Turnabout Is Fair Play
Title: Turnabout Is Fair Play
Fandom: Inception
Rating: G. Safe for all ages. There is a bit of swearing though.
Characters: Ariadne, Arthur, Cobb, Eames, Yusuf
Summary: Done for an inception_kink prompt. Very crackish. Whenever Eames wants to annoy Arthur he starts humming Rule Britannia and Arthur gets it stuck in his head for days, damn you to hell, Eames. Mild Arthur/Eames.
Note: For reference, the songs referred to are here and here. Lyrics for Rule Britannia are from wiki, it was set to music by Thomas Arne. And good Lord, but now the song is stuck in my head. Yikes. Whacked out a quick response to the OP and I'm a bit out of practice for humor/crack so this is probably crap.
-
It’s almost Pavlovian, Eames thinks contentedly, watching the tight line of Arthur’s back. Normally, Arthur has abominable posture, but by the first few bars, Arthur snaps upright, ramrod straight.
He doesn’t bother to hide the smug smile that curls contentedly around the edges of his mouth. Arthur’s getting better at recognising this, he’ll grant him that. It took him until the chorus the last time. He taps his pencil absently against the table and hums the next few bars.
There aren’t really that many verses in Rule Britannia, truth to be told. But the chorus is one hell of a catchy tune, and he’ll be buggered if he can’t improvise a bunch of verses in his head just to keep humming the chorus and watching the fireworks. So as to speak.
Arthur’s been on the same page of the file for a suspiciously long time.
“Eames,” he calls out. Eames sneaks a peek from the corner of his eye. Arthur’s mouth is set in a tight, thin line of disapproval.
“Hmm?”
“Would you please stop it?”
“Stop what?” Eames asks, innocently.
There is a pause. “You know,” Arthur says, flatly.
“Arthur, I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Eames says. He taps the pencil against the table and hums a few more notes and watches Arthur look even more disapproving.
“That,”
“What?”
“That song!” Arthur snaps, and checks himself, before continuing, in a more measured tone. “Be patriotic somewhere else. Some of us are trying to be productive here.”
“Actually,” Yusuf cuts in, “It’s not half that bad a tune. I can think of worse.”
“Now, Arthur, I rather resent that,” Eames says, slipping into an American accent, and watching with some pleasure as Ariadne blinks and turns away from the building model she is working on. “How do you know I’m not actually American?”
“You’re not British?” Ariadne asks, curious. “You sound British.”
“I’m British,” Yusuf comments. He flips up the protective goggles he’s wearing, as he pauses. “I am quite aware that I sound British.”
“Because,” Arthur said, very dryly, abandoning all pretense of reading his research, “I do run background checks, Eames. And I know for a fact that you are, in fact, British. That would be - “ He pauses, and then abandons that line of conversation. “Why am I even indulging you?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Eames remarks casually, “I do wonder sometimes, you know.”
Arthur makes a disgruntled sound, ignores him, and turns back to the file. Eames waits for a few moments, just in time for Arthur’s hand to move towards the edge of the file to turn the page, and then starts again.
Arthur’s hand pauses abruptly, and then he turns the page. Maybe just a little more deliberately than normal. Eames smirks as he watches the tight line of Arthur’s shoulders.
“Rule, Britannia! Britannia rule the waves - “
“Eames,” Arthur grinds out.
“It wasn’t me,” Eames says. And it’s true. He’d know that soft, cheerful, light tenor anywhere.
“I’m sorry,” Yusuf says, embarrassed. “You have to admit it is catchy. And there are worse songs.”
“Yusuf,” Arthur says, tiredly, “Could you please practice your patriotism elsewhere?”
“Oi,” Eames calls out. He doesn’t even bother to look up this time. “Bullying the Brits now, are we?”
Arthur doesn’t have a retort handy, not this time because Yusuf pitched in, and Arthur generally isn’t mean to Yusuf. Eames smiles lazily as Arthur gives him a flatly hostile glare and then says, firmly, “Eames. Stop that,” and goes back to his work.
This time, he takes just a bit of pity on Arthur and waits maybe ten minutes before he starts up again. Eames takes it up a few bars before the chorus, softly at first. And then he hears a higher-pitched voice joining in and flicks a glance in Ariadne’s direction. She’s got a good ear, he thinks, to pick it up after a few repetitions. But then again, the song is catchy, one of the bloody annoying ones that get stuck in your head after a short while. Or maybe she’s heard it before.
A few bars later, they’re in the chorus and louder, and Yusuf gives in and joins in, still absently scribbling notes in pencil on a notepad, and barely paying them any attention.
“Eames,” Arthur snaps.
Eames gives him an innocent shrug, and indicates Ariadne.
“Sorry Arthur,” she calls out, helplessly. “It’s stuck in my head now.”
Yusuf is doing a credible rendition of a one-man show, and Eames smiles when he sees Arthur’s left foot tapping out the rhythm.
Arthur follows his glance, becomes abruptly aware of it, and realises he’s been outmaneuvered and is quite outnumbered.
“Damn you to hell, Eames,” he snaps, and turns away and goes back to his work again. Eames notes with glee that Arthur hasn’t moved from the same page in what must be twenty-six minutes.
Approximately three minutes later, someone starts humming Rule Britannia.
