Inception ficlet - Arthur/Eames - 1600 words - PG
After the thrill has gone ~ Arthur/Eames (Inception) ~ 1600 words ~ PG
For cmonkatiekatie because it's her birthday and I love her a lot A LOT. Thanks to foxxcub for the super fast beta. No warnings apply.
The problem, Eames thinks, is that the thrill of the chase doesn’t lie in the chase itself, but in the belief that at some undetermined time, usually when the perfect balance of exhaustion and alcohol consumption is mutually achieved, the chaser will be victorious and able to claim his prize. Or, as the case may be, be claimed by his prize, depending on matters of personal taste, preference, size, etc.
Where the thrill most certainly does not lie is in a chase with no end in sight. That, in Eames’ estimation, is simply running without a destination. Like, say, jogging in circles round a park on a cold, grey winter day; tedious and boring and only really likely to leave one tired and in need of a stiff drink.
The truth of the matter is that thrill of the chase is gone and Eames is bored. Hopelessly, painfully, utterly bored. He no longer feels any joy in the all too blunt cut and thrust of his flirtations with Arthur. And, while it pains him to admit it, it is undeniably true that the spark they had kindled has been extinguished long before it had a chance to burst into glorious flames.
It’s a disappointment, yes, because Eames had plans, plans that involved shameful acts of depravity of such depth and wickedness that they were likely illegal in most of the civilised world. But if Arthur is not willing to play his role properly and allow himself to be caught then there’s nothing Eames can do but give in, give up and move on.
It’s a sad state of affairs and one that Eames is determined to wallow in for a while. He has after all thrown a lot of time and energy into pursuing Arthur and for it all to come to nothing is a situation that deserves an appropriate period of mourning.
It’s lucky then that Eames has time on his hands to devote himself to self-pity teamed with just a hint of annoyance. In fact, he has all the time in the world.
God, Eames is so bored.
Eames is aware that perhaps it is more the situation they find themselves in and less Arthur’s spectacular failure to succumb to his charms that’s causing him to feel quite so melodramatic. If there’s one thing Eames hates it’s doing nothing and that is exactly what they’ve been doing for the past four days. Stuck in this hotel room waiting for Saito to throw enough money around that they can leave without the local authorities descending and making an example of them via a hastily assembled firing squad.
And, yes, there was a time not all that long ago when Eames would have relished being stuck in a hotel room with only Arthur for company. But that was before he realised that Arthur was simply playing along with his games out of habit rather than desire to see an outcome and now Eames is sure he has found the very definition of Hell. Or maybe purgatory, he didn’t pay a lot of attention during religious instruction so he can’t really be sure.
Eames considers his options. He could take a nap to pass some time, except that when sleep is work and work is sleep it sucks all the joy out of casual napping. So with that off the menu it leaves rereading the one book he has in his luggage or working his way through the minibar until he’s drunk enough not to care about Arthur and his infuriating fantasy-shattering ways.
He’s read the book twice already this week, so the delights of the minibar it is.
Eames is halfway through his second, not very good, scotch when Arthur stands up, stretches, then starts digging through his bag. Eames ignores the urge to stare at his arse, he might as well get used to not doing that kind of thing as soon as he can.
Arthur turns his head so he’s looking over his shoulder and says, "I’m going to take a shower."
Eames nods his head in a non-committal way, still carefully avoiding looking at Arthur’s arse, or the long plains of his back, or his mouth, especially his mouth, and wonders if the gin will taste any better than the scotch.
Arthur straightens and turns, looking at Eames with the tiniest of frowns on his face, like he’s trying to work out the pieces of a particularly tricky puzzle. "Are you okay?"
"Perfectly so. Why do you ask?"
Arthur takes a step forward, then another until he stops at the foot of Eames’ bed. "You haven’t asked if I want you to join me, or offered to scrub my back."
Eames takes a sip of his really not at all pleasant scotch and then tips the glass in Arthur’s general direction. "Ah, well, I’m sorry to inform you, darling, but the thrill is gone."
