Scar Tissue
My first Inception fic!
Written for this prompt: community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/7339.html
Warnings: sex & ... well, that's pretty much it.
It started out as any other job. An extraction, the retrieval of a mathematic equation from a man who had left his prior employer on not-so-excellent terms. They’d left Arthur behind on the first level, impeccably dressed, and Eames had given him a trademark smirk as he’d slipped away into a dream of his own making.
Yusuf was back in reality, monitoring them as they slept. Monitoring them so intensely, in fact, that he didn’t notice the lit cigarette fall from his fingers, landing on Arthur’s immaculately prepared reports. The smoke started to tickle his nose, but went ignored. His eyes started to drift close - a product of too many nights exploring chemical reactions as of late - and he thought one quick run to the café down the block couldn’t hurt. He had another hour until the kick, after all, and surely three grown men could be trusted to sleep safely in the warehouse.
Ariadne hadn’t gone under this time, Cobb was better now, after all, and they didn’t need an architect with them for something this simple. Nevertheless, she came to the warehouse after her classes that day, making sure not to be followed. The first thing she saw was the men, peaceful in their chairs. Something is wrong, her senses told her, though she tried to shake it off.
“Yusuf?” She called, the only response an echo in the stark warehouse. That’s when she saw them, the flames leaping into the air, curling the pages at Arthur’s feet.
She reacts quickly, grabbing the arm of Cobb’s chair, because he’s the closest to her and, shit, Cobb has children. She drags him towards the doorway before going back for Eames. It takes her longer this time, working off adrenaline and nerves, the smoke thicker by the second. She coughs once, twice, three times, while the men lie unconscious.
The flames climb up the legs of the table, Yusuf’s delicate glass bottles strewn messily along the top. She finally manages to get Eames to the doorway when Yusuf reenters, shocked into stillness.
Ariadne turns around, ready to rush to Arthur’s side, and that’s when it happens - the bottles shattering into pieces, the flammable ingredients inside a catalyst for disaster. She covers her face, her only thought for the point man as she feels her way blindly to his chair. Suddenly, Yusuf is at her side, and they drag Arthur to safety before the world fades to black.
---------------------
It’s months later now, and Arthur has only just been released from the hospital. He hasn’t let anyone come to visit, though everyone has tried. The guilt in Yusuf’s voice had been too much, the sympathy in Ariadne’s even worse. Cobb had gone home to his children, and Eames…well, there was no telling where he was.
Arthur tugs the paper bracelet from his wrist, watching his brief life as George Wells float away with the breeze. He shifts uncomfortably in the hospital issued clothes, glancing up and down the street, unsteady on his feet. It’s not until he shoves his hands into his pockets that he realizes he has no wallet, no ID, no money. And nowhere to go.
“Pet, there you are!” comes the cheerful call from the right. Arthur looks, squinting into the now unfamiliar sunlight, and spots the hideous paisley shirt and wrinkled khakis.
“Eames?” Arthur is awkward after so many months lacking in human contact, and he can’t think of a proper response.
“’course, love. You’ve kept me waiting for months,” Eames accuses, though it’s all a game. He steps closer, and Arthur instinctively looks away. Eames merely stomps out his cigarette, giving him a long look, assessing him from head to toe.
Arthur wants to run.
After moments that seem like hours, Eames speaks. “Well, those clothes simply won’t do. Your clothes are at the hotel. Let’s go.”
They walk in silence for several blocks; Arthur making sure Eames was on his good side. It wasn’t that he was prideful, or full of himself, but the simple fact is he doesn’t look normal. He wouldn’t even have allowed Eames to see him had he not needed so much assistance.
It isn’t until they’re inside the hotel room - suite, he corrects, compliments of Saito - that he starts feeling truly uncomfortable. The lights are brighter in here than the dusk of a Paris evening, and whatever reaction Eames will have is sure to upset him.
But Eames is being careful, it seems, and he’s not sure if he should be insulted or comforted by his behavior. Instead he goes to change his clothes. He searches through the things he owns, the meticulous suits, the carefully planned outfits, and can’t quite decide if he should even bother. He’s nearly settled on a wool sweater when he catches sight of himself in the mirror, shirtless.
His eyes skim briefly over the large mark on his face, before he decides to torture himself further. He undoes the string on his sweatpants, letting them hit the floor. Third degree burns, all over his left side, reaching up to his ribcage. His left arm, peppered with angry red lines, deep, thin slices from every glass shard that penetrated his skin.
He’s not sure how long he’s been looking, disgusted, on the verge of being sick, when he realizes Eames is standing behind him. His eyes flicker nervously downward, suddenly unable to bear whatever look might be on his face. Eames steps closer, and closer, until Arthur can feel his breath on the back of his neck.
