Labyrinth Latte
Title: Labyrinth Latte
Author: Classlicity
Fandom: Inception
Pairings/Characters: Arthur/Eames, Ariadne, Yusuf
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Summary: Fill for the inception_kink prompt Eames works in a coffeeshop. He's also the tiniest bit interested in the sharp-dressed regular who likes to sit and read in the corner. His coworker, Ariadne, who is insufferable (Eames thinks), will stop at nothing until he's asked Arthur out.
“Oh, now that’s yummy.”
Ariadne’s purr of appreciation makes Eames turn away from the espresso machine even though he’s burned himself more times than he can count doing that.
“Good eye. Bet you bus duty he orders something soy, though,” he whispers to her as the well dressed man approaches the counter.
Ariadne bumped him gently with her hip. It was how they sealed deals. Handshakes were practically impossible when they were always attempting to hold onto coffee cups, or syrup bottles, or pastries.
“Welcome to Labyrinth Latte, a cup so good you’ll get lost in it.” Ariadne tries not to sound like she hates herself as she mans her cash register. The corner of the man’s mouth turns up at the horrible pun, but he barely even looks at her, instead flipping through his wallet for the cash.
“Americano, double, please. And a Wall Street Journal.”
Eames sidles up to the counter with a half-caff skinny vanilla latte, and flags down the waiting customer. He hesitates though, and Ariadne bumps him hard with her hip.
“And your name, sir?” She paused with her sharpie right over the cup. The man looked up from his wallet, flicked his eyes over her smiling face. His gaze rested for a second on Eames, and he could practically feel it sizing him up.
“Arthur,” he says, face amazingly blank. He grabs his newspaper, and scans headlines until Eames is ready with his espresso.
Feeling slightly devilish, Eames calls over to him, “Your Americano, darling.” He tips the cup at him, but sets it down, resisting the urge to purposefully brush against the other man’s fingers while passing it across the bar.
Arthur doesn’t thank him, simply takes his coffee and leaves. Ariadne joins Eames by the espresso machine, and through the large pane glass windows, they watch the slim figure cut across the street, dodging the LA traffic.
“I think I fell just a little bit in love,” Ariadne breathes.
Me too, he thinks, me too.
~~~~~~
Arthur comes back every day that week.
It’s a mad rush to the register whenever they see him, and Eames lets Ariadne win most of the time, because then he gets to make Arthur’s coffee and hand it to him.
He tries a new pet name every day to see how his dapper crush will react. Tuesday, is sweetheart, and Arthur blinks, but doesn’t say a word. Wednesday, it’s pet, and he shakes his head, but still won’t say anything. Eames has Thursday off, and while he puts off all the domestic things that he needs to do, like going to the grocery store, and doing laundry, he lets his imagination run a little too wild for what is supposed to be a minor infatuation.
“Your americano, love,” he says on Friday. This time he keeps a grip on the cup until Arthur grabs it. His pinky brushes the top of Eames thumb.
“Thank you,” he says, absentmindedly checking his blackberry.
Eames stomach does jumping jacks.
Arthur dials a number on the way out the door, all pinstripes and professionalism. When Eames can no longer see him through the window, he goes and bumps Ariadne with his hip.
“I think he likes me.”
She laughs. “In your dreams maybe.”
“I make it a policy to dream big.”
~~~~~
Saturday Ariadne is off, and Eames is in charge because Yusuf is perpetually stoned. Or something. He doesn’t quite know what it is Yusuf takes, though he would be game to find out. He was wiping down tables when Arthur came in what he supposed was a ‘casual’ outfit. A khaki suit, light blue button down, no tie.
Yusuf takes the order because Eames is trying to act casual. They don’t carry the Journal on Saturdays, so when Arthur takes a seat at a table by the window, Eames is doubly surprised. The shop is quiet, some old, French, music playing over the speakers, and very few patrons. By 10 am, most of the soccer moms are at their games, and the retirees have left for their tee times.
Arthur watches people walk by through the big windows, idly spinning his blackberry on the table.
“So,” Eames begins. “Do you live around here?”
He feels ridiculous, talking to him in his smock and holding a dish rag. But Eames knows charming, so he smiles widely and turns the other chair around so that he can lean on the back of it while being as close to the other man as possible.
