Fic: Bleeding Together in His Brain
Title: Bleeding Together in His Brain
Author: sunriseinspace
Character(s): Arthur / Eames, Ariadne, Cobb, Yusuf, Saito, James, Phillipa
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own nothing about Inception, its characters or plotlines, including any recognizable dialogue.
Summary: You wonder how this is your life, sure enough you must be dreaming that your hand is deep in your pocket before you give it permission, thumbing the unique burrs and edges of the totem secreted therein.
A/N: I’ve been reading so much Inception fanfiction, I felt I owed it to the fandom to give something back. :)
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You wonder how this is your life, sure enough you must be dreaming that your hand is deep in your pocket before you give it permission, thumbing the unique burrs and edges of the totem secreted therein. They all scratch the way they’re supposed to, though, digging into your fingertips in all the right places, placating your growing sense of wonder and bemusement.
Ariadne is deep in conversation with Yusuf and Cobb, a city-model spread out on the table in front of them, not a dreamscape this time, just a homework assignment causing her particular trouble. Yusuf leans over and touches one of the buildings, fingertip running soft and curious over the paper edges as he raises his head and asks a question. Cobb shakes his head and gestures at another part of the model, hands spider-walking through narrow spaces masquerading as streets as he brings up another point and dear Ariadne’s eyes light with understanding and inspiration as she dives for her sketchpad, pencil flying as she solves her own problem while Yusuf and Cobb look on with pride and affection.
On the other side of the room, though close enough that Cobb can see and monitor them without turning his head, are Phillipa and James, toys spread in chaotic orbit around them, Legos scattered in half-built sections and puzzle pieces mashed together until they lock into place all casualties of their hours of play. James has set up a very elaborate battle ground, his worn-looking G.I. Joes locked in frozen warfare with Phillipa’s Barbie dolls, and you bite back a grin when you realize that the Barbies appear to be winning.
Phillipa herself is watching her brother with rare indulgent patience as she drags a comb through another doll’s hair, a tiny pink ballgown lying near a similarly-small business pantsuit at her knees, as if she can’t quite decide which her doll should don. She turns to launch a question over her shoulder, possibly as to which the doll should wear or maybe why the sky’s not ‘magenta, that’s the best color’ (she’s at that tricky age, one never knows what’ll come out of her mouth next), and Saito looks hilariously alarmed for all of a second, before he regains his calm and patiently searches for a way to answer her question.
Strong arms slide around your waist from behind and your hand’s in your pocket again before the gesture’s even complete. But, no, your totem’s the same, you haven’t suddenly dropped into a dream (you don’t know why you bother, you remember exactly how you got here, from the Fischer inception six months past to the hours-long international flight three days ago and all the little insignificant, desperately important moments in between) and the smile and huff of a laugh pressed against your ear are as much proof as the still stinging burn of the new tattoo nestled under your left collarbone, right over your heart.
“Something wrong, Mr. Eames?” Arthur murmurs in your ear, sending tendrils of heat down your spine, as his hand slides to join yours in your pocket, fingers threading effortlessly in between your own.
You turn in his embrace and notice half-a-dozen things at once before settling on the warm brown of his eyes - the strong line of his jaw, the crisp turn of his collar just under his chin, the way his hair is just starting to fall out of its careful style, the fleeting smile still flirting with the edges of his mouth, the dimple threatening to appear in his cheek, the faint, reassuring scent of his cologne. Phillipa’s laughter breaks like the tide through the conversations in the room, carrying in its clear tones the echo of Mal’s throaty chuckle despite James’ baby-giggles melding with it in adorable harmony, as Saito charms them with yet another of the origami creations he can pull like magic from his pockets (he’s promised to teach you - that’s surely a marketable skill and you’re appalled you didn’t already possess it). The flickering threat of a smile on Arthur’s face grows a little stronger and you can’t help but smile back, cheeky and overlarge and honest all the same.
“Not a thing, Arthur dear,” you answer, hands curling warm and affectionate in the smooth silk at the small of his back, tugging just hard enough on his waistcoat to pull your bodies together just as you seize his lips in a kiss.
