The Consequences of Trust (Part 6)
Warnings: Suicide Themes
Author's notes: If you for some reason haven't been informed, there is a companion WIP to this piece from Eames point of view.
Also, this chapter was interestingly personal in two very different ways. I'm including a few notes at the end if you care to read them.
Disclaimer: This story/artwork is based on characters and situations created and owned by the Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. They are not mine, I just like to play with them.
_________
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5
He feels the pain before his eyes even have a chance to open. His throat feels singed raw and swollen. All of his muscles are on fire and he can feel the ache in his internal organs. His extremities are freezing and it feels like his skin is pulled too tight over his frame. Everything around his kidneys feels bruised, and laying down is horrendously uncomfortable.
He tries to sit up, to relieve the pressure in his back, but the room goes white with blinding pain. Every neuron in his brain feels like it’s exploding. He lets out a helpless groan which just aggravates the charcoal in his stomach.
It’s then that he realizes he’s in a hospital. He quints against the harsh florescent lights. Letting the pain wash over him, like a tide, until it eventually dissipates.
This is the most ill thought out thing Arthur has ever done. He’s already mentally kicking himself for winding up in an infirmary. He should have taken an antiemetic first.
He should have shot himself in the head.
He’s disconnecting the I.V. with practiced ease, albeit trembling fingers, when a low voice from the corner nearly makes him jump out of his skin.
“You’re lucky your liver isn’t permanently damaged. And while I have no doubts in your fighting skills, you’re only two hours after nearly ending your life. There are two armed guards outside the door, Arthur, are you sure you’re up for a fight?”
Arthur nearly topples over and has to clutch at the plastic frame of the hospital bed to save himself. His throat closes involuntarily and he finds himself in a fit of coughing, tears streaming down his face, and his sore stomach muscles clenching so hard around his delicate insides that he loses his grip on the bed.
Before he can really register anything more than the pain coursing through his entire body, Eames is at his side holding him up as he gasps for air. When he recovers enough to breathe again all he can feel is one of Eames’ large hands across the bared skin of the back, the other gripping his shoulder to steady him.
Arthur reacts on instinct, grabbing Eames’ wrist off his shoulder and pulling it forward. He shifts his weight out to his hip at the same time, trying to catch Eames’ groin and throw him. Eames is too fast, side stepping the throw and twisting his wrist away, bringing himself directly in front of Arthur in the process.
Arthur goes for the throat, jabbing, but he’s too slow, too weak. Eames snatches Arthur’s wrist, shoving him back so fast he’s stumbling just to keep on his feet. His gown is thrown open even more during the struggle and then he feels the sharp cold of plastic paneling hit his skin.
He's pinned with his back against the wall, one hand twisting his arm up and behind him at a painfully uncomfortable angle. A vice like grip on his wrist as a strong shoulder presses hard against his chest. He can't smell anything but spice of the other man's cologne and sweat with it's suffocating proximity, as he hyperventilates into the bared neck before him.
It's so overwhelming he can't decide if he wants to kill, faint, or throw up. The nausea spikes and he thinks it will probably be the latter. It takes everything he has to not burst into tears and beg. He imagines himself stuttering, mumbling please, please, please over and over again. Please stop. Don't you know you are killing me? Over and over, every night. Please stop, please stop!
It takes a second to realize he's actually saying it out loud. His whispers are desperate and choked and uncontrolled. But he isn't released from the hold. Instead the man pulls closer, wrapping the arm not holding his wrist behind him and hugging his head tight.
Arthur vaguely remembers a time when he would have already disemboweled someone five different ways from this position.
"Oh, Arthur, what have I done to you?" is whispered into his ear.
They stay like that for a few moments, Arthur whimpering into Eames’ shoulder and feeling the tendons in his shoulder stretch painfully as his chest heaves. Eames is shushing him like a child, petting his hair gently, not giving him an inch.
“Darling, I’m so sorry.” Eames is murmuring. “I know that you are confused and afraid right now, but you need to trust me. We need to get you out of here. And I can’t do that by myself. I’ll be damned if they’re going to lock you in an institution. We both know very well how that turns out for people like us, yeah?”
