UTTER FLUFF FROM LAST NIGHT
Title: Cake.
Fandom: Inception
Word Count: 1,500
Rating: G
Pairing: Ariadne/Eames
Warnings: TOTAL FLUFF.
Disclaimer: Blah blah Chris Nolan blah no money blah don't sue me I have egg mayonnaise on my trousers.
Notes: Stanaconda Littlecake completed her epic to-do list, I asked if she wanted a story and she said "Write one where Eames mysteriously loses weight and Ariadne buys pastries to make him put it back on again".
The presence of a full-length mirror on the inside of her wardrobe is not something Ariadne has given much thought to. Intellectually she knows it would be easier to check her appearance on the way out of her apartment against something that shows her from the waist down, but practically she owns two pairs of shoes and there's a perfectly good one in the bathroom. Brogues go with suit, Converse go with everything else. It's very simple and providing her make-up is okay, her hair isn't flat, and her clothes aren't actually disgusting, Miles is hardly likely to have any complaints about her appearance.
She's also wholly sure that Eames does not use a mirror at any point in his sartorial rituals except the grimacingly meticulous combing and setting of his hair, and he does that in the bathroom behind a locked door so she can't make fun of him for it; he almost definitely gets dressed in the dark. It looks like he does.
So Ariadne is a little ... not thrown, exactly, but disquieted ... to find him admiring his reflection in the full-length mirror with his trousers held out by his forefinger and no belt or shirt on.
"D'you know," Eames says, beaming, "I think I've lost weight."
With Eames it is sometimes difficult to tell if he's being sarcastic.
"Ye-es," Ariadne says, inspecting him from the bedroom doorway with a sinking sense in her stomach, "I think you have."
"Look, there's an extra inch on the waist now," Eames insists, as if he hasn't heard her. "They're like clown trousers. Buh-doing. You could fit a whole other really thin person in there."
Ariadne catches his drift as quickly as she is wont to these days, and groans. "I am not trying to get into your trousers."
"Pity."
"Are you taking drugs or something?" she asks, frowning at him. The change is, now that she's looking for it, quite obvious. His face looks a little sharper, too, his chest a little flatter. Ariadne hmphs internally and puts her hands on her hips. "Is that where your pocket money's gone this time?"
He folds his smile up as neatly as one of Arthur's suitcases and releases his trousers - they settle limply on his hips, held up mostly by his underpants and good will - and says, "Not a chance. Not sure what's happened, to be honest -"
"Honest," Ariadne echoes with a snort.
"I took down a casino in Montenegro two months ago," he reminds her, "maybe that burned some calories."
"You were asleep when you did that, though."
"Well maybe I'm just losing some puppy fat," Eames says, poking his tongue out at her and patting his stomach with the same degree of affection that men usually reserve for real puppies. He's never been very affectionate toward dogs.
"You're thirty-six."
"Possibly thirty-six," Eames corrects.
"I think you've got worms," Ariadne says crossly, and she leaves him to inspect his diminished form on his own.
Pacing around the Ugly Sofa deep in thought she knows it's ungracious of her to begrudge him his accidental victory; she's always been built somewhat along the lines of a twelve-year-old boy, able to eat whatever she feels like without anyone haranguing her about blood pressure or heart attacks, after all, and he either is happy with his new-found slimness or is pretending to be happy about it for reasons that make sense to him ... but.
... but. There is no avoiding the fact that, with less bulk in his belly and less weight on his chest, with sharper cheekbones and more definition ... she just doesn't find him as attractive.
She knows it's stupid. She knows it's no different to him suddenly deciding she's unattractive because she puts on weight, and measures her hypothetical indignation. But when he comes out of the bedroom still topless and executes a thudding twirl before declaring himself "irresistable" she only feels moved to disagree violently.
Eames makes a face and lowers himself onto the Ugly Sofa pop-eyed and swearing, one of his knees making the disgusting and heart-clenching grinding noise that she's grown used to since he inflicted himself upon her. "Irresistable," Eames repeats, obviously in pain, "but not a ballerina."
"I'm going out," Ariadne says, a plan forming. "Don't move."
