Fic + Art: All is Violent, All is Bright 6/11
Title: All is Violent, All is Bright 6/11
Artist: datingwally Author: sparrow_hubris
Team: ANGST
Prompt: innocence
Word count: 1,820 this part
Rating: PG-13 - NC-17 (This part R)
Warnings: Underage 15/17, Apocalypse & general destruction, Violence, Mentions of death, violence towards animals (hunting: prev parts ) Blood & slight injury this part .& other warnings as I get to them.
Betas: night_reveals ♥
Summary: Apocalypse AU / a.k.a bb!Survival / a.k.a. cockblockalypse!
Notes: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5
___
Arthur is vaguely aware that’s he’s screaming. He can’t hear it; it’s like his senses are detached or directed through a tunnel stretching far in front of him. He can’t even see through the tears in his eyes. But his throat is raw, his lungs heaving, so he must be screaming.
All he can think is it can’t be happening again. Not again!
He shouldn’t have let this happen. Arthur doesn’t take chances like this because this is how people die. Arthur knows this and he shouldn’t have let Eames go in, no matter how much they needed the supplies. He should have tested the structure’s stability, should have noticed how unsafe it really was. Just like he shouldn’t have let Greg run ahead of him into that house before. Because Greg is fucking dead and now Eames is too. But some little part of Arthur’s mind can’t accept that fact, not yet, so he is screaming Eames’ name and clawing through the rubble. His fingers are a bloody mess, nails ripped back and the delicate skin of his fingertips cut from the sharp edges in the rubble. He doesn’t feel the pain. He can’t dig fast enough, can’t lift the heavy boards of the roof, trying to get to Eames.
“Eames!” He keeps crying over and over again before his words devolve into unintelligible wails. A hacking cough erupts from his body, the dust from the destruction catching in his lungs. Ignoring it, he continues his frantic digging through the debris. “Eames, fuck. God!”
Images of his dad flash in his head: the bone, the rotting flesh, the fever-sweat. Even if he could dig Eames out, he might not be able to save him. The antibiotics, the bandages, and antiseptic they were here for, wouldn’t guarantee that he could treat Eames’ injuries. Arthur can see his dad, how they tried to wash the wounds, how they tried to stave off the infection. He remembers it so vividly he can still smell it. Arthur nearly vomits, retching dryly to the side, but he continues to dig. He can’t seem to stop himself.
Then hands are pulling him back, gripping his shoulders and dragging him away. Vicious anger floods him and he struggles to get away, to get back to digging Eames out. Arthur fights; he screams to be let go. He struggles to free himself but the hold is too strong. Finally he realizes that whoever is pulling him back is saying his name. It takes him a long moment to recognize the timber of the voice, the deep, resonant accent that it so familiar to him now, as it repeats his name.
“Arthur, it’s ok. Arthur, Arthur calm down.”
It’s still another second before recognition fully sets in. Arthur stares in disbelief, hands clutching at Eames' jacket like they don’t believe that the form beneath his hands exists. There’s blood smeared on Eames’ coat where he’s running his hands along the fabric, pulling Eames closer. When his mind finally accepts that it is Eames and that Eames is alive, Arthur is overwhelmed with relief, flooded with a mix of too many emotions and he grabs Eames by the back of the neck and pulls him into a desperate kiss. It’s too hard, just his lips pressed firmly against Eames’, and Arthur’s face is wet and messy from his tears. He isn’t paying attention to that; all Arthur knows in this moment is that Eames is alive. Eames is safe, here in Arthur’s arms and Arthur never wants to let go.
Eames doesn’t try to pull away, but he’s stiff in Arthur’s embrace. Arthur continues to press their lips together until he needs to breathe. Finally relenting to the knowledge that Eames is fine, Arthur comes back, his mind clearing, and he suddenly realizes what he’s doing. Frantically he tries to push away, but Eames wraps his arms tighter around Arthur’s waist, trapping him against the heat of Eames’ body. Arthur sighs and buries his face into Eames’ shoulder, not fighting to get away because he doesn’t have the energy.
