Fic: "It Takes Two When it Used to Take Only One." Part II (Arthur/Eames)-R
Title: "It takes two when it used to take only one." Part II
Rating: R for language, scenes of violence and torture
Summary: Five time Eames took Arthur's hand and one time he didn't...
On a short job turned long in Cape Cod during autumn Eames rents a beach house and becomes fasinated as Arthur acts anything other than his usual self. He observes him loving everything fall and not wanting to break the spell he only tries to hold his hand until one time he finally can't. Somehow Arthur moves into the beach house with him and things just get more complicated from there as they slowly fall in love.
Some major h/c ensues as Eames is put in peril!
Word Count: About 12,500 total between the two parts full of schmoop, romance, and h/c goodness!
Notes: I don't own a thing in terms of Inception
This fic is written for a lot of things but mainly as a thank-you fic for the awesome:
indybree
They wanted a cute Arthur/Eames fic with lots of hand holding!
This fic is also written for this prompt that wanted Arthur and Eames on a long job in New England, Arthur loving fall and all the things that come with it and Eames content with just watching him until finally one day he can’t…
It’s also written for this and this prompt that wanted some h/c involving Eames being in danger, getting broken and really just being the one that receives it!
I tried my best to incorporate it all!
This fic is also loosely based off the song: “Two” from Ryan Adams, just a personal prompt of my own. The title of this fic comes from the song as well:
If you take me back
Back to your place
I'll try not to bother you I promise
'Cause it's cold in here
And I wish it was hot
The sink's broke, it's leaking from the faucet
And i'm fractured from the fall
And i wanna go home
But it takes two when it used to take one
It takes two when it used to take only one
Well, my money's no good when i'm up to no good
No good ever comes from it, honest
I got a really good heart
I just can't catch a break
If i could i'd treat you like you wanted me to i promise
But i'm fractured from the fall
And i wanna go home
I'm fractured from the fall
And i wanna go home
But it takes two when it used to take one
It takes two when it used to take one
It takes two when it used to take one
It takes two when it used to take only one
This is Part II of the two part fic. Part I is here. Please review :)
V
Its three days until the extraction. It’s happening on Monday when the mark is scheduled to have a colonoscopy. They’ll have about three hours as the mark will be in a hospital bed, recovering from the procedure. Plenty of time to do the two levels of the dream. It’ll just be Eames and Cobb entering, Arthur being the lookout and Johnny providing backup if needed. Everything is laid out and ready. They cannot be any more prepared, having gone over the plan thousands of times it seems. Cobb gives them the weekend off.
It’s almost Halloween.
Upon walking back from the factory that Friday in their usual walk back to the beach house Arthur spies a flyer stapled to a telephone pole. Arthur stops to read it, something catching his eye and Eames peers at it over his shoulder, reading it with him.
It’s a Cape Cod Halloween festival for the coming weekend. The market square and streets will be blocked off and there will be local growers selling their crops, pumpkin carving, music in the streets, vendors and other fall activities.
After Arthur reads it he keeps walking, not saying a word. Eames knows he wants to go, can see it in his eyes but Arthur’s too proud to ask, probably thinking he’ll look silly if he did so he doesn’t. Eames doesn’t mention it until after they’ve finished their bangers and mash-his grandmother’s recipe and they’ve retired on the front porch, drinking good scotch and smoking cigars.
Arthur is breathing deeply through his nose, eyelids drooping, swirling his drink, relaxed back into the wooden beach chair, looking out to the waves.
“You know we could use some fruit and vegetables since you used up all the apples again for that pie you tried to make,” Eames puffs on his cigar looking out as the tide retracts.
Arthur makes a noise of affirmation.
“I’m going to go to the market square tomorrow, see what they got.”
Arthur breathes out smoke, distributes ash over the porch and nods.
“I’ll come with you.”
And this is how they go to the Cape Cod Halloween festival.
Arthur is one big ball of quiet excitement come Saturday-his body practically humming and vibrating as he flits from room to room, unable to keep still. Eames suppresses a laugh when he finally suggests to Arthur coolly after lunch if they should shove off and get some groceries. Arthur practically jumps up and grabs his coat, nodding far too eagerly and is out the door before Eames has even shrugged on his own coat.
They really do need produce but Eames figures that can wait. He wants Arthur to have his fun first.
