Blues in A Minor [Inception Reverse Bang Fic]
For the i-reversebang:
Art Prompt Title: Untitled
Art link: Art Master Post
Artist: pseudonc
Fic Title: Blues in A Minor
Author: twenty_til_12
Pairing(s): Eames/Arthur; implied Arthur/Ariadne and Arthur/Ariadne/Eames.
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,469
Warnings: Sex, somewhat explicit. Excessive jazz references.
Summary: A prohibition-era AU. Eames and Arthur, long-time partners in the business of extractions, find themselves over their heads with what should have been a simple job.
Recommended Tracks: “Goodbye Pork Pie Hat,” “Moanin’,” “Peggy’s Blue Skylight” by Charles Mingus; “Run,” “St. James Infirmary” by Toshiyuki Honda; “Rolling in the Deep” by ADELE
Blues in A Minor
The bell of the saxophone moaned into the smoky spot illuminating the polished brass, low and guttural in the otherwise silent air of the club. For a few long moments, only that howl filled the heavy air, screaming as it tumbled down the scale and its player’s fingers worked at a manic, fevered pace. Sweat dripped down those digits and shined under the glare of the spot as the soloist closed his eyes, commending his soul to the room and exposing it for all to see. He bent, rocked, and twisted with the ebb and flow of his instrument, possessed by the notes pouring from the mouth of his saxophone and the divine power of jazz.
This was what Eames loved about the art: the surrender to a physical, known power rather to some higher, far-off deity. Here in the bar, he could see the worship through the raw jerks of the soloists body, improvised and needed to carry him to a deeper understanding of the spirit of room. Eames had never been particularly religious, but jazz was something he could adopt and adhere to his own soul, giving everything to something so mystic and incomprehensible.
However, the illusion snapped in two when he heard the quiet clack of dress shoes behind him, under the sound of the baby steps of a bass as it began to walk. The forger heard his cue to leave and stood, not bothering to straighten his loose collar or catawampus suspenders; no need to make the man interrupting his prayer any more comfortable. Silently, the pair navigated through the dim, husky glow of the bar until the door and exited into the salty chill of the pier’s summer air.
Across from Eames stood the ever-trim form of Arthur, decorated in a crisp pin-stripe suit and fedora and surrounded by the fog that rolled off the bay. His hair was slicked back against his skull, the quintessence of order.
“Lovely as ever, Arthur.” Half-assed baiting as the forger moved with slow steps down the boardwalk, a little chilled by the relatively cooler air of the night. He checked his watch. “And right on time, certainly.”
“You said you were going to be standing outside, waiting.”
“Where would the fun in that be?” Eames did not at all mind pulling Arthur’s pigtails when he could get away with that. “No thrill in the chase.”
“I’m not supposed to be chasing you,” Arthur replied, his tone unimpressed and bordering on outright annoyed.
“So where’s that little architect of yours?” Eames pocketed one of his hands.
“At home, sleeping. She doesn’t know I’m out.” Warning.
“I’m your secret affair, then.” Eames grinned, looking over to his partner to study the shadows in his face for more clues.
With a dark grimace, Arthur paused to pull a pack of cigarettes from his trouser pocket. He tapped one out efficiently, placed it in his mouth, and, as he shielded the queen from the breeze, lit the end. Two experimental puffs, drawing the intoxicating smoke into his lungs for a couple moments before he began his gait again. That answered Eames’s non-question well enough. He knew that Arthur didn’t do it out of spite for Ariadne or any real lack of loyalty, but simply because Eames offered so much that she couldn’t; he knew that Ariadne knew and she had even invited him in once. Arthur seemed to be the only one bothered by the whole thing.
“The target’s a bootlegger, Sam Adams, on the west-end,” Arthur spoke through a plume of smoke. “We’ll find him in the cellar of Mme’s Sellback.”
“Are we extracting tonight?” Eames had a secret love for doing things on-the-fly, even if he would growl about new variables being added to the equation; there was a certain excitement to the unknown that resulted in some of his best work.
“If there’s an opening.”
The two moved onto the sidewalk, hard concrete instead of the creaking boards of the pier. Cars hummed past them, mufflers coughing and spluttering exhaust, and the chatter of the Friday night crew crowded the air with unintelligible sound. Still, Eames enjoyed the strip for all its color and the unspoken nuances that the average flapper did not necessarily see, like the signs of bootleggers that hid in plain sight beside those who abided by law. He loved the lingering of sinners with saints and the heart-felt calls of hallelujah by one long forgotten by a higher power. Through the thick din of the night, the forger could make out the growl of muted trumpets; the sweat-slicked squeal of a saxophone floated above the sticky mess of voices.
