Fic: Clothes Swap (Inception, PG)
title: Clothes Swap
author: ilovetakahana
pairing: Arthur/Eames
characters: Arthur, Eames, Ariadne
warnings: super fluffy. pop-culture references galore. references to two men in an established romantic relationship. all notes, links, and pictures are at the end of the story.
disclaimer: I don’t own the original story or the characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.
summary: a fill for this prompt at inception_kink. Hope this is to the OP’s taste.
I took a cue for the suits from, of course, How to Dress Your Man/Character: An Informal Tutorial Heavy on the PicSpam.
The call comes on a blustery Thursday night in London.
“Looking for Eames,” says the rough voice on the other end, when Arthur picks up. He’s wearing one of his older shirts, all buttons done but cuffs rolled up, and a pair of black pants.
“I’m sorry, he’s not here right now - hold that, here he is,” and Arthur hands the phone to Eames. The smell of fish and chips rises from several packages of takeaway food.
“’Lo,” Eames grunts, “this is Eames. Yes. Where? All right, send me the details. Yes, I’ll fly out in the morning.”
The look he turns on Arthur is half-amused, half-apologetic. “You’re not terribly mad at me, are you?”
“What, for wanting to go on a job without me? Please,” Arthur shoots back, a sardonic little smile pulling up the corners of his mouth. “You know me better than that. One of our promises, remember?”
Eames bursts into laughter, green-paisley-clad shoulders shaking. “Yes, I remember too well. Now, come on, let’s get me packed up and then we can eat.”
Eames slings a muscled arm around Arthur’s shoulders as they wander back into their bedroom. There’s not much in it, as most of the space is taken up by a very large bed, and a very large closet.
Arthur watches as Eames hauls a rolling bag out of storage, taps his fingers distractedly against his lips, walks into one end of the closet.
“Well, there’s nothing for it, I’ve got to take these,” is Eames’s resigned huff. “Have to look like a proper gentleman and all, damn the job.”
Arthur raises one eyebrow as Eames reverently lays a three-piece navy pinstriped Zegna suit on the bed, properly wrapped in a loose-weave garment bag. And then he raises the other as the suit is joined by another, this one in dark gray glen plaid.
When Eames adds five Turnbull & Asser shirts to the pile - two white, one in royal blue with white cuffs and collars, one in lime green, and one in maroon - Arthur finally finds his voice. “And you’ve had those all along?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, pet, I had those made, hmm, two months ago. Now if you’re talking about these suits, yeah, I’ve had them for a year or so.” Eames looks in one of the closet mirrors to see Arthur’s expression, a twisted mix of amusement, respect, and I-am-trying-not-to-choke-on-my-own-annoyance.
“And you don’t wear them why exactly?”
“Don’t really see the point. My way of dressing is much better - relaxed, allows me to express myself....”
“And allows you to offend the rest of us with your atrocious taste, yes.” Arthur is now petting the shirts, fingers lingering over the sharp points of a collar, the crisp fold of a cuff.
Eames kisses him and starts to pack the clothes away. “I can hear the cogs turning in your head from here, love,” he calls as he looks for his shoes.
“I want you to wear these things. And nothing but. For a whole week.”
“Not exactly a hardship, love - not for you, anyway,” is Eames’s reply as he hangs the suits up near the door. “But I’m not playing this game unless you agree to my own terms.”
Arthur’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Name them.”
“You, in jeans and t-shirts for that same week. No hair products; I want to see you with your hair down. You’ll wear a proper pair of sneakers or you can buy yourself a pair of those colorful basketball boots that they make so well in America. And where I shall be clean-shaven, you shall be, hmm, scruffy. Deliciously so. You don’t agree with my terms, I shan’t agree with yours.”
There is absolute silence in the apartment for a few minutes, during which Eames retrieves the food from the kitchen, piling the packages on a large wooden tray that Arthur bought the first week he came to stay.
Halfway through his fish and chips Arthur wipes his hands on a paper napkin and holds one out to shake. “You have a deal, Mister Eames - on one condition.”
“Yes?”
“We are not, repeat not, working that week.”
“Done and done.”
***
Ariadne arrives in London two days after Eames leaves for his job.
[Arthur had woken Eames up by giving him a rather amazing blowjob, and had had to restrain himself from jumping him once he’d decided to wear the navy Zegna on the flight.
“Gives me some incentive to come home to you that much faster, darling,” is all Eames manages to choke out as he jumps into a taxi. He is smiling widely as it drives away.]
He’s dressed in a relaxed fashion when he picks her up at the airport: white shirt with red pinstripes, dark orange tie in a half Windsor, black jumper, dress slacks.