"I was going to run a hoover over the bedroom," says Eames, his feet up over the arm of the Ugly Sofa and his eyes already half-shut, "but if you insist." He's only wearing one sock.
"No you weren't," Ariadne mutters, exasperated. "Don't move."
He opens his eyes and peers up at her, upside-down. "Was that 'don't go anywhere, Eames,' or was that -" he modulates his voice until it sounds very much like hers, thick with lust and still clinging to the last traces of her original accent, "don't move?"
Ariadne slaps the top of his head with as much affection as she can, trying to pretend that his lack of bulk is down to foreshortening gone wrong. "Try to keep your hand out of your pants while I'm gone."
"Is that an -"
"Shut up," Ariadne suggests, closing the door behind her.
It's not until she reaches the patisserie and is picking out pastries with an eye for how ridiculously buttery and fattening they are that she has two alarming thoughts in quick succession: one is that she's perhaps overreacting a touch, which she quickly discards, and the other is maybe we're having sex too much.
It floors her so completely that for a moment she stands in the middle of the patisserie holding two twenty-Euro notes in her hand and frowning as if she's been presented with an impossible logic problem. It passes, along with the phrase oh god what if I fucked the fat off him, and it's all she can do to keep herself from giggling. No, this will not do. Cake first, self-recrimination later.
When she marches back in with a large paper bag full of ridiculous confections in her hand Eames is asleep or pretending to be asleep, his bare toe twitching in the air, and she walks right past him into the underused kitchen. There is a degree of guilt at this; Ariadne knows perfectly well that having an underused kitchen in Paris is a sin against humanity but she also knows that neither of them can fry an egg without needing to call the emergency services and their are perfectly good restaurants five minutes in every direction from the apartment.
"Can I get off the sofa now, I need to pee," Eames calls as she's laying cakes on plates on the kitchen table. She considers telling him no, he can stay there and wet his self, but it's not that kind of afternoon and besides, he lost weight and is getting no favours from her until he puts it back on.
“I bought cakes,” she says instead.
“CAKE.”
Eames is in the doorway as if he's been transported there by something other than his own legs, instant and grinning hopefully. Ariadne makes a grab for her pocket, holding a plate of cake in one hand and rubbing the base of a chess piece with the other. Apparently she isn't dreaming his annoying weight loss.
"I'm starving," Eames says cheerfully, holding out his hand for the cake.
She lifts the plate back and away from him. "I still think you have worms."
Eames considers this. "I have eaten everything else in the apartment. And I am still hungry -" he makes a brief, abortive feint for the cake.
"Look," Ariadne sighs, putting the cake down behind her on the table. "I don't know how to say this, but -"
Eames drags his attention away from the cake and treats her to a more serious look. "Do my parasites bother you?
"-- does your behind itch, Eames?"
Eames pauses in mid-scratch and says, "maybe," in what Ariadne judges to be an extremely defensive tone.
She sighs and rolls her sleeves up. "Put your shirt on. And your shoes. I am taking you to the vet. DOCTOR. I meant doctor."
He eyeballs her warily and turns his attention back to the cake. "Is that why the confections? Bribes? Trying to persuade me to be a good boy? What's wrong with having parasites anyway?"
Ariadne sighs and passes him a plate of cake topped with raspberry coulis. "I'm sorry. You just - you're too thin and I don't like it. I can't squeeze your moobs any more," she mutters, avoiding his gaze.
"Oh," Eames says, inspecting the cake. "Oh right, well then. How much cake did you buy?"
"Some."
"You might want some meatshakes or something as well," Eames says, his mouth full of cake. "Last time I had to put weight on in a hurry that's what I used. Creatine. Something."
Ariadne frowns at him, cake-flecked and relaxed, a plate dangling from his hand. "... Just like that? You're not annoyed?"
He shrugs. "Once, in --" he swallows "-- Scotland, I pretty much shat three stone. They were looking for someone big, so I, well, there are ways. It wasn't nice." He wipes a smear of coulis into his mouth, and swallows again. "You should see the things I've done to myself for expedience, darling. A little weight fluctuation to make you want to fuck me again is not exactly a hardship."
"Oh," Ariadne says, and, "Eat the rest of the damn cake, then."
