crack_van | Road Trip / 99 Red Balloons, by skyvehicle, R

Fandom: INCEPTION
Title: The Road Trip 'Verse (99 Red Balloons):
     this is it boys, this is war
     just to prove the world was here
     panic bells, it's red alert
     something here from somewhere else
     everyone's a captain kirk
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Length: about 40k total
Author on LJ:

skyvehicle
Author Website: author's LJ
Why this must be read: I love this universe so much. It's the quintessential "Arthur and Eames are total BAMFS but also total idiots when it comes to each other" fic series for me, and I love how they're casually hopping across Europe narrowly evading certain death and kicking ass all over the place, but still squabbling over long trips in the car and being late for dinner reservations and who gets to tell who that they're in mortal danger--the usual! It's awesome and fun and hilarious and still full of heart-clenchy trepidation and gunfights and a really awesome female OC who assists in the gunfights and ass-kicking, and I love, love, love it all. Also, LOOK HOW IN LOVE WITH THEY ARE, god, I ship it forever.

On the bedside table, in the same direction that Arthur's head happens to be turned towards, an antique clock reads 4:07 in the morning when Arthur hears the door open.

"No thank you," he calls, really not needing a hotel worker to see him laid out like this.

The footsteps continue to approach. "I don't need anything," Arthur continues, lifting his head to see who's there.

It turns out to be a man in the black tie and blazer combination that is customary to the staff of the Merrion. "I don't need anything," Arthur says again, setting his head back down onto the bed, shutting his eyes.

"Sure about that?" the man says, and of course, of course it would be Eames. Arthur would know his voice from anything. He opens his eyes again, and sure enough, Eames is there.

At the eye contact, Eames offers him a nice, wide smile, all crooked teeth and earnest i-am-so-glad-you're-not-dead relief. "Hi there," he says, his voice warm and so surprisingly soft.

Arthur notes how the blazer Eames is wearing is at least two sizes two small, no doubt stolen from some unsuspecting staff member.

Until then, Arthur thought that Eames had long since passed the point of surprising him, just like how Arthur thought that he himself had long since passed the point of being surprised by Eames' antics.

But in this moment, it would take far too much energy than Arthur has to spare to do anything but blindly accept the fact that Eames is here, in Dublin, in his hotel suite, standing by his bed. So Arthur closes his eyes accepts it.

"Eames," he says, lifting his hand in acknowledgement and cringing against the wave of pain that runs up his arm and all the way down his spine from the effort.

Then Arthur remembers that he isn't wearing any clothes, having just enough energy to slip out of his hospital gown and collapse on top of the bed. "Um," he says, looking at Eames expectantly, not having it in him to address this embarrassment. It's actually all he can do, look at Eames, his plethora of bruises having set in to the point where his body is tight and swollen and he doesn't think he's going to be leaving this bed anytime soon.

Eames drags in a deep breath through his teeth and says, "You've looked better," and Arthur worries that Eames came all the way to Ireland just to make him feel inferior.

His worry ends up only lasting for as long as it takes Eames to walk across the room, pull out an extra blanket from the dresser, and gently drape it across Arthur's exposed back.

Arthur murmurs a half-voiced thank you as his body tingles with warmth, tingles with something that, for the first time, isn't pain.

"Just sit tight," Eames says softly. "Be back in a bit."

However long Eames is actually gone, Arthur somehow manages to sleep through it. He thinks it's probably because of the blanket. He thinks the feeling of safety and, dare he say it, gratitude welling up in his stomach has everything to do with the blanket, and nothing to do with the man who put it there.

Eames announces himself with a jovial cry ("I come bearing drugs!"), and the crinkly sound of a plastic bag has Arthur practically salivating in anticipation.

It's not food, but it's the next best thing, an amber prescription bottle which Eames flips the top off and puts into Arthur's waiting hand.

The label is entirely in Russian, which Arthur can recognize but not read. Fortunately, Eames can read both Russian and Arthur's mind. "Nausea, headaches, dehydration, constipation," he says, his voice echoing as he's wandered into the bathroom. "That's about all I can make out."

Arthur is clumsy, accidentally spilling half the pills onto the bed beside his face before he can get two into his palm. He hears the sound of running water, and then Eames is coming back over, so he puts the pills on his tongue and drinks the water Eames has brought for him.

He doesn't even protest when Eames covers his hand on the glass of water with one of his own, helping Arthur lift his head with his other hand; the pills would probably fall out of his mouth if he tried (protesting, that is), and then he would have had to face the indignity of Eames having to help him with that, too.

"I got the call from Cobb," Eames tells him, after he swallows the pills and all but chokes on the sip of water he manages to take. "Said Jacques took a hit on you."

"Just like you said he would," Arthur wheezes, coughing to clear his windpipe.

Eames picking up the rest of the pills from the bed, dropping them one by one into the bottle from whence they came. It's soothing, like water droplets, or maybe it's the fact acting Russian painkillers, but Arthur feels soothed.

"Told him to take the kids and go," he continues.

"Good thinking," Eames says. "However, breaking out of hospital? Not so smart."

"Hit man was there."

"He followed you?"

"I put him there," Arthur says, and Eames burst out laughing, deep and loud, and the sound hurts Arthur's head but he grins despite himself, because at least now his face is going numb so he doesn't feel his bruises pull over his cheeks.

"Of course you did, love," Eames says. "I wouldn't expect anything less of you."

The Road Trip 'Verse (99 Red Balloons): 1. this is it boys, this is war; 2. just to prove the world was here; 3. panic bells, it's red alert; 4. something here from somewhere else 5. everyone's a captain kirk

Road Trip / 99 Red Balloons, by skyvehicle, R

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