fic: This is fact, not fiction
Title: This is fact, not fiction
Author: ohmydarlingdear
Team: ANGST ANGST ANGST!
Prompt: overwhelmed, bonds, fear
Word count: approx. 1,800
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: violence, major character death
Summary: The official records report that it was a car accident that killed Jack Eames on March 19th at nine-fifteen at night. Arthur knows better. He was there.
The official records report that it was a car accident that killed Jack Eames on March 19th at nine-fifteen at night. The official records report that Eames died on impact, but Arthur Levine knows better. He was there. He saw it happen. And it was nothing like a car accident.
---
It’s a drizzly April morning when Eames’ funeral takes place. Ariadne’s crying quietly at Arthur’s elbow, slim shoulders shaking, tears wearing tracks down her pale cheeks, and Dom’s expression is somber and tense, so reminiscent of when they’d been on the run following Mal’s death, so creased in that troubled expression that Arthur’s almost afraid Dom will do something reckless again. Yusuf keeps blinking rapidly as if to clear his eyes, shoulders hunched, expression nothing like the easygoing, perpetual calm Arthur has come to expect from him.
And Eames’ parents, they’re probably the worst, because they’re broken, terribly, terribly wrecked at losing their only son so tragically, and they don’t even know the truth. Arthur doesn’t know which would be worse, whether their knowing the truth about their son’s death would be preferable to this, but either way, Arthur almost feels guilty for knowing. He almost feels like he has no right. After all, what is he to Eames? Nothing legally, nothing on paper; the only link he’s ever had to Eames was based on something neither of them ever even talked about. But these are Eames’ parents, and even they don’t know what happened to Eames, and Arthur just feels like the scum of the earth.
But maybe it’s better they don’t know. Maybe it’s better they don’t know how Eames had crumpled to the ground after being shot twice in the chest. Maybe it’s better they don’t know how Arthur had desperately pressed his hands against the warm flow of blood, how Arthur had known even as he’d said that everything was going to be okay that Eames was fading away right before his very eyes. Maybe it’s better that Eames’ parents don’t know how their son’s brilliant blue eyes faded to unseeing, glassy orbs as the life seeped out of him. Maybe it’s better this way.
---
It was supposed to have been an easy job. It was supposed to have been a simple, routine extraction, but then again the mark wasn’t supposed to have found out about them. They weren’t supposed to be ambushed the moment they woke up.
“Get the fuck out of here!” Dom had screamed at all of them amidst the gunfire. “We’ll find each other later.”
And everyone had been on the move in a matter of seconds; Arthur still can’t quite remember what exactly happened or how they all managed to make it out of the room, much less the building, but somehow, somehow Arthur was suddenly racing down the street, Eames not too far behind him. Eames had grabbed Arthur’s arm and yanked him off of the main street and into an alleyway.
“This way,” Eames had said. “I think if we-”
A burst of gunfire cut Eames off, and Arthur cursed as he and Eames ducked around a corner. For a moment, all Arthur could hear was the roar of blood in his ears, his own rapid breathing, and the sound of bullets bouncing off various surfaces as they missed their targets. And then suddenly, everything quieted and Arthur carefully peered around the corner to check their surroundings. Arthur had snapped his head back a second later, but he’d managed to count at least six or seven men in the alleyway.
Arthur had glanced over at Eames, and Eames had given him a brief smile before nodding, and then the two of them had burst out of their hiding spot, firing bullets left and right with the sort of deadly accuracy that comes from years of crime, and for a moment, everything seemed to be going just fine. For a moment, Arthur had thought they’d survive this yet; after all, they had gotten out of stickier situations in the past. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eames’ body fall to the ground, Eames clutching at his chest, his face twisted in agony.
A loud shout that Arthur realized belatedly was his own echoed through the alley, and it was as if some lethal, overpowering force had overtaken Arthur, making him move without even realizing it. Their pursuers didn’t stand a chance. Unfortunately, neither did Eames.
By the time Arthur had taken out every last one of their pursuers, by the time the adrenaline had worn off and Arthur could actually think straight again, it was almost too late. Perhaps it was already too late. Arthur didn’t know. All Arthur knew was that Eames was lying on the ground clutching his chest with the life seeping out of him and Arthur, Arthur didn’t know what to do.
“Oh god, Eames,” Arthur had said in one rushed breath, dropping to his knees beside Eames.
He’d lifted Eames’ hand away from the wound to examine it. Arthur had drawn in a breath at the red staining Eames’ shirt; two bullets to Eames’ chest.
“It’s pretty bad, yeah?” Eames had said, attempting a pained laugh.
