Inception - Walks Like an Angel
Jun. 27th, 2011 05:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
charybdisTitle: Walks Like an Angel
Characters: Arthur, Eames
Summary: AU. Continuation/expansion of this. Arthur is a maybe a little jealous of Eames. PG, 1,300 words
Dom says that the new guy is one of the most innovative extractors that he’s ever seen. That he has some crazy fantastic ideas. Probably good enough to pull some jobs on his own.
Mal just smiles, teases Dom about loving this extractor more than he loves her, until he’s falling all over himself to tell her, no, no, his love for Mal overwhelms all others.
They’re on their way to meet this mystery extractor. Arthur is somewhat skeptical of Dom’s claims, though he’s never known him to make a bad decision in selecting team members. Still. Dom’s hinted that the guy can change his entire body in the dream — on purpose.
It’s a fair day in Boston; a light breeze ameliorating the heat of the summer sun, the sky a smooth and brilliant blue overhead.
As they approach the cafe, Arthur catches sight of the man sprawled at an outdoor table, apparently engrossed in the financial section of the paper, and his blood runs cold.
“Thomas.” The name slips out before he can stop it.
Dom’s head whips around, “You know this guy?”
“Only by reputation,” Arthur replies, through gritted teeth. He looks different than the last dossier photo that Arthur saw, hair a little longer, a little broader, and wearing the antithesis of the SAS dress uniform. Apparently, he’s also changed his name to ‘Eames’.
Thomas had been part of the military’s original dreamshare program, before he’d gone AWOL with one of the precious PASIV devices, and more Somnacin than any one person could be expected to carry. He is single-handedly responsible for jump-starting the illegal extraction business.
Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur can see Mal arching an eyebrow in curiosity, but before he can elaborate, the man is coming over, shaking Dom’s hand with hearty familiarity, and bending to kiss Mal’s wrist with a flourish that makes her laugh.
The handshake he gives Arthur is considerably less theatrical, firm and professional, and for a moment, Arthur is pleasantly surprised. Until he recognizes it as the trustworthy handshake of a consummate confidence man. Arthur sits up a little straighter, uncomfortable in a chair made for lounging, and he actually starts paying attention to the conversation, watching the way Eames’ easy humor captivates his audience as much as his clever conversation.
Inwardly, Arthur sighs. This job is going to suck.
***
The first time they go into a dream is almost unbearable. Apparently, Dom didn’t think it necessary to mention Arthur’s… condition… beforehand, and after his initial exclamation of surprise, Eames spends a ludicrous amount of time just staring at Arthur’s breasts.
He also says that Arthur makes a terrible woman. Of course he knows that he’s a terrible woman. Mal’s tried for months to teach him better, and he can do it, if he thinks about it, but it’s just so much work that he rarely bothers.
“I am not, in fact, a forger,” Arthur informs him, infusing Eames’ newly-coined title with irony.
He manages to restrain his scowl when Eames retorts, “That’s wonderful news my dear, because you’re terrible at it,” but it’s a close call.
“Art takes point for my team,” Cobb says sharply. “And my team is the best in the business.”
It’s a pleasure to shoot Eames out of the dream, especially because the expression on Eames’ face says that he doesn’t know where the gun even came from.
***
Eames’ favorite body to wear is a pretty blonde, and it doesn’t take Arthur very long to realize that what Eames does in dreams is much more than slipping into a new shape.
His mannerisms change; he becomes someone entirely new. A con man with the power of metamorphosis — it’s unsettling. The change is seamless and whole, and when Eames becomes a woman, there’s no standing with feet too far apart, and certainly no mannish sprawling in chairs.
So it’s surprising when Arthur catches something that Eames hasn’t. He watches Eames-as-a-woman traipse around a park in shoes that are much too high and a dress that is much, much too short, until he can’t take it any more, and he calls her over to the bench where he’d been observing escape routes.
“You’ve never fought anyone in this body, have you?”
A flash of surprise crosses her face — and it’s a delicate expression, soft and oddly innocent — nothing like Eames. “How can you tell that?”
“The way you walk,” Arthur says. “It’s obvious.”
Eames huffs daintily, as though she knows no other way to be, and Arthur feels an irrational surge of jealousy over the way she alights on the arm of the bench, crossing her legs gracefully at the knees in the proper way that Arthur always, always forgets. It’s not fucking fair, Arthur never had a choice and for a moment, he can’t think of anything else.
When Eames leans over and says, “Enlighten me,” imperious as a queen, it takes Arthur a moment to realize what she’s talking about.
He sighs and gets up. This is part of his job, smoothing out the flaws in everyone’s performance, no matter what it takes, no matter how much he hates it.
A moment of concentration has him dressed properly.
