this is it boys, this is war (inception)
Title: this is it boys, this is war
Fandom: Inception
Summary: They have a long drive ahead of them.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13
Notes: For inception_kink prompt: ROAD TRIP! Arthur and Eames have to travel across country/state/province/whatever. Arthur is not looking forward to being trapped in a car with Eames, but Eames is planning all the songs they'll listen to, the games they'll play, and the topics they'll talk about. Cute and fluffy if you want or porn at every rest stop!
There's no part of the car that Eames doesn't touch. He flips compulsively through radio stations, never staying on one for more than a song or two. He rolls the window down manually, drums on the outside of the car, then closes the window and turns on the air. It takes constant adjustments of the vents before he is satisfied.
"There's sedatives in the trunk."
It's the only time Arthur will ever directly let on to the fact that Eames is driving him a little bit insane. Of course Eames already knows this, is probably doing it on purpose, and constantly chiding him for it will only make Arthur more aggravated. There's no sense in both of them stooping to childish levels of immaturity. They have a long way to drive.
"A very generous offer," Eames says graciously. "But who will keep you company?"
"I'm not in this for the company," Arthur says, and if that's any comment on Eames' person, the forger pretends not to notice.
"How noble," Eames commends him before pulling a lever and reclining his seat all the way back.
As far as Arthur is concerned, they are still on a job. This drive across Europe is no vacation, but a desperate attempt to not be kidnapped, possibly tortured, and definitely screwed out of a seriously large sum of money.
Cobb breathlessly explained the plan, which he had come up with on the spot. "By the time we get to Tolouse, Jacques will have already flown out and torn the city apart looking for us. If we're lucky," and luck is a big thing for Cobb, he likes to put his faith in it, "he'll have expected us to fly out, and I don't see him as the type to wait around."
If they're lucky...
Arthur doesn't believe in luck. He also doesn't believe in Cobb's logic, or the fact that whether they live or die is all riding on whether or not their potential killer decides to spend the night in Tolouse. There's no sense to it, a leap of faith, a gamble, something you can never be sure of and therefore cannot count on in any way. He knows that Eames will not agree, and so he makes no comment on it.
While Eames is still, Arthur formulates a contingency plan in his head, and then another, until he has no less than six different options should Cobb's leap of faith go sour in Toulouse.
Then he starts planning for things going south before they get to Toulouse.
--
"Put that back."
"There's no one on this road, love. Just you and me."
"Put it back, please."
Eames laughs. "So uptight," he says, and continues looking at himself in the rearview mirror, which he has twisted so that Arthur can't even see out of it. Arthur hates being laughed at, and he hates not being able to see out the rearview.
Without warning, Arthur's right hand shoots out to grab the mirror. Eames is quick too, though, grabbing Arthur's hand and pinning it. "Gotcha," he says, laughing again.
Holding the wheel steady with his knee, Arthur uses his left hand to slap Eames in the face. That honest, involuntary cry of surprise that Eames lets out as he releases Arthur's wrist to clutch at his nose fills Arthur with a devious sense of triumph.
"Touchy little blighter," Eames mutters. Arthur turns the mirror back so he can see the road behind them.
Still empty.
--
"Oh my god," Eames says suddenly, bolting upright from the uncomfortable looking slouch he had been twisted in moments before.
"Trouble?" Arthur says, forcing himself to remain calm, but unable to keep from tightening his grip on the wheel.
"I love this song," Eames says quickly, his voice gravely serious. "You think they'll play English or German?"
All Arthur can hear is a drawn-out synth. And then, Hast Du etwas Zeit für mich, followed by Eames letting out an agonizing groan of utmost distress. "Fucking hell, I don't know any of these words."
To Arthur's dismay, Eames' limited knowledge of the German lyrics to 99 Luftballoons doesn't stop him from singing along anyway, half in the english he can remember, and half in some made up language that doesn't even sound like what is being sung.
