→ ✘ wind in the wiresspecificsMay 2 2011, 23:49:23 UTC
Not yours. [ He pauses. ] And not mine.
[ Other than that, he stays still, stays quiet the way he is accustomed to doing in these morning interactions, not even breathing normally for all purposes, eyes cast in an off-angled direction despite not being able to see, familiar with the feeling of it. It's only when he finds himself pulled forward in a rough, reflexive tug that he blinks, comes back to himself, to Eames cursing, Eames who sounds like he's in very particular kind of pain. Briefly, Arthur freezes, and then, ordering the panic that rises in his throat at just not knowing, he listens for the other man, hears him muffle his own discomfort no doubt with his hand, hears him sit on the floor heavily and hearing this, follows.
One of his own hands finds Eames' shoulder, grips a little too tight but he doesn't know what else to do, kneeling beside him, brow creased deep and jaw set with the tension. ]
Eames. [ I can't see. ] You have to tell me what's happening. Should I get help?
[ His words come out rushed, suddenly seven years younger and his fingers definitively digging into the shoulder he knows better than his own. ]
→ ✘ wind in the wiresshiftsMay 3 2011, 00:01:04 UTC
No.
[ It's not something, he thinks, that can exactly be helped because he's staring at his fingers, blinking the burn of his eyes away. They look normal, the same as they always have. He chokes out a groan as his thumb seems to give way, last, and they've stopped feeling broken into but it only leaves the throbbing rawness of the aftermath, feeling like he's just put his hand through a meat grinder, like someone's put a plier to each crook of them. Eames' pain tolerance is extraordinary, trained to be, but this is more agonizing than the last time he could remember breaking his fingers (or rather, having them broken). His breathing stutters, but he swallows around it, shaking his head even though Arthur can't see it. ]
→ ✘ wind in the wiresspecificsMay 3 2011, 00:19:37 UTC
You're not. [ Arthur insists, and he's panicked in a way he doesn't know how to deal with, tries to clamp down on it again, rework it into something useful even though he hasn't any idea what shape of use that might be. Not help, Eames says. He's fine, he says.
Right.
Blind, Arthur feels more out of element than ever, faced with a predicament that Eames can't or won't elaborate on, so he does the only thing he can think of; he reaches out the hand not on Eames' shoulder, finds the farther curve of his face. He knows this face, would know it anywhere, could once be the one to see through a handful of forgeries Eames would come up with, would become; and Arthur was always so glad to wake up and find Eames himself. His thumb draws a line across the sharp of Eames' cheekbone and what he wants to do is canvas his face with the whole of his hand, palm and fingers alike, to see what he looks like - the only way for Arthur to see anything.
He's crossing all kinds of lines like this but the catch is that he's not thinking of it, functioning on an impulse.
→ ✘ wind in the wiresshiftsMay 3 2011, 00:27:24 UTC
[ Eames knows why Arthur has to do it, trying to physically read him in ways that his unseeing eyes can't permit, but it doesn't make him any more comfortable with the notion. Arthur will find his skin damp and clammy to the touch, tightly drawn in his grimace of pain as his fingers continue to pulse and throb, nerve endings screaming with it. ]
My fingers. [ There's nothing wrong with them, and he barks out a shaky laugh, breath quickening to suck more air down into the pit of his lungs, trying to even himself out, find his center to tuck into again. ] I think- Up there, maybe someone is trying to tear my hand apart. [ It's a light way to put what it feels like, in there here and now. Another wave of nausea hits him alongside a particularly sharp throb and curses, under his breath, trying not to dry heave. ]
→ ✘ wind in the wiresspecificsMay 3 2011, 00:52:16 UTC
[ His hand tracing Eames' face, mapping it in shape, noting the clamminess and the tightness of his jaw. He finds himself struck with urges he hasn't had in a very, very long time. No, that's not true. They haven't really gone anywhere, just been locked away, carefully placed out of Arthur's own sight, which is ironic now in so many ways, he knows; he knows. But it's been years and much of the well honed restraint stays in place despite the spiking quality of the impulse now, the partial longing to press his mouth across Eames' lips and take in every sound of pain, as if he could feel it too. He doesn't though, just runs his hand down the side of Eames' face, a distraction perhaps and an intrusive, unwanted one but it's something other than the phantom pain his fingers seem to be experiencing. ]
Eames...
[ What should I do?
On his shoulder, on his face, perhaps Eames can feel the slight shake of Arthur's hands, or perhaps not at all, considering the pain he's in.
