth. He stood again and pressed the front of his body to Arthur’s for no other reason than to feel the heat coming off of him.
“And you love it.” Eames muttered. He slid one hand to Arthur’s hip, toying with the knife there. It would only take a few seconds, really, to slice his throat open and rid the world of one more pretty rich kid who pissed on the grand fortune his life was. Just the thought of it made his blood burn hotter.
Little Burt here, born into privilege, had known nothing of life on the streets, of being raised by foster family after foster family, shuffled around in and out of the system like a damn poker chip, going from hand to hand with no real home. Yet here he was, running away from his family and his inheritance like every other spoiled rich kid he’d ever known; crying about his money and his misfortune as though someone like Eames wouldn’t have given anything to be him. As though he had any idea what real misery was.
Arthur pressed his face against Eames’s cheek and bit sharply at his jaw, pulling his focus. “I’ve got the drill in the trunk of our car,” he told him lovingly. Eames smiled at the thought. He remembered what Arthur had last used it for.
“No,” he said, almost sadly. He stared down at the limp body with something a little like hatred. “No, little Robbie here will get his. Just not yet. Revenge is as dish best served cold, and all that.”
“Then lets get out of here,” Arthur said, straightening. He reached forward and smoothed down the collar of Eames’s shirt, still rucked up from where Robert’s gun disturbed it. “We can max out his credit cards in Amsterdam and give his daddy awful mental pictures of him screwing whores and degenerates across the globe.”
“You get me so hot when you talk like that.” Eames wrapped an arm around Arthur’s shoulder and led him down the dark alley into the blackness. “I might even have to buy you a new blade.”
“Make it a Strider and you’ve got a deal.”
Title: Best Served Cold
Fandom: Inception
Characters: Arthur/Eames, Robert
Wordcount: 1412
Rating: R
Summary: Robert picks a pocket. It isn't appreciated.
Notes: This is a companion to another piece of mine, where everyone is psycho. I was rereading it before I posted and somehow this came about. Don't even ask. It might even turn into more, because psychos? It's just how I roll.
Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.
This was the best idea I’ve had all year, Burt thought to himself, wiping the end of his nose. He sniffed again, enjoying the sick taste at the back of his throat, and pushed his way out of the bathroom. He nodded at the bartender as he made his way back to the room at the back of the bar where the little poker table was set up.
One of the men was long gone, passed out in the bathroom he’d just come out of, drying blood caked on his face. OD’d on his own stash, the idiot. The two other men in on the game were still there, and how. They barely glanced up at him when he came stumbling back in, too busy eye fucking each other to notice him when he tripped over his own feet and went crashing into them, calculated enough not to raise suspicion. He made sure he drank enough for that earlier.
“Oi, piss off,” one of them said, tossed over his shoulder when Burt’s clumsy hands patted him down.
“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled, waving a hand vaguely. “Looking for Jarred.”
“Well, he’s not fucking here, is he?” the slighter man said, glaring up at Burt with dark eyes. Burt dropped his gaze. He used one hand to steady himself on the table and the other to grab his leather coat, hung over the back of the chair they were both trying to occupy at the same time. The bigger man, the one straddling the other, turned his head enough to glare daggers up at him.
“Do you mind?”
Burt glared back, tugging once again at his jacket. The other man, the one with the cold eyes, shifted forward and Burt nearly went flying back when his jacket was released from behind his back.
“Thanks,” he said tiredly as he shrugged his coat on. “Good game.”
The man with the dark eyes, who had introduced himself as ‘Chicago’ (and what kind of a stupid code name was that supposed to be?), snorted at him and went back to staring at the Englishman who was draped across his legs.
“I don’t like him,” the Englishman (who had introduced himself as ‘Clyde’ and then laughed uproariously when Chicago rolled his eyes at him, as though it was some kind of hilarious in-joke only the two of them were privy to) told his partner, still staring at Burt with an air of malice about him. “He’s got freakish eyes.”
“Thanks,” Burt said sharply, losing a little bit of his buzz the cocaine in the bathroom had provided him with. He patted his back pocket then hauled himself up. “I’ll be sure to tell my father you said so.”
They went back to each other, Clyde’s mouth making its way down his companion’s throat as Chicago watched Burt over his shoulder. It unnerved him enough to make him forget what he was doing. Then he shook his head and made for the door.
