Fic: Until We Don't Have To (Inception, NC-17)
title: Until We Don't Have To
author: ilovetakahana
pairing: Arthur/Eames
warnings: I seem to be incapable of writing anything that does not mention sex or kissing lately. Not really sure if that's a bad thing, though. So, as with the previous post, this is NSFW. Potentially triggering for violence and dream-suicide.
This was originally the very first comment in foxxcub's Inception Kissing Meme [and if you haven't been yet, here]. And then I was floored when it suddenly got such a wonderful response - yuki_mono said she might draw something based on it, and jeannedecarnin demanded more, including porn. And, well, it all snowballed into this.
disclaimer: I don't own the original story or the characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.
summary: A job very nearly gets worse before it gets better, and Arthur and Eames deal.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/.
Oh.
Shit.
Eames looks around the corner.
There are still a shit-ton of projections waiting on them in the dream.
It's not as if this is really anything new to him, really. When they do simulations to prepare for new jobs they invariably pick Arthur's subconscious when they want to deal with homicidal projections, and they go into Ariadne's when they want to see how many times a maze can screw with them, and they have yet to meet anyone who could outdo Cobb's own personal brand of complete and utter batshit insanity.
But when the situation involves nothing less than a person's own projections turning on him - that's something entirely different.
Unless, of course, what happened was that the man had been militarized by someone else.
That someone else being the same person, or persons, who planted nothing less than a coma bomb inside their client's head.
Arthur is muttering to himself as his fingers carefully sift through a tangle of wires sprouting from a nondescript black box. The bomb's in there. Somewhere.
They just have to stay alive in the dream long enough to defuse it, before the bomb permanently fries their client's brains and quite possibly kills him.
Which is why Ariadne's stashed somewhere safe in this maze, able to watch pretty much the whole thing, dreaming to support Arthur and Eames as they race against time to save their client's life.
But there's only so much she can do with the landscape against the projections and in the end, it's going to come back down to Eames and Arthur's particular skillsets.
Here.
Now.
Eames shields Arthur with his frame, crouching protectively over him as the bullets begin to fly. With every shot that smacks into the bunker where they've dragged both their client's unconscious body and the black box, they both flinch. Not enough to disturb the bomb. Just enough to register the fear.
Because in scenarios like this the fear never goes away. They've both trained enough to know that's the only fucking truth an elite soldier can really know. The fear remains, and the challenge is to remember what needs doing, over and above the gibbering mindless fear.
Fuck this, Eames thinks, and changes the gun in his hand into his grenade launcher, dreams up some windows in the bunker. Risk. Acceptable risk. And anyway Cobb is somewhere above them, playing the sniper. Even now he thinks he hears the crack of the rifle going off, and a shout as another projection goes down.
"Dream a little bigger," Arthur says, nods at the grenade launcher, still protected in his shadow.
Next to him, on the cold floor, his Glock 17 and Eames's own H&K - and a Mare's Leg.
Eames grips his shoulder, then releases him and hefts the grenade launcher. "Always. Oh, and Arthur?"
"Yes?"
Eames swoops in and kisses him. Hard clench of a fist in his hair, just behind his ear. Wrecking the pinpoint precision of his carefully constructed hairstyle. Eames pulls back, looks at Arthur's eyes - pupils blown wide - and slants his mouth over his again, harder than before.
He ignores the high rattling noise in his head, he ignores the fear, and throws himself into kissing Arthur. Because this is something that needs doing, too.
Arthur can't move his hands to reciprocate so he just encourages him with little mewling sounds in the back of his throat.
When Eames pulls away, they're both breathing very hard. "To. Be. Continued," he growls.
"I'll kill you if you don't." Arthur bends back down to the bomb.
Eames grins, takes up a position in front of him, points the grenade launcher out the window and aims, fires, fires, fires.
