Smanie implacabili: Part I
Ships: Arthur/Cobb, Arthur/Phillipa (one-sided), Eames/Phillipa
Rating: NC-17
Summary: She flushes when her father calls them 'dates', but Mr. Arthur doesn't seem to mind.
Part I| Part II| Part III| Part IV| Part V| Part VI
She flushes when her father calls them 'dates', but Mr. Arthur doesn't seem to mind.
Every few weeks he comes by and picks her up in posh sports cars, a different one each time, looking as if he has climbed out of the pages of Italian Vogue. Phillipa waits at the top of the stairs each time so that she can make a grand entrance. She knows it is silly, and her father and Jim mock her for it, but the way he watches her descend the stairs makes her feel anything but silly.
They go to fancy restaurants where he helps her decide what to get and teaches her about the gastronomic wonders this world has to offer. Sometimes they even share desserts.
He takes her to see operas and by the time she is fifteen she has amassed quite the collection of it on vinyl. On weeks when she doesn't have 'dates', Phillipa lies on the floor and listens to them, absorbing the music into herself. The week her her grandfather dies, a crate full of them arrives on their front porch with no note, but she knows they're from her Mr. Arthur.
Sometimes they simply go to art galleries or museums. They wonder through them for hours, discussing composition, color, and meaning. One night they sit on a bench in front of a Rothko for an hour, just taking in the color.
One summer, he takes her to Bilbao for a week, seemingly on a whim. They wander the streets, soaking in the atmosphere, and Phillipa never wants to leave.
When she turns sixteen, he takes her dancing. It is the closest they ever get on their dates. When he draws her close for a foxtrot, it feels as if her heart will explode.
She feels so sophisticated when she is with him. Her father and Jim don't understand. They don't appreciate the aesthetics of the world around them. All of the art they could see, all of the music they could listen to. Sometimes it seems as if Mr. Arthur, aloof and living the life she wants to live, is the only one in her life who understands her.
++ + ++
She is twenty the first time she sleeps with Eames. She does it for a lot of reasons, but mostly to get back at her father.
As soon as James was packed away to college for his freshman year, Arthur moved in. Phillipa had spent the summer out of the house as much as she could and avoiding her father and Arthur when she was. She was spending this year abroad in Paris and took this as an excuse never to call home aside from one time to assure her father that she had arrived in one piece.
Her heart still aches. Phillipa cannot decide if it is the realization that they will never be together or the humiliation at having missed the signs. He's not Mr. Arthur anymore, just Arthur. The familiarity rends her heart a little more. When she first found out, she cried herself to sleep, consoled only by the fact that she wouldn't have to face it until she returned home for the summer.
She has only met Eames three times in her life, though Arthur and her father are constantly telling stories or complaining about the man. Her memories of the first two times are fuzzy, but she remembers well the third. It was the day of her grandfather's funeral. He was one of the pallbearers, the only one not wearing a tie. Eames stayed with them for two days after the funeral, monopolizing the couch. She had spent most of those days in her room on the floor, the voices of sopranos ringing through her body.
"Opera?" Eames asked when he wondered by her room.
"I like it," Phillipa replied and pushed the door shut in his face with one foot.
Those were the only words they exchanged.
She's at some shitty bar with a two Brits and a Polish girl who're also in her program. One of her companions notices him checking her out. She has no qualms about abandoning them to join Eames at the bar.
"Did my father send you?"
Eames raises his glass to her. "Your father never sends me to do anything."
He's so smug. She wants to punch him, but it looks like someone's gotten there before her.
"What happened to your face?"
"Work, darling."
Phillipa sits down next to him and he buys her a drink.
"So you're doing him a favor."
"They miss you."
"I don't want to talk to them."
"They love you."
"I know."
They drink in silence.
"You still listen to opera?"
"All of the time. My roommates tried to hide my iPod dock."
Eames smiled. "You are welcome to come listen to it at my flat, but I make no promises that I won't throw the bloody thing out the window."
"That's kind of you."
"Always, darling."
He's much more charismatic than she remembers. Considering what he does for a living, he's aged well. Phillipa knows he's a conman, but she's at ease with him. He would do nothing to hurt her, but he can still be an unwitting pawn in her revenge. There is no reason at all for her father to ever approve of a relationship between them. He's much too old and he's covered in tattoos, not to even mention his profession.