Arthur had tried for a smile and missed by a long shot, and he’d pressed his hands to Eames’ chest to try to slow the flow of blood.
“It’s going to be okay, Eames,” Arthur had said, even though he didn’t even believe himself. “Everything’s going to be fine. You’re going to make it. I’m calling for help, okay? Just hold on, okay; hold on for a little longer.”
Arthur had pulled out his phone and tried to call an ambulance or something, but his fingers had been shaking too hard to push the right buttons. Arthur hadn’t quite realized that he’d been crying until Eames reached up to touch Arthur’s cheek.
“Arthur,” Eames had said, and it’d sounded too much like goodbye.
“No,” Arthur had insisted, and he’d still been crying, goddammit; Arthur hadn’t cried in years up until this point, and he’d never thought he’d be falling to pieces over someone like this, never thought it’d end this way. “No, Eames, don’t do this. Please, just hang on for a little longer, okay?”
Eames had smiled weakly and sighed in a way that spoke of such resignation that Arthur had felt something break within him. It was then that Arthur knew Eames could already feel that he wasn’t going to make it. It was then that Arthur knew this really was the end of them.
“Arthur,” Eames had said. “Darling, you’re wonderful.”
And then that was that. Eames slipped away, right through Arthur’s fingers, so quietly, Arthur almost didn’t feel it. Arthur kept waiting for more, as if Eames would smile and laugh one more time and make everything okay (he always did, always), but it was the way Eames’ skin no longer felt warm to the touch, the way Eames’ gaze no longer seemed to reach Arthur, the way Arthur’s hands and Eames’ clothes and the ground beneath them were stained so, so red that Arthur knew that Eames had really gone, and there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it.
And it was then that Arthur had realized with a sickening jolt that he’d never told Eames how much he meant to him. Arthur had never once told Eames that he was wonderful and amazing and everything he’d ever wanted, because Arthur had been afraid (though afraid of what, he didn’t know). And while Eames had always lavished limitless praise upon Arthur, told him he was beautiful and brilliant and that he loved Arthur so, so very much, Arthur had stood by quietly and not said a single thing back because he hadn’t known how. His default had been to run, and he didn’t know how to reverse it, not even for Eames.
And now, now Eames was dead, and Arthur would never get his chance to mess up and tell Eames he loved him in all the wrong ways, and in that moment, Arthur had hated himself with everything he had. Arthur had opened his mouth and screamed and screamed and screamed until his throat hurt and he was crying so hard he couldn’t even think straight anymore. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he’d known he shouldn’t just sit here, because it wasn’t safe, because he needed to hide, but at this point, Arthur didn’t even care. He was (still is) too numb with guilt and loss to do much of anything.
---
After the funeral is over, Arthur lingers for longer than the rest. He feels hollow and empty, as if he’d died along with Eames that March evening. Arthur reaches down to trace the letters engraved in Eames’ tombstone that proudly bears the name JACK EAMES for the world to see. Arthur runs his thumb along the J.
“You always hated your name, didn’t you?” Arthur murmurs as if Eames can hear him, the barest ghost of a smile pulling at his lips, nothing like the full-blown, dimple-inducing grins that always made Eames laugh with delight. “Never thought it was interesting enough for a criminal of your stature.”
Arthur feels a pinch at the corners of his eyes, a sure sign that he’s about to cry, and he blinks rapidly to keep the tears at bay. He doesn’t want to fall apart, not again, not now. He can’t do this, because if he lets himself break down now, he won’t be able to put himself back together enough to make it home. Instead, Arthur takes a deep, shaky breath to calm himself and reaches to place down the single red rose he’d brought down on Eames’ grave. When Arthur stands to leave, his legs are shaking and he’s trembling all over, but he somehow manages to make it back to his apartment, the apartment he’d been tempted to abandon after Eames’ death but couldn’t bear to because it was the last place he and Eames had lived together in. There are too many memories everywhere Arthur looks, sometimes so much that it physically hurts Arthur, but he stays anyways, because sometimes, when Arthur’s feeling particularly lonely, he slips on one of Eames’ old shirts and curls up, pretending like it’s just another time when they’re working different jobs and Eames will be home at any moment, exhausted but warm and secure wrapped around Arthur.
Arthur almost feels like he’s torturing himself, tricking himself into believing that Eames is still alive like this, but he can’t help it, because the only thing he fears more than reality at this point is forgetting altogether what it was like to be with Eames, so he clings onto every one of those memories, even though it kills him. And although Arthur doesn’t dream much these days, when he does, it’s always of gunshots and splashes of red and warm smiles fading to black.
