Fic: Joie de vivre
Title: Joie de vivre.
Fandom: Good Omens/Inception mash-up.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Written for this prompt over at inception_kink. I am physically unable to resist writing Good Omens crossover/AU fic, complete with footnotes. It's a disease. Also, hooray! I'm writing again!
joie de vivre, arthur/eames, 1439 words.Eames breezes through the bookshop door with nary a care in the world, unshaven and rumpled and light on his feet, as always. Arthur doesn't bother to look up from his place behind the front desk; he is six for twelve on the latest crossword, and he's halfway through his morning tea, and it is eight on the AM.
The thing about Eames -- and there is always a thing, and always has been, throughout the long years of their Arrangement and before, when there was more than one thing of Eames' -- which is, if you refuse Eames any attention, he will saunter over to your personal space even when you have made it clear that your personal space is your Personal Space, and after hovering for a good minute, will proceed to break down any individualized barriers you may have had with a few simple and economical moves designed to make you as uncomfortable as possible. He does this with a good sidle and a hand on your shoulder, or arm, or waist, and a low half-rasped English murmur in your ear, and he will get a reaction any way he can, because that is simply how Eames is.
Arthur has lived with the angel's little idiosyncrasies long enough to know when to indulge them, when to provoke them, and when to shrug them off. Except he can't exactly shrug them off, because shrugging doesn't do a whole lot to dissuade him and the touching and the thrice-blessed rasping in his ear. He knows. He's tried. [1]
Why Eames does this, he has a vague idea; a vague idea that likes to make itself scarce when the space-invading barrier-breaking waist-touching occurs. Arthur has a very good poker face, and Eames has a very good work ethic. So they dance around each other. Not literally, mind, but figuratively. Obviously. Even though Arthur's pretty sure Eames would jump at the chance to tango.
(See -- that's another thing. The tango is one of Arthur's. It belongs to His Side. So does swing. Anything but ballroom and the gavotte, actually. Eames crosses lines, and doesn't seem to mind that he does, not as much as his superiors do. But honestly Arthur just stopped asking altogether when he found Eames balled up on his couch, headphones on his ears, listening to Queen.)
Today, Eames comes around the counter. He does the personal space sidle while Arthur looks resolutely down at his crossword -- seven out of twelve, now -- and puts a hand on his waist, leaning forward, very much a large physical presence as much as a large metaphysical one. Eames' breath catches the slicked back wisps of hair at Arthur's right temple as he murmurs, "Morning. Eight Down giving you trouble, darling?"
"No," Arthur says, stalling, not moving, not one inch. Eames hand is still at his waist, but it travels to the small of his back as he leans away slightly. He pulls down his sunglasses (sunglasses! At eight in the morning!) with a forefinger, revealing blue, blue eyes that Arthur knows are there but can't see, and peers over his shoulder.
"Hm." After a second of standing there, too close, Eames says: "Medea."
"What." (No inflection. Arthur can't be bothered.)
"Eight Down. Jason's wife. Medea."
(Arthur's bothered.)
Eames hums as he moves out from behind the counter, leaving Arthur feeling slightly less warm and slightly more irritated. He downs the rest of his tea in the next five minutes and makes the crossword answer itself out of spite while Eames browses the shelves, smiling to himself.
Arthur's book shop is located in a small corner of Paris, nothing flashy, bright, or obscene in any way, no thank you sir. Just because he's a demon doesn't mean he doesn't have class. While Eames is dressed business casual, Arthur aspires to higher levels of professional attire. There is no reason at all why he shouldn't be allowed to wear three-pieces simply because he runs a demonic book shop. His clothes, and to a lesser extent, the shop, are both in perfect condition, and they stay that way because the dust particles are too scared to touch anything with a surface. Arthur is meticulously neat, and doesn't like it when things get out of order, especially when those things are his things, so his things never do. Because if they do, Arthur sets them on fire.
