Fic: Washout
Title: Washout
Author: telm_393
Team: Angst
Prompt: overwhelmed, and there are shades of innocence and touch
Word count: 1,042
Warnings: blood, non-graphic ("off-screen") violence, murder in self-defense
Note: This also fills a prompt on inception_kink that I cannot for the life of me find right now, so I will edit when I do. It goes like this: "Arthur and Eames in a dingy motel bathroom; Eames washes the blood out of Arthur's hair."
The motel room is dirty; the bathroom is dirtier. But they go to the bathroom anyway.
Eames drags in a chair and gently pushes Arthur to make him sit down on it.
Arthur opens his mouth but all he does is make a hoarse sound before he clamps it shut again, dazed.
Eames is young but Arthur is younger, eighteen or nineteen and not old enough for this shit. Yes, he's been in the military, but that doesn't mean he's ever seen a dead body, that doesn't mean he wasn't roped into Dreamshare and this criminal world early enough that the only dead bodies he's seen are in dreams, and he's never been affected by that, not as far as Eames can see. There's just something different about killing real people. Eames understands, so do Mal and Dom.
A tear runs down Arthur's cheek and cuts through the blood on his face, but not completely. Eames touches it, wipes it away with his thumb, gently, and watches the blood around the clean part smear.
"You did good," he says quietly, because Arthur really did do well, he did exactly what he was supposed to and probably didn't even flinch as he killed those men.
The men--rival extractors, most likely, but not rivals anymore, are they? trying to kill them as they dreamed. Arthur, working point. Thank god it was Arthur working point, because Arthur never, ever chokes, not in a dream and not in real life, not even if he has a right to.
Eames remembers waking up to Arthur sitting on the floor and three men around him, all of them covered with blood.
But Eames can't see a scratch on Arthur, the little genius.
He recalls a brief moment of terror as all of them think Arthur--the child, the best point man they've had in ages--has been mortally wounded before realizing what actually happened.
It probably went something like this: Arthur, having administered the chemicals even though he isn't a chemist, just smart and they aren't new chemicals or anything, was getting ready to give the rest of the team the kick. He was attacked. And, just as he should have, just as humans do, he attacked right back. Shot the first one, killed him easily, but ended up having to stab the others to death (not as easy) when the gun was knocked from his hands.
It's good work.
But now Eames has to do this, because Arthur's good work has soaked him in blood and taken the light from his eyes. "Take off your jacket."
Arthur shrugs it off. It's heavy with blood.
"Okay, just take off your shirt and pants."
Arthur's look is half-surprised, half-glare, a tiny spark of life in his eyes.
"Don't worry, I'm not going to try anything. It'll just be so much easier that way."
And Arthur is shaken and not in his best state of mind, so he just does it, peels off his once-white shirt, his dirty pants, until he's just sitting there in his boxers, looking at Eames miserably, young and vulnerable and confused.
Eames wets a towel and softly runs it down Arthur's cheek. The white towel comes back pink, so he wipes again and again until Arthur's pale skin shines through.
He keeps doing it until Arthur's face is clean again, and then he starts on the hair.
The hair's the worst part, matted and mussed and caked with blood both wet and drying.
"Come on, let's go to the shower," Eames sighs out, closing his eyes for a moment because he's tired of today and wants it to end.
He knows Arthur probably feels the same way, because as children they are conditioned to believe that tomorrow will be better even though chances are it will be just as dismal, and as adults they realize it's a fucking lie but never quite get over it, that anticipation, that idea that tomorrow will be a better day.
Arthur looks up at him and Eames almost flinches at his eyes, confused and weirdly empty, as if he's been through so much he's just shut down completely, gathering back his strength.
He follows Eames' coaxing and gets into the tiny shower, which doesn't have a curtain and is covered in grime.
He sits.
Eames turns the water on and it blasts down and Arthur flinches because it's really cold, and even though Eames tries, he can only get it up to lukewarm.
But it does the trick, and Arthur's hair starts getting soft again as the dried and drying blood starts running down his face, down his body, and Eames quickly squirts some shampoo into his hand and starts rubbing it into the younger man's dark hair, trying to untangle some of the knots he finds with his hands.
Arthur has thick hair, but it's usually slicked back, and now it's stuck on his face and he doesn't even bother to move it out of the way, just closes his eyes so the shampoo doesn't get into them and lets the water--which is quickly getting colder, Eames notes as he shivers slightly because he's getting wet too, kneeling in front of Arthur--run over his body.
And Arthur is beautiful, even like this.
Eames quickly averts his eyes for a moment because that's a completely inappropriate thought. Not because Arthur is younger--Eames knows he's legal and he himself is only twenty-three, not much older.
It's just that Arthur is vulnerable right now. Completely vulnerable, and he's never been this way before.
Eames has always been attracted to him, to his severity and quiet awkwardness and occasional smile, and Arthur is attracted to him, probably. They've even kissed before. But neither of them talk about that.
And now is certainly not the time, not when Arthur is out of commission.
Eames gently runs his hands through Arthur's hair one, two, three times more and then turns off the freezing water and hands him a towel to drape across his shoulders.
They go to the bed, and Eames lays a couple of towels over that too because it's a mess, covered in stains (semen and dirt and drool) and Arthur curls up on his side and closes his eyes, and Eames stretches out next to him and presses a kiss to his forehead.
Arthur smiles, just for a split second, barely.
Eames grabs his hand, and he's not entirely sure why, and Arthur's eyes flutter but don't exactly open and he doesn't pull away.
