Inception fic: protective!Yusuf fill
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Yusuf heard about Arthur long before he ever met him.
For a while, he knew him only as ‘that CIA brat’. Once Eames started working in the dream sharing world again, when he’d shaken off the self-imposed years of alcoholism after being tossed out of MI6, Arthur was elevated to ‘that CIA bastard’ status. He then evolved into ‘Cobb’s sidekick’, ‘that dodgy wanker’, ‘the prat’ and, eventually, just ‘him’.
Eames never spoke of the once-CIA agent without a hint of exasperated irritation in his tone-and when Yusuf finally met Arthur, he realized why.
“You’re in love with him?” he hissed, voice pitched low and quiet in the corner of the warehouse designated his lab. He’d watched for days, marveling at the easy back-and-forth between point man and forger. They danced around each other in a battle of wits and words, and both seemed to be enjoying themselves far too thoroughly. Both also seemed to be completely unaware of what they were doing.
Eames stared at him, mouth dropping open.
“I bloody well am not,” he said indignantly. Yusuf snorted, folding his arms across his chest.
“I’ve known you for four years, Eames. You’ve never looked at anyone the way you look at Arthur.”
“We are not discussing this here!” Eames snapped. “Or-anywhere. Ever.”
He turned on heel and stalked off, leaving Yusuf to frown after him.
The back of Eames’ neck and the tips of his ears were tinged pink.
-
Yusuf didn’t mind the constant banter and flirting; it was merely something else to filter out, like Ariadne’s constant shuffling of papers or Eames’ inability to keep his hands still. He liked Arthur well enough, and he had come to consider Eames a close friend: he was happy the man actually had someone he sincerely cared about. The sharp humor and trademark British sarcasm remained, but whenever Eames looked at Arthur there was a softness in his eyes that belied all of it. Sometimes Yusuf would catch him watching the point man with such an expression of longing that it broke his heart to witness it.
So, when Arthur finally seemed to be responding to Eames’ gentle advances, Yusuf started to worry.
He worried because before, Arthur had been safe. He was unattainable, something for Eames to admire and chase after, knowing he could never get it. Beneath the layers of snark and cynicism, once you’d pried Eames open with the emotional equivalent of a crowbar, Yusuf knew how fragile the man could be. Obtaining Arthur-the one person who might be his equal, the person he had been chasing for six years-and then losing him would be worse than never having started the relationship at all. Arthur had the power to break Eames, and so Yusuf worried.
Things came to a head one morning when the two of them strolled in together, hip-to-hip and sharing quick glances and tiny smiles. They threw themselves into work readily enough, but there was a connection there that hadn’t been before.
Yusuf waited until Eames was distracted altering one of Ariadne’s mazes before he caught Arthur’s attention.
“Arthur, could I have a word?”
Arthur looked up from his desk, the surface piled with neat stacks of folders. He nodded absently, levering himself to his feet and following Yusuf over to his corner lab. The chemist wandered back behind one of the tables, adjusting the drip of a new sedative he was trying to work into the Somnacin.
“You compiled dossiers on all of us, yes?”
“Of course.”
The ‘it’s my job’ went unspoken, Arthur’s tone a little wary, but Yusuf wasn’t concerned about his privacy. He knew Arthur’s skill set lay in the ferreting out of information. The point man would have been remiss to not do background checks on all of them.
“Do you remember what my file said about how I came by my knowledge of chemistry?”
Arthur tilted his head to the side, forehead crinkling.
“You attended UCLA,” he recalled. “Earned a B.S. double-major in Chemistry and Microbiology, with a minor in Neuroscience. You graduated at the top of your class, so the CIA offered you a job working with the new PASIV technology-Somnacin in particular. You left before I was recruited there, however.”
“And who did I intern for during my senior year?”
“One of your chemistry professors, if I recall correctly.”
Yusuf nodded.
“Yes, Dr. Patel. He had a grant from the U.S. government to study the current status of chemical warfare worldwide. I learned a great deal working with him.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow, politely attentive. Yusuf’s mouth quirked up in a smile. He reached out to tap the stopper of a glass bottle filled with clear liquid.
“This is hydrochloric acid. It’s similar to what you’d find if you opened up someone’s stomach and got through the protective mucus layer. Thankfully we have that layer, because otherwise it’ll burn straight through flesh.”