Eames also drums on the dash with his palms.
"Please," Arthur says, a hint of desperation slipping past his impeccable resolve, "don't break the rental."
--
"Penny for your thoughts, love?"
"I'm not that cheap," Arthur admonishes, "love." They have been on the road for nearly five hours, and the endless stretch of pavement has had a rather soothing effect on Arthur's nerves. It has even dulled Eames' constant grating to a soft, and entirely tolerable, sandpapery caress.
"A pound, then? Two pounds," he continues, pushing at Arthur's silence with all the persistence of a toddler.
"How high can you count," Arthur finally says, grinning smugly while keeping his eyes fixed on the road. He hears a grunt of laughter beside him, sees Eames shifting around in his peripheral, tugging at his seatbelt.
"For you, love?" Eames says suggestively. "Quite high."
--
The sun has set, and Toulouse is just under an hour away. There are more cars on the road now, and Arthur is too on edge to even bother keeping it from Eames.
"If they were going to run us off the road, they would have done it already."
Eames says it like it's meant to be comforting, but Arthur is not at all comforted. "They can do a lot more than run us off the road, Eames."
"I'm just saying," he says, defensive. "There was a pond a few miles back. They could have hidden the car there, given the cops a good hard time about finding us."
"Shh," Arthur snaps, forcing himself to not think of snipers and car bombs. It takes every last ounce of his concentration, and so he doesn't notice the hand on his neck for a long enough time for Eames to think that it is perfectly normal to be giving Arthur a massage.
He tenses, draws in a quick breath with the realization. "What are you doing?"
"Helping you relax."
"Don't," Arthur says.
"Hush," Eames chides, and continues to knead the muscles at the base of Arthur's skull with fingers that feel like they were made to do nothing else.
It is suddenly much too warm in the car, and Arthur cranks his window open. For all his resolve, Arthur can't help whimpering a little as Eames thumbs down on a particularly troublesome knot of tension around the side of his trapezius.
"See?" Eames says quietly, manipulating the knot with his other fingers now, soothing the stab of pain.
Arthur's voice is a whisper: "Stop talking."
--
They've been driving through the streets of Toulouse for a good half an hour, aimless, directionless, doubling back on the same roads with the sole purpose of trying to confuse anyone who might be following them.
Eames has since taken his hand away from Arthur's neck, letting it come to rest on his own right thigh, near his gun. "I think you can stop driving now," he says quietly.
Arthur drives for another ten minutes before finally shifting into park with an almost unnoticeable sigh. He tries to hold onto the soothing feeling of Eames' fingers at the back of his head, thumb rubbing a circle behind his ear, tracing a line down to the hollow of his throat.
But someone is walking towards them. A man in the street has one hand in his pocket and is walking right towards them.
"Kiss me," Arthur says urgently, and then Eames' mouth is crushing Arthur's lips painfully against his teeth without hesitation, hands roaming frantically over his arms, his shoulders, fingers raking down the front of his shirt, then clutching at his face. There is tongue, then, sweeping the inside of his mouth, and then Arthur plants his palms on Eames' chest and pushes him off.
"There was," Arthur blurts, panting, not wanting Eames to say a fucking word, "I thought... he was..."
"Thought he was Jacques?" Eames finishes for him, and Arthur nods. With a wink and a smile that makes Eames look incredibly devious, and makes Arthur suddenly regret everything that he had just let happen, he says, "Of course you did."
There is no way Eames believes him.
Arthur is frozen, his hands still gripping the steering wheel, his feet flat on the floor. Breathe, he tells himself, tasting Eames in his throat when he does. He coughs and tries not to gag, not used to having anyone's saliva on his tongue but his own. A knock at his window snaps him out of his shock.
It's Eames, leaning over to look into the car. Even in the darkness, even through the glare of the streetlights of the window, Arthur can see that he looks concerned. "You coming?"
Arthur swallows, still tasting Eames, and gets out of the car. They are still on a job, after all.
