Baby, You Can Drive My Car
Title: Baby, You Can Drive My Care
Author: ifeelbetter
Warning: I don't know how to drive or what the difference, in terms of cultural significance, between a Camry and a Jaguar. Or if those are even really cars.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Word Count: 1,518
Summary: Eames thinks he's all that and a bag of chips behind the wheel. Arthur schools him.
Notes: Written for this prompt at the second round of the inception_kink kink_meme. Title comes from The Beatles.
"I'll try not to frighten you, darling," said Eames, holding the passenger-side door open for Arthur. Arthur rolled his eyes, looking decidedly unimpressed and too occupied with the blueprints and folders he was struggling with to bother with a witty retort.
Eames couldn't have been happier. He had always been a fan of the mix of terror and awe girls got when they sat to his left, how they'd clutch his arm and say, "Oh my god" in a way that was mostly just breath passing through their lips, not really touching the words. He especially loved the bit at the very end, when he screeched the car to a halt in front of wherever they were going, and the girl--whoever she was, it always worked--would still be finding her legs and he'd wrap an arm around her and pat her head, beaming where she couldn't see his face.
He liked to impress people; that was the thing. Pretty much everyone fell in line, eventually, because Eames had so many important life skills. If they didn't melt in the face of his sheer competence with a set of lock picks (he could press his ear to a lock and it just gave up its secrets) or the way he was the only forger in the business who could invent entirely new faces in the time it took an elevator to reach the bottom floor of any hotel, he could always seal the deal with some of his less...public-friendly skills. He had plenty of those too.
And yet, after months of needling him, Arthur remained unimpressed. Also, shockingly unwilling to part with the keys to anyone but Cobb.
Which left them with months of bragging about his driving ability--he was amazing, he kept saying--and this was the first time Arthur was too occupied to argue.
Eames couldn't stop grinning as he closed the door behind Arthur, twirling the keys around his index finger. He could have skipped around the car.
This would be the day, he was sure, where Arthur's eyes would go wide and his voice would go all breathy and he'd say, "Oh my god," just like all those girls. Eames was sure, this would be the day.
It wasn't that way at all.
Arthur barely looked up from his files. He briefly raised his eyes at one point and Eames--who knew exactly when that moment was, feeling Arthur's gaze shift upwards--nearly sent the car into a tailspin off a bridge just to show he could. To get something out of Arthur.
"Mind the Lexus," said Arthur placidly, his gaze dropping again.
What Lexus? Eames wondered and had to swerve to avoid the one that appeared like magic from his blind spot.
When Eames screeched to a standstill outside the library, he thought of all the girls--even the point woman he'd worked with in Kenya, the one who never cracked a smile and kept her hair in this tight bun, had cracked at this moment--and all the breathy "Oh my god"s and considered whether it would be effective to ignore the way Arthur was not impressed at all and just pretend he was.
"Need to catch your breath?" he asked hopefully.
Arthur blinked, looking up. "Oh, have we arrived?" He yawned. "I must have drifted off towards the end there."
Eames glowered.
When Arthur returned with Ariadne ten minutes later, Eames was still glowering, leaning against the side of the car. He kicked a pebble glumly.
"What happened to you?" Ariadne asked. She had a backpack on, like a schoolgirl. Sometimes, Eames wanted to put a sign on her forehead that read You will be a cradle-robber if you hit this. Maybe write it in blinking lights so he could just point to it when Cobb and Arthur got all misty and impressed around her.
"Nothing," he grumbled.
"He's upset that I wasn't impressed by his driving," Arthur said, the tattle-tale. He gave Eames a condescending smile. "It was pretty decent, though. You're coming on well."
"I'd like to see you do better," Eames said and, if he had said something like No, your face is stupid and been five, he was aware that it would have sounded very similar.
Arthur's mouth quirked slightly. It was all in the right corner which, when Eames daydreamed about Arthur's mouth, was his favorite corner. He just knew that was the corner that wanted to be wanton.
