[It takes him three cigarettes and an answering message on his godfather's machine before Eames starts to feel the panic clawing its way up his throat. His hands shake as he holds the cigarette to his lips, tries to think about what he should do, what he could do. He's leaning against the cold brick of their building, half inside the alleyway, watching the people mill about and all he can think about is how very young and adrift he feels all of a sudden.
But one thing is clear. Before now Eames might have run, he might have just upped and left and got bladdered in the first bar he found. But all he can think about is how he needs Arthur, how Arthur could stop him feeling like he's suffocating, because even before they were involved, the other man knew how to take care of things, and he could take care of Eames now.
His hands are numb when he flicks the cigarette away, shoves them back into his pockets and hunches his shoulders against the cold. He's slower going back then he was escaping, but when he does let himself into the flat again he's able to curl his fingers into his puppy's fur and breathe out, leaning against the doorjamb.]
Arthur. [He winces at how small his voice suddenly sounds, gruff underneath in a way he can't quite get at, but he looks up, isn't sure what to say or how to ask. So when he speaks, it's blurted out all in a shellshocked rush.] Arthur, my dad's dead.
[Relief begins to flood through Arthur's entire being when the door moves, a warm mug of tea sitting on the kitchen counter beside the coffee he's been anxiously sipping at, burning the inside of his mouth with the eager gulps.
But as soon as he catches sight of Eames' slouched form and the way all of the colour seems to have seeped out of him, he tenses up again, stands straighter as if bracing himself for something bad to come.
So when it does, when the words register in his mind and echo in his ears around the deafening silence the flat seems to have fallen into, he doesn't flinch, doesn't focus on the swell of emotions in his chest because this is Eames and he needs him, needs him to be strong, and right now, right now that's all that matters.
Ignoring the way his stomach seems to flip upside down and twist in a way that threatens to bring nausea with it, and the way his heart sinks painfully, Arthur steps forward, closing what distance there is between the kitchen and front door, and folds Eames up in his arms, pulls him in closer.] Oh, Eames, I'm so sorry. [He hates himself for saying it because it's what everyone says whenever anyone dies - I'm sorry - and he knows it doesn't help, won't bring his dad back from the grave.
He holds tighter, Sherlock whining low and lingering in one long stretch as if in mourning, like he can sense the grief, and rests his small, furry head against Eames' leg, and he rubs a hand up and down against his back, soothingly, aiming to comfort because he isn't exactly sure what else he should do. He tries to remain calm, for Eames' sake, even though his heart is breaking to know how much he must be hurting, because whether they were close or not, it's still his dad.] It's all right, Eames, it's okay. I'm here, you've got me, we'll get through this.
[He ends up with his fingers twisted in Arthur's shirt like he's too scared to let go in case the other man disappears forever. He tries to shake his head, protest because he had hated him, and he doesn't need the sympathy, doesn't deserve Arthur's care. But all he can do is make a low, almost wounded noise in the back of his throat, bury his face into the slope of Arthur's neck and breathe.]
I didn't even - [There's a tremble in his voice, something that matches the way his hands shake, body shuddering and he's not sure what this feeling is and if he should despise himself for it, because it's too close to relief, too much like being set free only to find you're drowning in it.] Can I just - I didn't -. [Sucking in a breath.] Sorry, sorry. I don't need you to be nice, I don't deserve-. He's gone, he's gone, and I'm not sad. I'm not. I just don't know what I'm doing, Arthur. Don't go anywhere, just stay.
Oh, Eames. I'm not going anywhere, I promise. There's no where else I want to be, no where to go without you there with me. [The words trip over themselves as he rushes to get them out, desperate to reassure Eames that he really doesn't intend to go anywhere.
He pulls back and reaches up to place a hand at either side of the other man's face, to make him look at him, to see that he means it, that he's there.] You're in shock, Eames. You have nothing to apologise for, do you hear me? [It physically hurts to look at Eames, to see him in this state, the crooked smile he loves so much to find there no where in sight and instead confusion and something he thinks might be fear.