Turning down cobblestoned alley, Arthur led the way to their ride: a glimmering, dark-painted Cadillac Coupe with bright, polished mirrors. Eames voiced his concern almost immediately as he settled into the back driver’s-side seat and Arthur beside him, “It’ll be quite easy to lose a tail in this beauty.”
The driver swiveled in his seat to smile crookedly at them from under a boyish curl of hair. “Don’t worry ‘bout nothing, Mr. Eames.”
“Cobb, you know where we’re going,” Arthur interrupted any additional complaints that Eames could have voiced. In the near pitch dark of the car, Eames thought he could see the amused quirk of his partner’s lip as he leaned down to pick up the guitar case at their feet. “Cover’s the same. You’re my manager, Eames.”
Sliding a small vial of powder underneath the cuff of his sleeve was the final step of preparation for the forger. Soon, they rolled into the lot beside their destination. The sellback itself was nothing remarkable and nearly silent in its pastel green existence; some of the white noise from the street filtered in through the door when Eames and Arthur entered.
“I have a guitar to sell.” Arthur lifted the case in his left hand a few inches.
With a curious smile, the blonde woman behind the counter took a deep breath through the fag in her lips. “Play a few bars to make sure it works?”
“A minor okay?” Arthur responded in code, A for Adams.
He received a courteous nod as she got to her stilettoed feet and clicked over toward the back door. Eames and Arthur followed in turn, the latter leading as she briefly pressed a buzzer and opened the door to the cellar. Almost immediately, the smell of smoke and booze struck Eames’s nose. This was the right place, alright. Down some incredibly steep stairs they followed the thin woman and across the back hallway of the speakeasy to a pale door. Around them, there were round tables filled with people dressed to the nines, glasses perched in delicate fingers, some half-leaning over the backs of chairs as they talked underneath the soaring swell of snare, trumpet, and bass.
“Enjoy yourself, boys,” the woman cooed as she opened the door to a private office.
When she exited to leave them there, Eames quickly took in as much as he could of the room. Undecorated, mostly unfurnished, and altogether bland, but it did the job. The man behind the desk puffed away on a cigar, his pin-striped feet propped up on the corner as he watched them sit down in the leather-upholstered armchairs a few paces in. The man reeked of dominance, gold rings lining his fingers and each with a different colored stone mounted, a true sign of a prosperous speakeasy. Eames could see that the man likely also took pride in his establishment and would protest to it being called a blind pig.
“Can I get you something to drink or are you just here to play?” Adams’s own drink sat beside his left hand, a dark umber liquid with two cubes of ice in a short, clean glass.
“Don’t see why we can’t mix business with pleasure,” Eames replied, briefly looking over at Arthur with a casual smile. “After all, the business with a blind pig is pleasure.”
“I’d like to think I’m better than any old blind pig,” The owner answered as Arthur opened the guitar case on his lap.
Eames recognized the PASIV within and smiled at Adams amicably, standing and making his way toward the man. He picked at his cufflinks for a moment before offering Adams a hand to shake. “I’m afraid I must know your secret.”
One drink of the now-contaminated liquor put the owner under in a heartbeat.
With a glance, Arthur set the guitar case on the floor before unwinding three long lines of tubing, one for each of them, and quickly set about putting Adams’s on as Eames locked the door. If they had any unwanted guests, that should hold them for long enough. Hopefully. When he returned to their seats, the point man had the whole thing set up: the timer wound and set, the pump prepped. Eames sat and relaxed as Arthur pressed the needle of the line into the crook of his elbow and wrapped the spot with a thick leather strap.
“Sleep well, Mr. Eames.” Arthur smiled at his partner before depressing the pump.
In a rush, Eames found himself standing on pavement, staring up at the bright sun as it burned through thick clouds. However, it only lasted for a matter of moments until Arthur strode up beside him and the clouds closed. The man seemed to be dressed much more simply, with a pair of workman’s denims and a neatly buttoned up shirt. With a smile, the forger acknowledged his partner before the two moved in time toward a run-down apartment complex.
