ae_ldws roundup
participated in the still-ongoing round of ae_ldws! unfortunately i had to drop by week six because of an incredibly overwhelming schedule for finals. here is what i completed!
Title: An Unfortunate Underestimation
Warning(s): Murderous childhood toys; death in a dream.
Summary: Arthur and Eames are part of a team extracting from a highly imaginative young boy.
Arthur's not sure if he's ever questioned his morals so much as when he signs on to a job extracting from an eight year old. He chalks it up to a lesson well learned as he and Eames sprint through the Wild West of Andy's mind, being chased down by a bloodthirsty Mr. Potato Head.
"Arthur! Shoot!" Eames yells breathlessly as they run.
Arthur reaches to pull his gun from his holster, realizing with a sinking feeling that his gun is now slightly squishy, devoid of a trigger, and-he glances down-yellow? Arthur tears his checkered bandanna down from round his mouth, grits through the mouthful of hot dust he gets for it, and screams, "All my guns have turned into bananas!"
"He's changing the dream?!"
"We have to find cover!" They rush through the streets of a ghost town, hurl themselves down an alley, and find temporary refuge behind an abandoned wagon. Dropping to their knees, they take quick inventory.
"More bananas!" Eames exclaims, slightly hysterical, as he pulls his former weapons from various places.
"My grenades are Bazooka Bubble Gum," Arthur growls, "my knives are Twizzlers." He tosses the candies down angrily. "We're fucked!"
As if on cue, a tidal wave of screeching red plastic monkeys, sprung fresh from their barrels, careens down their alley. "The bananas!" says Eames, "Throw the bloody bananas!" They lob the fruits as hard as they can, but their oncoming attackers apparently aren't hungry.
Arthur knows they can't outrun the monkeys. "Brace yourself!" he says, grasping Eames' elbow.
"My fucking childhood-" are the last words Eames gets out before they're torn limb from limb.
Upon waking up, Arthur and Eames both lunge away from Andy's sleeping body, eyeing it warily. "Sprogs," Eames whispers, stricken. "They're evil."
"Never again," Arthur agrees.
Title: Lamentation
Warning(s): None.
Summary: Some time can’t be made up for.
A dark night, rain-slicked streets, silent house. Arthur attempts to be quiet, locking the door behind him softly. When he turns the light on, Eames is sitting at the table, drink in one hand, wilting balloons tied to the back of his chair. Eames’ chin is resting heavily in his palm. He looks unimpressed.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, shoulders sagging.
“Your son was in bed two hours ago,” Eames replies, heavy whisky-eyes, empty voice. “He was so excited. Thought you were bringing ice cream for the party.” Arthur holds up the grocery bag weakly. Eames plucks one of the balloons down and flicks it, despondent.
“I’m so sorry,” Arthur repeats. “I lost track of time. Something came up.”
“Oh don’t tell me, Arthur. You can explain to your son what was more important to you than his tenth birthday party.” That’s not how it is and Eames knows it, he must, but Arthur realizes, grimly, that their son doesn’t.
He swallows and climbs the steps to Luke’s room; opens his door. The dim light casts stripes across Luke’s face. Arthur sits on the bed, kisses Luke’s forehead, and strokes through his dark curls while he whispers apologies into the darkness.
Title: A gun is not discursive
Warning(s): Off-screen murder.
Summary: Arthur’s pretty sure it’s love because he almost hopes Eames never finds out.
Snooping through co-worker’s belongings if left unattended was standard procedure for Eames. When Arthur stood, cracked his back, and left to fetch a latte, Eames seized the opportunity.
Arthur normally took his little moleskines with him everywhere; in a haze of thirst and sleep deprivation, he’d accidentally left it behind, forgotten under several folders. Eames wandered over to the desk and deftly lifted it. Their extractor said nothing.
Whistling, he fetched his cigarettes and went outside, leaning against the wall and lighting up, taking a relaxing drag before facing the horrors that surely awaited him in the black book.
Surprisingly, there were only pages of lists. Some were titled, some jotted sideways; some consisted of everything surrounding Arthur at a given moment, some detailed cooking ingredients. Lists of annoyances, to-do lists, even a lengthy bucket list that Eames skimmed, charmed to find that dressing in drag, making a movie, and ice fishing were included.