It doesn't matter that the book shop is mostly a front. No-one really knows what it is that Arthur does, except for Eames, who hasn't bothered to put a stop to it yet. So it can't be that evil. In theory. [2]
And anyway, Eames comes into the shop every day, but he never picks anything out; the selections aren't so tedious as more or less Satanic, but there's a Fitzgerald or Hemingway here and there. Once, Eames snuck some CS Lewis into the Non-Fiction section, and of course Arthur noticed right away -- but for the life of him, he hasn't figured out why he hasn't burned it already, or why it had to be CS Lewis, of all things. It's gathering dust, though. So that's nice.
Right now, Eames is burying his nose in the cults and rituals section, looking for all the world like he's interested in it -- which, given his line of occupation, he probably is -- but Arthur can't stand it anymore and so he clears his throat loudly and authoritatively. Eames looks up with an eyebrow raised, sunglasses still perched on the end of his nose, and Arthur waves him over.
"Yes, dear?"
"I'm not your dear, and I know you aren't going to buy anything, Mr. Eames, so if you could save me the trouble of kicking you out for loitering-"
Eames looks hurt. Which is to say, he pouts. "That's rather unfair, don't you think? I was enjoying myself."
"I know you were," Arthur says coldly. Honestly, they've had this conversation so many times before that it's become something like writ.
They share a Look.
"Oh, I see," Eames says slowly, all infuriating charm and horrid fashion sense as he leans his elbows up on the counter, "You don't like me having my fun while you're stuck behind this moldy old desk, not getting paid, hm?"
Arthur glares at him, but before he can open his mouth to retaliate, Eames has pulled over his recently frightened-into-completion crossword and is looking at it. And not leaving.
"Eames," he says, his last shred of patience flapping in the wind, "There is no reason for you to be here at eight in the morning."
"There's a perfectly good reason," Eames says, still checking through the crossword.
"No, there isn't."
"There is."
"Is there?"
"You are."
"I'm what?"
"The reason."
Arthur rubs the bridge of his nose. For the love of- "What do you want, Eames?"
Eames smiles merrily up at him, pushes the crossword away, and straightens. "Breakfast."
In another world, Arthur might have said no. A world where his stomach was not insisting it digest something other than lukewarm tea, or a world which would provide him with customers before noon on a Monday. So he looks at Eames for a good thirty seconds and gives in, because Eames will pay anyway and it's absolute treason to turn down a good (free) French breakfast. His only physical indication of agreement is to move out from behind the counter and shrug on his blazer, and without looking behind him, he walks out the door with Eames on his heels. But not before he flips the sign from OPEN to CLOSED.
Eames buys them a brioche to split and they walk around the Jardin du Luxembourg, swapping banter. Arthur stops in front of the Palais, standing next to the large pool. A few ducks paddle slowly towards them; Eames, surreptitiously, leans in close. Arthur's right shoulder touches Eames' chest, Eames' left hand sneaking round to settle on Arthur's hip, a warm weight on an otherwise cool morning, and while Arthur refuses to acknowledge how not-bad it feels, he also doesn't move away. He can't. And maybe doesn't want to.
What he does do is crumble a bit of the brioche. And while Eames tickles his ear with his lips, chuckling quietly, he feeds the ducks.
+
[1]It should be noted that that particular incident went over awkwardly for all parties involved; Eames had come over for take-out and a movie, and while on the couch, had performed a maneuver not unlike the yawn-with-arm-over-the-shoulder technique. Arthur, not enjoying this, had shrugged him off. Eames, clearly enjoying this, had not let go. After a few seconds of shifting and tussle, Eames had Arthur pinned underneath him with his wrists next to his head and their foreheads inches from colliding, breathing hard. (Eames left before finishing his Pad Thai, and Arthur watched the rest of the film in silence.)
[2]Arthur is secretly a research nerd. Eames thinks this is funny and/or irresistable. Shh, don't tell anyone.
