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laliandraI have said, "UGH" this week more times than during the rest of my life. It seems like me and everyone I know is having the Worst Week in the World. Personally, I now know what it the sound of a train engine exploding sounds like, and (in a separate incident) what being severely electrocuted feels like. That is the extra-ordinary level of fail we are talking about. To cheer us all up, I have more 500 words of summer fic!
I have, of course, been utterly shambolic about this and have been writing three people's prompts all at once (soon, Ria, soon), with a fourth one simmering. Ugh. Furthermore, I fail so hard at brevity. This, in my defence, is two prompts in one!
This story is for my dearest![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kaiserkuchen who wanted people eating French desserts, combined with isil_helyanwe 's incredible question of "But what does Arthur, Mr Besuited and Buttoned up, do to cope with the heat". And anyone who is having a Bad Week and needs a break from the angst. And, as ever, Inception fandom, my love for you remains earnest and derpy.
The rest is all entirely my fault and under the cut for your soothing, fluffy, cake filled needs. More notes on the food at the end.
Les Petits Plaisirs d'Été
Disclaimer: 1) Inception remains the property of one C. Nolan 2) This is gen but only in the same way that the actual movie is ie. flirting all and any which way, entirely omnishippable *g* 3) I have never tried to run a card scam or look like I have mantoys.
Summary: A Dream Team kind of vacation. In which some important questions are answered, sweet treats indulged in and innocent French bystanders are made less innocent.
Huge and heartfelt thanks to Novemberlauren who always empathises and didn't kill me for sending her a draft with sentences that descended into all-caps wailing.
Ariadne is a good Parisian - by art if not by nature - and so she knows to get out of the city as soon as August hits. It hits hard, filling the streets with tourists and the air with the smell of sewers stewing in the heat.
She doesn’t go far from her beloved city, though, doesn’t join the campers on the Cote Sauvage or the playboys in Nice. She sets herself up in a hotel just off the main square in Fontainebleau and makes some calls. She’s probably not the only one who needs a vacation.
This afternoon the heat is unrelenting and so they have retreated to the café on the corner with the sun umbrellas, squashed around a little round table watching the gorgeous old merry-go-round go around. Ariadne has the sinking feeling that she is about to be volunteered to go to the patisserie next door. No-one ever puts Dom up for this kind of thing because Dom always looks pained when people compliment his accent. Saito had declared himself out of the voting before it had even started, because he hadn’t purchased his own food in over a decade and didn’t plan to start now. And Eames is practising being a horrible Englishman Abroad, apparently.
“You call it research, but I suspect that it’s just an excuse to wear that hat,” Ariadne tells him, flicking the brim of the straw monstrosity. “And I fail to see how this rules you out.”
“Can’t say anything but ‘Bonjour’, love, and that won’t get us far.” He makes the ‘j’ hard, shrugs hopelessly, as if he’s never had to wrap his mouth around anything so strange before. As if he didn’t trick Ariadne’s landlady that one time into thinking he was Jean-Claude, a shy boy from a tiny Belgian village.
Yusuf smiles charmingly and says, “Besides, Ariadne has a notebook to write down everyone’s order.” Dom nods approvingly and that’s endgame. No-one can ever argue with Yusuf when he makes that face - all rationality and deep brown eyes - and Arthur is late so there’s no-one else.
“I hate you all,” Ariadne says, standing up. “Next time I’m staying in Paris, Japanese tourist invasion and street vendor explosion be damned, and I will let you all go about pretending to be too busy to call each other.” They would, if she let them, drift off into twos - Dom and Arthur like the old days, Yusuf and Saito exploring new frontiers of science, her and Eames trying to run the three card monte in a tiny street near the Gard Du Nord, her pulling a very innocent face, him charming smokes out of the prostitutes round the corner - or any every other combination thereof. It’s habit, dividing and separating until she sets a time and a place and they all show up, grumbling about her persuasive ways.
“Should I be offended?” Saito asks from his place at the head of the table.
Eames holds out a twenty euro note to Ariadne. “Nah, she doesn’t mean it, and we all agreed you don’t count as the tourist any more.” It had been Eames who’d declared that one, recreating the third layer with suitable dramatic hand gestures and impressions of explosions.
The lady at the counter has clearly seen Ariadne coming and puts all of her orders into a cardboard box so that Ariadne can carry them back to her “amies”. Her tone is extremely doubtful. A ‘Yes, those are my hareem boys, haven’t I done well’ smile is hard to pull off, but Ariadne gives it her best. She winds her way back to the table and leaves a tarte aux fruits in front of the chair next to Cobb, opposite her and Eames. She knows Arthur well enough now.
