Fic: Your Way Home
Title: Your Way Home
Author: abysmal_seraph
Team: Angst
Prompt: Home, Smile (I guess I can count that one)
Word count: 560
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Shooting people in dreams, morbid imagery, Limbo fic.
Note: I don't really do sad endings. I consider this ending happy but others might see it as ambiguous.
Summary: Eames builds then he waits.
This isn't a part of my series. I don't even remember what kick started this bunny since it jumped me before A_E Match even began. It demanded love today so I added to the paragraph I had done and got this madness.
When Eames was young-before he was a Forger; before he was even Eames-he dreamt of designing buildings. It was how he met Miles, though why the older man's attention had strayed to him, quiet and slouching over his notes, is something he has yet to understand. The first shared dream Eames experienced featured a sprawling town of his own design, and the sheer delight at seeing his creation brought to life had been dizzying.
That was over a decade ago, though, and he fears he has lost the knack for it, but he still tries. He starts small, delicate, but scraps the attempt almost immediately. Dainty will never do.
The second time, he lays the foundation for a mansion. He considers and rejects modern design, instead going for something old and grand, something that lets him sneak the hint of curling Art Nouveau vines into the border. He fills it up with rooms and light. He puts a desk and computer in the study, a bed big enough for two in the main bedroom, a high polished piano in the living room, a garden in the back yard. Books brim and overflow out of shelves; pictures and decorations form a meticulous sprawl.
When he's done, he returns to the living room to sit straight-backed on the couch.
He waits.
A day passes, three days pass, maybe a month. The front door opens and slams. Arthur walks in decked out in his finest suit, immaculate perfection, a smile on his face and eyes ignoring everything but Eames.
Eames shoots him.
He shoots because Arthur doesn't smile at him like that, doesn't look at him that way. Like they're lovers instead of colleagues. Like Eames is his life instead of someone he respects and whose company he enjoys. Like they've gotten passed the point of dancing around each other and finally done something brave.
He buries the projection because it has Arthur's face.
The process continues, cycles, repeats. Arthurs in suits and Arthurs with flashing dimples. Arthurs who only have eyes for him. There's a boneyard in the garden full of decaying cloth and Arthur. The flowers bloom beautifully as Eames' heart wilts.
Eventually, a new one comes. He wears a t-shirt instead of button-ups and waistcoats. His pants are made of denim and are fraying at the ends. His shoes are scuffed sneakers that have seen better days. His expression is somber.
His gaze lingers on the walls, the furniture, the bits and pieces of the room instead of Eames, seated and unmoving on the couch. Arthur takes these things in with interest, lifts and stares at a picture, puts it down to take hold of a small statue. He walks the perimeter of the room, runs fingers across the piano's keys hard enough to rattle notes free. When every detail is noted and examined, he stands in front of Eames. There's a smile there now, a tiny one. His eyes are fond.
“When we get topside,” Arthur says as he pulls out the gun he has made no attempt to hide, “you can build me the real thing.”
Eames nods, offers a small smile in return, and only flinches a little when the muzzle touches his forehead. It will be okay, he knows. It will be all right. Because this Arthur feels right. This Arthur feels like home.
Author: abysmal_seraph
Team: Angst
Prompt: Home, Smile (I guess I can count that one)
Word count: 560
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Shooting people in dreams, morbid imagery, Limbo fic.
Note: I don't really do sad endings. I consider this ending happy but others might see it as ambiguous.
Summary: Eames builds then he waits.
This isn't a part of my series. I don't even remember what kick started this bunny since it jumped me before A_E Match even began. It demanded love today so I added to the paragraph I had done and got this madness.
When Eames was young-before he was a Forger; before he was even Eames-he dreamt of designing buildings. It was how he met Miles, though why the older man's attention had strayed to him, quiet and slouching over his notes, is something he has yet to understand. The first shared dream Eames experienced featured a sprawling town of his own design, and the sheer delight at seeing his creation brought to life had been dizzying.
That was over a decade ago, though, and he fears he has lost the knack for it, but he still tries. He starts small, delicate, but scraps the attempt almost immediately. Dainty will never do.
The second time, he lays the foundation for a mansion. He considers and rejects modern design, instead going for something old and grand, something that lets him sneak the hint of curling Art Nouveau vines into the border. He fills it up with rooms and light. He puts a desk and computer in the study, a bed big enough for two in the main bedroom, a high polished piano in the living room, a garden in the back yard. Books brim and overflow out of shelves; pictures and decorations form a meticulous sprawl.
When he's done, he returns to the living room to sit straight-backed on the couch.
He waits.
A day passes, three days pass, maybe a month. The front door opens and slams. Arthur walks in decked out in his finest suit, immaculate perfection, a smile on his face and eyes ignoring everything but Eames.
Eames shoots him.
He shoots because Arthur doesn't smile at him like that, doesn't look at him that way. Like they're lovers instead of colleagues. Like Eames is his life instead of someone he respects and whose company he enjoys. Like they've gotten passed the point of dancing around each other and finally done something brave.
He buries the projection because it has Arthur's face.
The process continues, cycles, repeats. Arthurs in suits and Arthurs with flashing dimples. Arthurs who only have eyes for him. There's a boneyard in the garden full of decaying cloth and Arthur. The flowers bloom beautifully as Eames' heart wilts.
Eventually, a new one comes. He wears a t-shirt instead of button-ups and waistcoats. His pants are made of denim and are fraying at the ends. His shoes are scuffed sneakers that have seen better days. His expression is somber.
His gaze lingers on the walls, the furniture, the bits and pieces of the room instead of Eames, seated and unmoving on the couch. Arthur takes these things in with interest, lifts and stares at a picture, puts it down to take hold of a small statue. He walks the perimeter of the room, runs fingers across the piano's keys hard enough to rattle notes free. When every detail is noted and examined, he stands in front of Eames. There's a smile there now, a tiny one. His eyes are fond.
“When we get topside,” Arthur says as he pulls out the gun he has made no attempt to hide, “you can build me the real thing.”
Eames nods, offers a small smile in return, and only flinches a little when the muzzle touches his forehead. It will be okay, he knows. It will be all right. Because this Arthur feels right. This Arthur feels like home.