The Mona Lisa Tourist (Eames/Saito)
Pairings: Eames/Saito
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,127
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Notes: Lots of thanks to my beta, end1essly , for the help. :)
Summary: After the Fischer job, Saito goes on a journey of healing and self-discovery. Eames tags along, playing tourist, until he realizes he's all that Saito really needed.
“My assistant advised me to skip the Mona Lisa,” Saito says over Eames’s shoulder. It’s a sunny day and light filters in through the generous windows of the Los Angeles International Airport.
Eames looks up from his pamphlet. “And why would anyone ever do that?”
“If I see it, she claimed, I would undoubtedly develop the urge to possess it,” Saito smiles. “And that would be bad for my finances, would it not?”
“The Mona Lisa is too crowded anyway,” Eames grins, enjoying this side of Saito. “I know of this lovely garden café in Boulogne-Billancourt that houses a copy of Gaston Lachaise's Reclining Nude.” He pauses, chewing on his toothpick. “The first copy, actually, but I doubt the owner knows that.”
“Will you take me there?”
“Sure,” Eames shrugs. “You’re buying.”
They don’t purchase tickets, but they don’t sit first class, either; money doesn’t make anyone famous unless he’s being embarrassing about it.
------
The first time Eames tries raw squid, he is five, and his mother has tricked him. He tells this to Saito in France over moules marinière, and watches Saito’s mouth as Saito laughs a laugh of a man who doesn’t know how to laugh any other way but politely.
“How do those taste?” Eames asks, skipping the questions about their childhoods, their better years. Eames finds it embarrassing asking questions he already knows the answer to. He tries to spare sounding like a security screening.
“The world tastes less than it used to,” Saito says over ice water and white napkins, folded into squares. Eames reasons he’s talking about limbo, and can’t relate.
“You should give Cobb a call,” Eames suggests half-heartedly, because they both know inception only happened because Dom wanted to leave them - dreamsharing heists, criminal associates - behind.
“I have just caught the company of a very clever man, and I have never been wasteful, Mr. Eames.”
“Right,” Eames says, lips quirking. “Better not waste it, then.” He points out the statue, and they stare at it together. Eames catches a glance at Saito later, and wonders how Saito’s eyes have come to be so dead. He’s hesitant to entirely fault limbo.
------
By the time they crawl back in the taxi, Eames thinks he’s got it. They’re heading for the airport again. Saito can’t stop touching the black casing of his mobile phone. It’s turned off.
“Do you have a phone call you desperately need to make?” Eames says, offering his phone.
“I think I’ve had enough of desperate phone calls this week.” Saito looks bereft for a brief moment. They’re about to say goodbye.
“You owe me one,” Eames ventures, feeling increasingly entitled with each word. “I got on a ten hour flight just to have lunch with you, you tricky bastard.”
Eames sees Saito hesitating, but it’s an easy win. Saito tries, “Have you been to Shanghai?”
“Sure,” Eames says. “I mean, sure I’ll come along.” He’s never been.
------
In Shanghai everyone is Chinese and it’s too much, for a moment, because it seems forever ago since Eames has felt so conspicuous in a place where no one’s ever seen him before. He wonders if Saito’s subconscious would fill a dream with Japanese faces, wonders if he’d be a conspicuous spot in Saito’s mind, his heart.
He thinks too much nowadays, because it is monsoon season in Shanghai and every day the rain falls heavy and hot; heavy like his heart, hot like his fear. Eames follows too trustingly for his own tastes when Saito takes Eames by the arm and leads him down to the nearest subway. Eames should know better than to trust this Saito, this Saito who is too impatient to even call a cab, this Saito who must take the subway because it’s the fastest way to get to two places in the congestion that is Shanghai.
“What are you running from?” Eames says under his breath, voice lost in the bike bells, the car horns. It smells like trash and grease and Saito’s subtle cologne. He sees a young boy lift a wallet from a young woman’s bag and tries his hand at it too, but quickly realizes everyone else has zippers on their purses.
“An associate of mine once said Shanghainese was only good for yelling,” Saito supplies, as they watch an old woman cuss out a construction worker. “The direct translation is fuck your mom.”