Arthur blinked. He opened his mouth to reply, but Yusuf continued on serenely, pointing out another bottle.
“That is perchloric acid: I was introduced to it by this wonderful girl who went on to work for NASA. It’s used in rocket fuel, generally. Very bad for soft tissue and the respiratory system-also, highly explosive.”
Arthur shifted his weight, arms folding across his chest, his features perplexed. There was bemusement there, and a hint of unease, but not yet the understanding Yusuf was aiming for.
“This is all…very disturbing, Yusuf, but I’m failing to see your point.”
“I’m your chemist, Arthur,” he explained patiently. “When you’re dreaming, it’s my job to tailor your dosage to meet your specific needs; to make sure you’re stable while under and won’t have any negative reactions when you wake up. I take that job very seriously, and I would never tamper with your Somnacin input.”
He leaned forward, palms flat on the table, smile vanishing.
“However, do not for a second think that I don’t know a hundred different chemical compositions that would kill you very slowly, and very painfully, if you were ever to hurt Eames.”
Arthur blinked again. A multitude of expressions flitted across his face-surprise, confusion, disbelief, suspicion-before he schooled his features into a perplexed mask.
“Eames is incredibly capable of handling himself, you know.”
“He knows probably forty ways to kill you with a thumbtack,” Yusuf agreed. He tapped his chest. “But this? He’s pretty bad at this. And you’re in a rare position, Arthur: a position that could destroy him, should you so choose.”
“I would never.”
Arthur’s reply was instant, quiet, and Yusuf studied his face carefully. There was fear there-fear of the unknown, of an uncertain future and inexplicable variables-but there was also the determination that so marked their capable point man. Determination, and stubbornness, and perhaps even a bit of that wonder Yusuf sometimes saw in Eames’ eyes while he was watching Arthur.
Yusuf considered him for a few more moments before straightening with a smile.
“Then we will have no problems between us. Thank you for your time, Arthur.”
Arthur nodded, turning to go. He stopped when he got to one of the partitions and looked back.
“I’ll never hurt him, Yusuf,” he said, the words a quiet promise.
Yusuf dropped his hand to one of the vials on the table, running his fingertips across the smooth glass surface in a promise of his own.
“See that you don’t.”
-
Yusuf heard about Arthur long before he ever met him.
For a while, he knew him only as ‘that CIA brat’. Once Eames started working in the dream sharing world again, when he’d shaken off the self-imposed years of alcoholism after being tossed out of MI6, Arthur was elevated to ‘that CIA bastard’ status. He then evolved into ‘Cobb’s sidekick’, ‘that dodgy wanker’, ‘the prat’ and, eventually, just ‘him’.
Eames never spoke of the once-CIA agent without a hint of exasperated irritation in his tone-and when Yusuf finally met Arthur, he realized why.
“You’re in love with him?” he hissed, voice pitched low and quiet in the corner of the warehouse designated his lab. He’d watched for days, marveling at the easy back-and-forth between point man and forger. They danced around each other in a battle of wits and words, and both seemed to be enjoying themselves far too thoroughly. Both also seemed to be completely unaware of what they were doing.
Eames stared at him, mouth dropping open.
“I bloody well am not,” he said indignantly. Yusuf snorted, folding his arms across his chest.
“I’ve known you for four years, Eames. You’ve never looked at anyone the way you look at Arthur.”
“We are not discussing this here!” Eames snapped. “Or-anywhere. Ever.”
He turned on heel and stalked off, leaving Yusuf to frown after him.
The back of Eames’ neck and the tips of his ears were tinged pink.
-
Yusuf didn’t mind the constant banter and flirting; it was merely something else to filter out, like Ariadne’s constant shuffling of papers or Eames’ inability to keep his hands still. He liked Arthur well enough, and he had come to consider Eames a close friend: he was happy the man actually had someone he sincerely cared about. The sharp humor and trademark British sarcasm remained, but whenever Eames looked at Arthur there was a softness in his eyes that belied all of it. Sometimes Yusuf would catch him watching the point man with such an expression of longing that it broke his heart to witness it.
So, when Arthur finally seemed to be responding to Eames’ gentle advances, Yusuf started to worry.
