Breakaway | Inception | Arthur/Eames
Title: Breakaway
Author: dremiel
Fandom: Inception (2010)
Relationship: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG13
Word count: ~2200
Warnings: Incidental cross-dressing
Summary: Tiraspol to Chisinau is only 70km, but a lot can change in 70km.
Written for valderys as part of dream_holiday. Heart-felt thanks to valancy_joy for handholding, cheerleading, and a very good eye. Remaining errors are mine alone.
Also at AO3.
Breakaway
- Verb
To leave hastily or escape.
- Noun
A divergence or radical change from something established or long standing.
There is nothing particularly festive about Tiraspol in December. The unrelenting Soviet-ness of the architecture, the grey ice edging the river, and the forty-foot statue of Lenin make for a somewhat grim holiday scene. If his old friend Tomas hadn’t called in a marker Arthur would find somewhere, and maybe someone, warm to close out the year. But as much as he dislikes the place he loathes owing favors so he’ll suck it up and deal. The job should be simple enough and his first round of research isn’t turning up anything unexpected.
He’s just drifting off when his phone rings - the distinctive chirp that indicates the call has forwarded from his other line. His FUBAR line. Shit. “Yes,” he says, leaning over to toggle the lamp on and grab at a pen and paper.
Eames’ voice is brisk, “You’re burned. Kitchen delivery door in ten. Black M600.”
“Kitchen in ten, check,” Arthur confirms automatically, checking the time as he disconnects: 4:12 am.
He loads his laptop, drive, files, dopp kit, Glock, and ammo into his messenger bag. Shoving bare feet into boots, he retrieves his back up piece from the air vent, and is out the door in two and a half minutes. He pauses to snag a white staff jacket from the service closet at the end of the hall and shrugs it on over his faded Portal T-shirt and flannel sleep pants. It won’t fool anyone for long but it might buy him a crucial second or two.
He hurtles down five flights, buttoning the jacket as he goes. It occurs to him that Eames is supposed to be tied up in London until after his mother’s January birthday. At street level he arranges his bag to partially obscure but not block his weapon hand and checks the time. 4:20 am.
He walks calmly out the fire door at the base of the stairwell and makes a sharp left toward the service area. The kitchen is quiet, just a pair of bakers working against the far wall. He plucks a water bottle off a cart without breaking stride. As he hits the door someone calls out and he responds “cigarette!” He ducks as he steps out, ready to move out of the halo of light, only to find the fixture over the door conveniently busted out.
The black Mercedes 600 barreling up the alley isn’t entirely reassuring when every third Russian gangster drives one. From a crouch he takes aim at the anonymous shadow of a driver. An arm thrusts out the open window, fingers counting down 3-2-1. Eames. Arthur lowers his gun and slips into the back seat pulling the door shut behind him.
“Problems?” Eames asks.
“No. Out clean.”
“I don’t know why you insist on suits. Your PJs are quite fetching. Are those penguins?”
“Yeah, my sister has a...thing. I heard you were in London.” Arthur reclines along the bench seat, not wishing to be seen if someone is bothering to look. There’s a dark fur, coat or blanket, so he pulls it over the white of the jacket. He cracks the water bottle and guzzles half. Adrenaline always gives him horrible dry mouth. “Oh, god. Did Tomas call you in on this one?”
“Didn’t he mention it? I told him we were bugging out, by the way, and that you’re squared up now, job or no job.” Eames’ voice is amused; Eames’ driving is slow and controlled. Eames’ shoulders say he is none of those things just now.
“What happened?”
“I’m not entirely sure. I was feeling things out with some late-night poker when that twat Seva showed up, spouting off about you to some unsavory but interested parties. I couldn’t hear the specifics but your name definitely came up, along with the fact that you were at the Timoty. Bills changed hands.”
“Seva? That dickhead chemist who used to work with the Bulgarians?”
“The very same. You understand my concern.”
“Absolutely. Shit. We, uh, we had a disagreement a few years back, about donating half my fee to the Chechens. Damn. I thought he was in prison. In Albania.” When Eames passes on the obvious joke Arthur closes his eyes and imagines all the unpleasant dominoes that are probably being set in motion. He feels the car lurch right and rev up an incline: parking garage.
