curse you alcohol godssssss
Sep. 26th, 2010 02:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gyzymBrrrrrm, awake at 2:50 AM for absolutely no reason other than "normal people go to the bar and drink three whiskey sours and get tipsy, I go to the bar and drink three whiskey sours and DEVELOP INSOMNIA," here's some random opening scenes of some shit:
From a theoretical domestic!fic sequel
Eames had always thought Arthur would be a morning person.
Well, it stood to reason, didn't it--the ridiculously well-pressed suit jackets. The bizarre efficiency. The pomade. He must get up at the crack of bloody dawn, Eames had thought, in those early days when he didn't know better, when the most he could get out of Arthur was a kiss he had to steal. He could rule the world before teatime.
The reality is considerably less glamorous.
"Fucking shoot it," Arthur says into Eames' shoulder. Eames grins at the ceiling and runs his hand lightly, teasingly, down Arthur's spine.
"Sorry?"
"Alarm clock," Arthur says, burying his face further. His hair is everywhere, soft and loose, tickling the underside of Eames' chin. There is a red mark on the side of his cheek from where he'd passed out on Eames' hand the night before. If Eames wasn't entirely certain Arthur would murder him for it, he'd say the word adorable. "Shoot it. Kill it. Needs to die."
"You won't feel so homicidal after a coffee, darling," Eames murmurs. Arthur flips him the middle finger and punches him in the chest, but lightly.
"Five more minutes," he says.
"I'm certainly not dragging you out of bed," Eames replies, letting just a hint of innuendo slip into his voice. "Although I do seem to recall you saying that if you weren't awake by 7:45--"
"I know," Arthur groans, "I just, I fucking know, Eames, just let me pretend for a second. Fuck."
"Mmm," Eames says. He shifts so that Arthur is draped more comfortably against him, taps a slow, calming pattern into the skin at the back of neck, and turns off the alarm once he's asleep again. Then he extricates himself and makes a pot of coffee, smoking a cigarette on the back porch while he's at it.
Arthur wakes up fucking furious at 8:15, taking a minute before he throws himself in the shower to scream bloody murder through the bathroom door. It's worth it, though, for the way he doesn't quite smile when Eames hands him a travel mug, the way he pauses in his frantic rush to get out the door to press Eames against his car and kiss him goodbye.
From this Arthur-is-a-film-producer AU oh god why do I do these things to myself
There are exactly four people who know the address of Arthur's Paris apartment; one of them knows out of necessity, one of them knows because he's an obnoxious ass, and one of them knows because she's his mother.
The fourth, then, is probably to blame for the courier knocking on his goddamn door. Arthur sighs heavily and signs for the package, knowing exactly what it is and not particularly wanting to know. He put it down on the coffee table, folds back into his couch, and goes back to his paper.
"Dom," he answers his phone sixty seconds later, not bothering to check who it is, "why the fuck are you sending me screenplays?"
"Screenplay, singular. Because it's brilliant," Cobb says. He sounds tinny and tired and excited; Arthur can hear the kids screaming in the background. He checks his watch--7:30 AM L.A. time. What a bitch that has to be.
"I don't care how brilliant it is, we're not doing this again," Arthur says, flipping his paper closed. "I told you last time, you can send as many as you like, it doesn't matter. Even if I did want to work with you again--and I'm sorry, Dom, but I really don't--you'll never get a studio to finance you."
"So we'll go independent," Cobb says, like that's so easy. Like he doesn't have a reputation for making the most expensive fucking movies in Hollywood. Like Arthur can pull money out of his ass.
"Cobb--"
"Look, Arthur, just read it, alright? You're on vacation anyway, it's not like you have anything better to do. If you don't like it, you don't have to bother calling me back."
"I'm not on vacation. I have a lunch meeting with--"
"Arthur," Cobb says, in his business voice. In the voice that makes him sound competent and brilliant, worth trusting. In the voice that had launched Arthur's career. "Just fucking read it."
Arthur looks at his watch again, sighs heavily, and unwraps the brown paper packaging. "Ten pages," he warns. "I have time for ten pages, and then I'm going to my lunch, and if it hasn't gripped me by then, you stop trying. I don't want any of those bullshit 4AM calls, Cobb, I have a life to lead."
"Ten pages," Cobb agrees, sounding like the cat who got the canary. "You won't regret it." And then, the shameless bastard, he hangs up.
Arthur flips the first page over and starts reading.
He turns the page.
He turns the page.
"Well, fuck me," he mutters twenty pages in, and cancels his lunch.
