A/N: Well, I promised my darling Robyn, aka my own Arthur, an Inception fic based on the pairing of Arthur/Eames. Here it is, in all its angsty glory.
Warning: Apart from a few swear words, and obvious gun-shot related injuries leading to a character death, this just comes served with your standard portion of Angst. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: No, I do not own Inception. Tempted to plant the idea that I do into the mind of one Christopher Nolan, however...
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
'Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening', Robert Frost
It's raining, and he is lying on a cold, wet alleyway. The rain is surprisingly soothing. Lying on his back, he can almost imagine that he can see the stars above. He'll imagine them burning brightly. Shining softly. Peaceful.
"Eames, oh God..."
The beautiful voice coming from above sounds so sad, so desperate. He longs to open his eyes long enough to see his angel (for that is who it must be; no-one can sound that heavenly and not be an angel) but he's so tired, so tired…Even an attempt to raise his head ends pathetically. He winces in pain, and his guardian gasps.
"Eames, don't move. Stay stationary! Oh God…" There's another gasp, and then suddenly there is someone beside him, cradling him in their shaking hands. Hands which are so soft and warm and real. They press hard against his chest and Eames can no longer withhold the cry that escapes his bleeding lips. He breathes in harsh, ragged breaths and his chest burns in agony. There is a faint coppery tang in his mouth and it makes him gag.
Eames wants to ask his angel to take his pain away, but he doesn't want to ask for too much. He is a bad man, to say the least – compulsive liar, thief, forger, conman… He has killed, maimed and stolen. Eames is surprised an angel would take pity on someone as far gone and as worthless as he. But he refuses to complain. Besides, it's company.
No-one, not even he, wants to die alone.
"Please…" He begs, twisting and turning his weak body as the throes of agony go on for another round. The Englishman tries to keep his eyes open; fights to see but everything is faint and he just wants… To sleep…
But he's afraid of the approaching darkness. The Forger moans, before a hacking, harsh cough rips through his throat. It's painful, so painful, and he is not even faintly surprised to feel tears beginning to trickle down his face. They mix with the already existing raindrops.
His angel reaches out a soft hand and gently brushes his cheek. Eames leans into the hand, feeling a sudden security and safeness. His head is now against the chest of his angel, and again Eames fights to open his eyes.
This time he succeeds.
"Ar…Arthur…" The Englishman rasps, blinking furiously. Another cough forces his injured chest to move, and then another. At first Eames winces, because the pain is just too much and there is no way he can bear it. Then he smiles through bloody lips and teeth, because it's Arthur. "Da…Da…Darling…"
"Eames…" Arthur sighs, looking so desperately sad. His arms are wrapped around the body of the man he loves and his hold tightens as if he could never bear to let the older man go. "Why did you have to do that?" the younger man again strokes the face of the older man, staring all the time into the green eyes which filled with so much pain. Arthur feverishly remembers times when they were dancing, mocking, glittering. So alive with life. But now they are fading and dull, and it is breaking Arthur's heart. Because he knows. He keeps brushing away the light tears of the older man. He longs to weep, but he wants to stay strong for Eames.
Arthur, normally the man who can keep his emotions under guard and keep a cool, clear head on his shoulders, finds himself at a loss. One minute they had been leaving their apartment, heading over to Cobb's and then... Then a man who Arthur had conned a few years ago appeared from nowhere with a gun. And Eames… Stupid, idiotic, glorious Eames had pushed the younger man out of the way. Arthur had taken care of the man on auto-pilot, but now, confronted head-on with the scene before him, his rigid, iron-cast control was crumbling under pressure.
"Ar…Arthur…" Eames coughs weakly, and to the horror of the younger man blood begins to bubble at the Forger's lips. The Point Man swallows, looking down at the bloody, gaping hole in the chest of the man he has in his arms. He lightly places a pale and shaking hand on it, a gasping sob escaping his mouth as his hand is quickly coated in warm blood.
Arthur has seen many people get shot and live, and many more who have died. He can tell the difference between the two, but he doesn't want to use his knowledge now.
But what little knowledge that has escaped the shut-down he swiftly imposed on his mind snidely informs him that it is pointless to ring for an ambulance. Arthur closes his eyes for a moment, but deep down he knows he is correct in this detail. He knows he is good with details - it is his job, after all.
