Exquisite Taste In Statuary (2)
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.
2.
It’s 2:47 am in London, and the night is young.
Or, at least, it is to Eames.
He’s running, jumping, flying over broken glass and slick asphalt and the sky is pouring, pouring, pouring. The night is young and Eames is free and nothing in this world can stop a handsome man with quick hands and fast feet and a knife in the lining of his jacket.
It must be Saturday, by this point. The wild day. The tired day. The day where everyone is conscious of getting up to something or doing nothing at all. Eames fully intends to do both.
The storage facility is quiet as Eames jumps the gate. It should be, after all. There’s no one here. Except... over there, right beyond the fence. A security guard. Wonderful.
The man leans against the side of one of the storage containers, eyes half closed in the night light, unlit cigarette dangling from his bored lips. Eames approaches, sneaker-clad feet slipping over concrete like silk. The watchman doesn’t even see it coming.
“Gotcha.”
The man jumps, cigarette going flying from his lips, eyes shot wide in the dark. Eames chuckles, clapping the man on the shoulder. “Yusuf, sweetheart. You’re rather jumpy tonight. Maybe cut down on those concoctions of yours, yeah? Detrimental effects and all that.”
Yusuf swears loudly, sucking in deep breaths. “Bloody hell, Eames. You almost killed me. I could have choked on that fag. I could have died.”
Eame’s laughter is gone immediately. “Actually, my love. You’d have known if I was actually trying to kill you. Or, possibly not. You’d be dead.”
Yusuf stares at Eames for a second and then shakes his head when the other man begins to giggle again. “Oh, I see. It’s Make Fun of Poor, Slow Yusuf Day, isn’t it?”
“Not at all, not at all. Just a bit of fun before the dawn.” And with that Eames slithers off, waving at Yusuf from over his shoulder as he saunters off to storage container 238, the one that sticks out from the large (and slightly unsafe looking) stack of containers. He fits his key into the grate and turns, relishing in the miniscule click that emanates from the lock. He pulls the grate up, slipping inside the container, and lets it roll down silently behind him.
Inside, he flicks a switch and his creation comes to life.
Home sweet home.
The warren of passages that he’d created, connecting all the storage containers that he owned, flickers into brightness, electric lights fizzing into action and illuminating his palace. Of course he’s got a nice futon, a decent side table. A hot plate, a computer, some books. But what he’s most proud of, what he revels in, is his collection.
Stretching out through the halls of this urban abode are works of contemporary sculpturs that Eames has worked long and hard to amass. He has them installed, hung, planted, placed... they’re all lit and archived and they each have a plaque.
The nearest plaque reads:
PHARMACY - Joseph Cornell
Sold at auction for $3,778,500 to Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Green
Liberated 13 November, 2008, 2:34 am
Eames stares at the mirrored box that hangs serenely on the wall. That job had been tricky. The Greens, although illiterate when it came to art, had possessed quite the efficient security force. Eames had dodged a couple bullets in his time. Some of them had belonged to the Greens.
But the Cornell had been unharmed, and that’s what mattered. Eames grins at his reflection and returns to the futon nest at the mouth of his lair. Dragging his laptop out from under a pile of jumpers, he sighs, sinking back on the mattress.
Saturday. Nothing to do. Trouble to make. What beautiful, ancient, boring piece of art were the museums promoting this week?
He loads up the Louvre website and waits as a list of horridly stodgy old marble sculptures loaded. Boring, boring, boring. He scrolls down, pursing his lips.
And there.
Right there, yes there. A nymph. The Nymph. Old, French, marble. Perfect.
He wouldn’t steal it. No, no. He had no interest in the piece. But he would hang around Ms. Nymph, night and day, getting to know her curves and the way her stone flesh glistened.
And if someone else were to show up to whisk Ms. Nymph away. Well, Eames wouldn’t be adverse to that, well would he?
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.
2.
It’s 2:47 am in London, and the night is young.
Or, at least, it is to Eames.
He’s running, jumping, flying over broken glass and slick asphalt and the sky is pouring, pouring, pouring. The night is young and Eames is free and nothing in this world can stop a handsome man with quick hands and fast feet and a knife in the lining of his jacket.
It must be Saturday, by this point. The wild day. The tired day. The day where everyone is conscious of getting up to something or doing nothing at all. Eames fully intends to do both.
The storage facility is quiet as Eames jumps the gate. It should be, after all. There’s no one here. Except... over there, right beyond the fence. A security guard. Wonderful.
The man leans against the side of one of the storage containers, eyes half closed in the night light, unlit cigarette dangling from his bored lips. Eames approaches, sneaker-clad feet slipping over concrete like silk. The watchman doesn’t even see it coming.
“Gotcha.”
The man jumps, cigarette going flying from his lips, eyes shot wide in the dark. Eames chuckles, clapping the man on the shoulder. “Yusuf, sweetheart. You’re rather jumpy tonight. Maybe cut down on those concoctions of yours, yeah? Detrimental effects and all that.”
Yusuf swears loudly, sucking in deep breaths. “Bloody hell, Eames. You almost killed me. I could have choked on that fag. I could have died.”
Eame’s laughter is gone immediately. “Actually, my love. You’d have known if I was actually trying to kill you. Or, possibly not. You’d be dead.”
Yusuf stares at Eames for a second and then shakes his head when the other man begins to giggle again. “Oh, I see. It’s Make Fun of Poor, Slow Yusuf Day, isn’t it?”
“Not at all, not at all. Just a bit of fun before the dawn.” And with that Eames slithers off, waving at Yusuf from over his shoulder as he saunters off to storage container 238, the one that sticks out from the large (and slightly unsafe looking) stack of containers. He fits his key into the grate and turns, relishing in the miniscule click that emanates from the lock. He pulls the grate up, slipping inside the container, and lets it roll down silently behind him.
Inside, he flicks a switch and his creation comes to life.
Home sweet home.
The warren of passages that he’d created, connecting all the storage containers that he owned, flickers into brightness, electric lights fizzing into action and illuminating his palace. Of course he’s got a nice futon, a decent side table. A hot plate, a computer, some books. But what he’s most proud of, what he revels in, is his collection.
Stretching out through the halls of this urban abode are works of contemporary sculpturs that Eames has worked long and hard to amass. He has them installed, hung, planted, placed... they’re all lit and archived and they each have a plaque.
The nearest plaque reads:
PHARMACY - Joseph Cornell
Sold at auction for $3,778,500 to Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Green
Liberated 13 November, 2008, 2:34 am
Eames stares at the mirrored box that hangs serenely on the wall. That job had been tricky. The Greens, although illiterate when it came to art, had possessed quite the efficient security force. Eames had dodged a couple bullets in his time. Some of them had belonged to the Greens.
But the Cornell had been unharmed, and that’s what mattered. Eames grins at his reflection and returns to the futon nest at the mouth of his lair. Dragging his laptop out from under a pile of jumpers, he sighs, sinking back on the mattress.
Saturday. Nothing to do. Trouble to make. What beautiful, ancient, boring piece of art were the museums promoting this week?
He loads up the Louvre website and waits as a list of horridly stodgy old marble sculptures loaded. Boring, boring, boring. He scrolls down, pursing his lips.
And there.
Right there, yes there. A nymph. The Nymph. Old, French, marble. Perfect.
He wouldn’t steal it. No, no. He had no interest in the piece. But he would hang around Ms. Nymph, night and day, getting to know her curves and the way her stone flesh glistened.
And if someone else were to show up to whisk Ms. Nymph away. Well, Eames wouldn’t be adverse to that, well would he?