“It doesn’t matter,” Eames says softly. “You’re still the same person.”
Arthur tugs the shirt back over his head, retying the sweats before climbing into bed.
---------------------
Eames lets him sulk for three days before he decides he’s had enough. It isn’t that he minds, it’s just that it’s Arthur and he can’t quite stand the sight of the point man curled up under the covers all day long.
He throws the first suit he finds onto the bed.
“We’re going to dinner.” He walks away at that, heading towards the living room. He doesn’t really expect to make it to the little restaurant on the corner, doesn’t even expect to make it past the hotel room door. He just wants…something, goddammit.
He waits a full five minutes before he hears the rustling of the sheets, the hesitant footsteps approaching. He hears a heavy sigh, but keeps his focus on the television, some sporting event he couldn’t care less about, the commentators droning on.
“I’m not going out.” This is the response Eames was expecting, possibly even wanting. He thought if he could make Arthur angry, if he could provoke something in him, he might relight that spark. But instead it’s nearly heartbreaking, because he sounds completely resigned to this life of seclusion. “I can’t…”
“Arthur.” But he’s already walking back to the bedroom, and Eames knows he has to act quickly.
“Arthur!”
He stops just short of the bed, shoulders slumped, and it’s only then Eames realizes how much weight he’s lost. He walks over to him, grabbing his wrist gently and turning him around. Arthur swallows, but he doesn’t move away.
He takes note of the gentle wave in his hair, the dark brown of his eyes, the stubble all along his jaw line. Arthur is shaking, trembling, or maybe they both are. It’s hard to tell.
Eames just guides him by the wrist, leading him to the bathroom. He’s confused, and worried, but he’s following and that’s really all he could ask for. He motions for him to sit on the edge of the tub, and Arthur does so wordlessly, chewing his bottom lip.
First, he gets out the razor, then the shaving cream, before running a sink of warm water. He can hear the protests from the other side of the room, but chooses to ignore him. He knows that the hair on his face is only there to serve as a disguise, and this is a layer of protection Eames wants to show him he doesn’t need.
He spreads the foam over Arthur’s face quickly, more than pleased that he’s somehow being allowed this privilege. Minutes pass, nothing to be heard but the soft scrape of the razor against his skin. Eames finishes, both men’s eyes red rimmed, and he dips a towel into the hot water, turning back only to see him touching his own cheek lightly.
Eames covers that hand with his own, linking their fingers together.
“Don’t - Eames,” he stammers. The forger traces his finger over the scar, one long gash marring the otherwise perfect skin, but he only sees the man he saw before, the man he’ll always see.
“Vous êtes si beau.” At this, Arthur starts to cry, from the sentiment or the situation, he doesn’t know. Eames presses gentle kisses along that little mark of nothing that’s made Arthur so unhappy, marking the only time he’ll ever even acknowledge its presence.
He takes the bottom of his shirt in his hands, waiting for permission. He receives a slight nod, and undresses him, slowly. This was something they’d mentioned, once, the possibility of them, of an us. Something put safely away in the someday category, though it seems someday came much sooner than expected.
Eames walks him to the bed, helping him step out of his pants before pushing him gently down. Eames takes off his own shirt, in an effort to make them seem more balanced, though he knows in this moment Arthur is more vulnerable, more naked than he could ever be.
“Don’t worry…” he murmurs, sliding in next to him. Arthur shivers at the first touch, and Eames becomes that much more determined to show him his own worth. He starts at the neck, gentle nips placed strategically over the blemishes. He hears a quiet gasp, feels another shudder, and he sends up a silent thank you to the universe for giving him this chance.
He trails kisses down his chest, stroking the skin along his side. Eames is crying softly, the hot tears landing on his lover’s shoulder. He hopes Arthur understands these are tears of relief, of sheer exhilaration that he has him safely in his arms. There are lingering kisses pressed to every inch of Arthur’s body, Eames knowing instinctively that he is the luckiest man on earth.
After he’s satisfied that every mark has been properly attended to, he moves up to look Arthur in the eyes. His eyes are clear, and bright, the hesitation fading away.
And then Arthur kisses him.
It’s soft at first, each of them breathing in the other’s breaths, and then there’s an urgency neither can deny. Eames slips his hand down to stroke Arthur’s cock. His eyes drift closed, and he moans with every touch. There are soft whispers filling his world, promises of love in every language.
Eames pays careful attention to Arthur’s needs, his wants, the way he’s coming undone beneath him. He is the most beautiful man he’s ever seen, and so he kisses him, over and over until Arthur cries out, reaching his climax. He watches him as he settles, sleepy eyes blinking up at him. Eames presses one more kiss to his cheek, for good measure, before settling himself against his side.
He is nearly asleep when he hears it, quiet but confident, his Arthur’s voice.