The first thing she does over tea and scones is show off her shoes: knee-length biker boots in black leather. “Jimmy Choos,” she says almost reverently. [1] She is wearing them with a miniskirt in gray suede, a crisp white shirt with an attached jabot in lace, and a matched set of blue cardigan, cloche, and scarf. “I nearly had a heart attack when I visited the store, you know, I felt like I wasn’t even supposed to be in there - but then I saw the looks on their faces when I pulled out my credit card, and they were all going mad,” and she giggles at the memory.
“Gave them heart attacks, didn’t you? They should see you shoot projections, or throw people and then yourself off a building,” Arthur grins, and gets punched in the shoulder for his trouble.
“So, what brings you to London?” he asks once she’s settled in her hotel, a couple of blocks away from his and Eames’s flat. They’re engaged in a friendly game of chess. He looks critically at her pieces and wonders which variation on the Sicilian Defence she’s going to use this time.
“What, a girl can’t visit?” Ariadne laughs merrily and kicks his shin; luckily, she’s shed her boots, and her bare toes don’t do much damage. “Well, actually, yeah, didn’t you ask me to buy you some stuff? Here, I have your email and everything, and I managed to get all these things shipped before I left....” She trails off, looks between her mobile phone and Arthur’s aghast expression, and rapidly puts the pieces together. “Oh, so it’s Eames who owes me money? What a relief. I was planning to ask you about these purchases, actually. Doesn’t seem like you.”
“I’m going to kill him,” is all Arthur mutters before he finally cracks a smile. “Damn him, he’s been planning this for a while, hasn’t he?”
“If ‘for a while’ you mean the past month or so, yeah,” and Ariadne dives into the nearest suitcase to pull out a handful of neatly wrapped t-shirts.
One of the shirts is alarmingly orange. [2]
“I quite like that one myself,” Ariadne offers when Arthur unwraps a white shirt with the Doctor Who logo and a TARDIS on the front. [3] “I don’t know, it seems like...you.”
“So if you’re the t-shirt courier,” and Arthur dodges this time when she kicks him in the shins again, “is someone supposed to show up with a pair of rubber shoes and some jeans - or do I at least have the option of getting my own?”
“You’d better get your own,” Ariadne says, nodding sagely.
***
Eames calls on the evening of the fifth day.
“All done here, love, and I’m flying home as soon as I put the phone down. Be a dear and put the tea on for around seven in the morning, will you?”
“Okay,” and Arthur writes himself a note on the dry-erase board on the fridge. “Does our week begin tomorrow?”
“Oh, you’re not working? Then yes.”
“Okay,” Arthur says again. “Come back home safe. Je t’aime.”
“Je t’aime, mon rêveur.” [4]
***
When Eames comes home, Arthur is leaning against the kitchen counter, wearing the dark navy “Super Genius” shirt and a pair of slim, straight jeans, indigo with faded areas around the knees and on the hips. [5] [6] The sunlight pours through the windows and onto his dark, sleep-mussed hair.
Eames licks his lips and simply walks in and kisses him.
***
Arthur sends Ariadne pictures of that week. Eames remains clean-shaven and formal in his suits, while Arthur wears the t-shirts, gets progressively scruffier, and leaves his hair in its naturally wavy state.
- On the steps of the National Gallery, eating ice cream and people-watching. Eames is wearing a gunmetal-gray suit with a maroon shirt and a white tie; Arthur is in the orange “This is my boomstick!” shirt, jeans, and a pair of red hi-top sneakers. [7]
- Riding the Tube, with Eames pretending to read a newspaper but actually winking at the camera. Eames is wearing a black three-piece suit with a blue shirt and a lime-green tie; Arthur is wearing a black shirt with a flying saucer on the front. [8]
- At Eames’s local, where Arthur has also become a regular, hoisting pints. Eames is wearing a blue three-piece suit with a dark red shirt and a purple tie, while Arthur is wearing the Doctor Who t-shirt. [9]
***
The next time they’re on a job together, Eames keeps the suits, but wears them with his usual loud shirts; while at least once during the planning process Arthur wears one of the t-shirts under his suit, and skips wearing a tie.
fin
NOTES
[1] - Ariadne's boots
[2] - Orange "This is my boomstick" t-shirt
[3] - White TARDIS t-shirt
[4] - "I love you, my dreamer."