Arthur nods despite his internal conflict. Eames is too close, clouding his thoughts. He does know, though. He’d failed at dying and the only thing as bad as permanent bodily damage and organ failure would to be involuntarily committed right now. He’s calming down, partially due to his inability to move and Eames’ strong fingers stroking through his hair, partially from being utterly drained of any energy he had left.
“It’s a wonder the guards didn’t come in with that little fight you put up.” Eames is saying as he wraps his jacket around Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur doesn’t remember Eames taking the jacket off. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been standing there, wrapped up in each other and not moving. But he’s breathing steadily now, the panic easing and leaving him in a dull haze. Arthur doesn’t have any pants at the moment and the Jacket helps with the cold of the room, so he accepts it without struggle.
“You... hey, Arthur. Pay attention ok? I need you to hold out for a little longer, darling.” Eames snaps his fingers in front of his face because he was drifting, zoning out. Arthur looks up and all he sees is concern on Eames’ face.
“You and I are going to go use the restroom, ok? All you need is an escort to make sure you won’t do anything rash. The guards would prefer I, or anybody, follow you in rather than them having to.”
He’s leading Arthur out the door, holding him steady, arm wrapped firmly around his waist. Eames’ chats kindly with the guards in fluent and unaccented french, informing them of his mate’s stubborn need to use real toilets and not bedpans. The guards nod sympathetically. Arthur wonders what it’s like waiting outside the door of at risk patients all day long.
They turn the corner of the hallway, Arthur’s bare feet slapping the linoleum with every step. They pass by an empty gurney and some sort of bin. There’s a single occupancy unisex restroom located in the center of the corridor. Eames directs Arthur into it but doesn’t follow.
“I’ll be just a minute, don’t you dare do anything stupid, like bashing your head against the wall or anything. And keep the door unlocked.”
Arthur slumps onto the covered toilet as Eames slips the door shut with a click. Eames returns what Arthur assumes is a few minutes later. He’d been staring at the floor trying to piece together how he got here and why the hell Eames was here too. His stomach is knotted up, but he can’t tell if that’s from his it being pumped or the returning trepidation over Eames’ presence.
“Put these on. It’s the best I could do, but it’s better than nothing.” Eames shoves a wad of fabric towards him.
Arthur takes the offering, finding it to be a pair of penguin covered scrubs and some thin slippers. He can’t even muster up a grimace at the print. He slips the pants on under his gown. He takes off the jacket and hands it back to Eames. He tries to untie the neck of of the gown but can’t quite get at it. Eames steps towards him and Arthur tenses. He shuts his eyes, steeling himself, because he needs Eames to get out of here. He can’t do it on his own.
“Let me.” Eames says, low, his voice like gravel. Taking the strings from Arthur’s fingers, he loosens the knots easily.
The gown slips down Arthur’s shoulders and he shivers. Hospitals are always freezing. He feels exposed, vulnerable, with Eames hovering at his neck. But Eames doesn’t do anything. He’s not at all like in Arthur’s dreams. Arthur feels no hostility coming from him. His movements are slow and fluid, nothing like the angular wrath his projections morph into. Arthur braces himself on the wall as he slips the footwear on.
“I have a car, right in the front of the parking lot, but we may need to run. Are you up for that?”
Arthur nods an affirmative. He’s not really, but he’ll find a way.
“Right then, follow me. You know the drill.”
They’ve done this a million times before. People ignore you if you act like you own the place, like you know exactly where you are going or where you have to be. Nobody will even question the fact that they’ve never seen you in the building before.
Arthur doesn’t look like a doctor, not in his condition, but he doesn’t quite look like a patient either with the scrubs. And Eames is all business, taking the lead for once. Arthur falls in line and if feels like he’s back in basic training. He’s tired, sore, sick, and trudging on. He’s following the man in front of him because he has to make it to the end.
