Inception: you don't do it on purpose but you make me shake (1/?)
so uh. I've been working on this Eames-wakes-up-five-years-in-the-future fic on and off for a while now, and it was originally supposed to be aznanimefan's christmas fic, but I think it's clear by now how much success I've had with getting this done within a decent amount of time.
I normally don't like doing wips because I have this horrible horrible track record of not finishing any of them (also, because I don't plan my fics out properly and so a few thousand words in, I realize that I should have set up the beginning differently, and if it's already been posted, it's too late for me to change it) - but if I don't get this first part out, I have a feeling that I'll just sit on this until it rots on my laptop. the plan is hopefully, to post this part, so that I can then stop OCDing over it and work on subsequent parts. SO YES. title is blatantly stolen from soco's hurricane.
you don't do it on purpose but you make me shake (1/?)
inception: arthur/eames
pg, 2163 words
eames wakes up five years in the future.
When Eames goes to bed, he's alone. In between jobs with nothing pressing to do, he's back in his bedroom in his London flat for once, idly contemplating if he should head out for a holiday somewhere while he has the time (Cannes is nice this time of the year, he knows - or maybe Prague) as he falls asleep.
When he wakes, it's the middle of the night. Also, there's someone next to him.
It's only years of training that stops Eames from stiffening, because the last thing he needs is for the person beside him to realize that he's awake. Mind on overdrive, he tries to figure out what the hell is going on. With the lights off and curtains completely drawn, it's almost pitch dark in the room, and he can't really make out anything about the person beside him. There's a distinct lack of pounding in his head though, which rules out alcohol being involved. The only feasible explanation is that he'd gone and picked someone up at a bar last night - but the fact that he never brings strangers back to his actual flat aside, Eames is pretty sure that's something he would have been able to recall.
Carefully reaching for the gun he always keeps under the bed, he's just managed to grab it with his right hand without moving too much when the body next to him shifts.
"Eames?" comes a voice from the vicinity of his left shoulder.
"Arthur?" Eames asks after a long pause, because he would recognize that voice anywhere. Sitting up, he quickly reaches for his totem, letting the familiar ridges confirm that this is reality first before clicking on the bedside lamp. When light floods the room, he's greeted with the sight of a half-asleep figure.
Arthur barely has his eyes open, and there are lines on his right cheek from where he'd been pressing it into the pillow. "Eames? What's going on?" he asks, voice thick with sleep. He's wearing what looks like Eames' spare set of pajamas, although Eames can't fathom any situation where Arthur would willing wear something mustard yellow. At the moment though, Arthur doesn't seem to mind. He looks comfortable, and his hair is everywhere, the messiest Eames has ever seen it.
Now that the initial adrenalin rush has passed, the sight makes an oddly warm feeling swell in the pit of Eames' stomach.
"Darling," he says gently. "Not that I'm complaining or anything, but what are you doing here?"
"What are you talking about?" Arthur says, obviously trying to sound irritated, but the effect is quite ruined by the fact that he yawns halfway through the question and his eyes are half closed. "Look, Eames, it's like three in the morning. Can we talk about whatever it is when we're both awake?"
Eames considers protesting for a moment, because he's fairly certain that the fact he can't remember what Arthur's doing here is something that needs to be discussed rather urgently. But he's secretly a little delighted by the small line that's appearing on Arthur's forehead as he frowns at Eames, and so he finds himself agreeing instead.
He sinks slowly back into the bed, pulling the covers over them both. To his surprise, Arthur immediately turns towards him and throws an arm around his waist. Eames relaxes automatically, almost without his permission, because even if he has no idea what the hell's going on, his subconscious seems quite certain in the fact that because it's Arthur, nothing horrible is going to happen.
Sighing a little, he carefully lets their legs tangle together. He falls asleep again to Arthur's warm breath against his shoulder.
~
The next time he wakes, it's to a pair of lips pressing against his own.
"Good morning," Arthur's voice says, and then Eames is being kissed within an inch of his life. He lets out a small moan involuntarily, feels Arthur smile against his lips, and because Eames is weak in the face of temptation, he lets himself kiss back, just for a minute.
Arthur sighs quietly against him, warm and pliant and lovely in his arms. With what feels like enormous self-restraint, Eames places his hands lightly on Arthur's shoulders and pushes, just a little. Feeling Arthur pause, he takes advantage of the other man's confusion to ease himself back.
