Hello, Mr. Id
(INCEPTION) EAMES/FISCHER
Rating: R
Pairing/Character: Eames/Fischer
Fandom: Inception
Word Count: 3478
Warnings: spoilers for the movie (but we've all seen it more than once, right?)
Disclaimer: Yeah, no. I own nothing.
A/N: Indulgences, I say! I wanted to write purely porn, too, and failed miserably. NEXT TIME FOR SURE, NOTHING BUT GODDAMN SMUT
Hello, Mr. Id
-
As a rule, Eames did not sleep with men. He remembered the last time he had been tempted - Arthur’s fist, Eames’ jaw, and the bloody painful action in between - and wasn’t keen on doing it again. But Eames hadn’t counted on Robert Fischer to be quite so…edible. Of course, Eames wouldn’t be much of a forger if that was the first thing he noticed - and the wrong person, too, but Peter Browning turned out to be a quick study. Eames had an accurate representation of Browning in just a few days and committed himself to studying Browning’s relationship with the young heir - and the one between Fischer and his father, if possible, and most importantly, Fischer himself, to see what sort of plan they needed to con the unlucky sod -
And if Eames took note of Fischer’s deadly cheekbones, or his rather full lips, or the sight he made in his tailour-made suits - those Eames could reason out if anyone asked, but they never did, much too caught up in planning their grand heist.
Eames was equally involved, thank you very much, and he’d come up with some brilliant strategies of his own. But it was difficult to remember dream levels and timed kicks and subconscious brainwashing when he sat across from Fischer in the boardroom - all due to his excellent (forgery skills) business credentials, recommended by the CEO of a massive oil company in the Middle East - watching the man conduct business in his quiet, polished voice, jacket off and his cuffs brushing against the swell of his palms. It shouldn’t have been the hottest thing Eames has seen but it goddamn was. He had a hard on that lasted as long as the meetings, conveniently covered by the large mahogany table.
(It was easy to wank in the privacy of his hotel room, thinking about Fischer’s lithe, little body bent over his own desk - )
Fischer didn’t look anyone in the eye, Eames noticed, as the man interacted with the other executives. He maintained eye contact for only a few seconds, enough to give the impression that he was listening, and had a tendency to brood when no one paid him any attention. There seemed to be a current of tension running constantly through Fischer, keeping his back straight and his shoulders stiff, even as he sat in his chair and read through piles of documents; he was rarely relaxed, if ever.
All these details (Fischer never wore the same suit twice; he glanced at his expensive watch every few minutes; he kept himself separate from everyone else; his smile was wry, often self-deprecating; Fischer spoke with his hands) painted a picture of a man who could have anything he wished for and yet was still waiting, searching, for something he didn’t have. He was like every tortured rich boy with daddy issues, Eames thought, even as he was disgruntled by his own judgment. He was loath to categorise Fischer with everyone else.
-
“How are you doing?” Arthur asked after they came out of sedation, blinking the sleep from his eyes. They’d gone to check the latest addition to Ariadne’s landscape and the little architect was still asleep, building and building and building.
“Perfect,” Eames answered as he pressed down on the puncture wound to stop the bleeding, “and let me tell you, I am touched by your concern.”
Arthur snorted and tossed him a folder. “Don’t get used to it. Tell me about Fischer’s relationship with Browning. Does he trust the man completely or is there room for us to play in?”
Eames felt a twinge through him. It was disconcerting to hear Fischer’s life regarded so flippantly when that was what they were supposed to do; Fischer was the target and should mean nothing more than a name and a few stolen photographs. “All work and no play will make you a dull boy, darling,” Eames said as he flipped open the folder. Fischer stared back at him - or rather, his eyes were focused on the forger from the angle Eames held the photo. He was coming out of his car, mobile held to his ear, mouth a grim line. “There would be no removing that stick in your arse then,” he added with a tight smile, briefly meeting Arthur’s unreadable gaze. “As for Fischer and Browning, they don’t have the typical business relationship. The word around the company is that Browning stepped into old Maurice’s fatherly shoes and never took them off. More importantly, Fischer doesn’t recoil physically from Browning - which he does often enough with other people to make it fascinating, mind you - so yes, I suppose it would be difficult to turn him against Browning, but not impossible. Like any well-crafted lie, all we need is the proper delivery to make it work.”
Eames stared at the glossy picture, tracing the clean sweep of Fischer’s dark hair with a forefinger. It took him a moment to notice the prolonged silence and he glanced up to find Arthur watching him with a frown. He didn’t start; instead, Eames casually removed his finger and closed the folder, dropping it on the table next to him.
