(no subject)
Sort of Revolution
Inception: Arthur/Eames
1300 words
PG
For this prompt, cleaned up and more stupidly fluffy. WARNING: PURE, DOMESTIC FLUFF THAT WILL PROBABLY ROT YOUR BRAIN, READ WITH CAUTION. SERIOUSLY.
ETA: DUDE, O_CHAN DREW THIS FOR THE STORY, AISDOWIHEFOR2EWI AMAZING
RETURN OF THE ETA: OMG AND red_rahl DREW THIS PICTURE OF ARTHUR'S BLANKET BURRITO. DYYYYYYING FOREVER
The first night Arthur stays over, the alarm goes off at 8:00am. Eames looks over at Arthur, who has half his face shoved into the pillow; he has only one eye open.
“Morning,” Eames greets. He goes to kiss Arthur, who turns his face all the way into the pillow at the last second. Eames ends up kissing his ear instead, which, just as well. He makes the most of it. Arthur doesn’t even twitch when Eames bites at the shell of his ear before getting out of bed.
He showers, shaves, dresses, and eats breakfast within twenty minutes. Eames’s morning routine is a constant flurry of movement, so it’s only when he makes an offhand comment about doing some hamstring stretches and core exercises that he finally realizes something’s wrong. Arthur isn’t even in the vicinity at all.
By instinct, he goes back to the bedroom. Arthur is still wrapped in the comforter. He’s managed to open both eyes, at least.
“Wow,” is all Eames can say. He’s completely delighted. “Wow. Alright. Well, this was unexpected.”
That’s putting it lightly. Before today, Eames had this ridiculous idea in his head that Arthur slept standing up, and ‘powered down’ seemed a more appropriate phrase than ‘slept’. This is one of the few times in his life that Eames has enjoyed being wrong and he has no idea why.
“If I don’t smell coffee in the next two minutes, I’m going to shoot your toes off,” says Arthur’s voice, hoarse and almost comically low-pitched, but the threat is real.
Eames heads to the kitchen.
*
The next morning is much of the same. Eames brews the coffee, then goes back to Arthur, who’s made a huge blanket burrito for himself but has slung one leg out from underneath the comforter and is hanging a pale calf over the side of the mattress.
“Your mother must have hated waking you up for school,” Eames remarks.
There’s a faint beep, which means the coffee is done. He walks to the kitchen, pours two mugs full, then brings them back. Both of Arthur’s legs are now hanging out. It reminds Eames of the Wicked Witch from The Wizard of Oz.
“Almost there, but not quite,” Eames says, keeping a running commentary. Jesus, he can’t stop smiling. “Wonderful effort, though, absolutely brilliant.”
He would pat Arthur’s leg and try to force him out of bed, if he wasn’t likely to get a foot to the face for his efforts. More than likely. Almost positive. 110% probability, with the added injury of several shot-off toes. Instead, he leaves a mug on the bedside table and heads out.
By the time Arthur gets to the warehouse, Eames has already done a test run and is reloading all the vials in the PASIV. He watches Arthur walk in, all quick steps and snappy movements as usual, nothing to let on that just a couple hours ago, he’d been practically brain-dead and as productive as a sack of potatoes.
Frankly, the transformation is amazing.
“Sorry,” Arthur says a bit stiffly. “I’m not really a morning person.”
Eames tries not to sound too happy. “Go on.”
“Just -- don’t take it personally if I’m a little abrasive.” Arthur flicks a few quick glances at Eames. “It takes me a while to get going.”
“I appreciate you all the more for your scintillating morning personality,” Eames announces breezily. “No worries at all.”
*
For Eames, who catalogues people’s mannerisms through sheer fascination as much as necessity, it’s always interesting to find out how well he doesn’t know someone.
Over the next few days, Eames sees Arthur button up his shirt wrong three times in a row, stumble over nothing, knock over glasses when trying to extract them from the evil clutches of the second-level shelves, and attempt to thread a sock through his belt-loops. It’s a bit like watching a newborn colt trying to find its footing. And every day, without fail, he bangs his hip against the dresser. There’s a spectacular bruise blooming over his skin, which turns Eames’s crank a bit to be perfectly honest.
But that’s beside the point, he tells himself. Repeatedly. Then he’s pretty sure he gets a slipped disc while trying to move the dresser three feet to the left.
*
Eames doesn’t realize that fetching coffee for Arthur has become habit until one morning, when Arthur slouches out of the bedroom while holding a mug. Only in that instant when he sees it again does Eames even remember bringing it to Arthur in the first place.
“Thangsfordecoffee,” Arthur mumbles before disappearing into the bathroom. His hair is kicking down over his forehead in crazy layers.
“Huh,” Eames says into the ensuing silence.
