Vielle Âme
Title: Vielle Âme
Author: Classlicity
Fandom: Inception
Pairings/Characters: Arthur/Eames, Cobb/Mal
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Summary: Fill for the multitude of underage Arthur/twenty-something Eames prompts at the inception_kink meme. Now complete with sequel Cœur Jeune
“Cobb, not that I particularly mind, but why are you stopping here?” Eames asks as the Range Rover glides into the parking lot outside of James Madison South High School.
“I told you, I have to pick someone up,” Cobb answers, peering out the windows.
“Yes, but I thought you meant at the airport. What criminal masterminds do you know in high school?” Eames slouches in his seat. The yellow busses are lined up on one side of the school, waiting for the students to burst through the doors, classes finally done for the day.
“None. I think. I hope. Mal’s godson is staying with us for awhile. He’d apparently become something of a discipline problem after his dad was killed in Iraq. His mom didn’t know how to handle him, so Mal volunteered.”
“You don’t sound entirely pleased.”
“Kid’s too smart for his own good.”
They hear the school bell ring, and teenagers come pouring through the doors, laughing, yelling, making too much noise.
“Military brat, eh?” Eames flicks his eyes to the rearview mirror. “What’s he look like?”
“Here he comes now.” Cobb waves, a little flick of the wrist, and the boy raises an eyebrow in acknowledgement, barely looking up from the textbook he’s flipping through. He is slender and too serious, Eames thinks, for a teenager.
“He’s wearing a waistcoat. To school.”
Cobb is about to respond when the kid tugs open the passenger side door. Eames coughs, and the boy looks up, his dark gaze coolly evaluating the man in the front seat. Without a word, he shuts the door and climbs into the back.
“Arthur, this is Eames; Eames, Arthur,” Cobb introduces them with a little gesture, and pulls away from the school quickly.
Eames turns around in his seat extending his hand. Arthur pauses, looking at him with all the disdain youth will allow, but shakes it anyway.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Eames.” His voice is flat, but deeper than Eames expects. His hair is cut short, almost militarily, and he holds himself so with such poise in the wide seat of the Range Rover that Eames has a hard time believing that he is young enough to still be in high school.
“So tell me, Arthur,” Eames says, trying to bait him into conversation, “what do young people do for fun these days?”
“The same things they always do,” he answers, turning the page of his book. “Have sex, fight, do drugs, try to kill as many brain cells as possible.”
Eames chuckles. “So Pokémon is out then?”
“No, Mr. Eames, no Pokémon.”
-------
The Cobbs’ finished basement is where Eames spends most of his time when he’s visiting. They call because he owns a PASIV and Mal can’t get enough of it while Cobb pretends not to love it. Mal’s pregnant again, so this time it’s just him and Cobb building worlds in the dreams. Cobb’s learning a little bit about forging, something Eames considers himself a bit of an expert on, and a lot about the subconscious. Mal had been reading him some of her psychology books.
He almost forgets they have a house guest until one evening, after Cobb has gone to wash up for dinner, he spies Arthur’s slight frame in the basement doorway.
“Hello, love,” he says, winding up the IV lines.
“That’s a PASIV device,” Arthur states in the same dry tone in which he’d introduced himself. “They’re classified military technology.”
Eames doesn’t bother lying. “Then how do you know about it?”
Arthur raises an eyebrow. “There’s this great big series of tubes, called the internet. I know it’s difficult for most elderly people to comprehend, but it lives in the computer and spits out information when you ask it to.”
Bristling, Eames snaps the silver briefcase shut. “I’m twenty three, hardly geriatric. And the PASIV isn’t exactly front page news.”
“I’m good with computers.”
Their stilted conversation is interrupted by Mal calling, “Arthur? Est-qu’il dîne avec nous?”
“Nous arrivons!” He yells back up the stairs. Eames tries hard not to enjoy the sound of his voice in French. Maybe in a few years, but not now. Arthur fixes him with another one of his gazes that lets him know he’s being judged. “Mal wants to know if you’re staying for dinner.”
“Yeah, alright.” Arthur pivots on his heel, and Eames can’t help but watch him as he follows him up the stairs.
-------
Mal frets over Arthur like a mother hen, strategically placing the basket of rolls in front of his plate. She offers to refill his stew twice, which he declines politely both times.