Eames laughs. “Everyone loves his mother, darling.”
“Maybe,” Saito says, and leads them away before Eames can inquire further.
They stop by a temple and burn joss money for the dead. Eames asks, “What is it like to die?” and Saito says, “Death is the easy part. It is the escape. It is nothing compared to waiting up with life’s regrets fresh on the mind.”
They walk down a flooded street, one side lined with stationary stores, the other lining a lake. “Your shoes are ruined,” Eames says, because Saito only packs for business.
Saito turns his head up to the sky. A couple of high school girls carrying bejeweled mobiles and animal-styled umbrellas push past them. They’re wearing brightly colored sandals, and Eames can see them with every step, splashing up from murky waters. Eames looks away and moves on to study Saito’s wrinkles, and imagines Saito’s too waterlogged inside to care about wet shoes.
“Last week an unfortunate man’s leg washed up on these streets.” Saito finally says. “Crime is messier, here.”
Eames remembers Ariadne’s stories of the shores of limbo, where the lost wake up alive but without their lives. He doesn’t understand but he wants to, desperately.
In Shanghai Eames thinks Saito feels comfortable, but not familiar. Saito knows the language, knows what to eat and how to bargain, but he doesn’t know the people or their manners. He doesn’t know them the way he knows Japanese customs and Japanese mothers, the way he knows the weight of responsibility. In Shanghai Eames lets himself be the tourist, and waits for his moment to be more than a hindrance.
In Shanghai Eames asks, casually, “When are you going home?” the same time Saito confesses, “I have lost track of time,” the same time Arthur calls and Eames doesn’t pick up.
He calls back later and says no. It’s a job, but Eames is already on a job.
------
The first night, when Saito leans over and caresses Eames’s cheek, Eames smiles and tilts his head until they kiss. Saito’s mouth is so thin Eames’s lips easily cover it, protective.
------
“How did you enjoy your time off?” Eames asks, tucking in on the brief flight to Japan.
“My assistant was good to warn me against the Mona Lisa,” Saito says, sliding his hand over Eames’s. “But she forgot to mention you.”
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,127
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Notes: Lots of thanks to my beta, end1essly , for the help. :)
Summary: After the Fischer job, Saito goes on a journey of healing and self-discovery. Eames tags along, playing tourist, until he realizes he's all that Saito really needed.
“My assistant advised me to skip the Mona Lisa,” Saito says over Eames’s shoulder. It’s a sunny day and light filters in through the generous windows of the Los Angeles International Airport.
Eames looks up from his pamphlet. “And why would anyone ever do that?”
“If I see it, she claimed, I would undoubtedly develop the urge to possess it,” Saito smiles. “And that would be bad for my finances, would it not?”
“The Mona Lisa is too crowded anyway,” Eames grins, enjoying this side of Saito. “I know of this lovely garden café in Boulogne-Billancourt that houses a copy of Gaston Lachaise's Reclining Nude.” He pauses, chewing on his toothpick. “The first copy, actually, but I doubt the owner knows that.”
“Will you take me there?”
“Sure,” Eames shrugs. “You’re buying.”
They don’t purchase tickets, but they don’t sit first class, either; money doesn’t make anyone famous unless he’s being embarrassing about it.
------
The first time Eames tries raw squid, he is five, and his mother has tricked him. He tells this to Saito in France over moules marinière, and watches Saito’s mouth as Saito laughs a laugh of a man who doesn’t know how to laugh any other way but politely.
“How do those taste?” Eames asks, skipping the questions about their childhoods, their better years. Eames finds it embarrassing asking questions he already knows the answer to. He tries to spare sounding like a security screening.
“The world tastes less than it used to,” Saito says over ice water and white napkins, folded into squares. Eames reasons he’s talking about limbo, and can’t relate.
“You should give Cobb a call,” Eames suggests half-heartedly, because they both know inception only happened because Dom wanted to leave them - dreamsharing heists, criminal associates - behind.
“I have just caught the company of a very clever man, and I have never been wasteful, Mr. Eames.”