"Eames?" Arthur asks. He looks a little questioning, but comfortable and assured - like he belongs here in Eames' life instead of having appeared in the middle of the night.
Eames open his mouth, then pauses as he wonders how he's going to word this. "Darling. What are you doing here?" he asks finally. It's blunt but it gets the point across.
Arthur stares at him. "I live here."
Eames laughs. "No you don't, don't be silly."
"Eames. I've been living here for almost a year."
Eames look at him, disbelieving. "You can't be living here - this is my apartment." He would say more, but then he catches sight of Arthur's expression and the words dry up in his throat.
Arthur's staring at him like he can't believe what Eames is saying. There's a long terrible pause, during which Arthur just looks at him and Eames can't help but feel like the room has become noticably colder.
"Is this your way of telling me you don't want this relationship to continue anymore?" Arthur says eventually, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet in a way Eames has never heard before. It throws him off balance, because it's so unlike the always-composed Arthur he knows to show any sign of uncertainty.
Something tightens in his chest. He's more confused than ever, but his every instinct is telling him that something is horribly wrong - because anything that makes Arthur look like that could never be right. Eames has been in a dangerous profession for years now, and his gut feelings have never led him astray yet.
"Arthur," he says, making sure to keep his voice soothing and unthreatening. "I think you're misunderstanding me. I literally don't know how you're here. You can't have been living here for a year, because I think I would remember if I'd let you borrow my flat."
There's another pause.
"Eames. I'm not borrowing your flat - we've been living here together." Arthur says. He has a small frown on his face, but as much as what Arthur is saying makes no sense, it's secondary to the relief Eames feels at seeing that terrible uncertainty gone from Arthur's expression.
"Then why don't I remember any of this?"
"I'm taking you to the hospital," Arthur says, brows knit with worry. Before Eames can protest, Arthur is getting up, and Eames watches as Arthur opens the closet to pull out a crisp white shirt and a charcoal suit Eames doesn't own. In one fluid movement, he trades Eames' spare pajamas for the shirt, buttoning it up without looking before he selects a dark red tie Eames certainly does recognize.
"Isn't that my tie," Eames says, more a statement than a question. It should be the last thing he's noticing, all things considered, but it's worth it for the pleasure of watching the slight flush appear on Arthur's cheeks.
"Eames, get dressed," Arthur says, ignoring the question as he pulls the strip of material effortlessly into a half-Windsor.
Eames does so.
~
The hospital turns out to be entirely useless.
It probably has something to do with the fact that Eames can't actually answer their questions honestly when they ask him about what he remembers. He almost laughs when they ask if there's been anything stressful happening in his life lately - after all, he can't exactly tell them that his job involves forging into strangers and killing himself every time he wants to wake up. His life is the definition of high-stress.
When he and Arthur leaves three hours later, they're no closer to an answer than they were at the start of the day.
Arthur looks almost frantic. He'd spent the entire way back talking, asking Eames if he remembers this or that, and every time Eames is forced to admit that he has no idea what Arthur is talking about, Arthur's grip on the steering wheels tightens a little more. Now that they're back in the flat, he's pacing the living room like a caged animal, anxiety obvious. Eames is again struck by how very different this Arthur is from the one he remembers, how much freer he is in expressing himself - or just expressing himself around Eames, it might be more accurate to say.
Except maybe different isn't the right word, because for every way that Arthur's different, there's ten ways he's familiar. It's not that Eames isn't worried. It's just that - maybe if Arthur was a different person altogether, it would be easier to focus on how he himself is feeling. But this Arthur has all the same mannerisms, all the habits and idiosyncrasies Eames remembers. When he frowns, his forehead wrinkles up exactly the way Eames' Arthur does, and irritation still makes his eyes flash. It's not that Eames isn't worried, but in the face of this Arthur who is familiar in all the ways that matter, his own concerns feel secondary, somehow.
"Arthur," he says, putting a hand on Arthur's arm the next time the other man walks by, and ignores the way Arthur stiffens at his touch. "You're making me dizzy. Just sit down for a second."
"I met you in Copenhagen. We were both working the Sylvester job but on opposite sides, and the first time I saw you, you shot me in the shoulder." Eames meets Arthur's eyes. "Does any of that sound familiar to you?"
"You forgot the part where you complimented my ass," Arthur says wryly, and Eames gives an internal sigh of relief.
"Of course I did, sweetheart - those trousers are my favourite." He gives Arthur his most charming smile, and is gratified to see Arthur relax a little.
