Advent Calendar Day Three - Inception fic: running away from nothing real
Day One | Avalanche, Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, R, 400 words | for pjvilar
Day Two | No Fu Manchu, Hawaii Five-0, Danny, Steve, PG, 803 words | for laceymcbain
running away from nothing real [Inception, Eames/Ariadne, R, 1,358 words, for vinylroad, prompt: Running, she learned, only brought you back to the things you were trying to escape from in the first place. Beta thanks to dreamlittleyo. Title from Hounds of Love by Kate Bush.]
Running, she learned, no matter how hard or how fast, only brought you back to the things you were trying to escape from in the first place. But she hadn't thought (of that, of anything) when she started, and once she realized she was running - consciously, to a degree more than simply putting one foot in front of the other and letting her body follow - she had to keep going.
Eames called out after her, of course. "You do appreciate, love, that you're actually sitting in a chair right next to me at the moment?" Running was futile.
Ariadne didn't dignify that with a response, but she did slow down. She could alter the world, of course. Throw up a bridge over the river and get lost in the maze of crumbling apartment blocks on the other side. Make the bridge crumble while Eames still had both feet on it. Watch from a balcony as he tumbled, his splash indistinguishable from the masonry hitting the water. But she was already feeling the glances of passersby, not wholly hostile, but curious and uncertain about her place here. Change like that, something so obvious, would be dangerous. Wouldn't protect her at all.
Not that she needed protection. Not from Eames.
That wasn't what made her run the moment he'd run his fingers along her bare arm and smiled at her - not saying a word because a smile like that was more eloquent than words. She wasn't running out of fear. She was running because maybe that would be enough to leave behind the sense-memory of that touch, her primitive reaction.
It wasn't that easy, of course. The thrill that came from just that one touch wasn't going to be left behind like a snake's old skin. Nor was the shivering curiosity of how much more she might have felt if she'd let his fingers linger or explore, let his lips touch hers.
So she stopped. Running was futile, and Ariadne wasn't given to exercises in futility. She sat on the bank of the river, feet dangling over the water, and waited. There was a fishing boat floating slowly up the river, low in the water, full of fish. She could smell them, still wrapped in the odor of the sea. There were piles of nets on deck, dirty-white, the color of waves on a stormy day.
Clouds built up as she watched it, faster than they should. There wasn't any breeze.
She thought he might sit down beside her and they would look out over the river together until Yusuf kicked them out of his latest experiment, but instead Eames walked up behind her, put his arms under hers and lifted her up. No regard for her dignity, but then it was Eames - he probably wouldn't think that a matter worth considering.
She glared up at him when he put her on her feet, but he just grinned, took her by the hand, and led her into a garden she hadn't noticed, tucked away between two tall, old buildings. It was colder there, a damp chill that made a mockery of her cotton scarf. No sunlight made it into the space at this hour of the afternoon, but no projections either. At least, not yet. Ariadne shivered, not dressed for the shadows, and Eames pulled off his jacket and put it around her shoulders.
"See, a perfect gentleman," he said. "Nothing to run away from." He didn't take her hand again.
"There's a first time for everything," she said.
"The exception that proves the rule, you mean?" Eames asked, taking the narrow path counterclockwise around the garden. It was narrow enough that they either had to touch at the elbow as they walked or walk one in front of the other. Ariadne settled for keeping her arms in close, merely brushing against him every other step.
"That's a stupid saying," Ariadne replied, knowing that she sounded her age making such a sweeping statement, but not caring. She believed what she was saying. "If there's an exception, then the rule is invalid. And if the rule is sometimes valid, sometimes not, it's a wishy-washy sort of rule and I've no patience for it."
"You've spent too much time with Arthur."
Ariadne shrugged. Maybe she had, or maybe it was part of her nature as an architecture student. Either way, it was who she was. "Rules should either stand or be broken, not watered down."
"I can live with that. Especially when I get to break them."
"I'm sure you live to break the rules," Ariadne said.
"There are other thrills, but yes, darling, breaking the rules is always a pleasure."
"Is that what you were doing earlier? Breaking the rules just because you could?"
"Is that what you think it was? Was I even breaking a rule?"
Ariadne didn't know. She didn't know why Eames would single her out, touch her like that, look at her like that. It frustrated her, not understanding. Easiest to believe it was nothing. "Yeah," she said, only answering the first question.