"Fine," he agreed airily. Eames was about to retort--something that was not something a five year old would have shouted across the playground, probably, maybe--when Arthur stepped too close and reached a hand into the pocket at Eames's hip, his fingers sliding gracefully into the simple loop of the keychain.
Eames had an awful premonition of himself, then, breathing an "Oh my god" and clutching Arthur's arm.
It wasn't like Eames didn't know Arthur was a good driver. It wasn't like he hadn't occasionally been in the back of the car, ducked behind the driver's seat, while Arthur weaved through the patter of gunfire. He already knew Arthur was slick.
He'd just never seen Arthur show off before.
Arthur was usually so careful with his expressions too. It was the loosening of those facial muscles, the way his smirk seemed to pull against the sides of his standard frown, more than anything else that made Eames take healthy gulps of air at stoplights. That, and the way Arthur's hands were only draped over the wheel, like this was child's play, like this was the natural mode of travel for him.
"Sweet Jesus!" Ariadne shouted, more than once, from the backseat. That and the occasional "Holy mother of--" which, considering what an agnostic she usually was, would have made Eames laugh any other day.
When they pulled up outside the warehouse, leaving marks in the pavement for at least a block, Eames was breathing heavily and gripping the handle of his door tightly.
"Oh my god," he said, more breath than words. He tried to loosen his grip and realized that he hadn't been gripping the handle at all--he had a death-drip on a clump of Arthur's perfectly ironed Oxford shirtsleeve.
"Fuck-a-doodle-doo," said Ariadne.
Arthur leaned back in the driver's seat, draping an arm across the back of the seats. Eames had never seen him look so languorous before. If Eames had been the type to own a dictionary, he was pretty sure he would have found a snapshot of Arthur just like that under "gotcha." If "gotcha" was in the dictionary.
If Eames had been capable of coherent thought in that moment, he might have thought that.
There was nothing in his mind, though; everything was pushed out of the way for the simple appreciation of Arthur. It wasn't the predatory appreciation he was used to, not the way he'd look at Arthur from across a room and think, "Damn, I'd pull that." And not the way he'd been impressed professionally before, when he'd always just nodded, glad to have Arthur at his back.
Shit, Eames thought.
"Guys?" Ariadne said. "I think I might throw up."
"Outside," Arthur and Eames instructed simultaneously. They all climbed out of the car, Eames making sure to grab Ariadne's arm as she staggered tipsily. She really did look distinctly green in the face.
"I'm going to buy a horse and buggy," she told him, plopping leadenly down on the curb. "And I'm revoking his license." She pointed at Arthur, her finger weaving slightly.
"Sorry," he said, ducking his head. Eames rolled his eyes. If only he had that neon sign. He'd make the letters six meters high.
"My fault," Eames said, sitting next to her. "I goaded him."
"I'm never speaking to you again," she told him, leaning her head heavily on his shoulder.
"Absolutely," Eames agreed, rubbing circles into her back soothingly. "Feel free to be sick on Arthur's shoes."
Arthur took a hasty step backwards out of the splash zone.
"Both of you go somewhere else before I forget I'm not in a dream and shoot you both in the face," Ariadne instructed.
"You don't have a gun," Arthur pointed out.
She glared at him. "You don't know that for sure."
"I'm not taking any chances," Eames said, standing. He hated to admit it but he was a bit shaky on his legs as well. He tried to cover it as he passed Arthur, masking his ginger steps with a leisurely swagger.
Arthur dipped his glance, smirking when his gaze traveled back up Eames. Something told Eames he wasn't fooled in the slightest.
The front door of the warehouse slid closed and suddenly Arthur was breathing against Eames's ear.
"Need to catch your breath?" he asked snidely.
Eames was caught between annoyance--he did not need to catch his breath, thankyouverymuch--and the fact that he was finding air a bit hard to come by. He decided in favor of Option C: he pulled Arthur closer and kissed him, open-mouthed and hungrily.