"Is that an o--"
"Yes it is."
Fandom: Inception
Word Count: 1,500
Rating: G
Pairing: Ariadne/Eames
Warnings: TOTAL FLUFF.
Disclaimer: Blah blah Chris Nolan blah no money blah don't sue me I have egg mayonnaise on my trousers.
Notes: Stanaconda Littlecake completed her epic to-do list, I asked if she wanted a story and she said "Write one where Eames mysteriously loses weight and Ariadne buys pastries to make him put it back on again".
The presence of a full-length mirror on the inside of her wardrobe is not something Ariadne has given much thought to. Intellectually she knows it would be easier to check her appearance on the way out of her apartment against something that shows her from the waist down, but practically she owns two pairs of shoes and there's a perfectly good one in the bathroom. Brogues go with suit, Converse go with everything else. It's very simple and providing her make-up is okay, her hair isn't flat, and her clothes aren't actually disgusting, Miles is hardly likely to have any complaints about her appearance.
She's also wholly sure that Eames does not use a mirror at any point in his sartorial rituals except the grimacingly meticulous combing and setting of his hair, and he does that in the bathroom behind a locked door so she can't make fun of him for it; he almost definitely gets dressed in the dark. It looks like he does.
So Ariadne is a little ... not thrown, exactly, but disquieted ... to find him admiring his reflection in the full-length mirror with his trousers held out by his forefinger and no belt or shirt on.
"D'you know," Eames says, beaming, "I think I've lost weight."
With Eames it is sometimes difficult to tell if he's being sarcastic.
"Ye-es," Ariadne says, inspecting him from the bedroom doorway with a sinking sense in her stomach, "I think you have."
"Look, there's an extra inch on the waist now," Eames insists, as if he hasn't heard her. "They're like clown trousers. Buh-doing. You could fit a whole other really thin person in there."
Ariadne catches his drift as quickly as she is wont to these days, and groans. "I am not trying to get into your trousers."
"Pity."
"Are you taking drugs or something?" she asks, frowning at him. The change is, now that she's looking for it, quite obvious. His face looks a little sharper, too, his chest a little flatter. Ariadne hmphs internally and puts her hands on her hips. "Is that where your pocket money's gone this time?"
He folds his smile up as neatly as one of Arthur's suitcases and releases his trousers - they settle limply on his hips, held up mostly by his underpants and good will - and says, "Not a chance. Not sure what's happened, to be honest -"
"Honest," Ariadne echoes with a snort.
"I took down a casino in Montenegro two months ago," he reminds her, "maybe that burned some calories."
"You were asleep when you did that, though."
"Well maybe I'm just losing some puppy fat," Eames says, poking his tongue out at her and patting his stomach with the same degree of affection that men usually reserve for real puppies. He's never been very affectionate toward dogs.
"You're thirty-six."
"Possibly thirty-six," Eames corrects.
"I think you've got worms," Ariadne says crossly, and she leaves him to inspect his diminished form on his own.
Pacing around the Ugly Sofa deep in thought she knows it's ungracious of her to begrudge him his accidental victory; she's always been built somewhat along the lines of a twelve-year-old boy, able to eat whatever she feels like without anyone haranguing her about blood pressure or heart attacks, after all, and he either is happy with his new-found slimness or is pretending to be happy about it for reasons that make sense to him ... but.
... but. There is no avoiding the fact that, with less bulk in his belly and less weight on his chest, with sharper cheekbones and more definition ... she just doesn't find him as attractive.
She knows it's stupid. She knows it's no different to him suddenly deciding she's unattractive because she puts on weight, and measures her hypothetical indignation. But when he comes out of the bedroom still topless and executes a thudding twirl before declaring himself "irresistable" she only feels moved to disagree violently.
Eames makes a face and lowers himself onto the Ugly Sofa pop-eyed and swearing, one of his knees making the disgusting and heart-clenching grinding noise that she's grown used to since he inflicted himself upon her. "Irresistable," Eames repeats, obviously in pain, "but not a ballerina."
"I'm going out," Ariadne says, a plan forming. "Don't move."
"I was going to run a hoover over the bedroom," says Eames, his feet up over the arm of the Ugly Sofa and his eyes already half-shut, "but if you insist." He's only wearing one sock.