Arthur, ever straightforward, started to say, “Eames, are you - ” before Eames cut him off with a charming grin.
“Am I what, Arthur? Virile? Desirable? The most gorgeous piece of man this side of your dreams?”
Arthur paused and then shook his head. “The same as always,” he murmured unkindly and then turned to the PASIV. “I’m going back to see if Ariadne needs any help.”
“Ten minutes,” Eames said as Arthur hooked himself to the machine. A second later, Arthur’s eyes fluttered close and his breathing slowed. Eames looked at him for a moment and then snatched the folder back.
-
Eames was rifling through Browning’s desk, keeping an eye on the door as he pulled open drawers. All the top executives had been called in for an emergency conference - presumably about the deteriorating health of Maurice Fischer - and Eames took the opportunity to do a little more research. He gave the frames on the desk a cursory glance, Browning’s family smiling and waving at him, and there was one of a young Robert Fischer surrounded by Browning’s teenage daughters, and they were all beaming.
The little boy’s grin was bright, irrepressible, and Eames reached for the frame when the door handle rattled. Eames slammed the drawer shut and leapt out of Browning’s chair, arranging himself on the couch and pretending to read through a magazine as the door opened.
“Mr. Kent,” Browning called as he stepped into his office. “I’m sorry but something came up. Let’s review those files some other day.”
Eames stood up with a nod, inwardly cursing. He’d spent all night learning business crap for today’s session with Browning and Eames had even come up with a clever segue into Fischer’s relationship with his father without looking too suspicious. Eames gathered his suitcase, quite intent to bully his frustration out on Arthur later on, and turned to the door.
Fischer paused, gaze sliding over Eames as they both stood in the doorway.
“Excuse me,” Fischer murmured and stepped aside to let the other man pass.
Eames’ lips twitched and he muttered, “Not at all, darling,” in an undertone as he brushed past him.
It was a quick motion - Fischer glanced over his shoulder at him, considering - seen from the corner of Eames’ eye. When Fischer disappeared into Browning’s office, Eames let the smile fall and he tugged on his necktie, feeling vaguely troubled.
-
Light freckles dusted Fischer’s face and Eames let his fingers trace over them, down the man’s cheekbones, his full lower lip that curved in a wide grin and drew Eames’ thumb into his wet mouth. Desire bloomed low in Eames’ belly and he coiled his hand around Fischer’s tie, drawing him in with a gentle tug until he could fit his face into the crook of Fischer’s neck. Eames took a deep breath, focusing on the way Fischer’s tongue swirled around his thumb, and his cock swelled in his trousers. His other hand gripped Fischer’s narrow hip and pulled their bodies flush together.
Fischer reached between them and started unbuttoning Eames’ shirt, parting the fabric until his palms met warm, firm skin. Eames pulled his thumb out with a slick sound and kissed him. He wasn’t shy about it; Eames moved his mouth with a purpose, curling in a tongue inside Fischer’s mouth and feeling the groan from the other man. Fischer kissed him back eagerly, shoving at Eames’ shirt until it was taken off and chucked away.
“You can undress me, love,” Eames said with a wicked grin, ducking his head to suck on Fischer’s neck. “In fact, you can do anything you want with me, heart’s desire and all that.”
A gleam appeared in Fischer’s eyes, already dark and disconcerting with want, and he boldly mouthed Eames’ nipple, fingers toying with the button of his trousers. Eames weaved his hand into Fischer’s hair, messing the soft strands until they fell softly over his eyes, which glanced teasingly upward and met Eames’ hot gaze.
“I want you,” Fischer said as he walked Eames backward, touching his chest and back, until they reached the bed and fell on it in a tangle of limbs. Fischer arched against him, licking his lips as he stared intently at Eames. “I want you, Eames.”
Something rattled in Eames’ chest at the sound of his name on Fischer’s lips and he smiled wryly. “Where’d you learn that name, darling?”
“You told me,” Fischer said as he nuzzled down Eames’ abdomen, tonguing the defined ridges. He peeled off the bigger man’s trousers. “Eames. Eames. Eames,” he murmured thickly and Eames threw his head back with a hiss. He gripped tightly Fischer’s hair, pulling on the strands as he raised his hips for more, and god, Fischer was fantastic at this, all single-minded intent to suck Eames’ brain from his cock -
A hand gripped his shoulder and Eames abruptly woke up, blinded from where he was looking at the light bulb overhead. He scrubbed at his face and ran it through his hair once, blearily eyeing Arthur who stood in front of him, arms crossed and that familiar judging expression on his face.
