Fic: Morning Lullabies
Title: Morning Lullabies
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Rating: PG
Summary: Eames wakes one Sunday morning to find Arthur draped across him. (Warning: Complete and utter fluff. I can not be sued for any cavities gained by reading this fic!)
Disclaimer: I am merely playing with Christopher Nolan's toys.
Other Information: Title/Fic inspired by the song "Morning Lullabies" by Ingrid Michaelson, which I just think is an absolutely beautiful song, and one that you should all go listen to NOW!: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FmlDWR1QGuk
OK, so I realise, this is the first fic I have written in a VERY long time, so please be gentle! Constructive criticism always appreciated :D
EDIT: Now with beautiful artwork by johanirae ! http://johanirae.livejournal.com/360159.html
Eames wakes one Sunday morning to find Arthur draped across him, head on his right arm, fast asleep (always draped, never sprawled; it is not physically possible for the young man to be inelegant). Eames’ hand is completely and rather painfully numb, but he doesn’t move an inch, he dares not, because moving would mean waking the prettiest creature on the earth. He can feel Arthur breathing; deep, regular breaths that tickle the hairs on his chest, and he smiles as the point man snuffles.
Arthur is beautiful when he sleeps.
Not that he isn’t most of the time, Eames reminds himself, such as when he’s bending over to pick up a (deliberately) dropped pen, or running through dreamscape, suit jacket billowing out behind him like a cape. But there is something about the natural angle of Arthur’s body on the bed, hair mussed, face a picture of serenity, which makes Eames’ heart physically ache with love.
The sun begins to seep in through the shutters covering the French windows at the end of the room, and Arthur moves, pulling himself onto Eames so that his head is squarely on Eames’ chest, legs intertwined. The older man uses his (now blissfully free) arm to lightly trace over the patterns the sun has painted over Arthur’s cheek. The point man smiles in his sleep, and Eames hums quiet, meaningless melodies, sweeping strands of hair gently off his face and behind his ea
After a while he stops. Arthur’s body tenses.
“Keep singing” he breathes.
So Eames does, soft and low, stroking Arthur’s hair. The young man smiles again, and tumbles back into his slumber. Eames watches him for while, before pressing a kiss to his forehead, and closing his eyes.