Fandom: Good Omens/Inception mash-up.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Written for this prompt over at inception_kink. I am physically unable to resist writing Good Omens crossover/AU fic, complete with footnotes. It's a disease. Also, hooray! I'm writing again!
joie de vivre, arthur/eames, 1439 words.Eames breezes through the bookshop door with nary a care in the world, unshaven and rumpled and light on his feet, as always. Arthur doesn't bother to look up from his place behind the front desk; he is six for twelve on the latest crossword, and he's halfway through his morning tea, and it is eight on the AM.
The thing about Eames -- and there is always a thing, and always has been, throughout the long years of their Arrangement and before, when there was more than one thing of Eames' -- which is, if you refuse Eames any attention, he will saunter over to your personal space even when you have made it clear that your personal space is your Personal Space, and after hovering for a good minute, will proceed to break down any individualized barriers you may have had with a few simple and economical moves designed to make you as uncomfortable as possible. He does this with a good sidle and a hand on your shoulder, or arm, or waist, and a low half-rasped English murmur in your ear, and he will get a reaction any way he can, because that is simply how Eames is.
Arthur has lived with the angel's little idiosyncrasies long enough to know when to indulge them, when to provoke them, and when to shrug them off. Except he can't exactly shrug them off, because shrugging doesn't do a whole lot to dissuade him and the touching and the thrice-blessed rasping in his ear. He knows. He's tried. [1]
Why Eames does this, he has a vague idea; a vague idea that likes to make itself scarce when the space-invading barrier-breaking waist-touching occurs. Arthur has a very good poker face, and Eames has a very good work ethic. So they dance around each other. Not literally, mind, but figuratively. Obviously. Even though Arthur's pretty sure Eames would jump at the chance to tango.
(See -- that's another thing. The tango is one of Arthur's. It belongs to His Side. So does swing. Anything but ballroom and the gavotte, actually. Eames crosses lines, and doesn't seem to mind that he does, not as much as his superiors do. But honestly Arthur just stopped asking altogether when he found Eames balled up on his couch, headphones on his ears, listening to Queen.)
Today, Eames comes around the counter. He does the personal space sidle while Arthur looks resolutely down at his crossword -- seven out of twelve, now -- and puts a hand on his waist, leaning forward, very much a large physical presence as much as a large metaphysical one. Eames' breath catches the slicked back wisps of hair at Arthur's right temple as he murmurs, "Morning. Eight Down giving you trouble, darling?"
"No," Arthur says, stalling, not moving, not one inch. Eames hand is still at his waist, but it travels to the small of his back as he leans away slightly. He pulls down his sunglasses (sunglasses! At eight in the morning!) with a forefinger, revealing blue, blue eyes that Arthur knows are there but can't see, and peers over his shoulder.
"Hm." After a second of standing there, too close, Eames says: "Medea."
"What." (No inflection. Arthur can't be bothered.)
"Eight Down. Jason's wife. Medea."
(Arthur's bothered.)
Eames hums as he moves out from behind the counter, leaving Arthur feeling slightly less warm and slightly more irritated. He downs the rest of his tea in the next five minutes and makes the crossword answer itself out of spite while Eames browses the shelves, smiling to himself.
Arthur's book shop is located in a small corner of Paris, nothing flashy, bright, or obscene in any way, no thank you sir. Just because he's a demon doesn't mean he doesn't have class. While Eames is dressed business casual, Arthur aspires to higher levels of professional attire. There is no reason at all why he shouldn't be allowed to wear three-pieces simply because he runs a demonic book shop. His clothes, and to a lesser extent, the shop, are both in perfect condition, and they stay that way because the dust particles are too scared to touch anything with a surface. Arthur is meticulously neat, and doesn't like it when things get out of order, especially when those things are his things, so his things never do. Because if they do, Arthur sets them on fire.