“It’s okay,” Eames says as they stand, wrapped in each other’s arms.
Arthur is trembling; all of his adrenaline and fear is coursing through his body in waves that make his nerves jump. They stay standing together for a while, until Arthur’s tremors disappear and his breathing evens out. Finally Eames pulls back and presses their foreheads together. He lets out a long exhale before tipping his head back and looking into Arthur’s eyes, searching for something. When Eames is apparently satisfied with what he sees, Eames gives a tight smile and rubs his hands down the length of Arthur’s arms until he’s holding Arthur’s wrists. Eames pulls Arthur’s hands into his own and lifts them to inspect the wounds from Arthur’s distraught digging. Eames’ face distorts in a pained grimace and he worries his bottom lip with his teeth.
“How?” Arthur asks, unable to articulate his thoughts more. Eames looks up at him again at the question. “How did you get out?”
“Employee door in the back. Took some effort getting open, thought I wouldn’t make it out in time. I accidentally hit a support structure when I was moving shelving out of the way.” Eames continues to inspect Arthur’s hands. Arthur frowns. Eames almost died, and here he is, worrying over him because Arthur lost it. Arthur should be the one asking if Eames is okay, making sure Eames isn’t injured.
“I grabbed some antiseptic.” Eames says as his thumb is tracing a circle over Arthur’s palm soothingly.
Arthur laughs, a single unbelieving snort. “Of course you did,” he laughs. “Of course you managed to grab stuff before … ” Arthur chokes up before he can finish the sentence all of his relieved humor draining away. The vision of Eames buried underneath the rubble is still fresh in his mind.
Eames smiles grimly in response, pulling an assortment of pill bottles and packaging from the deep pockets of his cargo pants. He transfers everything to their packs before he drags Arthur to sit so he can dress his wounds. When Eames wipes away the blood and dirt with an alcohol pad, Arthur hisses at the stinging pain. His hands are a mess. Eames bandages them when he’s done cleaning, frowning as he wraps the wounds up.
Watching Eames work, Arthur sees that he’s covered in dust, plaster and splinters of wood caught in his hair. Arthur wants to say something, to apologize for kissing him. He doesn’t even know where that came from. Thinking about it, he flushes with embarrassment, diverting his gaze when Eames looks up. But Eames doesn’t say anything, isn’t looking at Arthur like he’s grown a new head or anything, so Arthur doesn’t know if he should bring it up. Maybe Eames is just ignoring it and being polite. He could have freaked out, he could have stormed off, or punched Arthur, or made fun of him, but he didn’t. He hasn’t mentioned it and Arthur appreciates that; he appreciates that Eames is willing to ignore his temporary loss of sanity.
When Eames is done patching Arthur up, they decide to look for a place to crash for the night. Neither of them are in the mood to search through anymore buildings. They find a suitable spot, protected from the wind, and pull out a bedroll. They only packed one, so accustomed to sleeping near each other now, and Arthur suddenly feels very self-conscious. He wonders if Eames will feel awkward sleeping next to him because of this kiss so he shifts on his feet in hesitation as Eames lays down, pulling the blanket up. Eames lifts the corner though, looking at Arthur expectantly, and Arthur relaxes a little and climbs in. Eames wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist, pulling him into his chest. Arthur breathes in Eames’ scent, pressing his face into Eames’ shoulder.
“I thought I lost … I thought that you were dead,” he whispers. For a moment he thinks Eames didn’t hear him, or that Eames is already asleep, but then Eames’ arms squeeze him a little tighter.
In the morning they unwind from their embrace. Arthur had held on to Eames all night, clutching him as if he’d disappear if Arthur let go. He woke a few times, panicky, but calmed when he realized that Eames was still there, that he was safe.