“Can’t a man sleep for five minutes?” Eames grumbled as he lowered his hands, stretching out on his chair.
“You were dreaming,” Arthur said bluntly, pinning Eames with his glare.
Eames smiled innocently up at him. “I do have those once in a while. Would you like to know about the time you starred in my dream - ”
“Fischer,” Arthur snapped and unfolded his arms, painfully tapping a finger on Eames chest. “You were moaning Fischer’s name. What the fuck, Eames!”
The bigger man grimaced and swatted Arthur’s hand away. “What of it, Arthur?”
Arthur rarely looked frazzled. He prided himself on his calm, his unshakable control, which made him a good point man, and it was a sight to see him as close to undone as possible.
“You can’t grow attached to Fischer!” Arthur all but snarled, voice still quiet but seething with anger. His fist found its way on Eames’ shirt, dragging him upward until their faces were mere inches apart. “You know it’s against the rules, you imbecile, and your precarious position within Fischer’s company might lead you to do something that will jeopardise this job! I think it’s time you quietly resigned from Fischer & Co before you can do any damage.”
“Darling, you can’t be jealous over - ”
“This is not the time for your pathetic humour, Eames,” Arthur warned and shoved him back. “You know what is at stake here and if you mess it up…”
Eames straightened his shirt, clutching at his patience. He was cool-headed at the worst of times - a trait he shared with Arthur, which was probably the reason they wouldn’t have worked; it would be hard for them to be swept away by passion - and used his humour as a shield. Effective in diffusing tense situations, really, but only when the other person let it.
“Mess it up? Tell me, Arthur, how can I possibly endanger the job when it’s just a fucking dream, for fuck’s sake!”
“Do you even hear yourself? Just whose dream are we going into, Eames? Whose projections will be there?”
Eames laughed in disbelief. “Do you think the real Fischer would ever sleep with me? That’s rich, darling. Even I am not that much of a bloody dreamer. Don’t worry, Fischer won’t ever know what he’s missing out on.” He ran a hand down his side, licking his lips to make sure that the other man knew exactly what he meant.
Arthur looked ready to punch him and Eames half-raised his arms in defense when Cobb came in, eyeing them with a puzzled frown, with Ariadne right behind him.
Eames forced himself to relax and gave them a pleasant smile. “Evening, you two.”
Ariadne smiled back but Cobb glanced between Eames and Arthur with a raised brow. “Everything all right? We heard shouting.”
Eames clapped Cobb on the shoulder and walked past him. “Nothing to worry about, mate; you know how Arthur finds me utterly infuriating. I could use a drink, though. There isn’t going to be a meeting, is there?”
Arthur had turned towards the table holding the PASIV machines, stance still rigid with anger. Ariadne went over to him, shooting him a questioning glance, and Arthur gave her a small smile.
Cobb shook his head. “No, you can head out for tonight. We’ll be revising our Fischer story tomorrow, so if you have any plans -”
“I reckon I’ve gotten enough insider information, so I shall be resigning from Fischer & Co. in the morning, effective immediately,” Eames said with a dismissive wave, making his way to the warehouse exit. “I’ll vanish from their sight tomorrow. It’s as if I was never there.”
-
It was not coincidence that brought Eames to the posh hotel bar - he could barely afford anything without his forgeries and eagerly awaited the fat paycheck he’ll be getting from this job - and found Fischer seated by himself, wearing the sort of brooding expression that Eames has come to associate with him. He wasn’t sure what Fischer was like before his father lay dying in bed and wondered what he would become after the inception. An invasion like that wouldn’t just lead to the growth of the implanted idea. The subconscious was a sensitive thing, receptive to the slightest change, vulnerable to the least influence - and the way the team was going about with their plan would mean additional repercussions they won’t be able to control.
Not that they bothered to ponder on it. The priority was Saito’s desire - inception - and whatever happened to Fischer after would merely be collateral damage.
Having a conscience was appalling and terribly inconvenient, Eames decided as he took the stool next to Fischer and ordered a scotch. He wondered if the little architect was having trouble with her moral code; she seemed the type to have one. Then again, the heady rush of dreaming and building was probably too much that she wasn’t thinking much of it at all. Eames got overwhelmed at times and he’d been in the business for nearly a decade.
A long enough time to know his priorities, no matter how unsettled he felt with it (a first, really, and wasn’t that surprising in itself. Arthur would be impressed to know Eames felt something real for once, not merely an emotion borrowed from someone, but only if the sentiment was different - and if Arthur could be convinced at all, which he won’t, because he’d accused Eames of lacking sincerity enough times to turn a saint. It was the root of the misunderstanding between them and that god awful punch).