When he arrives there is a very still moment because Arthur, Arthur is wearing a thin white shirt - open at the neck with the sleeves rolled up - beige slacks and deck shoes. No tie, no vest, no socks. Everything seems to go still. It’s like being in a movie. Ariadne's hand has genuinely stopped halfway to her mouth, and filling drops out of the pastry onto her hand. She makes herself stop staring, lick the apple - warm and sweet - off her thumb and tries to wrap her mind around Arthur: The All New Summer Edition.
The object of their transfixion slips into his chair, easy and graceful. He glances up and says, “Sorry, sorry, I was... Oh, who remembered my order?” When no-one answers Arthur turns from softness into lines, leaning forwards, frown creasing his face, folding his arms. “What?” he asks.
“You’re only wearing one layer,” Yusuf says, with a kind of hushed disbelief he usually keeps reserved for escapes that seem like divine intervention and genuine mint tea.
“It’s 100 degrees in the shade. What did you think I was going to do, wear a three-piece and pass out?”
It’s a fair point, but still. It’s Arthur, layers are his thing, his motif; and seeing him without them rococo without gold or neo-gothic without arches. It’s just bizarre.
Ariadne says, “I thought. Well, I’m not sure. That you did some sort of reverse hibernation and refused to come out during daylight hours as soon as July hit.” Everyone else laughs, Arthur actually snorts, leaning back in his chair. He just looks so. Relaxed is not quite the word for someone who has just catalogued exit points but still...
“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought it. Or something similar,” Ariadne says, looking around. Dom suddenly gets very interested in his mille-feuille.
Saito leans over and steals a forkful.
“I always assumed that he had a wardrobe that doubled up as a refrigerator,” he says. Admittedly to Saito this probably isn’t so far fetched; far-fetched luxury is his everyday. The last time he came to Paris (looking after his investment he called it, with fondness behind his dazzling smile) they had been flown by helicopter to a restaurant just to have dark chocolate ganache cake with real gold leaf pressed into it. The one he has now is less elaborate but still stains his teeth brown with cocoa powder. It always does, and Saito never seems to care. It’s one of Ariadne’s secret favourite things about him, small and incongruous.
“Some new form of heat-exchanging cloth,” Yusuf theories, with a shrug. “I’m almost disappointed this is not the case.” He gives the thin material of Arthur’s shirt a considering look, as if Arthur might be holding out nano-technology on him.
As one, they turn on Cobb. Anyone watching this conversation (and there are usually people watching their conversations. They can’t really be blamed.) is going to get whiplash.
“I’ve known Arthur a really long time. I’m used to him,” Cobb says with a smile that is almost indulgent. His teeth have cocoa powder on them.
“Wait. Are you two sharing?” Ariadne asks, shading her eyes with her hand to get a better look at the other end of the table.
Arthur sighs resignedly. “Yes, yes they are.” Yusuf holds up his palmier up behind their heads so that it looks like a heart is floating above them and Ariadne has to fight to contain the ridiculous giggles she can feel lurking in her throat.
Cobb bats his hand away and Saito gives the whole table a “You weren’t there, you cannot understand our bond” look.
Yusuf rolls his eyes at Ariadne to say ‘it’s a bit excessive to use the Limbo Look for cake sharing,’ and she tries to agree with a meaningful stare and some eyebrow work.
Eames sighs, “Oh good, we’ve reached the stage where we actually don’t need words to communicate our resigned weariness each other. I guess we’re officially a family...”
“Aw,” Ariadne says, and puts her head on his shoulder. She feels the scratch of stubble as he rests his cheek on her temple, tucking her in beneath his hat brim. The half of Cobb’s face that she can appears to be stuck somewhere between fond and horrified. It happens a lot these days.
“I have no words for how disturbing I find your concept of family,” he tell Eames, a little hollow.
“We’re young, pretty and ethnically diverse. Madonna would kill for us. We’re like a celebrity family wet-dream,” Eames claims. Ariadne can feel his mouth curve up, teasing.
Saito says, “Truly, the Jolie-Pitts have nothing on us,” because apparently his terrifying breadth of knowledge also covers pop-culture. Ariadne escapes from under the hat because she has to see what he looks like, deadpan smile and easy certainty.
Yusuf snickers. “I am trading in my regular baby brothers for you people. And it has the further advantage that you don’t know all my tricks yet.”
“I knew it. Your evil testing procedures always had the practised air of an older sibling,” Arthur says, darkly. It’s possible he still hasn’t forgiven them for that time they tore his vintage Dior jacket during kick trials.
“You should know better than to volunteer. But I’m sure I can find a tailor if that’s what this is still about.” Arthur ignores Yusuf in favour of balancing extra fruit onto his slice of tart.
