Here's Looking at You, Kid
Title: Here's Looking at You, Kid
Author: ifeelbetter
Rating: So very G. This is the G-est fic I've ever written.
Warning: DON'T WASTE YOUR LIFE ON BETTE DAVIS. She doesn't love you like you love her.
Summary: Eames has a secret: he cries like a little girl while watching classic films.
Word Count: 1,268
Notes: This was originally written for this prompt at the inception_kink kink_meme. It was inspired by the ridiculousness of cute that is Tom Hardy in the Kleenex ad:
The first time Eames got caught was when Cobb sent Arthur to pick him up for a job.
Arthur did the usual business, the palming bribes at seedy bars and coded messages, to find him. A stripper ended up giving him Eames's address, scribbled on the back of a coaster. She'd pressed a lipstick kiss below the final number and winked at Arthur.
He gave her a blank look, thanked her, and went to the address.
Arthur knocked quietly on the door. He didn't want to alert the neighbors to his presence. It could get messy.
There was no answer. He rolled his eyes and pulled out his lock picks.
He closed the door silently behind him. There were no lights on in the apartment but he could hear voices from a room further down the hall.
"Shall we just have a cigarette on it?" said a man's voice. Arthur crept carefully down the hallway.
"Yes," said a woman. The door was halfway open and Arthur pushed it open. It creaked slightly. Eames was sitting on a sofa with his back to the door and he didn't even register the creak.
"May I sometimes come here?" said the same man's voice. Arthur realized the TV was on. He didn't recognize the movie. Classic films weren't really his thing. He didn't see the point of television in general, not when you could open a good book.
He was about to say something when he realized that Eames's shoulder were shaking slightly.
He was crying.
"Whenever you like. It's your home, too. There are people here who love you."
Eames took a shuddering breath and reached over for his box of tissues. He took a ragged breath and wiped the prodigious tears spilling down his cheeks. Arthur completely froze, tensed to the tips of his toes.
"And will you be happy, Charlotte?" the man on the screened asked.
"Oh, Gerry. Don't let's ask for the moon," the woman replied. Eames choked out a sob. "We have the stars."
It wasn't like they were close or friends at all but Arthur found himself crossing the room, completely unconcerned with being silent, as the credits began to roll. He threaded a hand into Eames's hair. He wasn't sure himself what he meant by it but he was already doing it when he realized what it was he was doing.
Eames didn't even looked surprised. He leaned his head back into Arthur's hand and looked up at him.
Arthur felt his heart fucking clench. There was something so completely unguarded in his face in that split second, before he asked why Arthur was breaking into his apartment on the Rialto, that Arthur felt his own going hazy around the edges. He really couldn't stop himself from wiping his thumb across Eames's cheek.
But there was a part of him that was immune even to that face Eames was making and that was the part that said, "You giant girl."
"It's Bette Davis, darling," Eames said, trying for affronted pride but still too wobbly to come off as anything besides pathetic. "Hardened criminals cry for Bette Davis."
"You would know," said Arthur.
"I'll show you a hardened crimi--" Eames began to say. It was such a jolt, such familiar ground, that Arthur dropped his hand and stepped back.
"Cobb needs you for a job," he said simply. He turned on his heel and left, carefully measuring his pace so that it didn't seem too much like a panicked retreat.
Arthur was only slightly more prepared the second time it happened.
Cobb and Ariadne had flown to Paris to see Miles and attend a conference about some new architect thing undercover. Cobb had left explicit instructions that Eames was to wait with Arthur in Seattle until they returned. He was sure they would have a new technique to mess around with by then.
Arthur refused to actually play babysitter despite the fact that Eames was horrifically bored and the bloody city was filled to the brim with rain all the time.
So Arthur had sequestered himself in one of the rooms of the apartment they'd set up shop in. He'd done routine stuff, organizing and mending, the sort of things they never had time for.
He had been at it for hours and he needed a drink. He opened the door and he could immediately hear the murmur of voices from down the hall. He didn't recognize the voice at first but one line popped out at him because everyone knows that line.
"We'll always have Paris," Humphrey Bogart said to Ingrid Bergman. There was other stuff but Arthur had already started walking towards the room, even though he knew what he'd find.
Eames was spread out across the entire sofa. He wasn't wearing a shirt, just a pair of loose sweatpants. The more heavily tattooed of his arms was wrapped lazily around a box of Kleenex.
And he was crying.
