(no subject)
Title: My Dear Mrs. Dixon
Rating: PG for now, rating will go up
Part: 2 of ?
Pairing: Most likely Eames/Ariadne
Disclaimer: I am just playing with Nolan's toys
Summary: The only sensible solution to their current problem is to get 'married' of course!
Author's Note: Written in response to a prompt at inception_kink that called for Ariadne and Eames to go undercover as a couple for a job.
It is exactly 7: 23 in the morning when Eames shows up at her door. Ariadne, like any sane person, is sound asleep and does not hear the pounding until it becomes incessant and is accompanied by shouting. She all but stumbles out of her bed, and heads blindly for the door to her flat, hoping to quiet her unexpected (and unwelcome) guest before her neighbors have a fit. Her fingers find the latch in the dimmed morning light and she throws the door open to see Eames standing there fully dressed in a suit, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. “That better be for me,” she tells him, her voice still thick with sleep.
He thrusts it out like an offering and then strides in. “Good morning, love.” He sounds chipper.
Ariadne drinks deeply.
“What are you doing here? This early. In the morning. When I should be sleeping…” Ariadne watches as he shrugs off the jacket, which looks more expensive than his usual taste. He folds it carefully over the back of one of her rickety chairs and then moves to throw open the curtains.
“No, don’t…” she begins to protests but then is blinded with by the sun. Her eyes immediately close and she lets out a whimper. “Answer my question, Eames.”
“Mrs. Dixon, you do realize this party is merely days away. We do not have a lot of time,” Eames points out as he turns and for the first time truly takes her in. “Good Lord, is that what you sleep in?”
Ariadne is awake now, eyes widening and face flushing red. She makes a beeline for her bedroom, and slams the door. She can hear him laughing and narrows her eyes as she looks down. A threadbare Rolling Stones t-shirt, something she picked up second hand like most of her closest, serves as her sleep attire. It is long enough to cover the essential bits but not something you want to be caught wearing by one of your co-workers - especially not one who’s subconscious is probably littered with scenes straight out of a skin flick.
Ariadne grabs a pair of jogging pants and slips them on. She is tying the waist tightly when she reenters the main living area. He is still amused and she is still annoyed. “Goddamit Eames…why are you here?”
“You’ve asked that already, darling. Twice actually. And I answered once. We need to strategize for the party. Create a believable back story and make sure we have our facts straight. You know, the usual…”
The usual? Maybe for him. She reaches for the coffee and finishes it, praying the caffeine will kick in and put her in a more agreeable mood. Right now she is envisioning beaning him with the dirty skillet that still rests on the stovetop. She takes a deep breath, pushing away the black thoughts and then nods. “Okay.”
“Excellent. Let’s start with wardrobe,” Eames tells her as he heads into her bedroom. She is on him faster than she thought possible considering the time of day. She grabs his arm to give him a tug but ends up getting pulled along for the ride.
“You can’t just walk into my bedroom!” Ariadne protests, trying desperately to pull him out of her inner sanctum.
“Why not, love? We’re married after all. Honestly, Ariadne, if this is going to work, you will need to get used to…”
Ariadne could throttle him, she really could. The coffee is a poor trade off for annoyance he brought with it. “Martin Collins is not going to see us here! Get the hell out of my bedroom!”
It is as if she hasn’t spoken at all. He is shrugging her off and pulling open the doors to her closest and sifting through her meager collection of clothes. Ariadne yelps in objection when he starts throwing articles out. “Oh dear, you really do not own anything workable, do you?”
“Hey!” Ariadne has had just about enough. With as much force as she can muster she kicks him in the soft spot behind his knee and is rewarded with him going down clutching a hand full of her shirts. She stands over him, hands on her hips.
“Been spending quality time with Arthur, love?” Eames asks with a smirk as he looks up at her. “Come now, Ariadne, don’t be angry with me. I am only trying to help.”
“How is waking me out of a perfectly good sleep and insulting my taste in clothing helping me?” Ariadne demands. When he moves to get up, she puts her foot on his chest and he stays down. She would prefer him like that for the time being. At least she feels more in control of the situation with him flat on his back.
“You have perfectly fine taste in clothing, Ariadne. Especially in sleepwear,” Eames grins when she blushes. “However, Mrs. Dixon wouldn’t be caught dead wearing any of this.”