“Isn’t that nice, Arthur? Then when winter rolls round again you can be the fairest of us all again in charcoal wool,” Ariadne gives Arthur a ‘play-nicely’ frown to go along with the tone.
Yusuf, pointing at Eames with a piece of glazed pastry, says, “You still owe us a that suitsplanation.”
“I’ve also known Arthur a revoltingly long time,” Eames evades. “I don’t remember what I thought at first.” His face says, backup, I need backup, which Ariadne plans to ignore entirely because she wants to hear this. There’s no way Eames, professionally study of people with extra credit in Arthur-watching, didn’t notice, doesn’t remember.
“You must have thought something. What was the first thing that crossed your mind when you first met our suited and booted point-man?” she presses.
“I thought, there is a man in need of a good unpeeling” Eames has a way of creating very vivid mental images with seemingly innocent words. He throws Arthur a grin and goes back to sizing up his cake for the best plan of attack. He picks something different every time and today’s has a decadent amount of cream on top of it.
Arthur doesn’t look up from his tart, but slides a fork across the table. “Did you just compare me to an onion, Mr Eames? Forgive me if I’m less than flattered.”
“A very attractive onion,” Eames assures him. He scoops up a mouthful of chantilly and strawberry, and then licks the fork pointedly at Arthur.
“What have I told you? Licking things to try and win an argument is not a valid tactic,” Arthur says, but the skin at the base of his neck has gone red. One layer Arthur has definite advantages.
“If we want to be a non creepy-incestuous family, everyone is going to have to rethink the way they look at each other,” Yusuf remarks. The conversation at the next table stops abruptly.
“Apparently even the French have limits of public acceptability.” Arthur murmurs, biting his lip to stop himself laughing.
Saito says, “For example, you two will have to stop looking at Arthur like...” He stops, considering. “Like that,” he finishes, significantly.
Ariadne turns to Eames and watches him copy her smile, wicked-wide.
“Shan’t” he says.
“Don’t want to,” she agrees, and sticks her tongue out at Saito and Cobb.
Arthur shakes his head. “I honestly despair of you both.” He laughs, though, as he looks from them to the carousel, still chiming out song after song. He could almost be - no, he is - doing it on purpose so that his shirt collar moves to reveal more elegant neck and collarbone. Never forget that Arthur is has a criminal mind under all that elegance, Ariadne thinks, and stretches her legs out into the sunshine, content.
“Don’t pretend that the merry-go-round is a prettier picture than us. Have you seen Ariadne’s legs in those shorts?” Eames asks.
Saito frowns. “How is the carousel still going? Surely those children do not have enough money to keep going back.”
“Oh, Eames paid the man to keep it running all afternoon. I think he likes the music,” Arthur informs them, still gazing over at the ever circling horses. Eames starts, very slightly, Ariadne can only tell because she’s still leaning into him.
“It’s my job to know these things,” Arthur says, answering the question implicit in the movement that he somehow spotted.
Eames turns on a grin, sits up straighter, says, “Well, you did a half-arsed job, love. It’s not the music. It’s that I know what it’s like to be five years old and not allowed another go on the ride.” His tone is only a fraction off perfectly light.
“Oh,” Arthur says quietly, almost lost under Dom saying, “You know, I should bring the kids next time. They haven’t been to France in a while.”
“Next time you can organise the whole thing,” Ariadne tells him. “You’ve got nothing but time. I’ve got exams. Miles won’t pass me just because I was busy finding you all hotels that fit your absurdly specific specifications.”
“We’re nothing but trouble, really,” Eames says. Ariadne smiles, and steals a strawberry from his cake. “A bad influence and all kinds of trouble,” she agrees.
“But it’s the best kind of trouble,” Arthur says, and takes the strawberry from her fingers, millimetres from her mouth. “You wouldn’t have us any other way.”
CAKE NOTES OF GREAT IMPORTANCE
Arthur has a tarte aux fruites, Saito an opera cake , Yusuf has my usual, a palmier, Ariadne went for a classic chausson aux pommes. Dom has a mille-feuille and finally Eames has something along these lines. Do you want pastries now?!
I have, of course, been utterly shambolic about this and have been writing three people's prompts all at once (soon, Ria, soon), with a fourth one simmering. Ugh. Furthermore, I fail so hard at brevity. This, in my defence, is two prompts in one!
This story is for my dearest
kaiserkuchen who wanted people eating French desserts, combined with isil_helyanwe 's incredible question of "But what does Arthur, Mr Besuited and Buttoned up, do to cope with the heat". And anyone who is having a Bad Week and needs a break from the angst. And, as ever, Inception fandom, my love for you remains earnest and derpy.The rest is all entirely my fault and under the cut for your soothing, fluffy, cake filled needs. More notes on the food at the end.