"So, are you going to take me home or do I have to go home alone?"
Eames looks her up and down.
A quick glance back at her friends' table as she leaves with him, his hand on her lower back, proves that they are astonished.
He takes her back to his apartment. Phillipa kicks off her shoes and lays down in the middle of the bed, stretching out across the bed and leaving Eames little room. He lays down on his side, propping himself up on one elbow.
"You're beautiful," he says as she brushes a lock of dirty blonde hair out of her face.
The alcohol and the compliment interact and she flushes, and Phillipa's glad Eames left the lights off when they came in. She licks her lips and brushes her fingers through his hair.
"And you're quite handsome."
"Really?"
She can see his smirk, even in the low light.
"Really."
Phillipa leans toward him and catches his lips. He parts his lips so easily.
When she wakes up the next morning with Eames curled around her, snoring softly, she realizes that the ache is just slightly duller. He's warm and male all around her. She pulls the arm he draped over her close to her chest and drifts back to sleep.
The next time she wakes it is midday. They're still spooning in their sleep, but she's stayed too long already. Phillipa finds his phone among his clothes where they sit abandoned on the floor. She takes it out in the hall and puts his number into her phone, careful not to leave hers on his call log.
She doesn't call him for a week. When she does, he sounds slightly harried.
"I'm coming over," she tells them. Phillipa has an art history book in her purse and her iPod dock in a box. It isn't safe for the dock at her apartment anymore. The dock had already accidentally taken a tumble down the stairs. She didn't want to leave it around where it might be subject to further abuse.
"That's lovely, darling, but I'm not at home at the moment."
"Well, get there."
"I'm flattered that you're coming round for a visit, but I really can't."
"In that case, I'll break in."
Eames sighs into the phone. "I would prefer that you didn't."
"Well, then you've made your choice."
He's waiting when she gets there.
Phillipa planned on studying, but she finds herself back in bed. When they finish, she sets up the dock and cracks open her art history book. She lays on her stomach beside Eames reading her book as he absently strokes the bare skin of her back and "Bel insecte à l'aile dorée" blares from the dock.
Part II
Rating: NC-17
Summary: She flushes when her father calls them 'dates', but Mr. Arthur doesn't seem to mind.
Part I| Part II| Part III| Part IV| Part V| Part VI
She flushes when her father calls them 'dates', but Mr. Arthur doesn't seem to mind.
Every few weeks he comes by and picks her up in posh sports cars, a different one each time, looking as if he has climbed out of the pages of Italian Vogue. Phillipa waits at the top of the stairs each time so that she can make a grand entrance. She knows it is silly, and her father and Jim mock her for it, but the way he watches her descend the stairs makes her feel anything but silly.
They go to fancy restaurants where he helps her decide what to get and teaches her about the gastronomic wonders this world has to offer. Sometimes they even share desserts.
He takes her to see operas and by the time she is fifteen she has amassed quite the collection of it on vinyl. On weeks when she doesn't have 'dates', Phillipa lies on the floor and listens to them, absorbing the music into herself. The week her her grandfather dies, a crate full of them arrives on their front porch with no note, but she knows they're from her Mr. Arthur.
Sometimes they simply go to art galleries or museums. They wonder through them for hours, discussing composition, color, and meaning. One night they sit on a bench in front of a Rothko for an hour, just taking in the color.
One summer, he takes her to Bilbao for a week, seemingly on a whim. They wander the streets, soaking in the atmosphere, and Phillipa never wants to leave.
When she turns sixteen, he takes her dancing. It is the closest they ever get on their dates. When he draws her close for a foxtrot, it feels as if her heart will explode.
She feels so sophisticated when she is with him. Her father and Jim don't understand. They don't appreciate the aesthetics of the world around them. All of the art they could see, all of the music they could listen to. Sometimes it seems as if Mr. Arthur, aloof and living the life she wants to live, is the only one in her life who understands her.
++ + ++
She is twenty the first time she sleeps with Eames. She does it for a lot of reasons, but mostly to get back at her father.