Mal clucks her tongue, complaining, “You are trop mince. Dom, tell him.”
“Tell him what? My French is terrible.”
Mal narrows her eyes at her husband in loving annoyance. Philipa coos in her chair, and Arthur is spared for awhile. Eames watches the boy as he eats fastidiously, breaking the rolls into tiny bits before chewing on them, going so far as to even make sure he cut the vegetables into acceptably sized chunks. He gets caught staring, and Arthur furrows his brow. Eames just smiles and winks at him, though seconds later, his conscious reminds him that he really shouldn’t be flirting with a teenager.
Arthur excuses himself from the table a moment later.
“Bisous,” Mal demands, as he’s trying to bolt to his room. Reluctant, Arthur turns and pecks her on both cheeks. She follows him wistfully with her eyes.
Dom squeezes her hand. “You shouldn’t pester him so much.”
“I know, I know, but his mother would never forgive me if she saw him so skinny.”
“He was thinner when he got here, sweetheart.”
Eames stretches his legs under the table, his mind a battleground between curiosity and conscientiousness. Curiosity wins every time. “Dom told me he’s your god son.”
“Yes,” she smiles, “his parents were my neighbors when we all lived in Lille. His father was working with the NATO on something. They moved all over Europe, and Joanna would always bring Arthur back to visit me. He was a funny little boy. An old soul. When this silly war started, they made them move back to the states, to that dreadful little town, what was it, dear?”
“Killeen.”
“Oui, Texas. No art, nothing. And then his father died…” she trails off, losing her train of thought when Phillipa upsets her sippy cup.
Dom starts clearing the dishes from the table, and Eames says goodnight, wishing he hadn’t asked at all.
-------
“Does Cobb know you’re attempting to hotwire his car?” Eames asks, leaning against the door of the Range Rover and tapping on the glass. There’s the snick of wires coming together and the SUV rumbles to life.
“That would defeat the purpose.” Arthur’s voice floats up from under the steering column. “Are you going to tell?”
Eames taps on the glass and Arthur rolls the window down. “Do I get to come?”
The corners of Arthur’s mouth curl up almost imperceptibly, but he tries to disguise it by replying gruffly, “Fine. Get in.”
Smirking, Eames jogs around the car and slides into the front seat. “So where is this grand adventure taking us, Clyde?”
Arthur is silent, throwing the car into reverse. Dom comes stomping onto the porch, yelling at them, but Eames can’t hear over the tires eating into the gravel of their driveway. He waves, though, to reassure the older man, as they swing around and head for the highway.
Eames fucks with the radio for awhile, but can’t settle on anything, and the way that he flips channels constantly irritates Arthur, who uses the radio controls on the steering wheel to turn it off. Sighing theatrically, Eames slumps in the seat, drumming on the arm rest.
They cross the county line, and it’s not long before Arthur turns into the parking lot of a large building with a corrugated tin roof, and bars over the windows.
“A shooting range, Arthur?”
“I had a bad day. Come on, you’re my legal guardian.” He’s walking towards the door before Eames is even out of the car.
There is paperwork, which Eames fills out efficiently and incorrectly. They barely raise an eyebrow when he says they’re brothers; he guesses they’d rather have the cash. Arthur’s long fingers tap on the glass rental counter until they’re helped. He already knows what he wants, but Eames hems and haws, finally deciding on a Colt revolver, because he’s in the States and he might as well indulge his cowboy fantasies.
Arthur’s body is relaxed, but his grip is unwavering as the pistol kicks back into his hands. With his white collar unbuttoned and his black trousers still crisp, the bulbous earmuffs are the only things that look slightly out of place.
The lines of his body, the spread legs, the straight back, the slightly bent arms, are beautiful. Will be beautiful, Eames corrects himself.
He tries to concentrate on his own target, but the revolver is heavier than the Glocks he’s used to. He fires off six, pulling back to reload when he feels a tap on his shoulder.
“Bend your knees more, and duck your head a bit.” He adjusts his stance, and Arthur nods. “Better. I need a dollar for soda.”
“Wallet’s in my back pocket,” Eames says, lining his barrel up to the target. He doesn’t see the indecision flit across Arthur’s face, but a moment later he feels his wallet being lifted.