Fandom: Inception
Summary: They have a long drive ahead of them.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13
Notes: For inception_kink prompt: ROAD TRIP! Arthur and Eames have to travel across country/state/province/whatever. Arthur is not looking forward to being trapped in a car with Eames, but Eames is planning all the songs they'll listen to, the games they'll play, and the topics they'll talk about. Cute and fluffy if you want or porn at every rest stop!
There's no part of the car that Eames doesn't touch. He flips compulsively through radio stations, never staying on one for more than a song or two. He rolls the window down manually, drums on the outside of the car, then closes the window and turns on the air. It takes constant adjustments of the vents before he is satisfied.
"There's sedatives in the trunk."
It's the only time Arthur will ever directly let on to the fact that Eames is driving him a little bit insane. Of course Eames already knows this, is probably doing it on purpose, and constantly chiding him for it will only make Arthur more aggravated. There's no sense in both of them stooping to childish levels of immaturity. They have a long way to drive.
"A very generous offer," Eames says graciously. "But who will keep you company?"
"I'm not in this for the company," Arthur says, and if that's any comment on Eames' person, the forger pretends not to notice.
"How noble," Eames commends him before pulling a lever and reclining his seat all the way back.
As far as Arthur is concerned, they are still on a job. This drive across Europe is no vacation, but a desperate attempt to not be kidnapped, possibly tortured, and definitely screwed out of a seriously large sum of money.
Cobb breathlessly explained the plan, which he had come up with on the spot. "By the time we get to Tolouse, Jacques will have already flown out and torn the city apart looking for us. If we're lucky," and luck is a big thing for Cobb, he likes to put his faith in it, "he'll have expected us to fly out, and I don't see him as the type to wait around."
If they're lucky...
Arthur doesn't believe in luck. He also doesn't believe in Cobb's logic, or the fact that whether they live or die is all riding on whether or not their potential killer decides to spend the night in Tolouse. There's no sense to it, a leap of faith, a gamble, something you can never be sure of and therefore cannot count on in any way. He knows that Eames will not agree, and so he makes no comment on it.
While Eames is still, Arthur formulates a contingency plan in his head, and then another, until he has no less than six different options should Cobb's leap of faith go sour in Toulouse.
Then he starts planning for things going south before they get to Toulouse.
--
"Put that back."
"There's no one on this road, love. Just you and me."
"Put it back, please."
Eames laughs. "So uptight," he says, and continues looking at himself in the rearview mirror, which he has twisted so that Arthur can't even see out of it. Arthur hates being laughed at, and he hates not being able to see out the rearview.
Without warning, Arthur's right hand shoots out to grab the mirror. Eames is quick too, though, grabbing Arthur's hand and pinning it. "Gotcha," he says, laughing again.
Holding the wheel steady with his knee, Arthur uses his left hand to slap Eames in the face. That honest, involuntary cry of surprise that Eames lets out as he releases Arthur's wrist to clutch at his nose fills Arthur with a devious sense of triumph.
"Touchy little blighter," Eames mutters. Arthur turns the mirror back so he can see the road behind them.
Still empty.
--
"Oh my god," Eames says suddenly, bolting upright from the uncomfortable looking slouch he had been twisted in moments before.
"Trouble?" Arthur says, forcing himself to remain calm, but unable to keep from tightening his grip on the wheel.
"I love this song," Eames says quickly, his voice gravely serious. "You think they'll play English or German?"
All Arthur can hear is a drawn-out synth. And then, Hast Du etwas Zeit für mich, followed by Eames letting out an agonizing groan of utmost distress. "Fucking hell, I don't know any of these words."
To Arthur's dismay, Eames' limited knowledge of the German lyrics to 99 Luftballoons doesn't stop him from singing along anyway, half in the english he can remember, and half in some made up language that doesn't even sound like what is being sung.
Eames also drums on the dash with his palms.
