Ill-Timed (Inception, Eames)

[Owlinatree]

Hello! This is about 2k of sick Eames and it was written for this request:

“Maybe Ill Timed for Eames? Possibly in combination with one of these super old prompts you posted where the sick person just wants to get the job done and the other one's being mad at them for coming to work and spreading their germs.”

“Ill Timed - it’s the worst possible time for (character) to be sick, but their body didn’t get the memo”

 

Arthur is listening to their extractor, or at least he’s hearing what’s being said, and it’s being filed into his brain for later perusal. Probably. The extractor for this job is a twenty-something who dresses like a frat boy and introduced himself as “Ryan, but you can call me The Man.”

Arthur is also compiling a list in his notebook, because something has been amiss with Eames and he hasn’t yet worked out what.

Irregularities:

1. Exactly on time

2. Back to the door

3. Quieter

4. Normal clothing

This should be easy, an assemblage of facts like this, but people are messy and Eames is impossible to pin down, and what the hell kind of qualitative bullshit is “quieter,” anyway? Arthur turns the page, lets his brain catch up on the processing thing, and shuffles Eames to the back of his mind, for now.

There is one day until the extraction, which means that Arthur’s swamped. The job itself isn’t the problem—it’s as standard an extraction as there can be—but Arthur hasn’t worked with this particular extractor before so he’ll need to set up twice as many contingencies, because people are unpredictable. People are supposed to be Eames’ job, but Eames has been quieter, and he’s wearing a perfectly average shirt with a sweater (a sweater!), and Arthur has not made sense of it all, just a list.

It’s not that Arthur only works with predictable or even sane dreamers; case in point, Cobb. Yes, Cobb was a liability most of the time, but he was a quantifiable liability, and Arthur did some of his best work when Cobb fucked up. Arthur’s not a stick in the mud, not really. He just likes to understand which parts are most likely to go off the rails.

“. . . use his guilt about the rather duplicitous claims of the drug to convince him to tell his sister.” Arthur falls back into step with the world as Eames says his piece, and he’s present enough to voice a response.

“Do you really think we can rely on his guilt? Assuming he has any, there’s a chance he’ll just sink into denial.”

“Oh, that’s incredibly helpful. Thank you.” Eames’ words crystallize in the air, sharp.

“The whole premise could backfire.”

“Are you planning to propose anything of value, or do you actually believe this constitutes a contribution?” Arthur looks up, startled at Eames’ tone.

“I’m just doing my job, Eames,” Arthur says, hand extended placatingly. Eames scoffs, or maybe coughs, derisively.

“Oh, of course. I’m glad you happened upon an imagination just in time to update your job description, because I don’t think you’ll find it includes undermining the entire operation.” Eames’ voice frays minutely at the end, words bookmarked by clearing his throat pointedly. Arthur closes his notebook so as to facilitate a more intense scowl in return.

“Forgive me for wanting to cover all the possible outcomes.” Eames purses his lips and begins to respond. Ariadne gets there first.

“I’m glad you two still pretend to hate each other; intro philosophy class is a great roleplay theme, but I would really like to have a plan agreed upon before lunch. Arthur, what’s your backup proposal?” Eames folds his arms, smirk incongruous with the harsh set of his forehead.

Arthur shares his secondary plan, but he’s distant again, because as soon as the rest of the group turned their attention to Arthur, Eames had all but wilted. He’d sunk into his chair, shoulders drawn in, one hand administering a weary forehead massage. Arthur mentally adds this to his list, because Eames so rarely allows himself to slip, but it’s as if maintaining his facade suddenly requires an unsustainable amount of energy.

 

— — —

 

“What the hell, Eames.” It’s finally lunchtime and the rest of their team has escaped the tense room.

“Sorry?”

“You’re being even more of an asshole than usual.” Arthur winces a little. “What’s going on?” he tacks on, in an effort to soften his accusation.

“Arthur, you are a paragon of tact.” Well. At least Eames noticed.

“Really. What’s wrong?”