“I’m staying at a hotel not too far from here. I’m in L.A. on business.” Arthur’s voice is steady, but not annoyed by the interruption. In fact, he shifts minutely in his chair so that he can better face Eames.
“And what sort of work do you do, love?”
Arthur half smiles, like it’s a not very funny joke. “I freelance.”
“I think you’re deliberately trying to make yourself seem mysterious.”
Arthur laughs, a whole laugh, but is stopped from replying by the blackberry buzzing angrily on the table. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”
Eames smiles, even though he wants to murder something, and goes back to cleaning tables. Arthur leaves, and Eames stops loitering, hoping for more conversation. Behind the register, Yusuf is counting coffee beans.
~~~~~
Monday, Ariadne is back, and she makes him tell her every detail. She’s sitting on the counter next to the register, and they don’t realize they’re not alone until they hear a polite cough behind them.
“Good morning,” Ariadne giggles, trying to not to blush. She’s already ringing up his drink. Today Arthur looks even more impeccable than usual, navy suit so dark it’s almost black, dark grey silk tie, dove grey vest.
All Eames says today is “Darling” and Arthur automatically looks up from his texts.
When he hands over the coffee, Arthur asks, “How did a Brit like you end up in L.A.?”
The question throws Eames off his game, not because he doesn’t know how to answer, but because he wasn’t expecting it.
“I’m unfortunately common. Your mighty barista felt the lure of the silver screen, and I just couldn’t resist. If only anyone wanted to put this ugly mug up there.” He sighs dramatically.
“Are you any good?”
“Yes!” Ariadne interrupts. “Eames, do the thing with your voice.”
“What? No! That’s just a party trick.” If he were a younger man, he would have blushed, but as he’s not, he’s simply red-faced.
“Come on, Mr. Eames, show me what you’ve got,” Arthur taunts, and Eames loses all resolve to not make a fool of himself.
“Alright, then I’m going to do it properly.” Ariadne and Arthur watch as he runs some water over his hands, and slicks back his hair. A white towel is looped around his neck in reasonable facsimile of a necktie. Stilling himself, Eames breathes deeply.
“I am one with the suit,” he says, and his voice is deep, and very American. Ariadne starts giggling right away, trying to hide it behind her hands.
“The suit and I are never to be parted. I sprung forth from the womb in a suit. I learned to swim in a suit, I grocery shop in a suit, I make love in my suit.”
Arthur smiles his real smile, none of that ‘tugging at the corner of his mouth’ or ‘an amused smirk’ nonsense. Eames’ life is over.
Arthur’s damnable blackberry rings again, and by now, Eames can tell that the miniscule narrowing of Arthur’s eyes means he’s annoyed.
“Dom?” He pauses, Americano half way to his lips. “What do you mean, tonight? We’re not ready.”
Ariadne tries to look busy, but Eames doesn’t even bother.
“As your point man, I just want to register my protest. Dom. Dom. Shit.” He stares at the phone, not even attempting to hide his displeasure.
“Lovers spat?” Eames asks, attempting to be nonchalant.
Arthur merely grunts, and with the barest flick of a hand, he waves goodbye, and is on his way out the door.
“If it helps,” Ariadne pipes up after he’s left, “I think he likes you.”
~~~~~
Arthur comes in the next day, blank faced as usual. Eames is at the register for once, and rings him up with a perky, “good morning, love.”
“Good morning,” Arthur responds, barely paying attention. Today, Arthur carries a silver brief case, and has a rolling carry on bag with him.
“Headed somewhere?” he asks, with only mild desperation in his voice.
“Manila.”
Like a wingman with the worst timing ever, Yusuf hands Arthur his cup far too quickly. Arthur goes to sit
over in his seat by the window, but Eames can’t move. He even forgot to charge him for the coffee. Ariadne comes from the back, wiping her hands with a white towel.
She bumps him with her hip. “What’s the matter?”
“He’s leaving us,” Eames whispers.
“Who?” she whispers back.
Eames points to the solemn figure in a charcoal pinstripe. Her eyes widen.
“You have to ask him out!”
“What?” It’s louder than he means, and one of their other customers looks up startled.