"Really."
"Yes really. I’m bored." Eames drains the last of the actually quite unpleasant scotch, pushes himself up and off his bed and heads for the minibar. "I am no longer a slave to your indifference."
Arthur steps in front of him, blocking his way. "You’re bored."
"Yes."
"With me."
Eames is also bored with being unable to get to the minibar so he feigns a step to the left and then cuts right when Arthur matches him, raising a fist in triumph in his head when his rouse works. He peers at the choices on offer trying to decide between the gin and the rather cheap looking brandy until he spots some vodka hiding at the back and picks that instead.
He closes the minibar door and then leans back against it, using the tiny bottle of vodka to point at Arthur. "Well I still enjoy you on a casual level, but on a deeper, more meaningful level, yes."
Arthur says nothing for a moment but then a smile breaks out on his face. "Oh thank God, I thought you were never going to give up."
Eames is a little hurt. "I have to say I’m a little hurt, Arthur, if I’d known my attentions were so repugnant I would have stopped earlier."
"Oh, Mr Eames, what am I going to do with you?" Arthur’s smile is slowly twisting into something that Eames would swear was just the tiniest bit promising, if only they weren’t discussing what they are.
"I think," Eames says, feeling the need to point out the meaning of Arthur’s recent words, "you’ve made it perfectly clear that you’re going to do absolutely nothing with me."
"No, I haven’t."
Arthur’s smile is definitely, definitely both interesting and interested. Also a little predatory. Eames thinks it’s entirely possible that he’s lost not only the thread of the conversation but control of the situation as a whole. In short: Eames is confused.
"You haven’t?"
"No."
"Oh." Eames really wishes Arthur hadn’t chosen today to become a man of mystery and very few words. "Would you care to explain yourself, I think I’m a little lost."
Arthur’s smile ratchets up to full-on dirty as he stalks, actually stalks over to where Eames is still leaning against the minibar. Stopping only when they are quite literally toe to toe. "I don’t like playing games."
Eames is fairly sure that’s exactly what they’re doing right now, but he thinks it would probably be rude to point that out. "You don’t?"
Arthur shakes his head. "I prefer a more direct approach, it’s simpler and more mature than pulling pigtails and playing kiss chase."
"If that’s the case," Eames raises an eyebrow, because, really, "why didn’t you say something earlier?"
Arthur nudges at Eames’ legs, moving forward when Eames gets the hint and spreads them wide enough for Arthur to fit in between. "You were enjoying yourself, I didn’t want to ruin your fun."
Eames puts his vodka carefully down on the table beside them and then fits his hands over Arthur’s hips. "It’s not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment but really, Arthur, we could have been having so much more fun if you’d only..."
"Shut up, Eames."
Eames would protest but Arthur is kissing him, all firm pressure and hand cupped around the back of Eames’ head and just the perfect hint of tongue and there is nothing on Earth that would make Eames interrupt this moment. Not even the possibility of showing off his witty repartee. So he stores his reply up for later and concentrates on kissing Arthur back, learning the feel of his lips and storing away the contented little noise that slips out when he runs his hands up Arthur’s sides.
Arthur pulls back and Eames quickly and very carefully schools his expression away from dazed and back into casual indifference.
"Still bored?" Arthur asks, in a voice that’s just teetering on the very edge of smug.
And that won’t do. There’s no way Eames can allow Arthur to think he has the upper hand. Even though he quite obviously does.
Eames shrugs and affects a sigh. "A little."
"Really." Arthur affects a little sigh of his own, matching Eames pretence for pretence. "Do you have any plans in mind for how we can fix that."
Oh, Eames has plans. Many, many plans. He even has diagrams for some of them sketched out on napkins and scraps of paper and carefully tucked away in the inner breast pocket of his jacket.
Eames leans forward, crowding into Arthur’s space until his lips are just brushing the shell of Arthur’s ear, and proceeds to tell him, creatively, vividly and in great detail, all of the ways that Arthur can help chase his boredom away.