They make it just past the nurses station before they spot one of the guards. He’s obviously looking for them, they would have been far too long in the restroom at that point. Eames slips a hand to Arthur’s elbow as he steers them towards the emergency room doors. Arthur hears the guard call out once before they are both sprinting. In just fifteen feet his legs feel like jelly and his throat burns. He makes it out of the door without collapsing, but the parking lot has to be at least fifty more feet away.
He feels the hand grab at his shoulders before he hears the guard’s footsteps behind him. He twists, dodging the grip, but puts him off balance and he tumbles to the ground, pulling the guard down with him. Eames is helping him up before he even stops rolling. He glances back to the guard who is also scrambling to his feet. Eames shoves Arthur forward yelling for him to go before he turns his attention to the recovering guard. Arthur runs.
Eames breaks the guards grip with a slash down on his wrists before yanking his arm forward, exposing him for assault. With a quick elbow to the head, right above the ear, the guard drops. Eames hollers for him to go right as he catches up. They reach a black sedan, unlocked already, and are able to close the doors and peel out before the rest of the staff has caught up.
Arthur keels over in the seat, coughing fitfully. He lost his slippers along the way and he’d skinned his arms in the fall. He’s bleeding, but not too badly. It’s going to sting later though. Eames glances over at him worriedly as he drives aggressively through the Paris streets. After he stops coughing Arthur finally has to ask the question he can’t resolve in his head right now.
“What are you doing here, Eames?” He bites out, charcoal and bile lacing his words.
Eames looks at him thoughtfully before slowly turning his eyes back to the road. He brushes the fingers of one hand above his lip, his tell for when he’s nervous or upset. Arthur doesn’t demand a response immediately, though he wants to. He doesn’t have the energy to snap, and he can tell Eames is collecting his words carefully.
“In a normal situation, I’d say I was saving your life. But as it stands, I think I’m just making up for a rather large mistake I’ve made.”
“You were following me, at le Sacré-Cœur.”
“Yes.”
“I thought I was going insane.”
Eames goes silent. Arthur can’t tell if he’s stricken at that statement, or if he just didn’t have anything to add. He doesn’t really care. After a few blocks of driving Arthur starts to doze off, before he’s brought back to the present from a very low murmur.
“Do you really dream of me?”
“Every night.”
“I’d be flattered if I didn’t know that it ended you up here.”
Arthur doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he rests his head against the cool window as Eames drives.
***
“I want to show you something.”
Eames is giving him his pleading look, which doesn’t look so much like pleading as it does calm determination mixed with a small amount of sympathy. It’s a look that says you have to do what I want eventually, but if you refuse I’ll let you get away with it for now. Arthur glances down to see that Eames is carrying a PASIV.
The hair on his neck prickles and he feels his stomach drop. He hasn’t bothered masking his emotions so he’s not surprised when Eames reads the shift immediately. Though, Eames wouldn’t have missed it if he had been trying, had been the best actor in the world.
“Please, Arthur, I think this can help.” Eames sets the PASIV down on the floor but doesn’t make to move towards him. He’s learned, over the past month, that sudden movements and approaching him without expressed consent sets Arthur back. Arthur feels a twinge of regret that the lesson had to be learned at all. He’d nearly broken Eames’ nose the first time.
It had been nearly a month since his escape from the hospital. Eames hadn’t really left his side since. Not for any extended period of time anyway, though he did venture out for groceries and supplies. He hadn’t been able to properly explain to Arthur why he was there at all.
Before, Arthur thought he couldn’t get far enough away from Eames. He thought he would never find a place where the dreams would leave him alone. He still hasn’t, and maybe he never will. But he’d gotten used to Eames being there. He didn’t jump every time the man moved anymore. Now he’s afraid of the day when Eames will leave. Eames will leave without answering why. He will leave one more thing for Arthur to obsess over, to internalize, to agonize about.
Eames drops his hands to his sides, loose and palms up. Arthur recognizes the move, to make him seem open, receptive, and welcoming. Arthur knows a lot of Eames’ tricks. But the look on Eames’ face, the sadness just barely contained behind stormy gray eyes, that’s not a trick. And if it is, Eames is a far better conman than Arthur has ever imagined.
And Arthur has plenty of imagination despite what Eames had said in the past. The last year has been a testament to that fact. He stares at Eames from his position on the couch, curled up in the corner in sweats and a t-shirt, and no inclination to move. They stare. They stare until Arthur’s jaw aches because he has been grinding his teeth without realizing.
Eames is the first to give in. He drops his hands completely, defeated, and bends to pick up the case. Instead of taking it with him though, he places it in the corner. Like they’re going to use it later, though Arthur knows they won’t. He doesn’t want to go under. He can’t.
“I can wait, Arthur. I will wait. We will get through this. I had just hoped that I could expedite the process.” Eames swallows, his Adam's apple lurching up and down. “I hope...” he trails off, glancing out the window, looking at nothing, and then Eames walks out of the door.
He leaves Arthur on the couch, wondering what he was going to say. Wondering what he wants to to do with the PASIV. Wondering how is anything Eames has has to show him going to help at all?
________
Authors Notes: So this chapter was a bit strange. I've actually done the suicide toilet watch with a friend before. I remember thinking the exact same thing Arthur does about the guards. They assign a guard to at risk patients, and they just sit outside the door, for hours. I'm sure they have other sections of the hospital to monitor and all, but they stay there, making sure the crazies don't do anything stupid. And the doctors and guards are very appreciative when you follow your friend to the restroom so they don't have to watch a stranger take a piss. I'm sure the doctors are used to it, but it has to be a relief. And it has to be a relief to have someone you know, and not a stranger doctor/guard to watch you piss when you are a patient.
And in my experience hospitals are always fucking freezing.
I also relied on first hand experience with the fighting in this chapter. I recalled on times being my brother's wrestling practice dummy, when he was a kid. And my mom taught me some self defense. My boyfriend was also kind enough to have me act out some of the moves with him to see if you could actually catch someone and bash their head in quickly. I wanted it to not be a drawn out fight. They had to make it to the car quickly, no time for rolling about or throwing multiple punches. My boyfriend is very understanding and I love him.
continue to part 7
Author's notes: If you for some reason haven't been informed, there is a companion WIP to this piece from Eames point of view.
Also, this chapter was interestingly personal in two very different ways. I'm including a few notes at the end if you care to read them.
Disclaimer: This story/artwork is based on characters and situations created and owned by the Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. They are not mine, I just like to play with them.
_________
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5
He feels the pain before his eyes even have a chance to open. His throat feels singed raw and swollen. All of his muscles are on fire and he can feel the ache in his internal organs. His extremities are freezing and it feels like his skin is pulled too tight over his frame. Everything around his kidneys feels bruised, and laying down is horrendously uncomfortable.
He tries to sit up, to relieve the pressure in his back, but the room goes white with blinding pain. Every neuron in his brain feels like it’s exploding. He lets out a helpless groan which just aggravates the charcoal in his stomach.
It’s then that he realizes he’s in a hospital. He quints against the harsh florescent lights. Letting the pain wash over him, like a tide, until it eventually dissipates.
This is the most ill thought out thing Arthur has ever done. He’s already mentally kicking himself for winding up in an infirmary. He should have taken an antiemetic first.
He should have shot himself in the head.
He’s disconnecting the I.V. with practiced ease, albeit trembling fingers, when a low voice from the corner nearly makes him jump out of his skin.
“You’re lucky your liver isn’t permanently damaged. And while I have no doubts in your fighting skills, you’re only two hours after nearly ending your life. There are two armed guards outside the door, Arthur, are you sure you’re up for a fight?”
Arthur nearly topples over and has to clutch at the plastic frame of the hospital bed to save himself. His throat closes involuntarily and he finds himself in a fit of coughing, tears streaming down his face, and his sore stomach muscles clenching so hard around his delicate insides that he loses his grip on the bed.
Before he can really register anything more than the pain coursing through his entire body, Eames is at his side holding him up as he gasps for air. When he recovers enough to breathe again all he can feel is one of Eames’ large hands across the bared skin of the back, the other gripping his shoulder to steady him.