“He’ll be in 112, first floor,” Eames spoke efficiently as they made their way up the front stairs, heels clacking against the concrete. “Better than I usually do.”
However, the projections already stared at them and Arthur only briefly touched Eames’s shoulder to alert him of the fact; an extractor had trained Adams. That gave them only a finite amount of time to pull the information they needed. Luckily, the apartment seemed to be the only one on the first floor and Eames knocked as a wooden toolbox appeared in his hands, elaborating his improvised role as a repairman. When Adams opened the door, three projections approached down the hallway and Eames internally cursed at being set up like this; he would definitely have words with their employer.
A punch to Adams’s face allowed them through the door and Arthur slammed it shut behind them before sliding a bookcase in front of it. The safe sat in the corner and Eames took no time in crossing the room to crack it open. Quick reading, catching his breath, shoving them back in and then Adams aimed a pistol at both of them. Well, it was easier this way anyway.
Eames sat upright abruptly. That definitely did not go as smoothly as he had wanted and, as he quickly began to pull the line and leather off of his arm, Arthur was already on his feet and straightening Adams’s tie, trying to make him as presentable as possible. However, the pounding on the door signaled the arrival of the hired help.
“Eames,” Arthur caught Eames’s attention before tossing an autographed baseball bat across the desk. It would work for now.
The forger stepped past the guitar case and moved toward the door, bat in one hand as he looked through the peephole. At least five burly men stood just beyond and from what Eames could gather, they seemed less than pleased. One worked at the lock as he retreated back to the PASIV Arthur was closing back up in the case. Faster, Eames urged with a glance, jaw clenched as the last of the cords were tied up and the case snapped shut. There had to be another way out besides through that front door, Eames knew it; owners rarely had only one exit strategy should a few dozen policemen show up at their door uninvited. The office was relatively undecorated, possibly for insurance reasons or because--- “behind that cabinet.”
To mark where the exit was for a man who had already ruined his mental facilities with drink. Arthur furrowed his eyebrows at Eames, but the latter brushed off the look and moved over to the cabinet himself. A large padlock stood in their way, but a strong swing with the bat took care of it and, when the front door broke down, Eames wrenched open the cabinet to reveal a long, thin hallway. With no time for words, Arthur surged through and Eames followed, barely avoiding being riddled with bullets. Eames could hear the clamor of not only the men but the screams of a startled speakeasy as well. His hair stood on end when the rat-a-tat of a tommy gun echoed in the thin hallway, a bullet striking his ear before he could even think to duck. Still, it was better than a bullet through the back of his head and he prayed gratefully when a second set of stairs put them out of the line of sight of their pursuers.
Luckily, Cobb had remained right where they left him and the Coupe glimmered at them in the night as they full-on sprinted toward it. With sweat pouring down the side of his cheek, Eames all but leapt into the car and Arthur just after. The case was set on the floorboards and Eames slapped the shoulder of their young driver. With a squeal, the Coupe hauled out into the crowded street, not waiting for the proper opening or space for the vehicle. Unfortunately, neither did the other car parked in the same lot and the familiar sounds of a pistol punctuated the air, one of the bullets ricocheting off the back bumper and far too close for Eames’s taste.
He pulled himself into the front seat and dumped the baseball bat next to Cobb before he dug into the supply underneath the seat. Excellent, Cobb had not been approached during their time in the speakeasy. Out came a violin case and he quickly handed it off to Arthur, who pulled it open and snapped the pieces of a Tommy gun into their correct configuration. With his back to the dash, Eames offered Cobb a smile as he loaded his own piece. “Drive safe, Cobb.”
Arthur finished first and laid the barrel of the typewriter through the back window of the Coupe, stock pressed against his shoulder as he laid into their pursuers, lead decorating their front windshield with cracks and holes and forcing the other vehicle to swerve to the right. However, they hardly gave up and quickly answered with their own burst of fire, a bullet slicing through the back of the car just above Arthur’s head. From where he sat in the front seat, Eames breathed a silent sigh of relief before he pumped the shotgun in his hands. Carefully, he leaned out the window before unloading a big old barrel of fuck you into the hood of the car approaching their back bumper again.
The Coupe swerved and Eames barely chanced a glance at Cobb, who was bent over the wheel but looked uninjured; he tried to press himself flat in order to avoid being hit by any of the ricochets. Arthur briefly looked out the back window again before giving a few more tats of the gun. Their pursuers had drawn off and the point man moved to sit up again.