It's a slow process, but they work their way through the timeline, with Eames recounting his life in bits and pieces until they come to the point where Eames' memories end.
"You don't remember anything past the inception job?" Arthur pauses for Eames' nod before continuing. "That was five years ago."
"What do you mean, five years ago?"
"What year is it, Eames?"
"2010."
Arthur looked at him carefully. "It's 2015, Eames."
For the first time since he'd woken up that morning, Eames feels a jolt of shock. "That can't be right."
Arthur grabs the newspaper off the coffee table and tosses it at him, his action seemingly careless, but his eyes never leave Eames.
"Then where the fuck have I been for the last five years?" Eames runs a hand through his hair, then sits down heavily on the couch. "This can't be right. I swear it feels like yesterday, Arthur."
Arthur doesn't reply immediately, but the hand he puts on Eames' shoulder is warm and solid. "I'll call Dom and Yusuf, ask them if they've ever heard of anything like this happening. Maybe it's a chemical - I know you did some testing for Yusuf. That was almost three months ago, but it might be a delayed reaction."
Eames nods, not sure what else he could say, although it occurs to him now that it's strange for Arthur's first reaction to be to take Eames to the hospital rather than call his contacts. "Why didn't you call Dom first?"
"Dom?" Arthur looks at him, seemingly puzzled for a second. Eames sees the moment when understanding crosses his expression, and again, can't help the stray thought that he'd never been able to read Arthur like this before. "Eames, Dom is more or less retired now. We see him a couple of times a year, but he's busy with his kids - James and Philippa are both in school now."
Eames supposes that would makes sense, considering how the inception job had wrapped up - he'd just never really considered how things would naturally evolve five years down the line.
He resists the urge to bury his face in his palms, taking a deep breath instead. It helps, a little, and if nothing else, they have a course of action now. Hopefully, Yusuf had just screwed something up with his chemicals, in which case Eames was going to kick his butt later, and everything would be fine.
Sitting up decisively, he ignores the pool of dread still sitting in the pit of his stomach. "Well then, that's settled. What do you say we go for some food? We still haven't had lunch, and I'm starving."
He doubts he's fooling Arthur with his smile, but Arthur takes the cue just like Eames had known he would.
"After you, Mr. Eames," he says, gesturing to the door, and lets Eames lead the way to the fish and chips place two blocks down.
next.
101310 - 012411
I normally don't like doing wips because I have this horrible horrible track record of not finishing any of them (also, because I don't plan my fics out properly and so a few thousand words in, I realize that I should have set up the beginning differently, and if it's already been posted, it's too late for me to change it) - but if I don't get this first part out, I have a feeling that I'll just sit on this until it rots on my laptop. the plan is hopefully, to post this part, so that I can then stop OCDing over it and work on subsequent parts. SO YES. title is blatantly stolen from soco's hurricane.
you don't do it on purpose but you make me shake (1/?)
inception: arthur/eames
pg, 2163 words
eames wakes up five years in the future.
When Eames goes to bed, he's alone. In between jobs with nothing pressing to do, he's back in his bedroom in his London flat for once, idly contemplating if he should head out for a holiday somewhere while he has the time (Cannes is nice this time of the year, he knows - or maybe Prague) as he falls asleep.
When he wakes, it's the middle of the night. Also, there's someone next to him.
It's only years of training that stops Eames from stiffening, because the last thing he needs is for the person beside him to realize that he's awake. Mind on overdrive, he tries to figure out what the hell is going on. With the lights off and curtains completely drawn, it's almost pitch dark in the room, and he can't really make out anything about the person beside him. There's a distinct lack of pounding in his head though, which rules out alcohol being involved. The only feasible explanation is that he'd gone and picked someone up at a bar last night - but the fact that he never brings strangers back to his actual flat aside, Eames is pretty sure that's something he would have been able to recall.
Carefully reaching for the gun he always keeps under the bed, he's just managed to grab it with his right hand without moving too much when the body next to him shifts.
"Eames?" comes a voice from the vicinity of his left shoulder.
"Arthur?" Eames asks after a long pause, because he would recognize that voice anywhere. Sitting up, he quickly reaches for his totem, letting the familiar ridges confirm that this is reality first before clicking on the bedside lamp. When light floods the room, he's greeted with the sight of a half-asleep figure.
