Fic: Greater than Want, Deeper than Need (1 of 3-4)
Title: Greater than Want, Deeper than Need (Part 1 of 3 or 4)
Authors:: eternalsojourn and countrypixie1
Team: Angst
Prompt(s): Hunger, Sensual and Touch
Word Count: ~1900
Rating: Mature (this part - ultimately NC-17)
Beta: night_reveals
Warnings: Angst, Torture (Happy ending)
Summary: In a world where touch is as essential to human survival as food and water, Arthur and Eames are forced to face the repercussions of their line of work.
Greater than Want, Deeper than Need
Eames hands a few bills across the counter into the waiting hand of the barista, letting his fingers graze hers and sliding them over her palm for a moment. She doesn’t bat an eyelash. She’s used to customers taking the opportunity to refresh themselves.
He collects his drink and has a momentary niggle: perhaps he should have picked up a coffee for Arthur. It’s too late now, anyway. And besides, Arthur has probably picked up his own.
He brushes the hand of the boy who hands him his large medium-bodied drip. It’s not strictly necessary but Eames takes it where he can; he’s always been of the opinion that you get while the getting’s good.
As he secures the lid on his coffee he thinks ahead to the problems he and Arthur are meant to tackle today. During these planning stages, they have worked out a comfortable system of arguing back and forth about the best approach to any given job, and sometimes Eames wins, sometimes he doesn’t. The resulting plan is usually pretty effective. The process has become more streamlined since the Fischer job, as Arthur and Eames have gradually cemented themselves as the go-to duo for difficult jobs.
He takes a sip, then sighs. He stands back in line to order Arthur one of those extra large triple shot Americanos he loves so much.
---
Arthur stumbles wildly, as if shoved.
He’s alone in the lobby of the office building for the first level of the dream so he looks up, vainly trying to peer into reality through the ceiling above him. Eames is the only other person in the warehouse, and he’s not the type to bump Arthur accidentally. “What the hell, Eames?” he asks himself, getting nothing but a soft rumbling for an answer.
When nothing happens again, Arthur is ready to let the incident go. He turns towards the stairwell only to be knocked off his feet. He calmly draws his gun and shoots himself.
Arthur wakes to chaos. He sees Eames fighting with several men dressed in black tactical gear, twisting and turning every which way and barely evading their grasps, but Arthur’s attention is focused on the man tying his hands together.
He throws an arm out before the man can finish his task and pushes him to the ground, jumping out of the chair and following him to the floor. Arthur grabs the gun holstered at the man’s hip just as the man shoves Arthur up and off. Arthur puts two bullets in the man’s head.
Hearing the shots, two of the men head towards Arthur while Eames grapples with a brick wall of a man. Arthur brings the gun up again, aiming it at one of the men coming towards him. The other grabs his nightstick and throws it at Arthur’s head. Arthur’s shot goes wide as he jumps to the left. Before he can recover his balance, the shorter man launches himself at Arthur and tackles him to the ground. Arthur tries to angle the gun for a headshot, but it’s wrestled from his hand as he’s forced onto his stomach.
Arthur struggles uselessly against the two men holding him down. He feels the warm muzzle of the recently fired gun press against the back of his head and he stills.
He can hear Eames still fighting nearby, but Eames is already wearing down. A loud thud sounds next to Arthur, and he risks turning his head to the side, only to find Eames pinned down as well. Arthur watches helplessly as Eames is kicked repeatedly.
“All good?” the man pointing a gun at Eames’ head asks.
Arthur feels the gun press harder into his head as the man above him answers, “This little fucker shot Valdez.” The weight of the gun disappears. Arthur sees Eames’s eyes widen a second before his head explodes in pain and he loses consciousness.
----
The dull thud of a door shutting and metal scrape of a heavy bolt sliding into place disturbs the quiet of the room. Eames stirs, eyelids fluttering open. The room is almost completely bare -- a bedroom possibly, but a small one. No furniture save for the two sturdy wooden chairs that Arthur and Eames are currently strapped to.