“We can go out to dinner tomorrow.”
Written for this prompt: community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/7339.html
Warnings: sex & ... well, that's pretty much it.
It started out as any other job. An extraction, the retrieval of a mathematic equation from a man who had left his prior employer on not-so-excellent terms. They’d left Arthur behind on the first level, impeccably dressed, and Eames had given him a trademark smirk as he’d slipped away into a dream of his own making.
Yusuf was back in reality, monitoring them as they slept. Monitoring them so intensely, in fact, that he didn’t notice the lit cigarette fall from his fingers, landing on Arthur’s immaculately prepared reports. The smoke started to tickle his nose, but went ignored. His eyes started to drift close - a product of too many nights exploring chemical reactions as of late - and he thought one quick run to the café down the block couldn’t hurt. He had another hour until the kick, after all, and surely three grown men could be trusted to sleep safely in the warehouse.
Ariadne hadn’t gone under this time, Cobb was better now, after all, and they didn’t need an architect with them for something this simple. Nevertheless, she came to the warehouse after her classes that day, making sure not to be followed. The first thing she saw was the men, peaceful in their chairs. Something is wrong, her senses told her, though she tried to shake it off.
“Yusuf?” She called, the only response an echo in the stark warehouse. That’s when she saw them, the flames leaping into the air, curling the pages at Arthur’s feet.
She reacts quickly, grabbing the arm of Cobb’s chair, because he’s the closest to her and, shit, Cobb has children. She drags him towards the doorway before going back for Eames. It takes her longer this time, working off adrenaline and nerves, the smoke thicker by the second. She coughs once, twice, three times, while the men lie unconscious.
The flames climb up the legs of the table, Yusuf’s delicate glass bottles strewn messily along the top. She finally manages to get Eames to the doorway when Yusuf reenters, shocked into stillness.
Ariadne turns around, ready to rush to Arthur’s side, and that’s when it happens - the bottles shattering into pieces, the flammable ingredients inside a catalyst for disaster. She covers her face, her only thought for the point man as she feels her way blindly to his chair. Suddenly, Yusuf is at her side, and they drag Arthur to safety before the world fades to black.
---------------------
It’s months later now, and Arthur has only just been released from the hospital. He hasn’t let anyone come to visit, though everyone has tried. The guilt in Yusuf’s voice had been too much, the sympathy in Ariadne’s even worse. Cobb had gone home to his children, and Eames…well, there was no telling where he was.
Arthur tugs the paper bracelet from his wrist, watching his brief life as George Wells float away with the breeze. He shifts uncomfortably in the hospital issued clothes, glancing up and down the street, unsteady on his feet. It’s not until he shoves his hands into his pockets that he realizes he has no wallet, no ID, no money. And nowhere to go.
“Pet, there you are!” comes the cheerful call from the right. Arthur looks, squinting into the now unfamiliar sunlight, and spots the hideous paisley shirt and wrinkled khakis.
“Eames?” Arthur is awkward after so many months lacking in human contact, and he can’t think of a proper response.
“’course, love. You’ve kept me waiting for months,” Eames accuses, though it’s all a game. He steps closer, and Arthur instinctively looks away. Eames merely stomps out his cigarette, giving him a long look, assessing him from head to toe.
Arthur wants to run.
After moments that seem like hours, Eames speaks. “Well, those clothes simply won’t do. Your clothes are at the hotel. Let’s go.”
They walk in silence for several blocks; Arthur making sure Eames was on his good side. It wasn’t that he was prideful, or full of himself, but the simple fact is he doesn’t look normal. He wouldn’t even have allowed Eames to see him had he not needed so much assistance.
It isn’t until they’re inside the hotel room - suite, he corrects, compliments of Saito - that he starts feeling truly uncomfortable. The lights are brighter in here than the dusk of a Paris evening, and whatever reaction Eames will have is sure to upset him.
But Eames is being careful, it seems, and he’s not sure if he should be insulted or comforted by his behavior. Instead he goes to change his clothes. He searches through the things he owns, the meticulous suits, the carefully planned outfits, and can’t quite decide if he should even bother. He’s nearly settled on a wool sweater when he catches sight of himself in the mirror, shirtless.
His eyes skim briefly over the large mark on his face, before he decides to torture himself further. He undoes the string on his sweatpants, letting them hit the floor. Third degree burns, all over his left side, reaching up to his ribcage. His left arm, peppered with angry red lines, deep, thin slices from every glass shard that penetrated his skin.
He’s not sure how long he’s been looking, disgusted, on the verge of being sick, when he realizes Eames is standing behind him. His eyes flicker nervously downward, suddenly unable to bear whatever look might be on his face. Eames steps closer, and closer, until Arthur can feel his breath on the back of his neck.
“It doesn’t matter,” Eames says softly. “You’re still the same person.”