The New England air has gotten significantly colder and Eames blows into his hands as they make their way to the square, Arthur practically bouncing as he steps. The air is heavy with the smell of burning leaves. It’s also crisp-all things fall.
Their warm breath expels out in front of them in little puffs as they approach the square. It’s decorated in true Halloween and autumn fashion. Lots of orange twinkly lights hang from across telephone poles like Christmas lights. There’s carved pumpkins everywhere, fake cobwebs hanging from lights and other kitschy and endearing décor strewn about. Arthur’s breath catches in his throat, eyes wide as he takes it in. Eames stands a step back from him and lets him, not wanting to ruin the moment for him. And then Arthur is dragging him into a shop and is buying him a scarf and gloves.
“It’s getting colder,” he mumbles as he fishes out his wallet.
He waves off the bag to the shop clerk and then he’s winding a warm, soft, baby blue scarf around Eames’ neck. “It brings out your eyes,” he mumbles as he fixes his scarf and hands him the black, soft leather gloves. Eames is thankful they don’t match. Their faces are an equal match of red as they suit up. Arthur’s scarf is a brown tweed and it’s hard, so hard not to grab Arthur by the soft scarf with his rosy cheeks and wide, excited eyes and pull him into a kiss.
He watches him put on a brown, newsboy type hat that covers his ears, brown leather gloves and then he’s exiting the shop, not waiting for Eames, eager to get back to whatever is outside.
People are milling around in costume and Arthur takes delight in this, pointing some out to Eames like he can’t see them himself.
They walk the square, Arthur stopping at everything. Eames lets him, let’s him do whatever he wants, lets him drag him wherever he wants to go.
Eames swears he sees a familiar face in a passing crowd of people, wants to pause and take a look but then Arthur is dragging him by the sleeve to a “build your own caramel apple” stand.
Arthur pays for Eames to do one too even though Eames doesn’t really care for candy or caramel apples but he lets him. He knows Arthur would eat his too if he didn’t want it.
Eames laughs as Arthur elbows his way to the front of the line, pushing mostly children out of the way, pure eagerness on his face, pulling Eames along.
They watch as the clerk dips their green apples in heavy caramel. Eames swears he can see Arthur’s mouth water. And then they can pick from the multitude of toppings. Arthur has a hard time deciding so Eames goes first. He picks peanuts, chocolate and M&M’s candies-all things he knows Arthur likes.
After what feels like a lifetime Arthur chooses chocolate, white chocolate drizzled over it, marshmallows and walnuts.
Eames whispers to the clerk not to wrap Arthur’s up as she rings them up.
With huge caramel apples in tow, Arthur digging into his right away they walk the square some more. Again Eames thinks he spies someone he recognizes and then Arthur is taking his elbow and then they are picking out blackberries. Arthur feeds one to Eames unexpectedly to both of their embarrassment and pleasure.
It’s evening before Eames knows it. Again the obvious seems to slip through his fingers, catches him unawares.
They’ve paused so Arthur can work on his ginormous caramel apple. It’s gotten significantly more crowded and there’s nowhere to sit. Arthur has a look of pure love on his face as he they stand under a street lamp close together. Arthur’s face is covered with chocolate and caramel and he doesn’t seem to care-he’s a little boy in love with his native haunts and autumn. Eames thinks it’s probably the most irresistible thing he’s done yet. He’s all eager eyes and flushed face from dragging Eames around and around.
And Eames can’t take it anymore, not one more instant. It’s been almost two months of living together having to endure Arthur’s absolute adorableness and love for his old stomping grounds and the season, them gliding around each other, barely touching and suddenly he’s shoving Arthur’s hat over his eyes, taking his sticky, chocolaty chin in his fingers and is kissing him, kissing him like he’s wanted to for the eight years of knowing him, the months living together and everything else.
He needs this. He’s been in denial about the job coming to a close soon, this life coming to a close soon. He knows that after Monday their time of playing house will be through. Arthur will leave this place, his native lands and go off on another job and Eames on a different one, their lives splitting off from one another once again. Arthur will be buttoned up tight, closed up, cut off, polished, cold, shined and groomed, he’ll be “on” again and Eames won’t be able to stop it from happening.
The beach house they built up together will be left gutted and empty once more.