“And just how do you know?”
“Mrs. Dixon is the wife of a wealthy investor. She lives in a sprawling estate and no doubt has many many servants. She does not wear clothing of the indie rock persuasion,” Eames answers effortlessly. Ariadne realizes that he has come knowing she would protest.
And she cannot argue with his logic, although she would love to if only to wipe that smug look off his face. “Right,” she says quietly. She removes her foot off of his chest.
“There we go, love,” Eames says as he gives the back of her leg a pat. He is on his feet in seconds, and hands her the clothing he had been still clutching. Side stepping the little piles he has created Eames comes to a stop in the doorway of her bedroom.
Ariadne surveys the damage - her room was not exactly spotless before he invaded and now it resembles a war zone. “I suppose I can find something.” She thinks of her usual haunts and makes a face. None of them would have anything remotely close to what she imagines she would need. The thought of going to a mall makes her want to shudder. All those shoppers rushing around, the overfriendly salespeople, the fluorescent lighting. She tries to jump to reach an errant scarf, now draped over the blade of her ceiling fan, but falls short.
“No, we can find something,” Eames corrects, stepping forward to retrieve the article of clothing with ease.
Ariadne snatches the bright material from his hands. “We? Oh no, I don’t think so.” Shopping with Eames. She can only imagine him in a store. Given what he did to her room, he will probably pull things from racks and then toss them aside if it aren’t too his liking. “I can handle this one on my own.”
“Darling, do you know who Roberto Cavailli is? Vivienne Westwood?” Eames scans her face quickly for recognition, takes in her blank stare and then nods. “Yes, I thought not.” He takes her shoulders and spins her into the direction of the bathroom. “Take a shower, get dressed. We are going shopping.”
Ariadne shuts the door of the bathroom in his face and leans against it for a moment. It’s okay, she tells herself. In a few days this will be over and she will go back to what she excels at. The Collins job will go off without a hitch (hopefully) and someday she’ll look back on this and laugh.
She is turning on the shower when she hears his voice. “Love, which one of these drawers contains your knickers?”
Someday far far down the road…
Rating: PG for now, rating will go up
Part: 2 of ?
Pairing: Most likely Eames/Ariadne
Disclaimer: I am just playing with Nolan's toys
Summary: The only sensible solution to their current problem is to get 'married' of course!
Author's Note: Written in response to a prompt at inception_kink that called for Ariadne and Eames to go undercover as a couple for a job.
It is exactly 7: 23 in the morning when Eames shows up at her door. Ariadne, like any sane person, is sound asleep and does not hear the pounding until it becomes incessant and is accompanied by shouting. She all but stumbles out of her bed, and heads blindly for the door to her flat, hoping to quiet her unexpected (and unwelcome) guest before her neighbors have a fit. Her fingers find the latch in the dimmed morning light and she throws the door open to see Eames standing there fully dressed in a suit, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. “That better be for me,” she tells him, her voice still thick with sleep.
He thrusts it out like an offering and then strides in. “Good morning, love.” He sounds chipper.
Ariadne drinks deeply.
“What are you doing here? This early. In the morning. When I should be sleeping…” Ariadne watches as he shrugs off the jacket, which looks more expensive than his usual taste. He folds it carefully over the back of one of her rickety chairs and then moves to throw open the curtains.
“No, don’t…” she begins to protests but then is blinded with by the sun. Her eyes immediately close and she lets out a whimper. “Answer my question, Eames.”
“Mrs. Dixon, you do realize this party is merely days away. We do not have a lot of time,” Eames points out as he turns and for the first time truly takes her in. “Good Lord, is that what you sleep in?”
Ariadne is awake now, eyes widening and face flushing red. She makes a beeline for her bedroom, and slams the door. She can hear him laughing and narrows her eyes as she looks down. A threadbare Rolling Stones t-shirt, something she picked up second hand like most of her closest, serves as her sleep attire. It is long enough to cover the essential bits but not something you want to be caught wearing by one of your co-workers - especially not one who’s subconscious is probably littered with scenes straight out of a skin flick.
Ariadne grabs a pair of jogging pants and slips them on. She is tying the waist tightly when she reenters the main living area. He is still amused and she is still annoyed. “Goddamit Eames…why are you here?”