Fischer cast him an indifferent glance and then paused, head shifting to take a longer look at him.
Eames grinned. “Hello, Mr. Fischer.”
“You,” Fischer said and then raised an eyebrow. “I mean, you work in my company.”
“I do,” Eames lied easily as he took a sip, letting the alcohol warm him. “Human resources, actually.” He held out his free hand. “Clark Kent and it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Fischer seemed interested, turning his body to face Eames, and shook his hand. His grip was firm and spoke about a man who’d shook hands with countless powerful people. “Clark Kent? Your name can’t possibly be - ”
“That of Superman’s? Alas, it’s true. My mum is a passionate fan, you see, and considering that she married my dad for his surname, it’s no surprise.” Eames laughed and gave the other man a playful wink, startling a genuine smile out of Fischer.
“At least you’d always have an excellent icebreaker for awkward situations,” Fischer said, dropping his hand on the counter, close to where Eames held his glass. “All I can say about my name is that it also belongs to a chess master, and it’s definitely not as effective as saying ‘I’m Superman.’”
Eames chuckled, eyeing the smaller man appreciatively. Fischer was surprisingly light-hearted tonight, talkative even, and there was a strange half-smile on his face that Eames had never seen before.
Eames realised that Fischer was meeting his gaze calmly, blue eyes made even more shockingly bright in the bar’s dim lighting, and felt sorely tempted. He’d come here expecting to see Fischer in his favourite bar. He’d approached him expecting a brief conversation. Eames would be lying if he hadn’t hoped for this to happen.
The conversation smoothly segued into neutral topics, Eames making sure that they talked business as little as possible. Fischer grew distracted once or twice, that same shadow of his father’s illness coming over his face, but he was mostly attentive and completely engaging. It was a shame that Eames couldn’t -
“So,” Fischer said casually, knees brushing against Eames’. “Do you have any plans for tonight?”
-
Eames liked reckless things. He enjoyed the thrill of fooling people, of entering the strangest dreamscapes, but he was not stupid. He knew exactly how risky it was getting involved with Fischer, even for just one night, and yet he was discovering things about the other man that he’d gotten wrong in his dreams.
There were freckles, yes, but the rest of his skin was smooth and unblemished. He wasn’t as narrow as Eames had imagined, whipcord muscles shifting in Fischer’s arms as Eames manhandled him over to the massive bed, kissing and biting at his vodka-tasting mouth. The feel of Fischer’s suit was smoother than he’d thought, hideously expensive and crumpling under their feet as Eames undressed the other man. He worked in two fingers into the knot at the base of Fischer’s throat, loosening his tie, and was the very sight of Eames’ vivid fantasies. His hair was softer, richer, and wonderfully graspable.
Fischer wasn’t as hesitant as he’d pictured, rutting against Eames’ thigh and mussing his ponytail. They were roughly the same height, which made it easy to plunder Fischer’s mouth or lick at his cheekbones to his sensitive ears.
They fell on the bed, the hotel’s complimentary chocolates ignored as they got naked, stealing hungry kisses in between articles of clothing. Fischer finished first, dragging his palms all over Eames’ stomach followed by his wet mouth, and Eames laughed quietly as he kicked his trousers off.
“You’re very…big,” Fischer commented huskily as he mapped the other man’s broad shoulders but he was staring at Eames’ crotch. This time, Eames threw his head back and laughed. He grasped Fischer’s face in both hands and kissed him until their breathing grew ragged, muttering, “Let’s enjoy ourselves thoroughly tonight, darling,” against red, red lips.
-
-
-
Eames took off his jacket, blocking the aisle, and felt the faintest touch as Fischer bumped into him.
“I’m sorry,” Fischer said with the look of man who wasn’t, who simply wanted to pass through and found his path blocked. Fischer seemed weary enough to show it.
“Oh yeah, I’m sorry. Here.” Eames shifted aside, mouth tightening a bit, and patted him on the back - his other hand discreetly, deftly, slipping into the man’s jacket and filched his passport.
Fischer moved on, already dismissing him, and went to his seat. There was no sign of recognition, no flicker in those blue eyes that hinted of something more. Of course, it had happened two months ago and Maurice Fischer’s recent death was obviously heavy on his mind, added with the fact that Eames had shaved his beard and cut his hair. That night had been nothing, then.
Eames quietly handed Cobb the man’s passport and sat down. He glanced sideways and caught Arthur watching him. Eames gave him a mock-salute and settled in for the long flight ahead.
