Inception fic (wait, whut? yeah I don't know either.)
for dremiel... who willingly seduced me into this fandom ... and just as willingly discusses Tom Hardy's pants with me on Twitter. xoxo bb!
Title: Pants of Fire.
Fandom: Inception
Characters/Pairing: Eames/Arthur.
Summary: Arthur has had a lot of thoughts. And a lot to drink. And he has a phone.
Eames was used to getting texts from Arthur. Texts. Emails. Instant messages. Even official documents printed on 120 pound cold press linen-grained paper with a custom watermark. In triplicate. And notarized. Delivered by couriers carrying criminally expensive leather attache cases. Communication of all kinds. Even Twitter for a fortnight until that thing with the Secret Service. They haven't been back to Hawaii since, actually. The point is, Arthur is ... meticulous. Detail oriented. It's very useful. Also bloody annoying. Also occasionally adorable in ways Eames will never admit to Arthur. He's reckless, yes, but not stupid.
So when his phone chimes with a text from Arthur he sighs as he opens the message. Then he has to read the text four times before bursting out laughing.
MR EAMES YOU ARE SO HOT. HOT IN THOSE PANTS OF YOURS.
He types a reply and hits send.
Arthur?
He'd left Arthur and Yusef in the hotel bar hours ago. And Yusef is clearly not to be trusted. Not when their work gives him access to pharmaceuticals, a sterile lab, and a line of credit with a bank in Switzerland. Which, okay, they are working IN Switzerland, so that part sort of makes sense. Then he laughs and scratches his fingers through his hair. When the hell did anything in this life of his actually make sense?
His phone chimes again.
HOT. HOTTER. HOTTERIEST. YES.
Arthur, where are you?
His phone chimes while he's typing.
WHICH IS. WHY IS THAT NO BECAUSE THOSE PANTS ARE UUUUUGLY.
Chime.
MY ROOM.
Chime.
I THINK
Chime.
I THOT YOU SHOULD KNOW. YOU KNOW. BECAUSE OF REASONS.
Eames smiles, and his eyes flick to his reflection in the floor to ceiling windows in his room. He can't see anything especially egregious with his trousers. They're a simple gray-green linen silk blend that he's always rather admired the drape of. He turns to check out his own arse, before winking to himself, and reaching for the aubergine jumper he'd tossed on top of his suitcase earlier. He pulls it on, and grabs for his phone, sticking the key card in his pocket as he leaves his room, heading down the hall, and around the corner where he knocks on Arthur's door. He is knocking a second time when the door opens, and there is Arthur, pink cheeked and rumpled, hanging onto the door for balance and absolutely reeking of gin.
"Now what was that about my trousers, darling?" he asks leaning into the open doorway.
"But. But wait but you were just in my phone..." Arthur says, frowning and looking confused.
Eames take a firm grip of Arthur's arm and moves him back into the room, pushing the door shut behind him with his foot.
"You're an adorable drunk, Arthur," he says, pausing to appreciate the sight of Arthur, bare feet sunk into the plush of the carpet, tuxedo shirt hanging open, unbuttoned and untucked, but a tight white t-shirt still neatly tucked into his trousers.
With unexpectedly precise coordination for how drunk Arthur seems to be, he raises the arm Eames isn't clutching onto him with, and sets his forefinger gently on Eames' lips.
"Shhhhhh," Arthur tells him, hushing him with one slim finger and the soft exhale of sound brushing across his skin.
The room is dim. There's only the light from the desk lamp, and the flickering of the television. There's some old black and while film playing, one of those ones where improbable looking men dance and croon and the women wear dresses dripping in maribou feathers. The orchestra in the movie is playing something slow as the onscreen lovers twirl on a rooftop somewhere.
So when Arthur winds his arm around Eames' neck and mutters, "dizzy" into Eames' chest, Eames just smiles and asks softly, "which way is the room spinning, Arthur?"
He's got his arms around Arthur's waist now, holding him firm and steady. Arthur looks up at him with a frown, clearly trying to think and finding it a challenge. He closes and opens his eyes a couple of times, squinting, his gaze tracking vaguely around the room, before giving up and tucking his face tight against Eames' neck. Eames can feel the brush of eyelashes tickling his skin as Arthur's eye's slide shut. With the arm that isn't over Eames' shoulder, clutching his jumper, Arthur traces a circle, counter-clockwise in the air before letting his arm fall limply at his side and sighing.
"Follow my lead," Eames says softly over the music still spilling from the tv. "If we go around the opposite way, it'll cancel out the dizziness."
"Liar," Arthur says, voice still muffled in Eames' chest. "Liar, Liar pants on fire. Ugly pants."
