Fic: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall, 7b/10 [Inception]
Title: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall (7b/10)
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 4,586
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: Violence (graphic torture), strong language, sexual content, character death
Summary: In the aftermath of World War III and the Second Civil War of the United States, the members of the dream sharing industry have been turned into fugitives, driven underground and into hiding in order to escape assassination by Fischer Industries USA - except for one, the former leading point man in the business, who has turned traitor against the fugitives Dom Cobb, Public Enemy Number one; and the infamous Eames, leader of the Resistance.
Author's Note: Written for inception_bang . Endless thanks to my wonderful beta, niftywithan who worked tirelessly in looking over drafts, and to my dear celestineangel , without whose wonderful help (read: guidance, advice, cheerleading) this labor of love would not exist. You two are absolutely amazing!! ♥ ♥ ♥
May 17, 2028
Deaths weren’t an uncommon thing after WWIII, and once the Second Civil War rolled around, it just became a part of everyday life. Our neighborhood just got bombed and Aunt Lindsay’s died from radiation poisoning; no time to mourn ‘cause we’ve got to go, quickly now. Oh, we’ve got nothing to eat again tonight, and old Mr. Bob from down the street? The nice old man who used to tell stories of life before the wonders of the Internet and what he called “moving picture shows”? Yeah, he’s kicked the bucket from going too many days without food or insulin shots; just thought you’d like to know. Fischer Industries is rounding everyone up into camps and when the woman gone half-mad with grief won’t let go of her husband’s corpse, they watch dispassionately as she commits suicide right in front of them and leave the bodies to rot in the sun.
People died, day in and day out, and life went on because it had to, and it’s still that way now. The Earth isn’t going to cease spinning, the existence of Fischer Industries (and all that they do) isn’t going to stop being a goddamn crime against humanity, and life as we know it (as fucked up as it is) isn’t going to come to an end just because Arthur Davidson’s heart stops beating.
But sometimes, when I see the way Eames looks at him, I think it just might. It’s…it’s like Arthur is the only thing that exists anymore, like the world could be falling away under his feet and he wouldn’t even notice, like he wants nothing more than to-
It’s fucking heartbreaking.
He’s getting worse, too. Arthur, I mean. Natasha’s run out of saline solution and we’ve had to resort to trying to get him to drink water, and if his fever shoots any higher, his brain is going to fry.
Ariadne glances up as Arthur’s breath hitches and she leans forward, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as she carefully rearranges the ice pack pressed against his neck. Since two days ago, Arthur’s thrashed himself awake three more times, getting increasingly more delirious as infections from his wounds run rampant, sending his body temperature spiking to disturbing heights - a stubborn fever that refuses to recede. Ariadne hasn’t forgotten the way he called out Mal, Mal like a terrified child crying for his mother, or the way he clung to Eames with sheer desperation as the hallucinations began, shivering uncontrollably and mumbling strings of broken French against Eames’ shoulder, occasionally cut off by a cry as Natasha tried to change the dressings covering his wounds.
Eames, though - if Arthur looked bad throughout the grueling process, then Eames -
“Alright there, dove?”
Ariadne looks up at the warm hand on her shoulder and tries to give him a reassuring smile. I think he’s doing okay. It’s not a lie, not entirely; after all, there are varying definitions of “okay” out there. She very pointedly doesn’t mention that Arthur isn’t the only one who looks like death warmed over, taking in the stress lines around Eames’ eyes and mouth without comment. Have you or Cobb figured out what happened, or why… She falters and waves her hands around in a vague attempt to fill in the end of that sentence with what she isn’t sure how to say herself.
Eames’ hand on her shoulder tightens and he offers a half-chuckle, strained and far more pained than his normal jovial laughter. “Nothing noteworthy as of yet, I’m afraid.” For a moment, both of them stare down at Arthur’s still form, at the ice packs draped over his flushed skin, at the strands of dark hair sticking to his forehead, matted over with sweat. Then Eames’ fingers uncurl from around her clavicle and he speaks, his voice low. “I’ll take watch for now,” he says, and that’s her cue, whether she likes it or not.
She has one foot out the door before she chances for one last glance over her shoulder, just in time to see Eames reaching out, fingers hovering a centimeter from Arthur’s cheek before changing direction abruptly and going to readjust the ice pack against his neck. Something sharp lances its way through her chest and Ariadne quickly steps all the way outside, taking in a deep breath and closing her eyes, tilting her head back to allow the wind to tangle its fingers through her hair. In a moment of pure selfishness then - because she’s only human - she wonders if there’ll ever be a chance of someone looking at her in that same way, if she’ll ever be touched in a manner so gentle and filled with so much longing, to ever know what it feels like to be half of a whole.
After a moment, she opens her eyes and stares upwards into the sky, the knot in her chest tightening.
Out of everything from life before the Wars, she misses the stars the most.
- - - - -
Eames watches the slow rise and fall of Arthur’s chest, watches the ribs move under the layers of bandages and ugly bruises. Somewhere under all the gauze and medicinal tape, under all the bruises and burns, is the man he once fancied he knew, the man he held close for one night before the end of the world. Eames remembers pressing kisses against that long throat, over the larynx just to feel the vibrations in every word spoken, then right over the jugular just to count the beats, not even bothering to check his totem so long as he could feel the evidence of a heart thrumming strong and steady under his lips.
He’s checked his totem more times in the past two weeks than he has in the past five years.
It’s strange; although he’s spent hour after hour and day after day just sitting here, he still can’t bring himself to fully believe that this is the same man that he once called darling, that this is the same man he watched walk away from him more than once, that this is the same man he once thought he might’ve possibly -
Eames laces his fingers together and rests his chin on top, cutting off that train of thought rather forcefully and staring silently. This isn’t Arthur, it can’t be Arthur; he’s already forced himself to come to terms with the fact that the man he once knew as Arthur Davidson doesn’t exist anymore beyond a Fischer Industries uniform so this…this is someone else’s heart, pumping someone else’s blood; it must be, it has to be.