Rating: R
Pairing/Character: Eames/Fischer
Fandom: Inception
Word Count: 3478
Warnings: spoilers for the movie (but we've all seen it more than once, right?)
Disclaimer: Yeah, no. I own nothing.
A/N: Indulgences, I say! I wanted to write purely porn, too, and failed miserably. NEXT TIME FOR SURE, NOTHING BUT GODDAMN SMUT
Hello, Mr. Id
-
As a rule, Eames did not sleep with men. He remembered the last time he had been tempted - Arthur’s fist, Eames’ jaw, and the bloody painful action in between - and wasn’t keen on doing it again. But Eames hadn’t counted on Robert Fischer to be quite so…edible. Of course, Eames wouldn’t be much of a forger if that was the first thing he noticed - and the wrong person, too, but Peter Browning turned out to be a quick study. Eames had an accurate representation of Browning in just a few days and committed himself to studying Browning’s relationship with the young heir - and the one between Fischer and his father, if possible, and most importantly, Fischer himself, to see what sort of plan they needed to con the unlucky sod -
And if Eames took note of Fischer’s deadly cheekbones, or his rather full lips, or the sight he made in his tailour-made suits - those Eames could reason out if anyone asked, but they never did, much too caught up in planning their grand heist.
Eames was equally involved, thank you very much, and he’d come up with some brilliant strategies of his own. But it was difficult to remember dream levels and timed kicks and subconscious brainwashing when he sat across from Fischer in the boardroom - all due to his excellent (forgery skills) business credentials, recommended by the CEO of a massive oil company in the Middle East - watching the man conduct business in his quiet, polished voice, jacket off and his cuffs brushing against the swell of his palms. It shouldn’t have been the hottest thing Eames has seen but it goddamn was. He had a hard on that lasted as long as the meetings, conveniently covered by the large mahogany table.
(It was easy to wank in the privacy of his hotel room, thinking about Fischer’s lithe, little body bent over his own desk - )
Fischer didn’t look anyone in the eye, Eames noticed, as the man interacted with the other executives. He maintained eye contact for only a few seconds, enough to give the impression that he was listening, and had a tendency to brood when no one paid him any attention. There seemed to be a current of tension running constantly through Fischer, keeping his back straight and his shoulders stiff, even as he sat in his chair and read through piles of documents; he was rarely relaxed, if ever.
All these details (Fischer never wore the same suit twice; he glanced at his expensive watch every few minutes; he kept himself separate from everyone else; his smile was wry, often self-deprecating; Fischer spoke with his hands) painted a picture of a man who could have anything he wished for and yet was still waiting, searching, for something he didn’t have. He was like every tortured rich boy with daddy issues, Eames thought, even as he was disgruntled by his own judgment. He was loath to categorise Fischer with everyone else.
-
“How are you doing?” Arthur asked after they came out of sedation, blinking the sleep from his eyes. They’d gone to check the latest addition to Ariadne’s landscape and the little architect was still asleep, building and building and building.
“Perfect,” Eames answered as he pressed down on the puncture wound to stop the bleeding, “and let me tell you, I am touched by your concern.”
Arthur snorted and tossed him a folder. “Don’t get used to it. Tell me about Fischer’s relationship with Browning. Does he trust the man completely or is there room for us to play in?”
Eames felt a twinge through him. It was disconcerting to hear Fischer’s life regarded so flippantly when that was what they were supposed to do; Fischer was the target and should mean nothing more than a name and a few stolen photographs. “All work and no play will make you a dull boy, darling,” Eames said as he flipped open the folder. Fischer stared back at him - or rather, his eyes were focused on the forger from the angle Eames held the photo. He was coming out of his car, mobile held to his ear, mouth a grim line. “There would be no removing that stick in your arse then,” he added with a tight smile, briefly meeting Arthur’s unreadable gaze. “As for Fischer and Browning, they don’t have the typical business relationship. The word around the company is that Browning stepped into old Maurice’s fatherly shoes and never took them off. More importantly, Fischer doesn’t recoil physically from Browning - which he does often enough with other people to make it fascinating, mind you - so yes, I suppose it would be difficult to turn him against Browning, but not impossible. Like any well-crafted lie, all we need is the proper delivery to make it work.”
Eames stared at the glossy picture, tracing the clean sweep of Fischer’s dark hair with a forefinger. It took him a moment to notice the prolonged silence and he glanced up to find Arthur watching him with a frown. He didn’t start; instead, Eames casually removed his finger and closed the folder, dropping it on the table next to him.
Arthur, ever straightforward, started to say, “Eames, are you - ” before Eames cut him off with a charming grin.
“Am I what, Arthur? Virile? Desirable? The most gorgeous piece of man this side of your dreams?”
Arthur paused and then shook his head. “The same as always,” he murmured unkindly and then turned to the PASIV. “I’m going back to see if Ariadne needs any help.”
“Ten minutes,” Eames said as Arthur hooked himself to the machine. A second later, Arthur’s eyes fluttered close and his breathing slowed. Eames looked at him for a moment and then snatched the folder back.
-
Eames was rifling through Browning’s desk, keeping an eye on the door as he pulled open drawers. All the top executives had been called in for an emergency conference - presumably about the deteriorating health of Maurice Fischer - and Eames took the opportunity to do a little more research. He gave the frames on the desk a cursory glance, Browning’s family smiling and waving at him, and there was one of a young Robert Fischer surrounded by Browning’s teenage daughters, and they were all beaming.
The little boy’s grin was bright, irrepressible, and Eames reached for the frame when the door handle rattled. Eames slammed the drawer shut and leapt out of Browning’s chair, arranging himself on the couch and pretending to read through a magazine as the door opened.
“Mr. Kent,” Browning called as he stepped into his office. “I’m sorry but something came up. Let’s review those files some other day.”
Eames stood up with a nod, inwardly cursing. He’d spent all night learning business crap for today’s session with Browning and Eames had even come up with a clever segue into Fischer’s relationship with his father without looking too suspicious. Eames gathered his suitcase, quite intent to bully his frustration out on Arthur later on, and turned to the door.
Fischer paused, gaze sliding over Eames as they both stood in the doorway.
“Excuse me,” Fischer murmured and stepped aside to let the other man pass.
Eames’ lips twitched and he muttered, “Not at all, darling,” in an undertone as he brushed past him.
It was a quick motion - Fischer glanced over his shoulder at him, considering - seen from the corner of Eames’ eye. When Fischer disappeared into Browning’s office, Eames let the smile fall and he tugged on his necktie, feeling vaguely troubled.
-
Light freckles dusted Fischer’s face and Eames let his fingers trace over them, down the man’s cheekbones, his full lower lip that curved in a wide grin and drew Eames’ thumb into his wet mouth. Desire bloomed low in Eames’ belly and he coiled his hand around Fischer’s tie, drawing him in with a gentle tug until he could fit his face into the crook of Fischer’s neck. Eames took a deep breath, focusing on the way Fischer’s tongue swirled around his thumb, and his cock swelled in his trousers. His other hand gripped Fischer’s narrow hip and pulled their bodies flush together.
Fischer reached between them and started unbuttoning Eames’ shirt, parting the fabric until his palms met warm, firm skin. Eames pulled his thumb out with a slick sound and kissed him. He wasn’t shy about it; Eames moved his mouth with a purpose, curling in a tongue inside Fischer’s mouth and feeling the groan from the other man. Fischer kissed him back eagerly, shoving at Eames’ shirt until it was taken off and chucked away.
“You can undress me, love,” Eames said with a wicked grin, ducking his head to suck on Fischer’s neck. “In fact, you can do anything you want with me, heart’s desire and all that.”
A gleam appeared in Fischer’s eyes, already dark and disconcerting with want, and he boldly mouthed Eames’ nipple, fingers toying with the button of his trousers. Eames weaved his hand into Fischer’s hair, messing the soft strands until they fell softly over his eyes, which glanced teasingly upward and met Eames’ hot gaze.
“I want you,” Fischer said as he walked Eames backward, touching his chest and back, until they reached the bed and fell on it in a tangle of limbs. Fischer arched against him, licking his lips as he stared intently at Eames. “I want you, Eames.”
Something rattled in Eames’ chest at the sound of his name on Fischer’s lips and he smiled wryly. “Where’d you learn that name, darling?”
“You told me,” Fischer said as he nuzzled down Eames’ abdomen, tonguing the defined ridges. He peeled off the bigger man’s trousers. “Eames. Eames. Eames,” he murmured thickly and Eames threw his head back with a hiss. He gripped tightly Fischer’s hair, pulling on the strands as he raised his hips for more, and god, Fischer was fantastic at this, all single-minded intent to suck Eames’ brain from his cock -
A hand gripped his shoulder and Eames abruptly woke up, blinded from where he was looking at the light bulb overhead. He scrubbed at his face and ran it through his hair once, blearily eyeing Arthur who stood in front of him, arms crossed and that familiar judging expression on his face.