Les Petits Plaisirs d'Été
Disclaimer: 1) Inception remains the property of one C. Nolan 2) This is gen but only in the same way that the actual movie is ie. flirting all and any which way, entirely omnishippable *g* 3) I have never tried to run a card scam or look like I have mantoys.
Summary: A Dream Team kind of vacation. In which some important questions are answered, sweet treats indulged in and innocent French bystanders are made less innocent.
Huge and heartfelt thanks to Novemberlauren who always empathises and didn't kill me for sending her a draft with sentences that descended into all-caps wailing.
Ariadne is a good Parisian - by art if not by nature - and so she knows to get out of the city as soon as August hits. It hits hard, filling the streets with tourists and the air with the smell of sewers stewing in the heat.
She doesn’t go far from her beloved city, though, doesn’t join the campers on the Cote Sauvage or the playboys in Nice. She sets herself up in a hotel just off the main square in Fontainebleau and makes some calls. She’s probably not the only one who needs a vacation.
This afternoon the heat is unrelenting and so they have retreated to the café on the corner with the sun umbrellas, squashed around a little round table watching the gorgeous old merry-go-round go around. Ariadne has the sinking feeling that she is about to be volunteered to go to the patisserie next door. No-one ever puts Dom up for this kind of thing because Dom always looks pained when people compliment his accent. Saito had declared himself out of the voting before it had even started, because he hadn’t purchased his own food in over a decade and didn’t plan to start now. And Eames is practising being a horrible Englishman Abroad, apparently.
“You call it research, but I suspect that it’s just an excuse to wear that hat,” Ariadne tells him, flicking the brim of the straw monstrosity. “And I fail to see how this rules you out.”
“Can’t say anything but ‘Bonjour’, love, and that won’t get us far.” He makes the ‘j’ hard, shrugs hopelessly, as if he’s never had to wrap his mouth around anything so strange before. As if he didn’t trick Ariadne’s landlady that one time into thinking he was Jean-Claude, a shy boy from a tiny Belgian village.
Yusuf smiles charmingly and says, “Besides, Ariadne has a notebook to write down everyone’s order.” Dom nods approvingly and that’s endgame. No-one can ever argue with Yusuf when he makes that face - all rationality and deep brown eyes - and Arthur is late so there’s no-one else.
“I hate you all,” Ariadne says, standing up. “Next time I’m staying in Paris, Japanese tourist invasion and street vendor explosion be damned, and I will let you all go about pretending to be too busy to call each other.” They would, if she let them, drift off into twos - Dom and Arthur like the old days, Yusuf and Saito exploring new frontiers of science, her and Eames trying to run the three card monte in a tiny street near the Gard Du Nord, her pulling a very innocent face, him charming smokes out of the prostitutes round the corner - or any every other combination thereof. It’s habit, dividing and separating until she sets a time and a place and they all show up, grumbling about her persuasive ways.
“Should I be offended?” Saito asks from his place at the head of the table.
Eames holds out a twenty euro note to Ariadne. “Nah, she doesn’t mean it, and we all agreed you don’t count as the tourist any more.” It had been Eames who’d declared that one, recreating the third layer with suitable dramatic hand gestures and impressions of explosions.
The lady at the counter has clearly seen Ariadne coming and puts all of her orders into a cardboard box so that Ariadne can carry them back to her “amies”. Her tone is extremely doubtful. A ‘Yes, those are my hareem boys, haven’t I done well’ smile is hard to pull off, but Ariadne gives it her best. She winds her way back to the table and leaves a tarte aux fruits in front of the chair next to Cobb, opposite her and Eames. She knows Arthur well enough now.
When he arrives there is a very still moment because Arthur, Arthur is wearing a thin white shirt - open at the neck with the sleeves rolled up - beige slacks and deck shoes. No tie, no vest, no socks. Everything seems to go still. It’s like being in a movie. Ariadne's hand has genuinely stopped halfway to her mouth, and filling drops out of the pastry onto her hand. She makes herself stop staring, lick the apple - warm and sweet - off her thumb and tries to wrap her mind around Arthur: The All New Summer Edition.
The object of their transfixion slips into his chair, easy and graceful. He glances up and says, “Sorry, sorry, I was... Oh, who remembered my order?” When no-one answers Arthur turns from softness into lines, leaning forwards, frown creasing his face, folding his arms. “What?” he asks.
“You’re only wearing one layer,” Yusuf says, with a kind of hushed disbelief he usually keeps reserved for escapes that seem like divine intervention and genuine mint tea.
“It’s 100 degrees in the shade. What did you think I was going to do, wear a three-piece and pass out?”