Arthur is quick-witted and sharp-tongued, all lithe limbs and lean muscles, a mean left hook and a flash of brilliance in the Nevada desert. Arthur is a small, private smile when no one else is looking and a loaded red die; he’s that warm feeling right in the middle of Eames’ chest and the taste of gin on his tongue, a small E inked on the pale skin stretching over a sharp hipbone, a sleepy smile in the grey light of dawn set against the backdrop of Cabo, silk sheets and Vivaldi, and he’s more than anyone deserves, least of all someone like Eames.
And he is gone.
Abruptly Eames gets to his feet, hands clasped behind his back, and turns away from this bruised, beaten, broken man who can’t possibly be his darling and instead heads to the meager pile of belongings Natasha took off her patient while treating his wounds. He’s been meaning to search through them for a while now, but due to reluctance, a willful lapse of memory, or a rather convenient combination of the two (although he’ll never say so aloud), he hasn’t suited actions to intentions until now.
The shirt, bloodied and torn, is really nothing special. The same goes for the boots - what’s left of them, anyway, after Eames managed to peel them from the weeping, blistered soles of Arthur’s feet - and he sets them aside with little ceremony.
As he moves to pick up the trousers, fingers grasping at the belt loops, a flash of red catches his eye. Eames stares at the small object for a moment, at the die nestled in the folds of fabric, balanced precariously on an edge, loaded but still withholding the truth of its weight.
That, he doesn’t touch. Wouldn’t ever dream (ha, bloody ha) of touching.
Carefully, he sets the trousers down again so that a fold of fabric drapes over the die, then turns his attention to the pockets. The left one yields nothing, but in the right, his fingers meet what feels like paper or card stock, and curiously, he pulls it out.
It’s a four-by-six photograph, slightly yellowed with age and crinkled from where it’d been haphazardly shoved into the pocket, the glossy surface smudged with fingerprints and stained by a splatter of dried blood.
Eames’ throat closes up and he sits down heavily, clutching the snapshot. Oh, Arthur.
- - - - -
13 August 2019
Washington, D.C.
8:30 PM
“Eames!”
He turns, lured away from the banquet table and the variety of platters of finger food - honestly, how many different ways can one decoratively arrange a plate of cheese and crackers? - by the familiar voice, an easy grin spreading across his features. “Sheldon,” he greets the other man easily, with a friendly thump on the back. “What’s it been, six months since I last clapped eyes on you?”
Sheldon laughs, a deep, booming sound that belies his short, wiry stature. “Must be,” he agrees. “All the boys knew you were headed somewhere. Where did they end up carting you off to? Special Forces?”
Eames raises an eyebrow in mock affront and lifts his flute of champagne at another familiar face passing by. “Now you know I never kiss and tell.” His eyes rove around the interior of the ballroom, at the ornate chandeliers bejeweled with crystals hanging from the ceilings, at the paintings on the walls depicting heroic battle scenes or uniformed men long dead and buried, at the truly tacky pattern swirling in the marble beneath his feet. “Anyone else from the old gang back for this last round?”
“Well, there’s Gordon, Harper, Matherlee...pretty small group; there’re only supposed to be ten of us, total.” Sheldon peers at him quizzically. “You don’t know yet, do you?”
“How’s that?”
“The Program invited the Marines back. Ten of ‘em here, too.” Sheldon gives a short chuckle, and then inclines his head toward the far corner of the room. “You really haven’t seen him yet?”
“Seen-” Eames’ voice falters and his next words die a premature death in his throat because he sees him now, and his free hand automatically slips into his pocket, reaching for the familiar ridges and grooves of his totem.
Arthur stands a little ways away in a sharp black tuxedo not unlike the one Eames wears (save for the fact that he’s gone with a tailored waistcoat in place of the restrictive cumberbund, a choice that suits him well), the fingers of one hand wrapped around the stem of a flute of champagne. His hair is longer since the last time Eames saw him, the dark strands slicked back and away from his face, features as stern and imposing as ever as he listens to some high-ranking General yammer on and on, jaw set in a smooth curve, dark eyes attentive.
He looks good.
Eames looks away quickly and throws his head back, downing the contents of his glass in one go, suddenly wishing for something much stronger than champagne. It’s truly a shame the powers that be decided not to have an open bar; a shot of whiskey sounds like just what the doctor ordered right about now. “And that’s lovely, thank you, Sheldon.”
Sheldon shrugs, wise enough to refrain from commenting. Instead, he takes Eames’ empty glass in exchange for his own full one, watching the other man throw that back as well. “I’ll...get you another one,” he offers, because he’s a smart man, and Eames makes a noncommittal noise in reply, eyes still fixed on Arthur. As the General finishes up with what is surely a truly inspired speech and holds his hand out for the obligatory handshake, Eames straightens out his dinner jacket, his facial muscles slipping into the insincere, practiced grin he only ever bestows upon bastards who are about to get what’s coming to them, and walks up behind Arthur.
“Well,” he drawls, obnoxiously elongating the monosyllabic word, “it’s certainly been a while, hasn’t it, darling?” The pet name isn’t a taunt, but close enough.
Arthur turns, and Eames savors the split-second look of surprise on the other man’s face (something he doubts he’ll ever be able to replicate again, pity) before Arthur blinks, as straight-laced and composed as ever. “Eames.” Extending his hand, he meets Eames’ stare coolly, a slight twitch of the muscle in his jaw being the only thing that gives away any indication of discomfort.
Eames resists the urge to glare at him and instead reaches out to shake the proffered hand (dry palm, fingertips calloused, grip firm), squeezing perhaps a bit too tightly. “I hear they’ve made you a Captain.”