They go through what feels like boxes and boxes of ammo, until Eames’s arms are sore from recoil. Arthur’s still shooting. He waits until Arthur’s pulling out the clip before snatching off his earmuffs.
“Pack it in, love. It’s after dark.”
Tight-lipped, Arthur checks the chamber and hands over the gun.
------
Eames demands to drive, and Arthur lets him, slouching in the passenger seat. It’s only eight, so Eames doesn’t feel too bad about running away for the day; he’ll at least have the boy home before curfew. He turns the radio on again, but low, and picks the local public station, so it’s nothing but a pleasant buzz of strings and woodwinds in the background.
“How’d you learn to shoot like that?”
“My dad,” Arthur says, staring out the window. “He wanted us to have something in common. Rifles when I was little. He bought me a handgun when I turned fifteen.”
“Let me guess, a Beretta?”
“My mom sold it, because it was under my dad’s license, and she didn’t want to deal with getting her own permit.”
The country roads are dark, but as they drive, the streetlights of civilization become more and more frequent. Arthur shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“Can we get something to eat?” he asks. “Something not French?”
Eames laughs out loud.
------
Lounging in the booth at the Wendy’s, Eames has his back against the windows and his legs up on the plastic seat, looking like he’s sitting in his own living room. Even Arthur is leaning back against the booth, rather than ramrod straight like he does at the Cobb’s table.
Eames can feel Arthur’s eyes on him as he noisily enjoys his Frosty, barely resisting the urge to be obscene as he sucks the spoon into his mouth. A spot falls onto his grey tee shirt and Arthur grimaces.
“You’re disgusting,” he says in his flat tone.
Eames licks his lips and smiles. “So, Arthur, any chance you’re going to tell me why I was spirited away this afternoon? Not that it hasn’t been a lovely date.”
“This isn’t…you invited yourself,” Arthur replies, slightly flustered. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I broke a kid’s arm at school today.”
Eames’ eyebrows climb, but beyond that, he manages his reaction rather well, he thinks. “I hope he deserved it. I’d hate to be sharing chips with a sociopath.”
Arthur studies him for a minute, absently plucking at his fries. “I think the better question, Mr. Eames, is am I?”
The spoon scrapes out the last bit of frosty out of the paper cup, and Eames savors it before responding.
“Why don’t you tell me?”
Arthur drums his long fingers on the Formica table. “There’s not much to tell. Eames is your mother’s maiden name, not your proper last name. You went into the army straight out of prep school, made it into SAS, discharged on medical terms, and then you disappeared off the grid with a PASIV device in your hands. Though that last bit is speculation on my part.”
“Most people don’t make the mother’s maiden name connection. Are you trying to impress me?” Eames asks, grinning.
Arthur ignores him, continuing, “I want to try dreaming.”
Eames nearly chokes. “Uh, love, I’m sorry, what did you just say?”
“Don’t play dumb, Mr. Eames. I hate it when people do that. I want to try the PASIV device. My father was killed in a dream.”
“That’s impossible Arthur. When you die in a dream, you simply wake up.”
“Not when you’re plugged into a leader of a terrorist cell and he wakes up first.” Arthur munches on a fry, and watches cars go by through the thick glass. “They sent my mother a Medal of Honor and lied to her face.”
“Mal would kill me if I put a minor under. Somnacin can cause a lot of adverse reactions.” Their gazes meet, and Eames can see the ghost of a smile on Arthur’s thin lips.
“I turn eighteen in December.”
Eames stomach flips, and he tries to remind himself that five years apart is still quite a lot. He unconsciously licks his lips, and Arthur’s brown eyes grow even darker.
“That’s only two months away,” he says. “Think you can manage to stay out of trouble?”
Arthur smiles, dimples appearing out of nowhere. “I make no promises, Mr. Eames, but I’ll try.”
-------
He wakes up in the Cobb’s basement the next day, and Arthur is sitting in the other recliner, watching him sleep.
“Darling, you flatter me,” he says, fingers brushing over his chest, nonchalantly feeling for the dog tags under his shirt. His real name is starting to fade from the friction.
“Don’t be. You snore,” Arthur says, crossing his legs. “I just wanted to see how it works.”
Eames tugs the IV from his arm, and starts curling it up. “Doesn’t look like much until you’re under.”