Between the reports of Cobb's sniper rifle and the booming of his own weapon, Eames almost doesn't hear the triumphant hiss behind him - but he does, and he whips around, watches Arthur produce a pair of snips, cut through the skein of wires.
The client's body vanishes.
Arthur whips out his radio and barks into it: "Mission accomplished."
"Okay," Cobb replies, and then the sound of a gunshot.
"You have five minutes till the dream goes, guys," Ariadne says, and she's gone, too.
Eames puts the grenade launcher down and kneels next to Arthur. Deliberately picks up the Glock and puts it to Arthur's chin. Gives him a gentle smile. "Come on, love, you do the same."
Arthur huffs out a sad laugh. "I may never get used to doing this to you."
"When you get used to it, let me know and we're getting out of the business. Remember? We promised?"
The smile becomes something a little more real. "Ah. Yes." And Arthur puts the H&K's muzzle against Eames's forehead. "On three. One. Two."
"Three," they say together.
***
When they wake up Ariadne is fussing over their client and Cobb is talking to the man's family. Everyone is busy.
So they take that time to slip out. Arthur's never been fond of attention and even less of strangers getting too close to him, and Eames, well, he's never been good at handling over-the-top emotions. Must be the remnants, he thinks, of the family inheritance: the stiff upper lip.
The hotel is a short drive across the city and he thinks it's a little bit cute and a little bit sexy, how Arthur tugs on his leather driving gloves when it's two in the morning and there's no one on the streets to get in the way of the black Porsche 911.
Once they get back to the hotel room, he watches as Arthur takes the time to undress, gun carefully placed on the table on the left side of the bed, jacket and waistcoat draped across the back of a chair. Pulls out his shirttails, steps out of his trousers. Tosses his die, once, watches where it falls and places it next to the gun. Stands at the window, one hand on the sill, in his partly-unbuttoned shirt and his boxer-briefs.
"Darling," Eames says as he looks at his pocket watch, sheds most of his clothes, pours out drinks from the mini-bar, stands on the other side of the window. An arm's-length away. "You there?"
"Put that glass down, Eames."
And he's heard that tone of voice before. Only after things skate close to the edge of going tits-up. Only after everything nearly falls apart around them.
Eames slams the glass down on the nearest surface. Just in time.
Arthur's hands close around his arms, vise-like grip - he's going to be bruised in the morning - and Eames breathes, hard, when Arthur's mouth captures his in a desperate kiss.
Eames surges forward into him, but his hands are gentle as they come up, one to the back of Arthur's head, the other around his shoulders - and he bears him down to the carpet, shoving an inconvenient chair away with a careless kick.
Arthur's head falls back to the floor. His eyes are closed.
"Open your eyes!" Eames commands, watches him obey, holds his gaze firmly. "You're going to be looking at me, darling, and you're not going to close your eyes because I want you to see me, because I want you to see us. We're here. We're alive. This is real!"
"Convince me," and Arthur glares back.
Eames ignores the unshed tears in his eyes and smiles, instead. "Oh I'm good at that."
And he does his best to make Arthur believe. Bruises around his collarbones. Tongue on his nipples, sucking and swirling, lingering over each one until Arthur nearly buckles from overstimulation. Butterfly kisses into his palms, onto his wrists, the hairline scars from a lifetime of fighting, every inch of his body. Lube and three fingers deep into his arse, brushing against his prostate, over and over. Sinking into him in one long, wet glide, knocking the breath out of both of them. Batting away Arthur's hand when he tries to touch himself, hips stuttering to the rhythm of Eames's thrusts.
Eames's voice is a thready command: "Want you to come from this, just from this...."
When he comes his vision whites out and the last thing he hears is Arthur shouting, then his voice dropping, lower, and one word on his lips: "Eames."
***
Morning.
He wakes, slowly. Smiles. Ruefully touches the bruises on his neck.
Eames had been as good as his word.
He runs, he hides, he lies.
But never from Arthur. Never again. They're done with that.