Arthur reacts on instinct, grabbing Eames’ wrist off his shoulder and pulling it forward. He shifts his weight out to his hip at the same time, trying to catch Eames’ groin and throw him. Eames is too fast, side stepping the throw and twisting his wrist away, bringing himself directly in front of Arthur in the process.
Arthur goes for the throat, jabbing, but he’s too slow, too weak. Eames snatches Arthur’s wrist, shoving him back so fast he’s stumbling just to keep on his feet. His gown is thrown open even more during the struggle and then he feels the sharp cold of plastic paneling hit his skin.
He's pinned with his back against the wall, one hand twisting his arm up and behind him at a painfully uncomfortable angle. A vice like grip on his wrist as a strong shoulder presses hard against his chest. He can't smell anything but spice of the other man's cologne and sweat with it's suffocating proximity, as he hyperventilates into the bared neck before him.
It's so overwhelming he can't decide if he wants to kill, faint, or throw up. The nausea spikes and he thinks it will probably be the latter. It takes everything he has to not burst into tears and beg. He imagines himself stuttering, mumbling please, please, please over and over again. Please stop. Don't you know you are killing me? Over and over, every night. Please stop, please stop!
It takes a second to realize he's actually saying it out loud. His whispers are desperate and choked and uncontrolled. But he isn't released from the hold. Instead the man pulls closer, wrapping the arm not holding his wrist behind him and hugging his head tight.
Arthur vaguely remembers a time when he would have already disemboweled someone five different ways from this position.
"Oh, Arthur, what have I done to you?" is whispered into his ear.
They stay like that for a few moments, Arthur whimpering into Eames’ shoulder and feeling the tendons in his shoulder stretch painfully as his chest heaves. Eames is shushing him like a child, petting his hair gently, not giving him an inch.
“Darling, I’m so sorry.” Eames is murmuring. “I know that you are confused and afraid right now, but you need to trust me. We need to get you out of here. And I can’t do that by myself. I’ll be damned if they’re going to lock you in an institution. We both know very well how that turns out for people like us, yeah?”
Arthur nods despite his internal conflict. Eames is too close, clouding his thoughts. He does know, though. He’d failed at dying and the only thing as bad as permanent bodily damage and organ failure would to be involuntarily committed right now. He’s calming down, partially due to his inability to move and Eames’ strong fingers stroking through his hair, partially from being utterly drained of any energy he had left.
“It’s a wonder the guards didn’t come in with that little fight you put up.” Eames is saying as he wraps his jacket around Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur doesn’t remember Eames taking the jacket off. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been standing there, wrapped up in each other and not moving. But he’s breathing steadily now, the panic easing and leaving him in a dull haze. Arthur doesn’t have any pants at the moment and the Jacket helps with the cold of the room, so he accepts it without struggle.
“You... hey, Arthur. Pay attention ok? I need you to hold out for a little longer, darling.” Eames snaps his fingers in front of his face because he was drifting, zoning out. Arthur looks up and all he sees is concern on Eames’ face.
“You and I are going to go use the restroom, ok? All you need is an escort to make sure you won’t do anything rash. The guards would prefer I, or anybody, follow you in rather than them having to.”
He’s leading Arthur out the door, holding him steady, arm wrapped firmly around his waist. Eames’ chats kindly with the guards in fluent and unaccented french, informing them of his mate’s stubborn need to use real toilets and not bedpans. The guards nod sympathetically. Arthur wonders what it’s like waiting outside the door of at risk patients all day long.
They turn the corner of the hallway, Arthur’s bare feet slapping the linoleum with every step. They pass by an empty gurney and some sort of bin. There’s a single occupancy unisex restroom located in the center of the corridor. Eames directs Arthur into it but doesn’t follow.
“I’ll be just a minute, don’t you dare do anything stupid, like bashing your head against the wall or anything. And keep the door unlocked.”
Arthur slumps onto the covered toilet as Eames slips the door shut with a click. Eames returns what Arthur assumes is a few minutes later. He’d been staring at the floor trying to piece together how he got here and why the hell Eames was here too. His stomach is knotted up, but he can’t tell if that’s from his it being pumped or the returning trepidation over Eames’ presence.