He wasn’t expecting anything special, just observing, when he happened across a list that made his heart stop. The first name chilled him, as did the following twenty-two. The neighboring list of dates correlated with specific experiences Eames had with names. He stared, wondering if it was coincidence that Arthur had the names of everyone who’d ever betrayed or attacked him, and when. Half the list was crossed out. Eames wandered back inside casually. He opened his laptop and quickly confirmed that all the slashed names had missing person reports filed or obituaries published.
He leaned back, shaking. Professionally polite, collected Arthur had never expressed any real care for Eames, just the occasional coffee or scone. But here was undeniable proof.
Eames stood and excused himself, intent on buying Arthur flowers, or chocolate, or a thank-you card, or just hunting him down and snogging him madly.
Title: Hammered
Warning(s): Implied incest, kinda.
Summary: Arthur and Eames have to trail a mark at Comic-Con.
Arthur scowled as he and Eames were detained for yet another picture, watching their mark disappear down the packed corridor lined with vendors. It was over quickly, but felt excruciatingly slow to Arthur, who finally lost sight of their mark’s blue wig.
“Nice hammer!” someone called. Eames lifted the hammer in acknowledgment then turned to Arthur.
“This is bloody insane, we haven’t moved five meters in five minutes.”
Arthur sped up. “I know, god damn it, I just lost him.”
“Can’t have gone far, the thing’s circular,” Eames said, referring to the massive convention center they were currently in.
“Circular but huge, with many exits,” Arthur muttered, eyes darting.
“They really like me,” Eames said, sounding dazed.
“Yeah, everyone’s got a boner over your hammer,” Arthur responded. He spotted their mark at a vendor, thoroughly engaged in perusing the pages of a comic.
“Don’t sulk, Arthur, they love your helmet too!”
Arthur hated to admit it but he was sore over the fact that he slaved over his helmet for weeks and hadn’t gotten half as many compliments as Eames' dumb hammer. His character was so much cooler than Eames’ too-he just didn’t understand.
Before they could take cover to observe the mark from afar, a hoard of girls in green t-shirts burst out from a panel room.
“Loki!” they shrieked upon seeing Arthur. He paled, noticing now that their green t-shirts were emblazoned with a logo of his helmet, the words Loki’s Army scripted below.
“That’s you,” Eames murmured in his ear, steadying Arthur with a hand at the small of his back.
“Obviously,” he whispered weakly, trying to straighten up. “Hello...Army,” he fumbled. The cameras were already flashing.
“Would you kiss him, Thor?” a girl with ringlet hair asked shamelessly. The rest of them took up the cry. “Kiss, kiss!”
“Duty calls,” Eames grinned, grasping Arthur’s chin and pulling him in for a filthy kiss. The rush of shutters clicking served as background to the girls’ squealing. Arthur was baffled.
They pulled apart and Eames spoke, “Thanks ladies, but we must move on.” The group parted like the red sea, some reaching to touch Arthur’s armor and cape as they passed. "He's gone," Eames whispered, exasperated.
Someone tapped Arthur's shoulder; he almost screamed, pivoting on his heel and nearly choking on the sound as he came face-to-face with their mark, who smiled. "Can I get a picture?"
Title: Help You Get Away
Warning(s): Implied child neglect.
Summary: Eames would give Arthur anything, if only Arthur would take what he needed.
Eames was home alone when the doorbell rang one evening. He abandoned his homework quickly to answer it.
Arthur awaited him, waterlogged from the rain, his hoodie alternately clinging to and sagging from his body, clear rivulets running from the shock of curls plastered to his forehead.
Eames frantically ushered Arthur in. “Jesus, you’re practically drowning, come on.” He led Arthur into the bathroom, pulling towels out. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah...” Arthur trailed off.
“You haven’t been in school,” Eames murmured, tugging at the hem of Arthur’s hoodie. “Up.”
“Haven’t slept. Mom’s been gone, so,” Arthur said quietly, eyes sliding closed as he raised his arms for Eames to lift the sopping sweatshirt up and away, revealing an equally wet undershirt. “I can do this myself.” A feeble protest.
“I'll get some clothes, dry off,” Eames instructed. He found some clothes for Arthur and then sat on his bed to wait.
Arthur shuffled in shortly after, in Eames’ t-shirt, basketball shorts, and socks, head down. “I’m sorry-” he started.
“Shh. Come here.” Arthur went, sitting next to Eames. “How bad’s it gotten?”