“Can’t a man sleep for five minutes?” Eames grumbled as he lowered his hands, stretching out on his chair.
“You were dreaming,” Arthur said bluntly, pinning Eames with his glare.
Eames smiled innocently up at him. “I do have those once in a while. Would you like to know about the time you starred in my dream - ”
“Fischer,” Arthur snapped and unfolded his arms, painfully tapping a finger on Eames chest. “You were moaning Fischer’s name. What the fuck, Eames!”
The bigger man grimaced and swatted Arthur’s hand away. “What of it, Arthur?”
Arthur rarely looked frazzled. He prided himself on his calm, his unshakable control, which made him a good point man, and it was a sight to see him as close to undone as possible.
“You can’t grow attached to Fischer!” Arthur all but snarled, voice still quiet but seething with anger. His fist found its way on Eames’ shirt, dragging him upward until their faces were mere inches apart. “You know it’s against the rules, you imbecile, and your precarious position within Fischer’s company might lead you to do something that will jeopardise this job! I think it’s time you quietly resigned from Fischer & Co before you can do any damage.”
“Darling, you can’t be jealous over - ”
“This is not the time for your pathetic humour, Eames,” Arthur warned and shoved him back. “You know what is at stake here and if you mess it up…”
Eames straightened his shirt, clutching at his patience. He was cool-headed at the worst of times - a trait he shared with Arthur, which was probably the reason they wouldn’t have worked; it would be hard for them to be swept away by passion - and used his humour as a shield. Effective in diffusing tense situations, really, but only when the other person let it.
“Mess it up? Tell me, Arthur, how can I possibly endanger the job when it’s just a fucking dream, for fuck’s sake!”
“Do you even hear yourself? Just whose dream are we going into, Eames? Whose projections will be there?”
Eames laughed in disbelief. “Do you think the real Fischer would ever sleep with me? That’s rich, darling. Even I am not that much of a bloody dreamer. Don’t worry, Fischer won’t ever know what he’s missing out on.” He ran a hand down his side, licking his lips to make sure that the other man knew exactly what he meant.
Arthur looked ready to punch him and Eames half-raised his arms in defense when Cobb came in, eyeing them with a puzzled frown, with Ariadne right behind him.
Eames forced himself to relax and gave them a pleasant smile. “Evening, you two.”
Ariadne smiled back but Cobb glanced between Eames and Arthur with a raised brow. “Everything all right? We heard shouting.”
Eames clapped Cobb on the shoulder and walked past him. “Nothing to worry about, mate; you know how Arthur finds me utterly infuriating. I could use a drink, though. There isn’t going to be a meeting, is there?”
Arthur had turned towards the table holding the PASIV machines, stance still rigid with anger. Ariadne went over to him, shooting him a questioning glance, and Arthur gave her a small smile.
Cobb shook his head. “No, you can head out for tonight. We’ll be revising our Fischer story tomorrow, so if you have any plans -”
“I reckon I’ve gotten enough insider information, so I shall be resigning from Fischer & Co. in the morning, effective immediately,” Eames said with a dismissive wave, making his way to the warehouse exit. “I’ll vanish from their sight tomorrow. It’s as if I was never there.”
-
It was not coincidence that brought Eames to the posh hotel bar - he could barely afford anything without his forgeries and eagerly awaited the fat paycheck he’ll be getting from this job - and found Fischer seated by himself, wearing the sort of brooding expression that Eames has come to associate with him. He wasn’t sure what Fischer was like before his father lay dying in bed and wondered what he would become after the inception. An invasion like that wouldn’t just lead to the growth of the implanted idea. The subconscious was a sensitive thing, receptive to the slightest change, vulnerable to the least influence - and the way the team was going about with their plan would mean additional repercussions they won’t be able to control.
Not that they bothered to ponder on it. The priority was Saito’s desire - inception - and whatever happened to Fischer after would merely be collateral damage.
Having a conscience was appalling and terribly inconvenient, Eames decided as he took the stool next to Fischer and ordered a scotch. He wondered if the little architect was having trouble with her moral code; she seemed the type to have one. Then again, the heady rush of dreaming and building was probably too much that she wasn’t thinking much of it at all. Eames got overwhelmed at times and he’d been in the business for nearly a decade.
A long enough time to know his priorities, no matter how unsettled he felt with it (a first, really, and wasn’t that surprising in itself. Arthur would be impressed to know Eames felt something real for once, not merely an emotion borrowed from someone, but only if the sentiment was different - and if Arthur could be convinced at all, which he won’t, because he’d accused Eames of lacking sincerity enough times to turn a saint. It was the root of the misunderstanding between them and that god awful punch).