“It’s not me,” Yusuf calls out, immediately. He sounds just a bit aggravated, and Eames resolves to buy the man a drink. Preferably not around the same time as when Yusuf is working with his chemicals.
Eames is definitely smirking now. He knows who that is.
Ariadne frowns. She glances up, and around them, trying to place who’s starting up again. “Arthur?” She mouths at Eames, who smirks, and leans back in his chair and watches Arthur tap out the beat, frowning at the page.
“Really, Arthur?” Eames drawls, “Are you trying to swap countries now?”
Arthur’s foot stills. He snaps the file sharply shut, stands up and stalks out of the room. He pauses at the door to shoot Eames a dirty look. “I hope you’re happy now, Eames,” he says, disgruntled. “It’s going to be days before I can get the song out of my head.”
“You forgot your man bag!” Eames calls after him, but the door slams shut on his words.
“Do you really like that song?” Ariadne asks, after a short pause.
“Actually,” Eames says, offended, “I do like it. As a matter of fact. And national pride. Yusuf here, on the other hand, prefers Jerusalem. I like to think it’s a matter of William Blake, and not taste.”
“I’d like to think it’s a matter of taste,” Yusuf mutters. “He hums it all the time, just to be bloody irritating.”
Ariadne flicks a glance towards the closed door. “You know,” she says, after a pause. “That was positively evil.”
“I know,” Eames says. He finds himself humming Rule Britannia again, triumphantly, and quickening the tempo by a few cheerful beats. “But he’s going to have it stuck in his head for days and days. It’s rather amusing,”
“Actually,” Yusuf notes, “It is far more likely because you have done this to him many times before.”
Ariadne stares at Eames.
“Oh, all right,” he concedes, “It is rather evil. But I am, as you have noticed, Ariadne, a very wicked man. And yes, Yusuf, how did you guess?”
“I am not blind,” Yusuf points out. “Nor am I quite deaf. You are like a child with a toy, Eames, when it comes to a few select tricks of yours. And you are smiling like a cat that has eaten four bowls of cream.”
Eames beams. “Why, thank you, Yusuf,” he says. “But you can’t deny they work very well. Oh, and Ariadne?”
She turns back to look at him. “Yes?”
“Don’t go into a dream with Arthur for the next few days or so,” Eames warns, jovially.
“Why?” she wants to know.
Eames just smirks.
-
As it turns out, the next time they go into a dream, it’s with Cobb, while Yusuf monitors their vitals.
“Eames,” Cobb says. He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You did that, didn’t you?”
“What?” Eames asks.
A grin threatens to break loose on Ariadne’s face. She coughs lightly and suddenly finds the atrium very interesting.
“This,” Cobb says, dryly. “The last time I checked, Arthur’s dreams didn’t come with a full orchestral soundtrack, with Rule Britannia on loop. And the last time this happened was when you took it into your head to loop it on the workshop PC.”
“Eames,” Arthur says. His hands are shoved in the pockets of his brown coat, and he stares at Eames with a lot more distaste than necessary. “I hope you are happy. We will now have to listen to two and a half hours of Arne, because you found it necessary to start.”
“You mean you don’t think two and a half hours of Arne isn’t a rather nice change of pace there?”
“He has a point,” Ariadne observes. She is most decidedly not looking anywhere else except the very interesting pillar. White, plaster, but absolutely captivating.
When they wake up, Arthur is still humming snatches of it under his breath. He stops then, and disgustedly rips the IV out of his arm with just a bit more force than necessary, before walking off.
Yusuf glanced at Eames, who shrugs.
“Poor man,” Eames says. “Rather high-strung, don’t you think? Must be the job. Cobb placing undue stress on him, and all. I should send him a CD for Christmas. Or his birthday. Or some occasion.”
Yusuf snorts. “And what, I wonder, will be on it?”
“It’s just classical music,” Eames says piously. “It will ease his mind. Perhaps a little Arne.”
“You are an evil man.”
“Of course I am,” Eames smirks, lazily, glancing in the direction that Arthur has left. “It’s one of my charms.”
“Indubitably appreciated,” Yusuf adds, acerbically.
-
Arthur’s appreciation comes two days later.
Eames is busy trying to check some of the research against the data Saito’s sources have sent on the workshop PC when it starts.
“Really, Arthur,” he calls out. There’s only one person who would or could do this.
“Not me,” Arthur says. He doesn’t even glance up from his laptop. “I’m nowhere near your PC.”
“You’re the one with that fancy MIT degree,” Eames points out, suspiciously. “You probably remotely set off the program or something.”
Arthur shrugs. “We are suspicious today, aren’t we?” He remarks, nonchalantly.
Eames isn’t fooled. He narrows his eyes. “Axel F?” He demands. The document is nowhere to be seen, and there is nothing but the video images of the damned futuristic city and the bloody annoying frog that always makes him want to take a hammer to the computer. And the bloody annoying tune that sticks, and sticks fast, and he finds that he wants to tap his fingers to it. And it’s techno.
Arthur smirks. The smile touches his lips, brushes softly past the corners of his mouth, and faintly reveals his dimples.
“Turnabout,” he says, “Is fair play.”
Right then, Eames can think of some other forms of turnabout he’d like to have. Damn him to hell.
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