[fic] boats, birds
rating: pg for atmosphere.
pairing: cobb/eames
words: 1693
Eames turned up his collar and ran towards the next street. Rain was coming down in torrents, flooding the gutters and filling his shoes with puddles of rainwater. His shoes squelched noisily against the pavement as he ran for cover, arms raised above his head to shield himself from the torrential onslaught. He managed to duck safely under the slanted awning of a bookshop that was closed for the night while Cobb lagged close behind, limping as he steadied himself against the wall and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
They were both soaked through the bone, fresh from a job that, while Eames didn’t consider a failure, wasn’t a complete success, either. Cobb shambled none too gracefully next to him, hair plastered to the side of his face and bent forward, resting his hands on his knees, to catch his breath and compose himself.
Eames watched him from the corner of his eye as he wrung rainwater from his jacket and tipped his head back against the wall, breathing out of his mouth in loud, stunted gasps. Under the poor lighting of the street, Cobb’s eyelashes were spiked outwards, clumping together against his cheeks. He looked small, almost, standing next to Eames like that, that Eames wondered for a moment how it was even possible for a person of Cobb’s size to contain so much personality, so much character, without bursting through his skin.
Neither of them spoke for a minute. There were no cars driving by on the road that night. Eames peered through the thick slats of rain that poured over the roof and could barely make out the faint buzzing sign of a diner across the street, a tacky neon-pink that swelled with color before fading back into the dark. He checked his pockets for cigarettes and raised his eyebrows when he found them not nearly as damp as he expected. Lighting them seemed to be a problem though so he quit after his sixth try, balancing his weight against his heels and glancing down at Cobb.
Cobb’s eyes were red and puffy, his left cheek swollen with a quickly darkening bruise. His jaw was shadowed with stubble that was just starting to grow and he wasn’t complaining, was never the type to complain, but it was one of those times when Eames wished Cobb said something, anything to acknowledge the fact that he was hurting somewhere, or bleeding, or had broken something.
Eames sighed, dragging his eyes away from Cobb and toward the diner across the street. “I think we’ll be safe there,” he said, pointing to the diner. “It’s dry and maybe we can get you some ice for that, for your foot.”
Cobb smiled thinly and didn’t even ask how Eames knew; they’ve been working together for three years, but have known each other longer. Of course, Eames knew. He always did. Eames wound an arm around Cobb’s waist in a way that seemed far too intimate than should have been allowed, their sides pressed together and Cobb’s own arm snaked around Eames’ shoulders.
The diner was a cozy reprieve from the biting weather. They staggered inside, clothes dripping puddles on the floor before locating a booth in the very back. Eames eased Cobb down onto one of the red vynil seats and gestured the waitress over. The floor was a checkered black and white linoleum. The whole place had a 60’s feel to it, a jukebox in the corner that played jazz classics and vintage memorabilia plastered on the walls.
Eames asked for a glass of ice and then ordered the house’s greasiest fattiest burger. Something to cover the taste of the blood in his mouth, he thought, as he tried lighting his cigarette for what felt like the fiftieth time. Still nothing. Tossing the pack aside, he leaned back against his seat, frowning at the staticky squeak the movement generated and watching as Cobb iced his swollen foot, nodding his thanks at the waitress.
Cobb had gotten pancakes and coffee (instead of beer) because Cobb was Cobb and although this line of work had hardened him, he still had his eye set on home. The pancakes reminded him of his mother, he said once, when Eames barged into his apartment two years ago, demanding his half of the money. Cobb was stooped over a plate of teetering pancakes, in drawstring pants and a shirt so threadbare Eames could see the faint outlines of his collarbones. Cobb said there were plenty more pancakes, asked if Eames wanted some, using that condescending tone of his and peering up at Eames through the fringe of hair covering his eyes. They got drunk on bad beer - at high noon - and then Cobb started talking. And then, yeah, stories about his mother.
Outside, the rain hadn’t even begun to slow down. The patter of it hit was loud on the roof, like a shower of bullets against tin and the glass where Eames’ shoulder was pressed against, was dark and murky with fog. Still no cars driving by, no cabs either. Their orders came with a clink of plates and the snap of a pink bubble gum that darted out of a pale, lipsticked mouth.