Eames twines his fingers in Arthur’s free ones and he kisses him deeply because he needs it once before Arthur flies off, before the glass is removed, shifted, broken or replaced. He isn’t sure anymore and doesn’t care as he glides his tongue over his sickly sweet one and Arthur is tense and cold in his arms, not struggling or protesting but not reciprocating either.
And then there’s a loud boom in the air and the sky explodes in fireworks. Eames jerks away from him surprised and both their faces are glued to the dazzling night sky. Eames keeps a steady, gloved hand in Arthur’s, their fingers laced together as the sky turns different colors, reflected back in their eyes. He only releases Eames’ hand when they are back at the beach house, almost immediately collapsing on the couch/his bed and nodding off almost immediately after he shrugs off his coat and shoes. He must have been exhausted-all the fresh air and exciting new things. Eames wonders faintly if it’s ok to kiss him all the time now as he locks the front door. They have one day left. Maybe they can go up to Boston, make a day of it. The thought makes him smile as he enters the kitchen, remembering and then cursing himself. He does an about face. They had bought no produce besides some blackberries. The festival is still going on for a couple hours so he shrugs his coat back on, kisses Arthur’s sleeping forehead, murmuring in his hair that he’ll be back soon and slips back outside.
VI
He’s glad for the new scarf and gloves as the night has turned quite bitterly cold.
He’s hurrying-all thoughts of Arthur, wondering if he can convince him to share the bed with him tonight. He only has one more night with him; he wants to make it count.
He’s smiling, lost in thought. He rounds a corner and is about to head down some stairs to the market square below when he feels a sudden, quick presence behind him.
Three of them, he thinks before he’s being shoved and flying in the air, his feet missing the steps completely and then his body is meeting cold concrete, tumbling down stairs, feeling and hearing sickening cracks and faintly realizing it’s his bones breaking.
The fall feels like forever, like he’s suspended in time, his mind rattled like his brain has come loose from his head. His vision is swirling and doubling, pain exploding throughout his body and he can’t pinpoint from where exactly-it’s everywhere. And then there’s three faces dancing in front of his vision and he recognizes one. One he had seen in the crowd earlier and Eames closes his eyes because he knows he is done, tears sliding down his face and he doesn’t care.
* * *
His eyes blink open and the environment has changed. It takes him a moment to try to comprehend where he is. It’s dark and damp, only one small light hanging from the ceiling. His body is in so much agony that it’s hard to breathe, hard to think. He thinks he has two or three fractured or broken ribs and arm and leg. His vision is totally shot in one eye, hoping it’s just because blood got in it. His head feels too hot and his body is doused in sweat.
His head lolls. He pathetically tries to move but his broken body is secured tightly to a chair.
He isn’t going anywhere.
Men seem to materialize out of thin air. One is rolling a metal cart toward Eames; the others glare down at him menacingly, with hungry, mad, glistening eyes.
The man with the cart stops when he’s right in front him, cracking knuckles, looking eager. Eames spies the cart knowing already what’s going to be on it: pliers, hacksaw, hammer, meat tenderizer, shears, ice pick, restraints, blindfolds, knives, and various devices to pry or hold skin open. He sees them all resting on the cart, glistening like surgeons tools. He’s only surprised to see the small tank of gasoline, funnel and tube. Eames faintly realizes that one or more of them are ex military just like Eames. They even may have been interrogators. Eames sees the mark’s co-worker stare down at him-eyes black, face hard as stone. Nowhere in the information Eames was given did it say he had a military background. Eames is stunned. Arthur would never miss something like that, something so obvious and important.
His thoughts are silenced by a violent slap to his face making his head flop stupidly to one side, pain erupting, the room spinning.
He hears knuckles being cracked again, vicious laughs being exchanged.
“You didn’t think I noticed you tailing me did you? Didn’t know I had hired a bodyguard after the second day and had them follow you around as you were trying to follow me, you prick!” he screamed right in his ear.
“I’ve been in the military and in special services. I know when someone’s tailing me,” he spits in Eames’ face.
He doesn’t hear much after that; just the loud pounding of his heart and blood behind his ears and then his face is being taken between two pinch-like fingers, being twisted up directly into the mark’s co-worker’s snarly face.
“You’re going to tell me right now why you were following me around or else we’re going to start removing fingernails or worse,” he yanks hard at one of Eames’ nails with his fingers as if to prove a point.