“Ariadne! Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” Eames feigns shock until the coffee shop settles back into its usual hum of sipping and page turning and old French music. “What? I mean, what?” he hisses.
“You.have.to.ask.him.out. How much clearer can I be?”
“He’s going to Manila. Ma-nil-a. With all the tropics, and the heat, and women of ill repute! Men love Manila! I love Manila!” He tries to steer clear of hysteria.
“Eames, if you don’t ask him out right now, I will tell bossman Saito, and Arthur that you jerked off in the bathroom twice yesterday thinking about him.” Her eyebrow raises with warning.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Go get ‘em, cowboy.”
Eames makes his way over slowly, rag in hand, picking up empty cups, and throwing away litter. At the table before Arthur’s, he glances back at the counter, and Ariadne glares at him through the pastry case.
“So, uh, Manila, eh? I hear terrible things about their coffee.”
Arthur’s stony gaze fixes on his earnest eyes. “Oh?”
He practically vomits the words at him, he’s so nervous. “Do you want to get a cup of coffee? When you get back? Not here. With me?”
Arthur blinks slowly at him, and his courage fails.
“Fuck, I’m sorry. Nevermind.” Eames flees, tossing his rag at the register and making a beeline for the ‘Employees Only’ door.
Ariadne finds him later, chain smoking behind the building.
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Don’t be a brat. Arthur flagged me down after your hasty departure.”
Eames takes a long drag of his cigarette and blows the smoke at her.
“That is the very definition of being a brat. Anyway, he said goodbye.”
“That’s nice.”
“And he gave me this.” She holds out a business card. He takes it gingerly. It’s embossed, grey on ivory, and heavy, made of really good card stock. It has nothing but a phone number on it.
“Ariadne, you brilliant, brilliant girl.” With a whoop, he picks her up and spins her around, arms and feet flying everywhere. He sets her down with a flourish, and she’s laughing so hard she can’t breathe.
“How long should I wait before I call?”
“Eames,” she says warningly. “If this is going where I think it’s going…”
“Because some people say three days. But other people think immediately, so you can assure them you’re interested.”
Can I get an fandom: Inception tag?
Author: Classlicity
Fandom: Inception
Pairings/Characters: Arthur/Eames, Ariadne, Yusuf
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Summary: Fill for the inception_kink prompt Eames works in a coffeeshop. He's also the tiniest bit interested in the sharp-dressed regular who likes to sit and read in the corner. His coworker, Ariadne, who is insufferable (Eames thinks), will stop at nothing until he's asked Arthur out.
“Oh, now that’s yummy.”
Ariadne’s purr of appreciation makes Eames turn away from the espresso machine even though he’s burned himself more times than he can count doing that.
“Good eye. Bet you bus duty he orders something soy, though,” he whispers to her as the well dressed man approaches the counter.
Ariadne bumped him gently with her hip. It was how they sealed deals. Handshakes were practically impossible when they were always attempting to hold onto coffee cups, or syrup bottles, or pastries.
“Welcome to Labyrinth Latte, a cup so good you’ll get lost in it.” Ariadne tries not to sound like she hates herself as she mans her cash register. The corner of the man’s mouth turns up at the horrible pun, but he barely even looks at her, instead flipping through his wallet for the cash.
“Americano, double, please. And a Wall Street Journal.”
Eames sidles up to the counter with a half-caff skinny vanilla latte, and flags down the waiting customer. He hesitates though, and Ariadne bumps him hard with her hip.
“And your name, sir?” She paused with her sharpie right over the cup. The man looked up from his wallet, flicked his eyes over her smiling face. His gaze rested for a second on Eames, and he could practically feel it sizing him up.
“Arthur,” he says, face amazingly blank. He grabs his newspaper, and scans headlines until Eames is ready with his espresso.
Feeling slightly devilish, Eames calls over to him, “Your Americano, darling.” He tips the cup at him, but sets it down, resisting the urge to purposefully brush against the other man’s fingers while passing it across the bar.
Arthur doesn’t thank him, simply takes his coffee and leaves. Ariadne joins Eames by the espresso machine, and through the large pane glass windows, they watch the slim figure cut across the street, dodging the LA traffic.
