Inception: Two Fics and the Third Time
Tonight I finally get to see Inception on the UltraScreen iMAX - HUZZAH! The third time truly is a charm. ;D
In celebration, I present to you a couple of ficlets. Enjoy!
Title: Forgiveness
Pairing/Rating: Eames/Arthur bromance; PG-13
Summary: Sometimes it's hard to keep what happens in a dream from influencing real life.
- - -
It was one of the worst deaths Eames had seen.
He was trapped, half-buried in searing hot rubble, and could only watch in horror as a female projection - one of his own projections, damn it - launched herself at Arthur, who was struggling to his feet after the explosion and wincing at the slice in his scalp and the blood pouring into his eyes.
“Arthur!” Eames yelled, writhing desperately in an attempt to escape but it was no use, his legs were completely pinned. He yelled again. “Arthur!”
It was too late. The female projection tackled Arthur to the ground and landed a sharp blow to the point man’s head wound, dazing him quite thoroughly. Then she curled claw-like fingers around his throat and began to squeeze.
“Stop! God damn it, stop!” Eames cried, trying not to focus on Arthur’s wide, pained eyes or the way he struggled beneath the projection. His fingers grappled at her wrists but she never wavered, her gaze deadly and determined.
Eames growled and whipped his head from side to side, searching frantically for a gun, a brick, anything, to put Arthur out of his misery. He spotted one of his guns a few feet away and he stretched for it, his fingers scrabbling uselessly on the concrete, but it was too far to reach.
A minute passed, a minute of terrible helplessness and frigid despair as Eames was forced to watch Arthur be strangled to death by one of Eames’ own projections. Arthur slowly stopped thrashing, his energy waning as the life was wrung out of him, and then - finally - he stilled.
The female projection stood. She looked around the destruction of the building as though searching for more victims, then left Eames alone to wait for the kick with only Arthur’s cooling body for company.
When they woke Eames watched Arthur carefully, searching for any signs of blame. He found his gaze constantly drawn to the thin expanse of Arthur’s neck he could see over the starched white dress shirt, but - as expected - there wasn’t a single mark on his skin. Eames still imagined he could see bruises there, finger-shaped and dark. It made him feel slightly ill.
“I’m sorry,” Eames said once they were alone, and Arthur gave him a strange look.
“For what?” he asked, shoving a neat file of papers into his briefcase.
“I couldn’t stop the projection from… you know,” Eames said with a vague gesture at Arthur’s neck. Arthur touched a hand to his throat for a moment, then shrugged and continued packing up.
“Don’t worry about it.”
They never spoke of it again.
Almost a year later, Eames entered his apartment complex in London and nodded politely to the woman behind the desk. She returned the greeting before bending over an open datebook, so she didn’t notice when Eames froze near the stairwell, his hands clenched and shaking at his sides.
He glanced back at the woman. It was unmistakable. He watched her fingers skim over a page of the datebook, watched her lift the telephone from its cradle and bring it to her ear, but all he could really see were those hands closing around Arthur’s throat with bruising, deadly force.
So this was where that projection had come from.
Eames watched the woman for another moment. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths, trying to keep his own hands from retrieving the gun stuffed into the back of his trousers. This woman was not the same as the projection, he reminded himself. She was a real person who, in all probability, would never even entertain the notion of killing Arthur. She had no idea who Arthur was. She probably did not even know Eames, at least not by name.
Eames tugged the door to the stairwell open and headed for his apartment.
He would have to forget about her, forget what she - no, the projection of her - had done. Forgive and forget and all that bloody nonsense.
Yes, he thought he could try that. He would forget.
But there was still a large part of him that did not think he could forgive.
- - -
Title: Je Ne Regrette Rien
Pairing: Eames/Arthur bromance; PG
Summary: A little fill for this prompt on inception_kink: "Arthur uses 'Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien' for more than synching the kick."
- - -
Eames doesn’t believe it at first.
He freezes at the threshold, half inside the warehouse, and listens intently. A smile spreads slowly across his face.
As quietly as he can, he closes the warehouse door behind him and slides his satchel off his shoulder. The door to the back room is slightly ajar and Eames can tell that’s where it’s coming from.
“Non, rien de rien...”
Eames creeps up to the door. He pauses just outside, struggling to stifle his laughter.
“Non, je ne regrette rien...”
Everything is there, from the exaggerated French accent and rolled r’s to the tremulous vibrato.
“Ni le bien qu’on m’a fait…”
Eames peers into the room and he can see him, standing at the desk with his back to the door and swaying slightly to the beat of the song as he shuffles through a mountain of papers.
“Ni le mal, tout ça m’est bien égal!”
“You’re a little flat on that last note, darling,” Eames says, and loves the way Arthur tenses at the sound of his voice.
“Your ear must be off, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, not even turning to face him. “I’m never flat.”
“Right,” Eames says. “Of course not. My mistake.”
“Are you just going to stand there gawking, or can you help me sort through these files?”
Eames chuckles and saunters over to the desk. He grabs one of the piles and throws himself down in the desk chair across from Arthur. They work in silence for a few minutes, and then Eames starts to sing under his breath.
“Non, rien de rien…”
His voice is rough, uncultured to Arthur’s ears, and from the look of things he’s quite unaware of what he’s doing.
Arthur just smiles.