ALSO, I AM USING MY "LEBRON JAMES IS A COCKSUCKER" TAG FOR NO REASON OTHER THAN BECAUSE THAT'S STILL TRUE. Hmmmmmmmm bed.
From a theoretical domestic!fic sequel
Eames had always thought Arthur would be a morning person.
Well, it stood to reason, didn't it--the ridiculously well-pressed suit jackets. The bizarre efficiency. The pomade. He must get up at the crack of bloody dawn, Eames had thought, in those early days when he didn't know better, when the most he could get out of Arthur was a kiss he had to steal. He could rule the world before teatime.
The reality is considerably less glamorous.
"Fucking shoot it," Arthur says into Eames' shoulder. Eames grins at the ceiling and runs his hand lightly, teasingly, down Arthur's spine.
"Sorry?"
"Alarm clock," Arthur says, burying his face further. His hair is everywhere, soft and loose, tickling the underside of Eames' chin. There is a red mark on the side of his cheek from where he'd passed out on Eames' hand the night before. If Eames wasn't entirely certain Arthur would murder him for it, he'd say the word adorable. "Shoot it. Kill it. Needs to die."
"You won't feel so homicidal after a coffee, darling," Eames murmurs. Arthur flips him the middle finger and punches him in the chest, but lightly.
"Five more minutes," he says.
"I'm certainly not dragging you out of bed," Eames replies, letting just a hint of innuendo slip into his voice. "Although I do seem to recall you saying that if you weren't awake by 7:45--"
"I know," Arthur groans, "I just, I fucking know, Eames, just let me pretend for a second. Fuck."
"Mmm," Eames says. He shifts so that Arthur is draped more comfortably against him, taps a slow, calming pattern into the skin at the back of neck, and turns off the alarm once he's asleep again. Then he extricates himself and makes a pot of coffee, smoking a cigarette on the back porch while he's at it.
Arthur wakes up fucking furious at 8:15, taking a minute before he throws himself in the shower to scream bloody murder through the bathroom door. It's worth it, though, for the way he doesn't quite smile when Eames hands him a travel mug, the way he pauses in his frantic rush to get out the door to press Eames against his car and kiss him goodbye.
From this Arthur-is-a-film-producer AU oh god why do I do these things to myself
There are exactly four people who know the address of Arthur's Paris apartment; one of them knows out of necessity, one of them knows because he's an obnoxious ass, and one of them knows because she's his mother.
The fourth, then, is probably to blame for the courier knocking on his goddamn door. Arthur sighs heavily and signs for the package, knowing exactly what it is and not particularly wanting to know. He put it down on the coffee table, folds back into his couch, and goes back to his paper.
"Dom," he answers his phone sixty seconds later, not bothering to check who it is, "why the fuck are you sending me screenplays?"
"Screenplay, singular. Because it's brilliant," Cobb says. He sounds tinny and tired and excited; Arthur can hear the kids screaming in the background. He checks his watch--7:30 AM L.A. time. What a bitch that has to be.
"I don't care how brilliant it is, we're not doing this again," Arthur says, flipping his paper closed. "I told you last time, you can send as many as you like, it doesn't matter. Even if I did want to work with you again--and I'm sorry, Dom, but I really don't--you'll never get a studio to finance you."
"So we'll go independent," Cobb says, like that's so easy. Like he doesn't have a reputation for making the most expensive fucking movies in Hollywood. Like Arthur can pull money out of his ass.
"Cobb--"
"Look, Arthur, just read it, alright? You're on vacation anyway, it's not like you have anything better to do. If you don't like it, you don't have to bother calling me back."
"I'm not on vacation. I have a lunch meeting with--"
"Arthur," Cobb says, in his business voice. In the voice that makes him sound competent and brilliant, worth trusting. In the voice that had launched Arthur's career. "Just fucking read it."
Arthur looks at his watch again, sighs heavily, and unwraps the brown paper packaging. "Ten pages," he warns. "I have time for ten pages, and then I'm going to my lunch, and if it hasn't gripped me by then, you stop trying. I don't want any of those bullshit 4AM calls, Cobb, I have a life to lead."
"Ten pages," Cobb agrees, sounding like the cat who got the canary. "You won't regret it." And then, the shameless bastard, he hangs up.
Arthur flips the first page over and starts reading.
He turns the page.
He turns the page.
"Well, fuck me," he mutters twenty pages in, and cancels his lunch.
ALSO, I AM USING MY "LEBRON JAMES IS A COCKSUCKER" TAG FOR NO REASON OTHER THAN BECAUSE THAT'S STILL TRUE. Hmmmmmmmm bed.