And they'll keep going until they don't have to.
author: ilovetakahana
pairing: Arthur/Eames
warnings: I seem to be incapable of writing anything that does not mention sex or kissing lately. Not really sure if that's a bad thing, though. So, as with the previous post, this is NSFW. Potentially triggering for violence and dream-suicide.
This was originally the very first comment in foxxcub's Inception Kissing Meme [and if you haven't been yet, here]. And then I was floored when it suddenly got such a wonderful response - yuki_mono said she might draw something based on it, and jeannedecarnin demanded more, including porn. And, well, it all snowballed into this.
disclaimer: I don't own the original story or the characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.
summary: A job very nearly gets worse before it gets better, and Arthur and Eames deal.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/.
Oh.
Shit.
Eames looks around the corner.
There are still a shit-ton of projections waiting on them in the dream.
It's not as if this is really anything new to him, really. When they do simulations to prepare for new jobs they invariably pick Arthur's subconscious when they want to deal with homicidal projections, and they go into Ariadne's when they want to see how many times a maze can screw with them, and they have yet to meet anyone who could outdo Cobb's own personal brand of complete and utter batshit insanity.
But when the situation involves nothing less than a person's own projections turning on him - that's something entirely different.
Unless, of course, what happened was that the man had been militarized by someone else.
That someone else being the same person, or persons, who planted nothing less than a coma bomb inside their client's head.
Arthur is muttering to himself as his fingers carefully sift through a tangle of wires sprouting from a nondescript black box. The bomb's in there. Somewhere.
They just have to stay alive in the dream long enough to defuse it, before the bomb permanently fries their client's brains and quite possibly kills him.
Which is why Ariadne's stashed somewhere safe in this maze, able to watch pretty much the whole thing, dreaming to support Arthur and Eames as they race against time to save their client's life.
But there's only so much she can do with the landscape against the projections and in the end, it's going to come back down to Eames and Arthur's particular skillsets.
Here.
Now.
Eames shields Arthur with his frame, crouching protectively over him as the bullets begin to fly. With every shot that smacks into the bunker where they've dragged both their client's unconscious body and the black box, they both flinch. Not enough to disturb the bomb. Just enough to register the fear.
Because in scenarios like this the fear never goes away. They've both trained enough to know that's the only fucking truth an elite soldier can really know. The fear remains, and the challenge is to remember what needs doing, over and above the gibbering mindless fear.
Fuck this, Eames thinks, and changes the gun in his hand into his grenade launcher, dreams up some windows in the bunker. Risk. Acceptable risk. And anyway Cobb is somewhere above them, playing the sniper. Even now he thinks he hears the crack of the rifle going off, and a shout as another projection goes down.
"Dream a little bigger," Arthur says, nods at the grenade launcher, still protected in his shadow.
Next to him, on the cold floor, his Glock 17 and Eames's own H&K - and a Mare's Leg.
Eames grips his shoulder, then releases him and hefts the grenade launcher. "Always. Oh, and Arthur?"
"Yes?"
Eames swoops in and kisses him. Hard clench of a fist in his hair, just behind his ear. Wrecking the pinpoint precision of his carefully constructed hairstyle. Eames pulls back, looks at Arthur's eyes - pupils blown wide - and slants his mouth over his again, harder than before.
He ignores the high rattling noise in his head, he ignores the fear, and throws himself into kissing Arthur. Because this is something that needs doing, too.
Arthur can't move his hands to reciprocate so he just encourages him with little mewling sounds in the back of his throat.
When Eames pulls away, they're both breathing very hard. "To. Be. Continued," he growls.
"I'll kill you if you don't." Arthur bends back down to the bomb.
Eames grins, takes up a position in front of him, points the grenade launcher out the window and aims, fires, fires, fires.
Between the reports of Cobb's sniper rifle and the booming of his own weapon, Eames almost doesn't hear the triumphant hiss behind him - but he does, and he whips around, watches Arthur produce a pair of snips, cut through the skein of wires.