"I'm hurt, love," he said, and he looked so sincere she'd have believed him if she hadn't seen him with that exact same expression on a different face, right in the middle of a con. She didn't know how to tell the difference between genuine and fake when it came to Eames.
"I wanted to sit by the river and wait for the kick," she said as they reached the end of the path. Or the beginning, whichever way one chose to look at it. "Or you can shoot me if you like. We've done everything we can do this session."
"I beg leave to differ," Eames said. "I can think of many, many things we could do in the time left. And all of them so much more fun than being shot. If you don't mind breaking the rules."
Ariadne could think of things too. She didn't mean to, but she couldn't stop thinking. She wavered, swaying slightly as she looked at him, and Eames noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything.
He walked her backwards three steps and pressed her up against a metal gate - she added a padlock to it just in time to prevent it swinging open under their combined weight - and for a moment she expected to hear Arthur's dry tones, insisting that they kiss to calm the projections.
There still weren't any projections, and Eames didn't use a line. She was sure he had many, and equally certain that even the worst worked nine times out of ten. On men or women. She wouldn't fall for the line, obviously, even if he tried, but there was nothing she could do to resist the way he kissed her. As though he'd been wanting this all his life, thumbs gently soothing her jaw as he cupped her face. His fingernails were bitten to the quick - she could tell by the bluntness of his touch, even if she weren't familiar with every little detail of him - and there were calluses on his fingertips.
She let him kiss her, and then she kissed him back, sneaking her fingers under his shirt while he was distracted, smiling into his kiss when he startled at the feel of her cold fingers against the small of his back. He slid a thigh between hers, rough corduroy up against the thin cotton of her panties, and she gasped. She couldn't feel the cold any more.
"See," he said, when they woke up, "that was so much better than getting shot in the head."
"If you say so," was all she admitted, particularly under the curious gaze of Arthur and Yusuf, but when they were finished for the day, she didn't object when Eames followed her to the Metro, or when he got off at her stop and walked with her all the way home. And when he thumbed her breasts that night, rubbing his callused thumb over her nipple and made her shiver again, he whispered, "I bet that's better than getting shot in the head too," and she couldn't help but whisper back, "yes."
//
Day Two | No Fu Manchu, Hawaii Five-0, Danny, Steve, PG, 803 words | for laceymcbain
running away from nothing real [Inception, Eames/Ariadne, R, 1,358 words, for vinylroad, prompt: Running, she learned, only brought you back to the things you were trying to escape from in the first place. Beta thanks to dreamlittleyo. Title from Hounds of Love by Kate Bush.]
Running, she learned, no matter how hard or how fast, only brought you back to the things you were trying to escape from in the first place. But she hadn't thought (of that, of anything) when she started, and once she realized she was running - consciously, to a degree more than simply putting one foot in front of the other and letting her body follow - she had to keep going.
Eames called out after her, of course. "You do appreciate, love, that you're actually sitting in a chair right next to me at the moment?" Running was futile.
Ariadne didn't dignify that with a response, but she did slow down. She could alter the world, of course. Throw up a bridge over the river and get lost in the maze of crumbling apartment blocks on the other side. Make the bridge crumble while Eames still had both feet on it. Watch from a balcony as he tumbled, his splash indistinguishable from the masonry hitting the water. But she was already feeling the glances of passersby, not wholly hostile, but curious and uncertain about her place here. Change like that, something so obvious, would be dangerous. Wouldn't protect her at all.
Not that she needed protection. Not from Eames.
That wasn't what made her run the moment he'd run his fingers along her bare arm and smiled at her - not saying a word because a smile like that was more eloquent than words. She wasn't running out of fear. She was running because maybe that would be enough to leave behind the sense-memory of that touch, her primitive reaction.
It wasn't that easy, of course. The thrill that came from just that one touch wasn't going to be left behind like a snake's old skin. Nor was the shivering curiosity of how much more she might have felt if she'd let his fingers linger or explore, let his lips touch hers.
So she stopped. Running was futile, and Ariadne wasn't given to exercises in futility. She sat on the bank of the river, feet dangling over the water, and waited. There was a fishing boat floating slowly up the river, low in the water, full of fish. She could smell them, still wrapped in the odor of the sea. There were piles of nets on deck, dirty-white, the color of waves on a stormy day.
