Fic: Dreamer Boy (1/?)
Title: Dreamer Boy
Rating: PG-13 for now
Warnings: Angst, Memory Alteration
Pairings/Characters: Arthur/Eames, OFC/Eames/OMC, Dom/Mal, Ariadne
Word Count: 2,721
Summary: A world where Mal wasn't the one that Dom had tried inception on before. And yet the consequences are still disastrous.
Some people made the mistake of thinking that Eames had forgotten everything, that he remembered nothing that came before the time that he was standing in front of them. Those were the people that didn’t seem to understand that there could be a difference between selective amnesia (of a sort, the doctors still weren’t entirely sure) and actual full blown amnesia.
The people that were attached to that view tended to be those that had come to either visit someone on the inland or had just found the island through some stroke luck while on an impulse to be touristy. Those kind of people didn’t stay on the island long enough for their opinion to matter much to Eames anyway. There wasn’t any point in worrying about the people who he would never see again, after all.
It wasn’t like anyone on the island really kicked up a fuss about his condition. To them it was just his job as an artist to be eccentric-not that the island wasn’t that all on its own.
It was a little hunk of land floating amongst the crystalline waters of the Mediterranean Sea that no one knew quite what to do with. Greece had claimed it eventually since it was right at the outskirts of its territory and the residents had accepted this with the same kind of lazy easy with which they had accepted all those who took ownership before. There was no real sign of the ruling country anyway, besides for the occasional enforced government law and the odd Greek flag being flown. Besides for that, the inhabitants of the island were mostly left to govern themselves.
Eames had come here after fleeing from the noise of what had once been his main residence in Mombasa. He had to say “main residence” since there was more than one as he was quick to find out, scattered throughout the world with not a single one being the same as the other. His mind provided him with enough brief flashes of memory for him to understand just why such a thing was a necessity.
He had been a criminal, and a damn good one at that, if the huge amounts of money piled up in multiple bank accounts was any estimate. He wasn’t entirely sure what it was he had done, only that it involved stealing things. There were times that he doubted whether any of this was the case, however, since the hints of things that came to him often seemed entirely impossible.
Maybe his mind was just trying to invent an exciting past for him?
Eames had tried not to dwell on it for long, in the end. The money had been all that he wanted, really, since it meant that he could get out of Mombasa as quickly as possible. The place was far too crowded, the kind of place that a person went to in order to blend in and the thought of that made his hair stand on end.
England hadn’t been any better since he had still felt as out of place there as ever, despite being one of the few able to lay claim to an actual title. The cold had a way of seeping into his bones while he was there so that he was never able to get completely warm, no matter how hard he tried. And there were too many bad memories there anyway. His parents were dead in a car crash before he was even a month and his grandmother, the one who had provided for him, had died years ago.
There was no family or anyone else left there to give him some sort of clue as to who he had been so on he went.
He had just kept wandering until he wound up on the island, really. It had a name, actually, but it was constantly changing with whatever country decided that it was now theirs. If you were to stay on the island for long enough you would learn to ramble off the Greek name easily enough. Only the eldest people on the island seemed capable of remembering what the original name had been before it all and that was considered too sacred to be used throughout common conversation. So for all those that came to settle on the island it was just known as “our island”.
It was only fitting, after all, since it really did belong to solely to those that chose to remain atop it, despite the allure of more cosmopolitan areas close at hand.
For Eames, among others, the place had presented itself as a safe haven of sorts. It had been beautiful right from the start, all mismatched houses all done up in bright shades and surrounded by a sea that was like someone had taken a spoonful of food coloring to make it. The whole place came alive with all the different lives that thrived upon it. No one person was the same, which left it even more fascinating to Eames.
The house he claimed for himself was settled towards the right end of the island where the land started to slope upwards into a hill of sorts. The older residents had insisted that a young gentleman like himself should be living in the main part of the town instead, but that was something Eames couldn’t quite bring himself to do.
He loved being able to socialize and explore the island from top to bottom, to be sure, but there was something about returning to a place that was removed and just his that brought him a certain measure of relief.
Besides, he got the sun first in the morning, shining through the large, wide windows of the house and turning the whole space aglow. The near constant breeze seemed to always hit his house first as well, carrying with it the scent of the sea. It was a crisp, clean smell that made him feel a strange longing for something-or someone-and caused him to thrust the windows wide so that it would permeate the house. It brought him a strange sort of peace to fall asleep wrapped up in sheets that carried such a smell.
He had met Eva on one of his frequent trips into the town while sitting outside one of the little restaurants that could have almost have been a café if it tried. His sketchbook had been propped up on his knee as he tried to catch the exact way that one of the waitress’s dark curls-escaped from her braid-had fallen down against her neck in almost a caress.