After a quick breakfast, they hit a few more houses and buildings, but Arthur feels extra paranoid, and they skip any structure that seems even remotely unstable. Eames doesn’t argue like he usually would. When they do go in, Arthur takes the lead. He feels the obligation to check things first, to see for himself that everything looks safe. They end up with considerably less supplies than desired when they head back home.
They’d removed the traps before they left on their trip and will need to reset them, but by the time they get back they’re both exhausted. Dutifully, they put their new supplies away, then they start a fire and relax for the evening. Arthur is warming some food as Eames sits and stares into the flames. He’s been quiet the entire day, lost in his head it seems. The fleeting darkness that Arthur has seen sometimes in Eames’ eyes has returned. Arthur glances up at him every once in a while, worried but unwilling to ask. Eames hasn’t said anything, and Arthur has no idea what he’s thinking. Eames might just be a little shocked from nearly dying. Or he could be thinking about the kiss. Arthur doesn’t want to know, he doesn’t want to say anything unless Eames does, so he lets Eames stare. He lets Eames work out whatever is on his mind.
They go to bed and Eames still pulls Arthur close, so at least he doesn’t seem uncomfortable towards Arthur, even if there’s a slight awkwardness to their sleeping arrangement. Arthur’s glad that Eames isn’t freaking out, but he can’t get rid of the anxious feeling in his stomach. And worse than that, he doesn’t even know what he himself thinks of the whole situation. Why did I kiss him? He wonders, because as far as he can remember he’s never even thought about doing something like that before.
It’s a few days before Eames is even acting like himself. Even though Arthur thought it wouldn’t, life goes back to normal as they go back to their routine. They don’t speak about what happened. They don’t talk about Eames nearly dying, and they certainly don’t talk about Arthur’s reaction. Instead, they place the traps and check them daily. They monitor the water supply. They dress game, preserve meat, ration food, fix broken supplies and reinforce their structure. They draw, and talk, and joke. Everything is exactly the same as it is before.
Everything is the same, except for the dreams.
Artist: datingwally Author: sparrow_hubris
Team: ANGST
Prompt: innocence
Word count: 1,820 this part
Rating: PG-13 - NC-17 (This part R)
Warnings: Underage 15/17, Apocalypse & general destruction, Violence, Mentions of death, violence towards animals (hunting: prev parts ) Blood & slight injury this part .& other warnings as I get to them.
Betas: night_reveals ♥
Summary: Apocalypse AU / a.k.a bb!Survival / a.k.a. cockblockalypse!
Notes: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5
___
Arthur is vaguely aware that’s he’s screaming. He can’t hear it; it’s like his senses are detached or directed through a tunnel stretching far in front of him. He can’t even see through the tears in his eyes. But his throat is raw, his lungs heaving, so he must be screaming.
All he can think is it can’t be happening again. Not again!
He shouldn’t have let this happen. Arthur doesn’t take chances like this because this is how people die. Arthur knows this and he shouldn’t have let Eames go in, no matter how much they needed the supplies. He should have tested the structure’s stability, should have noticed how unsafe it really was. Just like he shouldn’t have let Greg run ahead of him into that house before. Because Greg is fucking dead and now Eames is too. But some little part of Arthur’s mind can’t accept that fact, not yet, so he is screaming Eames’ name and clawing through the rubble. His fingers are a bloody mess, nails ripped back and the delicate skin of his fingertips cut from the sharp edges in the rubble. He doesn’t feel the pain. He can’t dig fast enough, can’t lift the heavy boards of the roof, trying to get to Eames.
“Eames!” He keeps crying over and over again before his words devolve into unintelligible wails. A hacking cough erupts from his body, the dust from the destruction catching in his lungs. Ignoring it, he continues his frantic digging through the debris. “Eames, fuck. God!”
