Through The Scope
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Warning: outsider POV, major character death
Title: Through the Scope
Summary: based on this p rompt on inception_kink:
I love outsider POV. So I would LOVE something about them from the perspective of their enemies. How are they seen (alone and as a couple) by the people who hate them or want them out of the way?
In verse please?
Note: I've never written anything this sad before! FEEDBACK would ease my soul!
...
Target One is a middle aged man, British, [height] [weight]. He walks with a swing in his hips and keeps his head down between his broad shoulders, eyes always alive, watching for me. He doesn’t know me personally, but he knows I’m out there, waiting with my finger on the trigger for the perfect shot. Some perfect stranger paid to put a bullet in his heart.
I won’t do it today. No, today is just INTEL; I like to know the target’s routine before I shoot, so I can have back up plans in the rare case that I miss, or if I have to chase them. Mr. Eames gets to live one more day.
....
Target two is closer to my age. Thirty if a day, and American. [height] [weight]. His gait has rigid purpose, as do his clothes. I’m actually a little sorry that one of my bullets will have to rip through threads like those, but what can you do? This American is a wretched creature of habit; it will be all too easy to take him down when the time is right. But I can’t do it here, too many people. Mr. Arthur gets to live one more day.
....
I have everything in place. Today, Mr. Eames dies.
Through the lens of my scope, I can see the fine hairs of his beard as plainly as if I were standing in his arms. He looks bored, standing on the corner of the street, waiting. He keeps checking his watch. His lips move occasionally, I can’t decide if he is talking to himself or singing. Maybe he alternates between both. He does whistle for a few minutes while he throws parts of the pretzel he is working on to the birds pecking around the trash can.
I am about to pull the trigger when his face brightens, and suddenly, my shot is obscured by another body hurtling into the Brit’s arms.
“Damn,” I hiss, lowering the gun to look with naked eyes at the distant stick figures far below me. Once collected, I look back through my scope.
I blink and check with the naked eye that, yes, the newcomer is target fucking number two. Right there with target one! Arthur and Eames-I wonder if my two different employers know one another, and if their number one enemies being friends is grounds enough to set them up on a date...
Well, more than friends--look at that!
“Son of a bitch,” I say idly because directly in the center of my crosshairs, the two men are swapping spit in a very hungry, aggressive kiss that I can’t believe I am looking at.
These two are supposed to be dangerous men. That’s what I’m doing here; they only call me when no one else can get it done, when one of my bullets spares multiple lives. And okay, it’s not like none my targets have turned out to have hearts before-I clear my throat and shift slightly, a physical flinch away from the memory of the young father I killed last year-but this is a first, and my heart speeds up at a thought.
Two targets, one bullet.
I have the shot. But not the gun.
I’ll need the right tools to do this properly. I laugh once as I remove my aim from the love birds and begin to pack. It’ll be best to do a bit more research, make a series of back up plans, but this can be done very neatly indeed. I smile at the distant figures now walking away with their hands clasped between them.
“You get to live today, boys.”
...
Now that two targets have become one, I start my INTEL again. They’ve each got an apartment in this city and when they prove that they prefer Mr. Arthur’s, I break in and burst water pipes until it is necessary for them to start staying at Mr. Eames’ place, which has more windows and better vantage points for me.
I’m baffled as I watch them. Each of them has stolen from and conned extremely powerful men, they’ve killed anyone who has taken a run at them so far. They’ve survived this long in shark infested water, feeding on the sharks. Yet they hold hands, and grin secretly at each other in public; in private they laugh and kiss and crawl all over each other for hours on end; the little one, Mr. Arthur, has dimples.
From my perch at the best vantage point that the living room windows provide, I lie in wait and look for my shot. They lounge in front of the TV, Mr. Eames plays with Mr. Arthur’s hair. I sit and shiver in the cold and refuse to think about the last lover who played with my hair and how much I miss her.
After a while, their movie ends and Mr. Arthur captures Mr. Eames and they lock lips for a moment or two before Mr. Eames takes his lover’s hand and pulls him toward the bedroom. I look over to the bedroom window, which is covered, and sigh in defeat. They’ll be in there until morning. So they will not die tonight.
I wonder idly if there is any way I can break in and steal that window shade so that I’ll get the shot I need and can go on vacation to some place warmer, get some loving of my own.
...
It’s been a month; employers are getting nervous, which is never a good thing. Nervous employees tip off spies and then targets get a scent on the wind and it turns into a wild goose chase. I make assurances that everything is right on track-actually better than that. One bullet, I tell them. I will do this with one bullet. My deadline is tonight. My plans are in place, and all I need is a little luck.
My heart is beating fast, and I can’t stop smiling. One bullet-damn that would just be so sexy! But I’m getting ahead of myself. When my gun is set up, I school my pulse and my breathing until all is serene. Eagerly, I look through the scope.
They’ve left the shades open for the living room, but the bedroom window is covered; it’s always covered. That gives me a narrow opportunity-in an already very slim chance-to do this fast, to take them both out with one bullet before either knows what hit them. I start sending them imaginary brain waves to watch a little television tonight.
And there they are, right on schedule. Arthur is wearing an over large college sweat shirt and carrying a bag of popcorn. I can actually see the steam rising out of the buttery bag in the lens. He plops onto the couch and then smiles. I can count the dimples in each cheek and see that a light blush is crawling up his neck. In his shadow, my second target falls onto the couch, mouth working hard to shape words through laughter I can’t hear, and his sneaky hands grab handfuls of popcorn and sweat shirt.
More of those hard, forceful kisses until the popcorn bag is turned over, and then more laughing. I sigh, bored, and begin to get aggravated when the night becomes a popcorn fight, which puts the men on two different sides of the couch, out of the path of the destined bullet. This goes on for longer than I care to watch, and when I glance back into the scope a minute later, I find that they have lapsed back into kissing. Only this time, it is something softer, and Mr. Eames caresses Arthur’s face, brushing his cheek bone and ear, gently tugging the lobe.
My crosshairs are on Mr. Eames’ chest. I wait with bated breath and send more imaginary brain waves through the scope.
“Come on,” I breathe. “Come on, just move a little to the left...”
The kiss deepens and breaks for air. Mr. Eames, eyes alight and smile broad, asks something to which Mr. Arthur nods, and then the thinner man straddles his lover and bam, my crosshairs are painted dead center on Mr. Arthur’s back, my targets’ hearts aligned.
I pull the trigger, the glass fractures, both bodies jolt and crumple together. Then I pack up, and I disappear into the shadows. And I pretend I hadn’t read Mr. Eames’ lips.
Are we in love?
...
From Author: Put your feelings in the box I'd love to share this pain!