Eames thanked the waitress before stuffing a large wad of french fries into his mouth, sighing around the taste of half-cooked potato.
Cobb was the first one to speak, pouring an obscene amount of maple syrup onto his food before sipping his coffee. “How long do you think till the rain subsides?” A span of his face was discolored, purple with a newly-formed bruise.
Eames shrugged a shoulder and glanced at the inky darkness through the glass. “We might have to spend the night here, who knows. But if worse comes to worst, we can always brave the weather or steal a car. I vote we steal a car.”
“Yeah,” Cobb agreed noncommittally, cutting up his food with a fork. “Sure.”
Eames drank his beer. All eyes were on them, he knew, because when they’d stepped inside, people turned their heads in their direction, stopping whatever it was they were in the middle of to gawk and follow them with their eyes.
They probably didn’t look as low-key as they felt, with flecks of dried blood on their shirts and guns peeking out from their shoulder holsters. Cobb was shivering slightly as he ate and Eames could feel the fleeting brush of his foot under the table, too many times for it to be entirely accidental. Maybe it wasn’t their appearance that piqued curiosity, but their interactions, Eames thought.
“You should fire Nash,” he said, picking at his fries before smearing them with ketchup, “He is without a doubt the most incompetent architect I’ve ever had the opportunity to work with.”
“That can’t be true. Have you worked with other architects?” Cobb didn’t even look up from his plate.
“Point taken,” Eames conceded, “but this is the third time he’s landed us in trouble so I have every right to complain. Fire him.”
“On what basis? I can’t let personal bias affect my decisions.” Cobb smiled when Eames raised an eyebrow. “Besides, Nash is a competent guy. I agree he isn’t the best but he isn’t terrible, either. We’ll simply have to settle for now.”
“Are you looking to replace him though?”
“Now, you know I can’t tell you that,” Cobb said. He put his fork down and stirred his lukewarm coffee with a pinky, tearing a packet of sugar with his teeth.
“All this secrecy and mystery,” Eames said with a shake of his head, gesturing to Cobb and rolling his eyes, “You’re a lot less mysterious than you think you are, you know.”
“I know,” Cobb said. He was smiling slightly over the rim of his cup. Wicked, creases in the corner of his eyes and Eames remembered when he met him all those years ago, the air thick with heat as he stared up at the barrel of a gun -- Cobb’s gun -- before taking his hand.
Eames smiled back and shook his head again, kicking Cobb’s good foot under the table. Cobb laughed, putting his cup down where it clattered noisily against the saucer. They were both still pretty damp, their clothes heavy on their shoulders, pasted to their skin.
Cobb’s throat glistened in the light, pale, and smooth when he tipped his head back, shook the wetness from the ends of his hair and ran a hand through his face.
Eames reached over and touched the blood caked in Cobb’s knuckles with his fingernails. It wasn’t Cobb’s blood but another man’s, but blood was still blood and hours ago it beat inside a man who killed people for a living but also probably had a wife and child somewhere. It made Eames feel ill to think that some day it was going to be their blood caked in somebody’s hands, that they were going to find themselves at the other end of the gun, begging on their knees in a long dark alleyway.
“You need a lesson in self-preservation, Cobb,” Eames said softly, taking a long swig of his drink as he pulled back, “You can’t always put yourself in the line of fire like that or you’re going to die,”
“Maybe so,” Cobb said, “But why worry when you’ll always have my back?”
“Always?” Eames laughed, raspy, his throat feeling suddenly raw. “Don’t count on it,”
“I won’t,” Cobb said, but they shared a look that Eames couldn’t break away from for a long time, not even if he tried. He touched their shoes under the table and was startled when Cobb didn’t pull away. His face under the fluorescent was splotchy and clammy and pale, the bruise blooming on his cheek like a starburst.
Cobb said, low enough so that only Eames could hear, “So how about that car?” And Eames laughed before tossing a handful of crumpled bills on the table.