Arthur leaned against the side of the sofa closest to Eames's head. One of his hands brushed against Eames's head and what the hell, he thought. He ruffled Eames's hair.
"He's talking to her like she's a child," he told Eames. Eames sniffled. "Look at him. She's a grown woman and he's chucking her chin."
"You're obviously a philistine," Eames huffed, snorting loudly into his tissue.
"Here's looking at you, kid," Humphrey Bogart said on the screen and Arthur snorted.
"See? Kid. You find this condescending bullshit appealing?"
"You're all talk, pet," said Eames. "You'd be a puddle if Humphrey Bogart called you 'kid.' You'd have to be made of stone to resist that."
Arthur snorted and they watched in silence for for the last few moments before the credits rolled.
Eames let out a particularly pathetic sob for the final line, "This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
"There," he said, hiccuping slightly. "How can you not be moved by that?"
Arthur shrugged. "Maybe you had to be there from the beginning."
Eames leaned forward, making room for Arthur on the coach. "Sit," he instructed. He wiped the heel of his right hand against both of his cheeks. "I'm going to make you cry if it's the last thing I do."
"Oh, really?" Arthur asked, quirking an eyebrow.
"Yes, you ingrate. You're about to be cultured." Arthur almost retorted that he had culture in spades, thank you very much, but the thought died on his tongue. Eames's hair was sticking up oddly on one side from where he had been leaning on the sofa and Arthur was pretty sure he was gazing fondly at a fucking cowlick as Eames flipped through his obviously well-loved folder of DVDs. Eames waggled a disc in the air triumphantly.
"Now we'll test your mettle," Eames announced. He settled back in the sofa, leaning his arms across the back. Arthur slid down next to him, keenly aware that Eames's arm was ghosting across his shoulders.
The film was It's A Wonderful Life.
"Isn't this a Christmas film?" Arthur asked, wrinkling his nose. Eames knew he wasn't a fan of holidays that disrupted routine.
"Yes," Eames conceded. "But even Saito cries for this film. We'll see how a delicate flower like you fares."
Arthur shoved Eames a little for that but, somehow, that just meant that he ended up leaning closer to Eames and Eames's arm was draped across his shoulders instead of the sofa.
By the end of the film, Arthur had the empty box of tissues in his lap and the position they had ended up in could definitely have been described as near-spooning.
Author: ifeelbetter
Rating: So very G. This is the G-est fic I've ever written.
Warning: DON'T WASTE YOUR LIFE ON BETTE DAVIS. She doesn't love you like you love her.
Summary: Eames has a secret: he cries like a little girl while watching classic films.
Word Count: 1,268
Notes: This was originally written for this prompt at the inception_kink kink_meme. It was inspired by the ridiculousness of cute that is Tom Hardy in the Kleenex ad:
Click to viewThe first time Eames got caught was when Cobb sent Arthur to pick him up for a job.
Arthur did the usual business, the palming bribes at seedy bars and coded messages, to find him. A stripper ended up giving him Eames's address, scribbled on the back of a coaster. She'd pressed a lipstick kiss below the final number and winked at Arthur.
He gave her a blank look, thanked her, and went to the address.
Arthur knocked quietly on the door. He didn't want to alert the neighbors to his presence. It could get messy.
There was no answer. He rolled his eyes and pulled out his lock picks.
He closed the door silently behind him. There were no lights on in the apartment but he could hear voices from a room further down the hall.
"Shall we just have a cigarette on it?" said a man's voice. Arthur crept carefully down the hallway.
"Yes," said a woman. The door was halfway open and Arthur pushed it open. It creaked slightly. Eames was sitting on a sofa with his back to the door and he didn't even register the creak.
"May I sometimes come here?" said the same man's voice. Arthur realized the TV was on. He didn't recognize the movie. Classic films weren't really his thing. He didn't see the point of television in general, not when you could open a good book.
He was about to say something when he realized that Eames's shoulder were shaking slightly.
He was crying.
"Whenever you like. It's your home, too. There are people here who love you."
Eames took a shuddering breath and reached over for his box of tissues. He took a ragged breath and wiped the prodigious tears spilling down his cheeks. Arthur completely froze, tensed to the tips of his toes.
"And will you be happy, Charlotte?" the man on the screened asked.
"Oh, Gerry. Don't let's ask for the moon," the woman replied. Eames choked out a sob. "We have the stars."
It wasn't like they were close or friends at all but Arthur found himself crossing the room, completely unconcerned with being silent, as the credits began to roll. He threaded a hand into Eames's hair. He wasn't sure himself what he meant by it but he was already doing it when he realized what it was he was doing.