“Take City,” the point man grunted.
Obediently, the driver made a large winding right hand turn onto a side street and blazed along it as Eames caught his breath, “Wasn’t that fun.”
The forger sought out Arthur’s gaze and held it for a few moments as the other turned to face front again. The latter tilted his chin barely before glancing away and beginning to disassemble his gun. With a click, Cobb turned the radio on and the deep-bellied hum of a bass clarinet lined the quiet of the Coupe.
Soon enough, the city and its bright sounds dimmed into the horizon as the car turned onto a dirt road and chugged along. A few minutes along, Arthur handed the violin case up to Eames and he set it underneath the front seat with his safely unloaded shotgun. The point man’s countenance was subdued as he leaned against the back seat and the forger watched him for a long minute, eyes focused in on the suddenly heavy eyelids. Reaching into his pocket, Arthur looked even more cross, fingers coming out holding nothing except the label of his cigarette pack.
“I’ve a safe house not far from here,” Eames informed the other two riders, but spoke especially to the disgruntled man in the back seat. “In Ellettsville. Twenty minutes.”
This had never been part of the plan and the forger knew it in his gut as he continued to keep his eyes set on his partner; Ariadne would wake up alone tomorrow. Eames would spare the dime to call her from the phone in his flat.
Eames watched Arthur as he made said phone call, his voice hushed as he pressed the bell of the receiver to his ear with white-knuckled fingers.
“It didn’t go as planned.” Arthur had a way of apologizing and scolding at the same time.
A few more quiet words and the receiver was hung back onto the hook in silence. Eames stood and approached the point man, standing just outside of Arthur’s personal bubble with his hands in his pockets. When Arthur turned, it was forceful, sure, and strong; he wasn’t some broken flower. Eames closed the distance between them, hands still his pockets as he watched Arthur stared right back, stubborn and angry.
But then he took a forceful step forward and mashed his lips against Eames’s hungrily. Arthur’s fingers latched around the side of his neck, pads pressing against the muscle and gripping the skin there with a fervor Eames rarely saw from the other man. Eames answered the call with own aggressive tugs of Arthur’s pin-striped vest, fingers sliding beneath the silk and up underneath the buttons. As Arthur’s tongue worked against his lip, Eames opened his mouth and undid one of the vest’s buttons before working his way up to free the tie. He quickly set about work on the black dress shirt in a similar fashion as Arthur pushed him slowly back toward bed without much foreplay.
When Eames could pry Arthur’s hands from the side of his neck, he pushed both the dress shirt and vest off in one fell swoop, exposing a pale chest to the moonlight that streamed through a crack in the curtains. Without warning, Eames mounted the mattress, pulling the point man with him. Arthur knelt, his back straight, as Eames leaned in to apply his lips to the other man’s nipple. Almost immediately, Arthur’s firm posture crumbled with a slight shudder as he reached down to the front of his slacks, rubbing in heavy circles through the fabric. Eames bit and suckled on the nipple for a few moments longer as Arthur managed to use his spare hand to slide Eames’s suspenders from his broad shoulders.
It took no time at all for the rest of their clothing to end up discarded on the floor, spread across the hardwood like a carefully planned canvas. Eames stared up at Arthur, whose eyes closed as he straddled the former; Arthur needed this right now, more than anything he could imagine. His heart pounded in his ears, gave breath to the desire choked in his lower abdomen as he lowered himself onto Eames. The initial pain gave way to a blessed feeling that rose in him, swelled and excited as Eames began to thrust.
Arthur rocked against Eames, hands pressed against the latter’s shoulders, jerking visibly with every thrust from Eames. With another shudder, Arthur shifted his position so he leaned back, back arched and pressing more of his weight into the forger, free hand clenching the sheets underneath them as he surrendered himself to this very real, very physical power coursing through his body. Sweat dripped down Eames’s fingers to the slick skin of Arthur’s hip as his other hand continued to pump the point man at a manic pace. The world dissolved into a dizzying mess of skin against skin. Nerves screamed and howled until he could hear Arthur cry out into the night, possessed by a divinity that flowed out of him in an instant.
As Arthur settled back on the bed, he reached over for the newly-bought pack of cigarettes and opened it. He lit one and allowed the smoke to simply curl through the dim, moonlit night. Through the frame of Arthur’s elbow, Eames could watch it spindle and swirl up toward the ceiling.