It doesn't matter that the book shop is mostly a front. No-one really knows what it is that Arthur does, except for Eames, who hasn't bothered to put a stop to it yet. So it can't be that evil. In theory. [2]
And anyway, Eames comes into the shop every day, but he never picks anything out; the selections aren't so tedious as more or less Satanic, but there's a Fitzgerald or Hemingway here and there. Once, Eames snuck some CS Lewis into the Non-Fiction section, and of course Arthur noticed right away -- but for the life of him, he hasn't figured out why he hasn't burned it already, or why it had to be CS Lewis, of all things. It's gathering dust, though. So that's nice.
Right now, Eames is burying his nose in the cults and rituals section, looking for all the world like he's interested in it -- which, given his line of occupation, he probably is -- but Arthur can't stand it anymore and so he clears his throat loudly and authoritatively. Eames looks up with an eyebrow raised, sunglasses still perched on the end of his nose, and Arthur waves him over.
"Yes, dear?"
"I'm not your dear, and I know you aren't going to buy anything, Mr. Eames, so if you could save me the trouble of kicking you out for loitering-"
Eames looks hurt. Which is to say, he pouts. "That's rather unfair, don't you think? I was enjoying myself."
"I know you were," Arthur says coldly. Honestly, they've had this conversation so many times before that it's become something like writ.
They share a Look.
"Oh, I see," Eames says slowly, all infuriating charm and horrid fashion sense as he leans his elbows up on the counter, "You don't like me having my fun while you're stuck behind this moldy old desk, not getting paid, hm?"
Arthur glares at him, but before he can open his mouth to retaliate, Eames has pulled over his recently frightened-into-completion crossword and is looking at it. And not leaving.
"Eames," he says, his last shred of patience flapping in the wind, "There is no reason for you to be here at eight in the morning."
"There's a perfectly good reason," Eames says, still checking through the crossword.
"No, there isn't."
"There is."
"Is there?"
"You are."
"I'm what?"
"The reason."
Arthur rubs the bridge of his nose. For the love of- "What do you want, Eames?"
Eames smiles merrily up at him, pushes the crossword away, and straightens. "Breakfast."
In another world, Arthur might have said no. A world where his stomach was not insisting it digest something other than lukewarm tea, or a world which would provide him with customers before noon on a Monday. So he looks at Eames for a good thirty seconds and gives in, because Eames will pay anyway and it's absolute treason to turn down a good (free) French breakfast. His only physical indication of agreement is to move out from behind the counter and shrug on his blazer, and without looking behind him, he walks out the door with Eames on his heels. But not before he flips the sign from OPEN to CLOSED.
Eames buys them a brioche to split and they walk around the Jardin du Luxembourg, swapping banter. Arthur stops in front of the Palais, standing next to the large pool. A few ducks paddle slowly towards them; Eames, surreptitiously, leans in close. Arthur's right shoulder touches Eames' chest, Eames' left hand sneaking round to settle on Arthur's hip, a warm weight on an otherwise cool morning, and while Arthur refuses to acknowledge how not-bad it feels, he also doesn't move away. He can't. And maybe doesn't want to.
What he does do is crumble a bit of the brioche. And while Eames tickles his ear with his lips, chuckling quietly, he feeds the ducks.
+
[1]It should be noted that that particular incident went over awkwardly for all parties involved; Eames had come over for take-out and a movie, and while on the couch, had performed a maneuver not unlike the yawn-with-arm-over-the-shoulder technique. Arthur, not enjoying this, had shrugged him off. Eames, clearly enjoying this, had not let go. After a few seconds of shifting and tussle, Eames had Arthur pinned underneath him with his wrists next to his head and their foreheads inches from colliding, breathing hard. (Eames left before finishing his Pad Thai, and Arthur watched the rest of the film in silence.)
[2]Arthur is secretly a research nerd. Eames thinks this is funny and/or irresistable. Shh, don't tell anyone.