Arthur shrugs, but doesn’t offer to help. “Dom says you’re flying out today, for a job.”
“Yep.” He snaps the PASIV shut, setting it at his feet. He sits gingerly on the edge of his recliner so that he can look Arthur in the eye.
“What do you do, exactly?”
Eames smirks. “A bit of everything.”
“That’s not very exact. Specifically, Mr. Eames, what do you do?”
“Arthur, you’ll find I’m not very good with specifics,” Eames says, attempting to smile charmingly. Arthur’s dark eyes are guarded.
“Is this a game, Mr. Eames?”
The question throws him, but his smile never slips. He’s on thin ice, and he knows it, but he can’t help but say, “Darling, whatever do you mean?”
Quick as lightning, Arthur’s hand slips around the back of his head, holding him still. He’s surprisingly strong for such a thin figure. He leans over the arm of his chair, pulling Eames’ face next to his. Eames can feel the soft skin of his cheek, smell the starch of his pinstriped shirt.
“Just so you know,” Arthur whispers, his breath tickling over Eames’ ear, setting his nerves on fire, “I only play to win.”
He lets the words linger, and then stands, all grace and precision and fucking youth. His gaze trails over Eames from top to bottom one last time before he leaves. As the basement door clicks shut, Eames lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He adjusts his pants, which are now just slightly too tight, and drags his dog tags out from hiding. The clink of metal against metal reassures him that this is indeed reality.
-------
Eames finds Dom in the kitchen, warming a bottle for Phillipa. Mal trundles in, daughter bundled in her arms, and they say their goodbyes. It would be picturesque if Eames wasn’t thinking about her godson in the most in compromising of situations.
“When can we expect you again?” Dom asks. “Mal has a theory I’d really like to try. She thinks we can layer dreams.”
Eames cocks his head. “It’s possible, I guess, the way anything is possible in dreams.”
“Shall we call you, then?” Mal asks, taking the bottle off the stove to test it.
Arthur wanders in, not acknowledging any of them. He rummages around in the fridge.
“I’ll tell you what,” Eames says. “How about I pop by after the holidays?”
Sequel Here
gracias on the inception tag!
Author: Classlicity
Fandom: Inception
Pairings/Characters: Arthur/Eames, Cobb/Mal
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Summary: Fill for the multitude of underage Arthur/twenty-something Eames prompts at the inception_kink meme. Now complete with sequel Cœur Jeune
“Cobb, not that I particularly mind, but why are you stopping here?” Eames asks as the Range Rover glides into the parking lot outside of James Madison South High School.
“I told you, I have to pick someone up,” Cobb answers, peering out the windows.
“Yes, but I thought you meant at the airport. What criminal masterminds do you know in high school?” Eames slouches in his seat. The yellow busses are lined up on one side of the school, waiting for the students to burst through the doors, classes finally done for the day.
“None. I think. I hope. Mal’s godson is staying with us for awhile. He’d apparently become something of a discipline problem after his dad was killed in Iraq. His mom didn’t know how to handle him, so Mal volunteered.”
“You don’t sound entirely pleased.”
“Kid’s too smart for his own good.”
They hear the school bell ring, and teenagers come pouring through the doors, laughing, yelling, making too much noise.
“Military brat, eh?” Eames flicks his eyes to the rearview mirror. “What’s he look like?”
“Here he comes now.” Cobb waves, a little flick of the wrist, and the boy raises an eyebrow in acknowledgement, barely looking up from the textbook he’s flipping through. He is slender and too serious, Eames thinks, for a teenager.
“He’s wearing a waistcoat. To school.”
Cobb is about to respond when the kid tugs open the passenger side door. Eames coughs, and the boy looks up, his dark gaze coolly evaluating the man in the front seat. Without a word, he shuts the door and climbs into the back.
“Arthur, this is Eames; Eames, Arthur,” Cobb introduces them with a little gesture, and pulls away from the school quickly.
Eames turns around in his seat extending his hand. Arthur pauses, looking at him with all the disdain youth will allow, but shakes it anyway.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Eames.” His voice is flat, but deeper than Eames expects. His hair is cut short, almost militarily, and he holds himself so with such poise in the wide seat of the Range Rover that Eames has a hard time believing that he is young enough to still be in high school.