Dark eyes narrow at him; Arthur’s grip tightens as well. “And I hear you’re about to be discharged. I expect you’ll be leaving after the expiration of your term of service?”
“So eager to be rid of me?” Eames purrs, refusing to let up, even as he starts to lose feeling in his hand. “Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”
Ah, and there it is, the minute flicker in Arthur’s eyes before they shutter closed, and Eames briefly entertains the notion that he might be the only one who can provoke any reaction in Captain Arthur bloody Davidson. He deserves a medal, or something of the sort.
“How’s Kenny?”
Eames doesn’t flinch; he doesn’t even so much as blink. “Pardon?”
“Stevenson, Kenneth Roger, twenty-one years old, known as ‘Kenny’ to family members, friends and lovers.” Arthur’s voice is sharpened steel, cutting off the end of each word crisply, and punctuating the last with particular emphasis. “Born the third of March in Our Blessed Lady of Grace Hospital to Ana Marie Stevenson nee Cooper and Bradford Kenneth Stevenson; right on schedule, labor was straightforward as a textbook.” He finally lets up the pressure on Eames’ hand, but continues to speak. “Attended Providence Day Primary School, quiet kid, played well with others, enrolled in Little League and held a position as shortstop for two years, but dropped out following an acute asthma exacerbation on the diamond two weeks to the day after his fifth birthday.”
“Throughout his short time at Etherton Junior High, he developed a crush on his Math teacher, a Miss Lucy Hendricks, and tried out for the basketball team, but unfortunately, didn’t quite make the cut. In his first year at H.M. Weller High School, his grades were passable; he tried out for the swim team and failed to make that as well, shame; joined ROTC instead and earned some commendations from his superiors, nothing spectacular, and-”
“Are you quite done?” Eames asks, pleasant as ever, but with a dangerous undercurrent in his tone, and Arthur arches an eyebrow, haughtily.
“Depends. Are you sure you don’t want me to go on, to explain how and why Kenny decided to get your name tattooed on his-”
“Are you trying to cow me with your brilliance?” Eames frees his hand with a snap of his wrist, and steps closer than social convention can account for, his tone low, dripping sarcasm. “Dazzle me with your mastery of research?”
“You tell me, Mr. Eames.” Arthur smells a bit like clean laundry and lavender and his eyes look different up close; Eames imagines he can see through them, right to the brilliant mind that lies behind, imagines he can see exactly what is going on inside his head.
“No.” It seems he surprises both of them with the refusal; as he steps back, Arthur blinks rapidly, twice in a row. “Figure it out yourself, Captain.” And it’s clear Eames isn’t just talking about their rather tense conversation or poor Kenneth Stevenson’s life story or anything else so obvious, and after a moment, Arthur lifts his chin in a wordless show of defiance, turns smoothly on his heel, and walks away.
They say once is an accident and twice is coincidence, but Eames doubts there is anything coincidental about the smooth lines of the dinner jacket stretched over Arthur’s back as the other man walks away from him for the second time.
- - - - -
After the preliminary speeches welcoming everyone to The Program’s last war game, announcements concerning scheduling, even more pomp and circumstance that only served to be a waste of everyone’s precious time, and about an hour and a half of not trying to look anywhere near the vicinity of the officers seated near the front of the room, Eames finds himself standing in the ridiculously over-furnished loo, glaring at his reflection in the gilded-framed mirror.
Coming here was a mistake. Largest dreamscape ever attempted, the invitation declared, most complex and challenging to date. How could he resist?
Of course what the invitation had failed to mention was the damning presence of one Captain Arthur Davidson.
Bending over the sink, Eames tries not to think about six months of poorly disguised flirting (the behavior was never rebuffed by either party, not really) and sideways glances as he splashes warm water on his face, tries not to think of the nights he spent tracing the outline of Arthur’s features in the dark from two bunks away, of the man’s strategic brilliance that carried their team through The Program’s grueling deviation on basic training.
The door opens and closes as he blindly swipes for one of the terrycloth towels on the brass rings connected to the wall. Someone walks over to the adjacent sink, turns on the faucet, and lets the water run down the drain for a moment before Eames senses movement over his head and the new arrival promptly drops a towel unceremoniously across the back of his neck.
Eames smells clean laundry and lavender, no cologne that he knows of, but a scent too distinctive to forget.
Grabbing the edge of the towel, his back snaps straight and he opens his eyes, face still dripping wet, and stares at the reflection of the newcomer, at the calm face of the man who insists on insinuating himself into every available corner of Eames’ mind. “Much obliged.”
Arthur crosses his arms and just stands there, watching Eames watch him in the mirror. After toweling his face dry, Eames starts to dry his hands, and nods at the running faucet. “Bad for the environment, or so I’ve heard.”
“He was and still is beneath you: in social standing, in intelligence, in rank, in almost everything,” Arthur comments blandly, as if remarking upon the weather, but there’s a crease in his brow indicative of annoyance or disapproval, a challenge in the slight narrowing of his eyes. “So why him?”
Were this anyone else, Eames would laugh at the poorly concealed jealousy in the near-petulant tone, but at the obvious condescension that comes along with it, something in him snaps, like the splintering of a tree branch. The towel falls to the floor as he reaches out and grabs Arthur by the front of his stupidly well-tailored dinner jacket, and bodily slams the slender frame back against the wall with so much force that the lights flicker.
“Better than an arrogant bastard who can’t be arsed to even write,” Eames growls, hands flush against the wall on either side of Arthur’s head, boxing him in against the corner of the room, legs slightly spread for balance. He practically looms over the slighter man, head bent so low that their noses are nearly touching. And Eames doesn’t know if his expression is one of anger because he is justifiably so, angry, but even more than that, he remembers the raw scrape of hurt that grew with each passing day after Arthur’s relocation and not even so much as a single post to speak of, the bitter realization, and the sting of rejection.
And now, if only just for a moment, he’s letting Arthur see it as well.