“Can I sit up?” He asks, assuming Eames has chosen a garage that lacks functioning security cameras.
“Yeah. Dead zone.”
Arthur scrubs a hand over his face and meets Eames’ gaze in the mirror, “Thanks for the heads up, and for the ride.”
“Anytime,” Eames flashes a grin, a real one, all crooked teeth and ripe lips. “Now, get yourself kitted out and we’ll just hop on over the border.” Eames gets out to stretch and nonchalantly turns his back to Arthur. It’s such a fascinating mix, Arthur muses, all that in your face flirtation underscored with innate decency.
He shakes out the fur to find a vintage sable, worn at the hem and cuffs. Plastic bags on the floorboard hold a platinum wig, enormous faux Gucci sunglasses, a crimson turtleneck, purple tights. He sighs and fishes out a Russian passport, Yuria Averin. Arthur squints at the image of big blond hair, dark brows and eyes, bored features. Even in dim light it is extraordinarily bad work: paper the wrong weight and colors muddied. Such an obvious forgery that no one will bother to suspect that Yuria is a bad fake as well.
He toes his boots off, slips out of the penguin-covered pants, and begins shimmying into the tights. Not just purple, he notes, but purple leopard print.
“That is the worst fucking passport I’ve ever seen," He calls to Eames, who is leaning against the hood, pretending to look bored rather than alert. "What happened to ‘It’s a very subtle art’?”
“I’ll have you know I paid $300 American for that.” Eames pauses at Arthur’s snort, “And I’m not sure your current wardrobe inspires subtlety, pet.”
“You know I prefer zebra print. You do this on purpose, don’t you?” Arthur swings his legs out so he can step into clunky Ugg boots. He smoothes the long sweater over his hips and pulls the fur over it all. Tucking his bag away in the non-factory-installed compartment beneath the upholstery he slides into the passenger seat. By the light of the vanity mirror he makes a few adjustments to the wig and adds a slash of red lipstick before pulling on fuchsia leather gloves.
Eames slips behind the wheel and they’re off.
As they near the border Arthur dons the bejeweled shades and thinks about Yuria Averin. He isn’t much of an actor but reconstructing the life choices that lead to a pre-dawn run from Transnistria to Chisinau in a Mercedes full of Mafiya heroin is enough to settle a world-weary expression on his face. Her face.
She lights a Marlboro Light and lazily watches as her lover approaches a border guard with their passports and a bulky envelope. At least this one is built, she thinks, letting her eyes rest on the line of his well-cut pants, the broad sweep of his back. He promised to take her to Moscow. She twirls the Hello Kitty lighter between her fingers and blows a smoke ring, then another. In the glare of the mercury-vapor lamps his expression is cordial but distracted, all business. Can she trust him to keep his promises? Does he trust her? Cracking the window she taps out some ash and huddles deeper into the hood of her sable.
The deal is closed with a simple handshake and he's back with her. Still playing to the guard, he reaches for Yuria and she goes into his arms eagerly. It’s so much easier to be properly grateful with the pretty ones.
She feels deft hands slide beneath her coat and moaning, opens her mouth to the sweet pressure of his lips. His tongue licks into her, slick and sure. Strong hands draw her closer and then he is murmuring nonsense, hot and wet against her lips, her jaw - ‘want’ and ‘Christ’ and ‘Arthur’.
Arthur slams back into his body. One hand clutching at Eames’ firm chest, lips sucking at Eames’ neck. He’s dizzy with need, mind fuzzy and cock already stirring. Breath ragged, Arthur fights the impulse to straddle Eames and just fucking devour him. Disentangling slowly, he stares in confusion at the cigarette in his right hand, filter ringed with brash red. He flicks the butt out the window and pulls the concealing fur back up around his chin.
The guard raises the barricade and waves them through. Eames’ hands barely shake as he puts the car back in gear and drives across the bridge.
The lack of any customs check on the west bank of the river simplifies their charade, though officially leaving one country without ever arriving in the next is…unsettling. Welcome to Moldova you’ve been here all along.
