Fic: Next of Kin (Inception, PG)
title: Next of Kin
author: ilovetakahana
pairing: Arthur/Eames
warnings: strong language, unspecified violence, unexpected Britishisms, schmoop. Unbeta'd.
disclaimer: I don't own the original story or the characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.
summary: written for veritty's prompt at inception_kink. Hope this was what the OP wanted.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org.
The nice thing about wearing suits is that there are pockets in unexpected places.
He keeps his totem in the pockets of his trousers, of course, and the Moleskine notebook and black pen that he uses for taking notes. Keys to whatever car he's made off with this week and whichever hotel room he's staying in. A fistful of bills and change in whatever currency he's supposed to have on a job.
His jacket's pockets are also often occupied: some candy to ward off the occasional attack of hypoglycemia, odds and ends such as a bit of string that he bummed off Ariadne for some reason that he can't remember now, a clumsily folded paper heart from James [with the crayoned inscription "Too Unca Artr I lov u"], the corner of a map of Paris, an ink refill for his pen, a stray packet of brown sugar.
But he has a pocket sewn into the inner lining of every waistcoat, and that pocket only contains one thing: a thick, sturdy piece of cream washi flecked with gray and gold.
On this paper, in his sturdy, small handwriting, is written a series of letters and numbers that unscramble to the following name and address:
Stuart Eames
18 St James's Square
London SW1Y 4LB England
***
And this is how Eames finds out:
The call comes in the middle of the night. There is a loud pounding on Eames's door, and the sounds of several voices shouting:
"Eames! Open the goddamned door before I shoot my way through!" And, "I said, he knows who I am, he knows who we are, please let us in!"
"Stuart!"
He stops dead in his tracks. His Nan never calls him by his given name unless it's trouble, and when he was much younger trouble meant him, and the instigation thereof.
"Stuart! The whole world's fallen in, kindly wake up!"
And then there's one more voice:
"Ariadne, tell him it's me."
Eames checks his totem - the pocket watch's hands are standing still - rockets into a bathrobe and runs through his apartment, whips open the door - to find Arthur propped across Ariadne and Yusuf's shoulders, dress shirt stained in several shades of red and rust.
Arthur has just enough strength to mumble, "Sorry about this," before he passes out.
"What in FUCK?" is all he manages, before he pulls them all roughly in. His voice becomes crisp, commanding. "Yusuf: first aid kit's in the hall closet. Nan: please put the kettle on. Ariadne: what happened?"
"Job gone wrong," is the clipped response. "Counter-extraction, the client wanted us to take some bad shit out of his head. We got invaded by the client's rivals."
"You were the brain bleach?" Eames asks incredulously. All this time he has been settling the now-unconscious Arthur on his couch, carefully easing him out of his bloodied clothes.
She lets out a slightly hysterical laugh. "Yeah."
"Did you succeed?"
"Yes, that's how Arthur got shot. He was the last one out of the dream."
Eames sighs, and his hands go still at last. "Well, you're here, and you're all safe for now. That's all that matters. Go help yourself to the booze; it's in the kitchen. Tell Nan I told you to get the good stuff. You can stay in the guest room; she'll tell you where it is."
When Yusuf returns, he nods kindly and sends him off to get some rest too.
His Nan brings him tea, the bottle of whiskey, an extra set of pyjamas, and some toast. She helps him redress Arthur, shares an understanding smile with him, and leaves quietly.
As he crumples up Arthur's destroyed shirt, jacket, and waistcoat, Eames silently promises to buy him another set. Something crinkles in the waistcoat, and he dips into the inside pocket to find a piece of bloodied paper.
Eames is amazed to find that he knows how to crack the cipher: it has to do with the number 42.
He is not amazed when the code resolves into his own name and address.
***
"And how," Eames asks Arthur in the kitchen a few days later, after Ariadne has returned to Paris and Yusuf has gone back to Mombasa, "was anyone else going to figure out that you have me listed as next-of-kin, Arthur?"
Arthur smiles weakly over his bowl of noodle soup. He is still a little pale, but his appetite is coming back, and for that, Eames is glad. "Well, we work together frequently, don't we? And at least I trust you enough to drag me away if things went bad. So I meant for you to find that piece of paper."
"Hmm. Thank you for the vote of confidence." Eames adds milk to his tea. "Did Ariadne also crack the code?"
"Of course not. I just told her where you lived."
Eames smiles, puts an arm around Arthur's shoulders, presses a kiss into his hair. "I guess that's my cue to spill the beans," he says warmly.
Arthur merely raises an eyebrow at him.
Eames produces a piece of black paper from his wallet: there's nothing on it but a series of silver lines that crisscross each other at intervals, and a letter X placed somewhere in the diagram.
It takes Arthur all of three seconds to decipher it. "This is a map to my apartment in Barcelona."
"From the airport, yeah."
Arthur contemplates the carefully-drawn map for a moment and then reaches out, places the back of his hand against Eames's stubbled cheek.
Eames simply turns his hand around, kisses his palm, smiles.
author: ilovetakahana
pairing: Arthur/Eames
warnings: strong language, unspecified violence, unexpected Britishisms, schmoop. Unbeta'd.
disclaimer: I don't own the original story or the characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.
summary: written for veritty's prompt at inception_kink. Hope this was what the OP wanted.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org.
The nice thing about wearing suits is that there are pockets in unexpected places.
He keeps his totem in the pockets of his trousers, of course, and the Moleskine notebook and black pen that he uses for taking notes. Keys to whatever car he's made off with this week and whichever hotel room he's staying in. A fistful of bills and change in whatever currency he's supposed to have on a job.
His jacket's pockets are also often occupied: some candy to ward off the occasional attack of hypoglycemia, odds and ends such as a bit of string that he bummed off Ariadne for some reason that he can't remember now, a clumsily folded paper heart from James [with the crayoned inscription "Too Unca Artr I lov u"], the corner of a map of Paris, an ink refill for his pen, a stray packet of brown sugar.
But he has a pocket sewn into the inner lining of every waistcoat, and that pocket only contains one thing: a thick, sturdy piece of cream washi flecked with gray and gold.
On this paper, in his sturdy, small handwriting, is written a series of letters and numbers that unscramble to the following name and address:
Stuart Eames
18 St James's Square
London SW1Y 4LB England
***
And this is how Eames finds out:
The call comes in the middle of the night. There is a loud pounding on Eames's door, and the sounds of several voices shouting:
"Eames! Open the goddamned door before I shoot my way through!" And, "I said, he knows who I am, he knows who we are, please let us in!"
"Stuart!"
He stops dead in his tracks. His Nan never calls him by his given name unless it's trouble, and when he was much younger trouble meant him, and the instigation thereof.
"Stuart! The whole world's fallen in, kindly wake up!"
And then there's one more voice:
"Ariadne, tell him it's me."
Eames checks his totem - the pocket watch's hands are standing still - rockets into a bathrobe and runs through his apartment, whips open the door - to find Arthur propped across Ariadne and Yusuf's shoulders, dress shirt stained in several shades of red and rust.
Arthur has just enough strength to mumble, "Sorry about this," before he passes out.
"What in FUCK?" is all he manages, before he pulls them all roughly in. His voice becomes crisp, commanding. "Yusuf: first aid kit's in the hall closet. Nan: please put the kettle on. Ariadne: what happened?"
"Job gone wrong," is the clipped response. "Counter-extraction, the client wanted us to take some bad shit out of his head. We got invaded by the client's rivals."
"You were the brain bleach?" Eames asks incredulously. All this time he has been settling the now-unconscious Arthur on his couch, carefully easing him out of his bloodied clothes.
She lets out a slightly hysterical laugh. "Yeah."
"Did you succeed?"
"Yes, that's how Arthur got shot. He was the last one out of the dream."
Eames sighs, and his hands go still at last. "Well, you're here, and you're all safe for now. That's all that matters. Go help yourself to the booze; it's in the kitchen. Tell Nan I told you to get the good stuff. You can stay in the guest room; she'll tell you where it is."
When Yusuf returns, he nods kindly and sends him off to get some rest too.
His Nan brings him tea, the bottle of whiskey, an extra set of pyjamas, and some toast. She helps him redress Arthur, shares an understanding smile with him, and leaves quietly.
As he crumples up Arthur's destroyed shirt, jacket, and waistcoat, Eames silently promises to buy him another set. Something crinkles in the waistcoat, and he dips into the inside pocket to find a piece of bloodied paper.
Eames is amazed to find that he knows how to crack the cipher: it has to do with the number 42.
He is not amazed when the code resolves into his own name and address.
***
"And how," Eames asks Arthur in the kitchen a few days later, after Ariadne has returned to Paris and Yusuf has gone back to Mombasa, "was anyone else going to figure out that you have me listed as next-of-kin, Arthur?"
Arthur smiles weakly over his bowl of noodle soup. He is still a little pale, but his appetite is coming back, and for that, Eames is glad. "Well, we work together frequently, don't we? And at least I trust you enough to drag me away if things went bad. So I meant for you to find that piece of paper."
"Hmm. Thank you for the vote of confidence." Eames adds milk to his tea. "Did Ariadne also crack the code?"
"Of course not. I just told her where you lived."
Eames smiles, puts an arm around Arthur's shoulders, presses a kiss into his hair. "I guess that's my cue to spill the beans," he says warmly.
Arthur merely raises an eyebrow at him.
Eames produces a piece of black paper from his wallet: there's nothing on it but a series of silver lines that crisscross each other at intervals, and a letter X placed somewhere in the diagram.
It takes Arthur all of three seconds to decipher it. "This is a map to my apartment in Barcelona."
"From the airport, yeah."
Arthur contemplates the carefully-drawn map for a moment and then reaches out, places the back of his hand against Eames's stubbled cheek.
Eames simply turns his hand around, kisses his palm, smiles.