![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
meiface.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
chineseinkFor ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
2naonh3_cl2, who requested an A/E AU based off this music video (with Zooey Deschanel and JGL) and somehow got me to do it, probably because I love her. Never-ending gratitude to delocalised and intomorning for betaing when I threw it desperately at them at the last minute and for being ridiculously helpful. ♥
Dream a Little Dream of Me
Inception, Arthur/Eames, PG, 2135 words
AU. Arthur likes routine and his job as a bank teller gives him that. Falling in love with the man who comes in to rob the bank, however, is not a part of the routine.
Arthur doesn't wake up that day thinking he'll fall in love with a bank robber. Then again, no one ever does.
He's spinning around the lobby's polished marble floors, the light dimmer than Arthur remembers. Maybe that's just his vision going hazy, though, as they whirl again in time to an invisible swell of music. There's a hand resting on his waist and another, warm with the touch of skin, gentle around his hand. They waltz.
Arthur moves instinctively, dizzy with feelings, the turns that sweep him across the floor as you-can-call-me-Eames leads him to the three-count.
It's fitting that Arthur is the one following, helplessly. He has no idea where he's going.
"You look disarmed," Eames murmurs.
It takes Arthur a moment. "Unsettled," he returns. Eames's mouth quirks.
The hand on his waist is heavy through his waistcoat and shirt and now Eames's thumb is stroking over the material, a light back-and-forth that sparks sensations along Arthur's nerves. His eyes match the light, Arthur notes, or maybe it's the light that matches his eyes - blue-gray and soft-focused. He thinks they'd make a memorable Impressionist painting, hazy around the edges, like a dream.
--
Life tends to fall into a routine if you let it. Arthur's never minded. He likes the natural order of things: it's a logical progression from his bed to the kitchen, setting the coffee to percolate as he showers. By the time he's dressed - slacks and socks, fitted undershirt, white shirt, suspenders, and waistcoat - the coffee's piping hot. He sips it as he fixes the rest of his breakfast and eats while he does a quick run-through of his email. His laptop powers down as he returns to the bedroom for a tie and exits with his briefcase in hand, tie snug around his neck and a different color and pattern for each day. Even Arthur likes a little spontaneity.
The commute to his job takes about half an hour, which is remarkable for the morning rush hour. Arthur reads The New York Times on the subway, deaf with practice to the murmurs of conversation around him. He steps off the platform with the paper rolled and tucked under his arm, squinting against the sunlight (or sometimes putting up an umbrella against the drizzle). He arrives at work between 8:30 and 8:45 and is ready to go behind the marble counter by 9, when the security guard unlocks the doors.
Arthur expects another day of routine when he settles at his window, straightening his tie. Today, it's a deep sea blue that shimmers green in the light. It makes him think of being underwater, or lost in a memory, and his hands linger a moment longer than necessary. Remembering. But then Arthur pulls away and glances at his watch. It reads 9:01. The doors open.
Another day begins.
--
He doesn't remember climbing over the counter, can't remember how undignified and awkward it must have been, but he's on the other side without ever having broken eye contact. It must have happened, Arthur reasons, deducts.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks, because what kind of bank robber waltzes into a bank so brazenly and stops for a seduction in the middle of a heist.
"Because I can," he's told. He stares at the hand extended towards him, palm up.
That smile again, broad and confident and inviting Arthur to take a risk. Make a leap of faith. Be impulsive.
"Because you're beautiful, darling," he's told when his hand slides over another's, dry and warm.
Their fingers link and Arthur's losing his mind. He can barely hear over the pounding of blood in his ears, a heavy beat that maybe the other man can hear. They move to it, fluid, as Arthur is swept into a waltz. He didn't know he still remembered how, years after Victoria's swirling ballroom gowns and their dance lessons.
He's not sure if the world is tilting off-axis or if that's just him. "Who are you?"
"You can call me Eames."
They turn.
--
Arthur is not a machine. He enjoys order and routine because he's human, because he's learned better.
It's not like Arthur doesn't dream, because he does. It's not like he's never been impulsive or wanted something more. More than this, more than what he has - it's human nature, always wanting something else, something other than what you have, making wishes as fluid and impossible as catching the wind or holding a memory.
Arthur dreams. Arthur is impulsive. But the dreams fade away when you open your eyes and the impulses teach you to regret. Sometimes they're little ones: the lamb vindaloo caused a painful but memorable experience, and Arthur knows well enough to stick to lamb krahi or chicken masala now. Sometimes they're bigger regrets, though, ones that gape like wounds and that hurt for years: Victoria leaving him for Paris and Evan leaving him for Peter.