Arthur is at a loss though, so he just holds on. ]
→ ✘ wind in the wiresshiftsMay 3 2011, 01:04:57 UTC
[ Eames shakes his head brusquely, whether to deny that Arthur has to do anything or to dislodge the hand from his face, he's not even certain anymore. So too is the thought of what he would prefer: to get ice water to sink his hand into, or to saw it off completley just to have the bit of it to focus on, the cutting of flesh and then bone detracting the pain as soon as numbness would. ]
I'm okay.
[ His voice is tight, but he shifts his body weight forward, folding over to push himself up off the floor with his knees, avoiding having to use his hands. ] Kitchen. I need- something, fucking- ice at least.
→ ✘ wind in the wiresspecificsMay 3 2011, 01:20:12 UTC
[ Finding his other shoulder, hand dropping from his face to curl over the breadth of it, Arthur pushes Eames back down, to floor, against the bed, knowing how ridiculous it seems that the blind man would tell the one who can see to stay while he goes to get the ice; but Arthur knows his way to the kitchen, knows his way to the bath, knows his way to the front door and even to the small balcony though he hasn't been quite stupid enough to go out onto it on his own. ]
Stay.
[ He doesn't wait, just gets up and holds a hand out which catches the frame of the door enough to tell him how far to sidestep and he makes the quick path to the kitchen, runs his hand along the counter's side and to the edge of the fridge. To the upper left of the refrigerator, Arthur knows the cabinet holds bowls and plates on the lowest shelf with glasses on the one above that, so this he opens, grabbing one of the bowls. Then he opens the freezer, digging out a handful of ice, and then another and another until he can feel that the top-line has been passed, that the cubes are stacked, awkward and almost stuck together. This in one hand, he grabs a cloth over the front of the sink with the other and retraces his line straight back to the room once his now Ariadne's.
Given the tenacious practice he's put in when the other two have gone out, giving him three hours or more sometimes, all this Arthur does with the catalog efficiency best and first associated with him, in his job, in everything he does though this is mostly defined by the job being all of that there is to speak of. His right shin hits the foot of the bed so he knows to step slightly more to the left, his toe edging against what he guesses to be Eames' knee or leg before he crouches, setting the bowl down, wrapping the ice and knotting the cloth before pausing, not sure whether to give it to him or to hold it, flat across his palms to be pressed against.
Blinking, Arthur can feel a strand of hair fall into where his line of sight would be, his head slightly bowed, lips pressed thin around the situation of not knowing how to act, not knowing how not to act, but unable to do nothing at all. ]
→ ✘ wind in the wiresshiftsMay 3 2011, 01:45:00 UTC
[ Later, Eames will be of the opinion that it was a combination of his agony and Arthur catching him off balance that pushes him back against the bed - which is, perhaps, true to an extent but the fact that Arthur does still have strength to him despite being blind, despite being out of his element (or rather that he chose to take the initiative to become familiar with the flat in this way, which in turn led to him having more surety on where to place his hands in other regards, like how Eames settles into the skin of a forge Arthur settles into the sense of a blind man) is what comprises the rest of it. He doesn't argue because he is, in some manner, grateful to not have to make the trek, to not have to use his good hand or pull it away from cradling the palm of the supposedly injured extremity for irrational fear of it flling part. He leans his head back against the curve of the edge of the mattress and closing his eyes until he can hear Arthur enter the room again, the clink of glass inside of one of the ceramic bowls they have, the nudge of his big toe against his knee. He reopens them not a moment after, focusing on the precise way Arthur knots the fabric without having to see it, training left over from being mde to triage in the dark. ]
No towel. Leave the ice in the bowl. [ Were this a real break, he'd only be damaging his fingers further with the ice bath he wants to desperately to give them - but they're not really broken, at least on this level, he already knows this much. He just wants relief, at its most basic of forms. ]
→ ✘ wind in the wiresspecificsMay 3 2011, 01:54:07 UTC
[ Frowning, Arthur doesn't argue this, not the way Eames sounds, worn thin and confused by the situation - which could Arthur see it he would match him for. He unknots the cloth, resettles what ice he had put into it back into the bowl and, still crouching, seems nearly to be holding his breath even to himself, a half swallowed word caught in his throat. Across one of his knees, the rag drapes absently - a pale green gingham thing picked up with all the other accouterments for a basic - very basic - household. It's strange that it's this City, this dream or not-dream that has rushed them back together, but then it's not even together is it?
