Disclaimer: All characters herein belong to Christopher Nolan and the people at the movie studios and such who made Inception. I do not own them nor do I make money off of this. Based on a fanart linked on profile page.
Tether
It's dark in the warehouse, quiet, and the job is done. Dom has gone home to his kids; Ariadne caught a cab with Yusuf, yawning and shoving against him sleepily.
And so it's just the two of them, because they are the two with nowhere to go, nowhere to be. They are the ones with only fragile tethers in the world outside of the warehouse, outside of their jobs, outside of their team.
Arthur's table is cleared but for a lone piece of paper and the typewriter Ariadne is tinkering with. He's not sure how it got into his space but he's pressed a few keys to hear it ding, exhausted curiosity taking control of his hands. There's a window behind him, and light spills in through the slats in the blinds; he looks at his shadow in the lines, watches patches of the light blot out as Eames moves up behind him. He bends over, sets the glasses and the brandy on the table, leans against its edge. In the half-light, his skin is almost blue, his face defined in shadows.
"One hell of a bloody job," he says quietly, separating the glasses. Arthur pulls the top off the brandy, pours it for them. He remains quiet. Eames looks down at him, sitting primly in his chair with his legs crossed, and Arthur glances up at him, reaches for his glass.
"A bloody job indeed," he murmurs before tossing it back.
Eames laughs at him, follows his example. "Take the next one like the gentleman you pretend to be," he says, but he's grinning-Arthur can see the light from outside reflecting off of his teeth, can tell he's too tired to smile properly. He wants to stand up, press Eames back against the table, insinuate himself into the crevices of that body, explore with his tongue and fingertips and lips-to reassure, to find, to learn.
He stays in his seat and pours them both another measure.
"Got a light?" Eames asks. They're on their third glass, tired, relaxing in their respective positions.
Arthur takes the cigarette extended to him, pulls his lighter out of his pocket, and flicks it open. The flame, a little pinprick of light from far away, lights up his face, and then Eames', because Eames is leaning down to light his at the same time, off of the same small flame, and his eyes are deep and dark and focused on Arthur in a way that makes it hard for him to breathe in. His cig sputters a little.
He sets the lighter on the table next to his glass, looks at Eames' fingers wrapped around his own. Takes a drag to refocus himself.
"How'd you die in the second level?" he asks, because he knows how Eames died in the first level, in front of him, with him.
"Ah, managed to get my arm hacked off. Nasty little play things for security. Swear his projections were robots."
Arthur shakes his head, doesn't laugh because he doesn't like the gory, painful deaths, never has. A clean shot to the head is his preferred emergency exit, and that's hard enough sometimes.
He's glad he wasn't in the second level, if only because he didn't have to watch everyone die twice. Worst part of extracting, watching the people he's come to care about, at least marginally, dying in front of him, time and time again. Sometimes, it doesn't seem to matter to him that it's all in the dream.
"You went with me in that explosion, yeah? First level?" Eames asks, and Arthur breathes in.
"I shouldn't have been so close to you," he says, leaning his head back to stare up at the ceiling far above. "I might have been able to keep them in longer if I hadn't been so close."
Eames is quiet for a moment and then Arthur can hear the slight shuffle of his clothes, can feel the leg pressing against his own as Eames settles on the edge of the table, reaches for the brandy again. "To be honest, I don't think they needed much more time. They got it handled, hmm?"
"The dream collapsed on them, Eames, and that's my fault. You know how that feels, to be pulled out like that-there's a reason we usually avoid it." They all do, and it's never any fun when it happens.
Nor is this, this quiet hesitant interaction between them. Alcohol and cigarettes aside, he knows why Eames is here, now, with him.
He drops his cig onto the floor and grinds it out under his shoe, unfolds his legs and leans forward, hands braced on either side of Eames' thighs.
"You shouldn't have let me get that close," he says, and he's standing, inches between them, watching.
Eames shakes his head, flicks his own cig to the ground behind Arthur, sets his glass down at his side and reaches out, hand on Arthur's waist, fingers curling in his suit-vest-tethering, tethering, and they are each other's tether in every world. "I'm glad you went with me," he says, and he kisses Arthur.
Problematic, stupid, dangerous for everyone else. But Arthur would do it again, because he can't let a team member die right in front of him without trying to save them, even if that team member is Eames, even if he's lost his control for once, even if it's not a conscious decision.
Even if it's because Eames isn't a team member, if it's because Eames might mean more to him than Mal did, than Cobb does, than Ariadne or Yusuf or anybody else.
Arthur kisses him back.
-author's note-
-x-
based heavily on a gorgeous piece of fanart, fanlay's Pulp. I'd link here if ff. net wasn't a dick about it, but it's on my profile otherwise.