Fic: Returning the Favor (Inception, PG)
title: Returning the Favor
author: ilovetakahana
pairing: Arthur/Eames
warnings: car chases, guns, schmoop. Unbeta'd.
disclaimer: I don't own the original story or the characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.
summary: a direct sequel to Next of Kin, so please read that one first.
notes: I guess I've decided on my canon for Eames's first name and his totem permanently. Also, all observations about traffic in Metro Manila, capital city of the Philippines, come from personal observation over the last 20+ years.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org.
The Philippines is a great country to get lost in, Eames thinks as he careens down EDSA [1] with the police hot on his tail. Sultry summer heat, millions of people walking the streets, and no one really looks twice at a foreigner after hearing said foreigner speak accentless, very colloquial Filipino.
The car he has appropriated is a still-mostly-new taxicab and she purrs underneath his experienced hands as he weaves through late-morning traffic on the way to the international airport.
And luckily for him, the passenger buses are always up for a spirited round of high-speed slalom racing. He dodges around one just in time, and he waves at the indignant driver who has also, conveniently, cut off the squad car that had been gaining on him. Another sudden shimmy-slide gets him between another bus and a truck full of chickens. He grins and waves again as he zooms past a van packed with staring schoolchildren.
He realizes he is still being tailed a few seconds before said following car full of policemen and plainclothes agents fires on him, within sight of the airport.
Eames saves his breath and instead of cursing out the cops concentrates on getting into NAIA [2]. He never hears the gunshots.
In the men’s room Eames sighs and tears up his extra shirt for a bandage. Luckily, the bullets have only grazed his left shoulder and arm, three long bloody lines reaching nearly to his elbow.
The ticketing agent asks him for a destination just as the pain really kicks in - but Eames is an actor and a very good liar. So the voice that comes out of his mouth is perfectly steady and charming.
“First class to Barcelona, thank you.”
At five minutes to boarding, the pain is unbearable, and he thinks now his traitorous voice would have to crack under the strain. He calls Arthur, gets the following message:
“Buenos días. Lo siento, ahora no estoy aquí. Dejar un mensaje, por favor.” [3]
There are actually no traces of America in Arthur’s accent. Impeccable as always, Eames thinks, and coughs, and says:
“Awfully sorry to bother you, darling, but do you think I might crash somewhere near you for a week or so? I think I can survive a sixteen-hour flight.”
Eames buys painkillers before the flight, washes them down once he’s seated with water and a couple of bottles of San Miguel Beer, and passes out.
***
Arthur is holding up a sign.
It says, “El Prat Eames”.
“I’ve died and gone to a parallel world,” Eames tells him, shakily, as they meet outside the Arrivals gates at Barcelona Airport.
Arthur wordlessly ducks under his right arm, calmly supports half his weight across his shoulders for the entire length of Terminal 1.
In Barcelona, Arthur drives a Porsche 911 Turbo S Cabriolet, and even though he’d like to have the Mediterranean winds in his hair Eames is more than grateful when Arthur hits a switch and the roof slides up into place over the seats.
The car eats up the ten kilometers into Barcelona in a matter of minutes, Arthur driving, eyes never straying from the road. He wears black leather driving gloves.
Eames knows this route although he has never driven it before. Unconsciously his right hand strays to his pocket: his wallet; the piece of black paper inside the wallet, silver ink-lines tracing out the drive from the airport to Arthur’s apartment; his pocket watch.
***
Eames wakes up, and when he looks at his wristwatch he’s a little worried to realize that he has been sleeping for more than 24 hours.
On the other hand, his left arm no longer hurts.
He looks down at the neat bandages winding up from elbow to shoulder.
Oh, wonderful. Arthur undressed me last night and I wasn’t even awake to enjoy it.
He pulls on his pants from yesterday and pads out into the apartment, slowly, eyes taking in everything. Several tables are piled with books: the Iliad; Sherlock Holmes; Carry On, Jeeves; Honor Harrington; Terry Pratchett’s Night Watch. The walls are adorned with Escher prints and Hitchcock movie posters, although Eames spots a stray Casablanca mini-poster, framed and hung next to the dresser.
The L-shaped apartment is decorated in an otherwise elegant and spare style. There is a little cluster of stuffed toys and greeting cards made out of construction paper in one of the bookcases, pictures of Philippa and James, one photograph of Dom and Mal on their wedding day.
In the kitchen, Arthur is absently snacking on a peach and working out a Sudoku puzzle.
Eames fuzzily remembers the cool linen of Arthur’s shirt yesterday, his dress pants, his gloves. He’d thought the other man was dressed down then.
Eames is so happy to be so very wrong.
Arthur is wearing a beat-up sleeveless shirt and a pair of jeans with holes in the knees.
He watches as Arthur’s eyebrows start climbing toward his hairline, and then he just smiles, his dimples deep shadows on either side of his mouth. “Well, yes, I guess you would notice,” he says. “How do you feel? You’ve been sleeping for a long time.”
“Where’d you sleep last night then?”
“Next to you, where do you think?”
Eames laughs then, and he walks around the table to plant a loud smack on the top of Arthur’s head. “Thank you, Arthur dear.”
“Don’t get careless again, Stuart,” Arthur replies, eyes on his puzzle again. “There’s some leftover paella in the refrigerator if you’re hungry. I left you all the shrimp.”
When Eames sits down to eat Arthur gets up, walks around the table, settles in next to him.
Eames puts his bandaged arm around his shoulder, and eats one-handed.
fin
Notes:
[1] - Epifanio de los Santos Avenue, the main thoroughfare linking most of the cities that make up the National Capital Region of the Philippines.
[2] - Ninoy Aquino International Airport.