Arthur is still unconscious, head lolling on his chest. Eames tests his bonds: the ones holding his wrists together behind his chair and the ones binding his ankles to the chair legs. They’re tight but not uncomfortable, some sort of nylon material. He bends his hand up as much as possible, trying to see if he can feel how he’s tied. He doesn’t have enough wiggle room, though, and the bonds don’t give even a little.
He looks around the room. Base heaters, no windows, a closet door that’s currently shut. Carpeted in bland beige, door looks to be replaced by a reinforced steel one, unpainted and gunmetal grey.
His head pounds and his mouth is dry. It feels like the worst sort of hangover without the pleasure of having been drunk. Whatever drugs they used were rough as fuck. Eames breathes in deep, twists his body slightly to feel for any injuries. He winces: a bright starburst of pain explodes in his side, a cracked rib most likely. A tug at his ankle restraints flares a twinge of pain there as well, though he doesn’t think it’s broken. Sprained, maybe. There doesn’t appear to be anything else major; he’s sore, bruised, but largely intact. He licks his lips, but his tongue is dry and his mouth feels disgusting. He wishes he could wipe his lips at least.
Arthur jerks, looks up blearily. “What... Eames...” He looks like he’s struggling to focus, which is worrying.
Eames waits for Arthur to get his bearings. It takes a while but he watches as Arthur scans the room exactly as Eames did, in precisely the same order.
“Did you recognize anyone?” Arthur asks when he’s finished his assessment of their situation.
“No. Hired muscle, I’m guessing,” Eames replies. Arthur nods. “How are you, any injuries?”
Arthur frowns in concentration but doesn’t get a chance to answer before the lock slides once more.
A woman walks in: tall, elegantly dressed in a simple black shift dress, diamonds dangling from her ears below her upswept blonde hair, elbow length black gloves covering slender arms -- a rare sight that Eames finds more than a little alarming. Eames recognizes her immediately from the Sørensen job, the failed inception. Eames would know her face anywhere; he had forged her: Iliana Sørensen, wife of the mark, Niels.
Iliana sees Eames’s recognition and smiles, a bitter, tight expression that emphasizes the dark, haunted shadows of her eyes.
“So now you know -- why you’re here. Why you deserve this,” she says. Eames keeps his expression neutral. In his peripheral vision he can see Arthur turning to look at him. Eames says nothing; people usually fill empty spaces with information; it’s a trick Eames makes extensive use of.
She looks at him quizzically, glances at Arthur and back to Eames. “You don’t know, do you?” She makes a face, disgusted. “No, of course you don’t. Why would you ever follow up to see how completely you ruined someone’s life? You fucking Dreamworkers. Filthy dogs is all you are. Common criminals with a fancy toy. You never have to watch the aftermath, do you? Watch as someone gets so paranoid they won’t even let their own wife touch them.” Her voice is steely, but she seems on the verge of cracking. “Well.” She straightens up further, something akin to pleasure crinkling the corners of her eyes. “As my husband suffers so shall you. “
She turns to leave, stops and looks over her shoulder at Eames. “You might as well settle in. You’ll be here for the duration.” She sweeps out of the door, shutting it with a decisive thunk and the lock slides back into place.
“Death by deprivation, then,” Arthur says grimly. “Who is she?”
“The Sørensen job, before Fischer.”
Arthur nods slowly, wrinkling his brows. “You tried inception before; that was the one, wasn’t it?”
Eames hums his agreement. “It didn’t take. We didn’t even get paid for our months of work. Niels Sørensen was head of a biotech firm in Denmark and we were hired to incept him with the idea that his company should trade publicly.”
“What happened? Why didn’t it take?” Arthur asks, and Eames wonders how much Arthur knows from his own research, how much he’s asking simply to gather anything he might have missed through second-hand information.
“The whole thing was too complex. We tried to implant the fully formed idea instead of planting the root of it and allowing it to form naturally. I forged Iliana, our lovely hostess,” he nods his head towards the door, “and apparently her husband is now a little traumatized by our meddling around in his subconscious. First I’ve heard of it, to be honest.”