Arthur stares up at him, brows drawing together slightly as if in contemplation of an especially difficult strategic maneuver, dark eyes flicking back and forth over Eames’ face. He parts his lips, wets the bottom one with his tongue, and Eames waits in anticipation of a scathing retort, muscles tensed in preparation for a physical blow.
What he is thoroughly and completely unprepared for is Arthur reaching up to hook one hand around the back of his neck, forcing his head downwards, and the heated clash of lips and tongues and teeth that follows.
Once upon a time, Eames allowed himself to entertain the notion of kissing Arthur, wondering for the briefest of moments whether Arthur is as unimaginative with his mouth as he is in his work: if he’s the Victorian-era gentlemanly type, all chaste pressing together of sealed lips, or if the minx that Eames suspects lurks somewhere under the surface would come out to play. Then, he resolutely took that errant thought, shoved it down the deepest, darkest pit in the back of his mind, and bolted the hatch.
Arthur kisses like a man starved, straightforward and determined and downright greedy but with near brutal efficiency, tongue pressing insistently against Eames’ lips before plundering into his mouth, selfishly stealing all the breath from Eames’ lungs and demanding more, more, more.
Never one to repay in kind any less than what he’s been given, one of Eames’ hands goes to Arthur’s cheek, the other falling to the small of his back, slipping underneath the jacket and skimming along the waistband of the finely-pressed trousers, the world around him blurring into nothingness as he maps out Arthur’s mouth with his tongue, retreating ever so slightly only to nip lightly at the other man’s bottom lip.
Arthur makes a small, pleased sound in the back of his throat and pulls away, coming up for air, eyes opening as his head falls back against the wall, pupils blown wide and staring. He looks at Eames like Eames is something incredible and awe-inspiring, like he can’t believe this is real, that he’s here, that Eames is here, or that he deserves this.
Eames thinks he has it the wrong way around.
“Holy mother of FUCK.”
There is no mistaking that voice and although all he really wants is to tell the unwelcome newcomer to kindly piss off, Eames heaves a sigh and is about to turn around when the fingers splayed against the back of his neck dig into the skin in warning, an unspoken don’t you fucking dare. At one point or another, one of Eames’ legs had found its way between both of Arthur’s, and now Arthur glares up at him, knees tightening just a fraction, swollen mouth opening to bark out his next words in the same tone he’d use to order a group of men to attention, nothing to suggest that he’s just spend the past five minutes getting thoroughly snogged in the loo. “Fuck off, Gordon.”
Eames can just imagine the sneer Gordon offers in response, but in the end, the door swings shut without any further comments from either side and he gives Arthur a grin. “Impressive, Captain.”
And wonders will never cease, Arthur blushes, a truly adorable flush that starts in his cheeks and then spreads to his ears and down his neck. “Get off,” he grumbles, the corner of his lips twitching, fighting a smile as he nudges past Eames, distractedly straightening himself out. “We should get back before people start to talk.”
“And would that be bothersome?” Eames inquires, trying to feign nonchalance. “After all, people do little else.” He gets only a pointed look in reply. In the ensuing silence, as he watches Arthur tug at his askew bow tie with a frown, he quietly asks, “Did you even think of writing?”
Arthur’s eyes dart back to meet his in the mirror and, surprisingly, they soften. “Of course I did,” he says, equally quiet. “But open communication is difficult to maintain when every piece of correspondence is intercepted and screened.” He turns to face Eames fully, and the expression that flits across his face then is curiously foreign, one that doesn’t suit him at all: hesitation. “I…kept tabs on you when I could.”
“Hence, the frighteningly obsessive interest in Kenneth.” Eames laughs and shakes his head, wondering just what in the world Arthur made of the week-long rebound, enough for him to have seen Kenneth as, heavens forbid, a threat. “Oh, darling,” he chuckles, fondly. “Oh, Arthur.”
- - - - -
Later that evening, some enterprising soul who thought he’d be smart and try to document some evidence of the clandestine get-together as proof for the existence of the shady military joint effort known only as The Program, snaps an image of one Captain Arthur Davidson of the Marines and Sergeant William Eames of the Special Forces standing together, looking quite amiable in each other’s company.
The camera will be confiscated and the gentleman reprimanded, but that singular image will remain after the destruction of the rest of the film, to be printed out as a simple four-by-six photograph that somehow finds its way into the possession of one of the men pictured.
- - - - -
A light touch at his elbow, and the faint smell of coffee - it’s Ariadne, no doubt, come to take her shift at this ungodly hour of the morning, bless her. They’re pulling double duty, the both of them, given that Cobb is off with Michelle and Natasha on another raid; while the inhabitants of Sherwood can surely forgo nonessentials (such as cigarettes, chewing gum, and yes, even toilet paper) for a certain amount of time, they can only go so long on a limited supply of foodstuffs, and Eames stoutly refuses to let the people under his care starve.
Eames? Ariadne ventures, after she’s set down the Styrofoam cup and shifted into his line of sight, eyes darting nervously from him, to Arthur, and back again. Eames, what’s wrong?
Nothing, he wants to tell her. Instead, he reaches out and starts to remove the ice packs so carefully arranged on and around Arthur’s body. And although it’s quiet, the noise in his head is incredible, a roaring of nonsense and cacophony and chaos, and nothing is a sodding lie because everything is wrong. “Ariadne, in the far corner of the storehouse, behind the pile of logs and crate of gardening tools, you’ll find what looks like a silver briefcase.” He reaches for an alcohol swab and swipes it neatly over the inside of his wrist. “Be a dear and fetch it for me, please?”
It’s four AM and Arthur is quite possibly dying, but the photograph Eames holds now is the only other possession Arthur had on his person besides his fucking totem when they found him half-dead in Gordon’s clutches and this fact is vitally important just this very minute because Arthur is neither a pack rat nor unnecessarily materialistic, and that means something, to Eames if no one else.