“I think I fell just a little bit in love,” Ariadne breathes.
Me too, he thinks, me too.
~~~~~~
Arthur comes back every day that week.
It’s a mad rush to the register whenever they see him, and Eames lets Ariadne win most of the time, because then he gets to make Arthur’s coffee and hand it to him.
He tries a new pet name every day to see how his dapper crush will react. Tuesday, is sweetheart, and Arthur blinks, but doesn’t say a word. Wednesday, it’s pet, and he shakes his head, but still won’t say anything. Eames has Thursday off, and while he puts off all the domestic things that he needs to do, like going to the grocery store, and doing laundry, he lets his imagination run a little too wild for what is supposed to be a minor infatuation.
“Your americano, love,” he says on Friday. This time he keeps a grip on the cup until Arthur grabs it. His pinky brushes the top of Eames thumb.
“Thank you,” he says, absentmindedly checking his blackberry.
Eames stomach does jumping jacks.
Arthur dials a number on the way out the door, all pinstripes and professionalism. When Eames can no longer see him through the window, he goes and bumps Ariadne with his hip.
“I think he likes me.”
She laughs. “In your dreams maybe.”
“I make it a policy to dream big.”
~~~~~
Saturday Ariadne is off, and Eames is in charge because Yusuf is perpetually stoned. Or something. He doesn’t quite know what it is Yusuf takes, though he would be game to find out. He was wiping down tables when Arthur came in what he supposed was a ‘casual’ outfit. A khaki suit, light blue button down, no tie.
Yusuf takes the order because Eames is trying to act casual. They don’t carry the Journal on Saturdays, so when Arthur takes a seat at a table by the window, Eames is doubly surprised. The shop is quiet, some old, French, music playing over the speakers, and very few patrons. By 10 am, most of the soccer moms are at their games, and the retirees have left for their tee times.
Arthur watches people walk by through the big windows, idly spinning his blackberry on the table.
“So,” Eames begins. “Do you live around here?”
He feels ridiculous, talking to him in his smock and holding a dish rag. But Eames knows charming, so he smiles widely and turns the other chair around so that he can lean on the back of it while being as close to the other man as possible.
“I’m staying at a hotel not too far from here. I’m in L.A. on business.” Arthur’s voice is steady, but not annoyed by the interruption. In fact, he shifts minutely in his chair so that he can better face Eames.
“And what sort of work do you do, love?”
Arthur half smiles, like it’s a not very funny joke. “I freelance.”
“I think you’re deliberately trying to make yourself seem mysterious.”
Arthur laughs, a whole laugh, but is stopped from replying by the blackberry buzzing angrily on the table. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”
Eames smiles, even though he wants to murder something, and goes back to cleaning tables. Arthur leaves, and Eames stops loitering, hoping for more conversation. Behind the register, Yusuf is counting coffee beans.
~~~~~
Monday, Ariadne is back, and she makes him tell her every detail. She’s sitting on the counter next to the register, and they don’t realize they’re not alone until they hear a polite cough behind them.
“Good morning,” Ariadne giggles, trying to not to blush. She’s already ringing up his drink. Today Arthur looks even more impeccable than usual, navy suit so dark it’s almost black, dark grey silk tie, dove grey vest.
All Eames says today is “Darling” and Arthur automatically looks up from his texts.
When he hands over the coffee, Arthur asks, “How did a Brit like you end up in L.A.?”
The question throws Eames off his game, not because he doesn’t know how to answer, but because he wasn’t expecting it.
“I’m unfortunately common. Your mighty barista felt the lure of the silver screen, and I just couldn’t resist. If only anyone wanted to put this ugly mug up there.” He sighs dramatically.
“Are you any good?”
“Yes!” Ariadne interrupts. “Eames, do the thing with your voice.”
“What? No! That’s just a party trick.” If he were a younger man, he would have blushed, but as he’s not, he’s simply red-faced.
“Come on, Mr. Eames, show me what you’ve got,” Arthur taunts, and Eames loses all resolve to not make a fool of himself.
“Alright, then I’m going to do it properly.” Ariadne and Arthur watch as he runs some water over his hands, and slicks back his hair. A white towel is looped around his neck in reasonable facsimile of a necktie. Stilling himself, Eames breathes deeply.