“Why me, then?” Arthur asks.
Eames shrugs. “Fuck knows. The real question is, how do we get ourselves out of here before we die? I’ve been tortured once or twice in my day, can’t say I relish enduring this one.” He falls silent, considering. “I couldn’t see from this angle. Were you able to see what’s outside the door? Any guards?”
“I caught a glimpse outside the door when she came in and when she left. It doesn’t look like there’s anyone out there, but then I think that’s a hallway right there. All I saw was a bare wall directly opposite.”
Eames nods. “We also have the small problem of these bindings. I haven’t been able to loosen mine even a little. You?”
Arthur shakes his head. “They’re tight. I say we wait until she comes back in, and I’ll try to get a better look. Maybe she’ll keep talking and we can get a better idea what we’re dealing with here. Who knows, she might have to untie us or move us at some point. It’s not like we can piss here.”
Eames sighs and shifts in his seat, a vain attempt to get more comfortable. He already feels the dull ache on his skin that tells him it’s been too many hours since he last touched someone. That had been Arthur when he casually let his hand linger on Eames’s arm as he inserted the cannula. It was a meaningless gesture, no more or less than the dozens of touches that happen with anyone on any given day. Eames hadn’t given it a thought, but now, perhaps five hours since his last contact, that one touch remains a phantom sensation on his arm.
He resolutely puts the thought out of his head and turns his attention to his wrist ties once more. He works them for long minutes, feeling for any loosening at all. He gets nothing more than chaffed skin for his efforts. Arthur appears to be doing the same, though he eventually mutters a soft curse and stops.
They don’t say anything further but Eames knows Arthur is probably thinking the same thing he is: until something else happens, they’re helpless. They can hope that the chemist they hired comes looking for them when they don’t check in for their meeting the next day, although it seems just as likely their disappearance will spook him and he’ll fuck off to places unknown. Right now their only option is to wait for an opening.
----
Part Two
Part Three
Authors:: eternalsojourn and countrypixie1
Team: Angst
Prompt(s): Hunger, Sensual and Touch
Word Count: ~1900
Rating: Mature (this part - ultimately NC-17)
Beta: night_reveals
Warnings: Angst, Torture (Happy ending)
Summary: In a world where touch is as essential to human survival as food and water, Arthur and Eames are forced to face the repercussions of their line of work.
Greater than Want, Deeper than Need
Eames hands a few bills across the counter into the waiting hand of the barista, letting his fingers graze hers and sliding them over her palm for a moment. She doesn’t bat an eyelash. She’s used to customers taking the opportunity to refresh themselves.
He collects his drink and has a momentary niggle: perhaps he should have picked up a coffee for Arthur. It’s too late now, anyway. And besides, Arthur has probably picked up his own.
He brushes the hand of the boy who hands him his large medium-bodied drip. It’s not strictly necessary but Eames takes it where he can; he’s always been of the opinion that you get while the getting’s good.
As he secures the lid on his coffee he thinks ahead to the problems he and Arthur are meant to tackle today. During these planning stages, they have worked out a comfortable system of arguing back and forth about the best approach to any given job, and sometimes Eames wins, sometimes he doesn’t. The resulting plan is usually pretty effective. The process has become more streamlined since the Fischer job, as Arthur and Eames have gradually cemented themselves as the go-to duo for difficult jobs.
He takes a sip, then sighs. He stands back in line to order Arthur one of those extra large triple shot Americanos he loves so much.
---
Arthur stumbles wildly, as if shoved.
He’s alone in the lobby of the office building for the first level of the dream so he looks up, vainly trying to peer into reality through the ceiling above him. Eames is the only other person in the warehouse, and he’s not the type to bump Arthur accidentally. “What the hell, Eames?” he asks himself, getting nothing but a soft rumbling for an answer.