At the door before they left, Eames pulled Cobb by the front of his shirt and kissed him, quick and fierce, give people something to talk about.
pairing: cobb/eames
words: 1693
Eames turned up his collar and ran towards the next street. Rain was coming down in torrents, flooding the gutters and filling his shoes with puddles of rainwater. His shoes squelched noisily against the pavement as he ran for cover, arms raised above his head to shield himself from the torrential onslaught. He managed to duck safely under the slanted awning of a bookshop that was closed for the night while Cobb lagged close behind, limping as he steadied himself against the wall and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
They were both soaked through the bone, fresh from a job that, while Eames didn’t consider a failure, wasn’t a complete success, either. Cobb shambled none too gracefully next to him, hair plastered to the side of his face and bent forward, resting his hands on his knees, to catch his breath and compose himself.
Eames watched him from the corner of his eye as he wrung rainwater from his jacket and tipped his head back against the wall, breathing out of his mouth in loud, stunted gasps. Under the poor lighting of the street, Cobb’s eyelashes were spiked outwards, clumping together against his cheeks. He looked small, almost, standing next to Eames like that, that Eames wondered for a moment how it was even possible for a person of Cobb’s size to contain so much personality, so much character, without bursting through his skin.
Neither of them spoke for a minute. There were no cars driving by on the road that night. Eames peered through the thick slats of rain that poured over the roof and could barely make out the faint buzzing sign of a diner across the street, a tacky neon-pink that swelled with color before fading back into the dark. He checked his pockets for cigarettes and raised his eyebrows when he found them not nearly as damp as he expected. Lighting them seemed to be a problem though so he quit after his sixth try, balancing his weight against his heels and glancing down at Cobb.
Cobb’s eyes were red and puffy, his left cheek swollen with a quickly darkening bruise. His jaw was shadowed with stubble that was just starting to grow and he wasn’t complaining, was never the type to complain, but it was one of those times when Eames wished Cobb said something, anything to acknowledge the fact that he was hurting somewhere, or bleeding, or had broken something.
Eames sighed, dragging his eyes away from Cobb and toward the diner across the street. “I think we’ll be safe there,” he said, pointing to the diner. “It’s dry and maybe we can get you some ice for that, for your foot.”
Cobb smiled thinly and didn’t even ask how Eames knew; they’ve been working together for three years, but have known each other longer. Of course, Eames knew. He always did. Eames wound an arm around Cobb’s waist in a way that seemed far too intimate than should have been allowed, their sides pressed together and Cobb’s own arm snaked around Eames’ shoulders.
The diner was a cozy reprieve from the biting weather. They staggered inside, clothes dripping puddles on the floor before locating a booth in the very back. Eames eased Cobb down onto one of the red vynil seats and gestured the waitress over. The floor was a checkered black and white linoleum. The whole place had a 60’s feel to it, a jukebox in the corner that played jazz classics and vintage memorabilia plastered on the walls.
Eames asked for a glass of ice and then ordered the house’s greasiest fattiest burger. Something to cover the taste of the blood in his mouth, he thought, as he tried lighting his cigarette for what felt like the fiftieth time. Still nothing. Tossing the pack aside, he leaned back against his seat, frowning at the staticky squeak the movement generated and watching as Cobb iced his swollen foot, nodding his thanks at the waitress.
Cobb had gotten pancakes and coffee (instead of beer) because Cobb was Cobb and although this line of work had hardened him, he still had his eye set on home. The pancakes reminded him of his mother, he said once, when Eames barged into his apartment two years ago, demanding his half of the money. Cobb was stooped over a plate of teetering pancakes, in drawstring pants and a shirt so threadbare Eames could see the faint outlines of his collarbones. Cobb said there were plenty more pancakes, asked if Eames wanted some, using that condescending tone of his and peering up at Eames through the fringe of hair covering his eyes. They got drunk on bad beer - at high noon - and then Cobb started talking. And then, yeah, stories about his mother.
Outside, the rain hadn’t even begun to slow down. The patter of it hit was loud on the roof, like a shower of bullets against tin and the glass where Eames’ shoulder was pressed against, was dark and murky with fog. Still no cars driving by, no cabs either. Their orders came with a clink of plates and the snap of a pink bubble gum that darted out of a pale, lipsticked mouth.
