azuremew: (eames)
[personal profile] azuremew
Title: Side Effects Might Include Zombies
Word Count: 1730
Pairing: Eames/Yusuf
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: This fic contains scenes of explicit violence and gore. Oh, and crack. Like woah. Sarcasm, terrible humor and puns, hints of stuff characters should never know, including knowing their writer, and mentions of Cillian Murphy.
Summary: Technically, if you must, this could follow The Longest Night for Incuabula. Eames caught the flu from Robert, and with sleep deprivation, stress, and watching "28 Days Later" as the in-flight movie, even the forger had no chance over the power of this dream.
Author's Notes: For [ profile] forgerness, whom needed cheering up and after her delicious Fischer porn, I could not resist a little random crack just for her. With zombies. <3

“Eames,” he hears Yusuf calling to him. “Eames, wake up.” Shaking his body. it rattles with discomfort, setting off a moan. But the chemist is persistent, pouring water from a bucket that was used earlier before for the fever onto the face.

Eames responds then with semi-full alertness, sitting up and muttering, “The bloody hell, Yusuf?”

A shirt is tossed onto his lap, pulling his gaze to the left where Yusuf is collecting things, pulling clothes from hangers and shoving them into the shoulder bag Eames brought. He picks up other sentiments, too, like a photograph of Robert Fischer as a child, holding his pinwheel next to his father, and books. Several books. Enough that one swing would probably knock someone out.

There is no need for that, of course, for as the bag is tossed at the foot of the bed, so is a shotgun. Eames blinks, “Yusuf, mate, will you tell me what the fuck is going on already?”

Yusuf glances over, his dark eyes a deeper shade, like when the inception was through. Filled with guilt, just like his voice that tells him, “Zombies.”

It coaxes a less than expected, or should be expected, response. Laughter. Eames tilts his head back, falling back onto the bed from it. The feeling consumes him, sending him far away from this room until the whole, darn bucket is tossed onto him. “Shit,” he curses. “The hell is wrong with you?”

“I,” Yusuf sighs. “I screwed up, mate. You know how the Somnacin has its, er, side effects?”

“You mean the dreams?”

“Not quite.”

“Trouble sleeping? Loss of concentration?”

“Keep going.”

“Drowsiness – which might I add makes no fucking sense to the above.”

“No,” Yusuf pinched his nose. “You're thinking too far back.”

Eames considered, then breathed in, “Alright, then how about the headaches, nausea, vomiting, dizziness, dry mouth, headaches, constipation, increased sweating, loss of sexual appe --” he stopped because Yusuf had his hand on his mouth. A grin spread wide along his lips, but the brow furrowed in a pout, “I didn't even get to the exploding diarrhea part.”

“While you're sleeping,” Yusuf tells him.

“Oh!” Eames snapped his fingers. “You mean the sleepwalking?” He sees a nod and wonders out loud, “Don't tell me that I have to tell Fischer that Arthur might be eating his dinner while asleep now,” or trying to fuck his brains out, he thought.

The latter wasn't so far off, he learned as Yusuf drew back and picked up a duffel bag that was already packed. It was slung over his shoulder alongside another rifle and what appears to be a hunting knife that was shoved into his belt. “Yusuf, mate, tell me,” he said, following to find out, one hand around the weapon while the other taking the sack. “You know you don't have to keep your secrets from me.”

Yusuf was at the door when Eames spoke and paused with his hand on the knob. He glanced to the side, took in a dramatic breath, and exhaled “The men downstairs, the ones that come here to dream. They haven't been sleeping well. Terrible nightmares. So I changed the formula a little. Next thing I know I hear groaning sounds, like they're in pain, then a scream from Nadia. I ran down to the door and opened it. The men, they were surrounding her, chewing on her flesh, tearing it right off like animals.”

It sounded crazy, but the way his voice was shaking, the fear that coated each words, that was hard to deny. “And they're downstairs?”

“No,” Yusuf smiled, finally. “We have help.”

The two moved quietly to a room that was in shambles. Glasses were shattered from turned over shelves. The window was smashed in, and the cat was nowhere to be found. It was quiet. Too quiet. And that was because of the stench rising with the smell of chemicals mixing. In all honesty, Eames was kind of surprised the whole building had not exploded for sleeping with a mad scientist.

That thought, though, was snuffed by the short, wiry man that stood near the doorway, hiding before the stairs that reach downward to the shop's alley. He was holding a bat that is covered in blood, and from what Eames could tell, that's exactly how the bodies were beaten. “Fuck,” he cursed, uncertain if it was the first connection or the second as the stranger came closer to greet them.