*
After the getting out of bed and the coffee and the teeth brushing and the shower, Arthur needs a pocket of time to pad barefoot around the flat while, as far as Eames can tell, thinking about absolutely nothing. Eames assumes this must be boring; he buys a houseplant so that Arthur has something to do while he gets his head on straight.
The next morning, he walks out to the balcony to see Arthur drowning the poor thing, a watering can drooping listlessly in his grip. His coffee cup is halfway to his mouth, forgotten in favor of staring off into space.
“Oh,” Arthur says, eyes clearing once he sees Eames. He jerks up the watering can so that the stream stops. “Shit.”
It’s seriously disconcerting, how much this doesn’t bother Eames at all. Maybe he has some sort of brain parasite.
“Christ,” Eames says. “What have you turned me in to?”
Arthur mumbles an apology and something about buying three new ones. Then, apparently having forgotten that he’s holding a watering can, he walks off and disappears into the bedroom with it still in his hand.
*
Gradually and completely unintentionally, Eames’s flat becomes an actually respectable place of residence. So gradually, in fact, that he doesn’t even notice it until he puts the paper down one day and sees that all the piles of clothing that Arthur had once -- or seven times -- tripped over are gone, either folded away in his newly relocated dresser or hanging up in the closet. The ashtrays that had crowded the dining table are now out on the balcony ledge, because Arthur had once pinched a handful of ashes, thinking it to be pepper in some kind of avant garde arrangement, and sprinkled them liberally over his eggs.
In the kitchen, the mugs are easily reachable in the lowest shelves, handles facing outward. The fruit bowl is no longer located behind the toaster. The living room furniture has been set at right angles, leaving a surrounding border of open space for Arthur to lazily pace around in. The balcony is lined with almost a dozen plants, most of them waterlogged beyond health.
All this coming to light at once should rightfully scare Eames off to the nearest liquor store and then to the nearest brothel, which should be a hop skip jump over from the nearest racetrack. He should be kicking off a week-long bender, after which he’ll wake up at five in the morning in a humid, unfamiliar hotel room, with chipped teeth and his legs covered in mosquito bites.
Instead, he glances at the clock and turns a page in the newspaper when he hears the bathroom light click on. After a few moments, there’s a telltale clatter and buzz, which means Arthur’s dropped the electric toothbrush into the sink again.
Eames sips his coffee and waits.
Inception: Arthur/Eames
1300 words
PG
For this prompt, cleaned up and more stupidly fluffy. WARNING: PURE, DOMESTIC FLUFF THAT WILL PROBABLY ROT YOUR BRAIN, READ WITH CAUTION. SERIOUSLY.
ETA: DUDE, O_CHAN DREW THIS FOR THE STORY, AISDOWIHEFOR2EWI AMAZING
RETURN OF THE ETA: OMG AND red_rahl DREW THIS PICTURE OF ARTHUR'S BLANKET BURRITO. DYYYYYYING FOREVER
The first night Arthur stays over, the alarm goes off at 8:00am. Eames looks over at Arthur, who has half his face shoved into the pillow; he has only one eye open.
“Morning,” Eames greets. He goes to kiss Arthur, who turns his face all the way into the pillow at the last second. Eames ends up kissing his ear instead, which, just as well. He makes the most of it. Arthur doesn’t even twitch when Eames bites at the shell of his ear before getting out of bed.
He showers, shaves, dresses, and eats breakfast within twenty minutes. Eames’s morning routine is a constant flurry of movement, so it’s only when he makes an offhand comment about doing some hamstring stretches and core exercises that he finally realizes something’s wrong. Arthur isn’t even in the vicinity at all.
By instinct, he goes back to the bedroom. Arthur is still wrapped in the comforter. He’s managed to open both eyes, at least.
“Wow,” is all Eames can say. He’s completely delighted. “Wow. Alright. Well, this was unexpected.”
That’s putting it lightly. Before today, Eames had this ridiculous idea in his head that Arthur slept standing up, and ‘powered down’ seemed a more appropriate phrase than ‘slept’. This is one of the few times in his life that Eames has enjoyed being wrong and he has no idea why.
“If I don’t smell coffee in the next two minutes, I’m going to shoot your toes off,” says Arthur’s voice, hoarse and almost comically low-pitched, but the threat is real.
Eames heads to the kitchen.
*
The next morning is much of the same. Eames brews the coffee, then goes back to Arthur, who’s made a huge blanket burrito for himself but has slung one leg out from underneath the comforter and is hanging a pale calf over the side of the mattress.
“Your mother must have hated waking you up for school,” Eames remarks.