It’s a fair point, but still. It’s Arthur, layers are his thing, his motif; and seeing him without them rococo without gold or neo-gothic without arches. It’s just bizarre.
Ariadne says, “I thought. Well, I’m not sure. That you did some sort of reverse hibernation and refused to come out during daylight hours as soon as July hit.” Everyone else laughs, Arthur actually snorts, leaning back in his chair. He just looks so. Relaxed is not quite the word for someone who has just catalogued exit points but still...
“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought it. Or something similar,” Ariadne says, looking around. Dom suddenly gets very interested in his mille-feuille.
Saito leans over and steals a forkful.
“I always assumed that he had a wardrobe that doubled up as a refrigerator,” he says. Admittedly to Saito this probably isn’t so far fetched; far-fetched luxury is his everyday. The last time he came to Paris (looking after his investment he called it, with fondness behind his dazzling smile) they had been flown by helicopter to a restaurant just to have dark chocolate ganache cake with real gold leaf pressed into it. The one he has now is less elaborate but still stains his teeth brown with cocoa powder. It always does, and Saito never seems to care. It’s one of Ariadne’s secret favourite things about him, small and incongruous.
“Some new form of heat-exchanging cloth,” Yusuf theories, with a shrug. “I’m almost disappointed this is not the case.” He gives the thin material of Arthur’s shirt a considering look, as if Arthur might be holding out nano-technology on him.
As one, they turn on Cobb. Anyone watching this conversation (and there are usually people watching their conversations. They can’t really be blamed.) is going to get whiplash.
“I’ve known Arthur a really long time. I’m used to him,” Cobb says with a smile that is almost indulgent. His teeth have cocoa powder on them.
“Wait. Are you two sharing?” Ariadne asks, shading her eyes with her hand to get a better look at the other end of the table.
Arthur sighs resignedly. “Yes, yes they are.” Yusuf holds up his palmier up behind their heads so that it looks like a heart is floating above them and Ariadne has to fight to contain the ridiculous giggles she can feel lurking in her throat.
Cobb bats his hand away and Saito gives the whole table a “You weren’t there, you cannot understand our bond” look.
Yusuf rolls his eyes at Ariadne to say ‘it’s a bit excessive to use the Limbo Look for cake sharing,’ and she tries to agree with a meaningful stare and some eyebrow work.
Eames sighs, “Oh good, we’ve reached the stage where we actually don’t need words to communicate our resigned weariness each other. I guess we’re officially a family...”
“Aw,” Ariadne says, and puts her head on his shoulder. She feels the scratch of stubble as he rests his cheek on her temple, tucking her in beneath his hat brim. The half of Cobb’s face that she can appears to be stuck somewhere between fond and horrified. It happens a lot these days.
“I have no words for how disturbing I find your concept of family,” he tell Eames, a little hollow.
“We’re young, pretty and ethnically diverse. Madonna would kill for us. We’re like a celebrity family wet-dream,” Eames claims. Ariadne can feel his mouth curve up, teasing.
Saito says, “Truly, the Jolie-Pitts have nothing on us,” because apparently his terrifying breadth of knowledge also covers pop-culture. Ariadne escapes from under the hat because she has to see what he looks like, deadpan smile and easy certainty.
Yusuf snickers. “I am trading in my regular baby brothers for you people. And it has the further advantage that you don’t know all my tricks yet.”
“I knew it. Your evil testing procedures always had the practised air of an older sibling,” Arthur says, darkly. It’s possible he still hasn’t forgiven them for that time they tore his vintage Dior jacket during kick trials.
“You should know better than to volunteer. But I’m sure I can find a tailor if that’s what this is still about.” Arthur ignores Yusuf in favour of balancing extra fruit onto his slice of tart.
“Isn’t that nice, Arthur? Then when winter rolls round again you can be the fairest of us all again in charcoal wool,” Ariadne gives Arthur a ‘play-nicely’ frown to go along with the tone.
Yusuf, pointing at Eames with a piece of glazed pastry, says, “You still owe us a that suitsplanation.”
“I’ve also known Arthur a revoltingly long time,” Eames evades. “I don’t remember what I thought at first.” His face says, backup, I need backup, which Ariadne plans to ignore entirely because she wants to hear this. There’s no way Eames, professionally study of people with extra credit in Arthur-watching, didn’t notice, doesn’t remember.
“You must have thought something. What was the first thing that crossed your mind when you first met our suited and booted point-man?” she presses.
“I thought, there is a man in need of a good unpeeling” Eames has a way of creating very vivid mental images with seemingly innocent words. He throws Arthur a grin and goes back to sizing up his cake for the best plan of attack. He picks something different every time and today’s has a decadent amount of cream on top of it.
