Fic: Treatises on Fear and the Purpose of Smiling - Inception/R.E.D., Arthur/Eames, PG
Title: Treatises on Fear and the Purpose of Smiling
Fandom(s): Inception/R.E.D.
Pairings, Characters: Arthur/Eames, Frank Moses
Rating: PG
Author's Note: The "highly anticipated" sequel to This Famine That Carries Me :p Frank Moses is Arthur's father. In this installment: Eames goes to Frank for a little fatherly advice.
Summary: Eames has rarely been accused of being in his right might - on the contrary, it has been suggested (often and to the tune of urgent gunfire) that he doesn’t have one.
Inception/R.E.D. Arthur/Eames
It’s not a visit that anyone in his right mind wants to make.
Then again, Eames has rarely been accused of being in his right might - on the contrary, it has been suggested (often and to the tune of urgent gunfire) that he doesn’t have one. Also, Eames is feeling somewhat less sane than usual, these days, so he doesn’t believe his presence in Frank Moses’s living room will come as a surprise.
There’s no question, really - Frank Moses isn’t surprised by anything.
“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.” Frank walks further into the room, setting down his house keys and the post he’s just collected from the mailbox outside. He isn’t using an expression. Arthur gave Frank a cat, last year, to be a pain in the ass and, surprisingly, the old man kept it.
That feline is as crazy and odd as every other member of the Moses family. The only thing even remotely cat-like that it does routinely is kill and deposit disgusting things on Frank’s back doorstep.
“It must have took courage… for you to come and see me right now. I like that, that’s good.”
Eames knows better to uncoil the muscles that tensed as soon as he heard the elder Moses pull up in the drive out front. Frank could mean, ‘that’s good - you’ve showed me how much Arthur means to you‘ or ‘that’s good - you’ve saved me a trip and now I can kill you in the comfort of my own home.’ With Arthur’s dad, it could really go either way.
“Mr. Moses, I-”
“Oh-ho. It’s Mr. Moses now… Last time I saw you, it was Frances. Hello, Frances. Wonderful day we’re having, isn’t it?“ Frank says, at a high pitch, in a really horrid approximation of Eames’s accent. “And now that you’ve pissed off my boy, it’s Mr. Moses all of a sudden.“
“I know. I-”
“I oughtta shoot for the Frances thing alone,” Frank says, taking a seat in the armchair perpendicular to the couch upon which Eames sits. Eames checked that chair for hidden weapons while Frank was out. He checked the entire room, but he wouldn’t put it past Frank to have hiding places that withstood Eames’s perusal or to try and kill Eames with his bare hands.
In which case, Eames will be screwed. Because he came here in the hopes of patching things up with Frank’s son, and nothing says ‘I’m sorry, love; let’s make up‘ like killing your lover’s father in self-defense. Or being killed. Knowing Frank, Eames is no longer ashamed of the prospect of being murdered by a man getting checks from Social Security.
Eames doesn’t have it in him to work up to something here slowly. Violence, acceptance, rejection - whatever he has coming, he has just enough energy to put himself out there and let Frank give it to him. He hasn’t slept in days. He meant to shower again and perhaps change into clothes less creased than the ones he’s currently wearing (and was currently wearing even a day ago) but at the last minute he couldn’t be fucked. He needs a good shave, but Frank’s used to that. His eyes are rimmed read and sitting atop bags fuller than the one Eames took with him on the plane here to Florida. He sees the moment Frank takes all of this in, and waits for the old man to laugh or start in on the ‘I told you so’s before he pours his heart out.
Frank does neither. He just looks at Eames, blank-faced. The family resemblance is right there - in those cool eyes - green for Frank. Arthur’s are a dark brown. If Eames hadn’t already been about to break wide open, the reminder would have done it nicely.
“I love him, Frank,” Eames says. Probably the most sugary-sweet thing Frank’s heard in ages. No man in their right mind would say something so… emotional, and flowery, and true in Frank’s presence. (See paragraph two of the page of text prior to this one.) “I love him… and I’m sorry.”