Arthur sighed and leaned his head onto Eames’ shoulder. “They turned off our electric today.”
“I meant since you slept but, fuck.” Eames chewed his lip. “Arthur, you know, if you need anything...”
“Why do you think I’m here now?” Arthur asked, tone sharp, because Eames had offered money before, or to call social services, and he’d refused both.
“Okay, okay,” Eames soothed. “Lie down then.” Arthur did, automatically curling up on his side, and Eames snuggled up behind him. "Go to sleep, Arthur," he whispered as he stroked through Arthur's damp curls.
"Thank you," Arthur managed in a small voice before sleep took him.
Title: to prove they love each other
Warning(s): None.
Summary: Arthur learns to experience the moment.
“Fuck,” Arthur swears, ripping clothes from his suitcase and tossing them aside-that’s how Eames really knows something is wrong; the lack of regard being shown for Arthur’s $500 long sleeve Zegna button-downs is something Arthur would usually deem a crime against humanity.
“Problem?” Eames asks, intentionally keeping calm, sliding his hands around Arthur’s waist and resting his chin on Arthur’s shoulder.
Eames can practically hear Arthur’s frown as he sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I forgot the camera. It was sitting right on the dresser, and I told myself not to forget it.”
Eames drops a kiss to the back of Arthur’s neck before forcibly spinning him around in his arms. “Arthur,” Eames says with a small smile, tipping their foreheads together. “I’d rather just experience Prague with you completely instead of from behind a lens.”
He leans in to kiss Arthur some more, until he’s loose and grinning, relenting under Eames’ lips. “Okay, fine, you’re right,” he surrenders.
They’re on the Charles Bridge at sunset, strolling easily side by side, hands tucked in pockets and shoulders bumping. Eames stops in the middle of the bridge and leans out to look at the water rushing below them.
He looks beautiful there, the sunset throwing highlights in his hair, casting a warm glow across his skin. Arthur stays back a step and marvels at Eames, more wondrous than the sunset or Charles Bridge or Prague. He brings his hands up and makes a frame with his fingers-forefingers to thumbs-squinting one eye and framing Eames perfectly within.
Eames turns around and scrunches his face up, baffled. “What are you doing?”
Arthur smiles and drops his hands, gaze never leaving Eames’. “Just trying to capture something I never want to forget.”
Title: An Unfortunate Underestimation
Warning(s): Murderous childhood toys; death in a dream.
Summary: Arthur and Eames are part of a team extracting from a highly imaginative young boy.
Arthur's not sure if he's ever questioned his morals so much as when he signs on to a job extracting from an eight year old. He chalks it up to a lesson well learned as he and Eames sprint through the Wild West of Andy's mind, being chased down by a bloodthirsty Mr. Potato Head.
"Arthur! Shoot!" Eames yells breathlessly as they run.
Arthur reaches to pull his gun from his holster, realizing with a sinking feeling that his gun is now slightly squishy, devoid of a trigger, and-he glances down-yellow? Arthur tears his checkered bandanna down from round his mouth, grits through the mouthful of hot dust he gets for it, and screams, "All my guns have turned into bananas!"
"He's changing the dream?!"
"We have to find cover!" They rush through the streets of a ghost town, hurl themselves down an alley, and find temporary refuge behind an abandoned wagon. Dropping to their knees, they take quick inventory.
"More bananas!" Eames exclaims, slightly hysterical, as he pulls his former weapons from various places.
"My grenades are Bazooka Bubble Gum," Arthur growls, "my knives are Twizzlers." He tosses the candies down angrily. "We're fucked!"
As if on cue, a tidal wave of screeching red plastic monkeys, sprung fresh from their barrels, careens down their alley. "The bananas!" says Eames, "Throw the bloody bananas!" They lob the fruits as hard as they can, but their oncoming attackers apparently aren't hungry.
Arthur knows they can't outrun the monkeys. "Brace yourself!" he says, grasping Eames' elbow.
"My fucking childhood-" are the last words Eames gets out before they're torn limb from limb.
Upon waking up, Arthur and Eames both lunge away from Andy's sleeping body, eyeing it warily. "Sprogs," Eames whispers, stricken. "They're evil."
"Never again," Arthur agrees.
Title: Lamentation
Warning(s): None.
Summary: Some time can’t be made up for.