Arthur stuffs the sunglasses in a coat pocket and knocks back the rest of his water. Stares out at the river they’re paralleling. Stares at the reflection of Eames’ hands, tense on the steering wheel. He doesn’t think Eames is worrying about post-soviet geopolitics.
Fuck, he’s tired. Between lack of sleep and the adrenaline drop sluicing through him he feels completely incapable of dealing with his response to Eames. But Eames’ reflection is shooting troubled looks his way and weariness is no excuse for being a dick.
Without turning, Arthur confesses, “It wasn’t just stress, or relief, or the rush.”
He meets Eames’ startled gaze in the window, holds it until Eames looks back to the road.
“Gratitude?” Eames asks, voice raw.
“Fuck you.” He says without heat. “I don’t know. Maybe her, at first. But no, Eames, I don’t have to be emotionally compromised to want you.”
Eames barks a laugh, “No, just to act on it.”
Spinning around, Arthur splutters in disbelief, “Are you really…like you’ve…pot, kettle, Eames.”
Then he gets his first clear look at Eames since the crossing and huffs a laugh.
“You’ve got…” he gestures vaguely at his own face.
Glancing in the rear view, Eames grimaces at the cheap red lipstick smeared across face. “Bugger.”
He pulls the Mercedes to the shoulder, digs a handkerchief out of a pocket, and scrubs at the marks.
“Let me,” Arthur says. Taking the cloth in one hand and Eames’ chin in the other he begins wiping away the garish color.
Eames shivers then stills, breath shallow, eyes dark and stunned. Arthur refolds the handkerchief to a clean portion and slowly rubs up the last bit of pigment caught in Eames’ stubble. He smoothes gloved fingers over the sudden bloom of pink rising on Eames’ cheeks and brushes his thumb over Eames’ lower lip, lingers there.
Eames’ broken “Arthur” is barely audible but it sends heat skittering down Arthur’s spine. Emboldened, he curls a hand behind Eames’ neck and pulls him in. Skimming his mouth to Eames’ ear he whispers, “I think about you all the time. I want you all the time. I’ve never not wanted you.”
With a whimper, an honest to god whimper, Eames captures his mouth and oh, god, it is sweet.
The flash, the heat are still there, just overlaid with tenderness Arthur didn’t know he craved. His nerves drain away and he’s suffused with the same clarity he sometimes finds in dreamspace; the certainty that this is right.
An oil tanker screams by with a long sharp blast and they part reluctantly. With a rueful smile, Eames reclaims the handkerchief and wipes Arthur’s lips, his own.
“How much did you slather on?” Eames rumbles, then freezes and flashes his eyes to Arthur’s. “It’s not about the wig, darling, nor the costume.”
“Good.” Arthur manages, glad that the thought hadn’t occurred to him earlier.
“Although…”
“Eames.”
“Right. Right. How about I get us to the airport and you figure out where the hell we’re going? Do you fancy someplace warm for the holidays?”
Arthur takes a deep breath, reminds himself that it’s his job to take point, “Usually, sure, but I’ve been thinking how nice London is this time of year.”
Arthur doubts that Eames can be more attractive but as his face lights with surprise and wonder and joy Arthur feels a primal jolt of possession. ‘That was me,’ he thinks. ‘I did that.’
“Are you mad? London is wretched.” Eames tugs off Arthur’s right glove, tosses it over his shoulder, and mouths at the inside of Arthur’s newly bared wrist.
“Wanted to do this for years.” Eames murmurs, lapping.
“Seriously?” Arthur is breathless with amusement, arousal. “You've got a wrist-kink?”
“Mmmm, an Arthur-kink. Every bloody time you rolled your cuffs.” Eames blows gently on the wet skin and smiles at Arthur’s shudder. Pressing a single kiss to the hyper-sensitized spot, Eames releases his hand and turns to merge them back onto the highway.
“It’s cold and it’s been raining for three weeks.”
It takes Arthur several moments to connect the statement to London. He clears his throat, “I’ll have my penguins to keep me warm.”
“That sounds like a challenge, Arthur,” Eames laughs. “I accept.”