* - * - *
Part 8
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 4,586
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: Violence (graphic torture), strong language, sexual content, character death
Summary: In the aftermath of World War III and the Second Civil War of the United States, the members of the dream sharing industry have been turned into fugitives, driven underground and into hiding in order to escape assassination by Fischer Industries USA - except for one, the former leading point man in the business, who has turned traitor against the fugitives Dom Cobb, Public Enemy Number one; and the infamous Eames, leader of the Resistance.
Author's Note: Written for inception_bang . Endless thanks to my wonderful beta, niftywithan who worked tirelessly in looking over drafts, and to my dear celestineangel , without whose wonderful help (read: guidance, advice, cheerleading) this labor of love would not exist. You two are absolutely amazing!! ♥ ♥ ♥
May 17, 2028
Deaths weren’t an uncommon thing after WWIII, and once the Second Civil War rolled around, it just became a part of everyday life. Our neighborhood just got bombed and Aunt Lindsay’s died from radiation poisoning; no time to mourn ‘cause we’ve got to go, quickly now. Oh, we’ve got nothing to eat again tonight, and old Mr. Bob from down the street? The nice old man who used to tell stories of life before the wonders of the Internet and what he called “moving picture shows”? Yeah, he’s kicked the bucket from going too many days without food or insulin shots; just thought you’d like to know. Fischer Industries is rounding everyone up into camps and when the woman gone half-mad with grief won’t let go of her husband’s corpse, they watch dispassionately as she commits suicide right in front of them and leave the bodies to rot in the sun.
People died, day in and day out, and life went on because it had to, and it’s still that way now. The Earth isn’t going to cease spinning, the existence of Fischer Industries (and all that they do) isn’t going to stop being a goddamn crime against humanity, and life as we know it (as fucked up as it is) isn’t going to come to an end just because Arthur Davidson’s heart stops beating.
But sometimes, when I see the way Eames looks at him, I think it just might. It’s…it’s like Arthur is the only thing that exists anymore, like the world could be falling away under his feet and he wouldn’t even notice, like he wants nothing more than to-
It’s fucking heartbreaking.
He’s getting worse, too. Arthur, I mean. Natasha’s run out of saline solution and we’ve had to resort to trying to get him to drink water, and if his fever shoots any higher, his brain is going to fry.
Ariadne glances up as Arthur’s breath hitches and she leans forward, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as she carefully rearranges the ice pack pressed against his neck. Since two days ago, Arthur’s thrashed himself awake three more times, getting increasingly more delirious as infections from his wounds run rampant, sending his body temperature spiking to disturbing heights - a stubborn fever that refuses to recede. Ariadne hasn’t forgotten the way he called out Mal, Mal like a terrified child crying for his mother, or the way he clung to Eames with sheer desperation as the hallucinations began, shivering uncontrollably and mumbling strings of broken French against Eames’ shoulder, occasionally cut off by a cry as Natasha tried to change the dressings covering his wounds.
Eames, though - if Arthur looked bad throughout the grueling process, then Eames -
“Alright there, dove?”
Ariadne looks up at the warm hand on her shoulder and tries to give him a reassuring smile. I think he’s doing okay. It’s not a lie, not entirely; after all, there are varying definitions of “okay” out there. She very pointedly doesn’t mention that Arthur isn’t the only one who looks like death warmed over, taking in the stress lines around Eames’ eyes and mouth without comment. Have you or Cobb figured out what happened, or why… She falters and waves her hands around in a vague attempt to fill in the end of that sentence with what she isn’t sure how to say herself.
Eames’ hand on her shoulder tightens and he offers a half-chuckle, strained and far more pained than his normal jovial laughter. “Nothing noteworthy as of yet, I’m afraid.” For a moment, both of them stare down at Arthur’s still form, at the ice packs draped over his flushed skin, at the strands of dark hair sticking to his forehead, matted over with sweat. Then Eames’ fingers uncurl from around her clavicle and he speaks, his voice low. “I’ll take watch for now,” he says, and that’s her cue, whether she likes it or not.
She has one foot out the door before she chances for one last glance over her shoulder, just in time to see Eames reaching out, fingers hovering a centimeter from Arthur’s cheek before changing direction abruptly and going to readjust the ice pack against his neck. Something sharp lances its way through her chest and Ariadne quickly steps all the way outside, taking in a deep breath and closing her eyes, tilting her head back to allow the wind to tangle its fingers through her hair. In a moment of pure selfishness then - because she’s only human - she wonders if there’ll ever be a chance of someone looking at her in that same way, if she’ll ever be touched in a manner so gentle and filled with so much longing, to ever know what it feels like to be half of a whole.
After a moment, she opens her eyes and stares upwards into the sky, the knot in her chest tightening.
Out of everything from life before the Wars, she misses the stars the most.
- - - - -
Eames watches the slow rise and fall of Arthur’s chest, watches the ribs move under the layers of bandages and ugly bruises. Somewhere under all the gauze and medicinal tape, under all the bruises and burns, is the man he once fancied he knew, the man he held close for one night before the end of the world. Eames remembers pressing kisses against that long throat, over the larynx just to feel the vibrations in every word spoken, then right over the jugular just to count the beats, not even bothering to check his totem so long as he could feel the evidence of a heart thrumming strong and steady under his lips.
He’s checked his totem more times in the past two weeks than he has in the past five years.
It’s strange; although he’s spent hour after hour and day after day just sitting here, he still can’t bring himself to fully believe that this is the same man that he once called darling, that this is the same man he watched walk away from him more than once, that this is the same man he once thought he might’ve possibly -
Eames laces his fingers together and rests his chin on top, cutting off that train of thought rather forcefully and staring silently. This isn’t Arthur, it can’t be Arthur; he’s already forced himself to come to terms with the fact that the man he once knew as Arthur Davidson doesn’t exist anymore beyond a Fischer Industries uniform so this…this is someone else’s heart, pumping someone else’s blood; it must be, it has to be.