Together, they go to sleep.
Author: telm_393
Team: Angst
Prompt: overwhelmed, and there are shades of innocence and touch
Word count: 1,042
Warnings: blood, non-graphic ("off-screen") violence, murder in self-defense
Note: This also fills a prompt on inception_kink that I cannot for the life of me find right now, so I will edit when I do. It goes like this: "Arthur and Eames in a dingy motel bathroom; Eames washes the blood out of Arthur's hair."
The motel room is dirty; the bathroom is dirtier. But they go to the bathroom anyway.
Eames drags in a chair and gently pushes Arthur to make him sit down on it.
Arthur opens his mouth but all he does is make a hoarse sound before he clamps it shut again, dazed.
Eames is young but Arthur is younger, eighteen or nineteen and not old enough for this shit. Yes, he's been in the military, but that doesn't mean he's ever seen a dead body, that doesn't mean he wasn't roped into Dreamshare and this criminal world early enough that the only dead bodies he's seen are in dreams, and he's never been affected by that, not as far as Eames can see. There's just something different about killing real people. Eames understands, so do Mal and Dom.
A tear runs down Arthur's cheek and cuts through the blood on his face, but not completely. Eames touches it, wipes it away with his thumb, gently, and watches the blood around the clean part smear.
"You did good," he says quietly, because Arthur really did do well, he did exactly what he was supposed to and probably didn't even flinch as he killed those men.
The men--rival extractors, most likely, but not rivals anymore, are they? trying to kill them as they dreamed. Arthur, working point. Thank god it was Arthur working point, because Arthur never, ever chokes, not in a dream and not in real life, not even if he has a right to.
Eames remembers waking up to Arthur sitting on the floor and three men around him, all of them covered with blood.
But Eames can't see a scratch on Arthur, the little genius.
He recalls a brief moment of terror as all of them think Arthur--the child, the best point man they've had in ages--has been mortally wounded before realizing what actually happened.
It probably went something like this: Arthur, having administered the chemicals even though he isn't a chemist, just smart and they aren't new chemicals or anything, was getting ready to give the rest of the team the kick. He was attacked. And, just as he should have, just as humans do, he attacked right back. Shot the first one, killed him easily, but ended up having to stab the others to death (not as easy) when the gun was knocked from his hands.
It's good work.
But now Eames has to do this, because Arthur's good work has soaked him in blood and taken the light from his eyes. "Take off your jacket."
Arthur shrugs it off. It's heavy with blood.
"Okay, just take off your shirt and pants."
Arthur's look is half-surprised, half-glare, a tiny spark of life in his eyes.
"Don't worry, I'm not going to try anything. It'll just be so much easier that way."
And Arthur is shaken and not in his best state of mind, so he just does it, peels off his once-white shirt, his dirty pants, until he's just sitting there in his boxers, looking at Eames miserably, young and vulnerable and confused.
Eames wets a towel and softly runs it down Arthur's cheek. The white towel comes back pink, so he wipes again and again until Arthur's pale skin shines through.
He keeps doing it until Arthur's face is clean again, and then he starts on the hair.
The hair's the worst part, matted and mussed and caked with blood both wet and drying.
"Come on, let's go to the shower," Eames sighs out, closing his eyes for a moment because he's tired of today and wants it to end.
He knows Arthur probably feels the same way, because as children they are conditioned to believe that tomorrow will be better even though chances are it will be just as dismal, and as adults they realize it's a fucking lie but never quite get over it, that anticipation, that idea that tomorrow will be a better day.
Arthur looks up at him and Eames almost flinches at his eyes, confused and weirdly empty, as if he's been through so much he's just shut down completely, gathering back his strength.
He follows Eames' coaxing and gets into the tiny shower, which doesn't have a curtain and is covered in grime.
He sits.
Eames turns the water on and it blasts down and Arthur flinches because it's really cold, and even though Eames tries, he can only get it up to lukewarm.
But it does the trick, and Arthur's hair starts getting soft again as the dried and drying blood starts running down his face, down his body, and Eames quickly squirts some shampoo into his hand and starts rubbing it into the younger man's dark hair, trying to untangle some of the knots he finds with his hands.
Arthur has thick hair, but it's usually slicked back, and now it's stuck on his face and he doesn't even bother to move it out of the way, just closes his eyes so the shampoo doesn't get into them and lets the water--which is quickly getting colder, Eames notes as he shivers slightly because he's getting wet too, kneeling in front of Arthur--run over his body.
And Arthur is beautiful, even like this.
Eames quickly averts his eyes for a moment because that's a completely inappropriate thought. Not because Arthur is younger--Eames knows he's legal and he himself is only twenty-three, not much older.
It's just that Arthur is vulnerable right now. Completely vulnerable, and he's never been this way before.
Eames has always been attracted to him, to his severity and quiet awkwardness and occasional smile, and Arthur is attracted to him, probably. They've even kissed before. But neither of them talk about that.
And now is certainly not the time, not when Arthur is out of commission.
Eames gently runs his hands through Arthur's hair one, two, three times more and then turns off the freezing water and hands him a towel to drape across his shoulders.
They go to the bed, and Eames lays a couple of towels over that too because it's a mess, covered in stains (semen and dirt and drool) and Arthur curls up on his side and closes his eyes, and Eames stretches out next to him and presses a kiss to his forehead.
Arthur smiles, just for a split second, barely.
Eames grabs his hand, and he's not entirely sure why, and Arthur's eyes flutter but don't exactly open and he doesn't pull away.
Together, they go to sleep.