Title: 5 crossover/fusion ficlets
by magique
Fandom(s): Inception
Pairing(s): Arthur/Eames
Genre/Rating: Various/PGish to R
Word Count: ~2160
Summary: 2 crossovers & 3 fusions of Inception with Life, White Collar, Gossip Girl, Life As We Know It, and Supernatural respectively.
Warnings/Spoilers: frequent coarse language, mentioned drug abuse (Life), kid!fic (LAWKI), supernatural themes (SPN), violence (SPN), sexual references (SPN) / possible spoilers for all series/films, but definitely for major plot points of Life As We Know It.
Notes: Way too many fandoms to try and put this in the crossover section-besides, it focusses almost entirely on Arthur and Eames, so it makes sense to put it in the regular Inception section. Notes for each section are:
1) Charlie!Eames & Danni!Arthur. And, actually, after I wrote this I realised that recovering-drug-addict!Arthur would be amazing if it was handled properly.
2) Jones!Arthur, Neal!Eames, Peter!Cobb, El!Mal, Moz!Yusuf, Diana!Ariadne. So while Cobb's chasing Eames all over America and Europe, Eames is flirting with Arthur who has to keep calling Cobb and telling him all the clues Eames has sent...Arthur thinks Eames is an asshole but he keeps the birthday cards anyway. Just in case they need them for the case against him. No really.
3) Blair and Arthur as siblings, just with very little Blair. Set post-inception and, idk, probs late S3 to early S4 in GG.
4) Holly!Arthur & Messer!Eames, contains spoilers for a few major plot points in the film.
5) Wherein Arthur is human and Eames is a shapeshifter and together they are a super awesome hunting team~


"Who'd you piss off to get partnered with me, darling?" Eames asks, once, as they walk into another crime scene.

"I don't know what you mean," says Arthur, and doesn't think about his father or the lieutenant, doesn't think about the coke his old partner found stashed in his bag or the rehab meetings he has to keep making so he won't lose his job.

"You know what I mean," says Eames.

And the problem is Arthur does know what he means. He runs a hand down his tie, doesn't look at Eames, doesn't think about coke, and says, "Shut up, asshole, we've got work to do."


"Hey, mate," the bartender says. "Some guy said to give you these."

He puts a tall drink on the bar, bright orange and sugar rimmed, with an umbrella and a slice of lemon, and sets a crumpled napkin down beside it. Arthur knows, without needing to look, who it was from and that he'd already have snuck away, too quick for Arthur to spot him. He gives the bar a once over just in case and unfolds the napkin.

U look stunning as always, darling, it reads, but cheer up, Im never far away xx Eames

Arthur rolls his eyes, but he can't help the reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Cobb is always pissed when Arthur doesn't mention any of the little hints that Eames sends his way as soon as he gets them, so he fires off a quick text (Eames is back. A) and his phone is ringing seconds later.

He leaves without touching the drink, shoving the note in his pocket as he goes.


Arthur makes it to the elevator before Eames catches up to him, sliding through the doors before they can shut.

"Where're we headed?" he asks, grinning.

Arthur shoves his hands in his pockets and frowns. "We aren't going anywhere, Eames. When I get off the lift, you are leaving."

"You're so hurtful, cherry. What's the big secret?"

One of the things that make Eames such a good forger is how nosy he is and now he's here Arthur's never going to get rid of him. Realistically, the best he can do is prep him and hope the reality of Eames meeting his family isn't as awful as what he imagines.

"Fine," he says. "Ground rules: don't speak unless I indicate it's appropriate; don't say anything about what we do, especially about it being illegal; don't flirt with anyone; never mention any of this to a single person ever; and, for fuck's sake, act like you have some class, okay?"

Eames pouts in a way that makes Arthur feel a little weak-kneed and cranky. A lot of things Eames does make Arthur feel a little weak-kneed and cranky, but it's not entirely Eames fault because Arthur knows he's not always doing it on purpose. He straightens up, adjusts his tie and the lapels of his jacket, looks at Eames and despairs, full-knowing Eames is watching it all like he's getting a million little clues to Arthur's psyche.