Art Prompt Title: Untitled
Art link: Art Master Post
Artist: pseudonc
Fic Title: Blues in A Minor
Author: twenty_til_12
Pairing(s): Eames/Arthur; implied Arthur/Ariadne and Arthur/Ariadne/Eames.
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,469
Warnings: Sex, somewhat explicit. Excessive jazz references.
Summary: A prohibition-era AU. Eames and Arthur, long-time partners in the business of extractions, find themselves over their heads with what should have been a simple job.
Recommended Tracks: “Goodbye Pork Pie Hat,” “Moanin’,” “Peggy’s Blue Skylight” by Charles Mingus; “Run,” “St. James Infirmary” by Toshiyuki Honda; “Rolling in the Deep” by ADELE
Blues in A Minor
The bell of the saxophone moaned into the smoky spot illuminating the polished brass, low and guttural in the otherwise silent air of the club. For a few long moments, only that howl filled the heavy air, screaming as it tumbled down the scale and its player’s fingers worked at a manic, fevered pace. Sweat dripped down those digits and shined under the glare of the spot as the soloist closed his eyes, commending his soul to the room and exposing it for all to see. He bent, rocked, and twisted with the ebb and flow of his instrument, possessed by the notes pouring from the mouth of his saxophone and the divine power of jazz.
This was what Eames loved about the art: the surrender to a physical, known power rather to some higher, far-off deity. Here in the bar, he could see the worship through the raw jerks of the soloists body, improvised and needed to carry him to a deeper understanding of the spirit of room. Eames had never been particularly religious, but jazz was something he could adopt and adhere to his own soul, giving everything to something so mystic and incomprehensible.
However, the illusion snapped in two when he heard the quiet clack of dress shoes behind him, under the sound of the baby steps of a bass as it began to walk. The forger heard his cue to leave and stood, not bothering to straighten his loose collar or catawampus suspenders; no need to make the man interrupting his prayer any more comfortable. Silently, the pair navigated through the dim, husky glow of the bar until the door and exited into the salty chill of the pier’s summer air.
Across from Eames stood the ever-trim form of Arthur, decorated in a crisp pin-stripe suit and fedora and surrounded by the fog that rolled off the bay. His hair was slicked back against his skull, the quintessence of order.
“Lovely as ever, Arthur.” Half-assed baiting as the forger moved with slow steps down the boardwalk, a little chilled by the relatively cooler air of the night. He checked his watch. “And right on time, certainly.”
“You said you were going to be standing outside, waiting.”
“Where would the fun in that be?” Eames did not at all mind pulling Arthur’s pigtails when he could get away with that. “No thrill in the chase.”
“I’m not supposed to be chasing you,” Arthur replied, his tone unimpressed and bordering on outright annoyed.
“So where’s that little architect of yours?” Eames pocketed one of his hands.
“At home, sleeping. She doesn’t know I’m out.” Warning.
“I’m your secret affair, then.” Eames grinned, looking over to his partner to study the shadows in his face for more clues.
With a dark grimace, Arthur paused to pull a pack of cigarettes from his trouser pocket. He tapped one out efficiently, placed it in his mouth, and, as he shielded the queen from the breeze, lit the end. Two experimental puffs, drawing the intoxicating smoke into his lungs for a couple moments before he began his gait again. That answered Eames’s non-question well enough. He knew that Arthur didn’t do it out of spite for Ariadne or any real lack of loyalty, but simply because Eames offered so much that she couldn’t; he knew that Ariadne knew and she had even invited him in once. Arthur seemed to be the only one bothered by the whole thing.
“The target’s a bootlegger, Sam Adams, on the west-end,” Arthur spoke through a plume of smoke. “We’ll find him in the cellar of Mme’s Sellback.”
“Are we extracting tonight?” Eames had a secret love for doing things on-the-fly, even if he would growl about new variables being added to the equation; there was a certain excitement to the unknown that resulted in some of his best work.
“If there’s an opening.”
The two moved onto the sidewalk, hard concrete instead of the creaking boards of the pier. Cars hummed past them, mufflers coughing and spluttering exhaust, and the chatter of the Friday night crew crowded the air with unintelligible sound. Still, Eames enjoyed the strip for all its color and the unspoken nuances that the average flapper did not necessarily see, like the signs of bootleggers that hid in plain sight beside those who abided by law. He loved the lingering of sinners with saints and the heart-felt calls of hallelujah by one long forgotten by a higher power. Through the thick din of the night, the forger could make out the growl of muted trumpets; the sweat-slicked squeal of a saxophone floated above the sticky mess of voices.