"I…I didn't want…You to get hurt," the Englishman mutters, sucking in a bloody mouthful of air accompanied by a cry of pain. He sobs and tries to bury his head further into the thin but toned chest of the younger man while his voice shakes,"he… was going to… Hurt you and I-"
"Shhh, Eames." Arthur says gently through numb lips, "shhh, love." He watches as the older man lashes out weakly, thoroughly distressed with the pain the gun-inflicted wound is giving him. He seems on the verge of shock, and Arthur knows that he needs to be reassured. To be comforted. But how can he comfort the dying man when he can't even pull himself together? How can he wrap his arms around Eames when he longs for the man to pull him to his chest instead? "I just…" he sighs, swallowing heavily. Somehow a lump has managed to form and it is now obstructing his throat. Eames is staring at him with those striking eyes and Arthur cannot break away, "I cannot believe you actually saved me."
Eames tries to laugh, but it turns into a gurgle as blood seeps almost apologetically from the corner of his mouth. He glances up at his angel; his saviour. His Arthur. The man he loved, and had always loved.
"So, he gives himself the idea."
"Precisely. It's the only way it'll work. It has to seem self-generated."
"Eames, I am impressed."
"Your condescension, as always, is greatly appreciated, Arthur. Thank you."
"Of course… I was going to… Save you," the older man struggles to speak, his eyes hazy with pain, and Arthur finds himself blinking furiously, "you're…" Eames breaks off to cough, and he cries out as the harshness of that action causes him more agony. Arthur starts to stroke the older man's hair in an attempt to sooth him, and at the touch of the younger man Eames somehow finds the strength to murmur, "you're…My reason… For living…"
Arthur bites his lip so hard he is surprised he hasn't drawn blood. Eames' words have broken through the chink in his own armour, and the younger man finds himself dangerously close to tears. Trust Eames to say something like that at a time like this. He resumes his slow stroking of the older man's hair, finding comfort in its softness. Eames must find solace in it too, because he leans into Arthur's touch with a weary sigh.
"Oh, Eames." Arthur breathes, looking hesitantly down at his hand he placed on the older man's chest a moment before. It is shiny and red, and Arthur fights the urge to vomit.
Eames moans as another shuddering cough racks his frame. He hates the metallic taste in his mouth. But there is so much of it now, and then the thought suddenly hits him –
He is dying.
He gasps, in a horrible mixture of pain and fear. He frantically struggles against the pain that threatens to swallow him whole.
This isn't a dream.
This is real. And he is not going to suddenly wake up after closing his eyes in another place. This is real.
Oh, Christ.
He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to-
"Shh, love. Shh…" Arthur's calming voice comes from seemingly nowhere, and then the Englishman blearily realises that he must have been muttering out loud. The hand which is stroking Eames' hair is shaking, but Arthur's voice is remarkably strong and firm. A thin, desperate smile forms over the Englishman's bleeding lips at the thought.
He could always count on his Point Man to do the job.
"It hurts…" Eames gasps out, screwing his eyes shut. He buries even deeper into the arms around him, but even the reassuring hold of the American cannot mask the pain he is currently experiencing. He just wants it to stop. He just wants it to end. Please, please let the pain go away –
"Shh, Eames. Shh. You're alright, you're okay." Arthur mutters through clenched teeth, his eyes covered by a veil of unshed tears. He watches helplessly the man he loves lashes out. And then Eames whimpers, actually fucking whimpers and Arthur doesn't know how much longer he can keep up his façade of strength. He has never, never seen the man in such agony nor in such a vulnerable position. Eames was always – hell, he's referring to him in past tense already? – Eames has always been someone who hides his emotions under a cheerful, flirty exterior. Seeing him like this… It's breaking Arthur's heart.
"I'm…Dying…Right?" Eames coughs, not so much as questioning as stating a fact bluntly. Arthur feels an exquisitely light touch against his arm, and looks down to see that the older man has placed a weak hand there. He keeps his eyes glued to that hand, while he keeps his own hand firmly settled around the head of the man he loves. Eames valiantly attempts to tug at the arm of the American until Arthur meets his gaze. "I know… I'm dying…" he struggles to restrain a sob as more blood bubbles at his chest and mouth.
Arthur shakes his head firmly. He is trying to dispel that idea from his head as well as the Englishman's. "No. No, you are not, Eames. You are going to be fine-" A lone, quiet chuckle interrupts him.
"Liar."
Arthur looks at Eames, a small smile forming on his lips. Trust that man to interrupt him. He smiles, blinking furiously as Eames weakly smirks back.
