[a merry chase what-if] Lost My Drink, Can't Find My Keys
TECHNICALLY WHAT HAPPENS HERE IS NO LONGER PART OF MERRY CHASE CANON.
Eames didn't even remember what the fight had been about.
He wasn't so deluded as to thing that things with Arthur would be smooth sailing and hearts in their eyes ( because Eames and Arthur couldn't stand that all the time ) but he never expected to have a fight like the one they'd had, yelling, Eames clenching his fists because he wanted to hit him and Arthur's mouth a tight line as he grabbed his jacket and left the apartment. (It was Arthur's apartment even, and that had made Eames feel like shit.)
So he'd dug around, found some alcohol - vodka, not the cheap kind, and Eames hated vodka but like heck was he leaving, now petulant - and had spent the last few hours drinking.
He wasn't drooling on the floor drunk, but everything was pleasantly fuzzy except for the guilt which was feeding the anger in Eames' head. Arthur had left. Arthur had left again, like when they were younger, and Eames didn't know if he could handle Arthur slipping out of his life again. But in his drunken depression, he'd convinced himself that Arthur wasn't coming back.
And so he stayed on the sofa his wife beater and jeans, bottle cradled between his feet, fingers flipping his poker chip clumsily and occasionally unconsciously going to the one dog tag he had left. (Arthur had the other, the bastard.)
Eames didn't even remember what the fight had been about.
He wasn't so deluded as to thing that things with Arthur would be smooth sailing and hearts in their eyes ( because Eames and Arthur couldn't stand that all the time ) but he never expected to have a fight like the one they'd had, yelling, Eames clenching his fists because he wanted to hit him and Arthur's mouth a tight line as he grabbed his jacket and left the apartment. (It was Arthur's apartment even, and that had made Eames feel like shit.)
So he'd dug around, found some alcohol - vodka, not the cheap kind, and Eames hated vodka but like heck was he leaving, now petulant - and had spent the last few hours drinking.
He wasn't drooling on the floor drunk, but everything was pleasantly fuzzy except for the guilt which was feeding the anger in Eames' head. Arthur had left. Arthur had left again, like when they were younger, and Eames didn't know if he could handle Arthur slipping out of his life again. But in his drunken depression, he'd convinced himself that Arthur wasn't coming back.
And so he stayed on the sofa his wife beater and jeans, bottle cradled between his feet, fingers flipping his poker chip clumsily and occasionally unconsciously going to the one dog tag he had left. (Arthur had the other, the bastard.)