For cmonkatiekatie because it's her birthday and I love her a lot A LOT. Thanks to foxxcub for the super fast beta. No warnings apply.
The problem, Eames thinks, is that the thrill of the chase doesn’t lie in the chase itself, but in the belief that at some undetermined time, usually when the perfect balance of exhaustion and alcohol consumption is mutually achieved, the chaser will be victorious and able to claim his prize. Or, as the case may be, be claimed by his prize, depending on matters of personal taste, preference, size, etc.
Where the thrill most certainly does not lie is in a chase with no end in sight. That, in Eames’ estimation, is simply running without a destination. Like, say, jogging in circles round a park on a cold, grey winter day; tedious and boring and only really likely to leave one tired and in need of a stiff drink.
The truth of the matter is that thrill of the chase is gone and Eames is bored. Hopelessly, painfully, utterly bored. He no longer feels any joy in the all too blunt cut and thrust of his flirtations with Arthur. And, while it pains him to admit it, it is undeniably true that the spark they had kindled has been extinguished long before it had a chance to burst into glorious flames.
It’s a disappointment, yes, because Eames had plans, plans that involved shameful acts of depravity of such depth and wickedness that they were likely illegal in most of the civilised world. But if Arthur is not willing to play his role properly and allow himself to be caught then there’s nothing Eames can do but give in, give up and move on.
It’s a sad state of affairs and one that Eames is determined to wallow in for a while. He has after all thrown a lot of time and energy into pursuing Arthur and for it all to come to nothing is a situation that deserves an appropriate period of mourning.
It’s lucky then that Eames has time on his hands to devote himself to self-pity teamed with just a hint of annoyance. In fact, he has all the time in the world.
God, Eames is so bored.
Eames is aware that perhaps it is more the situation they find themselves in and less Arthur’s spectacular failure to succumb to his charms that’s causing him to feel quite so melodramatic. If there’s one thing Eames hates it’s doing nothing and that is exactly what they’ve been doing for the past four days. Stuck in this hotel room waiting for Saito to throw enough money around that they can leave without the local authorities descending and making an example of them via a hastily assembled firing squad.
And, yes, there was a time not all that long ago when Eames would have relished being stuck in a hotel room with only Arthur for company. But that was before he realised that Arthur was simply playing along with his games out of habit rather than desire to see an outcome and now Eames is sure he has found the very definition of Hell. Or maybe purgatory, he didn’t pay a lot of attention during religious instruction so he can’t really be sure.
Eames considers his options. He could take a nap to pass some time, except that when sleep is work and work is sleep it sucks all the joy out of casual napping. So with that off the menu it leaves rereading the one book he has in his luggage or working his way through the minibar until he’s drunk enough not to care about Arthur and his infuriating fantasy-shattering ways.
He’s read the book twice already this week, so the delights of the minibar it is.
Eames is halfway through his second, not very good, scotch when Arthur stands up, stretches, then starts digging through his bag. Eames ignores the urge to stare at his arse, he might as well get used to not doing that kind of thing as soon as he can.
Arthur turns his head so he’s looking over his shoulder and says, "I’m going to take a shower."
Eames nods his head in a non-committal way, still carefully avoiding looking at Arthur’s arse, or the long plains of his back, or his mouth, especially his mouth, and wonders if the gin will taste any better than the scotch.
Arthur straightens and turns, looking at Eames with the tiniest of frowns on his face, like he’s trying to work out the pieces of a particularly tricky puzzle. "Are you okay?"
"Perfectly so. Why do you ask?"
Arthur takes a step forward, then another until he stops at the foot of Eames’ bed. "You haven’t asked if I want you to join me, or offered to scrub my back."
Eames takes a sip of his really not at all pleasant scotch and then tips the glass in Arthur’s general direction. "Ah, well, I’m sorry to inform you, darling, but the thrill is gone."
"Really."
