Just Us and the Cats

[ifeelbetter]

Title: Just Us and the Cats
Author: ifeelbetter
Rating: G
Warning: I was looking at these kittens for inspiration and, thusly, this is the sappiest silliest fluff of fluffness that ever existed.
Word Count: 2,045
Disclaimer: I own nothing of value, especially not Inception.
Summary: Arthur adopts a couple stray kittens who end up in their warehouse. Then Eames ends up watching them for him for ages. Then kittens and boys do other adorable things.
Notes: Written for this prompt in the second round of inception_kink's kink_meme. I HAVE NO IDEA, PEOPS. If this fic was food, it would be cotton candy.



There had been a massive explosion. Arthur insisted it was Eames's fault because Eames just had to tell that girl in the bar (and her boyfriend who, let's face it, looked just as eager) where she could find him and then it turned out they were spies or something and a guerilla team had blown up the top floor of their hotel.

Eames was sure this could be construed as Arthur's fault. He was working out the philosophical angle ("It's not a forger's responsibility to do background checks, especially not when there's a threesome on the table. That's the point man's job" was, he figured, his best shot) as Arthur slammed his duffelbag of machine guns down on the table of the warehouse, keeping up a steady stream of bitchiness.

The thump of the duffelbag as it hit the table top made the strangest sound. Arthur stopped in the middle of his harangue and Eames temporarily shelved Project It Was Arthur's Fault. The table made the noise again. Arthur bent down, squatting to see between the spindly table legs.

Then Arthur made the strangest noise. It started like a coo but Arthur bit it back before Eames had time to blink.

"Did you just--" he started to ask, incredulous, when he saw what had distracted Arthur.

Arthur stood, a tiny kitten cradled in each hand. One was ginger and the other was a mottled brown with a white stomach and paws. Both were yawning, having been awoken by the loud noise.

"How did you guys get in here?" Arthur asked, his voice dripping with warmth. Eames found himself bristling inexplicably.

The little ginger kitten stretched as he yawned even wider and you could have scooped Arthur off the floor.

"They're kittens, Arthur," Eames said stiffly. "Just put them outside and let's get back to business. You were saying how awful I am...?" But even that couldn't attract Arthur's attention back to him, not with those wads of fuzz distracting him.

"Where's your mommy?" Arthur cooed. He put the kittens carefully on the floor and dangled a finger in front of them. The ginger--a kitten slut, obviously--nuzzled the proffered finger.

"Out back, most likely," Eames said. "Let's just give them the boot, shall we?"

Arthur spared him a glare but only a cursory one. He was far too enthralled by the kittens. "We can't just leave kittens to the wild, Eames. That would be cruel."

"The wild? It's Paris, not a jungle. There are plenty of stray cats." Eames wrinkled his nose. "They'll have plenty of friends waiting for them just outside, I expect. You can chuck them out there anytime you like."

"Don't be ridiculous, Eames." Arthur smiled a dopey grin at the kitten with the white stomach which had rolled over onto its back to swat gently at his finger. He stroked its little stomach and was rewarded with a hesitant purr.

"How is that ridiculous? You don't want--" Eames began to feel a shudder coming on "--you're not going to keep them, are you?"

"What?" Arthur's brow furrowed and the silly grin faded. Eames immediately felt a twinge of guilt. "Oh. I ... I don't know."

Eames sighed, giving up. "I'll just go buy some kitten food, shall I?"

The ginger kitten looked at him, like it understood what he was saying, and gave the tiniest of mews. Arthur's face melted again.

"And kitty litter," he said. He pointed to the ginger one. "You know, I think he likes you." It was getting dangerously near to the edge of the table so it was really only to stop Arthur from making a pouty face at him that Eames reached out and caught it as it started to tumble off the edge.

He held the kitten by the scruff of its neck and kept it as far away from his face as he could, dangling it helplessly at arm's length. It made the pitiful mew again and scrambled its legs against the empty space. He carefully put it back on the table.

Arthur was looking at him differently, he realized. Eames ducked his head and retreated to get the necessary supplies before he did something stupid.

He wiped his hand against his pants leg, trying to get the cat hairs off. They just clung closer the more he wiped.

He sneezed as he shut the door behind him.

* * * * *

Of course Arthur wouldn't hear of moving the kittens over the next few days. Eames reminded him that Cobb would be arriving in a week and that there was no way Cobb would approve of kittens in the warehouse.

Arthur scowled at him. "I don't see what the problem is."

Eames pointed at the little ginger kitten (Arthur had named it, which Eames had been opposed to on principle and then even more vociferously when Arthur had named it Balenciaga and the brown and white kitten Fendi) as it chewed happily on the trigger of one of the larger guns.

"It's not loaded," Arthur said petulantly, as if that was the issue.

"It's a kitten with a grenade-launcher," Eames insisted.

Arthur just smiled his stupid soppy smile at little Balenciaga and continued to fail to see the problem.

Cobb called two days later and told them that he needed Arthur in Venice as soon as possible.

Arthur had gone gruff and cold again when he heard Cobb's voice, all professionalism and no soppy grins. Eames, though he sneezed at the kittens and thought they ought to be kept away from the weaponry, missed the dopey grin.

That evening, Arthur packed his small valise (he always traveled light) and, after clicking the two locks into place, sighed. Fendi tugged at the cuff of his trouser leg and flopped onto his back when Arthur looked down at him.

"I can't take you to Venice," he told the kitten.