Turning down cobblestoned alley, Arthur led the way to their ride: a glimmering, dark-painted Cadillac Coupe with bright, polished mirrors. Eames voiced his concern almost immediately as he settled into the back driver’s-side seat and Arthur beside him, “It’ll be quite easy to lose a tail in this beauty.”
The driver swiveled in his seat to smile crookedly at them from under a boyish curl of hair. “Don’t worry ‘bout nothing, Mr. Eames.”
“Cobb, you know where we’re going,” Arthur interrupted any additional complaints that Eames could have voiced. In the near pitch dark of the car, Eames thought he could see the amused quirk of his partner’s lip as he leaned down to pick up the guitar case at their feet. “Cover’s the same. You’re my manager, Eames.”
Sliding a small vial of powder underneath the cuff of his sleeve was the final step of preparation for the forger. Soon, they rolled into the lot beside their destination. The sellback itself was nothing remarkable and nearly silent in its pastel green existence; some of the white noise from the street filtered in through the door when Eames and Arthur entered.
“I have a guitar to sell.” Arthur lifted the case in his left hand a few inches.
With a curious smile, the blonde woman behind the counter took a deep breath through the fag in her lips. “Play a few bars to make sure it works?”
“A minor okay?” Arthur responded in code, A for Adams.
He received a courteous nod as she got to her stilettoed feet and clicked over toward the back door. Eames and Arthur followed in turn, the latter leading as she briefly pressed a buzzer and opened the door to the cellar. Almost immediately, the smell of smoke and booze struck Eames’s nose. This was the right place, alright. Down some incredibly steep stairs they followed the thin woman and across the back hallway of the speakeasy to a pale door. Around them, there were round tables filled with people dressed to the nines, glasses perched in delicate fingers, some half-leaning over the backs of chairs as they talked underneath the soaring swell of snare, trumpet, and bass.
“Enjoy yourself, boys,” the woman cooed as she opened the door to a private office.
When she exited to leave them there, Eames quickly took in as much as he could of the room. Undecorated, mostly unfurnished, and altogether bland, but it did the job. The man behind the desk puffed away on a cigar, his pin-striped feet propped up on the corner as he watched them sit down in the leather-upholstered armchairs a few paces in. The man reeked of dominance, gold rings lining his fingers and each with a different colored stone mounted, a true sign of a prosperous speakeasy. Eames could see that the man likely also took pride in his establishment and would protest to it being called a blind pig.
“Can I get you something to drink or are you just here to play?” Adams’s own drink sat beside his left hand, a dark umber liquid with two cubes of ice in a short, clean glass.
“Don’t see why we can’t mix business with pleasure,” Eames replied, briefly looking over at Arthur with a casual smile. “After all, the business with a blind pig is pleasure.”
“I’d like to think I’m better than any old blind pig,” The owner answered as Arthur opened the guitar case on his lap.
Eames recognized the PASIV within and smiled at Adams amicably, standing and making his way toward the man. He picked at his cufflinks for a moment before offering Adams a hand to shake. “I’m afraid I must know your secret.”
One drink of the now-contaminated liquor put the owner under in a heartbeat.
With a glance, Arthur set the guitar case on the floor before unwinding three long lines of tubing, one for each of them, and quickly set about putting Adams’s on as Eames locked the door. If they had any unwanted guests, that should hold them for long enough. Hopefully. When he returned to their seats, the point man had the whole thing set up: the timer wound and set, the pump prepped. Eames sat and relaxed as Arthur pressed the needle of the line into the crook of his elbow and wrapped the spot with a thick leather strap.
“Sleep well, Mr. Eames.” Arthur smiled at his partner before depressing the pump.
In a rush, Eames found himself standing on pavement, staring up at the bright sun as it burned through thick clouds. However, it only lasted for a matter of moments until Arthur strode up beside him and the clouds closed. The man seemed to be dressed much more simply, with a pair of workman’s denims and a neatly buttoned up shirt. With a smile, the forger acknowledged his partner before the two moved in time toward a run-down apartment complex.
“He’ll be in 112, first floor,” Eames spoke efficiently as they made their way up the front stairs, heels clacking against the concrete. “Better than I usually do.”