Author: dremiel
Fandom: Inception (2010)
Relationship: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG13
Word count: ~2200
Warnings: Incidental cross-dressing
Summary: Tiraspol to Chisinau is only 70km, but a lot can change in 70km.
Written for valderys as part of dream_holiday. Heart-felt thanks to valancy_joy for handholding, cheerleading, and a very good eye. Remaining errors are mine alone.
Also at AO3.
Breakaway
- Verb
To leave hastily or escape.
- Noun
A divergence or radical change from something established or long standing.
There is nothing particularly festive about Tiraspol in December. The unrelenting Soviet-ness of the architecture, the grey ice edging the river, and the forty-foot statue of Lenin make for a somewhat grim holiday scene. If his old friend Tomas hadn’t called in a marker Arthur would find somewhere, and maybe someone, warm to close out the year. But as much as he dislikes the place he loathes owing favors so he’ll suck it up and deal. The job should be simple enough and his first round of research isn’t turning up anything unexpected.
He’s just drifting off when his phone rings - the distinctive chirp that indicates the call has forwarded from his other line. His FUBAR line. Shit. “Yes,” he says, leaning over to toggle the lamp on and grab at a pen and paper.
Eames’ voice is brisk, “You’re burned. Kitchen delivery door in ten. Black M600.”
“Kitchen in ten, check,” Arthur confirms automatically, checking the time as he disconnects: 4:12 am.
He loads his laptop, drive, files, dopp kit, Glock, and ammo into his messenger bag. Shoving bare feet into boots, he retrieves his back up piece from the air vent, and is out the door in two and a half minutes. He pauses to snag a white staff jacket from the service closet at the end of the hall and shrugs it on over his faded Portal T-shirt and flannel sleep pants. It won’t fool anyone for long but it might buy him a crucial second or two.
He hurtles down five flights, buttoning the jacket as he goes. It occurs to him that Eames is supposed to be tied up in London until after his mother’s January birthday. At street level he arranges his bag to partially obscure but not block his weapon hand and checks the time. 4:20 am.
He walks calmly out the fire door at the base of the stairwell and makes a sharp left toward the service area. The kitchen is quiet, just a pair of bakers working against the far wall. He plucks a water bottle off a cart without breaking stride. As he hits the door someone calls out and he responds “cigarette!” He ducks as he steps out, ready to move out of the halo of light, only to find the fixture over the door conveniently busted out.
The black Mercedes 600 barreling up the alley isn’t entirely reassuring when every third Russian gangster drives one. From a crouch he takes aim at the anonymous shadow of a driver. An arm thrusts out the open window, fingers counting down 3-2-1. Eames. Arthur lowers his gun and slips into the back seat pulling the door shut behind him.
“Problems?” Eames asks.
“No. Out clean.”
“I don’t know why you insist on suits. Your PJs are quite fetching. Are those penguins?”
“Yeah, my sister has a...thing. I heard you were in London.” Arthur reclines along the bench seat, not wishing to be seen if someone is bothering to look. There’s a dark fur, coat or blanket, so he pulls it over the white of the jacket. He cracks the water bottle and guzzles half. Adrenaline always gives him horrible dry mouth. “Oh, god. Did Tomas call you in on this one?”
“Didn’t he mention it? I told him we were bugging out, by the way, and that you’re squared up now, job or no job.” Eames’ voice is amused; Eames’ driving is slow and controlled. Eames’ shoulders say he is none of those things just now.
“What happened?”
“I’m not entirely sure. I was feeling things out with some late-night poker when that twat Seva showed up, spouting off about you to some unsavory but interested parties. I couldn’t hear the specifics but your name definitely came up, along with the fact that you were at the Timoty. Bills changed hands.”
“Seva? That dickhead chemist who used to work with the Bulgarians?”
“The very same. You understand my concern.”
“Absolutely. Shit. We, uh, we had a disagreement a few years back, about donating half my fee to the Chechens. Damn. I thought he was in prison. In Albania.” When Eames passes on the obvious joke Arthur closes his eyes and imagines all the unpleasant dominoes that are probably being set in motion. He feels the car lurch right and rev up an incline: parking garage.