Arthur bites the inside of his cheek a little too hard. ]
Is there--- I mean ---
[ What else can I do? Tell me there's something I can do. ]
→ ✘ wind in the wiresshiftsMay 3 2011, 02:04:59 UTC
[ Eames pulls the bowl closer toward himself, carefully easing his hand into the ice, adjusting the cubes where needed- and it's fucking excruciating, putting that much pressure on his fingers from something as trite as ice cubes, but the cold is quickly sinking in so he forces his hand to stay still. He's been through worse, in the grand scope of his training, but it still hurts something bloody awful for being so unexpected. With projections, at least you knew when you were about to get knifed in the gut.
He really wishes Arthur would stop speaking, stop asking - he hasn't the mind for thought, much less for answering. Swallowing thickly, he grunts the negative. ]
Thank you, Arthur, but no.
[ For all that Eames can see, there's nothing else to do until the pain numbs out long enough for him to become a fully functioning human being gain. He clears his throat, though, because much less does he want Arthur to hover about, frustrating the both of them at his lack of sight, this general situation right down to the living accommodation. ]
→ ✘ wind in the wiresspecificsMay 3 2011, 02:14:55 UTC
[ It's this kind of formality Arthur has instated himself; he knows. Yet that doesn't stop it from honing in like a hit, like the air being taken out of him by a singular type of pressure, straight through the center of him, and for a few seconds he just stays as is - doesn't blink, doesn't move, could for all the world have become the most life-like statue known to man. Then practicality catches him up (though his hands twist against the floor, unseemly, reddening them with the industrial carpet that seems to be par for the course in the flats here.
Then he nods, utters something like right, and goes.
There's nothing to be said here and it's not helpful, him sitting here beside Eames like some poor simulacrum of something that could be of use, too close for a comfort they don't call their own anymore anyway.
But it's important to note that he leaves because Eames says to go, not because he believes him about feeling alright. Not at all, but being unable to do anything to change that, Arthur lets the lie slide, picks up and steps over it like scattered glass. They're not friends and it's only a friend who would sit here despite the uselessness isn't it? he gave up that post, or whatever it was.
Maybe it's stupid, but halfway down the hall he realizes he forgot to correct Pancake's name and, in an even more foolish gesture he feeds Pancake a little too much and figures he can blame it on being blind even though the measurement is clear to him, as clear as if he could see. Arthur is a quick study with the accuracy of function in its cleanest form.
It's everything else he's complete shit at, even if he wasn't always.
Listening to Pancake eat, he sits down on the kitchen floor a slight pace away from the dog bowls, arms propped on his knees, staring blankly at nothing of course before one hand goes to the tie still loose, not finished proper around his collar.
[ Other than that, he stays still, stays quiet the way he is accustomed to doing in these morning interactions, not even breathing normally for all purposes, eyes cast in an off-angled direction despite not being able to see, familiar with the feeling of it. It's only when he finds himself pulled forward in a rough, reflexive tug that he blinks, comes back to himself, to Eames cursing, Eames who sounds like he's in very particular kind of pain. Briefly, Arthur freezes, and then, ordering the panic that rises in his throat at just not knowing, he listens for the other man, hears him muffle his own discomfort no doubt with his hand, hears him sit on the floor heavily and hearing this, follows.
One of his own hands finds Eames' shoulder, grips a little too tight but he doesn't know what else to do, kneeling beside him, brow creased deep and jaw set with the tension. ]
Eames. [ I can't see. ] You have to tell me what's happening. Should I get help?
[ His words come out rushed, suddenly seven years younger and his fingers definitively digging into the shoulder he knows better than his own. ]
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[ It's not something, he thinks, that can exactly be helped because he's staring at his fingers, blinking the burn of his eyes away. They look normal, the same as they always have. He chokes out a groan as his thumb seems to give way, last, and they've stopped feeling broken into but it only leaves the throbbing rawness of the aftermath, feeling like he's just put his hand through a meat grinder, like someone's put a plier to each crook of them. Eames' pain tolerance is extraordinary, trained to be, but this is more agonizing than the last time he could remember breaking his fingers (or rather, having them broken). His breathing stutters, but he swallows around it, shaking his head even though Arthur can't see it. ]
S'fine. I'm okay- [ fucking bleeding Mother of- ]- I'm okay.
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Right.
Blind, Arthur feels more out of element than ever, faced with a predicament that Eames can't or won't elaborate on, so he does the only thing he can think of; he reaches out the hand not on Eames' shoulder, finds the farther curve of his face. He knows this face, would know it anywhere, could once be the one to see through a handful of forgeries Eames would come up with, would become; and Arthur was always so glad to wake up and find Eames himself. His thumb draws a line across the sharp of Eames' cheekbone and what he wants to do is canvas his face with the whole of his hand, palm and fingers alike, to see what he looks like - the only way for Arthur to see anything.
He's crossing all kinds of lines like this but the catch is that he's not thinking of it, functioning on an impulse.
On that alone. ]
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My fingers. [ There's nothing wrong with them, and he barks out a shaky laugh, breath quickening to suck more air down into the pit of his lungs, trying to even himself out, find his center to tuck into again. ] I think- Up there, maybe someone is trying to tear my hand apart. [ It's a light way to put what it feels like, in there here and now. Another wave of nausea hits him alongside a particularly sharp throb and curses, under his breath, trying not to dry heave. ]
Reply
Eames...
[ What should I do?
On his shoulder, on his face, perhaps Eames can feel the slight shake of Arthur's hands, or perhaps not at all, considering the pain he's in.
Arthur is at a loss though, so he just holds on. ]
Reply
I'm okay.
[ His voice is tight, but he shifts his body weight forward, folding over to push himself up off the floor with his knees, avoiding having to use his hands. ] Kitchen. I need- something, fucking- ice at least.
Reply
Stay.
[ He doesn't wait, just gets up and holds a hand out which catches the frame of the door enough to tell him how far to sidestep and he makes the quick path to the kitchen, runs his hand along the counter's side and to the edge of the fridge. To the upper left of the refrigerator, Arthur knows the cabinet holds bowls and plates on the lowest shelf with glasses on the one above that, so this he opens, grabbing one of the bowls. Then he opens the freezer, digging out a handful of ice, and then another and another until he can feel that the top-line has been passed, that the cubes are stacked, awkward and almost stuck together. This in one hand, he grabs a cloth over the front of the sink with the other and retraces his line straight back to the room once his now Ariadne's.
Given the tenacious practice he's put in when the other two have gone out, giving him three hours or more sometimes, all this Arthur does with the catalog efficiency best and first associated with him, in his job, in everything he does though this is mostly defined by the job being all of that there is to speak of. His right shin hits the foot of the bed so he knows to step slightly more to the left, his toe edging against what he guesses to be Eames' knee or leg before he crouches, setting the bowl down, wrapping the ice and knotting the cloth before pausing, not sure whether to give it to him or to hold it, flat across his palms to be pressed against.
Blinking, Arthur can feel a strand of hair fall into where his line of sight would be, his head slightly bowed, lips pressed thin around the situation of not knowing how to act, not knowing how not to act, but unable to do nothing at all. ]
Reply
No towel. Leave the ice in the bowl. [ Were this a real break, he'd only be damaging his fingers further with the ice bath he wants to desperately to give them - but they're not really broken, at least on this level, he already knows this much. He just wants relief, at its most basic of forms. ]
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Arthur bites the inside of his cheek a little too hard. ]
Is there--- I mean ---
[ What else can I do? Tell me there's something I can do. ]
Can I do anything else?
[ Eames. ]
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He really wishes Arthur would stop speaking, stop asking - he hasn't the mind for thought, much less for answering. Swallowing thickly, he grunts the negative. ]
Thank you, Arthur, but no.
[ For all that Eames can see, there's nothing else to do until the pain numbs out long enough for him to become a fully functioning human being gain. He clears his throat, though, because much less does he want Arthur to hover about, frustrating the both of them at his lack of sight, this general situation right down to the living accommodation. ]
Go feed Pan. I'm alright.
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Then he nods, utters something like right, and goes.
There's nothing to be said here and it's not helpful, him sitting here beside Eames like some poor simulacrum of something that could be of use, too close for a comfort they don't call their own anymore anyway.
But it's important to note that he leaves because Eames says to go, not because he believes him about feeling alright. Not at all, but being unable to do anything to change that, Arthur lets the lie slide, picks up and steps over it like scattered glass. They're not friends and it's only a friend who would sit here despite the uselessness isn't it? he gave up that post, or whatever it was.
Maybe it's stupid, but halfway down the hall he realizes he forgot to correct Pancake's name and, in an even more foolish gesture he feeds Pancake a little too much and figures he can blame it on being blind even though the measurement is clear to him, as clear as if he could see. Arthur is a quick study with the accuracy of function in its cleanest form.
It's everything else he's complete shit at, even if he wasn't always.
Listening to Pancake eat, he sits down on the kitchen floor a slight pace away from the dog bowls, arms propped on his knees, staring blankly at nothing of course before one hand goes to the tie still loose, not finished proper around his collar.
He leaves it. ]
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