- - -
And that's all for now! (Yes, for now. I'm still working on three or four stories. SOMEONE HELP MEEE.)
In celebration, I present to you a couple of ficlets. Enjoy!
Title: Forgiveness
Pairing/Rating: Eames/Arthur bromance; PG-13
Summary: Sometimes it's hard to keep what happens in a dream from influencing real life.
- - -
It was one of the worst deaths Eames had seen.
He was trapped, half-buried in searing hot rubble, and could only watch in horror as a female projection - one of his own projections, damn it - launched herself at Arthur, who was struggling to his feet after the explosion and wincing at the slice in his scalp and the blood pouring into his eyes.
“Arthur!” Eames yelled, writhing desperately in an attempt to escape but it was no use, his legs were completely pinned. He yelled again. “Arthur!”
It was too late. The female projection tackled Arthur to the ground and landed a sharp blow to the point man’s head wound, dazing him quite thoroughly. Then she curled claw-like fingers around his throat and began to squeeze.
“Stop! God damn it, stop!” Eames cried, trying not to focus on Arthur’s wide, pained eyes or the way he struggled beneath the projection. His fingers grappled at her wrists but she never wavered, her gaze deadly and determined.
Eames growled and whipped his head from side to side, searching frantically for a gun, a brick, anything, to put Arthur out of his misery. He spotted one of his guns a few feet away and he stretched for it, his fingers scrabbling uselessly on the concrete, but it was too far to reach.
A minute passed, a minute of terrible helplessness and frigid despair as Eames was forced to watch Arthur be strangled to death by one of Eames’ own projections. Arthur slowly stopped thrashing, his energy waning as the life was wrung out of him, and then - finally - he stilled.
The female projection stood. She looked around the destruction of the building as though searching for more victims, then left Eames alone to wait for the kick with only Arthur’s cooling body for company.
When they woke Eames watched Arthur carefully, searching for any signs of blame. He found his gaze constantly drawn to the thin expanse of Arthur’s neck he could see over the starched white dress shirt, but - as expected - there wasn’t a single mark on his skin. Eames still imagined he could see bruises there, finger-shaped and dark. It made him feel slightly ill.
“I’m sorry,” Eames said once they were alone, and Arthur gave him a strange look.
“For what?” he asked, shoving a neat file of papers into his briefcase.
“I couldn’t stop the projection from… you know,” Eames said with a vague gesture at Arthur’s neck. Arthur touched a hand to his throat for a moment, then shrugged and continued packing up.
“Don’t worry about it.”
They never spoke of it again.
Almost a year later, Eames entered his apartment complex in London and nodded politely to the woman behind the desk. She returned the greeting before bending over an open datebook, so she didn’t notice when Eames froze near the stairwell, his hands clenched and shaking at his sides.
He glanced back at the woman. It was unmistakable. He watched her fingers skim over a page of the datebook, watched her lift the telephone from its cradle and bring it to her ear, but all he could really see were those hands closing around Arthur’s throat with bruising, deadly force.
So this was where that projection had come from.
Eames watched the woman for another moment. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths, trying to keep his own hands from retrieving the gun stuffed into the back of his trousers. This woman was not the same as the projection, he reminded himself. She was a real person who, in all probability, would never even entertain the notion of killing Arthur. She had no idea who Arthur was. She probably did not even know Eames, at least not by name.
Eames tugged the door to the stairwell open and headed for his apartment.
He would have to forget about her, forget what she - no, the projection of her - had done. Forgive and forget and all that bloody nonsense.
Yes, he thought he could try that. He would forget.
But there was still a large part of him that did not think he could forgive.
- - -
Title: Je Ne Regrette Rien
Pairing: Eames/Arthur bromance; PG
Summary: A little fill for this prompt on inception_kink: "Arthur uses 'Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien' for more than synching the kick."
- - -
Eames doesn’t believe it at first.
He freezes at the threshold, half inside the warehouse, and listens intently. A smile spreads slowly across his face.
As quietly as he can, he closes the warehouse door behind him and slides his satchel off his shoulder. The door to the back room is slightly ajar and Eames can tell that’s where it’s coming from.
“Non, rien de rien...”
Eames creeps up to the door. He pauses just outside, struggling to stifle his laughter.
“Non, je ne regrette rien...”
Everything is there, from the exaggerated French accent and rolled r’s to the tremulous vibrato.
“Ni le bien qu’on m’a fait…”
Eames peers into the room and he can see him, standing at the desk with his back to the door and swaying slightly to the beat of the song as he shuffles through a mountain of papers.
“Ni le mal, tout ça m’est bien égal!”
“You’re a little flat on that last note, darling,” Eames says, and loves the way Arthur tenses at the sound of his voice.
“Your ear must be off, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, not even turning to face him. “I’m never flat.”
“Right,” Eames says. “Of course not. My mistake.”
“Are you just going to stand there gawking, or can you help me sort through these files?”
Eames chuckles and saunters over to the desk. He grabs one of the piles and throws himself down in the desk chair across from Arthur. They work in silence for a few minutes, and then Eames starts to sing under his breath.
“Non, rien de rien…”
His voice is rough, uncultured to Arthur’s ears, and from the look of things he’s quite unaware of what he’s doing.
Arthur just smiles.
- - -
And that's all for now! (Yes, for now. I'm still working on three or four stories. SOMEONE HELP MEEE.)