These days, Arthur may still dream, but he thinks before he leaps.
He hasn't learned how to stop wanting something more, but he never knew what exactly "more" entailed until the day he falls in love with a bank robber.
It's a lesson no one expects, getting what you want.
--
"What's your name, love?"
It's on the name plate but Arthur replies anyway, ever polite. It's not the first time he's been flirted with at work, though he's never understood why people thought picking up a bank teller while he was on the job was a good idea. Arthur has never really understood people.
Still, he answers, "Arthur," and waits for the deposit slip pushed across the counter. Their fingers brush, and linger.
Arthur looks up, heart inexplicably in his throat. He meets a wicked, crooked smile. A misplaced smile on an unfamiliar face, a stranger Arthur's never met before. It could mean nothing - the bank is one of the largest in New York, after all, and so many people prefer online banking when it means avoiding face-to-face interaction. Arthur's sure there are hundreds of customers he's never met. But this stranger slides his fingers intimately through Arthur's as he withdraws his hands, sending an unwelcome flush of heat through Arthur's body.
He drops his eyes and it takes a moment for him to register what he's reading.
I'm withdrawing $200,000 in cash. Twenties.
The man casually shifts his hips and Arthur is momentarily distracted by his tailored trousers, dark and close-fitting, until the suit jacket flips back with the man's arm. Arthur’s gaze stutters and catches on the gun tucked into his waistband.
--
Janet McCourtney needs to deposit a check and withdraw two hundred dollars. She's in a rush, French-tipped nails tap-tapping on the counter, eyes flicking to her slim silver watch every few seconds. She still flashes Arthur a smile as he hands her the cash and her receipt. "Thank you, Arthur," she says, because she's been a loyal customer for years, since before Arthur was hired. "Have a lovely day."
Esther Kim needs two rolls of quarters and keeps one earbud in, the other dangling over her printed t-shirt as she tucks her debit card back into her wallet. "Thanks," she says, not meeting Arthur's eyes when he bids her a good day. Her ponytail swings as she leaves, an arc of dark hair against the blue-gray city sky.
Phillip K. Sauer wants to open a new account. Arthur directs him to the couches in the waiting area, promising that their next available agent will be with him. He sits with some difficulty, as though his back is giving him problems, and gazes out of the floor-to-ceiling glass panels that line the front of the bank.
Arthur's fingers fly over the keyboard, flip through the bills, guide the carbon receipt paper through the machine. He works so efficiently it's almost rote now. It leaves him time to flick a sideways glance at each waiting customer, taking in a moment of unguarded expression and filing it away. Arthur wonders, sometimes, what their dreams are.
He doesn't ask, of course, because it would be unprofessional. Arthur is anything but unprofessional.
Still, sometimes he wonders.
Sometimes he wonders if anyone looks at him and thinks, What are your dreams?
--
There's no such thing as love at first sight. Arthur is too practical to believe in ridiculous things like that now. Once upon a time he might have, but once upon a time was a long time ago.
Arthur has just completed a customer's transaction when the man walks in. He doesn't stand out in his black suit, considering the bank’s clientele. It's hardly unusual.
What catches Arthur's eye, momentarily, is the way he walks - languid but purposeful, unhurried but with a direction in mind. He walks like he knows where he's going, who he is, what he wants, and the world couldn't fluster him if it tried.
But Christian Eimiller is still in front of him, gathering his things and stuffing his bills into his wallet. "--and I think she'll really love them," he says enthusiastically, finishing a story Arthur's lost the thread to. He smiles reflexively. "Thanks," Christian says, sliding his wallet into his back pocket. He smiles, friendly, at Arthur. "Have a good day."
"You too, Mr. Eimiller."
--
"Hello," Arthur says, his courteous smile in place and his curiosity hidden. "How may I help you?"
He doesn't expect his world to change.
--
The dance ends.
They've stopped in the middle of the lobby, inches apart and still linked through their hands. Arthur inhales as Eames exhales and Arthur imagines the world gets even dimmer around them. Here they are in the center of the bank's marbled floors, in the center of a private world.
"You can't just think I'll let you go," Arthur says and his voice sounds odd to his ears, too soft.
Eames's hand slips lower until he's cradling Arthur's hip. "You couldn't hold me if you tried." His breath is warm over Arthur's lips. It's as intimate as a kiss, but headier, dizzying with all the potential and the anticipation.