[3] - “Hello. Sorry, I’m not here right now. Please leave a message.”
author: ilovetakahana
pairing: Arthur/Eames
warnings: car chases, guns, schmoop. Unbeta'd.
disclaimer: I don't own the original story or the characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.
summary: a direct sequel to Next of Kin, so please read that one first.
notes: I guess I've decided on my canon for Eames's first name and his totem permanently. Also, all observations about traffic in Metro Manila, capital city of the Philippines, come from personal observation over the last 20+ years.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org.
The Philippines is a great country to get lost in, Eames thinks as he careens down EDSA [1] with the police hot on his tail. Sultry summer heat, millions of people walking the streets, and no one really looks twice at a foreigner after hearing said foreigner speak accentless, very colloquial Filipino.
The car he has appropriated is a still-mostly-new taxicab and she purrs underneath his experienced hands as he weaves through late-morning traffic on the way to the international airport.
And luckily for him, the passenger buses are always up for a spirited round of high-speed slalom racing. He dodges around one just in time, and he waves at the indignant driver who has also, conveniently, cut off the squad car that had been gaining on him. Another sudden shimmy-slide gets him between another bus and a truck full of chickens. He grins and waves again as he zooms past a van packed with staring schoolchildren.
He realizes he is still being tailed a few seconds before said following car full of policemen and plainclothes agents fires on him, within sight of the airport.
Eames saves his breath and instead of cursing out the cops concentrates on getting into NAIA [2]. He never hears the gunshots.
In the men’s room Eames sighs and tears up his extra shirt for a bandage. Luckily, the bullets have only grazed his left shoulder and arm, three long bloody lines reaching nearly to his elbow.
The ticketing agent asks him for a destination just as the pain really kicks in - but Eames is an actor and a very good liar. So the voice that comes out of his mouth is perfectly steady and charming.
“First class to Barcelona, thank you.”
At five minutes to boarding, the pain is unbearable, and he thinks now his traitorous voice would have to crack under the strain. He calls Arthur, gets the following message:
“Buenos días. Lo siento, ahora no estoy aquí. Dejar un mensaje, por favor.” [3]
There are actually no traces of America in Arthur’s accent. Impeccable as always, Eames thinks, and coughs, and says:
“Awfully sorry to bother you, darling, but do you think I might crash somewhere near you for a week or so? I think I can survive a sixteen-hour flight.”
Eames buys painkillers before the flight, washes them down once he’s seated with water and a couple of bottles of San Miguel Beer, and passes out.
***
Arthur is holding up a sign.
It says, “El Prat Eames”.
“I’ve died and gone to a parallel world,” Eames tells him, shakily, as they meet outside the Arrivals gates at Barcelona Airport.
Arthur wordlessly ducks under his right arm, calmly supports half his weight across his shoulders for the entire length of Terminal 1.
In Barcelona, Arthur drives a Porsche 911 Turbo S Cabriolet, and even though he’d like to have the Mediterranean winds in his hair Eames is more than grateful when Arthur hits a switch and the roof slides up into place over the seats.
The car eats up the ten kilometers into Barcelona in a matter of minutes, Arthur driving, eyes never straying from the road. He wears black leather driving gloves.
Eames knows this route although he has never driven it before. Unconsciously his right hand strays to his pocket: his wallet; the piece of black paper inside the wallet, silver ink-lines tracing out the drive from the airport to Arthur’s apartment; his pocket watch.
***
Eames wakes up, and when he looks at his wristwatch he’s a little worried to realize that he has been sleeping for more than 24 hours.
On the other hand, his left arm no longer hurts.
He looks down at the neat bandages winding up from elbow to shoulder.
Oh, wonderful. Arthur undressed me last night and I wasn’t even awake to enjoy it.
He pulls on his pants from yesterday and pads out into the apartment, slowly, eyes taking in everything. Several tables are piled with books: the Iliad; Sherlock Holmes; Carry On, Jeeves; Honor Harrington; Terry Pratchett’s Night Watch. The walls are adorned with Escher prints and Hitchcock movie posters, although Eames spots a stray Casablanca mini-poster, framed and hung next to the dresser.
The L-shaped apartment is decorated in an otherwise elegant and spare style. There is a little cluster of stuffed toys and greeting cards made out of construction paper in one of the bookcases, pictures of Philippa and James, one photograph of Dom and Mal on their wedding day.
In the kitchen, Arthur is absently snacking on a peach and working out a Sudoku puzzle.
Eames fuzzily remembers the cool linen of Arthur’s shirt yesterday, his dress pants, his gloves. He’d thought the other man was dressed down then.
Eames is so happy to be so very wrong.
Arthur is wearing a beat-up sleeveless shirt and a pair of jeans with holes in the knees.
He watches as Arthur’s eyebrows start climbing toward his hairline, and then he just smiles, his dimples deep shadows on either side of his mouth. “Well, yes, I guess you would notice,” he says. “How do you feel? You’ve been sleeping for a long time.”
“Where’d you sleep last night then?”
“Next to you, where do you think?”
Eames laughs then, and he walks around the table to plant a loud smack on the top of Arthur’s head. “Thank you, Arthur dear.”
“Don’t get careless again, Stuart,” Arthur replies, eyes on his puzzle again. “There’s some leftover paella in the refrigerator if you’re hungry. I left you all the shrimp.”
When Eames sits down to eat Arthur gets up, walks around the table, settles in next to him.
Eames puts his bandaged arm around his shoulder, and eats one-handed.
fin
Notes:
[1] - Epifanio de los Santos Avenue, the main thoroughfare linking most of the cities that make up the National Capital Region of the Philippines.
[2] - Ninoy Aquino International Airport.
[3] - “Hello. Sorry, I’m not here right now. Please leave a message.”