“Put these on. It’s the best I could do, but it’s better than nothing.” Eames shoves a wad of fabric towards him.
Arthur takes the offering, finding it to be a pair of penguin covered scrubs and some thin slippers. He can’t even muster up a grimace at the print. He slips the pants on under his gown. He takes off the jacket and hands it back to Eames. He tries to untie the neck of of the gown but can’t quite get at it. Eames steps towards him and Arthur tenses. He shuts his eyes, steeling himself, because he needs Eames to get out of here. He can’t do it on his own.
“Let me.” Eames says, low, his voice like gravel. Taking the strings from Arthur’s fingers, he loosens the knots easily.
The gown slips down Arthur’s shoulders and he shivers. Hospitals are always freezing. He feels exposed, vulnerable, with Eames hovering at his neck. But Eames doesn’t do anything. He’s not at all like in Arthur’s dreams. Arthur feels no hostility coming from him. His movements are slow and fluid, nothing like the angular wrath his projections morph into. Arthur braces himself on the wall as he slips the footwear on.
“I have a car, right in the front of the parking lot, but we may need to run. Are you up for that?”
Arthur nods an affirmative. He’s not really, but he’ll find a way.
“Right then, follow me. You know the drill.”
They’ve done this a million times before. People ignore you if you act like you own the place, like you know exactly where you are going or where you have to be. Nobody will even question the fact that they’ve never seen you in the building before.
Arthur doesn’t look like a doctor, not in his condition, but he doesn’t quite look like a patient either with the scrubs. And Eames is all business, taking the lead for once. Arthur falls in line and if feels like he’s back in basic training. He’s tired, sore, sick, and trudging on. He’s following the man in front of him because he has to make it to the end.
They make it just past the nurses station before they spot one of the guards. He’s obviously looking for them, they would have been far too long in the restroom at that point. Eames slips a hand to Arthur’s elbow as he steers them towards the emergency room doors. Arthur hears the guard call out once before they are both sprinting. In just fifteen feet his legs feel like jelly and his throat burns. He makes it out of the door without collapsing, but the parking lot has to be at least fifty more feet away.
He feels the hand grab at his shoulders before he hears the guard’s footsteps behind him. He twists, dodging the grip, but puts him off balance and he tumbles to the ground, pulling the guard down with him. Eames is helping him up before he even stops rolling. He glances back to the guard who is also scrambling to his feet. Eames shoves Arthur forward yelling for him to go before he turns his attention to the recovering guard. Arthur runs.
Eames breaks the guards grip with a slash down on his wrists before yanking his arm forward, exposing him for assault. With a quick elbow to the head, right above the ear, the guard drops. Eames hollers for him to go right as he catches up. They reach a black sedan, unlocked already, and are able to close the doors and peel out before the rest of the staff has caught up.
Arthur keels over in the seat, coughing fitfully. He lost his slippers along the way and he’d skinned his arms in the fall. He’s bleeding, but not too badly. It’s going to sting later though. Eames glances over at him worriedly as he drives aggressively through the Paris streets. After he stops coughing Arthur finally has to ask the question he can’t resolve in his head right now.
“What are you doing here, Eames?” He bites out, charcoal and bile lacing his words.
Eames looks at him thoughtfully before slowly turning his eyes back to the road. He brushes the fingers of one hand above his lip, his tell for when he’s nervous or upset. Arthur doesn’t demand a response immediately, though he wants to. He doesn’t have the energy to snap, and he can tell Eames is collecting his words carefully.
“In a normal situation, I’d say I was saving your life. But as it stands, I think I’m just making up for a rather large mistake I’ve made.”
“You were following me, at le Sacré-Cœur.”
“Yes.”
“I thought I was going insane.”
Eames goes silent. Arthur can’t tell if he’s stricken at that statement, or if he just didn’t have anything to add. He doesn’t really care. After a few blocks of driving Arthur starts to doze off, before he’s brought back to the present from a very low murmur.