However, the projections already stared at them and Arthur only briefly touched Eames’s shoulder to alert him of the fact; an extractor had trained Adams. That gave them only a finite amount of time to pull the information they needed. Luckily, the apartment seemed to be the only one on the first floor and Eames knocked as a wooden toolbox appeared in his hands, elaborating his improvised role as a repairman. When Adams opened the door, three projections approached down the hallway and Eames internally cursed at being set up like this; he would definitely have words with their employer.
A punch to Adams’s face allowed them through the door and Arthur slammed it shut behind them before sliding a bookcase in front of it. The safe sat in the corner and Eames took no time in crossing the room to crack it open. Quick reading, catching his breath, shoving them back in and then Adams aimed a pistol at both of them. Well, it was easier this way anyway.
Eames sat upright abruptly. That definitely did not go as smoothly as he had wanted and, as he quickly began to pull the line and leather off of his arm, Arthur was already on his feet and straightening Adams’s tie, trying to make him as presentable as possible. However, the pounding on the door signaled the arrival of the hired help.
“Eames,” Arthur caught Eames’s attention before tossing an autographed baseball bat across the desk. It would work for now.
The forger stepped past the guitar case and moved toward the door, bat in one hand as he looked through the peephole. At least five burly men stood just beyond and from what Eames could gather, they seemed less than pleased. One worked at the lock as he retreated back to the PASIV Arthur was closing back up in the case. Faster, Eames urged with a glance, jaw clenched as the last of the cords were tied up and the case snapped shut. There had to be another way out besides through that front door, Eames knew it; owners rarely had only one exit strategy should a few dozen policemen show up at their door uninvited. The office was relatively undecorated, possibly for insurance reasons or because--- “behind that cabinet.”
To mark where the exit was for a man who had already ruined his mental facilities with drink. Arthur furrowed his eyebrows at Eames, but the latter brushed off the look and moved over to the cabinet himself. A large padlock stood in their way, but a strong swing with the bat took care of it and, when the front door broke down, Eames wrenched open the cabinet to reveal a long, thin hallway. With no time for words, Arthur surged through and Eames followed, barely avoiding being riddled with bullets. Eames could hear the clamor of not only the men but the screams of a startled speakeasy as well. His hair stood on end when the rat-a-tat of a tommy gun echoed in the thin hallway, a bullet striking his ear before he could even think to duck. Still, it was better than a bullet through the back of his head and he prayed gratefully when a second set of stairs put them out of the line of sight of their pursuers.
Luckily, Cobb had remained right where they left him and the Coupe glimmered at them in the night as they full-on sprinted toward it. With sweat pouring down the side of his cheek, Eames all but leapt into the car and Arthur just after. The case was set on the floorboards and Eames slapped the shoulder of their young driver. With a squeal, the Coupe hauled out into the crowded street, not waiting for the proper opening or space for the vehicle. Unfortunately, neither did the other car parked in the same lot and the familiar sounds of a pistol punctuated the air, one of the bullets ricocheting off the back bumper and far too close for Eames’s taste.
He pulled himself into the front seat and dumped the baseball bat next to Cobb before he dug into the supply underneath the seat. Excellent, Cobb had not been approached during their time in the speakeasy. Out came a violin case and he quickly handed it off to Arthur, who pulled it open and snapped the pieces of a Tommy gun into their correct configuration. With his back to the dash, Eames offered Cobb a smile as he loaded his own piece. “Drive safe, Cobb.”
Arthur finished first and laid the barrel of the typewriter through the back window of the Coupe, stock pressed against his shoulder as he laid into their pursuers, lead decorating their front windshield with cracks and holes and forcing the other vehicle to swerve to the right. However, they hardly gave up and quickly answered with their own burst of fire, a bullet slicing through the back of the car just above Arthur’s head. From where he sat in the front seat, Eames breathed a silent sigh of relief before he pumped the shotgun in his hands. Carefully, he leaned out the window before unloading a big old barrel of fuck you into the hood of the car approaching their back bumper again.
The Coupe swerved and Eames barely chanced a glance at Cobb, who was bent over the wheel but looked uninjured; he tried to press himself flat in order to avoid being hit by any of the ricochets. Arthur briefly looked out the back window again before giving a few more tats of the gun. Their pursuers had drawn off and the point man moved to sit up again.