Clouds built up as she watched it, faster than they should. There wasn't any breeze.
She thought he might sit down beside her and they would look out over the river together until Yusuf kicked them out of his latest experiment, but instead Eames walked up behind her, put his arms under hers and lifted her up. No regard for her dignity, but then it was Eames - he probably wouldn't think that a matter worth considering.
She glared up at him when he put her on her feet, but he just grinned, took her by the hand, and led her into a garden she hadn't noticed, tucked away between two tall, old buildings. It was colder there, a damp chill that made a mockery of her cotton scarf. No sunlight made it into the space at this hour of the afternoon, but no projections either. At least, not yet. Ariadne shivered, not dressed for the shadows, and Eames pulled off his jacket and put it around her shoulders.
"See, a perfect gentleman," he said. "Nothing to run away from." He didn't take her hand again.
"There's a first time for everything," she said.
"The exception that proves the rule, you mean?" Eames asked, taking the narrow path counterclockwise around the garden. It was narrow enough that they either had to touch at the elbow as they walked or walk one in front of the other. Ariadne settled for keeping her arms in close, merely brushing against him every other step.
"That's a stupid saying," Ariadne replied, knowing that she sounded her age making such a sweeping statement, but not caring. She believed what she was saying. "If there's an exception, then the rule is invalid. And if the rule is sometimes valid, sometimes not, it's a wishy-washy sort of rule and I've no patience for it."
"You've spent too much time with Arthur."
Ariadne shrugged. Maybe she had, or maybe it was part of her nature as an architecture student. Either way, it was who she was. "Rules should either stand or be broken, not watered down."
"I can live with that. Especially when I get to break them."
"I'm sure you live to break the rules," Ariadne said.
"There are other thrills, but yes, darling, breaking the rules is always a pleasure."
"Is that what you were doing earlier? Breaking the rules just because you could?"
"Is that what you think it was? Was I even breaking a rule?"
Ariadne didn't know. She didn't know why Eames would single her out, touch her like that, look at her like that. It frustrated her, not understanding. Easiest to believe it was nothing. "Yeah," she said, only answering the first question.
"I'm hurt, love," he said, and he looked so sincere she'd have believed him if she hadn't seen him with that exact same expression on a different face, right in the middle of a con. She didn't know how to tell the difference between genuine and fake when it came to Eames.
"I wanted to sit by the river and wait for the kick," she said as they reached the end of the path. Or the beginning, whichever way one chose to look at it. "Or you can shoot me if you like. We've done everything we can do this session."
"I beg leave to differ," Eames said. "I can think of many, many things we could do in the time left. And all of them so much more fun than being shot. If you don't mind breaking the rules."
Ariadne could think of things too. She didn't mean to, but she couldn't stop thinking. She wavered, swaying slightly as she looked at him, and Eames noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything.
He walked her backwards three steps and pressed her up against a metal gate - she added a padlock to it just in time to prevent it swinging open under their combined weight - and for a moment she expected to hear Arthur's dry tones, insisting that they kiss to calm the projections.
There still weren't any projections, and Eames didn't use a line. She was sure he had many, and equally certain that even the worst worked nine times out of ten. On men or women. She wouldn't fall for the line, obviously, even if he tried, but there was nothing she could do to resist the way he kissed her. As though he'd been wanting this all his life, thumbs gently soothing her jaw as he cupped her face. His fingernails were bitten to the quick - she could tell by the bluntness of his touch, even if she weren't familiar with every little detail of him - and there were calluses on his fingertips.
She let him kiss her, and then she kissed him back, sneaking her fingers under his shirt while he was distracted, smiling into his kiss when he startled at the feel of her cold fingers against the small of his back. He slid a thigh between hers, rough corduroy up against the thin cotton of her panties, and she gasped. She couldn't feel the cold any more.
"See," he said, when they woke up, "that was so much better than getting shot in the head."
"If you say so," was all she admitted, particularly under the curious gaze of Arthur and Yusuf, but when they were finished for the day, she didn't object when Eames followed her to the Metro, or when he got off at her stop and walked with her all the way home. And when he thumbed her breasts that night, rubbing his callused thumb over her nipple and made her shiver again, he whispered, "I bet that's better than getting shot in the head too," and she couldn't help but whisper back, "yes."
//