Arthur barely has his eyes open, and there are lines on his right cheek from where he'd been pressing it into the pillow. "Eames? What's going on?" he asks, voice thick with sleep. He's wearing what looks like Eames' spare set of pajamas, although Eames can't fathom any situation where Arthur would willing wear something mustard yellow. At the moment though, Arthur doesn't seem to mind. He looks comfortable, and his hair is everywhere, the messiest Eames has ever seen it.
Now that the initial adrenalin rush has passed, the sight makes an oddly warm feeling swell in the pit of Eames' stomach.
"Darling," he says gently. "Not that I'm complaining or anything, but what are you doing here?"
"What are you talking about?" Arthur says, obviously trying to sound irritated, but the effect is quite ruined by the fact that he yawns halfway through the question and his eyes are half closed. "Look, Eames, it's like three in the morning. Can we talk about whatever it is when we're both awake?"
Eames considers protesting for a moment, because he's fairly certain that the fact he can't remember what Arthur's doing here is something that needs to be discussed rather urgently. But he's secretly a little delighted by the small line that's appearing on Arthur's forehead as he frowns at Eames, and so he finds himself agreeing instead.
He sinks slowly back into the bed, pulling the covers over them both. To his surprise, Arthur immediately turns towards him and throws an arm around his waist. Eames relaxes automatically, almost without his permission, because even if he has no idea what the hell's going on, his subconscious seems quite certain in the fact that because it's Arthur, nothing horrible is going to happen.
Sighing a little, he carefully lets their legs tangle together. He falls asleep again to Arthur's warm breath against his shoulder.
~
The next time he wakes, it's to a pair of lips pressing against his own.
"Good morning," Arthur's voice says, and then Eames is being kissed within an inch of his life. He lets out a small moan involuntarily, feels Arthur smile against his lips, and because Eames is weak in the face of temptation, he lets himself kiss back, just for a minute.
Arthur sighs quietly against him, warm and pliant and lovely in his arms. With what feels like enormous self-restraint, Eames places his hands lightly on Arthur's shoulders and pushes, just a little. Feeling Arthur pause, he takes advantage of the other man's confusion to ease himself back.
"Eames?" Arthur asks. He looks a little questioning, but comfortable and assured - like he belongs here in Eames' life instead of having appeared in the middle of the night.
Eames open his mouth, then pauses as he wonders how he's going to word this. "Darling. What are you doing here?" he asks finally. It's blunt but it gets the point across.
Arthur stares at him. "I live here."
Eames laughs. "No you don't, don't be silly."
"Eames. I've been living here for almost a year."
Eames look at him, disbelieving. "You can't be living here - this is my apartment." He would say more, but then he catches sight of Arthur's expression and the words dry up in his throat.
Arthur's staring at him like he can't believe what Eames is saying. There's a long terrible pause, during which Arthur just looks at him and Eames can't help but feel like the room has become noticably colder.
"Is this your way of telling me you don't want this relationship to continue anymore?" Arthur says eventually, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet in a way Eames has never heard before. It throws him off balance, because it's so unlike the always-composed Arthur he knows to show any sign of uncertainty.
Something tightens in his chest. He's more confused than ever, but his every instinct is telling him that something is horribly wrong - because anything that makes Arthur look like that could never be right. Eames has been in a dangerous profession for years now, and his gut feelings have never led him astray yet.
"Arthur," he says, making sure to keep his voice soothing and unthreatening. "I think you're misunderstanding me. I literally don't know how you're here. You can't have been living here for a year, because I think I would remember if I'd let you borrow my flat."
There's another pause.
"Eames. I'm not borrowing your flat - we've been living here together." Arthur says. He has a small frown on his face, but as much as what Arthur is saying makes no sense, it's secondary to the relief Eames feels at seeing that terrible uncertainty gone from Arthur's expression.
"Then why don't I remember any of this?"
"I'm taking you to the hospital," Arthur says, brows knit with worry. Before Eames can protest, Arthur is getting up, and Eames watches as Arthur opens the closet to pull out a crisp white shirt and a charcoal suit Eames doesn't own. In one fluid movement, he trades Eames' spare pajamas for the shirt, buttoning it up without looking before he selects a dark red tie Eames certainly does recognize.
"Isn't that my tie," Eames says, more a statement than a question. It should be the last thing he's noticing, all things considered, but it's worth it for the pleasure of watching the slight flush appear on Arthur's cheeks.
"Eames, get dressed," Arthur says, ignoring the question as he pulls the strip of material effortlessly into a half-Windsor.
Eames does so.