Arthur is quick-witted and sharp-tongued, all lithe limbs and lean muscles, a mean left hook and a flash of brilliance in the Nevada desert. Arthur is a small, private smile when no one else is looking and a loaded red die; he’s that warm feeling right in the middle of Eames’ chest and the taste of gin on his tongue, a small E inked on the pale skin stretching over a sharp hipbone, a sleepy smile in the grey light of dawn set against the backdrop of Cabo, silk sheets and Vivaldi, and he’s more than anyone deserves, least of all someone like Eames.
And he is gone.
Abruptly Eames gets to his feet, hands clasped behind his back, and turns away from this bruised, beaten, broken man who can’t possibly be his darling and instead heads to the meager pile of belongings Natasha took off her patient while treating his wounds. He’s been meaning to search through them for a while now, but due to reluctance, a willful lapse of memory, or a rather convenient combination of the two (although he’ll never say so aloud), he hasn’t suited actions to intentions until now.
The shirt, bloodied and torn, is really nothing special. The same goes for the boots - what’s left of them, anyway, after Eames managed to peel them from the weeping, blistered soles of Arthur’s feet - and he sets them aside with little ceremony.
As he moves to pick up the trousers, fingers grasping at the belt loops, a flash of red catches his eye. Eames stares at the small object for a moment, at the die nestled in the folds of fabric, balanced precariously on an edge, loaded but still withholding the truth of its weight.
That, he doesn’t touch. Wouldn’t ever dream (ha, bloody ha) of touching.
Carefully, he sets the trousers down again so that a fold of fabric drapes over the die, then turns his attention to the pockets. The left one yields nothing, but in the right, his fingers meet what feels like paper or card stock, and curiously, he pulls it out.
It’s a four-by-six photograph, slightly yellowed with age and crinkled from where it’d been haphazardly shoved into the pocket, the glossy surface smudged with fingerprints and stained by a splatter of dried blood.
Eames’ throat closes up and he sits down heavily, clutching the snapshot. Oh, Arthur.
- - - - -
13 August 2019
Washington, D.C.
8:30 PM
“Eames!”
He turns, lured away from the banquet table and the variety of platters of finger food - honestly, how many different ways can one decoratively arrange a plate of cheese and crackers? - by the familiar voice, an easy grin spreading across his features. “Sheldon,” he greets the other man easily, with a friendly thump on the back. “What’s it been, six months since I last clapped eyes on you?”
Sheldon laughs, a deep, booming sound that belies his short, wiry stature. “Must be,” he agrees. “All the boys knew you were headed somewhere. Where did they end up carting you off to? Special Forces?”
Eames raises an eyebrow in mock affront and lifts his flute of champagne at another familiar face passing by. “Now you know I never kiss and tell.” His eyes rove around the interior of the ballroom, at the ornate chandeliers bejeweled with crystals hanging from the ceilings, at the paintings on the walls depicting heroic battle scenes or uniformed men long dead and buried, at the truly tacky pattern swirling in the marble beneath his feet. “Anyone else from the old gang back for this last round?”
“Well, there’s Gordon, Harper, Matherlee...pretty small group; there’re only supposed to be ten of us, total.” Sheldon peers at him quizzically. “You don’t know yet, do you?”
“How’s that?”
“The Program invited the Marines back. Ten of ‘em here, too.” Sheldon gives a short chuckle, and then inclines his head toward the far corner of the room. “You really haven’t seen him yet?”
“Seen-” Eames’ voice falters and his next words die a premature death in his throat because he sees him now, and his free hand automatically slips into his pocket, reaching for the familiar ridges and grooves of his totem.
Arthur stands a little ways away in a sharp black tuxedo not unlike the one Eames wears (save for the fact that he’s gone with a tailored waistcoat in place of the restrictive cumberbund, a choice that suits him well), the fingers of one hand wrapped around the stem of a flute of champagne. His hair is longer since the last time Eames saw him, the dark strands slicked back and away from his face, features as stern and imposing as ever as he listens to some high-ranking General yammer on and on, jaw set in a smooth curve, dark eyes attentive.
He looks good.
Eames looks away quickly and throws his head back, downing the contents of his glass in one go, suddenly wishing for something much stronger than champagne. It’s truly a shame the powers that be decided not to have an open bar; a shot of whiskey sounds like just what the doctor ordered right about now. “And that’s lovely, thank you, Sheldon.”
Sheldon shrugs, wise enough to refrain from commenting. Instead, he takes Eames’ empty glass in exchange for his own full one, watching the other man throw that back as well. “I’ll...get you another one,” he offers, because he’s a smart man, and Eames makes a noncommittal noise in reply, eyes still fixed on Arthur. As the General finishes up with what is surely a truly inspired speech and holds his hand out for the obligatory handshake, Eames straightens out his dinner jacket, his facial muscles slipping into the insincere, practiced grin he only ever bestows upon bastards who are about to get what’s coming to them, and walks up behind Arthur.
“Well,” he drawls, obnoxiously elongating the monosyllabic word, “it’s certainly been a while, hasn’t it, darling?” The pet name isn’t a taunt, but close enough.
Arthur turns, and Eames savors the split-second look of surprise on the other man’s face (something he doubts he’ll ever be able to replicate again, pity) before Arthur blinks, as straight-laced and composed as ever. “Eames.” Extending his hand, he meets Eames’ stare coolly, a slight twitch of the muscle in his jaw being the only thing that gives away any indication of discomfort.
Eames resists the urge to glare at him and instead reaches out to shake the proffered hand (dry palm, fingertips calloused, grip firm), squeezing perhaps a bit too tightly. “I hear they’ve made you a Captain.”
Dark eyes narrow at him; Arthur’s grip tightens as well. “And I hear you’re about to be discharged. I expect you’ll be leaving after the expiration of your term of service?”