"You… Need to … Tell the … Truth… And be…Specific…"
"Well, why don't we try this? 'My father accepts that I want to create for myself, not follow in his footsteps.'"
"That might work."
"Might? We need to do a little better than 'might'!"
"Thank you for your contribution, Arthur."
"Forgive me for wanting a little specificity, Eames. Specificity?"
Arthur sobs, his hold on control completely gone. He sobs because Eames is dying, and he can do nothing to change that. He sobs because he now realises that time is precious. What he wouldn't give to be in a dream right now. Five minutes here would give him an hour. One last, final hour with Eames. He drops his hand from Eames' head and clasps the Forger's hand, no longer caring about how he must look.
His other hand… His other hand is saturated in blood. And he doesn't want to see it. He doesn't want to be confronted with the truth right now; that he only has mere minutes to say goodbye.
"I'm… Scared, Arthur…" Eames murmurs, his voice sounding thoroughly exhausted. His eyes flicker, and to Arthur's alarm his hand, entwined with the Point Man's, loosens somewhat. Yet he seems genuinely terrified and Arthur now knows what his last job is to be. "'m scared…Don't want…To die-"
"I know, I know," Arthur chokes out desperately, forcing himself to be calm. He needs to be calm and collected for the dying man; needs to reassure him. "I know, love. But I'm here, it's okay." He looks down at their interlocked fingers, and Arthur doesn't know how he will ever bear to let Eames go. The Englishman moans breathlessly, shuffling in the arms of the American. Arthur sees the clear distress on the older man's face and can feel his body shaking into his own. "Shh, love. I'm here. I'm here," he murmurs soothingly, watching Eames' eyes begin to flicker, eerily similar to a burning candle. A candle that is dying. A candle that, with one light breath, would be blown out.
"Don't…Go…" Eames begs, and his breathing is becoming more erratic and faint. His pleas trickle from his mouth, much like the behaviour of his own blood. He desperately fights to keep his eyes open, wanting to see his angel, his Arthur, for one last time. "Don't…Wan' to… Die alone-"
"I will not leave you, Eames. I promise."
"'M…Tired…"
"I know," Arthur gently squeezes the older man's hand. His throat is uncomfortably tight and his eyes are burning. "I know. Go to sleep, Eames." His voice drops to a low whisper as the Forger's eyes slowly close.
"Security is going to run you down hard."
"And I will lead them on a merry chase. Go to sleep, Mister Eames."
"Da…Da…Darling…" Eames whispers and Arthur is not at all surprised to discover tears trickling down his face. He has only just realised that he is soaked through. He had forgotten about the rain.
Eames nestles into the chest of the younger man, shudders wracking his frame. Arthur leans forward and lightly, tenderly kisses the forehead of the man he loves. The man he cannot bear to let go. He gulps as he inhales the scent of vanilla, lemon, cigarettes and something so Eames because it merely serves as a remainder that…Seeing that his lover's gaze is still on him, Arthur is pulled away from that thought, and attempts a smile. He smiles, a broken, heartbreaking smile because he wants Eames to see him being strong. The older man needs reassurance, and Arthur will be damned if he fails him in that regard.
"Go to sleep, Eames. I'm not going to leave you. You are safe with me." Arthur says softly, watching as the Englishman sighs just once, complete with a small smile held up by bloody lips before falling still.
The Point Man swallows violently as he feels the hand in his go limp. He tears his gaze from their locked hands to look instead at Eames' face. The Forger seems so still; so at peace. Arthur swallows again, but nothing can stop tears from falling down his face and mingling with the rain drops.
Truth hurts.
"Its okay, it's alright." Arthur mutters through numb lips as sobs shake his thin frame. "You're alright, love. You're alright." He chants the words over and over again, creating a hopeless mantra. He is briefly aware that he is saying the words, not to comfort a dead man, but to offer some form of comfort to himself. Gingerly he peels his bloody hand from the wound on Eames' chest and then just… Sits there. Silent and still himself.
Cold, motionless Eames is still wrapped in his arms and held against his chest. And Arthur simply cannot bear to let him go. The Forger has been with him; has been part of his life for so long that life without him suddenly seems unfathomable. Seems worthless.
So he cries in this cold, wet alleyway, with his hair plastered to his head and his clothes soaked through.
Because all he wants is Eames, but Eames is no longer here.