Arthur doesn't remember closing his eyes. He doesn't remember when the music stops. Was there ever music or had it all just been the pounding of his heart? His hands fall to his sides, sliding out of Eames's hand and off his broad shoulder. There's an ocean in Arthur's head, waves cresting and crashing on an empty beach.
"Arthur," Eames breathes. He sounds too close, like he's inside Arthur's head, buried somewhere deep and familiar. He sounds like waves crashing in his ear, an echo that lingers until it fades.
Arthur opens his eyes.
Penelope is standing over him with a concerned look, eyes golden-brown and warm. "Are you all right, Arthur?" she asks. "You seem exhausted."
He's never fallen asleep at work before, leaning back in a leather chair in the break room. Arthur blinks at her, disoriented, an ache pulling at his chest and warring with the rising embarrassment. "I'm fine," he says and crooks a wan smile. "Didn't mean to fall asleep."
The room is brightly lit with fluorescent lights. There are no windows and the only sound he can hear is the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner and Penelope's chuckle. "Well, you have about fifteen minutes left of your lunch-break. Did you eat anything?"
Arthur straightens in his chair, stomach sinking as he takes in his surroundings.
Everything is as it should be.
It's just another normal day, as real as it can be, sharp and clear in his vision.
"No," he says. "I don't feel very hungry."
--
Arthur doesn't wake up that day thinking he'll fall in love with a bank robber. No one ever does. The thing is, with Arthur - Arthur, who learned to look before he leaped, who never learned to stop dreaming - is that he doesn't.
He steps out of the bank in the last ten minutes of his break, stepping quickly down the flight of marble steps until halfway, where he pauses. There are few people around; a few tourists wander by on the sidewalk below, but Arthur is as alone as he'll get. He leans his hip against a railing and pulls out his phone.
"Now this is a surprise," says Eames when he answers. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Arthur?"
Once upon a time, Arthur believed in love at first sight. But by the time love walked into his life, he'd already learned to be careful - too careful, sometimes. He makes an impulsive leap of faith, fingers worrying at his tie, a tie someone picked out for him a long time ago with a hopeful smile. "I had a dream about you," he says. "Would you like to have dinner?"
--
Started: 2010.08.28 | Finished: 2010.08.31
Notes: Title taken from Yiruma. More ridiculous meta here, if you're terribly bored.
2naonh3_cl2, who requested an A/E AU based off this music video (with Zooey Deschanel and JGL) and somehow got me to do it, probably because I love her. Never-ending gratitude to delocalised and intomorning for betaing when I threw it desperately at them at the last minute and for being ridiculously helpful. ♥Dream a Little Dream of Me
Inception, Arthur/Eames, PG, 2135 words
AU. Arthur likes routine and his job as a bank teller gives him that. Falling in love with the man who comes in to rob the bank, however, is not a part of the routine.
Arthur doesn't wake up that day thinking he'll fall in love with a bank robber. Then again, no one ever does.
He's spinning around the lobby's polished marble floors, the light dimmer than Arthur remembers. Maybe that's just his vision going hazy, though, as they whirl again in time to an invisible swell of music. There's a hand resting on his waist and another, warm with the touch of skin, gentle around his hand. They waltz.
Arthur moves instinctively, dizzy with feelings, the turns that sweep him across the floor as you-can-call-me-Eames leads him to the three-count.
It's fitting that Arthur is the one following, helplessly. He has no idea where he's going.
"You look disarmed," Eames murmurs.
It takes Arthur a moment. "Unsettled," he returns. Eames's mouth quirks.
The hand on his waist is heavy through his waistcoat and shirt and now Eames's thumb is stroking over the material, a light back-and-forth that sparks sensations along Arthur's nerves. His eyes match the light, Arthur notes, or maybe it's the light that matches his eyes - blue-gray and soft-focused. He thinks they'd make a memorable Impressionist painting, hazy around the edges, like a dream.
Life tends to fall into a routine if you let it. Arthur's never minded. He likes the natural order of things: it's a logical progression from his bed to the kitchen, setting the coffee to percolate as he showers. By the time he's dressed - slacks and socks, fitted undershirt, white shirt, suspenders, and waistcoat - the coffee's piping hot. He sips it as he fixes the rest of his breakfast and eats while he does a quick run-through of his email. His laptop powers down as he returns to the bedroom for a tie and exits with his briefcase in hand, tie snug around his neck and a different color and pattern for each day. Even Arthur likes a little spontaneity.