“Can I sit up?” He asks, assuming Eames has chosen a garage that lacks functioning security cameras.
“Yeah. Dead zone.”
Arthur scrubs a hand over his face and meets Eames’ gaze in the mirror, “Thanks for the heads up, and for the ride.”
“Anytime,” Eames flashes a grin, a real one, all crooked teeth and ripe lips. “Now, get yourself kitted out and we’ll just hop on over the border.” Eames gets out to stretch and nonchalantly turns his back to Arthur. It’s such a fascinating mix, Arthur muses, all that in your face flirtation underscored with innate decency.
He shakes out the fur to find a vintage sable, worn at the hem and cuffs. Plastic bags on the floorboard hold a platinum wig, enormous faux Gucci sunglasses, a crimson turtleneck, purple tights. He sighs and fishes out a Russian passport, Yuria Averin. Arthur squints at the image of big blond hair, dark brows and eyes, bored features. Even in dim light it is extraordinarily bad work: paper the wrong weight and colors muddied. Such an obvious forgery that no one will bother to suspect that Yuria is a bad fake as well.
He toes his boots off, slips out of the penguin-covered pants, and begins shimmying into the tights. Not just purple, he notes, but purple leopard print.
“That is the worst fucking passport I’ve ever seen," He calls to Eames, who is leaning against the hood, pretending to look bored rather than alert. "What happened to ‘It’s a very subtle art’?”
“I’ll have you know I paid $300 American for that.” Eames pauses at Arthur’s snort, “And I’m not sure your current wardrobe inspires subtlety, pet.”
“You know I prefer zebra print. You do this on purpose, don’t you?” Arthur swings his legs out so he can step into clunky Ugg boots. He smoothes the long sweater over his hips and pulls the fur over it all. Tucking his bag away in the non-factory-installed compartment beneath the upholstery he slides into the passenger seat. By the light of the vanity mirror he makes a few adjustments to the wig and adds a slash of red lipstick before pulling on fuchsia leather gloves.
Eames slips behind the wheel and they’re off.
As they near the border Arthur dons the bejeweled shades and thinks about Yuria Averin. He isn’t much of an actor but reconstructing the life choices that lead to a pre-dawn run from Transnistria to Chisinau in a Mercedes full of Mafiya heroin is enough to settle a world-weary expression on his face. Her face.
She lights a Marlboro Light and lazily watches as her lover approaches a border guard with their passports and a bulky envelope. At least this one is built, she thinks, letting her eyes rest on the line of his well-cut pants, the broad sweep of his back. He promised to take her to Moscow. She twirls the Hello Kitty lighter between her fingers and blows a smoke ring, then another. In the glare of the mercury-vapor lamps his expression is cordial but distracted, all business. Can she trust him to keep his promises? Does he trust her? Cracking the window she taps out some ash and huddles deeper into the hood of her sable.
The deal is closed with a simple handshake and he's back with her. Still playing to the guard, he reaches for Yuria and she goes into his arms eagerly. It’s so much easier to be properly grateful with the pretty ones.
She feels deft hands slide beneath her coat and moaning, opens her mouth to the sweet pressure of his lips. His tongue licks into her, slick and sure. Strong hands draw her closer and then he is murmuring nonsense, hot and wet against her lips, her jaw - ‘want’ and ‘Christ’ and ‘Arthur’.
Arthur slams back into his body. One hand clutching at Eames’ firm chest, lips sucking at Eames’ neck. He’s dizzy with need, mind fuzzy and cock already stirring. Breath ragged, Arthur fights the impulse to straddle Eames and just fucking devour him. Disentangling slowly, he stares in confusion at the cigarette in his right hand, filter ringed with brash red. He flicks the butt out the window and pulls the concealing fur back up around his chin.
The guard raises the barricade and waves them through. Eames’ hands barely shake as he puts the car back in gear and drives across the bridge.
The lack of any customs check on the west bank of the river simplifies their charade, though officially leaving one country without ever arriving in the next is…unsettling. Welcome to Moldova you’ve been here all along.