“What mbakes you thidk there’s—” Eames breaks off with an expression of horror and sniffs forcefully a few times, rubbing at his nose. “What makes you think there’s anything wrong?” He turns to his desk, looking as if he believes the documents to have usurped his speech capabilities.

“You’re ill,” Arthur realizes. Eames continues glaring at his papers. “This is the worst time for you to be ill.”

“Truly remarkable, Arthur. I’ll be sure to pass that helpful advice along to my immune system. I’m sure that will fix this.”

“I was hoping I was wrong.”

“Maybe if you insult me enough, you’ll hurt the cold’s feelings and it’ll leave.”

“How long have you been sick?” If Eames says anything that isn’t ‘ten minutes,’ Arthur will kill him.

“Not a detail you accounted for, hmm?”

“Eames.”

“A day or two, I don’t know.” Arthur looks up, sharply.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

“Terribly sorry, I missed the point at which you became my mum.”

“You’re going to get the whole team sick. Incubation for a cold is one to three days, and you’ve been here the whole time, and the extraction is tomorrow—”

“h’GISH-uh!”

Arthur folds his arms. “You could go, I guess.” He feels . . . strange, when he thinks about Eames leaving. It’s probably irritation. “Actually, it probably wouldn’t help if you went back to the hotel at this point. We’ve all been exposed. You should stay here.”

“I wasn’t planning to leave, and if that’s what you really think I would do, then I’d recommend seeing a doctor about removing your head from your arse.” Eames twists away, coughing roughly into his fist. Arthur does not feel bad about making him talk so much.

“I really doubt you were planning anything at all. If you had been, you would have taken care of yourself earlier, and not ended up miserable and contagious at work.”

“And a day of rest would have taken care of this?”

“I don’t know! Maybe? You’re clearly not any better than you were.” Eames makes to respond, but his words are replaced by a vocal hitch, eyebrows pulled up involuntarily. Arthur walks away as Eames directs a sneeze, and then another, into his elbow, cringing at the wetness of the expulsions. Eames is gearing up for a third when Arthur comes back with a box of tissues, build-up uncharacteristically drawn out. He has time to grab a few tissues before the sneeze lands, and then few more when it proves to be messier than expected. Arthur busies himself by setting down the box so as to provide Eames with some semblance of privacy as he blows his nose and sneezes one more time.

“Oh, great, you’re sick?” Ryan slams back into the room with the grace of a sea cucumber. “Man, you better not mess up your shapeshifting tomorrow.” Eames blinks and removes his tissues, still hazy in the aftermath.

Arthur turns on Ryan, eyes narrowed. “Listen, kid. The only reason you got to work with us was because Ariadne owed your sister a favor. Eames is the best forger in the world, and you haven’t even shown yourself to be the best extractor in the room.” Arthur rolls up his sleeves. “You are in a very tenuous position, and I would recommend you shut up, let us do our jobs, and return to your game of beer pong, or whatever the fuck it is you do for your day job, because it really shouldn’t be dreamshare.” He’d moved closer while speaking, felt his voice deepen, kept his face stony, and Ryan looks ready to shit himself. Arthur raises an eyebrow, and after a mumbled response, he walks out hurriedly.

“Well, that was enlightening. Can’t say I miss his fashion sense.” Eames clears his throat. “Has anyone told you how terrifying you are, darling?”

Arthur takes a moment to process, and then another.

He sits down, stares at Eames a bit. “It’s possible I was—I have been—no. Uhm. I think that if anyone were to mess this thing up it wouldn’t be you. I mean.” Eames looks softly amused at this jumble. “I was worried. About you.” Eames smiles at this, a helpless little thing that he ducks his head to hide.

“Arthur, you don’t need to be—”

“I know, Eames. I know probably better than you that I don’t need to worry about a cold, okay? What I’m saying is that I did.” Eames brings his head back up, and Arthur is taken aback by the open fondness in his expression. Eames is layers of paint and coats of varnish but Arthur isn’t, and beneath it all Eames can be that, too.

“Right, we need to work fast if we don’t want this all to go pear before we start,” says Eames. The moment isn’t gone, just pushed gently to the side, and this is what Arthur knows, what he’s best at.