“Right,” Eames says, lips quirking. “Better not waste it, then.” He points out the statue, and they stare at it together. Eames catches a glance at Saito later, and wonders how Saito’s eyes have come to be so dead. He’s hesitant to entirely fault limbo.
------
By the time they crawl back in the taxi, Eames thinks he’s got it. They’re heading for the airport again. Saito can’t stop touching the black casing of his mobile phone. It’s turned off.
“Do you have a phone call you desperately need to make?” Eames says, offering his phone.
“I think I’ve had enough of desperate phone calls this week.” Saito looks bereft for a brief moment. They’re about to say goodbye.
“You owe me one,” Eames ventures, feeling increasingly entitled with each word. “I got on a ten hour flight just to have lunch with you, you tricky bastard.”
Eames sees Saito hesitating, but it’s an easy win. Saito tries, “Have you been to Shanghai?”
“Sure,” Eames says. “I mean, sure I’ll come along.” He’s never been.
------
In Shanghai everyone is Chinese and it’s too much, for a moment, because it seems forever ago since Eames has felt so conspicuous in a place where no one’s ever seen him before. He wonders if Saito’s subconscious would fill a dream with Japanese faces, wonders if he’d be a conspicuous spot in Saito’s mind, his heart.
He thinks too much nowadays, because it is monsoon season in Shanghai and every day the rain falls heavy and hot; heavy like his heart, hot like his fear. Eames follows too trustingly for his own tastes when Saito takes Eames by the arm and leads him down to the nearest subway. Eames should know better than to trust this Saito, this Saito who is too impatient to even call a cab, this Saito who must take the subway because it’s the fastest way to get to two places in the congestion that is Shanghai.
“What are you running from?” Eames says under his breath, voice lost in the bike bells, the car horns. It smells like trash and grease and Saito’s subtle cologne. He sees a young boy lift a wallet from a young woman’s bag and tries his hand at it too, but quickly realizes everyone else has zippers on their purses.
“An associate of mine once said Shanghainese was only good for yelling,” Saito supplies, as they watch an old woman cuss out a construction worker. “The direct translation is fuck your mom.”
Eames laughs. “Everyone loves his mother, darling.”
“Maybe,” Saito says, and leads them away before Eames can inquire further.
They stop by a temple and burn joss money for the dead. Eames asks, “What is it like to die?” and Saito says, “Death is the easy part. It is the escape. It is nothing compared to waiting up with life’s regrets fresh on the mind.”
They walk down a flooded street, one side lined with stationary stores, the other lining a lake. “Your shoes are ruined,” Eames says, because Saito only packs for business.
Saito turns his head up to the sky. A couple of high school girls carrying bejeweled mobiles and animal-styled umbrellas push past them. They’re wearing brightly colored sandals, and Eames can see them with every step, splashing up from murky waters. Eames looks away and moves on to study Saito’s wrinkles, and imagines Saito’s too waterlogged inside to care about wet shoes.
“Last week an unfortunate man’s leg washed up on these streets.” Saito finally says. “Crime is messier, here.”
Eames remembers Ariadne’s stories of the shores of limbo, where the lost wake up alive but without their lives. He doesn’t understand but he wants to, desperately.
In Shanghai Eames thinks Saito feels comfortable, but not familiar. Saito knows the language, knows what to eat and how to bargain, but he doesn’t know the people or their manners. He doesn’t know them the way he knows Japanese customs and Japanese mothers, the way he knows the weight of responsibility. In Shanghai Eames lets himself be the tourist, and waits for his moment to be more than a hindrance.
In Shanghai Eames asks, casually, “When are you going home?” the same time Saito confesses, “I have lost track of time,” the same time Arthur calls and Eames doesn’t pick up.
He calls back later and says no. It’s a job, but Eames is already on a job.
------
The first night, when Saito leans over and caresses Eames’s cheek, Eames smiles and tilts his head until they kiss. Saito’s mouth is so thin Eames’s lips easily cover it, protective.
------
“How did you enjoy your time off?” Eames asks, tucking in on the brief flight to Japan.
“My assistant was good to warn me against the Mona Lisa,” Saito says, sliding his hand over Eames’s. “But she forgot to mention you.”