Eames has endured a little torture before but not like this. Not when his body already feels shattered and has betrayed him. Not when he feels totally blindsided and bewildered. He usually always sees things coming, even torture.
When the mark’s co-worker doesn’t get a response from Eames he nods his head at the other men and Eames closes his eyes. He knows it’s starting. He wonders when he’ll pass out completely from the pain, only to be revived and put through it again. He wonders how long he’ll last in the state he’s in-four, maybe five hours tops?
He shudders and squeezes his eyes as he feels cold metal and pressure on a finger.
I’m done, love, I’m done.
At least we had a little time…we built a home out of sand and glass together.
I got to see you, really see you…I got to kiss you once.
And then his vision is white hot as pain erupts at his finger and he’s glad he can’t see the blood spurting everywhere as his nail is ripped completely off. He screams until his voice is raw and then voices are yelling at him to talk but he can’t talk.
He can only see Arthur as he curls up onto his makeshift bed in the tiny living room, dark curls on the white pillow, him working the beach with the sun on his pale skin, his pants and shirt sleeves rolled up and he’s laughing as he chases the tide, him scooping out handfuls of pumpkin innards, hands orange and sticky as he dutifully carves out eyes and mouth, giving it to Eames, him watching the leaves fall from almost barren trees, one almost hitting him square in the eye and he clings to Eames half in shock and half laughing, him curled up against the radiator on the bare wooden floor with a book in one of Eames’ old sweatshirts.
He sees all of this through his tear stained eyes as he feels cold metal and pressure on another finger.
Love, if we had more time…
If the job was longer…
He thinks the pain is one iota less excruciating as another nail is ripped from his skin without warning but he screams all the same.
He screams and screams in agony as they finish with nail ripping and switch to bashing his knee again and again with what he guesses is either the hammer or meat tenderizer. And then he doesn’t think anything at all.
* * *
He awakes to cold water being doused on him. His body is the definition of pain. He is pain. He writhes and twists in the chair, his body too big and swollen for it now.
He sputters and shakes violently, feeling he may vomit and then the client’s competition-the mark himself is staring down at him.
He’s yelling directly into Eames’ face but Eames can’t make anything out, his ears ringing and it’s like he’s floating above it all, above the pain and madness, like it’s all a dream.
He receives hard blows to his stomach that makes him snap out of a little, the fresh pain bubbling up and clutching him, his head hanging pathetically. Harsh voices scream at him again and then his head is being tipped back and a funnel is being forced into his mouth. He can see the gas being rolled over, a tube being connected.
Eames closes his eyes because the tears are overwhelming them.
I’m done, love, I’m done.
We we’re stupid, blinded, too caught up. We didn’t see…we didn’t see…
Powerful hands are holding him as he struggles. He sees the tube hovering over the funnel, liquid rushing out, the gasoline smell hitting his nose and then it’s traveling down his throat and he imagines his insides are being burned to a crisp as the deadly toxins fill him up.
And he’s telling Arthur in his mind to not forget to take the trash out on Monday, telling him various things about the upkeep on the house they once shared sweetly together, his last wishes.
Keep it, darling…keep it…so you’ll remember…
And then he doesn’t remember anything as the gasoline and darkness swallows him up completely.
* * *
His eyelids hurt too much as he flutters them a little in attempt to test them. Everything hurts way too much so he settles on closing them and tries to focus on just breathing but something feels like it’s stuck in his throat. He wonders if it’s still the gasoline.
He thinks he hears something, tries to pinpoint it but it’s hard. Everything is too hard.
“Eames.”
He thinks he knows that voice.
The voice is very close and he feels a warm hand on his forehead, sweeping away hair in the kindest of gestures, feels a light kiss to it a second later followed by what sounds like faint sobs. Eames tries to smile but something is in his mouth preventing him. Again, it’s too hard so he decides to just rest his eyes instead.
* * *
He chances moving his eyes, the only thing he feels he can move. The pain is bad but not unbearable this time. Everything is white and bright, it hurts his eyes to look at it. He blinks several hundred times he guesses and he can only see out of one eye. He thinks he may be alive but he’s not sure.
His one good eye sweeps the room, settling on a solitary figure slumped in a chair next to him on his right side, eyes closed, dark hair sticking out boldly against the white walls.