The elevator dings and the doors open before there's a chance for any further conversation, and Arthur steps out into the foyer with the heavy sort of anticipation he usually reserves for knowing he's about to be ripped limb from limb in a dream. He's already managed to sneak away a few times so far to visit, and he's always been so careful to keep his work and his private life as completely separate as possible—to the point of burying his surname so deeply in his subconscious even Cobb can't get it out.

Eames is the last person he wants to meet his family. Not least because Blair's infinitely better at reading Arthur than Eames is, regardless of Eames' occupation; she's always been able to figure out Arthur's crushes and had no compunction about doing something about it.

"Is everyone you know as perfect as you, Arthur?" Eames murmurs, sounding amused, and movement attracts Arthur's attention up to where Blair is descending the ornate staircase with a tall blonde that Arthur knows can only be Serena van der Woodsen.

"I made the rules clear, didn't I?" Arthur asks coolly, even as he smiles up at the girls.

"Of course," Eames says. He smiles too, beatifically. "And you have my word that I will follow them. Mostly."

It's enough for Arthur to predict his own undoing.


They all get their faces painted at Eames' work picnic because Phillipa points imperiously at the fairy carefully giving an eight-year-old whiskers and then cries enormous crocodile tears until Arthur caves and lets the fairy do him too. The paint's itchy on Arthur's skin so he scratches at it absently while he watches Eames lay on a rug with Phillipa and James crawling all over him (because they're cats now, not people, Phillipa told Eames with huge offence, obviously).

"You must be Arthur," someone says, and Arthur turns away from where James is elbowing Eames in the stomach and Eames' face is contorting as he tries to be a big manly man who never shows any pain. The woman is slim and blonde and offering him a glass of punch. "Eames is always talking about you."

Arthur refuses, point blank, to believe that's in any way true, even though he knows from experience that Eames will shove photos of Phillipa and James at any unsuspecting victim he can find. "We're not a couple," Arthur says, automatic, because they've only been maybe-sort-of-thinking-about-dating for a couple of days anyway and because lately he's begun to have an intimate knowledge of the expressions and turns-of-phrase that mean people think you're gay-married, and she just tilts her head slightly in confusion and frowns.

"Oh," she says finally, and Arthur goes back to watching his weird, make-shift family. Eames has accepted defeat in the face of elbows and knees that keep getting too close to his groin and is sitting up. He smirks when he catches Arthur's eye and reaches into his pocket for his phone.

Arthur gets a text a few seconds later that says, signal if u need a rescue, petal, and, only a few months ago Arthur would've told him just where he could shove it, but now Arthur rolls his eyes and replies with, Trust me, if I need help you'll be the last person I ask. Eames laughs and sticks his tongue out, but then James distracts him with some question or another that makes Eames grin and tickle his underarms. It devolves from there into a frantic wrestling match with Phillipa and James teaming up and pinning him to the ground.

"You must be proud of him," the woman says suddenly, like she's trying to restart their conversation with something less awkward.

Arthur frowns. "Sorry?"

"The job offer in Phoenix, I mean. He's been angling for that promotion for years."

"Of course," Arthur says, even though he has no idea what she's talking about, and smiles tightly. "Excuse me."

"Eames," he says once he's casting a shadow across their picnic rug. "What promotion?"

Eames eyes go wide and his jaw goes slack and, "Arthur," he says, and gives himself away. "Oh, hell, Arthur, I was going to tell you."

"When?" Arthur asks, but his voice comes out too hard for it to be a question. His hands are clenched at his sides because if he doesn't keep them there he'll probably sock Eames one in the fucking nose. "Phillipa, James, get up. We're leaving."

"Darling," Eames says, scrabbling up himself to follow them, and, Jesus, Arthur is rounding on him, getting in his face, and telling him, "You do not get to call me that. Take your fu—take your stupid promotion and get out of our lives, Eames. We don't. need. you."