He nudges the puppy aside, walks them over to the sofa where he helps to lower Eames down, to make him sit before he drops, but he stays close, never moving away, and once he's settled down beside him, he pulls the other man close to his side, arms still around him.] If you need to go to the funeral, I'll make the arrangements. You don't need to worry about anything, I'll take care of everything.
[He practically wraps himself around Arthur, curling into the spaces beside him like he needs him as a security blanket, breathing coming out in little puffs against his neck. Sherlock trots round to the sofa, sits down in front of them, head tilted to the side in confusion because this is not how they've ever acted and the puppy doesn't understand.
Eames has one hand planet against Arthur's stomach, soaking up the warmth as his inhale hitches, sounds sharp even to him, like he's one step away from falling to bits and he can't quite stop it.] It's been - it's been ten years. I haven't been back. I was too scared and now. Fuck. Oh fuck.
[He can feel his eyes start to prickle then, and he tries to pull away, fight against the warm safety of Arthur's arms because he's frightened and doesn't want Arthur to be disappointed in him.] I should just go for a walk or something. [Frantically rubbing the heel of his palm into his eye.] Get out of your hair.
[Because he doesn't want to let go, and because he doesn't think he could even if he tried, too scared that if he doesn't hold on then Eames might fall to pieces right there in front of him, he stretches out a leg, strokes Sherlock with the side of his foot to ease the anxious way he's looking between them.
Stubbornly, Arthur doesn't release the hold, refuses to let Eames wriggle away.] You're not going anywhere, not while you're in this state. I'll tie you down if I have to, but I'm not letting you leave this flat until I know you're all right.
[He does loosen the grip, then, though, sensing how close to tears he is, because he doesn't want to embarrass him, to smother him when he already has such a heavy weight piling up to bury him.] Tell me why you were scared, Eames. Explain to me why you didn't want to go back. [He knows he isn't dealing with the situation well, but he's trying, and if he can get Eames talking then at least it's a distraction, a way to try and bring him back to himself. Arthur takes his hand, entwines their fingers to ground him, to encourage him to focus.] Or you can sit here and I'll stay with you, anything you want, but you're not leaving.
[Eames ends up with his face buried in his hands, ahoulders shaking as he presses against his eyes, tries to stop himself from tumbling over the edge.] Can we -. [A beat. Trying to breathe evenly and failing.] Could we just go and lie down, please? I'm being stupid, I'm being a twat, but I need to just -. It's ours and I need to breathe and I can't. Can we just -. Sherlock, can come. And we'll be okay, but out here I can't.
Of course we can, anything you need. [He tries to smile, to offer as much as he can, but even he doesn't think he pulls it off. He pushes away from the sofa, still holding onto Eames' hand, and leads the way to the bedroom, patting the side of his leg to let Sherlock know he's allowed to follow them.]
Here, sit down. [He pushes the stronger man down onto the edge of the bed the same way he did with the sofa, crouches down in front of him to pull off his shoes, and when he looks it takes a while to remember how to form words, worried at how pale he still is, how it reminds him of that day he turned up on his doorstep where all of this began, and he hates it, hates that he can't do anything.] Can you get yourself wrapped up and into bed while I get you some water? [He lays the back of his hand gently across the other man's forehead, shock something he remembers dealing with back in his military days, knows that warmth and liquids tend to help.]
[Eames nods mutely, doesn't even try to put up a fight or argue with Arthur, just nods his agreement and shifts to curl up underneath the sheets, body angled in towards Arthur's side of the bed already. When he's gone, Sherlock jumps up on the bed and snuffles along the length of Eames' body beneath the quilt before nosing at his neck and Eames lets himself relax, curls the puppy underneath his arm where he flops, watching him.]
Sorry, Pup. [His voice is a whisper as he presses his cheek into soft fur.] I'm sorry.
[Arthur returns with a glass of water in hand shortly after, catching the words, but he doesn't comment because he doesn't trust himself to. Instead he puts the glass down on the beside cabinet, climbs into bed next to Eames and Sherlock, and pulls at the covers, brings them up to tuck around all of them as he snuggles up close.