"Hush," Eames says fondly, as he moves them around the room in a small, clockwise circle, smiling.
Title: Pants of Fire.
Fandom: Inception
Characters/Pairing: Eames/Arthur.
Summary: Arthur has had a lot of thoughts. And a lot to drink. And he has a phone.
Eames was used to getting texts from Arthur. Texts. Emails. Instant messages. Even official documents printed on 120 pound cold press linen-grained paper with a custom watermark. In triplicate. And notarized. Delivered by couriers carrying criminally expensive leather attache cases. Communication of all kinds. Even Twitter for a fortnight until that thing with the Secret Service. They haven't been back to Hawaii since, actually. The point is, Arthur is ... meticulous. Detail oriented. It's very useful. Also bloody annoying. Also occasionally adorable in ways Eames will never admit to Arthur. He's reckless, yes, but not stupid.
So when his phone chimes with a text from Arthur he sighs as he opens the message. Then he has to read the text four times before bursting out laughing.
MR EAMES YOU ARE SO HOT. HOT IN THOSE PANTS OF YOURS.
He types a reply and hits send.
Arthur?
He'd left Arthur and Yusef in the hotel bar hours ago. And Yusef is clearly not to be trusted. Not when their work gives him access to pharmaceuticals, a sterile lab, and a line of credit with a bank in Switzerland. Which, okay, they are working IN Switzerland, so that part sort of makes sense. Then he laughs and scratches his fingers through his hair. When the hell did anything in this life of his actually make sense?
His phone chimes again.
HOT. HOTTER. HOTTERIEST. YES.
Arthur, where are you?
His phone chimes while he's typing.
WHICH IS. WHY IS THAT NO BECAUSE THOSE PANTS ARE UUUUUGLY.
Chime.
MY ROOM.
Chime.
I THINK
Chime.
I THOT YOU SHOULD KNOW. YOU KNOW. BECAUSE OF REASONS.
Eames smiles, and his eyes flick to his reflection in the floor to ceiling windows in his room. He can't see anything especially egregious with his trousers. They're a simple gray-green linen silk blend that he's always rather admired the drape of. He turns to check out his own arse, before winking to himself, and reaching for the aubergine jumper he'd tossed on top of his suitcase earlier. He pulls it on, and grabs for his phone, sticking the key card in his pocket as he leaves his room, heading down the hall, and around the corner where he knocks on Arthur's door. He is knocking a second time when the door opens, and there is Arthur, pink cheeked and rumpled, hanging onto the door for balance and absolutely reeking of gin.
"Now what was that about my trousers, darling?" he asks leaning into the open doorway.
"But. But wait but you were just in my phone..." Arthur says, frowning and looking confused.
Eames take a firm grip of Arthur's arm and moves him back into the room, pushing the door shut behind him with his foot.
"You're an adorable drunk, Arthur," he says, pausing to appreciate the sight of Arthur, bare feet sunk into the plush of the carpet, tuxedo shirt hanging open, unbuttoned and untucked, but a tight white t-shirt still neatly tucked into his trousers.
With unexpectedly precise coordination for how drunk Arthur seems to be, he raises the arm Eames isn't clutching onto him with, and sets his forefinger gently on Eames' lips.
"Shhhhhh," Arthur tells him, hushing him with one slim finger and the soft exhale of sound brushing across his skin.
The room is dim. There's only the light from the desk lamp, and the flickering of the television. There's some old black and while film playing, one of those ones where improbable looking men dance and croon and the women wear dresses dripping in maribou feathers. The orchestra in the movie is playing something slow as the onscreen lovers twirl on a rooftop somewhere.
So when Arthur winds his arm around Eames' neck and mutters, "dizzy" into Eames' chest, Eames just smiles and asks softly, "which way is the room spinning, Arthur?"
He's got his arms around Arthur's waist now, holding him firm and steady. Arthur looks up at him with a frown, clearly trying to think and finding it a challenge. He closes and opens his eyes a couple of times, squinting, his gaze tracking vaguely around the room, before giving up and tucking his face tight against Eames' neck. Eames can feel the brush of eyelashes tickling his skin as Arthur's eye's slide shut. With the arm that isn't over Eames' shoulder, clutching his jumper, Arthur traces a circle, counter-clockwise in the air before letting his arm fall limply at his side and sighing.
"Follow my lead," Eames says softly over the music still spilling from the tv. "If we go around the opposite way, it'll cancel out the dizziness."
"Liar," Arthur says, voice still muffled in Eames' chest. "Liar, Liar pants on fire. Ugly pants."
"Hush," Eames says fondly, as he moves them around the room in a small, clockwise circle, smiling.