He made it as far as four steps down the alley before he was being slammed against the wall, his cheek scraping the brick painfully. His hands shot out to catch himself and when he was steady he let one of them slide behind him, in the space between their bodies, searching out the Ruger (stolen from his father right before he ran away) he had shoved into the waistband of his pants.
“It’s considered rude to pick the pocket of a thief, you know.” The lilt suggested it was Clyde, the Englishman, and when he was yanked around forcefully enough to slam the back of his head against the brick it was confirmed. “I don’t appreciate being swindled out of my hard earned winnings.”
Burt only had enough time to register the widening of Clyde’s eyes when he shoved the barrel of his gun under his chin before everything went black.
Arthur stood over the body calmly, sliding the knife back into its sheath smoothly so only the handle (thick and black, enough to knock a man out when enough force is applied to the correct part of his head) peeked out.
“You need to be more careful,” he told Eames, who took the opportunity to crouch over Burt’s body.
“Little prick got the jump on me,” Eames said, his hands rifling through Burt’s pockets. He came up with two wallets and a tiny vial of coke. He waved the coke enticingly in Arthur’s direction, who stared hard down at him. Eames rolled his eyes and tossed it to the side, going back to the wallet that wasn’t his. “Jesus, there’s a good five hundred in here. I’d wager the wallet cost more than that, too. Who exactly are you, son?” he mumbled, as he leafed through the notes. He pulled them out and reached up, tucking them into the front pocket of Arthur’s pants.
“Eames. I’m serious.”
Eames looked up and caught the pinched look on Arthur’s face. He made a soft sound and stood quickly, pressing a small kiss to the corner of Arthur’s mouth. Arthur remained unmoved, just stared down at the prone body at their feet.
“What happens when I’m off on a job? What’re you gonna do when someone else gets the jump on you and I’m not here to save your miserable existence?”
“You’re always there, darling,” Eames said, trying again. This time Arthur opened his mouth and allowed Eames’s tongue to curl around his. “It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t.”
With another quick peck Eames smiled and dropped once again to his knees. He pulled out the identification card from inside the ridiculously posh wallet and read it with a raised brow. “Robert Fischer? Isn’t he the son of so-and-so, the energy tycoon?”
“Who cares?”
“Aren’t they based out of Australia? Wonder what daddy did to make him run all the way to Calgary, and at such a young age.” Eames tucked the ID into the kids shirt pocket, then tucked both wallets into his own. He offered the gun up to Arthur, who shook his head. “Maybe he touched him inappropriately as a child. Maybe he made mommy touch him while he watched.”
“You’re disgusting.” Arthur told him. But when Eames looked up there was a curl at the corner of Arthur’s mouth. He stood again and pressed the front of his body to Arthur’s for no other reason than to feel the heat coming off of him.
“And you love it.” Eames muttered. He slid one hand to Arthur’s hip, toying with the knife there. It would only take a few seconds, really, to slice his throat open and rid the world of one more pretty rich kid who pissed on the grand fortune his life was. Just the thought of it made his blood burn hotter.
Little Burt here, born into privilege, had known nothing of life on the streets, of being raised by foster family after foster family, shuffled around in and out of the system like a damn poker chip, going from hand to hand with no real home. Yet here he was, running away from his family and his inheritance like every other spoiled rich kid he’d ever known; crying about his money and his misfortune as though someone like Eames wouldn’t have given anything to be him. As though he had any idea what real misery was.
Arthur pressed his face against Eames’s cheek and bit sharply at his jaw, pulling his focus. “I’ve got the drill in the trunk of our car,” he told him lovingly. Eames smiled at the thought. He remembered what Arthur had last used it for.
“No,” he said, almost sadly. He stared down at the limp body with something a little like hatred. “No, little Robbie here will get his. Just not yet. Revenge is as dish best served cold, and all that.”
“Then lets get out of here,” Arthur said, straightening. He reached forward and smoothed down the collar of Eames’s shirt, still rucked up from where Robert’s gun disturbed it. “We can max out his credit cards in Amsterdam and give his daddy awful mental pictures of him screwing whores and degenerates across the globe.”
“You get me so hot when you talk like that.” Eames wrapped an arm around Arthur’s shoulder and led him down the dark alley into the blackness. “I might even have to buy you a new blade.”
“Make it a Strider and you’ve got a deal.”