“So tell me, Arthur,” Eames says, trying to bait him into conversation, “what do young people do for fun these days?”
“The same things they always do,” he answers, turning the page of his book. “Have sex, fight, do drugs, try to kill as many brain cells as possible.”
Eames chuckles. “So Pokémon is out then?”
“No, Mr. Eames, no Pokémon.”
-------
The Cobbs’ finished basement is where Eames spends most of his time when he’s visiting. They call because he owns a PASIV and Mal can’t get enough of it while Cobb pretends not to love it. Mal’s pregnant again, so this time it’s just him and Cobb building worlds in the dreams. Cobb’s learning a little bit about forging, something Eames considers himself a bit of an expert on, and a lot about the subconscious. Mal had been reading him some of her psychology books.
He almost forgets they have a house guest until one evening, after Cobb has gone to wash up for dinner, he spies Arthur’s slight frame in the basement doorway.
“Hello, love,” he says, winding up the IV lines.
“That’s a PASIV device,” Arthur states in the same dry tone in which he’d introduced himself. “They’re classified military technology.”
Eames doesn’t bother lying. “Then how do you know about it?”
Arthur raises an eyebrow. “There’s this great big series of tubes, called the internet. I know it’s difficult for most elderly people to comprehend, but it lives in the computer and spits out information when you ask it to.”
Bristling, Eames snaps the silver briefcase shut. “I’m twenty three, hardly geriatric. And the PASIV isn’t exactly front page news.”
“I’m good with computers.”
Their stilted conversation is interrupted by Mal calling, “Arthur? Est-qu’il dîne avec nous?”
“Nous arrivons!” He yells back up the stairs. Eames tries hard not to enjoy the sound of his voice in French. Maybe in a few years, but not now. Arthur fixes him with another one of his gazes that lets him know he’s being judged. “Mal wants to know if you’re staying for dinner.”
“Yeah, alright.” Arthur pivots on his heel, and Eames can’t help but watch him as he follows him up the stairs.
-------
Mal frets over Arthur like a mother hen, strategically placing the basket of rolls in front of his plate. She offers to refill his stew twice, which he declines politely both times.
Mal clucks her tongue, complaining, “You are trop mince. Dom, tell him.”
“Tell him what? My French is terrible.”
Mal narrows her eyes at her husband in loving annoyance. Philipa coos in her chair, and Arthur is spared for awhile. Eames watches the boy as he eats fastidiously, breaking the rolls into tiny bits before chewing on them, going so far as to even make sure he cut the vegetables into acceptably sized chunks. He gets caught staring, and Arthur furrows his brow. Eames just smiles and winks at him, though seconds later, his conscious reminds him that he really shouldn’t be flirting with a teenager.
Arthur excuses himself from the table a moment later.
“Bisous,” Mal demands, as he’s trying to bolt to his room. Reluctant, Arthur turns and pecks her on both cheeks. She follows him wistfully with her eyes.
Dom squeezes her hand. “You shouldn’t pester him so much.”
“I know, I know, but his mother would never forgive me if she saw him so skinny.”
“He was thinner when he got here, sweetheart.”
Eames stretches his legs under the table, his mind a battleground between curiosity and conscientiousness. Curiosity wins every time. “Dom told me he’s your god son.”
“Yes,” she smiles, “his parents were my neighbors when we all lived in Lille. His father was working with the NATO on something. They moved all over Europe, and Joanna would always bring Arthur back to visit me. He was a funny little boy. An old soul. When this silly war started, they made them move back to the states, to that dreadful little town, what was it, dear?”
“Killeen.”
“Oui, Texas. No art, nothing. And then his father died…” she trails off, losing her train of thought when Phillipa upsets her sippy cup.
Dom starts clearing the dishes from the table, and Eames says goodnight, wishing he hadn’t asked at all.
-------
“Does Cobb know you’re attempting to hotwire his car?” Eames asks, leaning against the door of the Range Rover and tapping on the glass. There’s the snick of wires coming together and the SUV rumbles to life.
“That would defeat the purpose.” Arthur’s voice floats up from under the steering column. “Are you going to tell?”
Eames taps on the glass and Arthur rolls the window down. “Do I get to come?”
