Fic: staggered banged with terror through a million billion trillion stars
Title: staggered banged with terror through a million billion trillion stars
Author: sunriseinspace
Character(s): Arthur / Eames
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing about Inception, its characters or plotlines, including any recognizable text. Cut text and title come from a man who had fallen among thieves by e.e. cummings.
WARNING: mentions of torture
Summary: The air smells sweet and tinny in the tiny cell, a disquieting odor suggestive of long hours of fear and pain. Two weeks, he thinks to himself, hands tightening unconsciously until Eames hisses in discomfort.
A/N: I've a strange fascination with cummings' poetry - I love its disjointed harmony, how the words and phrases seem jumbled and out of place but slide together so beautifully that, no matter the chaos, you can't imagine them any other way. Oddly, it really appeals to my Inception / Arthur&Eames kick recently. :)
+
“Eames,” he hisses, dropping to his knees as soon as he’s through the door, unmindful of the filth on the ground as it seeps into the fabric of his pants. He reaches out with shaking hands (his hands never shake, are always steady, aim true and unwavering, but this, this--), wanting to touch, needing to reassure himself, but not, not-- “God, Eames,” he breathes and feather-lightly brushes matted hair off Eames’ forehead, out of his face.
“Hello, Arthur,” Eames greets with a gruff, choked laugh, voice ragged and grating in his throat as he squints open his eyes to peer up at Arthur, teeth bared in a red-stained grin. “Fancy meeting you here.” He groans as Arthur wraps ginger hands around his shoulders and coaxes him upward, until he’s leaning limp and heavy against Arthur’s chest.
“What did they do to you?” Arthur wonders aloud, hands skimming over torn clothing and dried bloodstains, feeling carefully over broken bones and dark bruises. The air smells sweet and tinny in the tiny cell, a disquieting odor suggestive of long hours of fear and pain. Two weeks, he thinks to himself, hands tightening unconsciously until Eames hisses in discomfort. Arthur jerks his hands away, his whole body stiffening in self-reproach, and stares in almost horrified-shock as Eames grates out another rusty laugh.
“Ah, I had wondered,” Eames sighs, licking at the blood beading along his split lip. “This is reality, then, is it?” he asks, rolling glassy eyes up to study Arthur’s face, which pales slightly when he realizes the implications of Eames’ statement.
There’s a distant chatter of gunfire through the open door, but Arthur pays it no mind, focused more on he thought I was a projection and hurting him proved I was really me. Carefully, making sure not to jostle any of his injuries, he feels over each of Eames’ pockets and each empty space makes him feel a little sicker.
“Eames,” he says, nudging the Forger a little when there’s no immediate response, “Eames, where’s your totem?”
“Mmm? Oh, threw it... somewhere,” Eames says muzzily, lifting his head just slightly off of Arthur’s shoulder to peer into the gloomy corners of the cell. “Didn’t wan’ ‘em to get it, use it against me.”
“Okay,” Arthur exhales, shifting Eames to where he leans against the wall.
Feeling carefully along the gritty-damp floor, he works his way across the small room, quickly and efficiently, fully aware of how much time they don’t have - there’s only so long Dom and Saito’s hired back-up can withstand the return fire. He shudders when his hand moves through a puddle of some unknown liquid on the floor but keeps going, forcibly not thinking about Eames’ injuries and how this environment could have both affected and been affected by them. Teeth gritted and eyes clenched shut as he focuses on searching through the gloom, his fingers knock against something that’s neither the grim on the floor nor a piece of the refuse littering the dark corners. He’s across the room with it wrapped tight in his hand without consciously making the decision to move.
“Eames. Hey, Eames,” he reaches out to gently shake Eames’ shoulder. The Forger gives a small, wordless mumble before levering his eyes open again and Arthur represses another shudder at how lifeless they appear in the low light of the room; he wonders how many times Eames pictured his escape, in how many different ways, and whether he truly believes Arthur is really here at all. Instead, he takes Eames’ hand in his own - mindful of Eames’ bruised, swollen, and broken fingers - and tucks Eames’ totem against his palm, eyes tracking Eames’ expression as he waits for him to puzzle it out.
It takes longer than he expects, but eventually recognition and understanding settle across Eames’ face and Arthur allows a smile to curl one corner of his mouth.
“Hello, darling,” Eames says, words still slightly slurred despite the alert awareness suffusing his limbs, allowing him to sit a little straighter against the wall. “What’s the plan?”