“So eager to be rid of me?” Eames purrs, refusing to let up, even as he starts to lose feeling in his hand. “Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”
Ah, and there it is, the minute flicker in Arthur’s eyes before they shutter closed, and Eames briefly entertains the notion that he might be the only one who can provoke any reaction in Captain Arthur bloody Davidson. He deserves a medal, or something of the sort.
“How’s Kenny?”
Eames doesn’t flinch; he doesn’t even so much as blink. “Pardon?”
“Stevenson, Kenneth Roger, twenty-one years old, known as ‘Kenny’ to family members, friends and lovers.” Arthur’s voice is sharpened steel, cutting off the end of each word crisply, and punctuating the last with particular emphasis. “Born the third of March in Our Blessed Lady of Grace Hospital to Ana Marie Stevenson nee Cooper and Bradford Kenneth Stevenson; right on schedule, labor was straightforward as a textbook.” He finally lets up the pressure on Eames’ hand, but continues to speak. “Attended Providence Day Primary School, quiet kid, played well with others, enrolled in Little League and held a position as shortstop for two years, but dropped out following an acute asthma exacerbation on the diamond two weeks to the day after his fifth birthday.”
“Throughout his short time at Etherton Junior High, he developed a crush on his Math teacher, a Miss Lucy Hendricks, and tried out for the basketball team, but unfortunately, didn’t quite make the cut. In his first year at H.M. Weller High School, his grades were passable; he tried out for the swim team and failed to make that as well, shame; joined ROTC instead and earned some commendations from his superiors, nothing spectacular, and-”
“Are you quite done?” Eames asks, pleasant as ever, but with a dangerous undercurrent in his tone, and Arthur arches an eyebrow, haughtily.
“Depends. Are you sure you don’t want me to go on, to explain how and why Kenny decided to get your name tattooed on his-”
“Are you trying to cow me with your brilliance?” Eames frees his hand with a snap of his wrist, and steps closer than social convention can account for, his tone low, dripping sarcasm. “Dazzle me with your mastery of research?”
“You tell me, Mr. Eames.” Arthur smells a bit like clean laundry and lavender and his eyes look different up close; Eames imagines he can see through them, right to the brilliant mind that lies behind, imagines he can see exactly what is going on inside his head.
“No.” It seems he surprises both of them with the refusal; as he steps back, Arthur blinks rapidly, twice in a row. “Figure it out yourself, Captain.” And it’s clear Eames isn’t just talking about their rather tense conversation or poor Kenneth Stevenson’s life story or anything else so obvious, and after a moment, Arthur lifts his chin in a wordless show of defiance, turns smoothly on his heel, and walks away.
They say once is an accident and twice is coincidence, but Eames doubts there is anything coincidental about the smooth lines of the dinner jacket stretched over Arthur’s back as the other man walks away from him for the second time.
- - - - -
After the preliminary speeches welcoming everyone to The Program’s last war game, announcements concerning scheduling, even more pomp and circumstance that only served to be a waste of everyone’s precious time, and about an hour and a half of not trying to look anywhere near the vicinity of the officers seated near the front of the room, Eames finds himself standing in the ridiculously over-furnished loo, glaring at his reflection in the gilded-framed mirror.
Coming here was a mistake. Largest dreamscape ever attempted, the invitation declared, most complex and challenging to date. How could he resist?
Of course what the invitation had failed to mention was the damning presence of one Captain Arthur Davidson.
Bending over the sink, Eames tries not to think about six months of poorly disguised flirting (the behavior was never rebuffed by either party, not really) and sideways glances as he splashes warm water on his face, tries not to think of the nights he spent tracing the outline of Arthur’s features in the dark from two bunks away, of the man’s strategic brilliance that carried their team through The Program’s grueling deviation on basic training.
The door opens and closes as he blindly swipes for one of the terrycloth towels on the brass rings connected to the wall. Someone walks over to the adjacent sink, turns on the faucet, and lets the water run down the drain for a moment before Eames senses movement over his head and the new arrival promptly drops a towel unceremoniously across the back of his neck.
Eames smells clean laundry and lavender, no cologne that he knows of, but a scent too distinctive to forget.
Grabbing the edge of the towel, his back snaps straight and he opens his eyes, face still dripping wet, and stares at the reflection of the newcomer, at the calm face of the man who insists on insinuating himself into every available corner of Eames’ mind. “Much obliged.”
Arthur crosses his arms and just stands there, watching Eames watch him in the mirror. After toweling his face dry, Eames starts to dry his hands, and nods at the running faucet. “Bad for the environment, or so I’ve heard.”
“He was and still is beneath you: in social standing, in intelligence, in rank, in almost everything,” Arthur comments blandly, as if remarking upon the weather, but there’s a crease in his brow indicative of annoyance or disapproval, a challenge in the slight narrowing of his eyes. “So why him?”
Were this anyone else, Eames would laugh at the poorly concealed jealousy in the near-petulant tone, but at the obvious condescension that comes along with it, something in him snaps, like the splintering of a tree branch. The towel falls to the floor as he reaches out and grabs Arthur by the front of his stupidly well-tailored dinner jacket, and bodily slams the slender frame back against the wall with so much force that the lights flicker.
“Better than an arrogant bastard who can’t be arsed to even write,” Eames growls, hands flush against the wall on either side of Arthur’s head, boxing him in against the corner of the room, legs slightly spread for balance. He practically looms over the slighter man, head bent so low that their noses are nearly touching. And Eames doesn’t know if his expression is one of anger because he is justifiably so, angry, but even more than that, he remembers the raw scrape of hurt that grew with each passing day after Arthur’s relocation and not even so much as a single post to speak of, the bitter realization, and the sting of rejection.
And now, if only just for a moment, he’s letting Arthur see it as well.