Eames couldn’t be more earnest. He’s learned his lesson. Truth - truth and courage. Those are the only things that will get him anywhere with a Moses man. Anywhere but shot or beaten or, worst of all, left. Left and terrified that this is it, this time. This time Arthur won’t come back for him. Won’t let himself be found, because Eames has looked and looked-
“Why are you telling me this, Daniel?” Frank asks. He looks, and sounds, for once like what he appears to be at first glance. Just a man. Not getting any younger, not getting much wiser. A little tired of all the bullshit that comes with his years, as opposed to his general attitude of being ready to put down whatever bullshit comes, stupid enough to try and mess with him.
That might be the most terrifying thought Eames has had yet. That he and Arthur are so over, Frank doesn’t even care to hate Eames for his part in it.
“Because the fucker won’t answer his phone and let me tell him,” Eames rails. He comes alive in his seat, feeling as though he’s been frozen in that slump forever. “Because I’ve looked everywhere, and he hasn’t got the bollocks or the heart or whatever to just end it with me, but-”
Frank chuckles. Sits back in the armchair. Rubs his lips with his fingers, like he’s trying to massage the nearly spoken ‘Fuck off‘ out of them. “You think Arthur’s scared of you, huh?”
Not so much. ‘But he’d ought to be,‘ Eames thinks. Arthur ought to be. Because Arthur scares Eames - the sheer power in him, over Eames’s heart, Eames’s happiness, scares Eames shitless - and what was any of this for if Arthur doesn’t feel the same way? What was Marikesh - the beginning of this end that Eames is battling - for if Arthur isn’t as shite-dropping anxious about loving a man like either of them as Eames is?
“I think that the least he can do is let me apologize.” There’s no chance Frank doesn’t know what Eames has to apologize for. Arthur doesn’t tell his daddy everything, but he tells him enough. And, anyway, Frank always just seems to know. Eames tries not to think about it.
“About that thing in Morocco, right?” Frank asks. And Eames gets the singular, surreal pleasure of seeing Frank smile at him. Not the smile Frank reserves just for Arthur. Not the smile Eames has glimpsed, from afar, when Frank’s among his friends. Not the (frightening) smile Frank gives strangers - full of more caution than good will - or the (even more frightening) smile he gives the ladies. Something different… Without a hint of derision or sarcasm or implied threat. “Son, that’s not something you apologize for.”
Eames feels a bit like Arthur looked, the day they’d visited Frank and caught him cuddling the cat. Like the world’s shifted and he’s not sure where he was standing before, but he’s sure he’s not standing there now. “What?”
“You had connections in Marikesh you could count on to keep you safe. He didn’t. Bringing Arthur in with you would have been risky. You kept him safe. You had to lie to do it, and I wouldn’t recommend making a habit out of that, ‘cause the kid takes it personally, but you kept him safe. So in this case… I’ve got to stand behind you.”
Eames stood just before Frank astounded him.
He sits again, somewhat heavily.
“Yeah, he’s pissed about it,” Frank says. “He’s throwing a fit. He’ll calm down. You just keep looking for him. Don’t do anything stupid. Maybe get a little more sleep and eat right - ‘cause I gotta tell ya, kid, you look like shit.“ There’s that smile again. “It’ll be okay.”
Eames can’t help but be suspicious.
Frank pats his knee, and from out of nowhere the cat comes running (Frank actually calls it that - “the cat” or “Cat”; ‘How practical,” Eames had said; ‘It’s charming,‘ Frank countered. ‘Like in that Hepburn movie.‘ Eames was speechless) and jumps up into Frank’s lap. Frank pets it and it purrs.
After a pause, Eames blurts out, “You’re totally fucking me, aren’t you?”
Frank’s smile vanishes. “What-”
“You tell me calm down ‘cause you know the last thing I need to do right now is look calm. You make me think there’s no need to go groveling, when probably what Arthur’s expecting is a bit of arse-kissing-”
Frank looks suddenly pissed and like he’s trying not to show it.