Arthur doesn’t look up from his tart, but slides a fork across the table. “Did you just compare me to an onion, Mr Eames? Forgive me if I’m less than flattered.”
“A very attractive onion,” Eames assures him. He scoops up a mouthful of chantilly and strawberry, and then licks the fork pointedly at Arthur.
“What have I told you? Licking things to try and win an argument is not a valid tactic,” Arthur says, but the skin at the base of his neck has gone red. One layer Arthur has definite advantages.
“If we want to be a non creepy-incestuous family, everyone is going to have to rethink the way they look at each other,” Yusuf remarks. The conversation at the next table stops abruptly.
“Apparently even the French have limits of public acceptability.” Arthur murmurs, biting his lip to stop himself laughing.
Saito says, “For example, you two will have to stop looking at Arthur like...” He stops, considering. “Like that,” he finishes, significantly.
Ariadne turns to Eames and watches him copy her smile, wicked-wide.
“Shan’t” he says.
“Don’t want to,” she agrees, and sticks her tongue out at Saito and Cobb.
Arthur shakes his head. “I honestly despair of you both.” He laughs, though, as he looks from them to the carousel, still chiming out song after song. He could almost be - no, he is - doing it on purpose so that his shirt collar moves to reveal more elegant neck and collarbone. Never forget that Arthur is has a criminal mind under all that elegance, Ariadne thinks, and stretches her legs out into the sunshine, content.
“Don’t pretend that the merry-go-round is a prettier picture than us. Have you seen Ariadne’s legs in those shorts?” Eames asks.
Saito frowns. “How is the carousel still going? Surely those children do not have enough money to keep going back.”
“Oh, Eames paid the man to keep it running all afternoon. I think he likes the music,” Arthur informs them, still gazing over at the ever circling horses. Eames starts, very slightly, Ariadne can only tell because she’s still leaning into him.
“It’s my job to know these things,” Arthur says, answering the question implicit in the movement that he somehow spotted.
Eames turns on a grin, sits up straighter, says, “Well, you did a half-arsed job, love. It’s not the music. It’s that I know what it’s like to be five years old and not allowed another go on the ride.” His tone is only a fraction off perfectly light.
“Oh,” Arthur says quietly, almost lost under Dom saying, “You know, I should bring the kids next time. They haven’t been to France in a while.”
“Next time you can organise the whole thing,” Ariadne tells him. “You’ve got nothing but time. I’ve got exams. Miles won’t pass me just because I was busy finding you all hotels that fit your absurdly specific specifications.”
“We’re nothing but trouble, really,” Eames says. Ariadne smiles, and steals a strawberry from his cake. “A bad influence and all kinds of trouble,” she agrees.
“But it’s the best kind of trouble,” Arthur says, and takes the strawberry from her fingers, millimetres from her mouth. “You wouldn’t have us any other way.”
CAKE NOTES OF GREAT IMPORTANCE
Arthur has a tarte aux fruites, Saito an opera cake , Yusuf has my usual, a palmier, Ariadne went for a classic chausson aux pommes. Dom has a mille-feuille and finally Eames has something along these lines. Do you want pastries now?!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-09-23 09:20 pm (UTC)But this cheered me up more than any tarte could, so there. Oh, Ariadne. (I have a huge crush on her, what what, thank you.) And Eames, paying for the carousel! I have a cavity now from all that sweetness, young lady, and am v.v.happy about that. :)
Psst, some small things: Ariande from under the hat brim because she has to see what he looks like, deadpan smile and easy certainty. I think you need some verb?
“What have told you? Licking things to try and win an argument is not a valid tactic,” What have I told you? But I don't know.
TARTE AUX FRUITES, I MISSED YOU IN MY LIFE. (Arthur clearly has impeccable taste in pie).
no subject
Date: 2010-09-23 09:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-23 10:41 pm (UTC)I just loved Ariadne, even though my Ariadne voice appears to like - just a little- asides in dashes and emphasis. And the man at the carousel at Fountainebleau is easily bribed, I know from experience.
I LOVE THEM, although they are so hard to eat I would usually go for a easier option when I lived in France... :(
Also yes, soon! Yours is the one I write in my notebook on the way home from work, and it mostly just needs typing up and polishing :)
no subject
Date: 2010-09-24 09:35 pm (UTC)Real notebook! Practical question--how do you manage to write on the commute? My drawings from bus are always just a jungle of squiggles (Holmes story where he deducted the train road someone took while writing something comes to mind...). Clearly, you have superpowers.
