touch my face and watch me try to breathe again (1/1)
title: touch my face and watch me try to breathe again
rating: pg-13
pairing: eames/always-a-girl!arthur
spoilers: none glaring, though assume references to the full film
disclaimer: all hail nolan, dreamer extraordinaire.
writer's note: Eames & Arthur for inception_claim, "touch" prompt.
word count: 696
summary: In which Eames is surprised, and Arthur is not.
He doesn't surprise her, staying in the States after Saito's checks clear. He isn't trying to. She expects him, and he expects her to expect him, and when he raps smartly at her hotel room there are no surprises between them when Arthur opens the door.
Still they perform their roles all the same; she narrows her eyes, he ducks his head. "You stayed," she says.
"Unfinished business," he replies.
And this is true enough; there was something in her eye when she sent him under to the third dream, something in the touch of her fingers on his wrist, and it pleases him that he can still understand the language of her touch. She holds the door open.
"Dom?" he asks, to be polite.
"With the children. Ariadne?"
"On the plane to Paris. You kissed her."
"I did."
"Wish I'd seen that."
"Don't be crude, Jack. I was testing a theory."
"And?"
"And I remain, as ever, an excellent judge of character. Ariadne is remarkably tightlipped about her sexuality. I was curious."
"You were interested."
Arthur inclines her head, admitting to a wealth of things. Eames' head is spinning already, drunk on revelation and possibility and the proximity of her mouth, close enough to kiss if he tried. "What changed?" he asks quietly, watching the flicker of her eyelashes against her cheeks.
"You did," she murmurs in response, and he feels a jolt of triumph that it's not just he who senses the need for quiet, the hushed reverence of a moment that could disappear without the slightest provocation. "You were worried about me."
"Arthur, my dear, I am always worried about you. Surely you know that's why I still keep tabs."
Her mouth quirks. Is that a smile? "I can take care of myself," she tells him defiantly.
"Of course you can," he agrees. "I just happen to have a vested interest in your wellbeing. Call it a financial investment."
"I'm worth more to you alive than dead? Eames, that can't be right. My insurance policies are all paid to your aliases."
"You didn't change the benefactors? Arthur," he breathes, "you're such a romantic."
She smirks smugly, as catlike as she has ever been. "Didn't expect that, did you?"
"You are full of surprises," he concedes. "Not even remotely as unimaginative as I like to tell people you are."
"That's all right," she practically purrs. "I wouldn't want to be oversold."
She has the upper hand firmly now; no chance of him turning the tables in the least. And he's all right with that-it means it'll be her idea, when she decides to invite him inside. She lifts a hand, brushes his mouth with her fingers, utterly aware of the spell she's laid. He stands stock still, passing a test. Has he changed? Is it true? He would like to think so. It would be rather poetic, to have changed just for her. The beast within him tamed, and he wasn't even looking.
"What are you thinking, I wonder?" she asks, the pads of her fingers drifting up to trace the line of his nose, the curve of his cheek. "How did you hope this would end? Did you imagine it before you got here? Always a scene ahead, living the future. I suppose that's why you think you have imagination."
He shakes his head. "You've always surprised me, Artie. I never had any idea of what would happen next, with you. What happens next? Did I do the right thing, coming here? Are you going to make me go?"
For a moment he thinks she'll say yes. For a moment he can see the shutters being drawn, the instant she realizes how far she's let her guard down, how far she's already let him in. He can see it, and he's already taking a step backwards, because if it doesn't happen now it might happen tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, and it's not giving up if you come back again-but she slides her hand down his arms, her fingers curling in his palm, and the touch sends a frisson of warmth down his spine.
"Come inside, Mr. Eames."
rating: pg-13
pairing: eames/always-a-girl!arthur
spoilers: none glaring, though assume references to the full film
disclaimer: all hail nolan, dreamer extraordinaire.
writer's note: Eames & Arthur for inception_claim, "touch" prompt.
word count: 696
summary: In which Eames is surprised, and Arthur is not.
He doesn't surprise her, staying in the States after Saito's checks clear. He isn't trying to. She expects him, and he expects her to expect him, and when he raps smartly at her hotel room there are no surprises between them when Arthur opens the door.
Still they perform their roles all the same; she narrows her eyes, he ducks his head. "You stayed," she says.
"Unfinished business," he replies.
And this is true enough; there was something in her eye when she sent him under to the third dream, something in the touch of her fingers on his wrist, and it pleases him that he can still understand the language of her touch. She holds the door open.
"Dom?" he asks, to be polite.
"With the children. Ariadne?"
"On the plane to Paris. You kissed her."
"I did."
"Wish I'd seen that."
"Don't be crude, Jack. I was testing a theory."
"And?"
"And I remain, as ever, an excellent judge of character. Ariadne is remarkably tightlipped about her sexuality. I was curious."
"You were interested."
Arthur inclines her head, admitting to a wealth of things. Eames' head is spinning already, drunk on revelation and possibility and the proximity of her mouth, close enough to kiss if he tried. "What changed?" he asks quietly, watching the flicker of her eyelashes against her cheeks.
"You did," she murmurs in response, and he feels a jolt of triumph that it's not just he who senses the need for quiet, the hushed reverence of a moment that could disappear without the slightest provocation. "You were worried about me."
"Arthur, my dear, I am always worried about you. Surely you know that's why I still keep tabs."
Her mouth quirks. Is that a smile? "I can take care of myself," she tells him defiantly.
"Of course you can," he agrees. "I just happen to have a vested interest in your wellbeing. Call it a financial investment."
"I'm worth more to you alive than dead? Eames, that can't be right. My insurance policies are all paid to your aliases."
"You didn't change the benefactors? Arthur," he breathes, "you're such a romantic."
She smirks smugly, as catlike as she has ever been. "Didn't expect that, did you?"
"You are full of surprises," he concedes. "Not even remotely as unimaginative as I like to tell people you are."
"That's all right," she practically purrs. "I wouldn't want to be oversold."
She has the upper hand firmly now; no chance of him turning the tables in the least. And he's all right with that-it means it'll be her idea, when she decides to invite him inside. She lifts a hand, brushes his mouth with her fingers, utterly aware of the spell she's laid. He stands stock still, passing a test. Has he changed? Is it true? He would like to think so. It would be rather poetic, to have changed just for her. The beast within him tamed, and he wasn't even looking.
"What are you thinking, I wonder?" she asks, the pads of her fingers drifting up to trace the line of his nose, the curve of his cheek. "How did you hope this would end? Did you imagine it before you got here? Always a scene ahead, living the future. I suppose that's why you think you have imagination."
He shakes his head. "You've always surprised me, Artie. I never had any idea of what would happen next, with you. What happens next? Did I do the right thing, coming here? Are you going to make me go?"
For a moment he thinks she'll say yes. For a moment he can see the shutters being drawn, the instant she realizes how far she's let her guard down, how far she's already let him in. He can see it, and he's already taking a step backwards, because if it doesn't happen now it might happen tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, and it's not giving up if you come back again-but she slides her hand down his arms, her fingers curling in his palm, and the touch sends a frisson of warmth down his spine.
"Come inside, Mr. Eames."