inception fic: be my hero, baby [Arthur/Eames, T]
be my hero, baby. inception, t, 961 words.
"I am not going to be the Boy Wonder," Arthur says, "to your goddamn Batman."
"Superheroes?" Arthur says skeptically. "Wait, I don't have to dress up like one, do I?"
For their latest job, they've been hired by a bank executive to extract the details of a traumatic kidnapping from the mind of his young son. Normally they would never work on someone so young - and someone whose mind has been so recently shaken and destabilised, it is generally a bad idea for all involved - but Cobb understands the desire of a father to set things right and seek his vengeance, so they are doing it, just this once, just to help the boy heal and move on, or so Cobb says. Structuring the dream as a comic-book framework is not the worst idea they've ever had; it'll provide a neatly moralistic narrative for the kid to latch on to and triumphantly solve, clearly delineated good guys for him to align himself with, and lots of explosions and improbable physics to distract him from what they're really trying to do. Which is all well and good, but the thing is, all Arthur can picture in his mind's eye is the old X-Men cartoon that was on when he was in middle school, big trenchcoats and bigger hair and magenta-and-blue spandex and armour. He doesn't think magenta is really his colour.
"It's not all yellow spandex anymore," Ariadne says, as if she knows what he's thinking. "He didn't grow up on the same stuff we did. Haven't you seen any movie that's been released in the past ten years?"
"Lots of leather," Eames says wickedly.
"I am not," Arthur says, leaning over the city plan Ariadne has been constructing, "I am not going to have this conversation with you right now."
"Only you already are," Eames points out, and Arthur ignores him, back rigid.
"I never thought I'd say this," Arthur says as rain drops past his collar and down his back, "but I miss the old school shit."
They are skulking down a dark grungy alley while thunder booms and lightning flashes overhead. Somewhere out in the city Ariadne - wearing a domino mask and a spectacular slick catsuit, an easy bid for the kid's affections because as much as trends change some things will always remain constant - is leading the boy by hand across rooftops and into the Tower, their headquarters for the ripoff Justice League they have manufactured. They're supposed to meet Ariadne there in an hour's time for the big showdown with the villains, by which point hopefully they will have deduced enough about the kidnapping to satisfy the boy's father. In the meantime, he and Eames are stuck patrolling the vicinity and keeping an eye on the boy's projections - most of them defensive and snappish, enough to keep them busy until their rendezvous.
"What," Eames says, turning up the collar on his cloak, straightening his gauntlets with a flourish, "with the whizzzzzzz! bang! sound effects and lesbian bondage and inappropriate subtext with young sidekicks? Me too, darling."
"Oh my God, forget I said anything," Arthur says. He twists a little, uncomfortably; all that rain getting under his kevlar-and-leather getup is making his skin crawl and itch.
"You brought it up," Eames murmurs.
"I am not going to be the Boy Wonder," Arthur says, "to your goddamn Batman."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Eames says, and then he clarifies, "and I haven't dreamt of it, funnily enough."
"A relief," Arthur says.
"You're more of a Nightwing than a Robin," Eames goes on thoughtfully. "More of an even playing field that way. I will, however, tragically always be more awesome - "
"Eames," Arthur says, "shut up."
Eames is smirking under his half-mask. "Make me," he says, and before the words are out of his mouth Arthur has him up against a graffiti-sprayed wall, one forearm at Eames's neck, pressing in dangerously.
"Maybe I will," Arthur says, leaning in close enough that his cold lips brush Eames's even colder cheek. He pulls back; Eames's face splits with a grin.
"Please do," Eames breathes, eyes fixed on Arthur's lips, and then Arthur is kissing him and all his complaints about the wet and cold and stink violently disappear. It is brief; suddenly Eames is laughing into Arthur's mouth and then he is swinging around and slamming Arthur into the wall hard enough that Arthur's skull rattles. "How do you like that," he whispers into Arthur's ear, and then he bites it, and Arthur cannot quite form a coherent reply and then after that he is afraid that his tongue is a little busy anyway -
They abruptly break apart at the sound of voices at the entrance to their alley.
"Fuck," Eames says, looking startled, his breathing uneven. He slaps Arthur's forearm and they silently step backwards until they are huddled in the shadows behind a dumpster, cautiously peering over the edge to assess the situation; it is raining still harder now, and it drips off an overhead fire escape into Arthur's hair. As he shakes it away, fingers lingering over the back of his head where it scraped against the brick, Arthur's brow furrows.
"Wait, are those projections?" he whispers, watching what look like Mafia thugs from some cheesy 50s gangster flick kick over every soggy cardboard box and dented garbage can that litters the alley. It's a ridiculous show, but they're clearly looking for something and Arthur has a growing dread that said something happens to be Arthur and Eames.
"No-ooope," Eames says, watching intently. "Looks like we've got company from the outside."
"Wait, what?" Arthur says, staring at him blankly, but Eames is already sprinting off down the alley, his cloak snapping behind him, and Arthur sighs and slips the blade-edged batarangs out of his belt and splashes off after him across the cracking pavement.