He maintains the silence for a while to give his boyfriend time to calm down without having to think, watching Eames closely as he drapes one arm around his family and raises the other above their heads to stroke soothing fingers through his hair.]
Is this better? [He doubts that it is, that anything can really help until it sinks in, but it's what he asked for so he doesn't intend to try anything else.] If there's anything else you need, you let me know, okay?
[Sherlock shifts, butts his head against Arthur's side then, because he's learnt to be affectionate to both of his parents, and Eames watches him. He keeps his breathing even, closing his eyes every time he feels like breaking down.]
I didn't like him, Arthur. So I should be okay, I should be happy, shouldn't I?
[Absently trying to comfort everyone in order to comfort himself as well, he shifts his limp hand to run his fingers through the thick fur on Sherlock's head in the same fashion he's doing to Eames.
He doesn't answer straight away, tries to imagine what he might feel if the situation were reversed and it was his father who was dead, a man he's always despised - he's ashamed to admit that he might not even bat an eyelid, that his only concern would be for his sister who didn't quite know him the way he did, and he knows more than he's ever known that Eames is a much better man than he could ever be, so much more human despite what he might have everyone believe.]
He was still your father, Eames, no matter what happened. Nothing can change that. You're allowed to be sad, to grieve. [He can't help noticing the way Eames closes his eyes, as if he's forcing himself to remain in one piece, but it's obvious he's struggling.] God, Eames, if you need to - if this is - you don't need to do this, to pretend it's okay, not for me, not for anyone. You might not have been close, but he was all you had left.
He broke my arm once, when I was fifteen, because I'd been caught kissing a boy I knew. [Eames' voice is almost hollow as he twists, presses his cheek into Sherlock's furr, and the dog rests his head on Arthur's chest, looking up at him.] I'm not sure he meant to - he never did like throwing his punches where people could see.
I hated him, because he didn't care, and he made my mum sick and she died. And I hated her a bit then, because she left me with him. [His voice cracks and he moves so that Arthur can't see his face.] Everything he touched just got broken. I still feel broken.
[With one swift motion he wipes away a tear from his own cheek that manages to slip passed him and he hates himself in that moment for not being stronger for Eames. But not as much as he hates Eames' dad, secretly glad that he's dead.]
I didn't know. I didn't - I didn't know. [He doesn't know what to do for the best, if he should hold on tighter or let him have some space, but he understands now why Eames feels guilty, that he's probably relieved that he doesn't have to worry about him ever touching him again even if he has put so much distance between them all these years.] But it's okay now, Eames, he can't hurt you anymore. No one will ever hurt you again, not while I'm here. And your mum, she would be here with you if she could, I know she would, she wouldn't have left you if she had a choice.
[He's muttering soft, rambled words of comfort, trying to reassure him that he's safe, and he does scoop him up into his arms then, the puppy tangled between them, and he holds on so Eames doesn't have to, so that he can fall there for a while if it's what he needs because he's not going to let go, shushing him and rocking them ever-so-slightly.] I'll hold the pieces together if I have to, until they fit back together again, because, god, Eames, I don't care if you're broken, I love you just the way you are. Whatever he said to you, whatever he did, don't believe it, it's not true. It's not. You don't have to run anymore.
[Eames curls his fingers in Arthur's clothing with Sherlock wriggling in under his arm. He's still shaking, and it's probably from shock, or whatever he's been carrying around for the past twenty or so years, but he can't stop and he hates it, because Eames' control over himself has always been something he needs. His face is wet, but he doesn't try to pull away, just pushes his face into Arthur's shoulder to hide from it all.] Nobody ever believed me. Why would they? He was an important man and I was just his deliquent, stupid son. They thought I'd made it all up, or they just didn't care. And he - I wasn't what he wanted, I wasn't very good at the things he and his father had been good at. So he would try to force those traits on me, and I hated it.
I was happy, you know. In London, in that stupid block of flats, I loved it. I didn't care that I had no money or that my friends were all drug dealers and prostitutes because they were good people. And then he found me, and he made me sign up, Arthur. I never wanted to be in the army, but it was either that or prison. He said - he said it would be better to have a dead hero than an alive failure, and what was I suppose to do? Everything bad in my life happens because I could never stand up for myself, and everything about me now is just frayed and walled up and how could anyone want to be near me? [Small voice.] How could you want to be here?
[When Arthur feels the dampened patch of his shirt grow all he wants to do is reach out and wipe all of Eames' tears away, but he doesn't, decides that it's better to let them keep coming while they have the chance, hoping that maybe it'll help to calm him once they pass. He doubts Eames allows himself this luxury often, if that's what it can be called, so he just holds on, doesn't move in case he accidentally lets go, and listens, fingers never stopping at their work.
It takes him a moment to let the anger pass, or at least to set it aside to deal with later, because the idea of Eames growing up somewhere and never feeling safe, always in danger of being hurt by someone who should be there to protect him - it makes him feel sick, makes his heart ache because he can't change what's already happened.]
Don't say that. God, Eames, don't even think it. [He pushes himself up enough so that he can take hold of Eames' face with gentle, caring hands, and now he does wipe some of the tears away, the pads of his thumbs brushing them aside, and he looks right at him, tries to make him look back.] I mean it, do you understand me? Eames, there's no one like you out there, believe me, I've looked. You have something no one else does, and it doesn't make people want to run in the opposite direction, it draws them in, intrigues people in a way nothing or no one else ever could.
[He shakes his head a little, and when he speaks again his voice comes out softer and broken-sounding, like it actually does hurt him to see this, to hear Eames put himself down like he's nothing.] Of course I want to be here. I don't care where it is, where you go, but I always want to be there, with you. Where else would I be? [The question makes him look as lost as he knows he would be now without him.] Since the day we met, this is all I've wanted - you are all I've wanted. Because underneath that front, that stupid mask you wear, I knew - I knew - there was so much more there. You're the bravest person I know, you care so much sometimes that it looks as if it might break you, and, fuck, why wouldn't I want to be here? If anything, I don't deserve you. You should have so much better than this, Eames, better than me, but I can't let you go, I can't, and I don't care how selfish that makes me because I know you'd go, if you wanted to. [He stops himself before he can't, presses his lips to Eames' forehead in a soft, lingering kiss, and then he just watches him, gazes at him like someone who doesn't know what they're doing but knows they have to try.] I always wondered what made you, why you were how you were, thought for hours, and now, now I wish... I wish I could make it better for you, I wish I could make it all go away.
But one thing is clear. Before now Eames might have run, he might have just upped and left and got bladdered in the first bar he found. But all he can think about is how he needs Arthur, how Arthur could stop him feeling like he's suffocating, because even before they were involved, the other man knew how to take care of things, and he could take care of Eames now.
His hands are numb when he flicks the cigarette away, shoves them back into his pockets and hunches his shoulders against the cold. He's slower going back then he was escaping, but when he does let himself into the flat again he's able to curl his fingers into his puppy's fur and breathe out, leaning against the doorjamb.]
Arthur. [He winces at how small his voice suddenly sounds, gruff underneath in a way he can't quite get at, but he looks up, isn't sure what to say or how to ask. So when he speaks, it's blurted out all in a shellshocked rush.] Arthur, my dad's dead.
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But as soon as he catches sight of Eames' slouched form and the way all of the colour seems to have seeped out of him, he tenses up again, stands straighter as if bracing himself for something bad to come.
So when it does, when the words register in his mind and echo in his ears around the deafening silence the flat seems to have fallen into, he doesn't flinch, doesn't focus on the swell of emotions in his chest because this is Eames and he needs him, needs him to be strong, and right now, right now that's all that matters.
Ignoring the way his stomach seems to flip upside down and twist in a way that threatens to bring nausea with it, and the way his heart sinks painfully, Arthur steps forward, closing what distance there is between the kitchen and front door, and folds Eames up in his arms, pulls him in closer.] Oh, Eames, I'm so sorry. [He hates himself for saying it because it's what everyone says whenever anyone dies - I'm sorry - and he knows it doesn't help, won't bring his dad back from the grave.