Images of his dad flash in his head: the bone, the rotting flesh, the fever-sweat. Even if he could dig Eames out, he might not be able to save him. The antibiotics, the bandages, and antiseptic they were here for, wouldn’t guarantee that he could treat Eames’ injuries. Arthur can see his dad, how they tried to wash the wounds, how they tried to stave off the infection. He remembers it so vividly he can still smell it. Arthur nearly vomits, retching dryly to the side, but he continues to dig. He can’t seem to stop himself.
Then hands are pulling him back, gripping his shoulders and dragging him away. Vicious anger floods him and he struggles to get away, to get back to digging Eames out. Arthur fights; he screams to be let go. He struggles to free himself but the hold is too strong. Finally he realizes that whoever is pulling him back is saying his name. It takes him a long moment to recognize the timber of the voice, the deep, resonant accent that it so familiar to him now, as it repeats his name.
“Arthur, it’s ok. Arthur, Arthur calm down.”
It’s still another second before recognition fully sets in. Arthur stares in disbelief, hands clutching at Eames' jacket like they don’t believe that the form beneath his hands exists. There’s blood smeared on Eames’ coat where he’s running his hands along the fabric, pulling Eames closer. When his mind finally accepts that it is Eames and that Eames is alive, Arthur is overwhelmed with relief, flooded with a mix of too many emotions and he grabs Eames by the back of the neck and pulls him into a desperate kiss. It’s too hard, just his lips pressed firmly against Eames’, and Arthur’s face is wet and messy from his tears. He isn’t paying attention to that; all Arthur knows in this moment is that Eames is alive. Eames is safe, here in Arthur’s arms and Arthur never wants to let go.
Eames doesn’t try to pull away, but he’s stiff in Arthur’s embrace. Arthur continues to press their lips together until he needs to breathe. Finally relenting to the knowledge that Eames is fine, Arthur comes back, his mind clearing, and he suddenly realizes what he’s doing. Frantically he tries to push away, but Eames wraps his arms tighter around Arthur’s waist, trapping him against the heat of Eames’ body. Arthur sighs and buries his face into Eames’ shoulder, not fighting to get away because he doesn’t have the energy.
“It’s okay,” Eames says as they stand, wrapped in each other’s arms.
Arthur is trembling; all of his adrenaline and fear is coursing through his body in waves that make his nerves jump. They stay standing together for a while, until Arthur’s tremors disappear and his breathing evens out. Finally Eames pulls back and presses their foreheads together. He lets out a long exhale before tipping his head back and looking into Arthur’s eyes, searching for something. When Eames is apparently satisfied with what he sees, Eames gives a tight smile and rubs his hands down the length of Arthur’s arms until he’s holding Arthur’s wrists. Eames pulls Arthur’s hands into his own and lifts them to inspect the wounds from Arthur’s distraught digging. Eames’ face distorts in a pained grimace and he worries his bottom lip with his teeth.
“How?” Arthur asks, unable to articulate his thoughts more. Eames looks up at him again at the question. “How did you get out?”
“Employee door in the back. Took some effort getting open, thought I wouldn’t make it out in time. I accidentally hit a support structure when I was moving shelving out of the way.” Eames continues to inspect Arthur’s hands. Arthur frowns. Eames almost died, and here he is, worrying over him because Arthur lost it. Arthur should be the one asking if Eames is okay, making sure Eames isn’t injured.
“I grabbed some antiseptic.” Eames says as his thumb is tracing a circle over Arthur’s palm soothingly.
Arthur laughs, a single unbelieving snort. “Of course you did,” he laughs. “Of course you managed to grab stuff before … ” Arthur chokes up before he can finish the sentence all of his relieved humor draining away. The vision of Eames buried underneath the rubble is still fresh in his mind.
Eames smiles grimly in response, pulling an assortment of pill bottles and packaging from the deep pockets of his cargo pants. He transfers everything to their packs before he drags Arthur to sit so he can dress his wounds. When Eames wipes away the blood and dirt with an alcohol pad, Arthur hisses at the stinging pain. His hands are a mess. Eames bandages them when he’s done cleaning, frowning as he wraps the wounds up.
