Author: darkhavens
Title: Subject to Misinterpretation
Fandom: Pairing: Inception: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13
Words: 200
Concrit: Please. If you spot a typo or a grammar glitch, feel free to tell me in comments.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Warnings/Squicks: none
Summary: Dom sees something he wasn't meant to and insists on talking about it.
Notes: Written for round 1, wk2 at ae_ldws: Genre/Cliche:Established Relationship, Prompt:"I really don't want to talk to you."


Subject to Misinterpretation

"Arthur-"

"No."

"But-"

"Dom, leave it. I really don't want to talk to you. Not about this. Not now."

"Jesus, Arthur, he had you pinned up against the wall while he gnawed on your neck like some second-rate vampire. I heard you say 'Don't', but he didn't stop until he realised I was there."

"W-What? You think he-?"

"I didn't realise it had gotten that bad. You never seemed bothered by the innuendos, or the lewd jokes about inside legs and the cut of your pants and all those suggestions about broadening your horizons. I've never seen Eames be quite that unprofessional before; I can't just stand by and let-"

"Darling, please put us all out of our misery and confess your undying love for yours truly, before your oblivious friend accuses me of sexual assault."

"Eames-"

"Undying love? What-?"

"Okay! I was trying to keep things professional, but as we're obviously having this conversation in front of the client... Dom, what I actually said was 'Don't leave marks'. Eames, I should've known better than to expect you to keep your hands to yourself, but yes, you arrogant bastard, I love you."

"Never doubted it for a minute, my dove."


#####



Author: darkhavens
Title: The Dusty Day is Done
Fandom: Pairing: Inception: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG13
Words: 400
Concrit: Please. If you spot a typo or a grammar glitch, feel free to tell me in comments.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Warnings/Squicks: **Possible off-screen character death (subject to interpretation)**
Summary: Eames cannot sleep alone and then Arthur cannot bear to.
Notes: Written for Round 1, wk3 of ae_ldws: Genre:Angst; Prompt:Insomnia. Title taken from Watching by Emily Chubbuck Judson.


The Dusty Day is Done

It takes him two days to notice that he hasn't been to bed. And he doesn't mean he's slept sacked out on the sofa either, or folded into the oversize armchair that just about seats two - if they happen to be slightly undersized or particularly friendly.

He hasn't even thought about sleeping, which is all kinds of odd. He loves going to bed; he loves sliding naked between newly-purchased, obscenely high thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets that Arth-

Ah. That would be the why of it then.

Arthur. Or, rather, a marked lack of Arthur, sprawled out across the fancy linens he'd insisted Eames buy after discovering that his usual sheets were -horror of horrors- poly-cotton blend.

Arthur, who had left two -almost three- days ago for 'Just a quick in and out, Eames. Shouldn't take a week. I'll let you know when my flight gets in.'

God, he was pathetic. Five and a half months spent sharing various beds - Arthur draped across his chest, curled up at his back, pinned under an arm and a leg, or spooned against his chest with Eames's cock held snug between his thighs. Twenty-three weeks and four days, and his subconscious had somehow decided that he wouldn't be able to sleep alone and so had tried to prevent him from even trying.

#

It's another three nights before Eames stops lying to himself; stops lying in bed, staring at the ceiling; stops watching shadows dancing on the walls; stops reaching out for the warmth and comfort of a body that isn't there.

Three nights lying awake, straining to hear the gentle susurration of mumbled nonsense and sighing breaths that are as much a part of Arthur asleep as is the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. That, and his tendency to kick when startled.

#

After a damnable phone call -'Couple more days. Extractor's an asshole.'- he almost drowns himself in single malt. He's conscious again five hours later: hungover, still weary, but wide awake. There's been another call.

The thirteen hundred miles to the cottage on the coast pass in a blur of tepid coffee and stale pastries. Eames lets himself in and follows a trail of torn and bloodied clothing into the bedroom where Arthur lies, a nightmare vision of purpling blues, raw reds, and bone-ash white.

"Cobb's- He wouldn't listen..."

"Oh, darling."

They sleep tangled together, skin-hungry, starved for comfort.

###

findyourwords 2011: