Mostly Harmless

I recently updated I Want to Break Free on AO3. I edited the hell out of it so I could submit it to the Inceptiversay fanbook (2000 words instead of 3000). I think the result was ultimately better, so I replaced it with the new version, but the old version had a bit more backstory, so I'm archiving it here.

 

They’re driving along the same stretch of road they’ve been traveling for miles, scrub desert in shades of light brown, turning pink as the sun goes low in the sky. It’s cooled off enough that the air whooshing by them feels refreshing instead of oven-like, and Arthur grudgingly admits to himself that Eames’ ridiculous choice of car—a showy, impractical convertible in cherry fucking red—is nothing short of brilliant at the moment.

He stopped being irritated at Eames about six hours ago. Eight hours ago, they’d missed their flight. Eames had assured him they’d be able to see ‘a little bit of Vegas’ during their stopover, but that had gone to hell when Eames managed to cheat the Luxor out of a few thousand dollars, and they both got off on it so much that they did the same thing at the Venetian. And lost track of time. So they were up about seven grand, barred for life from a fake pyramid, and an hour late for their flight to Boise, of all places. Personally, he didn’t care if he never went to Idaho, and he suspected Eames didn’t either, but a job was a job.

-*-

It was Eames’ stupid idea. The car, not the job. Arthur took full credit for accepting a job in the ass end of nowhere.

After they’d thoroughly annoyed the airline gate agent—Arthur by doggedly insisting there was something she could do, and Eames by watching with a smirk that made him look like a cat who’d broken into a dairy—they headed back to find a hotel. Which had taken them by the car rental desks.

“We should drive. C’mon. You’ll be able to feel the ‘call of the wild,’ or whatever it is you lot are always going on—”

“It’s ‘call of the open road’, you asshole. Call of the Wild is a book by Jack London.”

“Yeah. I knew that. Call of the open road. Wind in your hair, grit in your teeth—”

“Sounds enchanting.”

“No, wait. That’s motorbikes.”

Oddly, seeing the desert from a motorcycle appealed to him in a James Dean sort of way, but there was no way they’d get his suitcase of the back of a Harley. So he glowered at Eames because he didn’t want to admit that it was a good idea.

“I’ve always wanted to see this part of the country. The rugged intensity—”

“That’s Texas.”

“Shut up, I’m having a moment. The rugged intensity of the land, the harsh beauty of the desert—”

It looked as if he was about to spread his arms wide and break into song like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.

“—okay, okay,” Arthur said. “We can get a car. But it’s at least a ten hour drive, and if you’re like this the entire way I’ll shoot you in the kneecaps and let you bleed out next time we’re under.”

The rental agent’s look turned from bored to terrified, like he desperately wanted to be anywhere else. Probably didn’t know what ‘under’ meant, Arthur thought, and almost grinned.

“You’re awfully grumpy.”

“You made us miss our plane.” Although, technically, it had been his idea to hit up the Venetian, so it was as much his fault as it was Eames’, who—to his credit—hadn’t brought that up. Right now, all he really wanted was for Eames to shut the hell up for ten minutes.

Which wasn’t going to happen.

Eames grinned in that irrepressibly cheery manner and said, “We got some free cash. Now we can go for a nice drive. We’ll still get there before the next flight would.”

Arthur sighed the resigned sigh of someone who knew Eames always got his way, plunked his wallet on the counter, and said to the rental agent, “Just give us a car. Something practical and cheap. Good gas mileage.”

And then Eames grinned and got his way and they’d ended up with a cherry-red convertible.

-*-

He makes the mistake of letting Eames drive. He’s been in the States long enough that the wrong side of the road isn’t an issue, but the first thing he does when they hit the open desert is take the car all the way up to 120 miles per hour.

Arthur’s pretty sure he would have gone even faster if he hadn’t been screaming, “For the love of God, slow down!” at the top of his lungs.

“Oh, c’mon. Tell me you didn’t enjoy that.”

He can’t, because he sort of did. He settles for an exasperated look, but Eames is having none of it.

“See. You don’t get out enough. This is what America’s all about, right? Fast cars, hot women—” He pauses, giving Arthur a meaningful look. “—hot guys.”

Arthur cracks a smile and forgives him a bit. “Stop at the next gas station. I want to drive.”

“Good. I need some sunglasses.”

Sunglasses. Right. He’s been squinting for miles and not even realizing it. Arthur reaches behind the seat and plucks them from his laptop bag, where they sit nestled in their designer, leather-covered case. When he slips them on, the world takes on a rosier tone, polarized and hue-shifted to perfection. He leans back in his seat and enjoys the relative silence of 75-miles-per-hour wind rushing by them.

It’s another half an hour before they find a gas station—a one-pump shack that looks like it’s straight off a 50’s movie set. The weathered owner tells them to fill up. “There’s nothing else ’til Ely.”

“How far’s that?”

“Depends on how fast you drive. About three hours, legal.”

Eames shoots Arthur a grin that would terrify a shark.

“Nothing doing. I’m driving.”

He frowns but tosses Arthur the keys. “Spoilsport.” They’re about to get back in the car when he remembers. “Oh,” he says to the guy, “do you sell sunglasses?”

“No, don’t sell much ‘cept gas.” He looks thoughtful for a second and says, “Wait. Might have some in the back.”

The shack is so small he’s surprised there’s a ‘back,’ but he comes out with a pair of cheap plastic Ray-Ban knock-offs.

“These work?”

“Good enough,” Eames says cheerfully, and peels a twenty from a roll of bills from their Vegas winnings. He puts them on and turns to Arthur. “Yeah?”

“You look like Tom Cruise in Risky Business.”

“Could be worse.” He settles back into the passenger seat. “All right darling, your turn.”

The gas station guy does a double take at the ‘darling,’ and Eames gives him a winning smile. They pull back onto the road, kicking up dust behind them.

“I think you overpaid for those sunglasses.”

Eames chuckles. “No, pet. I think the Luxor overpaid for these sunglasses.”

-*-

The odometer ticks off the miles as they speed through the desert, far-off mountain ranges giving some visual respite from the endless sea of dried brush.

“Prickly stuff. Nasty,” Eames informs him after stopping to take a leak. “Don’t step off the road. It’ll tear up the bottom of your trousers.”

“I’ll wait ’til Ely.”

“Suit yourself. I couldn’t.” Eames takes a swig of water from the bottle he’d picked up at the airport. “Want some?”

“If I do, I won’t be able to wait ’til Ely.”

“Got to hydrate, love. Think of your complexion.”

He’s right—at least about the hydration. It’s unbearably hot (‘but it’s a dry heat,’ he thinks), and he relents. The cool water feels like heaven.

They’ve been on the road for another ten minutes when he feels the vague stirrings of hunger. “Wish we’d picked up food or something. I didn’t know it’d be this deserted. You have any snacks on you?”

“I’m a veritable minibar, love. Mixed nuts? Chocolate?”

He takes his eyes off the road long enough to look at Eames. He’s been known to strip minibars clean, so it’s possible he’s not being sarcastic. Unfortunately, he’s being sarcastic—in that dry, English way that makes you feel like an idiot when you fall for it.

“Damn. How far ’til Ely?”

Eames checks his phone. “Another two hours? Maybe? Less if you let me drive.”

“Don’t you have GPS on that thing?”

“No signal.”

“That’s … terrifying.” Visions of flat tires and bleached bones run through his brain, and he frowns.

Eames lounges—arm stretching luxuriously across the back of the white leather bench seat, head tipped back, basking in the sun. Without turning, he says, “Arthur, you worry too much.”

-*-

They stop in Ely. He checks his phone out of habit. No messages. They refuel. Buy snacks from a tiny grocery store. (“Pretzels, Arthur. I’m trying to blend in.”)

Arthur apparently takes too long, because Eames abandons his passenger-side tanning session and comes in to find him.

The only type of tea he can find is ‘iced,’ which he declares “an abomination against all that is tea.” When he starts muttering, “We shouldn’t have given up the Colonies. Look what they did with the place,” Arthur orders him back to the car.

He buys four bottles of water—the largest he can find—in case they get stranded and have to crawl to the next town. Not that there are many ‘next towns’ around here.

Back at the car, he rubs the sweat from his eyes. Despite his designer sunglasses, he’s anything but cool. He ditched his jacket and waistcoat almost as soon as they started, and his sleeves are turned up as far as they’ll go, but the heat is killing him.

Eames gives him a cheerful, relaxed smile. The bastard hasn’t even broken a sweat.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” He can’t help but be jealous. He looks so comfortable. How can anyone be comfortable in weather like this?

“Mm. Nice and warm. And quieter than Mombasa.”

Arthur chuckles. “Well, there’s that.”

“Want me to drive, love? You look a little tense.”

“Just … God. This heat.”

“Linen.”

“What?”

“Linen. I swear by it in this weather.”

He scowls and wishes he’d packed something lighter. Anything.

“You want one of my shirts?”

He almost launches into his standard tirade about Eames’ complete lack of fashion sense, but he catches himself just in time. “Really?”

“I know it’s not up to your usual sartorial standards …” and he fucking winks at him.

He’s too grateful to scowl. “Yeah, thanks. Okay if I go through your stuff?” He doesn’t want Eames picking one for him—he can only imagine where that would lead. He pops the trunk and paws through Eames’ duffel, going for anything without a pattern. He comes up with a dusky-blue aloha shirt, no print.

Eames glances back. “Doesn’t really match your skin tone, love. I’ve got that nice salmon one you like …”

He rolls his eyes. After stripping off his shirt—disgusting, sweaty, and destined for the dry cleaners—he stands in the parking lot for a moment, enjoying the cooling effect as his skin dries.

Eames leers. “That’s a good look for you.”

He actually considers it for a second—there’s a certain ‘James Bond’ appeal to being topless in a convertible—but the idea of sunburned nipples makes him wince in all the wrong ways, no matter what Eames might have been doing to them two nights ago.

He slips the shirt over his head without undoing the buttons. It’s huge, but it feels amazing, like he can breathe again. He has a stupid grin on his face, and Eames can see his dimples, and he probably looks ridiculous, but he’s too comfortable to care.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the view, darling, but we should get going if we’re going to make Boise tonight.” He hands him a cold bottle of water. “Feel better?”

“You have no idea.”

“I have some idea. You have to promise not to make fun of my wardrobe for a month.”

“I never agreed to that.”

“Would you rather—”

“—fine. A month.” Common sense triumphs over his need to mock Eames’ taste in fashion.

Then they’re back into the desert, the only people for miles.

“You know,” Eames says, “now would be a good time to find out how fast this thing really goes.”

He looks over at him and frowns. “We didn’t get the insurance.”

“I said fast, not off-road.”

It’s still light out, dead straight, dead flat, and not a cop in sight. Common sense tells him it’s a terrible idea, but the tingling feeling in his fingers and the want in his gut is more compelling. He cracks a furtive smile. “You’re a horrible influence, Mr. Eames.”

“That’s why you love me.”

“Possibly.” He thinks for a second. “Should we put the roof up first? It’ll be more aerodynamic.”

“That’s the spirit,” Eames says, beaming. “Leave it down. It’ll be more exciting.”

“Check behind us. Anyone?”

“Not a soul.”

Up ahead, it’s still empty desert as far as the eye can see. He takes a deep breath and exhales. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

They’re already doing about seventy and hitting a hundred doesn’t feel all that much faster, but as they push it up to 110, the wind starts roaring and he’s pretty sure this is when he started yelling at Eames the last time.

At 120, the adrenaline hits his system full-force and he keeps pushing, wanting more, wanting it so much he can taste it. His hair is wrecked, free of its gel, whipping around his eyes and making it hard to see. He doesn’t care. The road’s straight.

At 130, the wind screams past them. Even with his sunglasses on, his eyes water so much he’s at a full squint, hands gripping the steering wheel like his life depends on it. His too-large shirt flaps noisily around his biceps. He hears Eames screaming at the top of his lungs, a wordless howl of pure joy. Wishes he could see the look on his face but doesn’t dare take his eyes off the road.

At 135, he’s screaming too, giddy with excitement and fear and the power of the engine and the landscape rushing by them in a blur. The hair whipping against his face actually stings. It’s glorious.

He pushes, determined to hit 140. The car fights him but he doesn’t back off, and when the speedometer hits its mark, the tach needle is in the red zone. “140!” he yells triumphantly and eases off the gas. When they reach a sane speed, he brakes and pulls over to the side of the road. They both start laughing so hard they can barely breathe.

“Bloody hell,” Eames finally gets out, “you’re insane!”

Arthur laughs harder. “It was your idea.”

Eames slides across the seat and kisses him, energy flowing between them like a live wire. The adrenaline high and the touch of Eames’ lips and the warm desert air—it’s sheer euphoria. Arthur lets it wash over him.

When they pull away, Arthur runs his fingers through his hair, trying to tame it, but it falls back around his face. Eames’ hair is just as bad. They’re a mess. An adrenaline-fueled, giddy mess. Arthur can’t remember the last time he was this happy that didn’t involve sex with Eames.

He’s so turned on from the thrill of it all, he wants to straddle Eames on the passenger seat and go to town. He’s edging over there before he catches himself and stops. Winces. “I guess we shouldn’t—”

Eames sighs. “Probably not, love.”

“You sure?” he says, biting his lower lip. He really wants him to give in, but he knows he’s right.

Eames gives him a pained look. “I think a public indecency charge would be the least of our worries if we got caught.”

“Yeah,” he says, and sighs. He pulls Eames in for another kiss. “But once we get to Boise, all bets are off.”

Eames throws his head back and laughs. “I would hope so.” He reaches out and toys with Arthur’s hair. “You should wear it like this sometimes. Looks good.”

He flushes, still not used to getting compliments instead of sarcastic wit. “It makes me look less professional.”

“Your reputation precedes you, darling. I don’t think people would cross you even if you showed up with it dyed pink.”

“Thanks.” Then he adds, “Don’t get any ideas.”

“Perish the thought. Should we get going?”

They press on through.

They chat. They watch the sun set behind the mountains in gorgeous, muted pastels.

Another town. (More gas. More snacks. No messages. No tea. “You’re fucked on the tea thing, Eames. Deal with it.”) More endless desert.

A tiny town on the Idaho border named Jackpot, populated only with casinos. Eames begs him to stop, but Arthur insists they have to keep going.

When it’s dark, they listen to the radio. An exhaustive search turns up four stations: liberal news, conservative news, classic rock, and an evangelical preacher who tells them they’re going to hell. (The last one is oddly satisfying, but they can only stand it for ten minutes.)

They listen to the classic rock station, and Eames hums or sings along to everything. It should be annoying, but it isn’t.

When it starts playing “I Want to Break Free,” Arthur joins in at the top of his lungs.

Eames looks over at him, astonished. “I didn’t know you were a Queen fan, darling.”

“Who isn’t a Queen fan?” he says, giving him a dimpled grin.

They both sing through the entire thing. Eames even sings the melody for the guitar solo. It makes Arthur irrationally happy.

They’re on the outskirts of Twin Falls when Arthur’s phone beeps—they’re back in cell tower range. They pull over so he can check his messages. He hangs up, a perplexed look on his face. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Well, you know how neither of us wanted to go to Boise?”

“Yeah?”

“We don’t have to go to Boise. They canceled the job on us.”

“Huh.” They sit there for a few more seconds and Eames says, “I’ve always wanted to go to the Grand Canyon.”

“You know that’s, like, further away than Vegas, right?”

“Perfect,” says Eames, with a wicked grin. “We can stop by on the way there.”

He tips his head for a second, frowning. Contemplating. “Yeah, why not. I could use a vacation. Stay in Twin Falls tonight?”

“No. I can’t miss an opportunity to stay in a place named Jackpot, love. Sorry.”

Arthur smiles. “Okay, fine. But you’re driving.”