Happy Birthday ilovetakahana~!
Title: Green Bird
Fandom: Inception characters, Cowboy Bebop world
Characters: Eames, Arthur
Genre/Rating: All G, yo.
Notes: For ilovetakahana, on her birthday ^^ This is not only the first fic I've written from scratch in nearly ... 2 years? (severe rust and un-beta'd alert DX) but also the first male slash (it's there if you squint) I've ever written. Honestly, I don't read slash, but ilovetakahana is just so creative and writes with such warmth and enthusiasm, I just can't *not* read her fics. It's what writing should be about: love of your characters and sharing it with others. So thank you, ate~ I'm so grateful that you've shared so many of your stories with us, fic and otherwise <3 Happy Birthday!
References: Joseph Gordon-Levitt's version of I Don't Want To Live On The Moon and episode 5 of Cowboy Bebop, "Ballad of Fallen Angels"
It was the pain that woke him, shooting, throbbing pain that shoved him roughly into consciousness. The pain made it impossible for Eames to do anything but breathe, and even that was agonizing for the first couple of minutes. He kept his eyes closed, his breath shallow, and slowly, slowly pushed the pain aside so he could focus on other things, like what the hell had happened to him.
Eames gingerly went back through his memories, coaxing them out of their unsteady confines. It had started off like a regular job (once upon a time, there once was a bounty -) but instead of things ending like they usually did (- and then the mark was dead, the end), it seemed the other side hadn't agreed with his definition of "happily ever after." Things had gotten out of hand much too fast with not enough bullets to take out the enemy and too many in him and suddenly, he was faced with the choice of blow up or die. Eames, being Eames, had cast his lot with the blowing up because going through a window and falling several stories didn't always mean dying.
Not that he especially remembered the actual fall, much less the landing (Eames was quite alright forgetting that particular part). The present was much nicer to focus on now that the pain had settled down: the cotton warmth against his fingers (quite possibly the only part of him that he could feel was not wrapped in bandages), the sharp smell of black coffee, the soft strumming of a guitar.
And that's when Eames began to hear it, a soft voice rising and falling in a simple melody. He realized then that it had been this voice that had woken him, not pain. This voice had called to him, singing of - and here, Eames almost laughed - the moon and clams being family. Arthur, he wanted to say, in that tone that always made the man blush and suddenly, what Eames wanted, more than anything, was just to see that face.
Eames set his teeth and gathered his strength. He opened his eyes slowly, at first seeing only a mess of yellow ochre and lots and lots of ivory black. But he forced his eyes to focus, held on to that voice - I'll dance on a moonbeam and then - and the colors finally gave way to shapes. Ceiling, window, lamp, guitar, hands.
Eames had always loved to watch Arthur's hands - making coffee in the morning, unfastening cufflinks in the evening. Eames had been delighted the first time he'd caught Arthur doodling in his notebook, had pried the page free from those surprisingly strong hands only to find a stunning likeness of himself. (That was also when he'd learned exactly which tone to use to make Arthur blush.)
They had been in Spain the first time Eames had seen Arthur play the guitar. They'd had time to spare before a job and they had ducked inside a card room, Eames promising Arthur "just one game" but only rising from the table after nearly 2 hours. He'd finally found Arthur with some of the musicians in the corner, grinning and playing the guitar, looking like a young boy among the old men. He'd never seen Arthur really smile, not like that, not with his hair in his eyes or with his head thrown back or with his hands a flurry of motion.
It was a very different picture from the one seated before Eames at that moment. Arthur looked more like one of the old men, the lamplight casting long shadows across his face, shifting only slightly as he sang, as he strummed. Eames wanted that other Arthur back, smiling, lively. He wanted to reach out to him, but he could barely move, not without passing out.
Somehow Arthur had noticed some kind of movement (or just Eames' frustration) and he turned in surprise. Even though his vision was still a little fuzzy around the edges, Eames could still read the tension in Arthur's shoulders, the worry that lined his face, the tight grip around the neck of the guitar. It's okay, Eames wanted to say. I'm okay, so don't go to the moon. Please stay. But all Eames could manage was his name. "Arthur," he rasped, and tried to put all he could in just that one breath.
The effect was monumental. Eames was gifted with a completely new smile, one of utter relief and joy. It made breathing both easier and harder, seeing that smile, and it gave Eames enough strength to do the same.
"Just like that," Eames whispered, a smile at the edge of his lips, "Sing for me."
