A/N:
General:
- Chapter three! Thanks for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and adding to your story alerts. :)
- There is hardly any dialogue in this (which is why it appears less lengthy)! How's that for detail, Blackbirdox? ;D
- Review! Please? :3
Warnings:
- Alcohol use(s). Not just implied, but very much there. It's gonna be all up in your KoolAid.
- Eames is still dead. I am a horrible person, I know.
Disclaimer (sigh):
- Nolan is the man. I keep hoping to find Tom Hardy stashed away with my belongings, but I've had no such luck. JGL is nowhere to be found either... FML.
The whiskey smoothly burns its way down Arthur's throat. He revels in the feeling, at first, but then, even the lingering sensation of heat turns to numbness, neither hot nor cold. Still, he drinks until the bottle is empty, until his stomach should be aching, and he should be emptying its contents wherever he happens to aim. He drinks until there is nothing left, not even the smallest drop. His throat hurts slightly, but the lump there is gone for now, and for that he is immensely grateful. For a few minutes at a time, Arthur can breathe again. It is a glorious feeling. Still, though, the alcohol has not worked as magically as he had somehow hoped. His heart has not bound itself back together.
Arthur tries his best to right the empty bottle that he has discarded on the coffee table in front of him, but it refuses to stand. So, he lays it down and spins it flat on its side. It twirls and twirls, and for a moment, he is tempted to think of this bottle as his new totem. Maybe he is dreaming after all. Then, the bottle slows, and Arthur stands and walks away before he has to watch it come to a total stop.
He walks into the hallway without a destination in mind. His body knows the route, though, and though he does not plan to, he ends up in their bedroom. His bedroom, now. Arthur leans into the doorway, not daring to go much farther, and flicks on the light. He silently surveys the room he has taken for granted all along, taking in every detail, things he has never even noticed previously. When his eyes have roamed over every other inch of the room and they finally reach the armoire that holds Eames's shirts, some guiding force takes over, some guiding force that does not cringe at the inner use of a name rather than vague mentions. Again, he is no longer acting of his own accord. He does not want to open the wooden door, does not want to breathe Eames in like oxygen, but his movements are unstoppable.
Arthur pauses in front of the wardrobe and places a hand on each handle. He takes a deep, preparatory breath, as if he expects some Narnian woodland creature to come at him from the other side, and swings the doors open simultaneously. A jumble of shoes falls at Arthur's feet, and he very nearly smiles at the thing that would have caused him an aneurysm a week before. Something formerly hidden beneath the shoes catches his eye and he leans down to pick it up. His head swims at the sudden movement and he has to lean into the wardrobe to catch his balance. The smells of leather, tobacco, and apple fill his head and this is when he nearly breaks down. It is not the first time, though, and he knows it will not be the last.
Swallowing loudly, Arthur pushes the remaining shoes to the floor and retrieves the bottle that has been secretly tucked away for an indeterminable amount of time. He has no idea why this has been hidden, only that Eames was saving it for some important occasion. Then again, the forger never really needed a reason to celebrate, particularly when spirits were involved. The tag hanging from the neck of the bottle is no help; it merely reads 'To Arthur'. The handwriting is unmistakable, and the sight of the familiar curves of ink hurt Arthur much more than they have any logical right to hurt. He thumbs the words gently before tossing the bottle to the temporary safety of the bed. He will get to the scotch soon enough.
First, though, he brushes a hand gently against the row of shirts hanging in the armoire. A few of the shirts are sliding off their hangers, and few are buttoned primly and in no danger of falling - or being worn. No two shirts are arranged exactly the same way, and it is for this reason that Arthur has a slightly difficult time finding the hideous paisley shirt that was Eames's second favorite. He grabs it from the wardrobe and then shuts the doors. He refuses to think about the current location of Eames's most favorite shirt, and to keep himself from it, he thinks instead of how he also refuses to press the shirt close to him and simply inhale. He is not a gay cowboy, and he has smelled enough of Eames already. Instead, he unbuttons the shirt and pulls it from its hanger before sliding it on over his own shirt. Of course, he nearly drowns in the excess fabric, but the feeling is undiminished. This is the most comforted he has felt since Eames walked out their apartment door, though the two feelings cannot even be compared. This is simply a shade, a poor facsimile of the real thing, of his real lover. Still, it is better than nothing, and Arthur relishes in the moment as best he can. Soon, the scent will fade away. Nothing will ever again come close to the unique combination, and so Arthur must memorize it immediately, must be able to bring it to his senses long after it has dissipated.
When he thinks he finally has the mix committed to memory, he sits gingerly on the edge of the bed and turns the TV on with a press on the remote control. It is too late in the evening for anything of interest to be playing, and Arthur lands on a random news channel. He glances at the TV as he opens the bottle of Scotch beside him and takes a large swig. They are broadcasting footage of an overturned bus. Before Arthur's drunken brain can process exactly what he is seeing, he hears the name Jack Donnelly, and almost immediately recognizes this as Eames's most recently assumed identity. It clicks at this moment that he is seeing the same things that Sean last saw, but he ignores this thought as he tries to focus on the words of the newscaster whose situational indifference is painfully palpable.
"… Unknown causes. Passengers were evacuated immediately, save for two little girls in the back of the bus. Shizuru Kuga, age eleven, was trapped by a falling suitcase when the bus flipped over. She died at Grace University Hospital this afternoon. Ms. Kuga and her sister, Natsuki, age eight, who is currently in critical condition at G.U.H., were on their way to school when the fire occurred this morning. Younger sister stood guard over older until the moment help arrived, and today, help came in the form of a man named Jack Donnelly, a random passerby turned hero, who dragged both girls out of the bus, just as its engine exploded. Not much is known about Mr.…."The anchor continues to drone on, but Arthur has stopped listening. He stares instead at the photo that has just materialized onto the TV screen. The photo is from Eames's ID card, and it looks completely official, though Arthur himself had taken the photo in front of a white photo screen in Cobb's basement. The look on Eames's face was priceless, a look that promised Arthur many delicious things, things were likely illegal in some countries, if only he would hurry up and take the bloody picture. For a moment, Arthur simply stares, transfixed and utterly unable to look away. Then, he remembers that he has the ability to freeze the frame, and he does just that with another press of the remote. It takes a few minutes for Arthur to notice the caption of the photo, but when he does, he recalls his earlier rage, and it takes hardly any time before he is again on his feet. This time, he does not topple back over. Instead, he walks to the TV and gets as close to it as he possibly can. He traces the digital outline of Eames's jaw gently, imagining that it is the real thing under his fingers instead. Then, he cocks back his arm and flings a fist at the charming bastard's face.
A/N:
- Please review? I'll give you cookies! Or Scotch, that is if Arthur has any left.