"Please," Arthur says, a hint of desperation slipping past his impeccable resolve, "don't break the rental."
--
"Penny for your thoughts, love?"
"I'm not that cheap," Arthur admonishes, "love." They have been on the road for nearly five hours, and the endless stretch of pavement has had a rather soothing effect on Arthur's nerves. It has even dulled Eames' constant grating to a soft, and entirely tolerable, sandpapery caress.
"A pound, then? Two pounds," he continues, pushing at Arthur's silence with all the persistence of a toddler.
"How high can you count," Arthur finally says, grinning smugly while keeping his eyes fixed on the road. He hears a grunt of laughter beside him, sees Eames shifting around in his peripheral, tugging at his seatbelt.
"For you, love?" Eames says suggestively. "Quite high."
--
The sun has set, and Toulouse is just under an hour away. There are more cars on the road now, and Arthur is too on edge to even bother keeping it from Eames.
"If they were going to run us off the road, they would have done it already."
Eames says it like it's meant to be comforting, but Arthur is not at all comforted. "They can do a lot more than run us off the road, Eames."
"I'm just saying," he says, defensive. "There was a pond a few miles back. They could have hidden the car there, given the cops a good hard time about finding us."
"Shh," Arthur snaps, forcing himself to not think of snipers and car bombs. It takes every last ounce of his concentration, and so he doesn't notice the hand on his neck for a long enough time for Eames to think that it is perfectly normal to be giving Arthur a massage.
He tenses, draws in a quick breath with the realization. "What are you doing?"
"Helping you relax."
"Don't," Arthur says.
"Hush," Eames chides, and continues to knead the muscles at the base of Arthur's skull with fingers that feel like they were made to do nothing else.
It is suddenly much too warm in the car, and Arthur cranks his window open. For all his resolve, Arthur can't help whimpering a little as Eames thumbs down on a particularly troublesome knot of tension around the side of his trapezius.
"See?" Eames says quietly, manipulating the knot with his other fingers now, soothing the stab of pain.
Arthur's voice is a whisper: "Stop talking."
--
They've been driving through the streets of Toulouse for a good half an hour, aimless, directionless, doubling back on the same roads with the sole purpose of trying to confuse anyone who might be following them.
Eames has since taken his hand away from Arthur's neck, letting it come to rest on his own right thigh, near his gun. "I think you can stop driving now," he says quietly.
Arthur drives for another ten minutes before finally shifting into park with an almost unnoticeable sigh. He tries to hold onto the soothing feeling of Eames' fingers at the back of his head, thumb rubbing a circle behind his ear, tracing a line down to the hollow of his throat.
But someone is walking towards them. A man in the street has one hand in his pocket and is walking right towards them.
"Kiss me," Arthur says urgently, and then Eames' mouth is crushing Arthur's lips painfully against his teeth without hesitation, hands roaming frantically over his arms, his shoulders, fingers raking down the front of his shirt, then clutching at his face. There is tongue, then, sweeping the inside of his mouth, and then Arthur plants his palms on Eames' chest and pushes him off.
"There was," Arthur blurts, panting, not wanting Eames to say a fucking word, "I thought... he was..."
"Thought he was Jacques?" Eames finishes for him, and Arthur nods. With a wink and a smile that makes Eames look incredibly devious, and makes Arthur suddenly regret everything that he had just let happen, he says, "Of course you did."
There is no way Eames believes him.
Arthur is frozen, his hands still gripping the steering wheel, his feet flat on the floor. Breathe, he tells himself, tasting Eames in his throat when he does. He coughs and tries not to gag, not used to having anyone's saliva on his tongue but his own. A knock at his window snaps him out of his shock.
It's Eames, leaning over to look into the car. Even in the darkness, even through the glare of the streetlights of the window, Arthur can see that he looks concerned. "You coming?"
Arthur swallows, still tasting Eames, and gets out of the car. They are still on a job, after all.