“Do you really dream of me?”
“Every night.”
“I’d be flattered if I didn’t know that it ended you up here.”
Arthur doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he rests his head against the cool window as Eames drives.
***
“I want to show you something.”
Eames is giving him his pleading look, which doesn’t look so much like pleading as it does calm determination mixed with a small amount of sympathy. It’s a look that says you have to do what I want eventually, but if you refuse I’ll let you get away with it for now. Arthur glances down to see that Eames is carrying a PASIV.
The hair on his neck prickles and he feels his stomach drop. He hasn’t bothered masking his emotions so he’s not surprised when Eames reads the shift immediately. Though, Eames wouldn’t have missed it if he had been trying, had been the best actor in the world.
“Please, Arthur, I think this can help.” Eames sets the PASIV down on the floor but doesn’t make to move towards him. He’s learned, over the past month, that sudden movements and approaching him without expressed consent sets Arthur back. Arthur feels a twinge of regret that the lesson had to be learned at all. He’d nearly broken Eames’ nose the first time.
It had been nearly a month since his escape from the hospital. Eames hadn’t really left his side since. Not for any extended period of time anyway, though he did venture out for groceries and supplies. He hadn’t been able to properly explain to Arthur why he was there at all.
Before, Arthur thought he couldn’t get far enough away from Eames. He thought he would never find a place where the dreams would leave him alone. He still hasn’t, and maybe he never will. But he’d gotten used to Eames being there. He didn’t jump every time the man moved anymore. Now he’s afraid of the day when Eames will leave. Eames will leave without answering why. He will leave one more thing for Arthur to obsess over, to internalize, to agonize about.
Eames drops his hands to his sides, loose and palms up. Arthur recognizes the move, to make him seem open, receptive, and welcoming. Arthur knows a lot of Eames’ tricks. But the look on Eames’ face, the sadness just barely contained behind stormy gray eyes, that’s not a trick. And if it is, Eames is a far better conman than Arthur has ever imagined.
And Arthur has plenty of imagination despite what Eames had said in the past. The last year has been a testament to that fact. He stares at Eames from his position on the couch, curled up in the corner in sweats and a t-shirt, and no inclination to move. They stare. They stare until Arthur’s jaw aches because he has been grinding his teeth without realizing.
Eames is the first to give in. He drops his hands completely, defeated, and bends to pick up the case. Instead of taking it with him though, he places it in the corner. Like they’re going to use it later, though Arthur knows they won’t. He doesn’t want to go under. He can’t.
“I can wait, Arthur. I will wait. We will get through this. I had just hoped that I could expedite the process.” Eames swallows, his Adam's apple lurching up and down. “I hope...” he trails off, glancing out the window, looking at nothing, and then Eames walks out of the door.
He leaves Arthur on the couch, wondering what he was going to say. Wondering what he wants to to do with the PASIV. Wondering how is anything Eames has has to show him going to help at all?
________
Authors Notes: So this chapter was a bit strange. I've actually done the suicide toilet watch with a friend before. I remember thinking the exact same thing Arthur does about the guards. They assign a guard to at risk patients, and they just sit outside the door, for hours. I'm sure they have other sections of the hospital to monitor and all, but they stay there, making sure the crazies don't do anything stupid. And the doctors and guards are very appreciative when you follow your friend to the restroom so they don't have to watch a stranger take a piss. I'm sure the doctors are used to it, but it has to be a relief. And it has to be a relief to have someone you know, and not a stranger doctor/guard to watch you piss when you are a patient.
And in my experience hospitals are always fucking freezing.
I also relied on first hand experience with the fighting in this chapter. I recalled on times being my brother's wrestling practice dummy, when he was a kid. And my mom taught me some self defense. My boyfriend was also kind enough to have me act out some of the moves with him to see if you could actually catch someone and bash their head in quickly. I wanted it to not be a drawn out fight. They had to make it to the car quickly, no time for rolling about or throwing multiple punches. My boyfriend is very understanding and I love him.
continue to part 7