Author: ohmydarlingdear
Team: ANGST ANGST ANGST!
Prompt: overwhelmed, bonds, fear
Word count: approx. 1,800
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: violence, major character death
Summary: The official records report that it was a car accident that killed Jack Eames on March 19th at nine-fifteen at night. Arthur knows better. He was there.
The official records report that it was a car accident that killed Jack Eames on March 19th at nine-fifteen at night. The official records report that Eames died on impact, but Arthur Levine knows better. He was there. He saw it happen. And it was nothing like a car accident.
---
It’s a drizzly April morning when Eames’ funeral takes place. Ariadne’s crying quietly at Arthur’s elbow, slim shoulders shaking, tears wearing tracks down her pale cheeks, and Dom’s expression is somber and tense, so reminiscent of when they’d been on the run following Mal’s death, so creased in that troubled expression that Arthur’s almost afraid Dom will do something reckless again. Yusuf keeps blinking rapidly as if to clear his eyes, shoulders hunched, expression nothing like the easygoing, perpetual calm Arthur has come to expect from him.
And Eames’ parents, they’re probably the worst, because they’re broken, terribly, terribly wrecked at losing their only son so tragically, and they don’t even know the truth. Arthur doesn’t know which would be worse, whether their knowing the truth about their son’s death would be preferable to this, but either way, Arthur almost feels guilty for knowing. He almost feels like he has no right. After all, what is he to Eames? Nothing legally, nothing on paper; the only link he’s ever had to Eames was based on something neither of them ever even talked about. But these are Eames’ parents, and even they don’t know what happened to Eames, and Arthur just feels like the scum of the earth.
But maybe it’s better they don’t know. Maybe it’s better they don’t know how Eames had crumpled to the ground after being shot twice in the chest. Maybe it’s better they don’t know how Arthur had desperately pressed his hands against the warm flow of blood, how Arthur had known even as he’d said that everything was going to be okay that Eames was fading away right before his very eyes. Maybe it’s better that Eames’ parents don’t know how their son’s brilliant blue eyes faded to unseeing, glassy orbs as the life seeped out of him. Maybe it’s better this way.
---
It was supposed to have been an easy job. It was supposed to have been a simple, routine extraction, but then again the mark wasn’t supposed to have found out about them. They weren’t supposed to be ambushed the moment they woke up.
“Get the fuck out of here!” Dom had screamed at all of them amidst the gunfire. “We’ll find each other later.”
And everyone had been on the move in a matter of seconds; Arthur still can’t quite remember what exactly happened or how they all managed to make it out of the room, much less the building, but somehow, somehow Arthur was suddenly racing down the street, Eames not too far behind him. Eames had grabbed Arthur’s arm and yanked him off of the main street and into an alleyway.
“This way,” Eames had said. “I think if we-”
A burst of gunfire cut Eames off, and Arthur cursed as he and Eames ducked around a corner. For a moment, all Arthur could hear was the roar of blood in his ears, his own rapid breathing, and the sound of bullets bouncing off various surfaces as they missed their targets. And then suddenly, everything quieted and Arthur carefully peered around the corner to check their surroundings. Arthur had snapped his head back a second later, but he’d managed to count at least six or seven men in the alleyway.
Arthur had glanced over at Eames, and Eames had given him a brief smile before nodding, and then the two of them had burst out of their hiding spot, firing bullets left and right with the sort of deadly accuracy that comes from years of crime, and for a moment, everything seemed to be going just fine. For a moment, Arthur had thought they’d survive this yet; after all, they had gotten out of stickier situations in the past. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eames’ body fall to the ground, Eames clutching at his chest, his face twisted in agony.
A loud shout that Arthur realized belatedly was his own echoed through the alley, and it was as if some lethal, overpowering force had overtaken Arthur, making him move without even realizing it. Their pursuers didn’t stand a chance. Unfortunately, neither did Eames.
By the time Arthur had taken out every last one of their pursuers, by the time the adrenaline had worn off and Arthur could actually think straight again, it was almost too late. Perhaps it was already too late. Arthur didn’t know. All Arthur knew was that Eames was lying on the ground clutching his chest with the life seeping out of him and Arthur, Arthur didn’t know what to do.
“Oh god, Eames,” Arthur had said in one rushed breath, dropping to his knees beside Eames.
He’d lifted Eames’ hand away from the wound to examine it. Arthur had drawn in a breath at the red staining Eames’ shirt; two bullets to Eames’ chest.
“It’s pretty bad, yeah?” Eames had said, attempting a pained laugh.
