Title: If on a winter's night
Author: vallennox
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Warning: it's sad.
Summary: If on a winter's night, I lay down next to you and we never woke up.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Nolan.
A/N: Inspired by Sting's album, the one with the same name as this fic here.
If On a Winter's Night
Chapter 1
Cobb had certainly not expected this. He'd mentally prepared himself for chaos, miles and miles of debris, blood and ash and fire, ruins of once-gorgeous cities, even Limbo, but not this.
He was standing in a tranquil valley, and it was snowing, not a blizzard, but a tender, almost pleasing sprinkle. The sky was deep grey, looking dead. He looked around aimlessly. There was a house - a hut, to be exact - standing alone in the middle of this blinding white dreamscape, glowing like a lantern. Cobb sighed heavily, before picking his way towards the hut.
By the time he reached the door he was almost frozen. Cobb banged the door with one numb fist. Something stirred inside the house, no one answered. "Open the damn door, Arthur! I know you're there!" he shouted, kicking the door hard, "Arthur!"
The latch clicked. Wind swirled in with tiny flakes of snow. "Cobb." the point man said dryly, with no intention to invite the other man in. In fact his brown eyes were cold and lifeless, like the snow-covered valley outside. Cobb's heart sank.
"Are you going to let me in or not."
Arthur simply stared at him, expressionless.
"Goddamnit, Arthur, I'm not a projection."
Arthur shrugged, then stepped aside. It was almost as cold inside, but at least there were walls to shield the wind off. The hut was empty except for a small round table, a chair and a bed. "Where's he?" Cobb asked.
"He's not here, we're not deep enough." Arthur replied wearily, "If I could just…"
"You are not going any deeper, you heard me?" Cobb cut him off, "and you are not coming down here alone, not till you've fully recovered. Now go back up there with me."
Arthur ignored him. He braced his hands on the window sill, watched the snow fall. "I just wanted to see what he was dreaming, Cobb." he said, "and…"
Cobb shot him in the back of his head.
—
His eyes flicked open. The white ceiling of the hospital and Cobb's worried face were hovering above him, slightly blurred, PASIV device humming softly on the bedside table. "Don't you dare do that again." Cobb warned as he pulled the IVs out of their veins, "When I walked in five minutes ago I thought you'd trapped yourself in Limbo with him." he glanced at the unconscious man on the hospital bed.
"I know what I'm doing, Cobb." Arthur murmured, reached for Eames' hands. They were warm and dry and calloused like they always been. The point man sighed.
"You've no idea how dangerous it can be to-"
"God's sake, Cobb, I'm not seven years old." Arthur snapped.
Cobb was silent for a minute.
"He's not coming back, Arthur, you know it."
"Yes."
"Please…promise me this, don't…lose yourself."
Something in the extractor's voice made the point man look up at him, "I won't." he said, voice softened.
He wasn't sure of it, though.
—
Coma, the doctor told him, you know what it's like; Mr. Chambers might wake up tomorrow, or fifteen years later.
It took Arthur a while to remember that Victor Chambers was one of the many fake names Eames used. He didn't understand a single word the doc had said, but he nodded automatically. All you have to do is wait, yeah, he knew what it's like to wait. After all, he's the one who's always been waiting.
Fast backward to that cool autumn morning when Eames got up earlier than Arthur for the first time and made themselves breakfast. Arthur padded into the kitchenette of their rented apartment half an hour later, still in his pajamas. Eames turned to kiss him, "Morning."
"Morning," Arthur mumbled, his eyes fell on two plates of indefinable object, "What are these?"
"Omelets, my love."
"They look like half-digested omelets to me."
"You hurt me, darling." Eames wrapped himself around Arthur, nibbling his neck, "this is supposed to be a surprise."
"More like shock."
"Hmm." warm lips moved up to his earlobe, Arthur shivered, Eames smiled triumphantly, "…luckily I've got something better."
Arthur detached himself from Eames' arms, the forger shrugged, "coffee?" he offered.
"What are you up to, Eames?"
"You're such a peevish kitten." Eames chuckled; the point man blushed a little, but remained defiant. "Whenever you put on that puppy-dog look I know something bad is going to happen." he said.
"Well," Eames shrugged again, poking the omelet with a fork, "I'm leaving this afternoon"
Arthur's heart skipped a beat; he licked his lips unconsciously, "Mind explain why?"
"Job. One of my, um, friends called last night."
"Oh," Arthur said, trying to sound casual despite the lump that was forming in his throat, "I thought we were staying here till next Tuesday." They've just arrived in Birmingham three days ago, intending to spend a week or so together.
"Sorry, love, couldn't resist." the forger leaned closer to press an apologizing kiss on his lips.
Since when have you become a workaholic? Arthur swallowed the sentence back, but the lump in his throat refused to go with it. "Go pack your mess up, I'll remake the breakfast, tell me you haven't wasted all the eggs."