“Are you good to walk?” Arthur asks in response as he slides out of his coat and wraps it over Eames’ shoulders - it’s too small by far, but quite a step up from Eames’ own tattered clothes and better than nothing.
“Well enough, if we aren’t going too far,” Eames responds and Arthur parses it, picking the actual truth out of the answer. Nodding decisively, he pulls Eames’ arm over his shoulder and wraps his own around Eames’ waist, moving slowly to shift them both to their feet.
They move slowly through the corridors, Eames heavy against Arthur’s side, Arthur’s fingers digging deep indents into the skin above Eames’ hip, until daylight starts to glow at the end, until the chatter of ammunition and Cobb’s voice are loud in their ears. Arthur chances a quick look at Eames’ face and doesn’t know what to make of the blank smile curling the corners of his mouth, familiar from countless late nights spent poring over files and figures. It’s an expression indicative of boredom and exhaustion and an utter lack of caring.
They reach the doorway at the end of the hall and Cobb steps briefly into the pool of light, gesturing over his shoulder to someone Arthur can’t see. There’s worry deep in Cobb’s eyes as he makes as though to help Arthur bear Eames’ weight and it threads deeper as Arthur shakes his head and hauls Eames closer, wrapping his arms painfully tight around the less damaged section of Eames’ ribcage.
Together, after two weeks of panicked fear, after two weeks of dead ends and wrong turns, after two weeks of hell, Arthur and Eames step out into the sunlight and all Arthur can think is, has the winter sun always been so cold, so lacking in hope?
/end
a man who had fallen among thieves by E. E. Cummings
a man who had fallen among thieves
lay by the roadside on his back
dressed in fifteenthrate ideas
wearing a round jeer for a hat
fate per a somewhat more than less
emancipated evening
had in return for consciousness
endowed him with a changeless grin
whereon a dozen staunch and Meal
citizens did graze at pause
then fired by hypercivic zeal
sought newer pastures or because
swaddled with a frozen brook
of pinkest vomit out of eyes
which noticed nobody he looked
as if he did not care to rise
one hand did nothing on the vest
its wideflung friend clenched weakly dirt
while the mute trouserfly confessed
a button solemnly inert.
Brushing from whom the stiffened puke
i put him all into my arms
and staggered banged with terror through
a million billion trillion stars
Author: sunriseinspace
Character(s): Arthur / Eames
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing about Inception, its characters or plotlines, including any recognizable text. Cut text and title come from a man who had fallen among thieves by e.e. cummings.
WARNING: mentions of torture
Summary: The air smells sweet and tinny in the tiny cell, a disquieting odor suggestive of long hours of fear and pain. Two weeks, he thinks to himself, hands tightening unconsciously until Eames hisses in discomfort.
A/N: I've a strange fascination with cummings' poetry - I love its disjointed harmony, how the words and phrases seem jumbled and out of place but slide together so beautifully that, no matter the chaos, you can't imagine them any other way. Oddly, it really appeals to my Inception / Arthur&Eames kick recently. :)
+
“Eames,” he hisses, dropping to his knees as soon as he’s through the door, unmindful of the filth on the ground as it seeps into the fabric of his pants. He reaches out with shaking hands (his hands never shake, are always steady, aim true and unwavering, but this, this--), wanting to touch, needing to reassure himself, but not, not-- “God, Eames,” he breathes and feather-lightly brushes matted hair off Eames’ forehead, out of his face.
“Hello, Arthur,” Eames greets with a gruff, choked laugh, voice ragged and grating in his throat as he squints open his eyes to peer up at Arthur, teeth bared in a red-stained grin. “Fancy meeting you here.” He groans as Arthur wraps ginger hands around his shoulders and coaxes him upward, until he’s leaning limp and heavy against Arthur’s chest.
“What did they do to you?” Arthur wonders aloud, hands skimming over torn clothing and dried bloodstains, feeling carefully over broken bones and dark bruises. The air smells sweet and tinny in the tiny cell, a disquieting odor suggestive of long hours of fear and pain. Two weeks, he thinks to himself, hands tightening unconsciously until Eames hisses in discomfort. Arthur jerks his hands away, his whole body stiffening in self-reproach, and stares in almost horrified-shock as Eames grates out another rusty laugh.
“Ah, I had wondered,” Eames sighs, licking at the blood beading along his split lip. “This is reality, then, is it?” he asks, rolling glassy eyes up to study Arthur’s face, which pales slightly when he realizes the implications of Eames’ statement.