“I am one with the suit,” he says, and his voice is deep, and very American. Ariadne starts giggling right away, trying to hide it behind her hands.
“The suit and I are never to be parted. I sprung forth from the womb in a suit. I learned to swim in a suit, I grocery shop in a suit, I make love in my suit.”
Arthur smiles his real smile, none of that ‘tugging at the corner of his mouth’ or ‘an amused smirk’ nonsense. Eames’ life is over.
Arthur’s damnable blackberry rings again, and by now, Eames can tell that the miniscule narrowing of Arthur’s eyes means he’s annoyed.
“Dom?” He pauses, Americano half way to his lips. “What do you mean, tonight? We’re not ready.”
Ariadne tries to look busy, but Eames doesn’t even bother.
“As your point man, I just want to register my protest. Dom. Dom. Shit.” He stares at the phone, not even attempting to hide his displeasure.
“Lovers spat?” Eames asks, attempting to be nonchalant.
Arthur merely grunts, and with the barest flick of a hand, he waves goodbye, and is on his way out the door.
“If it helps,” Ariadne pipes up after he’s left, “I think he likes you.”
~~~~~
Arthur comes in the next day, blank faced as usual. Eames is at the register for once, and rings him up with a perky, “good morning, love.”
“Good morning,” Arthur responds, barely paying attention. Today, Arthur carries a silver brief case, and has a rolling carry on bag with him.
“Headed somewhere?” he asks, with only mild desperation in his voice.
“Manila.”
Like a wingman with the worst timing ever, Yusuf hands Arthur his cup far too quickly. Arthur goes to sit
over in his seat by the window, but Eames can’t move. He even forgot to charge him for the coffee. Ariadne comes from the back, wiping her hands with a white towel.
She bumps him with her hip. “What’s the matter?”
“He’s leaving us,” Eames whispers.
“Who?” she whispers back.
Eames points to the solemn figure in a charcoal pinstripe. Her eyes widen.
“You have to ask him out!”
“What?” It’s louder than he means, and one of their other customers looks up startled.
“Ariadne! Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” Eames feigns shock until the coffee shop settles back into its usual hum of sipping and page turning and old French music. “What? I mean, what?” he hisses.
“You.have.to.ask.him.out. How much clearer can I be?”
“He’s going to Manila. Ma-nil-a. With all the tropics, and the heat, and women of ill repute! Men love Manila! I love Manila!” He tries to steer clear of hysteria.
“Eames, if you don’t ask him out right now, I will tell bossman Saito, and Arthur that you jerked off in the bathroom twice yesterday thinking about him.” Her eyebrow raises with warning.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Go get ‘em, cowboy.”
Eames makes his way over slowly, rag in hand, picking up empty cups, and throwing away litter. At the table before Arthur’s, he glances back at the counter, and Ariadne glares at him through the pastry case.
“So, uh, Manila, eh? I hear terrible things about their coffee.”
Arthur’s stony gaze fixes on his earnest eyes. “Oh?”
He practically vomits the words at him, he’s so nervous. “Do you want to get a cup of coffee? When you get back? Not here. With me?”
Arthur blinks slowly at him, and his courage fails.
“Fuck, I’m sorry. Nevermind.” Eames flees, tossing his rag at the register and making a beeline for the ‘Employees Only’ door.
Ariadne finds him later, chain smoking behind the building.
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Don’t be a brat. Arthur flagged me down after your hasty departure.”
Eames takes a long drag of his cigarette and blows the smoke at her.
“That is the very definition of being a brat. Anyway, he said goodbye.”
“That’s nice.”
“And he gave me this.” She holds out a business card. He takes it gingerly. It’s embossed, grey on ivory, and heavy, made of really good card stock. It has nothing but a phone number on it.
“Ariadne, you brilliant, brilliant girl.” With a whoop, he picks her up and spins her around, arms and feet flying everywhere. He sets her down with a flourish, and she’s laughing so hard she can’t breathe.
“How long should I wait before I call?”
“Eames,” she says warningly. “If this is going where I think it’s going…”
“Because some people say three days. But other people think immediately, so you can assure them you’re interested.”
Can I get an fandom: Inception tag?