He worried because before, Arthur had been safe. He was unattainable, something for Eames to admire and chase after, knowing he could never get it. Beneath the layers of snark and cynicism, once you’d pried Eames open with the emotional equivalent of a crowbar, Yusuf knew how fragile the man could be. Obtaining Arthur-the one person who might be his equal, the person he had been chasing for six years-and then losing him would be worse than never having started the relationship at all. Arthur had the power to break Eames, and so Yusuf worried.
Things came to a head one morning when the two of them strolled in together, hip-to-hip and sharing quick glances and tiny smiles. They threw themselves into work readily enough, but there was a connection there that hadn’t been before.
Yusuf waited until Eames was distracted altering one of Ariadne’s mazes before he caught Arthur’s attention.
“Arthur, could I have a word?”
Arthur looked up from his desk, the surface piled with neat stacks of folders. He nodded absently, levering himself to his feet and following Yusuf over to his corner lab. The chemist wandered back behind one of the tables, adjusting the drip of a new sedative he was trying to work into the Somnacin.
“You compiled dossiers on all of us, yes?”
“Of course.”
The ‘it’s my job’ went unspoken, Arthur’s tone a little wary, but Yusuf wasn’t concerned about his privacy. He knew Arthur’s skill set lay in the ferreting out of information. The point man would have been remiss to not do background checks on all of them.
“Do you remember what my file said about how I came by my knowledge of chemistry?”
Arthur tilted his head to the side, forehead crinkling.
“You attended UCLA,” he recalled. “Earned a B.S. double-major in Chemistry and Microbiology, with a minor in Neuroscience. You graduated at the top of your class, so the CIA offered you a job working with the new PASIV technology-Somnacin in particular. You left before I was recruited there, however.”
“And who did I intern for during my senior year?”
“One of your chemistry professors, if I recall correctly.”
Yusuf nodded.
“Yes, Dr. Patel. He had a grant from the U.S. government to study the current status of chemical warfare worldwide. I learned a great deal working with him.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow, politely attentive. Yusuf’s mouth quirked up in a smile. He reached out to tap the stopper of a glass bottle filled with clear liquid.
“This is hydrochloric acid. It’s similar to what you’d find if you opened up someone’s stomach and got through the protective mucus layer. Thankfully we have that layer, because otherwise it’ll burn straight through flesh.”
Arthur blinked. He opened his mouth to reply, but Yusuf continued on serenely, pointing out another bottle.
“That is perchloric acid: I was introduced to it by this wonderful girl who went on to work for NASA. It’s used in rocket fuel, generally. Very bad for soft tissue and the respiratory system-also, highly explosive.”
Arthur shifted his weight, arms folding across his chest, his features perplexed. There was bemusement there, and a hint of unease, but not yet the understanding Yusuf was aiming for.
“This is all…very disturbing, Yusuf, but I’m failing to see your point.”
“I’m your chemist, Arthur,” he explained patiently. “When you’re dreaming, it’s my job to tailor your dosage to meet your specific needs; to make sure you’re stable while under and won’t have any negative reactions when you wake up. I take that job very seriously, and I would never tamper with your Somnacin input.”
He leaned forward, palms flat on the table, smile vanishing.
“However, do not for a second think that I don’t know a hundred different chemical compositions that would kill you very slowly, and very painfully, if you were ever to hurt Eames.”
Arthur blinked again. A multitude of expressions flitted across his face-surprise, confusion, disbelief, suspicion-before he schooled his features into a perplexed mask.
“Eames is incredibly capable of handling himself, you know.”
“He knows probably forty ways to kill you with a thumbtack,” Yusuf agreed. He tapped his chest. “But this? He’s pretty bad at this. And you’re in a rare position, Arthur: a position that could destroy him, should you so choose.”
“I would never.”
Arthur’s reply was instant, quiet, and Yusuf studied his face carefully. There was fear there-fear of the unknown, of an uncertain future and inexplicable variables-but there was also the determination that so marked their capable point man. Determination, and stubbornness, and perhaps even a bit of that wonder Yusuf sometimes saw in Eames’ eyes while he was watching Arthur.
Yusuf considered him for a few more moments before straightening with a smile.
“Then we will have no problems between us. Thank you for your time, Arthur.”
Arthur nodded, turning to go. He stopped when he got to one of the partitions and looked back.
“I’ll never hurt him, Yusuf,” he said, the words a quiet promise.
Yusuf dropped his hand to one of the vials on the table, running his fingertips across the smooth glass surface in a promise of his own.
“See that you don’t.”
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