[5] - Navy "Super Genius" t-shirt
[6] - Arthur's jeans
[7] - Arthur's sneakers
[8] - Black "I want to believe" t-shirt
[9] - Eames's suit - on David Tennant
author: ilovetakahana
pairing: Arthur/Eames
characters: Arthur, Eames, Ariadne
warnings: super fluffy. pop-culture references galore. references to two men in an established romantic relationship. all notes, links, and pictures are at the end of the story.
disclaimer: I don’t own the original story or the characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.
summary: a fill for this prompt at inception_kink. Hope this is to the OP’s taste.
I took a cue for the suits from, of course, How to Dress Your Man/Character: An Informal Tutorial Heavy on the PicSpam.
The call comes on a blustery Thursday night in London.
“Looking for Eames,” says the rough voice on the other end, when Arthur picks up. He’s wearing one of his older shirts, all buttons done but cuffs rolled up, and a pair of black pants.
“I’m sorry, he’s not here right now - hold that, here he is,” and Arthur hands the phone to Eames. The smell of fish and chips rises from several packages of takeaway food.
“’Lo,” Eames grunts, “this is Eames. Yes. Where? All right, send me the details. Yes, I’ll fly out in the morning.”
The look he turns on Arthur is half-amused, half-apologetic. “You’re not terribly mad at me, are you?”
“What, for wanting to go on a job without me? Please,” Arthur shoots back, a sardonic little smile pulling up the corners of his mouth. “You know me better than that. One of our promises, remember?”
Eames bursts into laughter, green-paisley-clad shoulders shaking. “Yes, I remember too well. Now, come on, let’s get me packed up and then we can eat.”
Eames slings a muscled arm around Arthur’s shoulders as they wander back into their bedroom. There’s not much in it, as most of the space is taken up by a very large bed, and a very large closet.
Arthur watches as Eames hauls a rolling bag out of storage, taps his fingers distractedly against his lips, walks into one end of the closet.
“Well, there’s nothing for it, I’ve got to take these,” is Eames’s resigned huff. “Have to look like a proper gentleman and all, damn the job.”
Arthur raises one eyebrow as Eames reverently lays a three-piece navy pinstriped Zegna suit on the bed, properly wrapped in a loose-weave garment bag. And then he raises the other as the suit is joined by another, this one in dark gray glen plaid.
When Eames adds five Turnbull & Asser shirts to the pile - two white, one in royal blue with white cuffs and collars, one in lime green, and one in maroon - Arthur finally finds his voice. “And you’ve had those all along?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, pet, I had those made, hmm, two months ago. Now if you’re talking about these suits, yeah, I’ve had them for a year or so.” Eames looks in one of the closet mirrors to see Arthur’s expression, a twisted mix of amusement, respect, and I-am-trying-not-to-choke-on-my-own-annoyance.
“And you don’t wear them why exactly?”
“Don’t really see the point. My way of dressing is much better - relaxed, allows me to express myself....”
“And allows you to offend the rest of us with your atrocious taste, yes.” Arthur is now petting the shirts, fingers lingering over the sharp points of a collar, the crisp fold of a cuff.
Eames kisses him and starts to pack the clothes away. “I can hear the cogs turning in your head from here, love,” he calls as he looks for his shoes.
“I want you to wear these things. And nothing but. For a whole week.”
“Not exactly a hardship, love - not for you, anyway,” is Eames’s reply as he hangs the suits up near the door. “But I’m not playing this game unless you agree to my own terms.”
Arthur’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Name them.”
“You, in jeans and t-shirts for that same week. No hair products; I want to see you with your hair down. You’ll wear a proper pair of sneakers or you can buy yourself a pair of those colorful basketball boots that they make so well in America. And where I shall be clean-shaven, you shall be, hmm, scruffy. Deliciously so. You don’t agree with my terms, I shan’t agree with yours.”
There is absolute silence in the apartment for a few minutes, during which Eames retrieves the food from the kitchen, piling the packages on a large wooden tray that Arthur bought the first week he came to stay.
Halfway through his fish and chips Arthur wipes his hands on a paper napkin and holds one out to shake. “You have a deal, Mister Eames - on one condition.”
“Yes?”
“We are not, repeat not, working that week.”
“Done and done.”
***
Ariadne arrives in London two days after Eames leaves for his job.
[Arthur had woken Eames up by giving him a rather amazing blowjob, and had had to restrain himself from jumping him once he’d decided to wear the navy Zegna on the flight.
“Gives me some incentive to come home to you that much faster, darling,” is all Eames manages to choke out as he jumps into a taxi. He is smiling widely as it drives away.]
He’s dressed in a relaxed fashion when he picks her up at the airport: white shirt with red pinstripes, dark orange tie in a half Windsor, black jumper, dress slacks.
