i'm only bleeding, man
Rating: PG-13
Words: 912
Summary: Arthur and Eames are lieutenant and sergeant, respectively, of a platoon that's been attacked.
Warning: Character death.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Disclaimer: Inspired by the Gaslight Anthem song We're Getting a Divorce, You Keep the Diner. Some lines of dialogue are lyrics.
**disclaimer: i know nothing about the military, how it works, how a platoon functions. i know the hierarchy and that's about it. so a lot of this is probably historically dubious and if it's offensive to anyone, i apologize.**
Eames inhales the rancor of blood and sweat, dust and gun powder, breathing deep like you're supposed to in these situations. He wonders grimly how that smell could ever calm a man as he walks, gait half a step awkward under the weight of Arthur. Arthur who is bleeding badly, so badly, and Eames is breathing deep to try and not panic, and all he's breathing in is the gruesome stench of Arthur's looming mortality.
The medical tent is within sight--Eames fixates on it, grinds his jaw and tries to hold on to the vestiges of his composure as he swipes at a trickle of blood running down his left cheek, leaving a smear of mud behind. He attempts to block out the chaotic noise of other men dying around them, but then all he can hear is the soft jangle of Arthur's dog tags swinging from his neck, ricocheting off one another with every step they take, and Eames is not comforted by the sound. Eames concludes, with a desperate hitch in the back of his throat, that he will not find comfort in any direction he turns today.
Eames gets them into the tent, finds the only remaining available table, and regrets that he has to lay Arthur down in a puddle of some other soldier's death--there clearly isn't enough time between bodies for the nurses to tend to frivolous things like sanitation. Having an aerial view of his superior, Eames can assess the worst of the damage better than he could when he'd hauled a crumpled Arthur up from along a line of sand bags. A large, sinister gash cuts across Arthur's abdomen from the arch of his ribs to just below his navel, a frothing crimson wound flanked by the tattered camouflage uniform. Gored by shrapnel. Eames can't find the mind to shut his gaping jaw as he kneels down at his lieutenant's side.
"Arthur," he says, beckoning the man back to a higher level of consciousness. He reaches for Arthur's hand, grips it, and restrains a strangled noise when Arthur's fingers return the grip weakly.
"It's all right, man," Arthur whispers, lips turning up in a faint smile. "I'm only bleeding," his chuckle turns into a rasping wheeze and Eames can no longer not panic.
"Hey!" he shouts above the din of medics and soldiers rushing around, grabbing a towel from a table of supplies and pressing it over Arthur’s bloody torso. "Attention! Lieutenant Clark needs a medic--" he's cut off when Arthur groans and squeezes Eames' hand.
"Sergeant Eames," he protests in spite of his slackening strength. "No need to introduce more chaos; there's a line, I," he's interrupted by the frantic, clamoring need to breathe, "I can wait." Eames knows he can't, or rather, his body won't. Still, he nods jerkily. A few minutes pass in silence, Arthur's chest laboriously rising and falling.
When it becomes apparent that they won’t be receiving help anytime soon, and Eames looks murderous, Arthur tugs at Eames’ shirt. “Stop it,” he coughs. “I’m a waste of time,” he gestures down at himself, insinuating his damage irreparable, his livelihood forfeited.
Eames is not quite as willing to accept fate as Arthur, but when he makes to rise from his knees, Arthur bares his pinking teeth at him. “Stand down,” he orders, fighting for authority with a harsh gasp, flecks of copper splattering up from his throat to stain his pale lips--a severe and disconcerting contrast.
Eames’ nostrils flare and he feels like he’s going to vomit until a slow, lurching sense of shock absorbs him into a false calmness. He takes Arthur’s hand again, this time intertwining their fingers tightly. “All right,” he says, strained. He resumes his kneeling position. He looks up at Arthur, their gazes locking. “Sure you don’t want to stay?” he asks, quiet in comparison to the surrounding commotion but he’s certain that Arthur can hear him. “You’re going to miss all the fun.” They both pretend to not hear the break in Eames’ voice.
Arthur closes his eyes and smiles, close-lipped and tired. “C’mere,” he breathes. Eames inches forward on his knees. “Closer,” Arthur says without opening his eyes. Eames frowns but shuffles upwards along the length of the table until his face is level with Arthur’s. Arthur turns his head towards Eames and, for a long moment, just breathes.
“Arthur--” Eames begins, working his jaw against the fear lancing through his body, threatening to destroy his synthetic peace.
“Sergeant Eames,” Arthur interrupts, opening his eyes. “I’ve done some things that I’m not too proud of,” here, he lowers his voice despite the fact that nobody is listening to them in the first place, “but none of them was you.” It’s Eames’ turn to close his eyes, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the cool metal lip of the table. “Stay hungry,” Arthur whispers, “stay free.” Eames squeezes Arthur’s hand so hard the bones might break, so hard his arm is trembling from the effort. “And do the best you can,” he finishes in a feather-light voice.
Eames knows a death rattle when he hears it.
He admonishes the singular tear that’s escaped from under one of his clenched eyelids with an angry scoff before he rises slightly, arching over Arthur and bending down to kiss his forehead.