“You’ve asked that already, darling. Twice actually. And I answered once. We need to strategize for the party. Create a believable back story and make sure we have our facts straight. You know, the usual…”
The usual? Maybe for him. She reaches for the coffee and finishes it, praying the caffeine will kick in and put her in a more agreeable mood. Right now she is envisioning beaning him with the dirty skillet that still rests on the stovetop. She takes a deep breath, pushing away the black thoughts and then nods. “Okay.”
“Excellent. Let’s start with wardrobe,” Eames tells her as he heads into her bedroom. She is on him faster than she thought possible considering the time of day. She grabs his arm to give him a tug but ends up getting pulled along for the ride.
“You can’t just walk into my bedroom!” Ariadne protests, trying desperately to pull him out of her inner sanctum.
“Why not, love? We’re married after all. Honestly, Ariadne, if this is going to work, you will need to get used to…”
Ariadne could throttle him, she really could. The coffee is a poor trade off for annoyance he brought with it. “Martin Collins is not going to see us here! Get the hell out of my bedroom!”
It is as if she hasn’t spoken at all. He is shrugging her off and pulling open the doors to her closest and sifting through her meager collection of clothes. Ariadne yelps in objection when he starts throwing articles out. “Oh dear, you really do not own anything workable, do you?”
“Hey!” Ariadne has had just about enough. With as much force as she can muster she kicks him in the soft spot behind his knee and is rewarded with him going down clutching a hand full of her shirts. She stands over him, hands on her hips.
“Been spending quality time with Arthur, love?” Eames asks with a smirk as he looks up at her. “Come now, Ariadne, don’t be angry with me. I am only trying to help.”
“How is waking me out of a perfectly good sleep and insulting my taste in clothing helping me?” Ariadne demands. When he moves to get up, she puts her foot on his chest and he stays down. She would prefer him like that for the time being. At least she feels more in control of the situation with him flat on his back.
“You have perfectly fine taste in clothing, Ariadne. Especially in sleepwear,” Eames grins when she blushes. “However, Mrs. Dixon wouldn’t be caught dead wearing any of this.”
“And just how do you know?”
“Mrs. Dixon is the wife of a wealthy investor. She lives in a sprawling estate and no doubt has many many servants. She does not wear clothing of the indie rock persuasion,” Eames answers effortlessly. Ariadne realizes that he has come knowing she would protest.
And she cannot argue with his logic, although she would love to if only to wipe that smug look off his face. “Right,” she says quietly. She removes her foot off of his chest.
“There we go, love,” Eames says as he gives the back of her leg a pat. He is on his feet in seconds, and hands her the clothing he had been still clutching. Side stepping the little piles he has created Eames comes to a stop in the doorway of her bedroom.
Ariadne surveys the damage - her room was not exactly spotless before he invaded and now it resembles a war zone. “I suppose I can find something.” She thinks of her usual haunts and makes a face. None of them would have anything remotely close to what she imagines she would need. The thought of going to a mall makes her want to shudder. All those shoppers rushing around, the overfriendly salespeople, the fluorescent lighting. She tries to jump to reach an errant scarf, now draped over the blade of her ceiling fan, but falls short.
“No, we can find something,” Eames corrects, stepping forward to retrieve the article of clothing with ease.
Ariadne snatches the bright material from his hands. “We? Oh no, I don’t think so.” Shopping with Eames. She can only imagine him in a store. Given what he did to her room, he will probably pull things from racks and then toss them aside if it aren’t too his liking. “I can handle this one on my own.”
“Darling, do you know who Roberto Cavailli is? Vivienne Westwood?” Eames scans her face quickly for recognition, takes in her blank stare and then nods. “Yes, I thought not.” He takes her shoulders and spins her into the direction of the bathroom. “Take a shower, get dressed. We are going shopping.”
Ariadne shuts the door of the bathroom in his face and leans against it for a moment. It’s okay, she tells herself. In a few days this will be over and she will go back to what she excels at. The Collins job will go off without a hitch (hopefully) and someday she’ll look back on this and laugh.
She is turning on the shower when she hears his voice. “Love, which one of these drawers contains your knickers?”
Someday far far down the road…