“Take City,” the point man grunted.
Obediently, the driver made a large winding right hand turn onto a side street and blazed along it as Eames caught his breath, “Wasn’t that fun.”
The forger sought out Arthur’s gaze and held it for a few moments as the other turned to face front again. The latter tilted his chin barely before glancing away and beginning to disassemble his gun. With a click, Cobb turned the radio on and the deep-bellied hum of a bass clarinet lined the quiet of the Coupe.
Soon enough, the city and its bright sounds dimmed into the horizon as the car turned onto a dirt road and chugged along. A few minutes along, Arthur handed the violin case up to Eames and he set it underneath the front seat with his safely unloaded shotgun. The point man’s countenance was subdued as he leaned against the back seat and the forger watched him for a long minute, eyes focused in on the suddenly heavy eyelids. Reaching into his pocket, Arthur looked even more cross, fingers coming out holding nothing except the label of his cigarette pack.
“I’ve a safe house not far from here,” Eames informed the other two riders, but spoke especially to the disgruntled man in the back seat. “In Ellettsville. Twenty minutes.”
This had never been part of the plan and the forger knew it in his gut as he continued to keep his eyes set on his partner; Ariadne would wake up alone tomorrow. Eames would spare the dime to call her from the phone in his flat.
Eames watched Arthur as he made said phone call, his voice hushed as he pressed the bell of the receiver to his ear with white-knuckled fingers.
“It didn’t go as planned.” Arthur had a way of apologizing and scolding at the same time.
A few more quiet words and the receiver was hung back onto the hook in silence. Eames stood and approached the point man, standing just outside of Arthur’s personal bubble with his hands in his pockets. When Arthur turned, it was forceful, sure, and strong; he wasn’t some broken flower. Eames closed the distance between them, hands still his pockets as he watched Arthur stared right back, stubborn and angry.
But then he took a forceful step forward and mashed his lips against Eames’s hungrily. Arthur’s fingers latched around the side of his neck, pads pressing against the muscle and gripping the skin there with a fervor Eames rarely saw from the other man. Eames answered the call with own aggressive tugs of Arthur’s pin-striped vest, fingers sliding beneath the silk and up underneath the buttons. As Arthur’s tongue worked against his lip, Eames opened his mouth and undid one of the vest’s buttons before working his way up to free the tie. He quickly set about work on the black dress shirt in a similar fashion as Arthur pushed him slowly back toward bed without much foreplay.
When Eames could pry Arthur’s hands from the side of his neck, he pushed both the dress shirt and vest off in one fell swoop, exposing a pale chest to the moonlight that streamed through a crack in the curtains. Without warning, Eames mounted the mattress, pulling the point man with him. Arthur knelt, his back straight, as Eames leaned in to apply his lips to the other man’s nipple. Almost immediately, Arthur’s firm posture crumbled with a slight shudder as he reached down to the front of his slacks, rubbing in heavy circles through the fabric. Eames bit and suckled on the nipple for a few moments longer as Arthur managed to use his spare hand to slide Eames’s suspenders from his broad shoulders.
It took no time at all for the rest of their clothing to end up discarded on the floor, spread across the hardwood like a carefully planned canvas. Eames stared up at Arthur, whose eyes closed as he straddled the former; Arthur needed this right now, more than anything he could imagine. His heart pounded in his ears, gave breath to the desire choked in his lower abdomen as he lowered himself onto Eames. The initial pain gave way to a blessed feeling that rose in him, swelled and excited as Eames began to thrust.
Arthur rocked against Eames, hands pressed against the latter’s shoulders, jerking visibly with every thrust from Eames. With another shudder, Arthur shifted his position so he leaned back, back arched and pressing more of his weight into the forger, free hand clenching the sheets underneath them as he surrendered himself to this very real, very physical power coursing through his body. Sweat dripped down Eames’s fingers to the slick skin of Arthur’s hip as his other hand continued to pump the point man at a manic pace. The world dissolved into a dizzying mess of skin against skin. Nerves screamed and howled until he could hear Arthur cry out into the night, possessed by a divinity that flowed out of him in an instant.
As Arthur settled back on the bed, he reached over for the newly-bought pack of cigarettes and opened it. He lit one and allowed the smoke to simply curl through the dim, moonlit night. Through the frame of Arthur’s elbow, Eames could watch it spindle and swirl up toward the ceiling.