There’s a distant chatter of gunfire through the open door, but Arthur pays it no mind, focused more on he thought I was a projection and hurting him proved I was really me. Carefully, making sure not to jostle any of his injuries, he feels over each of Eames’ pockets and each empty space makes him feel a little sicker.
“Eames,” he says, nudging the Forger a little when there’s no immediate response, “Eames, where’s your totem?”
“Mmm? Oh, threw it... somewhere,” Eames says muzzily, lifting his head just slightly off of Arthur’s shoulder to peer into the gloomy corners of the cell. “Didn’t wan’ ‘em to get it, use it against me.”
“Okay,” Arthur exhales, shifting Eames to where he leans against the wall.
Feeling carefully along the gritty-damp floor, he works his way across the small room, quickly and efficiently, fully aware of how much time they don’t have - there’s only so long Dom and Saito’s hired back-up can withstand the return fire. He shudders when his hand moves through a puddle of some unknown liquid on the floor but keeps going, forcibly not thinking about Eames’ injuries and how this environment could have both affected and been affected by them. Teeth gritted and eyes clenched shut as he focuses on searching through the gloom, his fingers knock against something that’s neither the grim on the floor nor a piece of the refuse littering the dark corners. He’s across the room with it wrapped tight in his hand without consciously making the decision to move.
“Eames. Hey, Eames,” he reaches out to gently shake Eames’ shoulder. The Forger gives a small, wordless mumble before levering his eyes open again and Arthur represses another shudder at how lifeless they appear in the low light of the room; he wonders how many times Eames pictured his escape, in how many different ways, and whether he truly believes Arthur is really here at all. Instead, he takes Eames’ hand in his own - mindful of Eames’ bruised, swollen, and broken fingers - and tucks Eames’ totem against his palm, eyes tracking Eames’ expression as he waits for him to puzzle it out.
It takes longer than he expects, but eventually recognition and understanding settle across Eames’ face and Arthur allows a smile to curl one corner of his mouth.
“Hello, darling,” Eames says, words still slightly slurred despite the alert awareness suffusing his limbs, allowing him to sit a little straighter against the wall. “What’s the plan?”
“Are you good to walk?” Arthur asks in response as he slides out of his coat and wraps it over Eames’ shoulders - it’s too small by far, but quite a step up from Eames’ own tattered clothes and better than nothing.
“Well enough, if we aren’t going too far,” Eames responds and Arthur parses it, picking the actual truth out of the answer. Nodding decisively, he pulls Eames’ arm over his shoulder and wraps his own around Eames’ waist, moving slowly to shift them both to their feet.
They move slowly through the corridors, Eames heavy against Arthur’s side, Arthur’s fingers digging deep indents into the skin above Eames’ hip, until daylight starts to glow at the end, until the chatter of ammunition and Cobb’s voice are loud in their ears. Arthur chances a quick look at Eames’ face and doesn’t know what to make of the blank smile curling the corners of his mouth, familiar from countless late nights spent poring over files and figures. It’s an expression indicative of boredom and exhaustion and an utter lack of caring.
They reach the doorway at the end of the hall and Cobb steps briefly into the pool of light, gesturing over his shoulder to someone Arthur can’t see. There’s worry deep in Cobb’s eyes as he makes as though to help Arthur bear Eames’ weight and it threads deeper as Arthur shakes his head and hauls Eames closer, wrapping his arms painfully tight around the less damaged section of Eames’ ribcage.
Together, after two weeks of panicked fear, after two weeks of dead ends and wrong turns, after two weeks of hell, Arthur and Eames step out into the sunlight and all Arthur can think is, has the winter sun always been so cold, so lacking in hope?
/end
a man who had fallen among thieves by E. E. Cummings
a man who had fallen among thieves
lay by the roadside on his back
dressed in fifteenthrate ideas
wearing a round jeer for a hat
fate per a somewhat more than less
emancipated evening
had in return for consciousness
endowed him with a changeless grin
whereon a dozen staunch and Meal
citizens did graze at pause
then fired by hypercivic zeal
sought newer pastures or because
swaddled with a frozen brook
of pinkest vomit out of eyes
which noticed nobody he looked
as if he did not care to rise
one hand did nothing on the vest
its wideflung friend clenched weakly dirt
while the mute trouserfly confessed
a button solemnly inert.
Brushing from whom the stiffened puke
i put him all into my arms
and staggered banged with terror through
a million billion trillion stars