"Yes really. I’m bored." Eames drains the last of the actually quite unpleasant scotch, pushes himself up and off his bed and heads for the minibar. "I am no longer a slave to your indifference."
Arthur steps in front of him, blocking his way. "You’re bored."
"Yes."
"With me."
Eames is also bored with being unable to get to the minibar so he feigns a step to the left and then cuts right when Arthur matches him, raising a fist in triumph in his head when his rouse works. He peers at the choices on offer trying to decide between the gin and the rather cheap looking brandy until he spots some vodka hiding at the back and picks that instead.
He closes the minibar door and then leans back against it, using the tiny bottle of vodka to point at Arthur. "Well I still enjoy you on a casual level, but on a deeper, more meaningful level, yes."
Arthur says nothing for a moment but then a smile breaks out on his face. "Oh thank God, I thought you were never going to give up."
Eames is a little hurt. "I have to say I’m a little hurt, Arthur, if I’d known my attentions were so repugnant I would have stopped earlier."
"Oh, Mr Eames, what am I going to do with you?" Arthur’s smile is slowly twisting into something that Eames would swear was just the tiniest bit promising, if only they weren’t discussing what they are.
"I think," Eames says, feeling the need to point out the meaning of Arthur’s recent words, "you’ve made it perfectly clear that you’re going to do absolutely nothing with me."
"No, I haven’t."
Arthur’s smile is definitely, definitely both interesting and interested. Also a little predatory. Eames thinks it’s entirely possible that he’s lost not only the thread of the conversation but control of the situation as a whole. In short: Eames is confused.
"You haven’t?"
"No."
"Oh." Eames really wishes Arthur hadn’t chosen today to become a man of mystery and very few words. "Would you care to explain yourself, I think I’m a little lost."
Arthur’s smile ratchets up to full-on dirty as he stalks, actually stalks over to where Eames is still leaning against the minibar. Stopping only when they are quite literally toe to toe. "I don’t like playing games."
Eames is fairly sure that’s exactly what they’re doing right now, but he thinks it would probably be rude to point that out. "You don’t?"
Arthur shakes his head. "I prefer a more direct approach, it’s simpler and more mature than pulling pigtails and playing kiss chase."
"If that’s the case," Eames raises an eyebrow, because, really, "why didn’t you say something earlier?"
Arthur nudges at Eames’ legs, moving forward when Eames gets the hint and spreads them wide enough for Arthur to fit in between. "You were enjoying yourself, I didn’t want to ruin your fun."
Eames puts his vodka carefully down on the table beside them and then fits his hands over Arthur’s hips. "It’s not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment but really, Arthur, we could have been having so much more fun if you’d only..."
"Shut up, Eames."
Eames would protest but Arthur is kissing him, all firm pressure and hand cupped around the back of Eames’ head and just the perfect hint of tongue and there is nothing on Earth that would make Eames interrupt this moment. Not even the possibility of showing off his witty repartee. So he stores his reply up for later and concentrates on kissing Arthur back, learning the feel of his lips and storing away the contented little noise that slips out when he runs his hands up Arthur’s sides.
Arthur pulls back and Eames quickly and very carefully schools his expression away from dazed and back into casual indifference.
"Still bored?" Arthur asks, in a voice that’s just teetering on the very edge of smug.
And that won’t do. There’s no way Eames can allow Arthur to think he has the upper hand. Even though he quite obviously does.
Eames shrugs and affects a sigh. "A little."
"Really." Arthur affects a little sigh of his own, matching Eames pretence for pretence. "Do you have any plans in mind for how we can fix that."
Oh, Eames has plans. Many, many plans. He even has diagrams for some of them sketched out on napkins and scraps of paper and carefully tucked away in the inner breast pocket of his jacket.
Eames leans forward, crowding into Arthur’s space until his lips are just brushing the shell of Arthur’s ear, and proceeds to tell him, creatively, vividly and in great detail, all of the ways that Arthur can help chase his boredom away.