“Hey, what you two do behind closed doors-”
“You’re totally trying to fuck me out of fixing this!”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Frank rails, looking like he’d be on his feet already, thinking about pounding Eames if it weren’t for Cat. The cat, because it’s a freakish anomaly, doesn’t respond to either man’s raised voice or the fury her owner is radiating. It continues to purr. “I told you, there’s nothing to fix! Do I look like a fifteen-year-old girl? I don’t play fucking games. If I didn’t want you shacking up with my kid, you wouldn’t be shacking up with him.”
“We’re not “shacking up,“ Eames volleys back, with air quotes and everything, “as you so crudely put it. Arthur is no child. And we’re- We were- Don’t tell me you want me living with Arthur! You’ve always hated me.” It’s the truth. Eames probably sounds like a complete girl, the way he’s just said it, but it’s the truth. And those sorta hurt right now, with all the uncertainties… And with how little sleep and how much caffeine Eames’s had recently.
Frank’s anger, inexplicably, seeps away as fast as it boiled over. “I don’t have to hate you to want to break your face now and then, Daniel,” he says. “I’m not messing with you. I know my boy. He needs his space right now, but after that- Well.” Frank pets his cat and looks grudging. “He wouldn’t have gotten so pissed about you nearly getting yourself shot in Morocco without him if he didn’t want you enough to come back to you eventually.”
If Frank is trying to comfort Eames…
He’s being remarkably successful. Maybe it’s exhaustion, or hope, but Eames feels some of the urgency leave him as he sits, leveling out his breath and watching Frank pet Cat. Maybe it’s because Frank talking about breaking faces is more within Eames’s comfort zone than the spectacle of Frank smiling at him. More believable.
“You’re… being serious? You’re not just setting me up? Because I‘m telling you, Frank, I can’t lose him. I don’t-”
“Yeah, yeah,” Frank says, waving Eames’s words away, looking slightly pained. “Don’t girl out on me again. I heard you the first time. You love him. Warms my heart to hear it. I’m being serious, so you can shut up about it now.”
Except shutting up has never been Eames’s strong suit.
Eames forces an expression on his face that isn’t frantic or furious - he maybe even smiles. And is at least partially joking when he says, “You’re not just softening me up either? Keeping me happy til you kill me, so the neighbors don’t hear me scream.”
Frank rolls his eyes. “Bathroom’s upstairs, first door on the right. Guest room’s to the left. Shower and sleep. Maybe I can get Arthur to answer one of those phone calls tomorrow.” Pissed as Arthur is, if anyone can get him to set aside hard feelings for a minute, it’s Frank Moses.
Eames nods and stands.
“Arthur is scared, you know,” Frank says before Eames can take a step - like he’s been considering whether or not to say it since their conversation started. “Every man’s scared of losing something.”
“Even the great Frank Moses?” Eames asks, with a quirk of his lips, to cover up how much he thinks he needed to hear that.
Frank smiles again. And says, with surprising honesty, “I’m scared every day my boy’s alright that one day he won’t be.” The smile is his usual one - the one of caution. “And if you tell him, I’ll break both your legs.”
Eames laughs, though he knows that Frank is mostly serious.
He stops at the staircase and looks back at Frank, sitting in the dark with Cat, his lingering smile barely visible, when Frank says, “Oh, and kid?”
“Yes, Frank?”
“Just in case you ever get an idea to lie to Arthur for some reason other than keeping him safe… I don’t soften people up before I kill them. I shoot somebody, they deserve to be shot. Not my problem if they get all worked up about it before it happens.”
Eames swallows. Frank is undoubtedly the deadliest man to ever own a ginger tabby. He scratches Cat behind her ears and adds, utterly cheerful, “Also, the neighbors wouldn’t hear any screaming.”
“…good to know,” Eames says, walking at a carefully casual pace up the staircase.
He’s sane enough to know sound advice when he’s heard it.
[end.]
