Exquisite Taste In Statuary (1)
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Summary:
a softer world
a cry for help
we leave no evidence, no clues except for our exquisite taste in statuary.
and so they call us gentlemen art thieves.
meanwhile we're working on the best porn you will ever see.
1.
It’s raining, water slicking down the penthouse’s glass wall. Arthur lies in bed, watching the rivulets wind their way down, betting sweet nothings on which drop will win his invisible race. He winds his legs in his white sheets, smooth Egyptian cotton sliding against his skin. It’s ten forty-seven in the morning, a Saturday, and Arthur’s got nothing to do.
He supposes he’ll go shopping.
Easing out from under the sheets, he pads across the hardwood floor, pale feet stark against the dark boards. A bookshelf, high as the ceiling, towers before him, mismatched hardcover art history books and worn auction-house catalogues arranged by country of origin and date filling its shelves. Arthur runs his fingers over spines, digits skipping lightly over ridges and drops, searching for something important (but nothing in particular).
He reads about the Nymph, also known as Arethusa. The statue of the lounging deity is almost exactly 299 years old, French, marble, and thoroughly entrenched in the hallowed halls of the Louvre. In other words... Way up Arthur’s alley.
He hasn’t been to France in nearly a year. Far too close to England.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Summary:
a softer world
a cry for help
we leave no evidence, no clues except for our exquisite taste in statuary.
and so they call us gentlemen art thieves.
meanwhile we're working on the best porn you will ever see.
1.
It’s raining, water slicking down the penthouse’s glass wall. Arthur lies in bed, watching the rivulets wind their way down, betting sweet nothings on which drop will win his invisible race. He winds his legs in his white sheets, smooth Egyptian cotton sliding against his skin. It’s ten forty-seven in the morning, a Saturday, and Arthur’s got nothing to do.
He supposes he’ll go shopping.
Easing out from under the sheets, he pads across the hardwood floor, pale feet stark against the dark boards. A bookshelf, high as the ceiling, towers before him, mismatched hardcover art history books and worn auction-house catalogues arranged by country of origin and date filling its shelves. Arthur runs his fingers over spines, digits skipping lightly over ridges and drops, searching for something important (but nothing in particular).
He reads about the Nymph, also known as Arethusa. The statue of the lounging deity is almost exactly 299 years old, French, marble, and thoroughly entrenched in the hallowed halls of the Louvre. In other words... Way up Arthur’s alley.
He hasn’t been to France in nearly a year. Far too close to England.