"No you weren't," Ariadne mutters, exasperated. "Don't move."
He opens his eyes and peers up at her, upside-down. "Was that 'don't go anywhere, Eames,' or was that -" he modulates his voice until it sounds very much like hers, thick with lust and still clinging to the last traces of her original accent, "don't move?"
Ariadne slaps the top of his head with as much affection as she can, trying to pretend that his lack of bulk is down to foreshortening gone wrong. "Try to keep your hand out of your pants while I'm gone."
"Is that an -"
"Shut up," Ariadne suggests, closing the door behind her.
It's not until she reaches the patisserie and is picking out pastries with an eye for how ridiculously buttery and fattening they are that she has two alarming thoughts in quick succession: one is that she's perhaps overreacting a touch, which she quickly discards, and the other is maybe we're having sex too much.
It floors her so completely that for a moment she stands in the middle of the patisserie holding two twenty-Euro notes in her hand and frowning as if she's been presented with an impossible logic problem. It passes, along with the phrase oh god what if I fucked the fat off him, and it's all she can do to keep herself from giggling. No, this will not do. Cake first, self-recrimination later.
When she marches back in with a large paper bag full of ridiculous confections in her hand Eames is asleep or pretending to be asleep, his bare toe twitching in the air, and she walks right past him into the underused kitchen. There is a degree of guilt at this; Ariadne knows perfectly well that having an underused kitchen in Paris is a sin against humanity but she also knows that neither of them can fry an egg without needing to call the emergency services and their are perfectly good restaurants five minutes in every direction from the apartment.
"Can I get off the sofa now, I need to pee," Eames calls as she's laying cakes on plates on the kitchen table. She considers telling him no, he can stay there and wet his self, but it's not that kind of afternoon and besides, he lost weight and is getting no favours from her until he puts it back on.
“I bought cakes,” she says instead.
“CAKE.”
Eames is in the doorway as if he's been transported there by something other than his own legs, instant and grinning hopefully. Ariadne makes a grab for her pocket, holding a plate of cake in one hand and rubbing the base of a chess piece with the other. Apparently she isn't dreaming his annoying weight loss.
"I'm starving," Eames says cheerfully, holding out his hand for the cake.
She lifts the plate back and away from him. "I still think you have worms."
Eames considers this. "I have eaten everything else in the apartment. And I am still hungry -" he makes a brief, abortive feint for the cake.
"Look," Ariadne sighs, putting the cake down behind her on the table. "I don't know how to say this, but -"
Eames drags his attention away from the cake and treats her to a more serious look. "Do my parasites bother you?
"-- does your behind itch, Eames?"
Eames pauses in mid-scratch and says, "maybe," in what Ariadne judges to be an extremely defensive tone.
She sighs and rolls her sleeves up. "Put your shirt on. And your shoes. I am taking you to the vet. DOCTOR. I meant doctor."
He eyeballs her warily and turns his attention back to the cake. "Is that why the confections? Bribes? Trying to persuade me to be a good boy? What's wrong with having parasites anyway?"
Ariadne sighs and passes him a plate of cake topped with raspberry coulis. "I'm sorry. You just - you're too thin and I don't like it. I can't squeeze your moobs any more," she mutters, avoiding his gaze.
"Oh," Eames says, inspecting the cake. "Oh right, well then. How much cake did you buy?"
"Some."
"You might want some meatshakes or something as well," Eames says, his mouth full of cake. "Last time I had to put weight on in a hurry that's what I used. Creatine. Something."
Ariadne frowns at him, cake-flecked and relaxed, a plate dangling from his hand. "... Just like that? You're not annoyed?"
He shrugs. "Once, in --" he swallows "-- Scotland, I pretty much shat three stone. They were looking for someone big, so I, well, there are ways. It wasn't nice." He wipes a smear of coulis into his mouth, and swallows again. "You should see the things I've done to myself for expedience, darling. A little weight fluctuation to make you want to fuck me again is not exactly a hardship."
"Oh," Ariadne says, and, "Eat the rest of the damn cake, then."
"Is that an o--"
"Yes it is."