Arthur just grinned against his mouth, making the kiss into another challenge.
Author: ifeelbetter
Warning: I don't know how to drive or what the difference, in terms of cultural significance, between a Camry and a Jaguar. Or if those are even really cars.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Word Count: 1,518
Summary: Eames thinks he's all that and a bag of chips behind the wheel. Arthur schools him.
Notes: Written for this prompt at the second round of the inception_kink kink_meme. Title comes from The Beatles.
"I'll try not to frighten you, darling," said Eames, holding the passenger-side door open for Arthur. Arthur rolled his eyes, looking decidedly unimpressed and too occupied with the blueprints and folders he was struggling with to bother with a witty retort.
Eames couldn't have been happier. He had always been a fan of the mix of terror and awe girls got when they sat to his left, how they'd clutch his arm and say, "Oh my god" in a way that was mostly just breath passing through their lips, not really touching the words. He especially loved the bit at the very end, when he screeched the car to a halt in front of wherever they were going, and the girl--whoever she was, it always worked--would still be finding her legs and he'd wrap an arm around her and pat her head, beaming where she couldn't see his face.
He liked to impress people; that was the thing. Pretty much everyone fell in line, eventually, because Eames had so many important life skills. If they didn't melt in the face of his sheer competence with a set of lock picks (he could press his ear to a lock and it just gave up its secrets) or the way he was the only forger in the business who could invent entirely new faces in the time it took an elevator to reach the bottom floor of any hotel, he could always seal the deal with some of his less...public-friendly skills. He had plenty of those too.
And yet, after months of needling him, Arthur remained unimpressed. Also, shockingly unwilling to part with the keys to anyone but Cobb.
Which left them with months of bragging about his driving ability--he was amazing, he kept saying--and this was the first time Arthur was too occupied to argue.
Eames couldn't stop grinning as he closed the door behind Arthur, twirling the keys around his index finger. He could have skipped around the car.
This would be the day, he was sure, where Arthur's eyes would go wide and his voice would go all breathy and he'd say, "Oh my god," just like all those girls. Eames was sure, this would be the day.
It wasn't that way at all.
Arthur barely looked up from his files. He briefly raised his eyes at one point and Eames--who knew exactly when that moment was, feeling Arthur's gaze shift upwards--nearly sent the car into a tailspin off a bridge just to show he could. To get something out of Arthur.
"Mind the Lexus," said Arthur placidly, his gaze dropping again.
What Lexus? Eames wondered and had to swerve to avoid the one that appeared like magic from his blind spot.
When Eames screeched to a standstill outside the library, he thought of all the girls--even the point woman he'd worked with in Kenya, the one who never cracked a smile and kept her hair in this tight bun, had cracked at this moment--and all the breathy "Oh my god"s and considered whether it would be effective to ignore the way Arthur was not impressed at all and just pretend he was.
"Need to catch your breath?" he asked hopefully.
Arthur blinked, looking up. "Oh, have we arrived?" He yawned. "I must have drifted off towards the end there."
Eames glowered.
When Arthur returned with Ariadne ten minutes later, Eames was still glowering, leaning against the side of the car. He kicked a pebble glumly.
"What happened to you?" Ariadne asked. She had a backpack on, like a schoolgirl. Sometimes, Eames wanted to put a sign on her forehead that read You will be a cradle-robber if you hit this. Maybe write it in blinking lights so he could just point to it when Cobb and Arthur got all misty and impressed around her.
"Nothing," he grumbled.
"He's upset that I wasn't impressed by his driving," Arthur said, the tattle-tale. He gave Eames a condescending smile. "It was pretty decent, though. You're coming on well."
"I'd like to see you do better," Eames said and, if he had said something like No, your face is stupid and been five, he was aware that it would have sounded very similar.
Arthur's mouth quirked slightly. It was all in the right corner which, when Eames daydreamed about Arthur's mouth, was his favorite corner. He just knew that was the corner that wanted to be wanton.
