Fic: domine miserere nobis
Title: domine miserere nobis (lord have mercy on us)
Characters: Arthur, Eames
Prompt: This one at inception_kink , basically a mercy killing. I didn't get bonus points, though. :/
Word Count: 642
Warnings: Blood, swearing, concepts of mercy killing
A/N: The Latin is, according to my Latin-knowing friend, correct. I do not know Latin, nor do I know if she is bullshitting me. If it's wrong, please let me know?
“I need you to shoot me now.” Arthur’s voice is steady, calmer than it has any right to be.
Eames, in that one tiny little place in his head that’s not screaming “holy fuck,” admires that.
He certainly knows that if he was the one on the floor, half-crushed, bleeding everywhere (so much fucking blood, he can’t stand it) he wouldn’t be calm or steady, even if this is a dream. No, he’d be screaming, swearing, thrashing around on the ground.
But Arthur is calm, is cool and composed, his face its usual mask, though he’s so white he’s almost gray.
“Eames,” Arthur says, firmly, steadily. “I need you to shoot me.”
Eames thinks he’d like to run away, right about now.
He can’t, though, because it’s Arthur lying there, on the ground, blood leaking, face pale, voice calm as he asks for mercy. (domine miserere nobis, hac hora necessitatis obscurissimae, old phrases from school, ages, eons ago, flit through Eames' mind.)
“You’ll go into limbo.” Eames says, fighting himself, trying not to back up or get any closer.
“Yes.” Arthur’s hands are shaking, trying desperately to hold his guts in, to keep them under his broken skin. Something that might be a whimper leaves his mouth.
Eames shakes.
He’s killed in dreams before, of course-Cobb, Arthur, Mal, even himself, once or twice. Mercy killings, in his line of work, are nothing, happen with annoying frequency.
But this, this is different because limbo looms and threatens and more than anything else, Eames is afraid of limbo.
(Limbo is nothing, is empty, is only his mind, alone, and he needs people, needs them more than he can say, because what is a Forger without someone to forge?)
And this is Arthur-
“Eames.” The Point Man gasps. Blood trickles from his mouth. “Eames, shoot me.”
He’s got a rather large gun-it would be over in the space of a second. Arthur wouldn’t feel a thing, would go peacefully and a hell of a lot faster than he’s going now, with his crimson hands struggling to stop the bleeding.
But limbo-
(domine miserere nobis-)
“You’ll fall into limbo.” Eames says, anxiously, nervously (just fucking run, Eames, run and run, get Cobb, get someone who can handle this).
“And you’ll come and get me.” Says Arthur, hoarsely, surely, confidently (as if he already knows, in his brilliant mind, that Eames will come and get him), his head falling back.
“I can’t-” (It’s limbo, it’s limbo, I’ll be alone-
Hac hora necessitatis obscurissimae, in this our hour of darkest need)
“Please, Eames.” Arthur asks, and it’s begging, it’s harsh and painful and bloody heartbreaking. “Please-”
Eames shivers, swallows. Arthur is dying, slowly, steadily. There’s too much blood outside, and the Point Man’s breath has slowed to a rattle.
He’s going to die.
Eames breathes.
“Don’t get lost on me, darling.” He says, and his voice is far stronger than he feels, his hands shaking but his fingers steady. “I’ll be right behind you.”
“No. Finish the job.” Arthur murmurs, and Eames seems something (gratitude, maybe? Love?) that’s there and then gone again.
Eames raises the gun and smiles his best “this-bullshit-doesn’t-fucking-affect-me” smile. Arthur makes a sound that could be a sigh.
He leans back.
There’s the crack of the gun, and a muffled “oof,” and the sound of death (which is silence) and then-
Eames opens his eyes and turns and runs without looking at broken limbs and bloody hands, leaving Arthur’s body as he races towards the others, towards help, towards the end of the job.
He knows, surely as he knows the weight of his totem, that, when the job is done, he’ll shoot himself just under the chin and chase Arthur into limbo, will drag the well-dressed bastard out by his ears and then either a) beat him to death, b) hug him until he explodes, or c) both a and b.
Eames runs and he wonders, in the one tiny little part of his mind that’s not screaming “holy fuck,” what limbo will feel like.