The commute to his job takes about half an hour, which is remarkable for the morning rush hour. Arthur reads The New York Times on the subway, deaf with practice to the murmurs of conversation around him. He steps off the platform with the paper rolled and tucked under his arm, squinting against the sunlight (or sometimes putting up an umbrella against the drizzle). He arrives at work between 8:30 and 8:45 and is ready to go behind the marble counter by 9, when the security guard unlocks the doors.
Arthur expects another day of routine when he settles at his window, straightening his tie. Today, it's a deep sea blue that shimmers green in the light. It makes him think of being underwater, or lost in a memory, and his hands linger a moment longer than necessary. Remembering. But then Arthur pulls away and glances at his watch. It reads 9:01. The doors open.
Another day begins.
He doesn't remember climbing over the counter, can't remember how undignified and awkward it must have been, but he's on the other side without ever having broken eye contact. It must have happened, Arthur reasons, deducts.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks, because what kind of bank robber waltzes into a bank so brazenly and stops for a seduction in the middle of a heist.
"Because I can," he's told. He stares at the hand extended towards him, palm up.
That smile again, broad and confident and inviting Arthur to take a risk. Make a leap of faith. Be impulsive.
"Because you're beautiful, darling," he's told when his hand slides over another's, dry and warm.
Their fingers link and Arthur's losing his mind. He can barely hear over the pounding of blood in his ears, a heavy beat that maybe the other man can hear. They move to it, fluid, as Arthur is swept into a waltz. He didn't know he still remembered how, years after Victoria's swirling ballroom gowns and their dance lessons.
He's not sure if the world is tilting off-axis or if that's just him. "Who are you?"
"You can call me Eames."
They turn.
Arthur is not a machine. He enjoys order and routine because he's human, because he's learned better.
It's not like Arthur doesn't dream, because he does. It's not like he's never been impulsive or wanted something more. More than this, more than what he has - it's human nature, always wanting something else, something other than what you have, making wishes as fluid and impossible as catching the wind or holding a memory.
Arthur dreams. Arthur is impulsive. But the dreams fade away when you open your eyes and the impulses teach you to regret. Sometimes they're little ones: the lamb vindaloo caused a painful but memorable experience, and Arthur knows well enough to stick to lamb krahi or chicken masala now. Sometimes they're bigger regrets, though, ones that gape like wounds and that hurt for years: Victoria leaving him for Paris and Evan leaving him for Peter.
These days, Arthur may still dream, but he thinks before he leaps.
He hasn't learned how to stop wanting something more, but he never knew what exactly "more" entailed until the day he falls in love with a bank robber.
It's a lesson no one expects, getting what you want.
"What's your name, love?"
It's on the name plate but Arthur replies anyway, ever polite. It's not the first time he's been flirted with at work, though he's never understood why people thought picking up a bank teller while he was on the job was a good idea. Arthur has never really understood people.
Still, he answers, "Arthur," and waits for the deposit slip pushed across the counter. Their fingers brush, and linger.
Arthur looks up, heart inexplicably in his throat. He meets a wicked, crooked smile. A misplaced smile on an unfamiliar face, a stranger Arthur's never met before. It could mean nothing - the bank is one of the largest in New York, after all, and so many people prefer online banking when it means avoiding face-to-face interaction. Arthur's sure there are hundreds of customers he's never met. But this stranger slides his fingers intimately through Arthur's as he withdraws his hands, sending an unwelcome flush of heat through Arthur's body.
He drops his eyes and it takes a moment for him to register what he's reading.
I'm withdrawing $200,000 in cash. Twenties.
The man casually shifts his hips and Arthur is momentarily distracted by his tailored trousers, dark and close-fitting, until the suit jacket flips back with the man's arm. Arthur’s gaze stutters and catches on the gun tucked into his waistband.
Janet McCourtney needs to deposit a check and withdraw two hundred dollars. She's in a rush, French-tipped nails tap-tapping on the counter, eyes flicking to her slim silver watch every few seconds. She still flashes Arthur a smile as he hands her the cash and her receipt. "Thank you, Arthur," she says, because she's been a loyal customer for years, since before Arthur was hired. "Have a lovely day."
Esther Kim needs two rolls of quarters and keeps one earbud in, the other dangling over her printed t-shirt as she tucks her debit card back into her wallet. "Thanks," she says, not meeting Arthur's eyes when he bids her a good day. Her ponytail swings as she leaves, an arc of dark hair against the blue-gray city sky.