He had barely had a chance to lift his pencil again before the sketchbook was snatched from his hands by one of the most alluring women he had ever encountered. A part of his mind had snapped into action, trying to record details, such as the smoldering quality of her ever so rounded blue eyes and the confident upward curve of her mouth, as though for further use.
“Ooh, aren’t you a talented one?”
Eames should have been mad at her, really, but there was something about the way her voice curled around the words-French accent turning everything somehow smoky and musical at the same time-that made him want to curl up in her instead. There was the possibility that it had been some trigger from his past-probably was, really-but since it had gotten him Eva, Eames couldn’t bring himself to regret the way it had affected him.
The blue eyes had flashed up towards him now, ever so slightly hooded. “You could make a good deal of money off of such a talent.”
Her lips spread into an easy, wide smile. “I can think of more than one person around here who would pay well for such a thing.” She rose her thin, dark eyebrows in a gesture that was far too elegant to belong to a completely human being. “Actually I do believe I’m going to have to convince you to show me more.”
And she had went on to convince Eames into just that by plopping down at his table to ply him with cups of wonderfully bittersweet hot chocolate and still warm, flaky stuffed éclairs to ease the sharpness away.
It was through her that his little business of sorts had begun. She had been determined that Eames should try to take work on commission or at least sell some of his pieces. It was a conversation they had fallen into while in the market square, strolling along with arms linked together, and when he tried to refuse she had just let her voice grow steadily louder until everyone knew about Eames’ talent anyway.
She had commissioned Eames herself not long after that, only vaguely requesting a piece that would remind her of home. Eames had worked as hard as he could on drawing up what he had in the way of memories of France in order to create the piece. He knew he had been there before, after all, once as a little boy with his grandmother and again when he was older, all grown up. It was the latter that he couldn’t fully remember and that made him ache as though he had forgotten something terribly important.
That was how he felt about just about everything nowadays, though, so he hadn’t let himself dwell on it for long.
Some of it must have come out in his painting, though, since Eva had gasped upon seeing it before bursting into tears and burying herself in his arms without warning. She had gone on to show the piece off to everyone who came to her house and talked about it to anyone in the village who would stand still long enough.
So, in the end, Eames had people coming forth for commissions whether he liked it or not.
It had helped to provide him with a little bit of pocket change, anyway, and since it wasn’t his main source of income (trust fund boy that he was) he could charge far more reasonably than other artists might. And within the year Eva was returning from a trip to Greece, babbling about how some gallery there was begging for his artwork.
Perhaps it was through the business itself that Eva became his friend, but Eames liked to think that it would have happened one way or another. There was just something between the two of them that drew them together, twining them together so firmly that there was never a possibility of letting go.
It was something that village had accepted in stride, like it did with all things. Eames had jolted in surprise when the elderly lady who ran the fruit stand asked after “his” Eva, but it wasn’t long before he had started to use it himself. He fell into the habit of asking people where his “lady” was and had burst out laughing when he found out that Eva had responded upon hearing of this by puffing out her cheeks and saying, “Well, if my boy wants to know…”
Everyone was convinced that it was a friendship that would develop into a outright relationship before long. He was pretty sure there was even a betting pool of some sort going around based on some of the probing questions he had received around town. He had to press his lips together so not to laugh at their barely concealed pouts when he had to tell them that, despite how lovely Eva was, they were still just friends.
Eva would occasionally bemoan the fact that so many men seemed wary of flirting with her now since they all feared Eames’ retaliation, but Eames knew she didn’t really mind it.
And yet, despite it all, he wasn’t at all surprised when Eva pressed her lips to his while he was washing up after dinner one night. It had nothing to do with romance, not really. It was just that there was no one on the world that the other found they could trust as much as the other.
And it wasn’t as though Eames didn’t want it. He was fairly sure that no one could stop themselves from wanting Eva in some way. He had murmured out so much against the curve of her neck while he pushed inside of her, causing her answering laugh to come out more than a bit breathless around the edges.
She had wound up with her head resting on his lap after that, the grand expanse of her hair spilling out across the white of the sheets like ink. The two of them had wound up sharing cigarette after cigarette like that while finally giving in once and for all and explaining in detail the life stories that they only ever hinted at in the past.
It seemed that everyone who had settled on the island from somewhere else had been in a desperate search for somewhere to start a new life and Eva was no different.