Words: 912
Summary: Arthur and Eames are lieutenant and sergeant, respectively, of a platoon that's been attacked.
Warning: Character death.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Disclaimer: Inspired by the Gaslight Anthem song We're Getting a Divorce, You Keep the Diner. Some lines of dialogue are lyrics.
**disclaimer: i know nothing about the military, how it works, how a platoon functions. i know the hierarchy and that's about it. so a lot of this is probably historically dubious and if it's offensive to anyone, i apologize.**
Eames inhales the rancor of blood and sweat, dust and gun powder, breathing deep like you're supposed to in these situations. He wonders grimly how that smell could ever calm a man as he walks, gait half a step awkward under the weight of Arthur. Arthur who is bleeding badly, so badly, and Eames is breathing deep to try and not panic, and all he's breathing in is the gruesome stench of Arthur's looming mortality.
The medical tent is within sight--Eames fixates on it, grinds his jaw and tries to hold on to the vestiges of his composure as he swipes at a trickle of blood running down his left cheek, leaving a smear of mud behind. He attempts to block out the chaotic noise of other men dying around them, but then all he can hear is the soft jangle of Arthur's dog tags swinging from his neck, ricocheting off one another with every step they take, and Eames is not comforted by the sound. Eames concludes, with a desperate hitch in the back of his throat, that he will not find comfort in any direction he turns today.
Eames gets them into the tent, finds the only remaining available table, and regrets that he has to lay Arthur down in a puddle of some other soldier's death--there clearly isn't enough time between bodies for the nurses to tend to frivolous things like sanitation. Having an aerial view of his superior, Eames can assess the worst of the damage better than he could when he'd hauled a crumpled Arthur up from along a line of sand bags. A large, sinister gash cuts across Arthur's abdomen from the arch of his ribs to just below his navel, a frothing crimson wound flanked by the tattered camouflage uniform. Gored by shrapnel. Eames can't find the mind to shut his gaping jaw as he kneels down at his lieutenant's side.
"Arthur," he says, beckoning the man back to a higher level of consciousness. He reaches for Arthur's hand, grips it, and restrains a strangled noise when Arthur's fingers return the grip weakly.
"It's all right, man," Arthur whispers, lips turning up in a faint smile. "I'm only bleeding," his chuckle turns into a rasping wheeze and Eames can no longer not panic.
"Hey!" he shouts above the din of medics and soldiers rushing around, grabbing a towel from a table of supplies and pressing it over Arthur’s bloody torso. "Attention! Lieutenant Clark needs a medic--" he's cut off when Arthur groans and squeezes Eames' hand.
"Sergeant Eames," he protests in spite of his slackening strength. "No need to introduce more chaos; there's a line, I," he's interrupted by the frantic, clamoring need to breathe, "I can wait." Eames knows he can't, or rather, his body won't. Still, he nods jerkily. A few minutes pass in silence, Arthur's chest laboriously rising and falling.
When it becomes apparent that they won’t be receiving help anytime soon, and Eames looks murderous, Arthur tugs at Eames’ shirt. “Stop it,” he coughs. “I’m a waste of time,” he gestures down at himself, insinuating his damage irreparable, his livelihood forfeited.
Eames is not quite as willing to accept fate as Arthur, but when he makes to rise from his knees, Arthur bares his pinking teeth at him. “Stand down,” he orders, fighting for authority with a harsh gasp, flecks of copper splattering up from his throat to stain his pale lips--a severe and disconcerting contrast.
Eames’ nostrils flare and he feels like he’s going to vomit until a slow, lurching sense of shock absorbs him into a false calmness. He takes Arthur’s hand again, this time intertwining their fingers tightly. “All right,” he says, strained. He resumes his kneeling position. He looks up at Arthur, their gazes locking. “Sure you don’t want to stay?” he asks, quiet in comparison to the surrounding commotion but he’s certain that Arthur can hear him. “You’re going to miss all the fun.” They both pretend to not hear the break in Eames’ voice.
Arthur closes his eyes and smiles, close-lipped and tired. “C’mere,” he breathes. Eames inches forward on his knees. “Closer,” Arthur says without opening his eyes. Eames frowns but shuffles upwards along the length of the table until his face is level with Arthur’s. Arthur turns his head towards Eames and, for a long moment, just breathes.
“Arthur--” Eames begins, working his jaw against the fear lancing through his body, threatening to destroy his synthetic peace.
“Sergeant Eames,” Arthur interrupts, opening his eyes. “I’ve done some things that I’m not too proud of,” here, he lowers his voice despite the fact that nobody is listening to them in the first place, “but none of them was you.” It’s Eames’ turn to close his eyes, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the cool metal lip of the table. “Stay hungry,” Arthur whispers, “stay free.” Eames squeezes Arthur’s hand so hard the bones might break, so hard his arm is trembling from the effort. “And do the best you can,” he finishes in a feather-light voice.
Eames knows a death rattle when he hears it.
He admonishes the singular tear that’s escaped from under one of his clenched eyelids with an angry scoff before he rises slightly, arching over Arthur and bending down to kiss his forehead.