~
The hospital turns out to be entirely useless.
It probably has something to do with the fact that Eames can't actually answer their questions honestly when they ask him about what he remembers. He almost laughs when they ask if there's been anything stressful happening in his life lately - after all, he can't exactly tell them that his job involves forging into strangers and killing himself every time he wants to wake up. His life is the definition of high-stress.
When he and Arthur leaves three hours later, they're no closer to an answer than they were at the start of the day.
Arthur looks almost frantic. He'd spent the entire way back talking, asking Eames if he remembers this or that, and every time Eames is forced to admit that he has no idea what Arthur is talking about, Arthur's grip on the steering wheels tightens a little more. Now that they're back in the flat, he's pacing the living room like a caged animal, anxiety obvious. Eames is again struck by how very different this Arthur is from the one he remembers, how much freer he is in expressing himself - or just expressing himself around Eames, it might be more accurate to say.
Except maybe different isn't the right word, because for every way that Arthur's different, there's ten ways he's familiar. It's not that Eames isn't worried. It's just that - maybe if Arthur was a different person altogether, it would be easier to focus on how he himself is feeling. But this Arthur has all the same mannerisms, all the habits and idiosyncrasies Eames remembers. When he frowns, his forehead wrinkles up exactly the way Eames' Arthur does, and irritation still makes his eyes flash. It's not that Eames isn't worried, but in the face of this Arthur who is familiar in all the ways that matter, his own concerns feel secondary, somehow.
"Arthur," he says, putting a hand on Arthur's arm the next time the other man walks by, and ignores the way Arthur stiffens at his touch. "You're making me dizzy. Just sit down for a second."
"I met you in Copenhagen. We were both working the Sylvester job but on opposite sides, and the first time I saw you, you shot me in the shoulder." Eames meets Arthur's eyes. "Does any of that sound familiar to you?"
"You forgot the part where you complimented my ass," Arthur says wryly, and Eames gives an internal sigh of relief.
"Of course I did, sweetheart - those trousers are my favourite." He gives Arthur his most charming smile, and is gratified to see Arthur relax a little.
It's a slow process, but they work their way through the timeline, with Eames recounting his life in bits and pieces until they come to the point where Eames' memories end.
"You don't remember anything past the inception job?" Arthur pauses for Eames' nod before continuing. "That was five years ago."
"What do you mean, five years ago?"
"What year is it, Eames?"
"2010."
Arthur looked at him carefully. "It's 2015, Eames."
For the first time since he'd woken up that morning, Eames feels a jolt of shock. "That can't be right."
Arthur grabs the newspaper off the coffee table and tosses it at him, his action seemingly careless, but his eyes never leave Eames.
"Then where the fuck have I been for the last five years?" Eames runs a hand through his hair, then sits down heavily on the couch. "This can't be right. I swear it feels like yesterday, Arthur."
Arthur doesn't reply immediately, but the hand he puts on Eames' shoulder is warm and solid. "I'll call Dom and Yusuf, ask them if they've ever heard of anything like this happening. Maybe it's a chemical - I know you did some testing for Yusuf. That was almost three months ago, but it might be a delayed reaction."
Eames nods, not sure what else he could say, although it occurs to him now that it's strange for Arthur's first reaction to be to take Eames to the hospital rather than call his contacts. "Why didn't you call Dom first?"
"Dom?" Arthur looks at him, seemingly puzzled for a second. Eames sees the moment when understanding crosses his expression, and again, can't help the stray thought that he'd never been able to read Arthur like this before. "Eames, Dom is more or less retired now. We see him a couple of times a year, but he's busy with his kids - James and Philippa are both in school now."
Eames supposes that would makes sense, considering how the inception job had wrapped up - he'd just never really considered how things would naturally evolve five years down the line.
He resists the urge to bury his face in his palms, taking a deep breath instead. It helps, a little, and if nothing else, they have a course of action now. Hopefully, Yusuf had just screwed something up with his chemicals, in which case Eames was going to kick his butt later, and everything would be fine.
Sitting up decisively, he ignores the pool of dread still sitting in the pit of his stomach. "Well then, that's settled. What do you say we go for some food? We still haven't had lunch, and I'm starving."
He doubts he's fooling Arthur with his smile, but Arthur takes the cue just like Eames had known he would.
"After you, Mr. Eames," he says, gesturing to the door, and lets Eames lead the way to the fish and chips place two blocks down.
next.
101310 - 012411