19. He Has A Chemist 5/?

Mar 14, 2012 22:08

Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Eames/Yusuf
Length: 1,713
Status: WIP
Disclaimer: just appreciating Nolan's ideas
Summary: They don't know each other that well, don't trust each other, but Eames has some demons to deal with and Yusuf's compounds are the only thing that let's him sleep at night. With time an attraction grows that can't be ignored. This prompt on the inception_kink is a little more specific about character types than this crap summary.

part 4


xiv.

There’s been a shuffle throughout the room since he closed his eyes. Eames wakes to find the dreamers in different beds, different clothes. The girl and her infernal mutt are gone. The old man is back, nods solemnly at him. Eames returns the silent departure as he climbs the stairs to the door feeling good, rested.

It is dark outside the windows of the shop. Yusuf is working by the light of two desk lamps and a Bunsen burner. The merry sound of liquid boiling and the contented purrs of all the cats permeate the room and make Eames feel as if he’s stepped into some kind of musical between dance-offs. On a table separating him from his host, a coil of glass tube drips crystal clear droplets into a long-necked bottle, keeping time.

“Good morning, Mr. Eames,” Yusuf says before Eames can announce his presence. The forger is surprised enough to forget about eyes in the back of heads and searches the room for a clock. “Is it?”

Yusuf turns. He’s wearing his glasses, and looks over the rims with glittering eyes and a soft snort. “My father taught me that a grown man wears a watch so he doesn’t ask stupid questions.”

Eames makes his snort of laughter sound like one of offense. “How dare you. I’ll never grow up.”

A smile twitches the dark beard before his delicate work with the brew has him turning away to adjust heat and stir. Eames circles the dripping table and comes unexpectedly on a short, overstuffed armchair draped with a thin throw, cats, and that same old paperback with a dragon on it-wait, no, it’s a different dragon.

“And anyway, can’t wear a watch;” he says as he makes himself comfortable in the seat, where he can’t break anything, “get myself in the habit of routinely fiddling with it, or checking my wrist for the time. Not everyone does that, might end up giving myself away in a forge.”

“Ah, yes,” Yusuf says with a nod, eyes still on his project. The boiling’s stopped, and the cats have begun to stir. One comes over to the armrest to scrutinize Eames, and he tickles the whiskers until the cat bats playfully at his hand. Another likes him well enough to twine about his ankles like his landlord’s cat often did in Paris. Yusuf’s paperback on the overstuffed arm slides into his lap; he leafs through it.

The book mark is a real one-not some piece of scrap paper from around the house, not even a glossy picture promoting film adaptations of books, but a thin, flat hook of metal topped with a skull. Eames thinks of Hamlet’s Yorick and pirates before he thinks of BBC Sherlock’s silent friend. All bring a smile to his face.

“Do you read McCaffery?”

“Hm?” Eames looks up from the summary on the back and shakes his head. “You know better than that, Yusuf. I don’t do anything but sleep in my free time.”

“You’re not that bad off,” Yusuf says firmly. Work complete, he stoppers a bottle and turns around. Behind him, the window has turned a vibrant grey. The cats begin mewing the moment he steps away from the work station, and they each drop to the floor to follow him eagerly into the next room on silent feet.

“Yes, alright, alright, breakfast is coming,” he says in response to the desperate sounds, “but guests first. Mr. Eames,” he turns against the tide of hungry felines and smiles at the sight of Eames turning to the first page of the novel. “Do you like eggs?”

“Sure,” he says without looking up from the prologue.

“Help yourself then,” he nods at the beaker still sitting on the Bunsen. Eames looks sharply at it and realizes there are indeed two white ovals suspended in the water, properly boiled. “I must tend to the clowder, one moment.”

“The whot?” Eames asks as he stands and surveys the desk, wondering what is sanitary to use to fish the boiled eggs out with.

“Clowder,” Yusuf supplies from the other room, and there’s the sound of dry food in a metal tin, “the group term for cats.”

“Huh,” Eames frowns around at the cats that have lingered behind but who are now darting toward the sound of food. “I suppose you’ve given them each proper names.”

“Of course, what are we, savages?” Yusuf smirks, returning to lean on the door. His dark eyes notice that the eggs are still in the water and he motions, “The tongs are clean.”

“Thanks,” Eames says, scooping them up and fishing for his breakfast as Yusuf explains. “The tabby’s are the Mechanicals, from Midsummer’s Night Dream: Quince, Bottom, Flute, Snout, Snug, and Starveling. Then the long haired ones are my hobbites,” he says this in that strangled voice of Gollum, improperly pluralizing hobbits, “Merry, Pippin, Sam, Frodo, Rosie, and Smeagle. Then the black and white overgrown kittens are Ray, Egon and Venkman,” when Eames frowns at this Yusuf grins, “Who you gonna call?” still Eames is clueless and Yusuf chuckles, “Ghostbusters!”

Eames snorts, amused and little embarrassed for the wide display of dorky fandoms, particularly the American supernatural ghost vanquishing movie. “You’re a nerd.”

This does not faze the chemist in the slightest, he takes his seat in front of the desk and Eames returns to the armchair. They have their eggs in silence and Eames picks up the dragon book again. He does not see Yusuf’s pensive stare, nor does he hear it, a while later, when Yusuf clears his throat a time or two. In fact, it’s nearly lunch when he’s bored of reading about magic and gets up to wander around.

Yusuf is still tinkering around with his chemistry and he feels dark eyes on him as he pets some cats and looks around at the hundreds of bottles on the shelves. A customer comes in, someone Yusuf knows. Little is exchanged between them, though, except for quiet pleasantries and money for a case of vials. When the door closes on the young man, Eames wanders over to watch Yusuf at work with a dropper and a centrifuge. He stands behind and looks over his shoulder, “Is it always this crazy busy, love?” he teases.

“The den is what keeps my head above water, financially,” Yusuf murmurs. Eames lets the opportunity to argue the morals of a dreaming den slide; he’s in the mood for something quite different than a fight. Eames stays where he is, as if he’s watching the fascinating work of a chemist, but he doesn’t care about the liquid that his friend is dribbling from vial to vial; he is focused on the dense head of dark silky curls that is dipped low over the work.

He wonders if it would be too much to go right ahead and put his finger through the fine hairs at his neck…

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Yusuf asks. He isn’t cold, but he isn’t teasing.

“Not particularly,” Eames says and he does it--to explain why he’s overstayed his welcome--he drags his fingertips through the silky hair at the base of Yusuf’s neck. To his surprise, Yusuf stands up rather quickly and gets away from him. “You need to go.”

“What?” Eames’ surprise is in a laugh, a question, what’s the punch line? But this isn’t a joke. He’s never seen Yusuf look so--on edge. Actually, yes he has. Once. In Paris, when he arrived at Yusuf’s door at three in the morning.

“Just go,” Yusuf demands. Eames doesn’t know what else to do but obey the man’s wishes.
TBC
Part six

slash, inception, eames/yusuf, ptsd, romance, fanfiction, "chemist"

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