A dark night, rain-slicked streets, silent house. Arthur attempts to be quiet, locking the door behind him softly. When he turns the light on, Eames is sitting at the table, drink in one hand, wilting balloons tied to the back of his chair. Eames’ chin is resting heavily in his palm. He looks unimpressed.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, shoulders sagging.
“Your son was in bed two hours ago,” Eames replies, heavy whisky-eyes, empty voice. “He was so excited. Thought you were bringing ice cream for the party.” Arthur holds up the grocery bag weakly. Eames plucks one of the balloons down and flicks it, despondent.
“I’m so sorry,” Arthur repeats. “I lost track of time. Something came up.”
“Oh don’t tell me, Arthur. You can explain to your son what was more important to you than his tenth birthday party.” That’s not how it is and Eames knows it, he must, but Arthur realizes, grimly, that their son doesn’t.
He swallows and climbs the steps to Luke’s room; opens his door. The dim light casts stripes across Luke’s face. Arthur sits on the bed, kisses Luke’s forehead, and strokes through his dark curls while he whispers apologies into the darkness.
Title: A gun is not discursive
Warning(s): Off-screen murder.
Summary: Arthur’s pretty sure it’s love because he almost hopes Eames never finds out.
Snooping through co-worker’s belongings if left unattended was standard procedure for Eames. When Arthur stood, cracked his back, and left to fetch a latte, Eames seized the opportunity.
Arthur normally took his little moleskines with him everywhere; in a haze of thirst and sleep deprivation, he’d accidentally left it behind, forgotten under several folders. Eames wandered over to the desk and deftly lifted it. Their extractor said nothing.
Whistling, he fetched his cigarettes and went outside, leaning against the wall and lighting up, taking a relaxing drag before facing the horrors that surely awaited him in the black book.
Surprisingly, there were only pages of lists. Some were titled, some jotted sideways; some consisted of everything surrounding Arthur at a given moment, some detailed cooking ingredients. Lists of annoyances, to-do lists, even a lengthy bucket list that Eames skimmed, charmed to find that dressing in drag, making a movie, and ice fishing were included.
He wasn’t expecting anything special, just observing, when he happened across a list that made his heart stop. The first name chilled him, as did the following twenty-two. The neighboring list of dates correlated with specific experiences Eames had with names. He stared, wondering if it was coincidence that Arthur had the names of everyone who’d ever betrayed or attacked him, and when. Half the list was crossed out. Eames wandered back inside casually. He opened his laptop and quickly confirmed that all the slashed names had missing person reports filed or obituaries published.
He leaned back, shaking. Professionally polite, collected Arthur had never expressed any real care for Eames, just the occasional coffee or scone. But here was undeniable proof.
Eames stood and excused himself, intent on buying Arthur flowers, or chocolate, or a thank-you card, or just hunting him down and snogging him madly.
Title: Hammered
Warning(s): Implied incest, kinda.
Summary: Arthur and Eames have to trail a mark at Comic-Con.
Arthur scowled as he and Eames were detained for yet another picture, watching their mark disappear down the packed corridor lined with vendors. It was over quickly, but felt excruciatingly slow to Arthur, who finally lost sight of their mark’s blue wig.
“Nice hammer!” someone called. Eames lifted the hammer in acknowledgment then turned to Arthur.
“This is bloody insane, we haven’t moved five meters in five minutes.”
Arthur sped up. “I know, god damn it, I just lost him.”
“Can’t have gone far, the thing’s circular,” Eames said, referring to the massive convention center they were currently in.
“Circular but huge, with many exits,” Arthur muttered, eyes darting.
“They really like me,” Eames said, sounding dazed.
“Yeah, everyone’s got a boner over your hammer,” Arthur responded. He spotted their mark at a vendor, thoroughly engaged in perusing the pages of a comic.
“Don’t sulk, Arthur, they love your helmet too!”
Arthur hated to admit it but he was sore over the fact that he slaved over his helmet for weeks and hadn’t gotten half as many compliments as Eames' dumb hammer. His character was so much cooler than Eames’ too-he just didn’t understand.
Before they could take cover to observe the mark from afar, a hoard of girls in green t-shirts burst out from a panel room.
“Loki!” they shrieked upon seeing Arthur. He paled, noticing now that their green t-shirts were emblazoned with a logo of his helmet, the words Loki’s Army scripted below.
“That’s you,” Eames murmured in his ear, steadying Arthur with a hand at the small of his back.