When nothing happens again, Arthur is ready to let the incident go. He turns towards the stairwell only to be knocked off his feet. He calmly draws his gun and shoots himself.
Arthur wakes to chaos. He sees Eames fighting with several men dressed in black tactical gear, twisting and turning every which way and barely evading their grasps, but Arthur’s attention is focused on the man tying his hands together.
He throws an arm out before the man can finish his task and pushes him to the ground, jumping out of the chair and following him to the floor. Arthur grabs the gun holstered at the man’s hip just as the man shoves Arthur up and off. Arthur puts two bullets in the man’s head.
Hearing the shots, two of the men head towards Arthur while Eames grapples with a brick wall of a man. Arthur brings the gun up again, aiming it at one of the men coming towards him. The other grabs his nightstick and throws it at Arthur’s head. Arthur’s shot goes wide as he jumps to the left. Before he can recover his balance, the shorter man launches himself at Arthur and tackles him to the ground. Arthur tries to angle the gun for a headshot, but it’s wrestled from his hand as he’s forced onto his stomach.
Arthur struggles uselessly against the two men holding him down. He feels the warm muzzle of the recently fired gun press against the back of his head and he stills.
He can hear Eames still fighting nearby, but Eames is already wearing down. A loud thud sounds next to Arthur, and he risks turning his head to the side, only to find Eames pinned down as well. Arthur watches helplessly as Eames is kicked repeatedly.
“All good?” the man pointing a gun at Eames’ head asks.
Arthur feels the gun press harder into his head as the man above him answers, “This little fucker shot Valdez.” The weight of the gun disappears. Arthur sees Eames’s eyes widen a second before his head explodes in pain and he loses consciousness.
----
The dull thud of a door shutting and metal scrape of a heavy bolt sliding into place disturbs the quiet of the room. Eames stirs, eyelids fluttering open. The room is almost completely bare -- a bedroom possibly, but a small one. No furniture save for the two sturdy wooden chairs that Arthur and Eames are currently strapped to.
Arthur is still unconscious, head lolling on his chest. Eames tests his bonds: the ones holding his wrists together behind his chair and the ones binding his ankles to the chair legs. They’re tight but not uncomfortable, some sort of nylon material. He bends his hand up as much as possible, trying to see if he can feel how he’s tied. He doesn’t have enough wiggle room, though, and the bonds don’t give even a little.
He looks around the room. Base heaters, no windows, a closet door that’s currently shut. Carpeted in bland beige, door looks to be replaced by a reinforced steel one, unpainted and gunmetal grey.
His head pounds and his mouth is dry. It feels like the worst sort of hangover without the pleasure of having been drunk. Whatever drugs they used were rough as fuck. Eames breathes in deep, twists his body slightly to feel for any injuries. He winces: a bright starburst of pain explodes in his side, a cracked rib most likely. A tug at his ankle restraints flares a twinge of pain there as well, though he doesn’t think it’s broken. Sprained, maybe. There doesn’t appear to be anything else major; he’s sore, bruised, but largely intact. He licks his lips, but his tongue is dry and his mouth feels disgusting. He wishes he could wipe his lips at least.
Arthur jerks, looks up blearily. “What... Eames...” He looks like he’s struggling to focus, which is worrying.
Eames waits for Arthur to get his bearings. It takes a while but he watches as Arthur scans the room exactly as Eames did, in precisely the same order.
“Did you recognize anyone?” Arthur asks when he’s finished his assessment of their situation.
“No. Hired muscle, I’m guessing,” Eames replies. Arthur nods. “How are you, any injuries?”
Arthur frowns in concentration but doesn’t get a chance to answer before the lock slides once more.
A woman walks in: tall, elegantly dressed in a simple black shift dress, diamonds dangling from her ears below her upswept blonde hair, elbow length black gloves covering slender arms -- a rare sight that Eames finds more than a little alarming. Eames recognizes her immediately from the Sørensen job, the failed inception. Eames would know her face anywhere; he had forged her: Iliana Sørensen, wife of the mark, Niels.