Compared to Eames, Arthur looks like an idiot. Eames is model-tall, pushing six feet in those heels, but she’s well-proportioned, hourglass curves wrapped in just enough champagne-colored silk to be decent. Her blond hair falls in pleasingly soft waves over her bare shoulders.
This body might charitably be called ‘boyish’, though Arthur’s learned enough from Mal’s lessons in femininity that he knows to choose a halter-dress to show his shoulders and decollete, skirt that falls just above his knees. The shoes are stupidly high, in order to illustrate his point, a pair that Mal dictated for an extraction set at some black-tie gala. They don’t match the dress. Arthur doesn’t particularly care.
He ignores Eames’ wolf-whistle, even though it’s tempered by a grin that’s more friendly amusement than lasciviousness.
“You’re not familiar with your center of gravity,” he says, walking a little way down the path in front of the bench. He turns with as little movement as possible, so that the skirt swirls around him, smooth and elegant from hours of practice. Eames is watching him in frank amazement, lips slightly parted, glistening and soft. Arthur smirks, just a little — it’s nice to see that Eames appreciates this hard-won skill.
“The way you walk, it’s very…” Instead of trying to explain, Arthur walks back towards Eames, using his hips for balance, strutting like a high-school queen bee pretending to be a runway model.
“It’s what you like to see,” Arthur guesses. “It’s not the way anyone actually walks in idiot shoes like these. I mean, if you’d ever had to fight dressed like this,” he gestures irritably at the dress and heels he’s wearing, “The walk’d come a lot more naturally.”
There’s a long moment of silence, and then Eames gets up and says, “Well, let’s go, then.”
“What?” Arthur frowns.
Eames makes a sort of ‘come-on’ gesture, and says, “Illustrate, Arthur, I’m waiting.”
In half a second, she’s on the ground, coughing as she tries to get her breath back. She gets up, eventually.
“Again.”
Arthur is kind of impressed, but that doesn’t stop him throwing her a second time, making use of his lower center of gravity to roll her over his hip; she’s fast enough to get in one blow, but she still ends up on the ground.
The third time Eames gets thrown, she rolls away and manages to stagger to her feet. Arthur says, “Good.” Eames raises her hands, eyes intent, and says, “Again.”
When the time runs out, they’re both covered in grit and sweat, bruised and scraped from sparring. But Arthur makes her take one last walk down the path and watches, pleased, as she adopts a smooth, elegant gait, even with her torn dress and bloodied palms.
Characters: Arthur, Eames
Summary: AU. Continuation/expansion of this. Arthur is a maybe a little jealous of Eames. PG, 1,300 words
Dom says that the new guy is one of the most innovative extractors that he’s ever seen. That he has some crazy fantastic ideas. Probably good enough to pull some jobs on his own.
Mal just smiles, teases Dom about loving this extractor more than he loves her, until he’s falling all over himself to tell her, no, no, his love for Mal overwhelms all others.
They’re on their way to meet this mystery extractor. Arthur is somewhat skeptical of Dom’s claims, though he’s never known him to make a bad decision in selecting team members. Still. Dom’s hinted that the guy can change his entire body in the dream — on purpose.
It’s a fair day in Boston; a light breeze ameliorating the heat of the summer sun, the sky a smooth and brilliant blue overhead.
As they approach the cafe, Arthur catches sight of the man sprawled at an outdoor table, apparently engrossed in the financial section of the paper, and his blood runs cold.
“Thomas.” The name slips out before he can stop it.
Dom’s head whips around, “You know this guy?”
“Only by reputation,” Arthur replies, through gritted teeth. He looks different than the last dossier photo that Arthur saw, hair a little longer, a little broader, and wearing the antithesis of the SAS dress uniform. Apparently, he’s also changed his name to ‘Eames’.
Thomas had been part of the military’s original dreamshare program, before he’d gone AWOL with one of the precious PASIV devices, and more Somnacin than any one person could be expected to carry. He is single-handedly responsible for jump-starting the illegal extraction business.
Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur can see Mal arching an eyebrow in curiosity, but before he can elaborate, the man is coming over, shaking Dom’s hand with hearty familiarity, and bending to kiss Mal’s wrist with a flourish that makes her laugh.
The handshake he gives Arthur is considerably less theatrical, firm and professional, and for a moment, Arthur is pleasantly surprised. Until he recognizes it as the trustworthy handshake of a consummate confidence man. Arthur sits up a little straighter, uncomfortable in a chair made for lounging, and he actually starts paying attention to the conversation, watching the way Eames’ easy humor captivates his audience as much as his clever conversation.
Inwardly, Arthur sighs. This job is going to suck.
***
The first time they go into a dream is almost unbearable. Apparently, Dom didn’t think it necessary to mention Arthur’s… condition… beforehand, and after his initial exclamation of surprise, Eames spends a ludicrous amount of time just staring at Arthur’s breasts.