“Obviously,” he whispered weakly, trying to straighten up. “Hello...Army,” he fumbled. The cameras were already flashing.
“Would you kiss him, Thor?” a girl with ringlet hair asked shamelessly. The rest of them took up the cry. “Kiss, kiss!”
“Duty calls,” Eames grinned, grasping Arthur’s chin and pulling him in for a filthy kiss. The rush of shutters clicking served as background to the girls’ squealing. Arthur was baffled.
They pulled apart and Eames spoke, “Thanks ladies, but we must move on.” The group parted like the red sea, some reaching to touch Arthur’s armor and cape as they passed. "He's gone," Eames whispered, exasperated.
Someone tapped Arthur's shoulder; he almost screamed, pivoting on his heel and nearly choking on the sound as he came face-to-face with their mark, who smiled. "Can I get a picture?"
Title: Help You Get Away
Warning(s): Implied child neglect.
Summary: Eames would give Arthur anything, if only Arthur would take what he needed.
Eames was home alone when the doorbell rang one evening. He abandoned his homework quickly to answer it.
Arthur awaited him, waterlogged from the rain, his hoodie alternately clinging to and sagging from his body, clear rivulets running from the shock of curls plastered to his forehead.
Eames frantically ushered Arthur in. “Jesus, you’re practically drowning, come on.” He led Arthur into the bathroom, pulling towels out. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah...” Arthur trailed off.
“You haven’t been in school,” Eames murmured, tugging at the hem of Arthur’s hoodie. “Up.”
“Haven’t slept. Mom’s been gone, so,” Arthur said quietly, eyes sliding closed as he raised his arms for Eames to lift the sopping sweatshirt up and away, revealing an equally wet undershirt. “I can do this myself.” A feeble protest.
“I'll get some clothes, dry off,” Eames instructed. He found some clothes for Arthur and then sat on his bed to wait.
Arthur shuffled in shortly after, in Eames’ t-shirt, basketball shorts, and socks, head down. “I’m sorry-” he started.
“Shh. Come here.” Arthur went, sitting next to Eames. “How bad’s it gotten?”
Arthur sighed and leaned his head onto Eames’ shoulder. “They turned off our electric today.”
“I meant since you slept but, fuck.” Eames chewed his lip. “Arthur, you know, if you need anything...”
“Why do you think I’m here now?” Arthur asked, tone sharp, because Eames had offered money before, or to call social services, and he’d refused both.
“Okay, okay,” Eames soothed. “Lie down then.” Arthur did, automatically curling up on his side, and Eames snuggled up behind him. "Go to sleep, Arthur," he whispered as he stroked through Arthur's damp curls.
"Thank you," Arthur managed in a small voice before sleep took him.
Title: to prove they love each other
Warning(s): None.
Summary: Arthur learns to experience the moment.
“Fuck,” Arthur swears, ripping clothes from his suitcase and tossing them aside-that’s how Eames really knows something is wrong; the lack of regard being shown for Arthur’s $500 long sleeve Zegna button-downs is something Arthur would usually deem a crime against humanity.
“Problem?” Eames asks, intentionally keeping calm, sliding his hands around Arthur’s waist and resting his chin on Arthur’s shoulder.
Eames can practically hear Arthur’s frown as he sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I forgot the camera. It was sitting right on the dresser, and I told myself not to forget it.”
Eames drops a kiss to the back of Arthur’s neck before forcibly spinning him around in his arms. “Arthur,” Eames says with a small smile, tipping their foreheads together. “I’d rather just experience Prague with you completely instead of from behind a lens.”
He leans in to kiss Arthur some more, until he’s loose and grinning, relenting under Eames’ lips. “Okay, fine, you’re right,” he surrenders.
They’re on the Charles Bridge at sunset, strolling easily side by side, hands tucked in pockets and shoulders bumping. Eames stops in the middle of the bridge and leans out to look at the water rushing below them.
He looks beautiful there, the sunset throwing highlights in his hair, casting a warm glow across his skin. Arthur stays back a step and marvels at Eames, more wondrous than the sunset or Charles Bridge or Prague. He brings his hands up and makes a frame with his fingers-forefingers to thumbs-squinting one eye and framing Eames perfectly within.
Eames turns around and scrunches his face up, baffled. “What are you doing?”
Arthur smiles and drops his hands, gaze never leaving Eames’. “Just trying to capture something I never want to forget.”