Iliana sees Eames’s recognition and smiles, a bitter, tight expression that emphasizes the dark, haunted shadows of her eyes.
“So now you know -- why you’re here. Why you deserve this,” she says. Eames keeps his expression neutral. In his peripheral vision he can see Arthur turning to look at him. Eames says nothing; people usually fill empty spaces with information; it’s a trick Eames makes extensive use of.
She looks at him quizzically, glances at Arthur and back to Eames. “You don’t know, do you?” She makes a face, disgusted. “No, of course you don’t. Why would you ever follow up to see how completely you ruined someone’s life? You fucking Dreamworkers. Filthy dogs is all you are. Common criminals with a fancy toy. You never have to watch the aftermath, do you? Watch as someone gets so paranoid they won’t even let their own wife touch them.” Her voice is steely, but she seems on the verge of cracking. “Well.” She straightens up further, something akin to pleasure crinkling the corners of her eyes. “As my husband suffers so shall you. “
She turns to leave, stops and looks over her shoulder at Eames. “You might as well settle in. You’ll be here for the duration.” She sweeps out of the door, shutting it with a decisive thunk and the lock slides back into place.
“Death by deprivation, then,” Arthur says grimly. “Who is she?”
“The Sørensen job, before Fischer.”
Arthur nods slowly, wrinkling his brows. “You tried inception before; that was the one, wasn’t it?”
Eames hums his agreement. “It didn’t take. We didn’t even get paid for our months of work. Niels Sørensen was head of a biotech firm in Denmark and we were hired to incept him with the idea that his company should trade publicly.”
“What happened? Why didn’t it take?” Arthur asks, and Eames wonders how much Arthur knows from his own research, how much he’s asking simply to gather anything he might have missed through second-hand information.
“The whole thing was too complex. We tried to implant the fully formed idea instead of planting the root of it and allowing it to form naturally. I forged Iliana, our lovely hostess,” he nods his head towards the door, “and apparently her husband is now a little traumatized by our meddling around in his subconscious. First I’ve heard of it, to be honest.”
“Why me, then?” Arthur asks.
Eames shrugs. “Fuck knows. The real question is, how do we get ourselves out of here before we die? I’ve been tortured once or twice in my day, can’t say I relish enduring this one.” He falls silent, considering. “I couldn’t see from this angle. Were you able to see what’s outside the door? Any guards?”
“I caught a glimpse outside the door when she came in and when she left. It doesn’t look like there’s anyone out there, but then I think that’s a hallway right there. All I saw was a bare wall directly opposite.”
Eames nods. “We also have the small problem of these bindings. I haven’t been able to loosen mine even a little. You?”
Arthur shakes his head. “They’re tight. I say we wait until she comes back in, and I’ll try to get a better look. Maybe she’ll keep talking and we can get a better idea what we’re dealing with here. Who knows, she might have to untie us or move us at some point. It’s not like we can piss here.”
Eames sighs and shifts in his seat, a vain attempt to get more comfortable. He already feels the dull ache on his skin that tells him it’s been too many hours since he last touched someone. That had been Arthur when he casually let his hand linger on Eames’s arm as he inserted the cannula. It was a meaningless gesture, no more or less than the dozens of touches that happen with anyone on any given day. Eames hadn’t given it a thought, but now, perhaps five hours since his last contact, that one touch remains a phantom sensation on his arm.
He resolutely puts the thought out of his head and turns his attention to his wrist ties once more. He works them for long minutes, feeling for any loosening at all. He gets nothing more than chaffed skin for his efforts. Arthur appears to be doing the same, though he eventually mutters a soft curse and stops.
They don’t say anything further but Eames knows Arthur is probably thinking the same thing he is: until something else happens, they’re helpless. They can hope that the chemist they hired comes looking for them when they don’t check in for their meeting the next day, although it seems just as likely their disappearance will spook him and he’ll fuck off to places unknown. Right now their only option is to wait for an opening.
----
Part Two
Part Three