Arthur tugs the shirt back over his head, retying the sweats before climbing into bed.
---------------------
Eames lets him sulk for three days before he decides he’s had enough. It isn’t that he minds, it’s just that it’s Arthur and he can’t quite stand the sight of the point man curled up under the covers all day long.
He throws the first suit he finds onto the bed.
“We’re going to dinner.” He walks away at that, heading towards the living room. He doesn’t really expect to make it to the little restaurant on the corner, doesn’t even expect to make it past the hotel room door. He just wants…something, goddammit.
He waits a full five minutes before he hears the rustling of the sheets, the hesitant footsteps approaching. He hears a heavy sigh, but keeps his focus on the television, some sporting event he couldn’t care less about, the commentators droning on.
“I’m not going out.” This is the response Eames was expecting, possibly even wanting. He thought if he could make Arthur angry, if he could provoke something in him, he might relight that spark. But instead it’s nearly heartbreaking, because he sounds completely resigned to this life of seclusion. “I can’t…”
“Arthur.” But he’s already walking back to the bedroom, and Eames knows he has to act quickly.
“Arthur!”
He stops just short of the bed, shoulders slumped, and it’s only then Eames realizes how much weight he’s lost. He walks over to him, grabbing his wrist gently and turning him around. Arthur swallows, but he doesn’t move away.
He takes note of the gentle wave in his hair, the dark brown of his eyes, the stubble all along his jaw line. Arthur is shaking, trembling, or maybe they both are. It’s hard to tell.
Eames just guides him by the wrist, leading him to the bathroom. He’s confused, and worried, but he’s following and that’s really all he could ask for. He motions for him to sit on the edge of the tub, and Arthur does so wordlessly, chewing his bottom lip.
First, he gets out the razor, then the shaving cream, before running a sink of warm water. He can hear the protests from the other side of the room, but chooses to ignore him. He knows that the hair on his face is only there to serve as a disguise, and this is a layer of protection Eames wants to show him he doesn’t need.
He spreads the foam over Arthur’s face quickly, more than pleased that he’s somehow being allowed this privilege. Minutes pass, nothing to be heard but the soft scrape of the razor against his skin. Eames finishes, both men’s eyes red rimmed, and he dips a towel into the hot water, turning back only to see him touching his own cheek lightly.
Eames covers that hand with his own, linking their fingers together.
“Don’t - Eames,” he stammers. The forger traces his finger over the scar, one long gash marring the otherwise perfect skin, but he only sees the man he saw before, the man he’ll always see.
“Vous êtes si beau.” At this, Arthur starts to cry, from the sentiment or the situation, he doesn’t know. Eames presses gentle kisses along that little mark of nothing that’s made Arthur so unhappy, marking the only time he’ll ever even acknowledge its presence.
He takes the bottom of his shirt in his hands, waiting for permission. He receives a slight nod, and undresses him, slowly. This was something they’d mentioned, once, the possibility of them, of an us. Something put safely away in the someday category, though it seems someday came much sooner than expected.
Eames walks him to the bed, helping him step out of his pants before pushing him gently down. Eames takes off his own shirt, in an effort to make them seem more balanced, though he knows in this moment Arthur is more vulnerable, more naked than he could ever be.
“Don’t worry…” he murmurs, sliding in next to him. Arthur shivers at the first touch, and Eames becomes that much more determined to show him his own worth. He starts at the neck, gentle nips placed strategically over the blemishes. He hears a quiet gasp, feels another shudder, and he sends up a silent thank you to the universe for giving him this chance.
He trails kisses down his chest, stroking the skin along his side. Eames is crying softly, the hot tears landing on his lover’s shoulder. He hopes Arthur understands these are tears of relief, of sheer exhilaration that he has him safely in his arms. There are lingering kisses pressed to every inch of Arthur’s body, Eames knowing instinctively that he is the luckiest man on earth.
After he’s satisfied that every mark has been properly attended to, he moves up to look Arthur in the eyes. His eyes are clear, and bright, the hesitation fading away.
And then Arthur kisses him.
It’s soft at first, each of them breathing in the other’s breaths, and then there’s an urgency neither can deny. Eames slips his hand down to stroke Arthur’s cock. His eyes drift closed, and he moans with every touch. There are soft whispers filling his world, promises of love in every language.
Eames pays careful attention to Arthur’s needs, his wants, the way he’s coming undone beneath him. He is the most beautiful man he’s ever seen, and so he kisses him, over and over until Arthur cries out, reaching his climax. He watches him as he settles, sleepy eyes blinking up at him. Eames presses one more kiss to his cheek, for good measure, before settling himself against his side.
He is nearly asleep when he hears it, quiet but confident, his Arthur’s voice.
“We can go out to dinner tomorrow.”