Eames didn't even looked surprised. He leaned his head back into Arthur's hand and looked up at him.
Arthur felt his heart fucking clench. There was something so completely unguarded in his face in that split second, before he asked why Arthur was breaking into his apartment on the Rialto, that Arthur felt his own going hazy around the edges. He really couldn't stop himself from wiping his thumb across Eames's cheek.
But there was a part of him that was immune even to that face Eames was making and that was the part that said, "You giant girl."
"It's Bette Davis, darling," Eames said, trying for affronted pride but still too wobbly to come off as anything besides pathetic. "Hardened criminals cry for Bette Davis."
"You would know," said Arthur.
"I'll show you a hardened crimi--" Eames began to say. It was such a jolt, such familiar ground, that Arthur dropped his hand and stepped back.
"Cobb needs you for a job," he said simply. He turned on his heel and left, carefully measuring his pace so that it didn't seem too much like a panicked retreat.
Arthur was only slightly more prepared the second time it happened.
Cobb and Ariadne had flown to Paris to see Miles and attend a conference about some new architect thing undercover. Cobb had left explicit instructions that Eames was to wait with Arthur in Seattle until they returned. He was sure they would have a new technique to mess around with by then.
Arthur refused to actually play babysitter despite the fact that Eames was horrifically bored and the bloody city was filled to the brim with rain all the time.
So Arthur had sequestered himself in one of the rooms of the apartment they'd set up shop in. He'd done routine stuff, organizing and mending, the sort of things they never had time for.
He had been at it for hours and he needed a drink. He opened the door and he could immediately hear the murmur of voices from down the hall. He didn't recognize the voice at first but one line popped out at him because everyone knows that line.
"We'll always have Paris," Humphrey Bogart said to Ingrid Bergman. There was other stuff but Arthur had already started walking towards the room, even though he knew what he'd find.
Eames was spread out across the entire sofa. He wasn't wearing a shirt, just a pair of loose sweatpants. The more heavily tattooed of his arms was wrapped lazily around a box of Kleenex.
And he was crying.
Arthur leaned against the side of the sofa closest to Eames's head. One of his hands brushed against Eames's head and what the hell, he thought. He ruffled Eames's hair.
"He's talking to her like she's a child," he told Eames. Eames sniffled. "Look at him. She's a grown woman and he's chucking her chin."
"You're obviously a philistine," Eames huffed, snorting loudly into his tissue.
"Here's looking at you, kid," Humphrey Bogart said on the screen and Arthur snorted.
"See? Kid. You find this condescending bullshit appealing?"
"You're all talk, pet," said Eames. "You'd be a puddle if Humphrey Bogart called you 'kid.' You'd have to be made of stone to resist that."
Arthur snorted and they watched in silence for for the last few moments before the credits rolled.
Eames let out a particularly pathetic sob for the final line, "This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
"There," he said, hiccuping slightly. "How can you not be moved by that?"
Arthur shrugged. "Maybe you had to be there from the beginning."
Eames leaned forward, making room for Arthur on the coach. "Sit," he instructed. He wiped the heel of his right hand against both of his cheeks. "I'm going to make you cry if it's the last thing I do."
"Oh, really?" Arthur asked, quirking an eyebrow.
"Yes, you ingrate. You're about to be cultured." Arthur almost retorted that he had culture in spades, thank you very much, but the thought died on his tongue. Eames's hair was sticking up oddly on one side from where he had been leaning on the sofa and Arthur was pretty sure he was gazing fondly at a fucking cowlick as Eames flipped through his obviously well-loved folder of DVDs. Eames waggled a disc in the air triumphantly.
"Now we'll test your mettle," Eames announced. He settled back in the sofa, leaning his arms across the back. Arthur slid down next to him, keenly aware that Eames's arm was ghosting across his shoulders.
The film was It's A Wonderful Life.
"Isn't this a Christmas film?" Arthur asked, wrinkling his nose. Eames knew he wasn't a fan of holidays that disrupted routine.
"Yes," Eames conceded. "But even Saito cries for this film. We'll see how a delicate flower like you fares."
Arthur shoved Eames a little for that but, somehow, that just meant that he ended up leaning closer to Eames and Eames's arm was draped across his shoulders instead of the sofa.
By the end of the film, Arthur had the empty box of tissues in his lap and the position they had ended up in could definitely have been described as near-spooning.