ifeelbetter

Having prelims looming on the near horizon (can horizons be near? THEY CAN FOR THE PURPOSES OF THIS ENTRY, OK), I have developed some epic procrastination/denial skillz.

SO.

I wrote a thing about Arthur getting onto The Sartorialist on the

inception_kink meme.

Arthur would be at his second coffeeshop. If he didn't empty his own pot and then buy two cups en route, he was hell to work with. He, being Arthur, had elaborate plans to diffuse his caffeine intake over various locations so no one would (a) notice he bought such large amounts or (b) try to make him cut down for his own good. (People in the Know knew not to try--Arthur had once held up a Starbucks for not properly brewing his espresso. It was one of the things people Knew about Arthur. Introductions tended to go: "Hi, I'm Arthur." "Aren't you the guy--with the coffee?" "Yes.")

So Ariadne knew what direction to go. And Arthur was there, of course.

She just hadn't expected him to be with the Sartorialist himself.

Then I started an AU where Arthur's a bored bartender and Eames is a mysterious maybe-mobster who shows up every now and then... also, you guessed it, on the kink_meme.

Dom shrugged and made a show of giving up (which never ended in him giving up, it just diffused the disagreement over a period of intense nagging and not-so-subtle hints and Arthur wondering why he put up with this horrible little man. And then Arthur inevitably gave up and Dom didn't rub his nose in it so much which was a little nice. Sort of).

That night--in the dingy living room restaurant with somebody's grandmother's alcohol shelf propped on cardboard box--Arthur realized he sort of liked the whole bar-tending routine. He'd always liked alcohol in a passive way--there was that whole period in his teenage-years when he'd tried to dress like Sammy Davis Jr. with very limited success and you don't love Sammy Davis Jr. the way he did without seriously digging a nice cocktail--but there was something even better about the production end of the drink. He liked the way people waited patiently (or, you know, impatiently) for him to slide a perfect little glass of something beautiful, something perfect and delicate, across to them. And Mal kept them supplied in French chanteuses on vinyl for the right ambiance and Dom had unplumbed depths when it came to interior decorating--how he made the lights cast that rosy-amber glow was a trick of genius as far as Arthur was concerned, especially since it seemed to make even the dingy backroom look elegant--and it all made the night fantastic.

THEN...though this chronology is beginning to look all wrong to me but whatevs, guys, maths/numbers has never been my strong suit...I wrote a H50 high school AU that just might grow if there's any interest in seeing what madcap adventures science-geek!Steve and newbie!Danno can get into since they've already caused a minor explosion in lab.

"You were in a science lab," she said, like she was explaining it to a five-year old, "and you were partnered with--"

She didn't get to finish the thought, though. Not when the person in question was bursting into the room so exuberantly that the door nearly fell of its hinges. And Steve McGarrett--the student who no one had wanted to sit next to and Danny, the new kid, had been forced to partner with, the kid who had unexpectedly grinned a sort of Cheshire-cat grin and said "bet you don't know what would happen if I put this in here" and then had ignored the obvious double entendre in favor of pouring something pink and powdery into something blue and liquidy and then, no, Danny wouldn't have predicted the ensuing explosion--had proof of his complicity all over his face. In the form of ash. He was covered in the stuff except for around the eyes, where his goggles had been.

"You can't expel Danno!" McGarrett said. "It was entirely my fault!" The goggles were hanging around his neck--also covered in the thick ash--and he'd left a hand print right in the middle of the principal's door, covering her nameplate.

ALSO--and see what I mean about the denial about prelims being strong in this one??--I am working on a fake boyfriends AU for Arthur/Eames where, as per

cobweb_diamond's suggestion, Arthur has this agreement with Eames that he'll always be his go-to for a last minute faux-date while Eames is doing research and has to wine and dine a mark or whatever...so far, the research for this fic has involved watching youtube clips of Viennese waltzes and googling viscounts and marquesses. I don't know, guys. I may have gone over the bend.

Eames held out the lighter, his hand cupped around the tiny flame.

Arthur huffed, something like a laugh and exasperation mixed together, and leaned in to light his cigarette.

“I’m thinking I’ll be the charmingly eccentric lordling experimenting with rural Americanness and you can—“ Eames said, taking a puff of his own cigarette after Arthur had leaned away again.

Arthur blew out a puff of smoke, irritated. “I don’t need training wheels, Mr. Eames,” he said. It would have sounded petulant, probably, from anyone else. “It’s not my first time out of the gate.”

“You’re saying you can keep up, no matter what yarn I spin?” Eames asked.

“Don’t mix metaphors.”

“I’m just clarifying.”

Arthur pulled another long drag from the cigarette, his cheeks caving inwards dramatically. Of course he would smoke like there was a prize for getting to the stub first, Eames thought.

“I dare you to try,” Arthur said, finally. Tendrils of smoke curled around the corners of his mouth.

And that was how they ended up playing their game.

Eames introduced him as “Eduardo” and dropped a couple of salacious hints to a grande-dame type wearing an enormous feather hat that Arthur was the pool boy. She smiled knowingly over a glass of champagne.

She whispered something in Arthur’s ear later—Eames saw it from across the room—and Arthur…he immediately looked like the pool boy, dressed in a fancy suit and trotted around a formal gala, would look like: equal parts embarrassed and thrilled.

Eames looked away, trying to find something else to look at besides the way the blush—the blush, honestly, an actual fucking blush—was spreading across Arthur’s dimpled cheeks.