Watching Eames work, Arthur sees that he’s covered in dust, plaster and splinters of wood caught in his hair. Arthur wants to say something, to apologize for kissing him. He doesn’t even know where that came from. Thinking about it, he flushes with embarrassment, diverting his gaze when Eames looks up. But Eames doesn’t say anything, isn’t looking at Arthur like he’s grown a new head or anything, so Arthur doesn’t know if he should bring it up. Maybe Eames is just ignoring it and being polite. He could have freaked out, he could have stormed off, or punched Arthur, or made fun of him, but he didn’t. He hasn’t mentioned it and Arthur appreciates that; he appreciates that Eames is willing to ignore his temporary loss of sanity.
When Eames is done patching Arthur up, they decide to look for a place to crash for the night. Neither of them are in the mood to search through anymore buildings. They find a suitable spot, protected from the wind, and pull out a bedroll. They only packed one, so accustomed to sleeping near each other now, and Arthur suddenly feels very self-conscious. He wonders if Eames will feel awkward sleeping next to him because of this kiss so he shifts on his feet in hesitation as Eames lays down, pulling the blanket up. Eames lifts the corner though, looking at Arthur expectantly, and Arthur relaxes a little and climbs in. Eames wraps his arms around Arthur’s waist, pulling him into his chest. Arthur breathes in Eames’ scent, pressing his face into Eames’ shoulder.
“I thought I lost … I thought that you were dead,” he whispers. For a moment he thinks Eames didn’t hear him, or that Eames is already asleep, but then Eames’ arms squeeze him a little tighter.
In the morning they unwind from their embrace. Arthur had held on to Eames all night, clutching him as if he’d disappear if Arthur let go. He woke a few times, panicky, but calmed when he realized that Eames was still there, that he was safe.
After a quick breakfast, they hit a few more houses and buildings, but Arthur feels extra paranoid, and they skip any structure that seems even remotely unstable. Eames doesn’t argue like he usually would. When they do go in, Arthur takes the lead. He feels the obligation to check things first, to see for himself that everything looks safe. They end up with considerably less supplies than desired when they head back home.
They’d removed the traps before they left on their trip and will need to reset them, but by the time they get back they’re both exhausted. Dutifully, they put their new supplies away, then they start a fire and relax for the evening. Arthur is warming some food as Eames sits and stares into the flames. He’s been quiet the entire day, lost in his head it seems. The fleeting darkness that Arthur has seen sometimes in Eames’ eyes has returned. Arthur glances up at him every once in a while, worried but unwilling to ask. Eames hasn’t said anything, and Arthur has no idea what he’s thinking. Eames might just be a little shocked from nearly dying. Or he could be thinking about the kiss. Arthur doesn’t want to know, he doesn’t want to say anything unless Eames does, so he lets Eames stare. He lets Eames work out whatever is on his mind.
They go to bed and Eames still pulls Arthur close, so at least he doesn’t seem uncomfortable towards Arthur, even if there’s a slight awkwardness to their sleeping arrangement. Arthur’s glad that Eames isn’t freaking out, but he can’t get rid of the anxious feeling in his stomach. And worse than that, he doesn’t even know what he himself thinks of the whole situation. Why did I kiss him? He wonders, because as far as he can remember he’s never even thought about doing something like that before.
It’s a few days before Eames is even acting like himself. Even though Arthur thought it wouldn’t, life goes back to normal as they go back to their routine. They don’t speak about what happened. They don’t talk about Eames nearly dying, and they certainly don’t talk about Arthur’s reaction. Instead, they place the traps and check them daily. They monitor the water supply. They dress game, preserve meat, ration food, fix broken supplies and reinforce their structure. They draw, and talk, and joke. Everything is exactly the same as it is before.
Everything is the same, except for the dreams.