He also says that Arthur makes a terrible woman. Of course he knows that he’s a terrible woman. Mal’s tried for months to teach him better, and he can do it, if he thinks about it, but it’s just so much work that he rarely bothers.
“I am not, in fact, a forger,” Arthur informs him, infusing Eames’ newly-coined title with irony.
He manages to restrain his scowl when Eames retorts, “That’s wonderful news my dear, because you’re terrible at it,” but it’s a close call.
“Art takes point for my team,” Cobb says sharply. “And my team is the best in the business.”
It’s a pleasure to shoot Eames out of the dream, especially because the expression on Eames’ face says that he doesn’t know where the gun even came from.
***
Eames’ favorite body to wear is a pretty blonde, and it doesn’t take Arthur very long to realize that what Eames does in dreams is much more than slipping into a new shape.
His mannerisms change; he becomes someone entirely new. A con man with the power of metamorphosis — it’s unsettling. The change is seamless and whole, and when Eames becomes a woman, there’s no standing with feet too far apart, and certainly no mannish sprawling in chairs.
So it’s surprising when Arthur catches something that Eames hasn’t. He watches Eames-as-a-woman traipse around a park in shoes that are much too high and a dress that is much, much too short, until he can’t take it any more, and he calls her over to the bench where he’d been observing escape routes.
“You’ve never fought anyone in this body, have you?”
A flash of surprise crosses her face — and it’s a delicate expression, soft and oddly innocent — nothing like Eames. “How can you tell that?”
“The way you walk,” Arthur says. “It’s obvious.”
Eames huffs daintily, as though she knows no other way to be, and Arthur feels an irrational surge of jealousy over the way she alights on the arm of the bench, crossing her legs gracefully at the knees in the proper way that Arthur always, always forgets. It’s not fucking fair, Arthur never had a choice and for a moment, he can’t think of anything else.
When Eames leans over and says, “Enlighten me,” imperious as a queen, it takes Arthur a moment to realize what she’s talking about.
He sighs and gets up. This is part of his job, smoothing out the flaws in everyone’s performance, no matter what it takes, no matter how much he hates it.
A moment of concentration has him dressed properly.
Compared to Eames, Arthur looks like an idiot. Eames is model-tall, pushing six feet in those heels, but she’s well-proportioned, hourglass curves wrapped in just enough champagne-colored silk to be decent. Her blond hair falls in pleasingly soft waves over her bare shoulders.
This body might charitably be called ‘boyish’, though Arthur’s learned enough from Mal’s lessons in femininity that he knows to choose a halter-dress to show his shoulders and decollete, skirt that falls just above his knees. The shoes are stupidly high, in order to illustrate his point, a pair that Mal dictated for an extraction set at some black-tie gala. They don’t match the dress. Arthur doesn’t particularly care.
He ignores Eames’ wolf-whistle, even though it’s tempered by a grin that’s more friendly amusement than lasciviousness.
“You’re not familiar with your center of gravity,” he says, walking a little way down the path in front of the bench. He turns with as little movement as possible, so that the skirt swirls around him, smooth and elegant from hours of practice. Eames is watching him in frank amazement, lips slightly parted, glistening and soft. Arthur smirks, just a little — it’s nice to see that Eames appreciates this hard-won skill.
“The way you walk, it’s very…” Instead of trying to explain, Arthur walks back towards Eames, using his hips for balance, strutting like a high-school queen bee pretending to be a runway model.
“It’s what you like to see,” Arthur guesses. “It’s not the way anyone actually walks in idiot shoes like these. I mean, if you’d ever had to fight dressed like this,” he gestures irritably at the dress and heels he’s wearing, “The walk’d come a lot more naturally.”
There’s a long moment of silence, and then Eames gets up and says, “Well, let’s go, then.”
“What?” Arthur frowns.
Eames makes a sort of ‘come-on’ gesture, and says, “Illustrate, Arthur, I’m waiting.”
In half a second, she’s on the ground, coughing as she tries to get her breath back. She gets up, eventually.
“Again.”
Arthur is kind of impressed, but that doesn’t stop him throwing her a second time, making use of his lower center of gravity to roll her over his hip; she’s fast enough to get in one blow, but she still ends up on the ground.
The third time Eames gets thrown, she rolls away and manages to stagger to her feet. Arthur says, “Good.” Eames raises her hands, eyes intent, and says, “Again.”
When the time runs out, they’re both covered in grit and sweat, bruised and scraped from sparring. But Arthur makes her take one last walk down the path and watches, pleased, as she adopts a smooth, elegant gait, even with her torn dress and bloodied palms.
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Date: 2011-07-08 06:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-12 02:11 am (UTC)