“Okay. I have a few ideas for the job, now that Ryan is . . . compromised.”

“You terrorized him!”

“I am not in the ego-stroking business.”

“Cobb certainly didn’t need any of that.” Familiar outrage inflates within Arthur’s chest; he breathes it out, inclines his head against conditioned dissent.

“Look, Eames, I might have reacted harshly. I know I did. I’m not used to having my priorities line up with a coworker’s, not when Cobb’s were so.” Arthur pauses, grits his teeth. “You’re working in service of the job. I get that. I didn’t, but now I do.”

“Arthur, love, I kno—” Eames’ voice shorts out, followed by a spate of ticklish coughs. Arthur extends an arm to awkwardly pat Eames, surprising him enough to stop coughing; Eames whips around to locate the hand bouncing stiffly off his shoulder blade.

“What the hell did you two do to Ryan?” Ariadne shoulders the door open, bags of take-out in each hand. Eames croaks hoarsely at her in response, eyebrows flying up in dismay. He hurriedly chugs from a thermos, then manages a gravelly “Arthur?” Arthur’s eyes linger on his neck, and linger, until Ariadne snaps her fingers at him.

“Did you lose your voice too?”

“What? No, I’m fine. Stay away from Eames; he’s sick.”

“Did you even hear my question? Also, you’re literally right next to him.”

“I told you, I didn’t lose my voice. Eames did, though.” Eames rasps his agreement helpfully in the background. Ariadne levels a very unimpressed look at both of them as she sets down one of the bags.

“I bought you two lunch so that you could sort yourselves out, but I won’t let you have it until you tell me whether or not we have to get a new extractor.”

“Sort ourselves . . . what?”

“Lunch, Arthur.”

“He called forging ‘shapeshifting,’” Arthur tries.

“You called it that on the last job!”

“But that was different! I’m allowed to say that to Eam— shit, that’s not what I mean.” Arthur doesn’t know how every conversation today has ended with him admitting some sort of affinity for Eames, but he strongly suspects it to be Eames’ fault. He glares at Eames, who misses it because he’s sneezing quietly into a tissue. Arthur shifts his glare to Ariadne.

“Ryan is not competent,” he starts, “and I made sure he was aware that both Eames and I are.”

“So he said something about Eames?”

“That’s not what I— why do you even ask me at all, if you know the answer?”

“I guess I’m right, then.” Arthur feels outmaneuvered, so he grabs a salad from the bag and spears a cherry tomato aggressively. “There’s soup in there for you, Eames,” adds Ariadne. Eames attempts a grating ‘thank you’ and Ariadne shushes him, wincing sympathetically. “You should probably call Ryan.” Arthur stabs a carrot sliver as he says this, to signify his opinion of the extractor.

“Oh my god, did you and Cobb just eat salad angrily at each other to communicate? Because that explains so much about the both of you.” Arthur finds another tomato to skewer, and does not answer. Eames makes a kind of alarming choking noise so Arthur looks up, only to find his traitorous partner laughing. Arthur throws his hands up, flinging the tomato into the air.

“You two are ganging up on me! This is entirely unfair,” he complains to Eames’ smirk.

“You’re not wrong,” Eames whispers, rubbing at his throat and grimacing. Arthur uses a pen to poke the thermos closer to Eames, who accepts gratefully.

Ariadne relents. “Okay, I’ll call him. You’re not off the hook, though.”

[AngelEyes]

I love this!!! I love when they snark at each other. And Arthur all flustered over his feelings for Eames. Adorable!

3 hours ago, Owlinatree said:

“Oh my god, did you and Cobb just eat salad angrily at each other to communicate? Because that explains so much about the both of you.”

Hysterical!

[Owlinatree]

10 hours ago, AngelEyes said:

I love this!!! I love when they snark at each other. And Arthur all flustered over his feelings for Eames. Adorable!

thank you so much  I totally dropped the ball in responding over on my inception mini thread; i'm so sorry! your comments are always wonderful and I appreciate them very much 

[BardwithaBlade]

I love these idiots so much. And the way you write their banter is A++

Now all we need is for them to kiss and make up so Arthur can catch the cold 😉