There’s a faint beep, which means the coffee is done. He walks to the kitchen, pours two mugs full, then brings them back. Both of Arthur’s legs are now hanging out. It reminds Eames of the Wicked Witch from The Wizard of Oz.
“Almost there, but not quite,” Eames says, keeping a running commentary. Jesus, he can’t stop smiling. “Wonderful effort, though, absolutely brilliant.”
He would pat Arthur’s leg and try to force him out of bed, if he wasn’t likely to get a foot to the face for his efforts. More than likely. Almost positive. 110% probability, with the added injury of several shot-off toes. Instead, he leaves a mug on the bedside table and heads out.
By the time Arthur gets to the warehouse, Eames has already done a test run and is reloading all the vials in the PASIV. He watches Arthur walk in, all quick steps and snappy movements as usual, nothing to let on that just a couple hours ago, he’d been practically brain-dead and as productive as a sack of potatoes.
Frankly, the transformation is amazing.
“Sorry,” Arthur says a bit stiffly. “I’m not really a morning person.”
Eames tries not to sound too happy. “Go on.”
“Just -- don’t take it personally if I’m a little abrasive.” Arthur flicks a few quick glances at Eames. “It takes me a while to get going.”
“I appreciate you all the more for your scintillating morning personality,” Eames announces breezily. “No worries at all.”
*
For Eames, who catalogues people’s mannerisms through sheer fascination as much as necessity, it’s always interesting to find out how well he doesn’t know someone.
Over the next few days, Eames sees Arthur button up his shirt wrong three times in a row, stumble over nothing, knock over glasses when trying to extract them from the evil clutches of the second-level shelves, and attempt to thread a sock through his belt-loops. It’s a bit like watching a newborn colt trying to find its footing. And every day, without fail, he bangs his hip against the dresser. There’s a spectacular bruise blooming over his skin, which turns Eames’s crank a bit to be perfectly honest.
But that’s beside the point, he tells himself. Repeatedly. Then he’s pretty sure he gets a slipped disc while trying to move the dresser three feet to the left.
*
Eames doesn’t realize that fetching coffee for Arthur has become habit until one morning, when Arthur slouches out of the bedroom while holding a mug. Only in that instant when he sees it again does Eames even remember bringing it to Arthur in the first place.
“Thangsfordecoffee,” Arthur mumbles before disappearing into the bathroom. His hair is kicking down over his forehead in crazy layers.
“Huh,” Eames says into the ensuing silence.
*
After the getting out of bed and the coffee and the teeth brushing and the shower, Arthur needs a pocket of time to pad barefoot around the flat while, as far as Eames can tell, thinking about absolutely nothing. Eames assumes this must be boring; he buys a houseplant so that Arthur has something to do while he gets his head on straight.
The next morning, he walks out to the balcony to see Arthur drowning the poor thing, a watering can drooping listlessly in his grip. His coffee cup is halfway to his mouth, forgotten in favor of staring off into space.
“Oh,” Arthur says, eyes clearing once he sees Eames. He jerks up the watering can so that the stream stops. “Shit.”
It’s seriously disconcerting, how much this doesn’t bother Eames at all. Maybe he has some sort of brain parasite.
“Christ,” Eames says. “What have you turned me in to?”
Arthur mumbles an apology and something about buying three new ones. Then, apparently having forgotten that he’s holding a watering can, he walks off and disappears into the bedroom with it still in his hand.
*
Gradually and completely unintentionally, Eames’s flat becomes an actually respectable place of residence. So gradually, in fact, that he doesn’t even notice it until he puts the paper down one day and sees that all the piles of clothing that Arthur had once -- or seven times -- tripped over are gone, either folded away in his newly relocated dresser or hanging up in the closet. The ashtrays that had crowded the dining table are now out on the balcony ledge, because Arthur had once pinched a handful of ashes, thinking it to be pepper in some kind of avant garde arrangement, and sprinkled them liberally over his eggs.
In the kitchen, the mugs are easily reachable in the lowest shelves, handles facing outward. The fruit bowl is no longer located behind the toaster. The living room furniture has been set at right angles, leaving a surrounding border of open space for Arthur to lazily pace around in. The balcony is lined with almost a dozen plants, most of them waterlogged beyond health.
All this coming to light at once should rightfully scare Eames off to the nearest liquor store and then to the nearest brothel, which should be a hop skip jump over from the nearest racetrack. He should be kicking off a week-long bender, after which he’ll wake up at five in the morning in a humid, unfamiliar hotel room, with chipped teeth and his legs covered in mosquito bites.
Instead, he glances at the clock and turns a page in the newspaper when he hears the bathroom light click on. After a few moments, there’s a telltale clatter and buzz, which means Arthur’s dropped the electric toothbrush into the sink again.
Eames sips his coffee and waits.