♥ And in related news, I need R.E.D. icons. Or at least one, Bruce-Willis-looking-badass-like-Bruce-Willis-does one. ♥
Fandom(s): Inception/R.E.D.
Pairings, Characters: Arthur/Eames, Frank Moses
Rating: PG
Author's Note: The "highly anticipated" sequel to This Famine That Carries Me :p Frank Moses is Arthur's father. In this installment: Eames goes to Frank for a little fatherly advice.
Summary: Eames has rarely been accused of being in his right might - on the contrary, it has been suggested (often and to the tune of urgent gunfire) that he doesn’t have one.
Inception/R.E.D. Arthur/Eames
It’s not a visit that anyone in his right mind wants to make.
Then again, Eames has rarely been accused of being in his right might - on the contrary, it has been suggested (often and to the tune of urgent gunfire) that he doesn’t have one. Also, Eames is feeling somewhat less sane than usual, these days, so he doesn’t believe his presence in Frank Moses’s living room will come as a surprise.
There’s no question, really - Frank Moses isn’t surprised by anything.
“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.” Frank walks further into the room, setting down his house keys and the post he’s just collected from the mailbox outside. He isn’t using an expression. Arthur gave Frank a cat, last year, to be a pain in the ass and, surprisingly, the old man kept it.
That feline is as crazy and odd as every other member of the Moses family. The only thing even remotely cat-like that it does routinely is kill and deposit disgusting things on Frank’s back doorstep.
“It must have took courage… for you to come and see me right now. I like that, that’s good.”
Eames knows better to uncoil the muscles that tensed as soon as he heard the elder Moses pull up in the drive out front. Frank could mean, ‘that’s good - you’ve showed me how much Arthur means to you‘ or ‘that’s good - you’ve saved me a trip and now I can kill you in the comfort of my own home.’ With Arthur’s dad, it could really go either way.
“Mr. Moses, I-”
“Oh-ho. It’s Mr. Moses now… Last time I saw you, it was Frances. Hello, Frances. Wonderful day we’re having, isn’t it?“ Frank says, at a high pitch, in a really horrid approximation of Eames’s accent. “And now that you’ve pissed off my boy, it’s Mr. Moses all of a sudden.“
“I know. I-”
“I oughtta shoot for the Frances thing alone,” Frank says, taking a seat in the armchair perpendicular to the couch upon which Eames sits. Eames checked that chair for hidden weapons while Frank was out. He checked the entire room, but he wouldn’t put it past Frank to have hiding places that withstood Eames’s perusal or to try and kill Eames with his bare hands.
In which case, Eames will be screwed. Because he came here in the hopes of patching things up with Frank’s son, and nothing says ‘I’m sorry, love; let’s make up‘ like killing your lover’s father in self-defense. Or being killed. Knowing Frank, Eames is no longer ashamed of the prospect of being murdered by a man getting checks from Social Security.
Eames doesn’t have it in him to work up to something here slowly. Violence, acceptance, rejection - whatever he has coming, he has just enough energy to put himself out there and let Frank give it to him. He hasn’t slept in days. He meant to shower again and perhaps change into clothes less creased than the ones he’s currently wearing (and was currently wearing even a day ago) but at the last minute he couldn’t be fucked. He needs a good shave, but Frank’s used to that. His eyes are rimmed read and sitting atop bags fuller than the one Eames took with him on the plane here to Florida. He sees the moment Frank takes all of this in, and waits for the old man to laugh or start in on the ‘I told you so’s before he pours his heart out.
Frank does neither. He just looks at Eames, blank-faced. The family resemblance is right there - in those cool eyes - green for Frank. Arthur’s are a dark brown. If Eames hadn’t already been about to break wide open, the reminder would have done it nicely.
“I love him, Frank,” Eames says. Probably the most sugary-sweet thing Frank’s heard in ages. No man in their right mind would say something so… emotional, and flowery, and true in Frank’s presence. (See paragraph two of the page of text prior to this one.) “I love him… and I’m sorry.”