"Fine," he agreed airily. Eames was about to retort--something that was not something a five year old would have shouted across the playground, probably, maybe--when Arthur stepped too close and reached a hand into the pocket at Eames's hip, his fingers sliding gracefully into the simple loop of the keychain.
Eames had an awful premonition of himself, then, breathing an "Oh my god" and clutching Arthur's arm.
It wasn't like Eames didn't know Arthur was a good driver. It wasn't like he hadn't occasionally been in the back of the car, ducked behind the driver's seat, while Arthur weaved through the patter of gunfire. He already knew Arthur was slick.
He'd just never seen Arthur show off before.
Arthur was usually so careful with his expressions too. It was the loosening of those facial muscles, the way his smirk seemed to pull against the sides of his standard frown, more than anything else that made Eames take healthy gulps of air at stoplights. That, and the way Arthur's hands were only draped over the wheel, like this was child's play, like this was the natural mode of travel for him.
"Sweet Jesus!" Ariadne shouted, more than once, from the backseat. That and the occasional "Holy mother of--" which, considering what an agnostic she usually was, would have made Eames laugh any other day.
When they pulled up outside the warehouse, leaving marks in the pavement for at least a block, Eames was breathing heavily and gripping the handle of his door tightly.
"Oh my god," he said, more breath than words. He tried to loosen his grip and realized that he hadn't been gripping the handle at all--he had a death-drip on a clump of Arthur's perfectly ironed Oxford shirtsleeve.
"Fuck-a-doodle-doo," said Ariadne.
Arthur leaned back in the driver's seat, draping an arm across the back of the seats. Eames had never seen him look so languorous before. If Eames had been the type to own a dictionary, he was pretty sure he would have found a snapshot of Arthur just like that under "gotcha." If "gotcha" was in the dictionary.
If Eames had been capable of coherent thought in that moment, he might have thought that.
There was nothing in his mind, though; everything was pushed out of the way for the simple appreciation of Arthur. It wasn't the predatory appreciation he was used to, not the way he'd look at Arthur from across a room and think, "Damn, I'd pull that." And not the way he'd been impressed professionally before, when he'd always just nodded, glad to have Arthur at his back.
Shit, Eames thought.
"Guys?" Ariadne said. "I think I might throw up."
"Outside," Arthur and Eames instructed simultaneously. They all climbed out of the car, Eames making sure to grab Ariadne's arm as she staggered tipsily. She really did look distinctly green in the face.
"I'm going to buy a horse and buggy," she told him, plopping leadenly down on the curb. "And I'm revoking his license." She pointed at Arthur, her finger weaving slightly.
"Sorry," he said, ducking his head. Eames rolled his eyes. If only he had that neon sign. He'd make the letters six meters high.
"My fault," Eames said, sitting next to her. "I goaded him."
"I'm never speaking to you again," she told him, leaning her head heavily on his shoulder.
"Absolutely," Eames agreed, rubbing circles into her back soothingly. "Feel free to be sick on Arthur's shoes."
Arthur took a hasty step backwards out of the splash zone.
"Both of you go somewhere else before I forget I'm not in a dream and shoot you both in the face," Ariadne instructed.
"You don't have a gun," Arthur pointed out.
She glared at him. "You don't know that for sure."
"I'm not taking any chances," Eames said, standing. He hated to admit it but he was a bit shaky on his legs as well. He tried to cover it as he passed Arthur, masking his ginger steps with a leisurely swagger.
Arthur dipped his glance, smirking when his gaze traveled back up Eames. Something told Eames he wasn't fooled in the slightest.
The front door of the warehouse slid closed and suddenly Arthur was breathing against Eames's ear.
"Need to catch your breath?" he asked snidely.
Eames was caught between annoyance--he did not need to catch his breath, thankyouverymuch--and the fact that he was finding air a bit hard to come by. He decided in favor of Option C: he pulled Arthur closer and kissed him, open-mouthed and hungrily.
Arthur just grinned against his mouth, making the kiss into another challenge.