The client's body vanishes.
Arthur whips out his radio and barks into it: "Mission accomplished."
"Okay," Cobb replies, and then the sound of a gunshot.
"You have five minutes till the dream goes, guys," Ariadne says, and she's gone, too.
Eames puts the grenade launcher down and kneels next to Arthur. Deliberately picks up the Glock and puts it to Arthur's chin. Gives him a gentle smile. "Come on, love, you do the same."
Arthur huffs out a sad laugh. "I may never get used to doing this to you."
"When you get used to it, let me know and we're getting out of the business. Remember? We promised?"
The smile becomes something a little more real. "Ah. Yes." And Arthur puts the H&K's muzzle against Eames's forehead. "On three. One. Two."
"Three," they say together.
***
When they wake up Ariadne is fussing over their client and Cobb is talking to the man's family. Everyone is busy.
So they take that time to slip out. Arthur's never been fond of attention and even less of strangers getting too close to him, and Eames, well, he's never been good at handling over-the-top emotions. Must be the remnants, he thinks, of the family inheritance: the stiff upper lip.
The hotel is a short drive across the city and he thinks it's a little bit cute and a little bit sexy, how Arthur tugs on his leather driving gloves when it's two in the morning and there's no one on the streets to get in the way of the black Porsche 911.
Once they get back to the hotel room, he watches as Arthur takes the time to undress, gun carefully placed on the table on the left side of the bed, jacket and waistcoat draped across the back of a chair. Pulls out his shirttails, steps out of his trousers. Tosses his die, once, watches where it falls and places it next to the gun. Stands at the window, one hand on the sill, in his partly-unbuttoned shirt and his boxer-briefs.
"Darling," Eames says as he looks at his pocket watch, sheds most of his clothes, pours out drinks from the mini-bar, stands on the other side of the window. An arm's-length away. "You there?"
"Put that glass down, Eames."
And he's heard that tone of voice before. Only after things skate close to the edge of going tits-up. Only after everything nearly falls apart around them.
Eames slams the glass down on the nearest surface. Just in time.
Arthur's hands close around his arms, vise-like grip - he's going to be bruised in the morning - and Eames breathes, hard, when Arthur's mouth captures his in a desperate kiss.
Eames surges forward into him, but his hands are gentle as they come up, one to the back of Arthur's head, the other around his shoulders - and he bears him down to the carpet, shoving an inconvenient chair away with a careless kick.
Arthur's head falls back to the floor. His eyes are closed.
"Open your eyes!" Eames commands, watches him obey, holds his gaze firmly. "You're going to be looking at me, darling, and you're not going to close your eyes because I want you to see me, because I want you to see us. We're here. We're alive. This is real!"
"Convince me," and Arthur glares back.
Eames ignores the unshed tears in his eyes and smiles, instead. "Oh I'm good at that."
And he does his best to make Arthur believe. Bruises around his collarbones. Tongue on his nipples, sucking and swirling, lingering over each one until Arthur nearly buckles from overstimulation. Butterfly kisses into his palms, onto his wrists, the hairline scars from a lifetime of fighting, every inch of his body. Lube and three fingers deep into his arse, brushing against his prostate, over and over. Sinking into him in one long, wet glide, knocking the breath out of both of them. Batting away Arthur's hand when he tries to touch himself, hips stuttering to the rhythm of Eames's thrusts.
Eames's voice is a thready command: "Want you to come from this, just from this...."
When he comes his vision whites out and the last thing he hears is Arthur shouting, then his voice dropping, lower, and one word on his lips: "Eames."
***
Morning.
He wakes, slowly. Smiles. Ruefully touches the bruises on his neck.
Eames had been as good as his word.
He runs, he hides, he lies.
But never from Arthur. Never again. They're done with that.
And they'll keep going until they don't have to.