He holds tighter, Sherlock whining low and lingering in one long stretch as if in mourning, like he can sense the grief, and rests his small, furry head against Eames' leg, and he rubs a hand up and down against his back, soothingly, aiming to comfort because he isn't exactly sure what else he should do. He tries to remain calm, for Eames' sake, even though his heart is breaking to know how much he must be hurting, because whether they were close or not, it's still his dad.] It's all right, Eames, it's okay. I'm here, you've got me, we'll get through this.
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I didn't even - [There's a tremble in his voice, something that matches the way his hands shake, body shuddering and he's not sure what this feeling is and if he should despise himself for it, because it's too close to relief, too much like being set free only to find you're drowning in it.] Can I just - I didn't -. [Sucking in a breath.] Sorry, sorry. I don't need you to be nice, I don't deserve-. He's gone, he's gone, and I'm not sad. I'm not. I just don't know what I'm doing, Arthur. Don't go anywhere, just stay.
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He pulls back and reaches up to place a hand at either side of the other man's face, to make him look at him, to see that he means it, that he's there.] You're in shock, Eames. You have nothing to apologise for, do you hear me? [It physically hurts to look at Eames, to see him in this state, the crooked smile he loves so much to find there no where in sight and instead confusion and something he thinks might be fear.
He nudges the puppy aside, walks them over to the sofa where he helps to lower Eames down, to make him sit before he drops, but he stays close, never moving away, and once he's settled down beside him, he pulls the other man close to his side, arms still around him.] If you need to go to the funeral, I'll make the arrangements. You don't need to worry about anything, I'll take care of everything.
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Eames has one hand planet against Arthur's stomach, soaking up the warmth as his inhale hitches, sounds sharp even to him, like he's one step away from falling to bits and he can't quite stop it.] It's been - it's been ten years. I haven't been back. I was too scared and now. Fuck. Oh fuck.
[He can feel his eyes start to prickle then, and he tries to pull away, fight against the warm safety of Arthur's arms because he's frightened and doesn't want Arthur to be disappointed in him.] I should just go for a walk or something. [Frantically rubbing the heel of his palm into his eye.] Get out of your hair.
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Stubbornly, Arthur doesn't release the hold, refuses to let Eames wriggle away.] You're not going anywhere, not while you're in this state. I'll tie you down if I have to, but I'm not letting you leave this flat until I know you're all right.
[He does loosen the grip, then, though, sensing how close to tears he is, because he doesn't want to embarrass him, to smother him when he already has such a heavy weight piling up to bury him.] Tell me why you were scared, Eames. Explain to me why you didn't want to go back. [He knows he isn't dealing with the situation well, but he's trying, and if he can get Eames talking then at least it's a distraction, a way to try and bring him back to himself. Arthur takes his hand, entwines their fingers to ground him, to encourage him to focus.] Or you can sit here and I'll stay with you, anything you want, but you're not leaving.
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Here, sit down. [He pushes the stronger man down onto the edge of the bed the same way he did with the sofa, crouches down in front of him to pull off his shoes, and when he looks it takes a while to remember how to form words, worried at how pale he still is, how it reminds him of that day he turned up on his doorstep where all of this began, and he hates it, hates that he can't do anything.] Can you get yourself wrapped up and into bed while I get you some water? [He lays the back of his hand gently across the other man's forehead, shock something he remembers dealing with back in his military days, knows that warmth and liquids tend to help.]
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Sorry, Pup. [His voice is a whisper as he presses his cheek into soft fur.] I'm sorry.
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He maintains the silence for a while to give his boyfriend time to calm down without having to think, watching Eames closely as he drapes one arm around his family and raises the other above their heads to stroke soothing fingers through his hair.]
Is this better? [He doubts that it is, that anything can really help until it sinks in, but it's what he asked for so he doesn't intend to try anything else.] If there's anything else you need, you let me know, okay?
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I didn't like him, Arthur. So I should be okay, I should be happy, shouldn't I?