Arthur takes Phillipa and James back home where the walls are covered with photos of Eames, playing with Phillipa, Eames, chasing James up the stairs, Eames, making faces at the camera, Eames, with a thrashing and protesting Arthur on his lap, Eames, smiling like he's in love. He goes into his room where Eames' clothes litter the carpet and the bedposts because even though Arthur told him to pick them up this morning, Eames had wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist and pressed a kiss to his temple and murmured, "When we get home, lamb chop, promise." He sits on the bed where there are two new pillows that aren't his, and stares at the wall and wonders if any of it was real or if Eames was just playing house until something better came along.


The still-burning fire in the grave of Maurice Fischer casts an orange glow across Arthur's figure as he wipes the sheen of sweat off his brow and glances behind him to where Eames is sitting against a gravestone, winded and gasping.

"You okay?" he asks, and Eames grimaces and says, "Bloody hell."

Arthur smiles, a small curve of his mouth that favours the side of his face that isn't covered in bruises and dripping blood, because fair enough. Fischer had been pummelling Eames by the time Arthur managed to crawl back to the hole they'd dug and throw in a lighter, and it was only the low groan that followed Fischer going up in flames that assured Arthur that Eames was still breathing.

Eames stands at length, using the stone to lever himself up. "You don't look so good yourself, kitten."

"Thanks," Arthur says wryly, but Eames is right. He's definitely got a bruised rib or two, a badly sprained wrist, and possibly a concussion from the feel of the head wound he got from hitting the dirt head first. "We should go check on Robert."

"Christ, who cares about Robert?" Eames says, leering, so he must be starting to feel better already. "I'd rather have a shag and then sleep for a week."

Arthur flips him the finger and walks back to the ghost-proofed car Robert's been cowering in since they made it out of his dad's mansion and took off for the cemetery. He's gonna have some serious damage control to do, because if anyone Arthur has met took the Monsters Are Out There thing badly, it's Robert Fischer, and Arthur isn't enough of a dick that he'd just piss off and let the guy deal with it alone. Also, he's in Arthur's car and Arthur would really like to be able to get him out of it at some point in the near future.

Later, Arthur pulls into a park outside their motel room and shifts the gearstick to neutral. He's yawning and blinking away sleep, and having to work the foot pedals is bringing up new twinges of pain in his legs, but he's better off than Eames who started snoring halfway through explaining just how much of a turn on Arthur bleeding and sweating and watching someone burn is for him.

Arthur ends up leaving Eames in the car when he drags himself inside to collapse on his hideous bed, because, actually, he is enough of a dick and Eames will always deserve the myriad of sore muscles he'll wake up with tomorrow.

It only takes maybe two hours before he's woken up by a rush of cold air and Eames landing half on top of him anyway. "What the hell," he grunts, and, "You better have locked my fucking car," and, "There's another bed, asshole; this one's taken," but Eames just shifts so he's not sprawled over Arthur's bandaged ribcage and goes back to sleep.

It probably says something deeply telling about how little Arthur values his own life that he just rolls over and goes back to sleep with Eames snoring in his ear and working his octopus limbs under Arthur's back to drag him closer, that he still hasn't pulled a silver knife and stabbed Eames in the throat, but. But Eames has proved his worth; he's strong and clever and useful, he keeps the fucking disgusting transformations to himself and he's saved Arthur from certain death more times than Arthur can count on one hand.

Arthur's always been self-reliant, and ever since his parents died at the hands of a Wendigo he'd been alone, so to say he never thought he'd get to this point, where Eames is a constant—maybe the only constant—in his life, where Arthur makes an effort to be low-key on the hunting scene in case someone pays too close attention and notices what they shouldn't, is the understatement of the fucking century.

But it's nice, having Eames where before he had no one, because maybe Arthur functioned alone, maybe Arthur didn't need help to be a monster killing machine, but Eames flirts and bickers and fiddles with his radio and steals fries off his plates and fills their free time with all those little things that remind Arthur, even if he's sometimes imagining gutting Eames like a fish, just how badly off he was functioning when he could have been living.