Eames couldn’t be more earnest. He’s learned his lesson. Truth - truth and courage. Those are the only things that will get him anywhere with a Moses man. Anywhere but shot or beaten or, worst of all, left. Left and terrified that this is it, this time. This time Arthur won’t come back for him. Won’t let himself be found, because Eames has looked and looked-
“Why are you telling me this, Daniel?” Frank asks. He looks, and sounds, for once like what he appears to be at first glance. Just a man. Not getting any younger, not getting much wiser. A little tired of all the bullshit that comes with his years, as opposed to his general attitude of being ready to put down whatever bullshit comes, stupid enough to try and mess with him.
That might be the most terrifying thought Eames has had yet. That he and Arthur are so over, Frank doesn’t even care to hate Eames for his part in it.
“Because the fucker won’t answer his phone and let me tell him,” Eames rails. He comes alive in his seat, feeling as though he’s been frozen in that slump forever. “Because I’ve looked everywhere, and he hasn’t got the bollocks or the heart or whatever to just end it with me, but-”
Frank chuckles. Sits back in the armchair. Rubs his lips with his fingers, like he’s trying to massage the nearly spoken ‘Fuck off‘ out of them. “You think Arthur’s scared of you, huh?”
Not so much. ‘But he’d ought to be,‘ Eames thinks. Arthur ought to be. Because Arthur scares Eames - the sheer power in him, over Eames’s heart, Eames’s happiness, scares Eames shitless - and what was any of this for if Arthur doesn’t feel the same way? What was Marikesh - the beginning of this end that Eames is battling - for if Arthur isn’t as shite-dropping anxious about loving a man like either of them as Eames is?
“I think that the least he can do is let me apologize.” There’s no chance Frank doesn’t know what Eames has to apologize for. Arthur doesn’t tell his daddy everything, but he tells him enough. And, anyway, Frank always just seems to know. Eames tries not to think about it.
“About that thing in Morocco, right?” Frank asks. And Eames gets the singular, surreal pleasure of seeing Frank smile at him. Not the smile Frank reserves just for Arthur. Not the smile Eames has glimpsed, from afar, when Frank’s among his friends. Not the (frightening) smile Frank gives strangers - full of more caution than good will - or the (even more frightening) smile he gives the ladies. Something different… Without a hint of derision or sarcasm or implied threat. “Son, that’s not something you apologize for.”
Eames feels a bit like Arthur looked, the day they’d visited Frank and caught him cuddling the cat. Like the world’s shifted and he’s not sure where he was standing before, but he’s sure he’s not standing there now. “What?”
“You had connections in Marikesh you could count on to keep you safe. He didn’t. Bringing Arthur in with you would have been risky. You kept him safe. You had to lie to do it, and I wouldn’t recommend making a habit out of that, ‘cause the kid takes it personally, but you kept him safe. So in this case… I’ve got to stand behind you.”
Eames stood just before Frank astounded him.
He sits again, somewhat heavily.
“Yeah, he’s pissed about it,” Frank says. “He’s throwing a fit. He’ll calm down. You just keep looking for him. Don’t do anything stupid. Maybe get a little more sleep and eat right - ‘cause I gotta tell ya, kid, you look like shit.“ There’s that smile again. “It’ll be okay.”
Eames can’t help but be suspicious.
Frank pats his knee, and from out of nowhere the cat comes running (Frank actually calls it that - “the cat” or “Cat”; ‘How practical,” Eames had said; ‘It’s charming,‘ Frank countered. ‘Like in that Hepburn movie.‘ Eames was speechless) and jumps up into Frank’s lap. Frank pets it and it purrs.
After a pause, Eames blurts out, “You’re totally fucking me, aren’t you?”
Frank’s smile vanishes. “What-”
“You tell me calm down ‘cause you know the last thing I need to do right now is look calm. You make me think there’s no need to go groveling, when probably what Arthur’s expecting is a bit of arse-kissing-”
Frank looks suddenly pissed and like he’s trying not to show it.
