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Inception: "Splendid" (Eames/Arthur)
Aug. 1st, 2010 11:53 pmsplendid
inception
eames/arthur
summary: in between dreams, splendor
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tigbit
It's all smooth lines with Arthur, hard angles made of terracotta and wool that will not yield under gunfire, knife blade, or the prospect of falling into the half-imagined remains of Cobb's Limbo. Eames reflects fondly upon the Inception job from time to time, always drawn to the thrill of it, the improbability of their success, and the way Arthur's jacket had cupped his shoulders as he'd slid the needle into the soft underbelly of Eames's wrist, the sharp fit softened by an almost -- dare he say it -- playful order to sleep.
As much as he'd been terribly taken with the job, the fun, he's quite happy with the denouement.
They're between jobs now, in recline for the sake of resting, soft 600-count sheets beneath them instead of plastic slates. When Eames swallows, it's not the aftertaste of Yusef's latest compound that clings heavily to the back of his tongue like a pinstripe, but the lingering sweetness of someone else's saliva and sweat interspersed with the soft, warm smell of natural sleep.
When Eames wakes now, it's not Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait, ni le mal, tout ça m'est bien égal, but a murmured entreaty for the time, a suggestion of going into town for breakfast breathed into his neck, the wash of warm exhalation the most jarring kick he can imagine.
Arthur mutters something about a shower, and Eames draws his fingers up naked flesh, relishing the shiver his touch drags forth, sinking into the sheets.
"A shower?" He whispers, on the cusp of sunlight and riding out the denouement as long as he can, "But you look splendid, darling."
He doesn't reach for the poker chip on the night stand.
inception
eames/arthur
summary: in between dreams, splendor
for
tigbitIt's all smooth lines with Arthur, hard angles made of terracotta and wool that will not yield under gunfire, knife blade, or the prospect of falling into the half-imagined remains of Cobb's Limbo. Eames reflects fondly upon the Inception job from time to time, always drawn to the thrill of it, the improbability of their success, and the way Arthur's jacket had cupped his shoulders as he'd slid the needle into the soft underbelly of Eames's wrist, the sharp fit softened by an almost -- dare he say it -- playful order to sleep.
As much as he'd been terribly taken with the job, the fun, he's quite happy with the denouement.
They're between jobs now, in recline for the sake of resting, soft 600-count sheets beneath them instead of plastic slates. When Eames swallows, it's not the aftertaste of Yusef's latest compound that clings heavily to the back of his tongue like a pinstripe, but the lingering sweetness of someone else's saliva and sweat interspersed with the soft, warm smell of natural sleep.
When Eames wakes now, it's not Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait, ni le mal, tout ça m'est bien égal, but a murmured entreaty for the time, a suggestion of going into town for breakfast breathed into his neck, the wash of warm exhalation the most jarring kick he can imagine.
Arthur mutters something about a shower, and Eames draws his fingers up naked flesh, relishing the shiver his touch drags forth, sinking into the sheets.
"A shower?" He whispers, on the cusp of sunlight and riding out the denouement as long as he can, "But you look splendid, darling."
He doesn't reach for the poker chip on the night stand.