Arthur stares up at him, brows drawing together slightly as if in contemplation of an especially difficult strategic maneuver, dark eyes flicking back and forth over Eames’ face. He parts his lips, wets the bottom one with his tongue, and Eames waits in anticipation of a scathing retort, muscles tensed in preparation for a physical blow.
What he is thoroughly and completely unprepared for is Arthur reaching up to hook one hand around the back of his neck, forcing his head downwards, and the heated clash of lips and tongues and teeth that follows.
Once upon a time, Eames allowed himself to entertain the notion of kissing Arthur, wondering for the briefest of moments whether Arthur is as unimaginative with his mouth as he is in his work: if he’s the Victorian-era gentlemanly type, all chaste pressing together of sealed lips, or if the minx that Eames suspects lurks somewhere under the surface would come out to play. Then, he resolutely took that errant thought, shoved it down the deepest, darkest pit in the back of his mind, and bolted the hatch.
Arthur kisses like a man starved, straightforward and determined and downright greedy but with near brutal efficiency, tongue pressing insistently against Eames’ lips before plundering into his mouth, selfishly stealing all the breath from Eames’ lungs and demanding more, more, more.
Never one to repay in kind any less than what he’s been given, one of Eames’ hands goes to Arthur’s cheek, the other falling to the small of his back, slipping underneath the jacket and skimming along the waistband of the finely-pressed trousers, the world around him blurring into nothingness as he maps out Arthur’s mouth with his tongue, retreating ever so slightly only to nip lightly at the other man’s bottom lip.
Arthur makes a small, pleased sound in the back of his throat and pulls away, coming up for air, eyes opening as his head falls back against the wall, pupils blown wide and staring. He looks at Eames like Eames is something incredible and awe-inspiring, like he can’t believe this is real, that he’s here, that Eames is here, or that he deserves this.
Eames thinks he has it the wrong way around.
“Holy mother of FUCK.”
There is no mistaking that voice and although all he really wants is to tell the unwelcome newcomer to kindly piss off, Eames heaves a sigh and is about to turn around when the fingers splayed against the back of his neck dig into the skin in warning, an unspoken don’t you fucking dare. At one point or another, one of Eames’ legs had found its way between both of Arthur’s, and now Arthur glares up at him, knees tightening just a fraction, swollen mouth opening to bark out his next words in the same tone he’d use to order a group of men to attention, nothing to suggest that he’s just spend the past five minutes getting thoroughly snogged in the loo. “Fuck off, Gordon.”
Eames can just imagine the sneer Gordon offers in response, but in the end, the door swings shut without any further comments from either side and he gives Arthur a grin. “Impressive, Captain.”
And wonders will never cease, Arthur blushes, a truly adorable flush that starts in his cheeks and then spreads to his ears and down his neck. “Get off,” he grumbles, the corner of his lips twitching, fighting a smile as he nudges past Eames, distractedly straightening himself out. “We should get back before people start to talk.”
“And would that be bothersome?” Eames inquires, trying to feign nonchalance. “After all, people do little else.” He gets only a pointed look in reply. In the ensuing silence, as he watches Arthur tug at his askew bow tie with a frown, he quietly asks, “Did you even think of writing?”
Arthur’s eyes dart back to meet his in the mirror and, surprisingly, they soften. “Of course I did,” he says, equally quiet. “But open communication is difficult to maintain when every piece of correspondence is intercepted and screened.” He turns to face Eames fully, and the expression that flits across his face then is curiously foreign, one that doesn’t suit him at all: hesitation. “I…kept tabs on you when I could.”
“Hence, the frighteningly obsessive interest in Kenneth.” Eames laughs and shakes his head, wondering just what in the world Arthur made of the week-long rebound, enough for him to have seen Kenneth as, heavens forbid, a threat. “Oh, darling,” he chuckles, fondly. “Oh, Arthur.”
- - - - -
Later that evening, some enterprising soul who thought he’d be smart and try to document some evidence of the clandestine get-together as proof for the existence of the shady military joint effort known only as The Program, snaps an image of one Captain Arthur Davidson of the Marines and Sergeant William Eames of the Special Forces standing together, looking quite amiable in each other’s company.
The camera will be confiscated and the gentleman reprimanded, but that singular image will remain after the destruction of the rest of the film, to be printed out as a simple four-by-six photograph that somehow finds its way into the possession of one of the men pictured.
- - - - -
A light touch at his elbow, and the faint smell of coffee - it’s Ariadne, no doubt, come to take her shift at this ungodly hour of the morning, bless her. They’re pulling double duty, the both of them, given that Cobb is off with Michelle and Natasha on another raid; while the inhabitants of Sherwood can surely forgo nonessentials (such as cigarettes, chewing gum, and yes, even toilet paper) for a certain amount of time, they can only go so long on a limited supply of foodstuffs, and Eames stoutly refuses to let the people under his care starve.
Eames? Ariadne ventures, after she’s set down the Styrofoam cup and shifted into his line of sight, eyes darting nervously from him, to Arthur, and back again. Eames, what’s wrong?
Nothing, he wants to tell her. Instead, he reaches out and starts to remove the ice packs so carefully arranged on and around Arthur’s body. And although it’s quiet, the noise in his head is incredible, a roaring of nonsense and cacophony and chaos, and nothing is a sodding lie because everything is wrong. “Ariadne, in the far corner of the storehouse, behind the pile of logs and crate of gardening tools, you’ll find what looks like a silver briefcase.” He reaches for an alcohol swab and swipes it neatly over the inside of his wrist. “Be a dear and fetch it for me, please?”
It’s four AM and Arthur is quite possibly dying, but the photograph Eames holds now is the only other possession Arthur had on his person besides his fucking totem when they found him half-dead in Gordon’s clutches and this fact is vitally important just this very minute because Arthur is neither a pack rat nor unnecessarily materialistic, and that means something, to Eames if no one else.
* - * - *
Part 8