The corners of Arthur’s mouth curl up almost imperceptibly, but he tries to disguise it by replying gruffly, “Fine. Get in.”
Smirking, Eames jogs around the car and slides into the front seat. “So where is this grand adventure taking us, Clyde?”
Arthur is silent, throwing the car into reverse. Dom comes stomping onto the porch, yelling at them, but Eames can’t hear over the tires eating into the gravel of their driveway. He waves, though, to reassure the older man, as they swing around and head for the highway.
Eames fucks with the radio for awhile, but can’t settle on anything, and the way that he flips channels constantly irritates Arthur, who uses the radio controls on the steering wheel to turn it off. Sighing theatrically, Eames slumps in the seat, drumming on the arm rest.
They cross the county line, and it’s not long before Arthur turns into the parking lot of a large building with a corrugated tin roof, and bars over the windows.
“A shooting range, Arthur?”
“I had a bad day. Come on, you’re my legal guardian.” He’s walking towards the door before Eames is even out of the car.
There is paperwork, which Eames fills out efficiently and incorrectly. They barely raise an eyebrow when he says they’re brothers; he guesses they’d rather have the cash. Arthur’s long fingers tap on the glass rental counter until they’re helped. He already knows what he wants, but Eames hems and haws, finally deciding on a Colt revolver, because he’s in the States and he might as well indulge his cowboy fantasies.
Arthur’s body is relaxed, but his grip is unwavering as the pistol kicks back into his hands. With his white collar unbuttoned and his black trousers still crisp, the bulbous earmuffs are the only things that look slightly out of place.
The lines of his body, the spread legs, the straight back, the slightly bent arms, are beautiful. Will be beautiful, Eames corrects himself.
He tries to concentrate on his own target, but the revolver is heavier than the Glocks he’s used to. He fires off six, pulling back to reload when he feels a tap on his shoulder.
“Bend your knees more, and duck your head a bit.” He adjusts his stance, and Arthur nods. “Better. I need a dollar for soda.”
“Wallet’s in my back pocket,” Eames says, lining his barrel up to the target. He doesn’t see the indecision flit across Arthur’s face, but a moment later he feels his wallet being lifted.
They go through what feels like boxes and boxes of ammo, until Eames’s arms are sore from recoil. Arthur’s still shooting. He waits until Arthur’s pulling out the clip before snatching off his earmuffs.
“Pack it in, love. It’s after dark.”
Tight-lipped, Arthur checks the chamber and hands over the gun.
------
Eames demands to drive, and Arthur lets him, slouching in the passenger seat. It’s only eight, so Eames doesn’t feel too bad about running away for the day; he’ll at least have the boy home before curfew. He turns the radio on again, but low, and picks the local public station, so it’s nothing but a pleasant buzz of strings and woodwinds in the background.
“How’d you learn to shoot like that?”
“My dad,” Arthur says, staring out the window. “He wanted us to have something in common. Rifles when I was little. He bought me a handgun when I turned fifteen.”
“Let me guess, a Beretta?”
“My mom sold it, because it was under my dad’s license, and she didn’t want to deal with getting her own permit.”
The country roads are dark, but as they drive, the streetlights of civilization become more and more frequent. Arthur shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“Can we get something to eat?” he asks. “Something not French?”
Eames laughs out loud.
------
Lounging in the booth at the Wendy’s, Eames has his back against the windows and his legs up on the plastic seat, looking like he’s sitting in his own living room. Even Arthur is leaning back against the booth, rather than ramrod straight like he does at the Cobb’s table.
Eames can feel Arthur’s eyes on him as he noisily enjoys his Frosty, barely resisting the urge to be obscene as he sucks the spoon into his mouth. A spot falls onto his grey tee shirt and Arthur grimaces.
“You’re disgusting,” he says in his flat tone.
Eames licks his lips and smiles. “So, Arthur, any chance you’re going to tell me why I was spirited away this afternoon? Not that it hasn’t been a lovely date.”
“This isn’t…you invited yourself,” Arthur replies, slightly flustered. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I broke a kid’s arm at school today.”
Eames’ eyebrows climb, but beyond that, he manages his reaction rather well, he thinks. “I hope he deserved it. I’d hate to be sharing chips with a sociopath.”
Arthur studies him for a minute, absently plucking at his fries. “I think the better question, Mr. Eames, is am I?”