“Eames,” Yusuf said. “This is Jim.”

“No,” Eames replied. “That's Fischer.”

“No, I'm pretty sure I'd know Robert Fischer if I saw him,” Yusuf noted. “See, Fischer has longer hair, and he dresses in Armani or whatever the bloody hell Arthur calls them.” A pause, then a smirk, “Plus, I doubt he swings a bat quite like Jim here. And he doesn't have an accent.”

“Hullo,” Jim said, reaching out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Eames blinked, “What accent?”

Yusuf lowered his head to press his finger along the nose again, and Jim smiled, “Yusuf, you ought to get something for that before we head out. Maybe an aspirin from the bath?”

“I don't think so.” Eames muttered, rolling his eyes. “If Somnican causes zombies, and you're not Robert Fischer, I do not want to think what aspirin does.”

“Cures headaches?” Jim questioned. “And I'm not Robert Fischer.”

Yusuf laughed.

“Ha, bloody, ha,” Eames said, and Yusuf's elbow connects with his ribs. “Ouch. Shit, mate, what was that for?”

“For stealing my line,” Yusuf replied. “You might be a thief, but this is my shop, and you know the rules.”

“Are meant to be broken, yeah?” Eames smiled. “Oh, why so serious? Who knows, maybe you incepted it while we were in Fischer's head. Ever think of that?”

“Um, what?” Jim asked. “Don't you think you're taking from the wrong script now?”

“Same director, and it's got Cillian Murphy in it, so I don't see why not?” Eames pointed out.

And before this tale creates any more paradox to which their writer decides is too insane for print, they picked up their things and left the shop. It was strange, really, considering how quiet Mombasa was. One would expect the signs of zombies walking down the streets – moans in the not so sexual variety, the call for brains, and that squishy sound of a fresh, delicious meal right off a line that even Subway cannot compete with. But there was none of the above as Jim held his bat in front of him and Yusuf trailed behind with Eames. Just crickets. There might have even been a tumbleweed if this were the right place, but luckily such things were left elsewhere.

Alas, that was the problem of zombies being created from a formula meant to help put people to sleep so that they can dream with more clarity. They were, in fact, still asleep. Just walking. Which was strange, and stranger still were sleepwalking zombies that have those urges doctors warn might occur during such phenomena – eating (of brains) and even sex that upon witnessing immediately resulted in turning around and going the opposite direction.

The cure? Same as any zombie, Jim would point out as he bashed his bat long the backside of one zombie's head. The gray matter exploded with blood pouring out as it fell to the ground, Jim continuing until he was certain the abomination was quite dead as dead.

Eames felt his stomach clench at the sight, although he was slightly aroused by the flecks of red splashed all over Jim's face. It was sad just how much he was turned on by that, the memory of Fischer's broken li . . .

That thought was paused by a stir in his pants, a shift that certainly was not his cock erecting at the thought of a bruised, injured, Fischer being fucked in the mouth. This actually bit back. “Ow!” Eames yelped and got up on one foot, shaking his leg until something that could only be described as a tribble or Sonic rolled out. It spun five feet from him before hitting the wall of a building, uncurling.

“Radha!” Yusuf said. “There you . . .”

The cat did not meow in a gleeful response, but hissed, blood dripping from its mouth with a piece of Eames' leg hanging loosely over its jaw.


“Damn right, Yusuf! Your bloody cat bit me! I thought she didn't like me. That I can deal with. Even the pant thing I can deal with, s'long as it doesn't happen when I'm awake . . . wait a minute.” He paused, checking his pocket for his totem, and sure enough . . .

Eames opened his eyes, groaning at the bright lights he swore were on despite the room being a black as the night outside. He tried to get up, but the sudden vertigo swept through him, sending him back to lying down and a cold washcloth over his forehead. “Yusuf . . .”

“Shush,” Yusuf said, patting away the layer of sweat that gave way a warm glow that he could not help but find almost attractive. Like a worn out sprinter collapsed on the ground, Eames was still quite delirious, and he explained softly, “You went to sleep after arriving and woke up with a fever. Bloody flu. Arthur called awhile ago. You must have got it from Robert.”

Looking at him, Eames tried to put it all together, although it was just told in a straight line, it felt like trying to connect A to F without half the letters in-between. “What?” he asked. “You mean there weren't zombies?”

Yusuf raised an eyebrow, “Zombies? Not last I checked, no. More like Karma.”

“Karma?” Eames asked, and at the rub of his knuckles, he pulled away from the sharp, light bruises after colliding with Robert's face. “Right. About that . . .”

“Tomorrow,” Yusuf told him. “For now, rest.”
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