“Hey, what you two do behind closed doors-”
“You’re totally trying to fuck me out of fixing this!”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Frank rails, looking like he’d be on his feet already, thinking about pounding Eames if it weren’t for Cat. The cat, because it’s a freakish anomaly, doesn’t respond to either man’s raised voice or the fury her owner is radiating. It continues to purr. “I told you, there’s nothing to fix! Do I look like a fifteen-year-old girl? I don’t play fucking games. If I didn’t want you shacking up with my kid, you wouldn’t be shacking up with him.”
“We’re not “shacking up,“ Eames volleys back, with air quotes and everything, “as you so crudely put it. Arthur is no child. And we’re- We were- Don’t tell me you want me living with Arthur! You’ve always hated me.” It’s the truth. Eames probably sounds like a complete girl, the way he’s just said it, but it’s the truth. And those sorta hurt right now, with all the uncertainties… And with how little sleep and how much caffeine Eames’s had recently.
Frank’s anger, inexplicably, seeps away as fast as it boiled over. “I don’t have to hate you to want to break your face now and then, Daniel,” he says. “I’m not messing with you. I know my boy. He needs his space right now, but after that- Well.” Frank pets his cat and looks grudging. “He wouldn’t have gotten so pissed about you nearly getting yourself shot in Morocco without him if he didn’t want you enough to come back to you eventually.”
If Frank is trying to comfort Eames…
He’s being remarkably successful. Maybe it’s exhaustion, or hope, but Eames feels some of the urgency leave him as he sits, leveling out his breath and watching Frank pet Cat. Maybe it’s because Frank talking about breaking faces is more within Eames’s comfort zone than the spectacle of Frank smiling at him. More believable.
“You’re… being serious? You’re not just setting me up? Because I‘m telling you, Frank, I can’t lose him. I don’t-”
“Yeah, yeah,” Frank says, waving Eames’s words away, looking slightly pained. “Don’t girl out on me again. I heard you the first time. You love him. Warms my heart to hear it. I’m being serious, so you can shut up about it now.”
Except shutting up has never been Eames’s strong suit.
Eames forces an expression on his face that isn’t frantic or furious - he maybe even smiles. And is at least partially joking when he says, “You’re not just softening me up either? Keeping me happy til you kill me, so the neighbors don’t hear me scream.”
Frank rolls his eyes. “Bathroom’s upstairs, first door on the right. Guest room’s to the left. Shower and sleep. Maybe I can get Arthur to answer one of those phone calls tomorrow.” Pissed as Arthur is, if anyone can get him to set aside hard feelings for a minute, it’s Frank Moses.
Eames nods and stands.
“Arthur is scared, you know,” Frank says before Eames can take a step - like he’s been considering whether or not to say it since their conversation started. “Every man’s scared of losing something.”
“Even the great Frank Moses?” Eames asks, with a quirk of his lips, to cover up how much he thinks he needed to hear that.
Frank smiles again. And says, with surprising honesty, “I’m scared every day my boy’s alright that one day he won’t be.” The smile is his usual one - the one of caution. “And if you tell him, I’ll break both your legs.”
Eames laughs, though he knows that Frank is mostly serious.
He stops at the staircase and looks back at Frank, sitting in the dark with Cat, his lingering smile barely visible, when Frank says, “Oh, and kid?”
“Yes, Frank?”
“Just in case you ever get an idea to lie to Arthur for some reason other than keeping him safe… I don’t soften people up before I kill them. I shoot somebody, they deserve to be shot. Not my problem if they get all worked up about it before it happens.”
Eames swallows. Frank is undoubtedly the deadliest man to ever own a ginger tabby. He scratches Cat behind her ears and adds, utterly cheerful, “Also, the neighbors wouldn’t hear any screaming.”
“…good to know,” Eames says, walking at a carefully casual pace up the staircase.
He’s sane enough to know sound advice when he’s heard it.
[end.]
♥ And in related news, I need R.E.D. icons. Or at least one, Bruce-Willis-looking-badass-like-Bruce-Willis-does one. ♥