Phillip K. Sauer wants to open a new account. Arthur directs him to the couches in the waiting area, promising that their next available agent will be with him. He sits with some difficulty, as though his back is giving him problems, and gazes out of the floor-to-ceiling glass panels that line the front of the bank.
Arthur's fingers fly over the keyboard, flip through the bills, guide the carbon receipt paper through the machine. He works so efficiently it's almost rote now. It leaves him time to flick a sideways glance at each waiting customer, taking in a moment of unguarded expression and filing it away. Arthur wonders, sometimes, what their dreams are.
He doesn't ask, of course, because it would be unprofessional. Arthur is anything but unprofessional.
Still, sometimes he wonders.
Sometimes he wonders if anyone looks at him and thinks, What are your dreams?
There's no such thing as love at first sight. Arthur is too practical to believe in ridiculous things like that now. Once upon a time he might have, but once upon a time was a long time ago.
Arthur has just completed a customer's transaction when the man walks in. He doesn't stand out in his black suit, considering the bank’s clientele. It's hardly unusual.
What catches Arthur's eye, momentarily, is the way he walks - languid but purposeful, unhurried but with a direction in mind. He walks like he knows where he's going, who he is, what he wants, and the world couldn't fluster him if it tried.
But Christian Eimiller is still in front of him, gathering his things and stuffing his bills into his wallet. "--and I think she'll really love them," he says enthusiastically, finishing a story Arthur's lost the thread to. He smiles reflexively. "Thanks," Christian says, sliding his wallet into his back pocket. He smiles, friendly, at Arthur. "Have a good day."
"You too, Mr. Eimiller."
"Hello," Arthur says, his courteous smile in place and his curiosity hidden. "How may I help you?"
He doesn't expect his world to change.
The dance ends.
They've stopped in the middle of the lobby, inches apart and still linked through their hands. Arthur inhales as Eames exhales and Arthur imagines the world gets even dimmer around them. Here they are in the center of the bank's marbled floors, in the center of a private world.
"You can't just think I'll let you go," Arthur says and his voice sounds odd to his ears, too soft.
Eames's hand slips lower until he's cradling Arthur's hip. "You couldn't hold me if you tried." His breath is warm over Arthur's lips. It's as intimate as a kiss, but headier, dizzying with all the potential and the anticipation.
Arthur doesn't remember closing his eyes. He doesn't remember when the music stops. Was there ever music or had it all just been the pounding of his heart? His hands fall to his sides, sliding out of Eames's hand and off his broad shoulder. There's an ocean in Arthur's head, waves cresting and crashing on an empty beach.
"Arthur," Eames breathes. He sounds too close, like he's inside Arthur's head, buried somewhere deep and familiar. He sounds like waves crashing in his ear, an echo that lingers until it fades.
Arthur opens his eyes.
Penelope is standing over him with a concerned look, eyes golden-brown and warm. "Are you all right, Arthur?" she asks. "You seem exhausted."
He's never fallen asleep at work before, leaning back in a leather chair in the break room. Arthur blinks at her, disoriented, an ache pulling at his chest and warring with the rising embarrassment. "I'm fine," he says and crooks a wan smile. "Didn't mean to fall asleep."
The room is brightly lit with fluorescent lights. There are no windows and the only sound he can hear is the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner and Penelope's chuckle. "Well, you have about fifteen minutes left of your lunch-break. Did you eat anything?"
Arthur straightens in his chair, stomach sinking as he takes in his surroundings.
Everything is as it should be.
It's just another normal day, as real as it can be, sharp and clear in his vision.
"No," he says. "I don't feel very hungry."
Arthur doesn't wake up that day thinking he'll fall in love with a bank robber. No one ever does. The thing is, with Arthur - Arthur, who learned to look before he leaped, who never learned to stop dreaming - is that he doesn't.
He steps out of the bank in the last ten minutes of his break, stepping quickly down the flight of marble steps until halfway, where he pauses. There are few people around; a few tourists wander by on the sidewalk below, but Arthur is as alone as he'll get. He leans his hip against a railing and pulls out his phone.
"Now this is a surprise," says Eames when he answers. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Arthur?"
Once upon a time, Arthur believed in love at first sight. But by the time love walked into his life, he'd already learned to be careful - too careful, sometimes. He makes an impulsive leap of faith, fingers worrying at his tie, a tie someone picked out for him a long time ago with a hopeful smile. "I had a dream about you," he says. "Would you like to have dinner?"
--
Started: 2010.08.28 | Finished: 2010.08.31
Notes: Title taken from Yiruma. More ridiculous meta here, if you're terribly bored.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}