“I was a prostitute.” She closed her eyes as her lips curled around the cigarette. Eames didn’t think it had anything to do with hiding pain, however, since she spoke it as casually as though there was nothing that set such an occupation apart from anything else. “And a damn good one at that.” She sighed now, smoke leaving her lips in a gush. “That probably sounds like a disgusting thing to be proud of, but it wasn’t like I wasn’t being told my whole life that my looks could get me far. I mean, it’s like you said-people just get hooked by me. And I liked sex.” She snorted. “If anyone was being honest with themselves than they would admit the same thing.”
Eames had to give her that, really. “What changed then?” he asked. “Unless you’re still…?”
Eva’s eyes snapped open at that. “Oh, no, no.” Her brow knitted together as she pointed an accusing finger up at Eames. “And don’t you dare think that was the reason why I slept with you. I…I like you.” Her cheeks flared up with a faint shade of pink. “And I know you like me so I figured there was no reason not to do it.”
Eames reached down to take the cigarette from her, pressing a kiss to her forehead before straightening back up to smoke for a bit more. “I’m not going to fault you for it, love. I think you would have been able to tell if I didn’t want it too, after all.”
It had been so long since he had let himself get lost inside of another person’s body, especially that of someone he truly cared for.
The only problem had come when he had found himself feeling Eva’s soft, round curves and wishing for ones that were harder, somehow more angular. He was certain that that was an oddity that could be laid strictly at his own doorstep, however, so he didn’t bring it up.
He never seemed to need to say something for Eva to already know it. He could feel her fingers in his hair as he leaned over to rub out the cigarette.
“Should I bring you a man next time?” Her laughter escaped from her in a long, high trill as Eames actually jumped in an unconscious show of surprise. “I knew it!” she crowed.
“But won’t that make you…” Eames had to cough to regain proper control of his voice. “Won’t that make you jealous?”
Eva’s eyes were sparkling with a combination of warmth and mirth as she reached up to brush her fingers across his cheek. “Why should I be? None of them will really have you. Not like I do.” A small smile played across her lips as Eames leaned into her touch, proving her point without meaning to do so. “There’s only one other person in the world who I would truly share you with anyway.”
Eames raised his eyebrows in a wry sort of interest at this. “Is that so? And will I ever get to meet this mystery man?”
“Perhaps.” Eva slid her hand upwards into Eames’ hair so that she could pull him down into a kiss, rising her head up to meet him.
“But for now I think we’re both ready for a second round, hm?”
Rating: PG-13 for now
Warnings: Angst, Memory Alteration
Pairings/Characters: Arthur/Eames, OFC/Eames/OMC, Dom/Mal, Ariadne
Word Count: 2,721
Summary: A world where Mal wasn't the one that Dom had tried inception on before. And yet the consequences are still disastrous.
Some people made the mistake of thinking that Eames had forgotten everything, that he remembered nothing that came before the time that he was standing in front of them. Those were the people that didn’t seem to understand that there could be a difference between selective amnesia (of a sort, the doctors still weren’t entirely sure) and actual full blown amnesia.
The people that were attached to that view tended to be those that had come to either visit someone on the inland or had just found the island through some stroke luck while on an impulse to be touristy. Those kind of people didn’t stay on the island long enough for their opinion to matter much to Eames anyway. There wasn’t any point in worrying about the people who he would never see again, after all.
It wasn’t like anyone on the island really kicked up a fuss about his condition. To them it was just his job as an artist to be eccentric-not that the island wasn’t that all on its own.
It was a little hunk of land floating amongst the crystalline waters of the Mediterranean Sea that no one knew quite what to do with. Greece had claimed it eventually since it was right at the outskirts of its territory and the residents had accepted this with the same kind of lazy easy with which they had accepted all those who took ownership before. There was no real sign of the ruling country anyway, besides for the occasional enforced government law and the odd Greek flag being flown. Besides for that, the inhabitants of the island were mostly left to govern themselves.
Eames had come here after fleeing from the noise of what had once been his main residence in Mombasa. He had to say “main residence” since there was more than one as he was quick to find out, scattered throughout the world with not a single one being the same as the other. His mind provided him with enough brief flashes of memory for him to understand just why such a thing was a necessity.
He had been a criminal, and a damn good one at that, if the huge amounts of money piled up in multiple bank accounts was any estimate. He wasn’t entirely sure what it was he had done, only that it involved stealing things. There were times that he doubted whether any of this was the case, however, since the hints of things that came to him often seemed entirely impossible.
Maybe his mind was just trying to invent an exciting past for him?
Eames had tried not to dwell on it for long, in the end. The money had been all that he wanted, really, since it meant that he could get out of Mombasa as quickly as possible. The place was far too crowded, the kind of place that a person went to in order to blend in and the thought of that made his hair stand on end.
England hadn’t been any better since he had still felt as out of place there as ever, despite being one of the few able to lay claim to an actual title. The cold had a way of seeping into his bones while he was there so that he was never able to get completely warm, no matter how hard he tried. And there were too many bad memories there anyway. His parents were dead in a car crash before he was even a month and his grandmother, the one who had provided for him, had died years ago.
There was no family or anyone else left there to give him some sort of clue as to who he had been so on he went.
He had just kept wandering until he wound up on the island, really. It had a name, actually, but it was constantly changing with whatever country decided that it was now theirs. If you were to stay on the island for long enough you would learn to ramble off the Greek name easily enough. Only the eldest people on the island seemed capable of remembering what the original name had been before it all and that was considered too sacred to be used throughout common conversation. So for all those that came to settle on the island it was just known as “our island”.
It was only fitting, after all, since it really did belong to solely to those that chose to remain atop it, despite the allure of more cosmopolitan areas close at hand.
For Eames, among others, the place had presented itself as a safe haven of sorts. It had been beautiful right from the start, all mismatched houses all done up in bright shades and surrounded by a sea that was like someone had taken a spoonful of food coloring to make it. The whole place came alive with all the different lives that thrived upon it. No one person was the same, which left it even more fascinating to Eames.
The house he claimed for himself was settled towards the right end of the island where the land started to slope upwards into a hill of sorts. The older residents had insisted that a young gentleman like himself should be living in the main part of the town instead, but that was something Eames couldn’t quite bring himself to do.
He loved being able to socialize and explore the island from top to bottom, to be sure, but there was something about returning to a place that was removed and just his that brought him a certain measure of relief.
Besides, he got the sun first in the morning, shining through the large, wide windows of the house and turning the whole space aglow. The near constant breeze seemed to always hit his house first as well, carrying with it the scent of the sea. It was a crisp, clean smell that made him feel a strange longing for something-or someone-and caused him to thrust the windows wide so that it would permeate the house. It brought him a strange sort of peace to fall asleep wrapped up in sheets that carried such a smell.
He had met Eva on one of his frequent trips into the town while sitting outside one of the little restaurants that could have almost have been a café if it tried. His sketchbook had been propped up on his knee as he tried to catch the exact way that one of the waitress’s dark curls-escaped from her braid-had fallen down against her neck in almost a caress.
He had barely had a chance to lift his pencil again before the sketchbook was snatched from his hands by one of the most alluring women he had ever encountered. A part of his mind had snapped into action, trying to record details, such as the smoldering quality of her ever so rounded blue eyes and the confident upward curve of her mouth, as though for further use.
“Ooh, aren’t you a talented one?”
Eames should have been mad at her, really, but there was something about the way her voice curled around the words-French accent turning everything somehow smoky and musical at the same time-that made him want to curl up in her instead. There was the possibility that it had been some trigger from his past-probably was, really-but since it had gotten him Eva, Eames couldn’t bring himself to regret the way it had affected him.
The blue eyes had flashed up towards him now, ever so slightly hooded. “You could make a good deal of money off of such a talent.”
Her lips spread into an easy, wide smile. “I can think of more than one person around here who would pay well for such a thing.” She rose her thin, dark eyebrows in a gesture that was far too elegant to belong to a completely human being. “Actually I do believe I’m going to have to convince you to show me more.”
And she had went on to convince Eames into just that by plopping down at his table to ply him with cups of wonderfully bittersweet hot chocolate and still warm, flaky stuffed éclairs to ease the sharpness away.
It was through her that his little business of sorts had begun. She had been determined that Eames should try to take work on commission or at least sell some of his pieces. It was a conversation they had fallen into while in the market square, strolling along with arms linked together, and when he tried to refuse she had just let her voice grow steadily louder until everyone knew about Eames’ talent anyway.
She had commissioned Eames herself not long after that, only vaguely requesting a piece that would remind her of home. Eames had worked as hard as he could on drawing up what he had in the way of memories of France in order to create the piece. He knew he had been there before, after all, once as a little boy with his grandmother and again when he was older, all grown up. It was the latter that he couldn’t fully remember and that made him ache as though he had forgotten something terribly important.
That was how he felt about just about everything nowadays, though, so he hadn’t let himself dwell on it for long.
Some of it must have come out in his painting, though, since Eva had gasped upon seeing it before bursting into tears and burying herself in his arms without warning. She had gone on to show the piece off to everyone who came to her house and talked about it to anyone in the village who would stand still long enough.
So, in the end, Eames had people coming forth for commissions whether he liked it or not.