Eames didn't tell him where he was going or how long the thing was going to take. Arthur told himself he didn't mind, really. Why should he care? They were not married or something. The unsaid consensus between them was that they don't meddle in each other's life. What he had to face was an empty apartment and four lonely days, no big deal. It's perfectly fine.
As for the disappointment that was clenching his heart, Arthur figured that was because of the fact that Eames had indeed used up all the eggs.
Do remember this apartment; they would come back to it, in the end.
Arthur drove him to the airport that afternoon, on his way home he made a detour to Sainsbury's for eggs and milk and the like. He made supper, ate it alone. The sound of fork touching plate seemed unbearably loud. Arthur turned the TV on, gratefully filled the room with noises he used to hate.
Life with Eames is unbearable, life without Eames is horrible.
This is one big secret he would bring with him to the grave.
Eames disappeared, vaporized. For at least two months Arthur hadn't heard a single word about Mr. BestForger, or maybe it's because he didn't try to. Arthur left Birmingham for the States where Cobb and an Australian architect were waiting, and gladly immersed himself into work. Everything was going smoothly for him again, though he'd slowly developed a habit of leaving the TV on during supper time.
They had their work done two days before Christmas, if Eames were here he would probably stuff the files into a green-and-red stocking before sending them to the biochemistry company that hired them. Arthur made a stupid mistake of mentioning this to Cobb, who gave him a worried look as though he'd just announced he's going to quit the job and fly to New York to start a new life as a stripper. Arthur wanted to cut off his own tongue, or punch Eames in the face, if he had any clue where the forger might be, both choices seemed alluring.
It snowed hard the following day, Arthur didn't get out of bed until 11:00 and spent the whole afternoon watching DVDs, then went back to bed without supper. The scream and laughter of the neighbor kids shattered the comforting silence in his bedroom. He lay there staring into the darkness, waiting for it to stop. Because God wanted Arthur to feel worse, the door bell rang.
He groaned, pressed the pillow over his ears. Whoever outside the door can go and screw himself. He's not going to get out of this warm bed.
The buzz paused, as if to catch a breath, then started all over again. Arthur struggled out of bed, fumbled for his Browning in the night table. He's definitely going to paint the wall with the guy's gray matter.
Arthur cautiously peeked through the peephole, the corridor was dim but still there was enough light for him to make out the unexpected visitor's gray eyes and stubbled jaw. Arthur almost dropped his gun.
He pulled the door open.
The British man leaned languidly on the door frame, as though the thing was specially designed for him or him for it, a playful smirk twitching his lips. Arthur wanted to say Eames or what are you doing here or whatever that could make him look less like a fool, but his vocal cord had stopped working. Eames was grinning in a way that made something in Arthur's chest explode.
Arthur hated him.
He also craved to kiss him.
Because his rational mind had become smashed potatoes, his body did the choice for him. Arthur grabbed the forger's collar (God, his hideous shirt) and slammed him to the wall. Eames made a small noise that was halfway between a chuckle and a grunt when their lips met - alright, crashed. Arthur bit him, hard enough to hurt, "you," he said breathlessly when they separated, both desperate for air, "I hate you."
"That's what you say to your lover?"
"I don't have a lover, even if I do, it won't be a bastard like you."
Eames laughed, hands winding their way into Arthur's briefs. "I assume the underlying meaning of what you've just said is 'I need violent sex right now'?"
"Fuck you, Eames."
"Always a pleasure, darling."
Their conversation stopped right there, and didn't restart until two hours later, maybe four, even six. Arthur could hardly remember his own name when Eames collapsed hot and sweaty onto him, let alone counting. "Where have you been?" Arthur asked when he could breathe properly, long fingers lazily toying with Eames' hair.
"Everywhere."
"Huh." Arthur snorted, "…liar."
"I'm not lying, love, I travelled around the world in two months in a hot air balloon."
"Bring me with you next time." Arthur murmured drowsily, before he drifted into dreamless sleep. He thought he felt Eames' lips brush against his forehead, but he didn't know for sure.
—
If Arthur remembered correctly, it was their first time to spend Christmas together, not that this specific day was significant for them; the memorable thing was that Arthur had the warmest and lousiest winter in his life. Eames sang him silly songs every night, until Arthur couldn't stand the noise anymore and hit his face with a pillow. Eames burnt another omelet; Arthur shouted at him, banned him from ever stepping into the kitchen.
Two weeks after Christmas, Eames left without saying goodbye. Arthur woke up alone, feeling cold. He wrapped himself in the blankets. Somehow he knew the apartment was empty, so he didn't bother to get up and check. It's okay, he's used to this, he would wait, a month, a year, years. Things can go this way forever.
The only trouble was, he'd have to fill the unbearable silence with the sound of TV show again.
tbc.