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Date: 2010-09-25 11:30 am (UTC)Well, I stayed in Fontainebleau for a few days with my family and my Mum's best friend and her family. She has a daughter who I babysat for most of her life (and is now 15, holy crap) and who was about 8? I think? at the time. She got totally obsessed with the carousel in the main square but it cost about 2 euros a ride. But I managed to persuade the guy to give us a bulk rate so that we could just keep coming back and going on OUR horses :)
Well, I suspect that writing is easier than drawing, it doesn't matter if your writing is all over the place, and mine is competely appalling anyway, I'm used to having to decode it!
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Date: 2010-09-24 09:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-25 11:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-24 10:41 am (UTC)“You’re only wearing one layer,” Yusef says, with a kind of hushed disbelief he usually keeps reserved for escapes that seem like divine intervention and genuine mint tea.
You always have these lines that kind of remind me of dorkorific in that I want to shake you and say LAL! Don't waste these lines on 500 word fanfic!! But then that sounds awful. FANFIC IS NOT A WASTE....sorry, my brain isn't working great these days. I hope you are flattered and not pissed. I just see a lot of your writing filled with really good moments when most fic scatters those awesomesauce lines out--one or two per fic. And I love your Ariadne. I love the understated parts. I love Saito!!!! SO MUCH!!! The sharing of the chocolate. Arthur noticing about Eames and the carousel. Ariadne knowing that Arthur is showing off his neck on purpose. I might love the film more now after reading this.
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Date: 2010-09-25 12:33 pm (UTC)And I cannot be mad at you when you compared me to Rave, holy crap, I am beyond flattered. And said such lovely things. One of the things I like best about Inception was the great group chemistry and dymamics and I love it when people just really GET each other, you know? :D you picked up on that! This pleases me greatly, I am just a ball of delight and blushes.
Also, dude, this is so far from being 500 words. Seriously. I should have realised that I was never going to be able to be short...
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Date: 2010-09-25 07:19 pm (UTC)I mean, they'd have to be observing everything and thinking on its meaning to build dreams. And they'd have to be skeptical all the time to make sure they were in the real world. Totem and all that. Which leads to kind of an instinctual mistrust of any situation (you have Arthur looking for exit points at an effing cafe) and the need to scope out everything (Arthur was there early, and watched at Eames payed off the carousel guy but waited to sit down after he could see everyone else was there). Or...mayeb he just didn't want to be stuck ordering the pastries??? :)
Anyway, yes, I stand by the Rave comparison. I you know I know what it means. So: do it for 30K and you'll be as good as her. Oh, I heart you, Lal!!
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Date: 2010-09-25 07:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-26 03:49 pm (UTC)I am such a sucker for people being very smart and competent. This fic is such self gratification. But it's so true, they would have to always be looking beyond the obvious, to the subconscious things that people do.
Arthur is both smart and cunning and also made a more than a little weird by a life of crazy soldiering and dream stealing.
:), you are a dear. Well, I have signed up for Inception Big Bang, min 15k, so we shall see if I can try and live up to it...
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Date: 2010-09-27 04:13 am (UTC)I now have two awesome stories to look out for in the werewolf bigbang. your lauren's fic, and also mrsronweasley. Some of the other summaries look good, too. I love cross fandom fests! There's bandslash next to Due South next to NHL hockey RPS (wot?).
Also, I am glad you care about my commenting. Let's just say my contribution to fandom has recently been called into question and at least someone cares about my #1 way of giving back: commenting on fic.
!!!!!!
Date: 2010-09-24 01:34 pm (UTC)NO SERIOUSLY.
This was such a delight. I am delighted, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes and also somewhat disappointed that the only treasures my fridge holds are vaguely stale banana chips, food I am scared to eat and water, not the French deliciousness that you describe here (AND ADDED AWESOME PICTURES OF NGGG).
DETAILS I WAS DELIGHTED BY:
- Dom not being the one to order because people would comment on how his accent is and that would make him Sad About Mal. I can just imagine Leo's Sad About Mal Face! Also, everyone else's reasons XDD SAITO'S IN PARTICULAR looooool perfection XD
- JEAN-CLAUDE THE SHY BOY FROM A BELGIAN VILLAGE sjkhdfkjasfh WHAT
- It’s habit, dividing and separating until she sets a time and a place and they all show up, grumbling about her persuasive ways. ...SHE SO IS THE BOSS OF THEM <3
- Arthur: All New Summer Edition sounds like a delightful cologne. And maaaaaaaaaaan, imagining JGL in that outfit, nggg I would also fail at whatever I was doing at the moment
- SAITO'S DAZZLING SMIIIIIIILE. Dom's frou-frou pastry! AND THE ~DOM/SAITO HINTS uhuhuhu + the Palmier doubling as a heart moment + THE LIMBO LOOK FOR CAKE SHARING-- I honest to god nearly burbled out loud in glee and I am still at my very serious Place of Employment, I'll have you know.