Arthur had tried for a smile and missed by a long shot, and he’d pressed his hands to Eames’ chest to try to slow the flow of blood.
“It’s going to be okay, Eames,” Arthur had said, even though he didn’t even believe himself. “Everything’s going to be fine. You’re going to make it. I’m calling for help, okay? Just hold on, okay; hold on for a little longer.”
Arthur had pulled out his phone and tried to call an ambulance or something, but his fingers had been shaking too hard to push the right buttons. Arthur hadn’t quite realized that he’d been crying until Eames reached up to touch Arthur’s cheek.
“Arthur,” Eames had said, and it’d sounded too much like goodbye.
“No,” Arthur had insisted, and he’d still been crying, goddammit; Arthur hadn’t cried in years up until this point, and he’d never thought he’d be falling to pieces over someone like this, never thought it’d end this way. “No, Eames, don’t do this. Please, just hang on for a little longer, okay?”
Eames had smiled weakly and sighed in a way that spoke of such resignation that Arthur had felt something break within him. It was then that Arthur knew Eames could already feel that he wasn’t going to make it. It was then that Arthur knew this really was the end of them.
“Arthur,” Eames had said. “Darling, you’re wonderful.”
And then that was that. Eames slipped away, right through Arthur’s fingers, so quietly, Arthur almost didn’t feel it. Arthur kept waiting for more, as if Eames would smile and laugh one more time and make everything okay (he always did, always), but it was the way Eames’ skin no longer felt warm to the touch, the way Eames’ gaze no longer seemed to reach Arthur, the way Arthur’s hands and Eames’ clothes and the ground beneath them were stained so, so red that Arthur knew that Eames had really gone, and there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it.
And it was then that Arthur had realized with a sickening jolt that he’d never told Eames how much he meant to him. Arthur had never once told Eames that he was wonderful and amazing and everything he’d ever wanted, because Arthur had been afraid (though afraid of what, he didn’t know). And while Eames had always lavished limitless praise upon Arthur, told him he was beautiful and brilliant and that he loved Arthur so, so very much, Arthur had stood by quietly and not said a single thing back because he hadn’t known how. His default had been to run, and he didn’t know how to reverse it, not even for Eames.
And now, now Eames was dead, and Arthur would never get his chance to mess up and tell Eames he loved him in all the wrong ways, and in that moment, Arthur had hated himself with everything he had. Arthur had opened his mouth and screamed and screamed and screamed until his throat hurt and he was crying so hard he couldn’t even think straight anymore. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he’d known he shouldn’t just sit here, because it wasn’t safe, because he needed to hide, but at this point, Arthur didn’t even care. He was (still is) too numb with guilt and loss to do much of anything.
---
After the funeral is over, Arthur lingers for longer than the rest. He feels hollow and empty, as if he’d died along with Eames that March evening. Arthur reaches down to trace the letters engraved in Eames’ tombstone that proudly bears the name JACK EAMES for the world to see. Arthur runs his thumb along the J.
“You always hated your name, didn’t you?” Arthur murmurs as if Eames can hear him, the barest ghost of a smile pulling at his lips, nothing like the full-blown, dimple-inducing grins that always made Eames laugh with delight. “Never thought it was interesting enough for a criminal of your stature.”
Arthur feels a pinch at the corners of his eyes, a sure sign that he’s about to cry, and he blinks rapidly to keep the tears at bay. He doesn’t want to fall apart, not again, not now. He can’t do this, because if he lets himself break down now, he won’t be able to put himself back together enough to make it home. Instead, Arthur takes a deep, shaky breath to calm himself and reaches to place down the single red rose he’d brought down on Eames’ grave. When Arthur stands to leave, his legs are shaking and he’s trembling all over, but he somehow manages to make it back to his apartment, the apartment he’d been tempted to abandon after Eames’ death but couldn’t bear to because it was the last place he and Eames had lived together in. There are too many memories everywhere Arthur looks, sometimes so much that it physically hurts Arthur, but he stays anyways, because sometimes, when Arthur’s feeling particularly lonely, he slips on one of Eames’ old shirts and curls up, pretending like it’s just another time when they’re working different jobs and Eames will be home at any moment, exhausted but warm and secure wrapped around Arthur.
Arthur almost feels like he’s torturing himself, tricking himself into believing that Eames is still alive like this, but he can’t help it, because the only thing he fears more than reality at this point is forgetting altogether what it was like to be with Eames, so he clings onto every one of those memories, even though it kills him. And although Arthur doesn’t dream much these days, when he does, it’s always of gunshots and splashes of red and warm smiles fading to black.