He tries to work his mouth, his lips, his tongue but again something is in the way, preventing him. He can only feebly stare. He tests other things, inspects. His right arm is the only thing that is workable though his fingers are bandaged. His left leg is hanging, suspended in a cast. His right ankle doesn’t want to move so he figures it’s in a cast. His left arm too is in a cast. He feels bandages wrapped around his skin as he shifts ever so slightly in the hospital gown. He touches the apparatus at his mouth, feels that it is a tube that’s helping him breathe. This all saps his energy and his right hand flops to the side of the bed, hitting the little rail in the process.
Arthur stirs at once and Eames has never been so happy to see him in his life.
He sees him blink awake, wipe at his red eyes and stretch. He notices Eames and he almost jumps, relief washing over his haggard features.
He’s on him at once, taking his right hand in his, face contorted in anguish and pain. He grips his hand, hangs his head as he hears him murmur: “Thank God, thank God, thank God…”
* * *
Arthur stays with him the entire time, through it all. He looks haggard, eyes bloodshot, hair a mess, deep bags under his eyes and he’s looking like he hasn’t eaten or slept. Eames guesses by his stubble, almost full blown facial hair donning the other man’s face that he’s been in the hospital for at least a week already. This shocks him, enrages him. He’s fucked up the job for them.
Arthur sits by his side, takes his one good hand in his and talks to him.
First it seems to fill the silence as he’s practically babbling in a rush, relief that he’s alive. Then it moves to Eames himself.
“Three broken ribs, shattered left knee, broken fibula from your fall on the same leg, broken radius in your left arm, fractured right ankle, three fingernails removed from your right hand, left eye temporarily swollen shut and…”Arthur chokes back something and Eames hopes it isn’t a sob, he hates seeing him this way, not taking care of himself.
“And the gasoline poisoning…they performed emergency surgery on you to remove the burnt skin in your esophagus, intestines and stomach. You…you almost died…” and his lips are quivering and Eames is motioning for the legal pad and pen that a nurse left him the other day so that he could write down what he needed since he still needed the breathing machine to help him, his organs still too weak and raw to work on their own.
Arthur hands it to him, blinking away tears.
“It’s all my fault,” he mumbles, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve.
What happened to them? Eames writes sloppily on the legal pad because it’s been bothering him and he wants to know if the job was abandoned or what.
Arthur blinks at the words on the pad, his eyes going dark after a while. Eames knows that look.
“They’ve been taken care of,” he says darkly and he looks away, suddenly fascinated with the controls on Eames’ beside remote.
Eames touches Arthur’s hand and Arthur looks at him after a while, his face a mask of pain.
“I hunted them down, Eames. I killed them…and I wasn’t nice about it. All of them-the mark, his co-worker and his henchmen,” Arthur snorts a little in disgust. “The client walked away pleased-his completion obliterated…we just didn’t get paid fully for it.”
Eames can only stare widely at him with his one good eye.
Arthur catches his stare and a sad smile crosses his face.
“We’ll be safe now…plenty of time for you to recover.”
Arthur, the bastard, depresses the button on his control to dispense the pain medication. He feels drowsy almost immediately.
Arthur leans in and kisses his forehead and Eames can feel fresh wetness at Arthur’s eyes.
“Just sleep, love,” he murmurs and Eames does just that.
* * *
It’s another week before the tube can be removed from his throat.
Arthur has never left his side for more than a couple hours.
Arthur smiles when Eames can work his mouth again. He still feels like he’s in constant pain but Arthur being there, holding his hand, comforting him and helping him with whatever he needs alleviates some of that pain.
Arthur smoothes back Eames’ hair affectionately from his forehead when Eames smiles for the first time in weeks. Arthur buries his face in the crook of his neck and Eames knows he’s trying not to cry.
“You’ll be fine. They say you’ll be ok enough in no time that I can take you home,” he murmurs into his neck.
Eames knows he is lying to placate him. He’ll probably be in the hospital for another week or so.
“Are you taking me back to the beach house? Is it our home?” his voice is strange sounding to his ears, thick, weak, wheezy and gargled after not using his vocal chords in so long. It also burns horribly.
Arthur slips his hand into his and squeezes it, his face lifting from his neck.
“Yes, you idiot. Yes, it always was. I bought it.” A solitary tear slides down his face and his lips are trembling. “I was going to surprise you on that Sunday and tell you...” He kisses his hand, one of the only things that doesn’t hurt and Arthur closes his eyes.