- ~~*SHAN'T*~~ ahhhhhh OH EAMES. And OH ARTHUR purposely being all alluring and mono-layered! AND ALSO startling Eames with his amazing point man skillz
IN CONCLUSION: ILU!!!
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Date: 2010-09-24 01:40 pm (UTC)PS THIS FIC AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH <333
Re: !!!!!!
Date: 2010-09-25 01:31 pm (UTC)Sorry about the pastry thing! But I like I have succeeded in my goal \o/ Looking for the pics took me a really long time because I kept getting distracted by baking blogs and food websites and such. Anyway, :D:D:D I am delighted that you liked it, my Inception sister and teammate as you are.
:D:D:D
YES, THIS, EXACTLY. THE SAD ABOUT MAL FACE.
Dude, you know that Eames just would, his accent is odd because he's Belgian, you see, and he doesn't like to talk much, he had a very sheltered upbringing, just him and the cows ETCETCETC with Ariadne trying to nod seriously and dying inside.
If the universe loves me, JGL will dress like that. It was a very distracting mental image, ngl. NGL,JGL, ILU.
I remembered what you said about Dom and his silly cake :D!
In my head Eames is the most unrepentant flirt ever. And everyone is charmed, secretly or otherwise...
Ugh, thank you, I had it in my head that it was Yusef. One of my Granny's friends is called Yusef not Yusuf and that is why, I think. But I totally should have checked IMDB. UGH.
IN CONCLUSION, NO, YOU.
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Date: 2010-10-01 08:33 am (UTC)...
“Did you just compare me to an onion, Mr Eames? Forgive me if I’m less than flattered.”
So cute and adorable and now I want pastries too.
You are evil. *shakes fist*
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Date: 2010-11-15 11:04 pm (UTC)Arthur, Eames and Ariadne are fantastic in this but I'm besides myself with glee over Yusuf and Saito.
“I always assumed that he had a wardrobe that doubled up as a refrigerator,” he says. Admittedly to Saito this probably isn’t so far fetched; far-fetched luxury is his everyday. The last time he came to Paris (looking after his investment he called it, with fondness behind his dazzling smile) they had been flown by helicopter to a restaurant just to have dark chocolate ganache cake with real gold leaf pressed into it. The one he has now is less elaborate but still stains his teeth brown with cocoa powder. It always does, and Saito never seems to care. It’s one of Ariadne’s secret favourite things about him, small and incongruous.
I love this paragraph. It makes me crave more Saito fic.
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Date: 2010-11-20 11:53 pm (UTC)I really wanted to write something in which the whole team was as awesome as they are in the movie, I'm so glad that you liked them. More minor character love, for sure!
:D!
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Date: 2010-12-28 02:09 am (UTC)One. "Licking things to try and win an argument is not a valid tactic." - I disagree ;)
Two. I all kinds of love you, Lal :D
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Date: 2010-12-28 12:35 pm (UTC)IT IS PERSUASIVE.
Two: Aww, thank you, Van <3
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Date: 2010-12-28 08:51 am (UTC)Hahaha I love their playful
flirtingbanter.~ (and all thehappyhinted pairings! XD Cobb/Saito, Arthur/Ariadne, Arthur/Eames... Yusuf/Ariadne? XD Eames/Ariadne? XD HAHA)no subject
Date: 2010-12-28 12:47 pm (UTC)*g* banter, especially the flirtatious kind, is totally my favourite thing ever to write, I'm so happy you enjoyed it. And yes, all pairings everrr. I mean, Inception definitely has an OTP but I personally think one of the awesome things about the movie is how everyone manages to have chemistry with EVERYONE. One of my in-my-head ideas was to write a drabble for every possible pairing...
Also, as I'm onto replying, please, I love friends! Friend away, I would be delighted! Your comments have been like bonus Christmas presents :D
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Date: 2010-12-29 06:50 am (UTC)Banter of the flirtatious kind is AWESOME. It's so fun and funny and giggly and just all sorts of awesomeness.XD
I will not dissuade you from going ahead with your idea ;DXD You are now friended -- thank you!!!
I'm glad you didn't think I was creepyHahaha I'm glad to hear it; I'm usually too lazy to comment, but your fics were really good and you're very nice, so yes. XDno subject
Date: 2011-01-15 11:47 pm (UTC)I'm really very seriously impressed at your pastry choices! Every pastry is perfect for each character! *is hungry now*
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Date: 2011-01-16 12:19 pm (UTC)Yay! I won't lie, I spent a really long time on skype with a friend going through all the choices for each character. Sorry about the hunger cravings, I hope you can find something delicious to satisfy them.