Fandom: Inception characters, Cowboy Bebop world
Characters: Eames, Arthur
Genre/Rating: All G, yo.
Notes: For ilovetakahana, on her birthday ^^ This is not only the first fic I've written from scratch in nearly ... 2 years? (severe rust and un-beta'd alert DX) but also the first male slash (it's there if you squint) I've ever written. Honestly, I don't read slash, but ilovetakahana is just so creative and writes with such warmth and enthusiasm, I just can't *not* read her fics. It's what writing should be about: love of your characters and sharing it with others. So thank you, ate~ I'm so grateful that you've shared so many of your stories with us, fic and otherwise <3 Happy Birthday!
References: Joseph Gordon-Levitt's version of I Don't Want To Live On The Moon and episode 5 of Cowboy Bebop, "Ballad of Fallen Angels"
It was the pain that woke him, shooting, throbbing pain that shoved him roughly into consciousness. The pain made it impossible for Eames to do anything but breathe, and even that was agonizing for the first couple of minutes. He kept his eyes closed, his breath shallow, and slowly, slowly pushed the pain aside so he could focus on other things, like what the hell had happened to him.
Eames gingerly went back through his memories, coaxing them out of their unsteady confines. It had started off like a regular job (once upon a time, there once was a bounty -) but instead of things ending like they usually did (- and then the mark was dead, the end), it seemed the other side hadn't agreed with his definition of "happily ever after." Things had gotten out of hand much too fast with not enough bullets to take out the enemy and too many in him and suddenly, he was faced with the choice of blow up or die. Eames, being Eames, had cast his lot with the blowing up because going through a window and falling several stories didn't always mean dying.
Not that he especially remembered the actual fall, much less the landing (Eames was quite alright forgetting that particular part). The present was much nicer to focus on now that the pain had settled down: the cotton warmth against his fingers (quite possibly the only part of him that he could feel was not wrapped in bandages), the sharp smell of black coffee, the soft strumming of a guitar.
And that's when Eames began to hear it, a soft voice rising and falling in a simple melody. He realized then that it had been this voice that had woken him, not pain. This voice had called to him, singing of - and here, Eames almost laughed - the moon and clams being family. Arthur, he wanted to say, in that tone that always made the man blush and suddenly, what Eames wanted, more than anything, was just to see that face.
Eames set his teeth and gathered his strength. He opened his eyes slowly, at first seeing only a mess of yellow ochre and lots and lots of ivory black. But he forced his eyes to focus, held on to that voice - I'll dance on a moonbeam and then - and the colors finally gave way to shapes. Ceiling, window, lamp, guitar, hands.
Eames had always loved to watch Arthur's hands - making coffee in the morning, unfastening cufflinks in the evening. Eames had been delighted the first time he'd caught Arthur doodling in his notebook, had pried the page free from those surprisingly strong hands only to find a stunning likeness of himself. (That was also when he'd learned exactly which tone to use to make Arthur blush.)
They had been in Spain the first time Eames had seen Arthur play the guitar. They'd had time to spare before a job and they had ducked inside a card room, Eames promising Arthur "just one game" but only rising from the table after nearly 2 hours. He'd finally found Arthur with some of the musicians in the corner, grinning and playing the guitar, looking like a young boy among the old men. He'd never seen Arthur really smile, not like that, not with his hair in his eyes or with his head thrown back or with his hands a flurry of motion.
It was a very different picture from the one seated before Eames at that moment. Arthur looked more like one of the old men, the lamplight casting long shadows across his face, shifting only slightly as he sang, as he strummed. Eames wanted that other Arthur back, smiling, lively. He wanted to reach out to him, but he could barely move, not without passing out.
Somehow Arthur had noticed some kind of movement (or just Eames' frustration) and he turned in surprise. Even though his vision was still a little fuzzy around the edges, Eames could still read the tension in Arthur's shoulders, the worry that lined his face, the tight grip around the neck of the guitar. It's okay, Eames wanted to say. I'm okay, so don't go to the moon. Please stay. But all Eames could manage was his name. "Arthur," he rasped, and tried to put all he could in just that one breath.
The effect was monumental. Eames was gifted with a completely new smile, one of utter relief and joy. It made breathing both easier and harder, seeing that smile, and it gave Eames enough strength to do the same.
"Just like that," Eames whispered, a smile at the edge of his lips, "Sing for me."