Author: sunriseinspace
Character(s): Arthur / Eames, Ariadne, Cobb, Yusuf, Saito, James, Phillipa
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own nothing about Inception, its characters or plotlines, including any recognizable dialogue.
Summary: You wonder how this is your life, sure enough you must be dreaming that your hand is deep in your pocket before you give it permission, thumbing the unique burrs and edges of the totem secreted therein.
A/N: I’ve been reading so much Inception fanfiction, I felt I owed it to the fandom to give something back. :)
+
You wonder how this is your life, sure enough you must be dreaming that your hand is deep in your pocket before you give it permission, thumbing the unique burrs and edges of the totem secreted therein. They all scratch the way they’re supposed to, though, digging into your fingertips in all the right places, placating your growing sense of wonder and bemusement.
Ariadne is deep in conversation with Yusuf and Cobb, a city-model spread out on the table in front of them, not a dreamscape this time, just a homework assignment causing her particular trouble. Yusuf leans over and touches one of the buildings, fingertip running soft and curious over the paper edges as he raises his head and asks a question. Cobb shakes his head and gestures at another part of the model, hands spider-walking through narrow spaces masquerading as streets as he brings up another point and dear Ariadne’s eyes light with understanding and inspiration as she dives for her sketchpad, pencil flying as she solves her own problem while Yusuf and Cobb look on with pride and affection.
On the other side of the room, though close enough that Cobb can see and monitor them without turning his head, are Phillipa and James, toys spread in chaotic orbit around them, Legos scattered in half-built sections and puzzle pieces mashed together until they lock into place all casualties of their hours of play. James has set up a very elaborate battle ground, his worn-looking G.I. Joes locked in frozen warfare with Phillipa’s Barbie dolls, and you bite back a grin when you realize that the Barbies appear to be winning.
Phillipa herself is watching her brother with rare indulgent patience as she drags a comb through another doll’s hair, a tiny pink ballgown lying near a similarly-small business pantsuit at her knees, as if she can’t quite decide which her doll should don. She turns to launch a question over her shoulder, possibly as to which the doll should wear or maybe why the sky’s not ‘magenta, that’s the best color’ (she’s at that tricky age, one never knows what’ll come out of her mouth next), and Saito looks hilariously alarmed for all of a second, before he regains his calm and patiently searches for a way to answer her question.
Strong arms slide around your waist from behind and your hand’s in your pocket again before the gesture’s even complete. But, no, your totem’s the same, you haven’t suddenly dropped into a dream (you don’t know why you bother, you remember exactly how you got here, from the Fischer inception six months past to the hours-long international flight three days ago and all the little insignificant, desperately important moments in between) and the smile and huff of a laugh pressed against your ear are as much proof as the still stinging burn of the new tattoo nestled under your left collarbone, right over your heart.
“Something wrong, Mr. Eames?” Arthur murmurs in your ear, sending tendrils of heat down your spine, as his hand slides to join yours in your pocket, fingers threading effortlessly in between your own.
You turn in his embrace and notice half-a-dozen things at once before settling on the warm brown of his eyes - the strong line of his jaw, the crisp turn of his collar just under his chin, the way his hair is just starting to fall out of its careful style, the fleeting smile still flirting with the edges of his mouth, the dimple threatening to appear in his cheek, the faint, reassuring scent of his cologne. Phillipa’s laughter breaks like the tide through the conversations in the room, carrying in its clear tones the echo of Mal’s throaty chuckle despite James’ baby-giggles melding with it in adorable harmony, as Saito charms them with yet another of the origami creations he can pull like magic from his pockets (he’s promised to teach you - that’s surely a marketable skill and you’re appalled you didn’t already possess it). The flickering threat of a smile on Arthur’s face grows a little stronger and you can’t help but smile back, cheeky and overlarge and honest all the same.
“Not a thing, Arthur dear,” you answer, hands curling warm and affectionate in the smooth silk at the small of his back, tugging just hard enough on his waistcoat to pull your bodies together just as you seize his lips in a kiss.