"It doesn't speak English," Eames pointed out.

Arthur ignored him. "I am sorry," he said miserably.

When he looked up at Eames with his eyes all wide and his bottom lip looking just about ready to wobble, Eames realized he was being played.

"Oh no," he said. He backed away, waving his hands frantically.

"Just until I get back." Arthur bent over Fendi and tickled his stomach. Fendi wrapped his front paws around his finger lovingly as if to say I declare this finger mine.

Eames was sure Fendi was a fiend.

"Balenciaga likes you," Arthur pointed out.

This could not be denied, though Eames would have liked to try, because Balenciaga was in his pocket at that moment. He poked his head out on cue and meowed.

Arthur scooped Fendi off the floor and it rolled into a warm coil against his shoulder.

"You did get our hotel blown up," Arthur added pointedly. "And I didn't even yell at you that much."

"Are you saying I'm in the clear for that if I watch your rotten kittens?" Eames asked, wary. "Because I think that was sort of your fault too. I'm pretty sure."

"It wasn't. And, yes, we'd be even if you watched my kittens."

Arthur had to come closer to Eames than he had ever willingly been before to hand over Fendi. He stayed close, scratching behind Fendi's ears as he nuzzled into Eames's shoulder. Eames looked at the tenderness on Arthur's face and then down at the tiny kitten who had climbed Eames's shoulder and was wrapping himself around his neck. When Arthur reached out to stroke the kitten's head, his fingers grazed Eames's cheekbone.

"Yeah, fine," he agreed. "I'll watch the bloody kittens."

Eames thrilled under Arthur's smile then and didn't even begin to get angry when Arthur was held up in Venice and then Rome and then Madrid. Before he knew it, he'd had the kittens for over a year and still Cobb had Arthur globetrotting and Eames was still stuck with the cats.

* * * * *

His mom watched them when he had to be out of town--she thought he was a flight attendant because it was a lie he enjoyed. The first time he'd shown up on her doorstep with them in a cat-carrying case was the first time his mother had started her greeting with something other than, "Goodness, dear, what have you done to your hair?" He'd left them there for weeks at a time in the early days but grew uncomfortably guiltier every time they pathetically and passionately clung to him when he returned. His conscience pinged and he found he was accepting fewer jobs than he used to.

He'd get the odd phone call ("$50,000 for one hour's work in Hong Kong, man. We're golden" or "This guy is loaded, man, and he's willing to bet the house and the house is a mansion") and he'd say something like, "Cheers, mate, but I'm booked solid" even though his calendar had never been so sparse.

Balenciaga followed him around the house and liked to curl around his neck when he slept. He often woke Eames by gently butting his paw against the tip of Eames's nose. Even though he hadn't dreamed in years, not a real dream, it reminded Eames of how they used to feel. It was almost like dreaming, Eames decided, to wake to a kitten on your nose.

Fendi was less emotive and pined for Arthur for weeks before he allowed Eames to scratch behind his ears and even then he seemed to be allowing Eames the privilege. Fendi was always going to be Arthur's, it seemed.

He didn't hear from Arthur, not for three years. Eames tried to find out, nonchalantly, if Arthur was hurt or retired or in hiding but no one answered and he didn't have the guts to ask seriously, not when that would mean everyone would know he was looking.

Fendi still moped. Three years gone and he still moped for Arthur. Eames knew the feeling.

"It's better you learn about this now," he told Fendi one evening when he caught the cat gazing out the window. "Men will always leave you."

Fendi gave him a knowing look. He could almost swear he raised a cat eyebrow at him.

"I'm serious," he insisted, leaning forward in his armchair, "Let's get this all out there right now: he left us." He blinked. "You. He left you." He frowned. Balenciaga meowed loudly on his lap, still very much the cat-slut. He scratched Balenciaga's belly absent-mindedly.

"Ignore Balenciaga," he instructed Fendi. "He doesn't understand your angst because he's a slut." Fendi tilted his head but seemed to be listening. "Also, he pinned his hopes on me and I never disappoint. Skinny men in fancy suits are nothing but disappointment."

Fendi hopped off the window ledge and padded across the room, past Eames's chair.

"Fine. Ignore me all you like," he called after the cat, "It's your own heart to break."

There was a quiet cough behind him. Eames scrambled out of his chair, sending an indignant Balenciaga skittering away.

Arthur was holding Fendi in his arms, his expression bemused.

"I didn't say any of that," Eames said preemptively. "Unless you didn't hear it. Did you," he asked hopefully, "you know, not hear it?"

Arthur looked down at Fendi. "Did I break your heart, Fendi?" he asked, smiling. Fendi purred loudly.

"He's just saying that to get in your pants," Eames said. "He's been pining."

"Have you been pining?" Arthur asked, still looking at the cat. Fendi held onto one of Arthur's fingers the same way he had as a kitten, the same claim of ownership. "I'm sorry I made you pine."

"Yeah, alright," said Eames, rubbing the back of his neck. "He's just a cat. He'll always forgive you."

Arthur met his gaze then and held it for a beat.

"Good to know," he said finally. He shifted his gaze, like he'd gotten an answer from Eames's eyes though Eames didn't know what it was or, to be honest, what the question had been.

It must have been good stuff, though, because Arthur moved towards him, depositing Fendi on the emptied chair, and pulled Eames towards him.

"Thanks for watching my kittens," Arthur said just before he kissed Eames tenderly and deeply.