(no subject)
Ok, a couple things:
I just told Liz she out-jewed me. I was being totally serious.
Two, Amber redid my layout. For my birthday. Last year. My next one is in two weeks. It's almost like she's my sister. ~imagine my face
I feel kind of guilty for posting this in a thread to my friend randomly on a post about something else, so ok: Arthur's wedding ring
Arthur doesn't want, strictly speaking, to get married. He's never been inclined to romantic notions about settling down, and Mal and Dom's relationship never appealed to him as a model of something he'd ever want. He's also nothing if not ruthlessly practical, so he's well-aware that his internal prejudices over his own life-plan are pretty fucking irrelevant now.
Yes, he loves Eames, and yes, he knows that they're never going to be shot of each other personally now. They're too deep into each other for either of them to ever walk away and never think about each other again. Arthur spends a little time, when he's outwardly skimming MEFI comments, imagining how they'd end, whether it would be in ice or fire. There are several likely scenarios he favors: Arthur drunkenly hooking up on a one night stand and Eames blowing up like Kilauea; Eames losing himself in a forge and turning into someone neither of them know; death. But in none of them can Arthur model them being done with each other, just in some other stage of development where love has turned to full-blown hatred or bereavement.
"Did your high school aptitude tests indicate that your tendency towards morbidness inclined you quite well towards a career in mortuary science?" Eames rustles his newspaper meaningfully.
"How did you know I'm into necrophilia?" Arthur answers and link hops to a story about the moral panic in Japan about centenarian deaths.
"I'm sure I could arrange something to indulge that inclination in a dream, dear," Eames sighs, long-suffering and put-upon.
*
They decide to choose each other's rings, no matchy-matchy as Emma would say. Actually, Eames decides this in one his sentimentally romantic moments.
"Darling, what if we chose one another's rings? I know you're far too repressed to stand up and recite impassioned vows of heartfelt endearments in front of a room packed with yours and mine, however, perhaps you'd indulge me one dramatic moment in this maelstrom of efficient pragmatism."
This is not a request, Arthur isn't new here. Eames has decided this is what they're going to do, and he will force Arthur into this romantic gesture if he has to drag Arthur by wild horses into it.
"Suit yourself," he says shocked at the way his stomach drops out at the little twitch at the corner of Eames's mouth that indicates he's hurt. Every time Arthur notices he can see through Eames's craft, he's amazed all over again. Part of Arthur is always self-analyzing, metaing himself, so he marvels with one part of his mind that he's really standing up and sliding to sit next to Eames's sprawl on the creaking leather couch, while another part of him is compelled to ease away any discomfort he's caused. "I…didn't mean to be dismissive…" he feels really fucking unmoored here.
"Don't sprain yourself," Eames wraps his arm Arthur's shoulders on the back of the couch and pulls him so that Arthur's arm is on his belly, so they're both angled into the corner. Arthur slumps a little and watches the flickering rugby players on the television, glad his face is averted and surprised at himself for wanting to hide something even now. "I know you, just remember that."
Arthur relaxes and lets his head fall onto Eames's shoulder. "Where's the remote, I'm not watching this shit." He feels Eames's laughter reverberate through his spine and ribs. "You realize a ring will throw off my marksmanship."
"Oh, love, while I do feel practicality has its limits in some areas, do give me some credit. Who do you know that wears their ring in the field?" He kisses the top of Arthur's head and Arthur digs his elbow into his sternum.
Dom. Arthur hates it when Eames out-thinks him. "I hate you," he murmurs.
"We both know how untrue that little gem is."
Sigh.
I just told Liz she out-jewed me. I was being totally serious.
Two, Amber redid my layout. For my birthday. Last year. My next one is in two weeks. It's almost like she's my sister. ~imagine my face
I feel kind of guilty for posting this in a thread to my friend randomly on a post about something else, so ok: Arthur's wedding ring
Arthur doesn't want, strictly speaking, to get married. He's never been inclined to romantic notions about settling down, and Mal and Dom's relationship never appealed to him as a model of something he'd ever want. He's also nothing if not ruthlessly practical, so he's well-aware that his internal prejudices over his own life-plan are pretty fucking irrelevant now.
Yes, he loves Eames, and yes, he knows that they're never going to be shot of each other personally now. They're too deep into each other for either of them to ever walk away and never think about each other again. Arthur spends a little time, when he's outwardly skimming MEFI comments, imagining how they'd end, whether it would be in ice or fire. There are several likely scenarios he favors: Arthur drunkenly hooking up on a one night stand and Eames blowing up like Kilauea; Eames losing himself in a forge and turning into someone neither of them know; death. But in none of them can Arthur model them being done with each other, just in some other stage of development where love has turned to full-blown hatred or bereavement.
"Did your high school aptitude tests indicate that your tendency towards morbidness inclined you quite well towards a career in mortuary science?" Eames rustles his newspaper meaningfully.
"How did you know I'm into necrophilia?" Arthur answers and link hops to a story about the moral panic in Japan about centenarian deaths.
"I'm sure I could arrange something to indulge that inclination in a dream, dear," Eames sighs, long-suffering and put-upon.
*
They decide to choose each other's rings, no matchy-matchy as Emma would say. Actually, Eames decides this in one his sentimentally romantic moments.
"Darling, what if we chose one another's rings? I know you're far too repressed to stand up and recite impassioned vows of heartfelt endearments in front of a room packed with yours and mine, however, perhaps you'd indulge me one dramatic moment in this maelstrom of efficient pragmatism."
This is not a request, Arthur isn't new here. Eames has decided this is what they're going to do, and he will force Arthur into this romantic gesture if he has to drag Arthur by wild horses into it.
"Suit yourself," he says shocked at the way his stomach drops out at the little twitch at the corner of Eames's mouth that indicates he's hurt. Every time Arthur notices he can see through Eames's craft, he's amazed all over again. Part of Arthur is always self-analyzing, metaing himself, so he marvels with one part of his mind that he's really standing up and sliding to sit next to Eames's sprawl on the creaking leather couch, while another part of him is compelled to ease away any discomfort he's caused. "I…didn't mean to be dismissive…" he feels really fucking unmoored here.
"Don't sprain yourself," Eames wraps his arm Arthur's shoulders on the back of the couch and pulls him so that Arthur's arm is on his belly, so they're both angled into the corner. Arthur slumps a little and watches the flickering rugby players on the television, glad his face is averted and surprised at himself for wanting to hide something even now. "I know you, just remember that."
Arthur relaxes and lets his head fall onto Eames's shoulder. "Where's the remote, I'm not watching this shit." He feels Eames's laughter reverberate through his spine and ribs. "You realize a ring will throw off my marksmanship."
"Oh, love, while I do feel practicality has its limits in some areas, do give me some credit. Who do you know that wears their ring in the field?" He kisses the top of Arthur's head and Arthur digs his elbow into his sternum.
Dom. Arthur hates it when Eames out-thinks him. "I hate you," he murmurs.
"We both know how untrue that little gem is."
Sigh.