Eames thanked the waitress before stuffing a large wad of french fries into his mouth, sighing around the taste of half-cooked potato.
Cobb was the first one to speak, pouring an obscene amount of maple syrup onto his food before sipping his coffee. “How long do you think till the rain subsides?” A span of his face was discolored, purple with a newly-formed bruise.
Eames shrugged a shoulder and glanced at the inky darkness through the glass. “We might have to spend the night here, who knows. But if worse comes to worst, we can always brave the weather or steal a car. I vote we steal a car.”
“Yeah,” Cobb agreed noncommittally, cutting up his food with a fork. “Sure.”
Eames drank his beer. All eyes were on them, he knew, because when they’d stepped inside, people turned their heads in their direction, stopping whatever it was they were in the middle of to gawk and follow them with their eyes.
They probably didn’t look as low-key as they felt, with flecks of dried blood on their shirts and guns peeking out from their shoulder holsters. Cobb was shivering slightly as he ate and Eames could feel the fleeting brush of his foot under the table, too many times for it to be entirely accidental. Maybe it wasn’t their appearance that piqued curiosity, but their interactions, Eames thought.
“You should fire Nash,” he said, picking at his fries before smearing them with ketchup, “He is without a doubt the most incompetent architect I’ve ever had the opportunity to work with.”
“That can’t be true. Have you worked with other architects?” Cobb didn’t even look up from his plate.
“Point taken,” Eames conceded, “but this is the third time he’s landed us in trouble so I have every right to complain. Fire him.”
“On what basis? I can’t let personal bias affect my decisions.” Cobb smiled when Eames raised an eyebrow. “Besides, Nash is a competent guy. I agree he isn’t the best but he isn’t terrible, either. We’ll simply have to settle for now.”
“Are you looking to replace him though?”
“Now, you know I can’t tell you that,” Cobb said. He put his fork down and stirred his lukewarm coffee with a pinky, tearing a packet of sugar with his teeth.
“All this secrecy and mystery,” Eames said with a shake of his head, gesturing to Cobb and rolling his eyes, “You’re a lot less mysterious than you think you are, you know.”
“I know,” Cobb said. He was smiling slightly over the rim of his cup. Wicked, creases in the corner of his eyes and Eames remembered when he met him all those years ago, the air thick with heat as he stared up at the barrel of a gun -- Cobb’s gun -- before taking his hand.
Eames smiled back and shook his head again, kicking Cobb’s good foot under the table. Cobb laughed, putting his cup down where it clattered noisily against the saucer. They were both still pretty damp, their clothes heavy on their shoulders, pasted to their skin.
Cobb’s throat glistened in the light, pale, and smooth when he tipped his head back, shook the wetness from the ends of his hair and ran a hand through his face.
Eames reached over and touched the blood caked in Cobb’s knuckles with his fingernails. It wasn’t Cobb’s blood but another man’s, but blood was still blood and hours ago it beat inside a man who killed people for a living but also probably had a wife and child somewhere. It made Eames feel ill to think that some day it was going to be their blood caked in somebody’s hands, that they were going to find themselves at the other end of the gun, begging on their knees in a long dark alleyway.
“You need a lesson in self-preservation, Cobb,” Eames said softly, taking a long swig of his drink as he pulled back, “You can’t always put yourself in the line of fire like that or you’re going to die,”
“Maybe so,” Cobb said, “But why worry when you’ll always have my back?”
“Always?” Eames laughed, raspy, his throat feeling suddenly raw. “Don’t count on it,”
“I won’t,” Cobb said, but they shared a look that Eames couldn’t break away from for a long time, not even if he tried. He touched their shoes under the table and was startled when Cobb didn’t pull away. His face under the fluorescent was splotchy and clammy and pale, the bruise blooming on his cheek like a starburst.
Cobb said, low enough so that only Eames could hear, “So how about that car?” And Eames laughed before tossing a handful of crumpled bills on the table.
At the door before they left, Eames pulled Cobb by the front of his shirt and kissed him, quick and fierce, give people something to talk about.