"I am not going to be the Boy Wonder," Arthur says, "to your goddamn Batman."
"Superheroes?" Arthur says skeptically. "Wait, I don't have to dress up like one, do I?"
For their latest job, they've been hired by a bank executive to extract the details of a traumatic kidnapping from the mind of his young son. Normally they would never work on someone so young - and someone whose mind has been so recently shaken and destabilised, it is generally a bad idea for all involved - but Cobb understands the desire of a father to set things right and seek his vengeance, so they are doing it, just this once, just to help the boy heal and move on, or so Cobb says. Structuring the dream as a comic-book framework is not the worst idea they've ever had; it'll provide a neatly moralistic narrative for the kid to latch on to and triumphantly solve, clearly delineated good guys for him to align himself with, and lots of explosions and improbable physics to distract him from what they're really trying to do. Which is all well and good, but the thing is, all Arthur can picture in his mind's eye is the old X-Men cartoon that was on when he was in middle school, big trenchcoats and bigger hair and magenta-and-blue spandex and armour. He doesn't think magenta is really his colour.
"It's not all yellow spandex anymore," Ariadne says, as if she knows what he's thinking. "He didn't grow up on the same stuff we did. Haven't you seen any movie that's been released in the past ten years?"
"Lots of leather," Eames says wickedly.
"I am not," Arthur says, leaning over the city plan Ariadne has been constructing, "I am not going to have this conversation with you right now."
"Only you already are," Eames points out, and Arthur ignores him, back rigid.
"I never thought I'd say this," Arthur says as rain drops past his collar and down his back, "but I miss the old school shit."
They are skulking down a dark grungy alley while thunder booms and lightning flashes overhead. Somewhere out in the city Ariadne - wearing a domino mask and a spectacular slick catsuit, an easy bid for the kid's affections because as much as trends change some things will always remain constant - is leading the boy by hand across rooftops and into the Tower, their headquarters for the ripoff Justice League they have manufactured. They're supposed to meet Ariadne there in an hour's time for the big showdown with the villains, by which point hopefully they will have deduced enough about the kidnapping to satisfy the boy's father. In the meantime, he and Eames are stuck patrolling the vicinity and keeping an eye on the boy's projections - most of them defensive and snappish, enough to keep them busy until their rendezvous.
"What," Eames says, turning up the collar on his cloak, straightening his gauntlets with a flourish, "with the whizzzzzzz! bang! sound effects and lesbian bondage and inappropriate subtext with young sidekicks? Me too, darling."
"Oh my God, forget I said anything," Arthur says. He twists a little, uncomfortably; all that rain getting under his kevlar-and-leather getup is making his skin crawl and itch.
"You brought it up," Eames murmurs.
"I am not going to be the Boy Wonder," Arthur says, "to your goddamn Batman."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Eames says, and then he clarifies, "and I haven't dreamt of it, funnily enough."
"A relief," Arthur says.
"You're more of a Nightwing than a Robin," Eames goes on thoughtfully. "More of an even playing field that way. I will, however, tragically always be more awesome - "
"Eames," Arthur says, "shut up."
Eames is smirking under his half-mask. "Make me," he says, and before the words are out of his mouth Arthur has him up against a graffiti-sprayed wall, one forearm at Eames's neck, pressing in dangerously.
"Maybe I will," Arthur says, leaning in close enough that his cold lips brush Eames's even colder cheek. He pulls back; Eames's face splits with a grin.
"Please do," Eames breathes, eyes fixed on Arthur's lips, and then Arthur is kissing him and all his complaints about the wet and cold and stink violently disappear. It is brief; suddenly Eames is laughing into Arthur's mouth and then he is swinging around and slamming Arthur into the wall hard enough that Arthur's skull rattles. "How do you like that," he whispers into Arthur's ear, and then he bites it, and Arthur cannot quite form a coherent reply and then after that he is afraid that his tongue is a little busy anyway -
They abruptly break apart at the sound of voices at the entrance to their alley.
"Fuck," Eames says, looking startled, his breathing uneven. He slaps Arthur's forearm and they silently step backwards until they are huddled in the shadows behind a dumpster, cautiously peering over the edge to assess the situation; it is raining still harder now, and it drips off an overhead fire escape into Arthur's hair. As he shakes it away, fingers lingering over the back of his head where it scraped against the brick, Arthur's brow furrows.
"Wait, are those projections?" he whispers, watching what look like Mafia thugs from some cheesy 50s gangster flick kick over every soggy cardboard box and dented garbage can that litters the alley. It's a ridiculous show, but they're clearly looking for something and Arthur has a growing dread that said something happens to be Arthur and Eames.
"No-ooope," Eames says, watching intently. "Looks like we've got company from the outside."
"Wait, what?" Arthur says, staring at him blankly, but Eames is already sprinting off down the alley, his cloak snapping behind him, and Arthur sighs and slips the blade-edged batarangs out of his belt and splashes off after him across the cracking pavement.