The spoon scrapes out the last bit of frosty out of the paper cup, and Eames savors it before responding.
“Why don’t you tell me?”
Arthur drums his long fingers on the Formica table. “There’s not much to tell. Eames is your mother’s maiden name, not your proper last name. You went into the army straight out of prep school, made it into SAS, discharged on medical terms, and then you disappeared off the grid with a PASIV device in your hands. Though that last bit is speculation on my part.”
“Most people don’t make the mother’s maiden name connection. Are you trying to impress me?” Eames asks, grinning.
Arthur ignores him, continuing, “I want to try dreaming.”
Eames nearly chokes. “Uh, love, I’m sorry, what did you just say?”
“Don’t play dumb, Mr. Eames. I hate it when people do that. I want to try the PASIV device. My father was killed in a dream.”
“That’s impossible Arthur. When you die in a dream, you simply wake up.”
“Not when you’re plugged into a leader of a terrorist cell and he wakes up first.” Arthur munches on a fry, and watches cars go by through the thick glass. “They sent my mother a Medal of Honor and lied to her face.”
“Mal would kill me if I put a minor under. Somnacin can cause a lot of adverse reactions.” Their gazes meet, and Eames can see the ghost of a smile on Arthur’s thin lips.
“I turn eighteen in December.”
Eames stomach flips, and he tries to remind himself that five years apart is still quite a lot. He unconsciously licks his lips, and Arthur’s brown eyes grow even darker.
“That’s only two months away,” he says. “Think you can manage to stay out of trouble?”
Arthur smiles, dimples appearing out of nowhere. “I make no promises, Mr. Eames, but I’ll try.”
-------
He wakes up in the Cobb’s basement the next day, and Arthur is sitting in the other recliner, watching him sleep.
“Darling, you flatter me,” he says, fingers brushing over his chest, nonchalantly feeling for the dog tags under his shirt. His real name is starting to fade from the friction.
“Don’t be. You snore,” Arthur says, crossing his legs. “I just wanted to see how it works.”
Eames tugs the IV from his arm, and starts curling it up. “Doesn’t look like much until you’re under.”
Arthur shrugs, but doesn’t offer to help. “Dom says you’re flying out today, for a job.”
“Yep.” He snaps the PASIV shut, setting it at his feet. He sits gingerly on the edge of his recliner so that he can look Arthur in the eye.
“What do you do, exactly?”
Eames smirks. “A bit of everything.”
“That’s not very exact. Specifically, Mr. Eames, what do you do?”
“Arthur, you’ll find I’m not very good with specifics,” Eames says, attempting to smile charmingly. Arthur’s dark eyes are guarded.
“Is this a game, Mr. Eames?”
The question throws him, but his smile never slips. He’s on thin ice, and he knows it, but he can’t help but say, “Darling, whatever do you mean?”
Quick as lightning, Arthur’s hand slips around the back of his head, holding him still. He’s surprisingly strong for such a thin figure. He leans over the arm of his chair, pulling Eames’ face next to his. Eames can feel the soft skin of his cheek, smell the starch of his pinstriped shirt.
“Just so you know,” Arthur whispers, his breath tickling over Eames’ ear, setting his nerves on fire, “I only play to win.”
He lets the words linger, and then stands, all grace and precision and fucking youth. His gaze trails over Eames from top to bottom one last time before he leaves. As the basement door clicks shut, Eames lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He adjusts his pants, which are now just slightly too tight, and drags his dog tags out from hiding. The clink of metal against metal reassures him that this is indeed reality.
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Eames finds Dom in the kitchen, warming a bottle for Phillipa. Mal trundles in, daughter bundled in her arms, and they say their goodbyes. It would be picturesque if Eames wasn’t thinking about her godson in the most in compromising of situations.
“When can we expect you again?” Dom asks. “Mal has a theory I’d really like to try. She thinks we can layer dreams.”
Eames cocks his head. “It’s possible, I guess, the way anything is possible in dreams.”
“Shall we call you, then?” Mal asks, taking the bottle off the stove to test it.
Arthur wanders in, not acknowledging any of them. He rummages around in the fridge.
“I’ll tell you what,” Eames says. “How about I pop by after the holidays?”
Sequel Here
gracias on the inception tag!