Arthur stuffs the sunglasses in a coat pocket and knocks back the rest of his water. Stares out at the river they’re paralleling. Stares at the reflection of Eames’ hands, tense on the steering wheel. He doesn’t think Eames is worrying about post-soviet geopolitics.
Fuck, he’s tired. Between lack of sleep and the adrenaline drop sluicing through him he feels completely incapable of dealing with his response to Eames. But Eames’ reflection is shooting troubled looks his way and weariness is no excuse for being a dick.
Without turning, Arthur confesses, “It wasn’t just stress, or relief, or the rush.”
He meets Eames’ startled gaze in the window, holds it until Eames looks back to the road.
“Gratitude?” Eames asks, voice raw.
“Fuck you.” He says without heat. “I don’t know. Maybe her, at first. But no, Eames, I don’t have to be emotionally compromised to want you.”
Eames barks a laugh, “No, just to act on it.”
Spinning around, Arthur splutters in disbelief, “Are you really…like you’ve…pot, kettle, Eames.”
Then he gets his first clear look at Eames since the crossing and huffs a laugh.
“You’ve got…” he gestures vaguely at his own face.
Glancing in the rear view, Eames grimaces at the cheap red lipstick smeared across face. “Bugger.”
He pulls the Mercedes to the shoulder, digs a handkerchief out of a pocket, and scrubs at the marks.
“Let me,” Arthur says. Taking the cloth in one hand and Eames’ chin in the other he begins wiping away the garish color.
Eames shivers then stills, breath shallow, eyes dark and stunned. Arthur refolds the handkerchief to a clean portion and slowly rubs up the last bit of pigment caught in Eames’ stubble. He smoothes gloved fingers over the sudden bloom of pink rising on Eames’ cheeks and brushes his thumb over Eames’ lower lip, lingers there.
Eames’ broken “Arthur” is barely audible but it sends heat skittering down Arthur’s spine. Emboldened, he curls a hand behind Eames’ neck and pulls him in. Skimming his mouth to Eames’ ear he whispers, “I think about you all the time. I want you all the time. I’ve never not wanted you.”
With a whimper, an honest to god whimper, Eames captures his mouth and oh, god, it is sweet.
The flash, the heat are still there, just overlaid with tenderness Arthur didn’t know he craved. His nerves drain away and he’s suffused with the same clarity he sometimes finds in dreamspace; the certainty that this is right.
An oil tanker screams by with a long sharp blast and they part reluctantly. With a rueful smile, Eames reclaims the handkerchief and wipes Arthur’s lips, his own.
“How much did you slather on?” Eames rumbles, then freezes and flashes his eyes to Arthur’s. “It’s not about the wig, darling, nor the costume.”
“Good.” Arthur manages, glad that the thought hadn’t occurred to him earlier.
“Although…”
“Eames.”
“Right. Right. How about I get us to the airport and you figure out where the hell we’re going? Do you fancy someplace warm for the holidays?”
Arthur takes a deep breath, reminds himself that it’s his job to take point, “Usually, sure, but I’ve been thinking how nice London is this time of year.”
Arthur doubts that Eames can be more attractive but as his face lights with surprise and wonder and joy Arthur feels a primal jolt of possession. ‘That was me,’ he thinks. ‘I did that.’
“Are you mad? London is wretched.” Eames tugs off Arthur’s right glove, tosses it over his shoulder, and mouths at the inside of Arthur’s newly bared wrist.
“Wanted to do this for years.” Eames murmurs, lapping.
“Seriously?” Arthur is breathless with amusement, arousal. “You've got a wrist-kink?”
“Mmmm, an Arthur-kink. Every bloody time you rolled your cuffs.” Eames blows gently on the wet skin and smiles at Arthur’s shudder. Pressing a single kiss to the hyper-sensitized spot, Eames releases his hand and turns to merge them back onto the highway.
“It’s cold and it’s been raining for three weeks.”
It takes Arthur several moments to connect the statement to London. He clears his throat, “I’ll have my penguins to keep me warm.”
“That sounds like a challenge, Arthur,” Eames laughs. “I accept.”