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He doesn't answer straight away, tries to imagine what he might feel if the situation were reversed and it was his father who was dead, a man he's always despised - he's ashamed to admit that he might not even bat an eyelid, that his only concern would be for his sister who didn't quite know him the way he did, and he knows more than he's ever known that Eames is a much better man than he could ever be, so much more human despite what he might have everyone believe.]
He was still your father, Eames, no matter what happened. Nothing can change that. You're allowed to be sad, to grieve. [He can't help noticing the way Eames closes his eyes, as if he's forcing himself to remain in one piece, but it's obvious he's struggling.] God, Eames, if you need to - if this is - you don't need to do this, to pretend it's okay, not for me, not for anyone. You might not have been close, but he was all you had left.
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I hated him, because he didn't care, and he made my mum sick and she died. And I hated her a bit then, because she left me with him. [His voice cracks and he moves so that Arthur can't see his face.] Everything he touched just got broken. I still feel broken.
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I didn't know. I didn't - I didn't know. [He doesn't know what to do for the best, if he should hold on tighter or let him have some space, but he understands now why Eames feels guilty, that he's probably relieved that he doesn't have to worry about him ever touching him again even if he has put so much distance between them all these years.] But it's okay now, Eames, he can't hurt you anymore. No one will ever hurt you again, not while I'm here. And your mum, she would be here with you if she could, I know she would, she wouldn't have left you if she had a choice.
[He's muttering soft, rambled words of comfort, trying to reassure him that he's safe, and he does scoop him up into his arms then, the puppy tangled between them, and he holds on so Eames doesn't have to, so that he can fall there for a while if it's what he needs because he's not going to let go, shushing him and rocking them ever-so-slightly.] I'll hold the pieces together if I have to, until they fit back together again, because, god, Eames, I don't care if you're broken, I love you just the way you are. Whatever he said to you, whatever he did, don't believe it, it's not true. It's not. You don't have to run anymore.
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I was happy, you know. In London, in that stupid block of flats, I loved it. I didn't care that I had no money or that my friends were all drug dealers and prostitutes because they were good people. And then he found me, and he made me sign up, Arthur. I never wanted to be in the army, but it was either that or prison. He said - he said it would be better to have a dead hero than an alive failure, and what was I suppose to do? Everything bad in my life happens because I could never stand up for myself, and everything about me now is just frayed and walled up and how could anyone want to be near me? [Small voice.] How could you want to be here?
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It takes him a moment to let the anger pass, or at least to set it aside to deal with later, because the idea of Eames growing up somewhere and never feeling safe, always in danger of being hurt by someone who should be there to protect him - it makes him feel sick, makes his heart ache because he can't change what's already happened.]
Don't say that. God, Eames, don't even think it. [He pushes himself up enough so that he can take hold of Eames' face with gentle, caring hands, and now he does wipe some of the tears away, the pads of his thumbs brushing them aside, and he looks right at him, tries to make him look back.] I mean it, do you understand me? Eames, there's no one like you out there, believe me, I've looked. You have something no one else does, and it doesn't make people want to run in the opposite direction, it draws them in, intrigues people in a way nothing or no one else ever could.
[He shakes his head a little, and when he speaks again his voice comes out softer and broken-sounding, like it actually does hurt him to see this, to hear Eames put himself down like he's nothing.] Of course I want to be here. I don't care where it is, where you go, but I always want to be there, with you. Where else would I be? [The question makes him look as lost as he knows he would be now without him.] Since the day we met, this is all I've wanted - you are all I've wanted. Because underneath that front, that stupid mask you wear, I knew - I knew - there was so much more there. You're the bravest person I know, you care so much sometimes that it looks as if it might break you, and, fuck, why wouldn't I want to be here? If anything, I don't deserve you. You should have so much better than this, Eames, better than me, but I can't let you go, I can't, and I don't care how selfish that makes me because I know you'd go, if you wanted to. [He stops himself before he can't, presses his lips to Eames' forehead in a soft, lingering kiss, and then he just watches him, gazes at him like someone who doesn't know what they're doing but knows they have to try.] I always wondered what made you, why you were how you were, thought for hours, and now, now I wish... I wish I could make it better for you, I wish I could make it all go away.
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