The first thing she does over tea and scones is show off her shoes: knee-length biker boots in black leather. “Jimmy Choos,” she says almost reverently. [1] She is wearing them with a miniskirt in gray suede, a crisp white shirt with an attached jabot in lace, and a matched set of blue cardigan, cloche, and scarf. “I nearly had a heart attack when I visited the store, you know, I felt like I wasn’t even supposed to be in there - but then I saw the looks on their faces when I pulled out my credit card, and they were all going mad,” and she giggles at the memory.
“Gave them heart attacks, didn’t you? They should see you shoot projections, or throw people and then yourself off a building,” Arthur grins, and gets punched in the shoulder for his trouble.
“So, what brings you to London?” he asks once she’s settled in her hotel, a couple of blocks away from his and Eames’s flat. They’re engaged in a friendly game of chess. He looks critically at her pieces and wonders which variation on the Sicilian Defence she’s going to use this time.
“What, a girl can’t visit?” Ariadne laughs merrily and kicks his shin; luckily, she’s shed her boots, and her bare toes don’t do much damage. “Well, actually, yeah, didn’t you ask me to buy you some stuff? Here, I have your email and everything, and I managed to get all these things shipped before I left....” She trails off, looks between her mobile phone and Arthur’s aghast expression, and rapidly puts the pieces together. “Oh, so it’s Eames who owes me money? What a relief. I was planning to ask you about these purchases, actually. Doesn’t seem like you.”
“I’m going to kill him,” is all Arthur mutters before he finally cracks a smile. “Damn him, he’s been planning this for a while, hasn’t he?”
“If ‘for a while’ you mean the past month or so, yeah,” and Ariadne dives into the nearest suitcase to pull out a handful of neatly wrapped t-shirts.
One of the shirts is alarmingly orange. [2]
“I quite like that one myself,” Ariadne offers when Arthur unwraps a white shirt with the Doctor Who logo and a TARDIS on the front. [3] “I don’t know, it seems like...you.”
“So if you’re the t-shirt courier,” and Arthur dodges this time when she kicks him in the shins again, “is someone supposed to show up with a pair of rubber shoes and some jeans - or do I at least have the option of getting my own?”
“You’d better get your own,” Ariadne says, nodding sagely.
***
Eames calls on the evening of the fifth day.
“All done here, love, and I’m flying home as soon as I put the phone down. Be a dear and put the tea on for around seven in the morning, will you?”
“Okay,” and Arthur writes himself a note on the dry-erase board on the fridge. “Does our week begin tomorrow?”
“Oh, you’re not working? Then yes.”
“Okay,” Arthur says again. “Come back home safe. Je t’aime.”
“Je t’aime, mon rêveur.” [4]
***
When Eames comes home, Arthur is leaning against the kitchen counter, wearing the dark navy “Super Genius” shirt and a pair of slim, straight jeans, indigo with faded areas around the knees and on the hips. [5] [6] The sunlight pours through the windows and onto his dark, sleep-mussed hair.
Eames licks his lips and simply walks in and kisses him.
***
Arthur sends Ariadne pictures of that week. Eames remains clean-shaven and formal in his suits, while Arthur wears the t-shirts, gets progressively scruffier, and leaves his hair in its naturally wavy state.
- On the steps of the National Gallery, eating ice cream and people-watching. Eames is wearing a gunmetal-gray suit with a maroon shirt and a white tie; Arthur is in the orange “This is my boomstick!” shirt, jeans, and a pair of red hi-top sneakers. [7]
- Riding the Tube, with Eames pretending to read a newspaper but actually winking at the camera. Eames is wearing a black three-piece suit with a blue shirt and a lime-green tie; Arthur is wearing a black shirt with a flying saucer on the front. [8]
- At Eames’s local, where Arthur has also become a regular, hoisting pints. Eames is wearing a blue three-piece suit with a dark red shirt and a purple tie, while Arthur is wearing the Doctor Who t-shirt. [9]
***
The next time they’re on a job together, Eames keeps the suits, but wears them with his usual loud shirts; while at least once during the planning process Arthur wears one of the t-shirts under his suit, and skips wearing a tie.
fin
NOTES
[1] - Ariadne's boots
[2] - Orange "This is my boomstick" t-shirt
[3] - White TARDIS t-shirt
[4] - "I love you, my dreamer."
[5] - Navy "Super Genius" t-shirt
[6] - Arthur's jeans
[7] - Arthur's sneakers
[8] - Black "I want to believe" t-shirt
[9] - Eames's suit - on David Tennant