Fischer cast him an indifferent glance and then paused, head shifting to take a longer look at him.
Eames grinned. “Hello, Mr. Fischer.”
“You,” Fischer said and then raised an eyebrow. “I mean, you work in my company.”
“I do,” Eames lied easily as he took a sip, letting the alcohol warm him. “Human resources, actually.” He held out his free hand. “Clark Kent and it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Fischer seemed interested, turning his body to face Eames, and shook his hand. His grip was firm and spoke about a man who’d shook hands with countless powerful people. “Clark Kent? Your name can’t possibly be - ”
“That of Superman’s? Alas, it’s true. My mum is a passionate fan, you see, and considering that she married my dad for his surname, it’s no surprise.” Eames laughed and gave the other man a playful wink, startling a genuine smile out of Fischer.
“At least you’d always have an excellent icebreaker for awkward situations,” Fischer said, dropping his hand on the counter, close to where Eames held his glass. “All I can say about my name is that it also belongs to a chess master, and it’s definitely not as effective as saying ‘I’m Superman.’”
Eames chuckled, eyeing the smaller man appreciatively. Fischer was surprisingly light-hearted tonight, talkative even, and there was a strange half-smile on his face that Eames had never seen before.
Eames realised that Fischer was meeting his gaze calmly, blue eyes made even more shockingly bright in the bar’s dim lighting, and felt sorely tempted. He’d come here expecting to see Fischer in his favourite bar. He’d approached him expecting a brief conversation. Eames would be lying if he hadn’t hoped for this to happen.
The conversation smoothly segued into neutral topics, Eames making sure that they talked business as little as possible. Fischer grew distracted once or twice, that same shadow of his father’s illness coming over his face, but he was mostly attentive and completely engaging. It was a shame that Eames couldn’t -
“So,” Fischer said casually, knees brushing against Eames’. “Do you have any plans for tonight?”
-
Eames liked reckless things. He enjoyed the thrill of fooling people, of entering the strangest dreamscapes, but he was not stupid. He knew exactly how risky it was getting involved with Fischer, even for just one night, and yet he was discovering things about the other man that he’d gotten wrong in his dreams.
There were freckles, yes, but the rest of his skin was smooth and unblemished. He wasn’t as narrow as Eames had imagined, whipcord muscles shifting in Fischer’s arms as Eames manhandled him over to the massive bed, kissing and biting at his vodka-tasting mouth. The feel of Fischer’s suit was smoother than he’d thought, hideously expensive and crumpling under their feet as Eames undressed the other man. He worked in two fingers into the knot at the base of Fischer’s throat, loosening his tie, and was the very sight of Eames’ vivid fantasies. His hair was softer, richer, and wonderfully graspable.
Fischer wasn’t as hesitant as he’d pictured, rutting against Eames’ thigh and mussing his ponytail. They were roughly the same height, which made it easy to plunder Fischer’s mouth or lick at his cheekbones to his sensitive ears.
They fell on the bed, the hotel’s complimentary chocolates ignored as they got naked, stealing hungry kisses in between articles of clothing. Fischer finished first, dragging his palms all over Eames’ stomach followed by his wet mouth, and Eames laughed quietly as he kicked his trousers off.
“You’re very…big,” Fischer commented huskily as he mapped the other man’s broad shoulders but he was staring at Eames’ crotch. This time, Eames threw his head back and laughed. He grasped Fischer’s face in both hands and kissed him until their breathing grew ragged, muttering, “Let’s enjoy ourselves thoroughly tonight, darling,” against red, red lips.
-
-
-
Eames took off his jacket, blocking the aisle, and felt the faintest touch as Fischer bumped into him.
“I’m sorry,” Fischer said with the look of man who wasn’t, who simply wanted to pass through and found his path blocked. Fischer seemed weary enough to show it.
“Oh yeah, I’m sorry. Here.” Eames shifted aside, mouth tightening a bit, and patted him on the back - his other hand discreetly, deftly, slipping into the man’s jacket and filched his passport.
Fischer moved on, already dismissing him, and went to his seat. There was no sign of recognition, no flicker in those blue eyes that hinted of something more. Of course, it had happened two months ago and Maurice Fischer’s recent death was obviously heavy on his mind, added with the fact that Eames had shaved his beard and cut his hair. That night had been nothing, then.
Eames quietly handed Cobb the man’s passport and sat down. He glanced sideways and caught Arthur watching him. Eames gave him a mock-salute and settled in for the long flight ahead.