It had helped to provide him with a little bit of pocket change, anyway, and since it wasn’t his main source of income (trust fund boy that he was) he could charge far more reasonably than other artists might. And within the year Eva was returning from a trip to Greece, babbling about how some gallery there was begging for his artwork.
Perhaps it was through the business itself that Eva became his friend, but Eames liked to think that it would have happened one way or another. There was just something between the two of them that drew them together, twining them together so firmly that there was never a possibility of letting go.
It was something that village had accepted in stride, like it did with all things. Eames had jolted in surprise when the elderly lady who ran the fruit stand asked after “his” Eva, but it wasn’t long before he had started to use it himself. He fell into the habit of asking people where his “lady” was and had burst out laughing when he found out that Eva had responded upon hearing of this by puffing out her cheeks and saying, “Well, if my boy wants to know…”
Everyone was convinced that it was a friendship that would develop into a outright relationship before long. He was pretty sure there was even a betting pool of some sort going around based on some of the probing questions he had received around town. He had to press his lips together so not to laugh at their barely concealed pouts when he had to tell them that, despite how lovely Eva was, they were still just friends.
Eva would occasionally bemoan the fact that so many men seemed wary of flirting with her now since they all feared Eames’ retaliation, but Eames knew she didn’t really mind it.
And yet, despite it all, he wasn’t at all surprised when Eva pressed her lips to his while he was washing up after dinner one night. It had nothing to do with romance, not really. It was just that there was no one on the world that the other found they could trust as much as the other.
And it wasn’t as though Eames didn’t want it. He was fairly sure that no one could stop themselves from wanting Eva in some way. He had murmured out so much against the curve of her neck while he pushed inside of her, causing her answering laugh to come out more than a bit breathless around the edges.
She had wound up with her head resting on his lap after that, the grand expanse of her hair spilling out across the white of the sheets like ink. The two of them had wound up sharing cigarette after cigarette like that while finally giving in once and for all and explaining in detail the life stories that they only ever hinted at in the past.
It seemed that everyone who had settled on the island from somewhere else had been in a desperate search for somewhere to start a new life and Eva was no different.
“I was a prostitute.” She closed her eyes as her lips curled around the cigarette. Eames didn’t think it had anything to do with hiding pain, however, since she spoke it as casually as though there was nothing that set such an occupation apart from anything else. “And a damn good one at that.” She sighed now, smoke leaving her lips in a gush. “That probably sounds like a disgusting thing to be proud of, but it wasn’t like I wasn’t being told my whole life that my looks could get me far. I mean, it’s like you said-people just get hooked by me. And I liked sex.” She snorted. “If anyone was being honest with themselves than they would admit the same thing.”
Eames had to give her that, really. “What changed then?” he asked. “Unless you’re still…?”
Eva’s eyes snapped open at that. “Oh, no, no.” Her brow knitted together as she pointed an accusing finger up at Eames. “And don’t you dare think that was the reason why I slept with you. I…I like you.” Her cheeks flared up with a faint shade of pink. “And I know you like me so I figured there was no reason not to do it.”
Eames reached down to take the cigarette from her, pressing a kiss to her forehead before straightening back up to smoke for a bit more. “I’m not going to fault you for it, love. I think you would have been able to tell if I didn’t want it too, after all.”
It had been so long since he had let himself get lost inside of another person’s body, especially that of someone he truly cared for.
The only problem had come when he had found himself feeling Eva’s soft, round curves and wishing for ones that were harder, somehow more angular. He was certain that that was an oddity that could be laid strictly at his own doorstep, however, so he didn’t bring it up.
He never seemed to need to say something for Eva to already know it. He could feel her fingers in his hair as he leaned over to rub out the cigarette.
“Should I bring you a man next time?” Her laughter escaped from her in a long, high trill as Eames actually jumped in an unconscious show of surprise. “I knew it!” she crowed.
“But won’t that make you…” Eames had to cough to regain proper control of his voice. “Won’t that make you jealous?”
Eva’s eyes were sparkling with a combination of warmth and mirth as she reached up to brush her fingers across his cheek. “Why should I be? None of them will really have you. Not like I do.” A small smile played across her lips as Eames leaned into her touch, proving her point without meaning to do so. “There’s only one other person in the world who I would truly share you with anyway.”
Eames raised his eyebrows in a wry sort of interest at this. “Is that so? And will I ever get to meet this mystery man?”
“Perhaps.” Eva slid her hand upwards into Eames’ hair so that she could pull him down into a kiss, rising her head up to meet him.
“But for now I think we’re both ready for a second round, hm?”