As soon as James was packed away to college for his freshman year, Arthur moved in. Phillipa had spent the summer out of the house as much as she could and avoiding her father and Arthur when she was. She was spending this year abroad in Paris and took this as an excuse never to call home aside from one time to assure her father that she had arrived in one piece.
Her heart still aches. Phillipa cannot decide if it is the realization that they will never be together or the humiliation at having missed the signs. He's not Mr. Arthur anymore, just Arthur. The familiarity rends her heart a little more. When she first found out, she cried herself to sleep, consoled only by the fact that she wouldn't have to face it until she returned home for the summer.
She has only met Eames three times in her life, though Arthur and her father are constantly telling stories or complaining about the man. Her memories of the first two times are fuzzy, but she remembers well the third. It was the day of her grandfather's funeral. He was one of the pallbearers, the only one not wearing a tie. Eames stayed with them for two days after the funeral, monopolizing the couch. She had spent most of those days in her room on the floor, the voices of sopranos ringing through her body.
"Opera?" Eames asked when he wondered by her room.
"I like it," Phillipa replied and pushed the door shut in his face with one foot.
Those were the only words they exchanged.
She's at some shitty bar with a two Brits and a Polish girl who're also in her program. One of her companions notices him checking her out. She has no qualms about abandoning them to join Eames at the bar.
"Did my father send you?"
Eames raises his glass to her. "Your father never sends me to do anything."
He's so smug. She wants to punch him, but it looks like someone's gotten there before her.
"What happened to your face?"
"Work, darling."
Phillipa sits down next to him and he buys her a drink.
"So you're doing him a favor."
"They miss you."
"I don't want to talk to them."
"They love you."
"I know."
They drink in silence.
"You still listen to opera?"
"All of the time. My roommates tried to hide my iPod dock."
Eames smiled. "You are welcome to come listen to it at my flat, but I make no promises that I won't throw the bloody thing out the window."
"That's kind of you."
"Always, darling."
He's much more charismatic than she remembers. Considering what he does for a living, he's aged well. Phillipa knows he's a conman, but she's at ease with him. He would do nothing to hurt her, but he can still be an unwitting pawn in her revenge. There is no reason at all for her father to ever approve of a relationship between them. He's much too old and he's covered in tattoos, not to even mention his profession.
"So, are you going to take me home or do I have to go home alone?"
Eames looks her up and down.
A quick glance back at her friends' table as she leaves with him, his hand on her lower back, proves that they are astonished.
He takes her back to his apartment. Phillipa kicks off her shoes and lays down in the middle of the bed, stretching out across the bed and leaving Eames little room. He lays down on his side, propping himself up on one elbow.
"You're beautiful," he says as she brushes a lock of dirty blonde hair out of her face.
The alcohol and the compliment interact and she flushes, and Phillipa's glad Eames left the lights off when they came in. She licks her lips and brushes her fingers through his hair.
"And you're quite handsome."
"Really?"
She can see his smirk, even in the low light.
"Really."
Phillipa leans toward him and catches his lips. He parts his lips so easily.
When she wakes up the next morning with Eames curled around her, snoring softly, she realizes that the ache is just slightly duller. He's warm and male all around her. She pulls the arm he draped over her close to her chest and drifts back to sleep.
The next time she wakes it is midday. They're still spooning in their sleep, but she's stayed too long already. Phillipa finds his phone among his clothes where they sit abandoned on the floor. She takes it out in the hall and puts his number into her phone, careful not to leave hers on his call log.
She doesn't call him for a week. When she does, he sounds slightly harried.
"I'm coming over," she tells them. Phillipa has an art history book in her purse and her iPod dock in a box. It isn't safe for the dock at her apartment anymore. The dock had already accidentally taken a tumble down the stairs. She didn't want to leave it around where it might be subject to further abuse.
"That's lovely, darling, but I'm not at home at the moment."
"Well, get there."
"I'm flattered that you're coming round for a visit, but I really can't."
"In that case, I'll break in."
Eames sighs into the phone. "I would prefer that you didn't."
"Well, then you've made your choice."
He's waiting when she gets there.
Phillipa planned on studying, but she finds herself back in bed. When they finish, she sets up the dock and cracks open her art history book. She lays on her stomach beside Eames reading her book as he absently strokes the bare skin of her back and "Bel insecte à l'aile dorée" blares from the dock.
Part II