“I love you and you better not fucking die. You better get well,” he chokes.
“I plan on it,” he whispers because it still burns to talk.
Arthur buries his face in Eames’ hand and cries softly.
* * *
Arthur drives him home, back to their beach house when he is released. Where he gets a car Eames has no idea.
Arthur looks more alive, a little color returning to his features and his face doesn’t look as sunken in.
Eames has been worried about him this entire time. To say he was a wreck would be putting it mildly. Eames thinks he was self inflicting torture maybe a little bit, feeling guilty and he also thinks he didn’t get a full night’s rest the entire time Eames was in the hospital. Eames would write to him on the legal pad, urging him to leave to at least sleep but Arthur would refuse, saying he wouldn’t leave his side.
Eames eyes are transfixed to the window as the now graying ocean rolls past him.
Arthur touches his cheek affectionately.
“Missed it didn’t you?”
And then he sees it down below the small hill. He can just make it out- their little beach house nestled into the sand.
He closes his eyes and sighs and Arthur kisses his cheek.
It’s not easy work as Arthur helps him out of the car and rolls Eames’ wheelchair down the little hill. Nothing is going to be easy for the point man as taking care of Eames is not going to be any picnic. He can’t walk nor use his left arm at all and he has to be careful of what he eats and also has to take medication at certain times. He’ll have to change his bandages every day and monitor him closely. If Arthur is put out he doesn’t show it.
Arthur rolls him in his wheelchair past the ocean, their ocean and Eames smiles. And then they’re staring up at their house but it’s different. Eames sees that Arthur has taken care of it in his absence. When he was supposed to be showering or sleeping Arthur installed a ramp up into the house and had painted and fixed the exterior of the house as well. It looked brand new.
“I wanted you to come home to something nice,” he whispers in his ear and kisses it, making him shiver.
Eames can only stare up at it stupidly; can only stare up at Arthur in awe.
He wheels a still stupefied Eames inside.
Arthur wheels him into what used to be the living room but has been transformed into a full blown bedroom complete with a low to the ground king size bed, new arm chair with a foot stool, dresser and nightstand. All old furniture is gone save the bookshelf which Arthur has fixed and of course the stereo.
Eames can’t find any words so he just smiles and laughs a little in disbelief.
“You did this all for me?” he whispers out of amazement after a time.
Arthur rests his head on top of his and whispers: “All for you. All for you…”
Arthur crouches down to his level and rests his head on Eames’ knee.
“What do you need? What would you like?”
Eames wants to protest, doesn’t want to be a burden but he knows he’ll have to get used to Arthur asking this as he is completely at his mercy for the next couple months.
Eames smiles. “Just you. Though I would like to try out that bed,” he winks.
Arthur laughs a little and he thinks he’s getting the old Arthur back, the one that smiled and laughed all the time with the salt breeze in his hair and morning sun on his skin. Arthur’s face lights up a little and he looks more alive than he’s seen in him in the past three weeks.
He helps Eames into the bed which takes quite a while, most of his limbs useless.
Arthur snuggles against him to his surprise once he gets him situated.
“I thought it would be nice to sleep next to you for a change,” he’s tracing a figure eight into Eames’ shirt, a slow blush on his cheeks.
“You never once asked me in all that time,” and he’s studying Eames’ face. “I would have you know…” he trails off.
“How long did you know?” Eames rasps out and he isn’t talking about sleeping next to Arthur and Arthur knows this because his face falls.
Eames put two and two together somewhere along the way since he was alone with his thoughts a lot in the hospital. He just wanted Arthur to say it out loud, to confirm his suspicions.
When Arthur doesn’t respond Eames continues. “Why didn’t you tell me?” his whisper is gentle but he does feel some anger and hurt bubbling up.
“Because I was selfish…because I still am selfish,” and then he’s cupping Eames’ face and is kissing him deeply, all questions and thoughts pushed out of Eames’ mind, his anger and hurt melting away.
“I love you,” he breathes into Eames’ mouth and then he’s breaking away just a little so he can talk, their lips still very close. “At first I moved in with you to protect you, so I could watch your back. I knew the mark and his friend, his co-worker, had some heavy military background, experience in interrogation and torture and so forth. I wanted to tell you, warn you but I was so afraid. I also got so used to living with you and got swept up in living here in our house and our little world and I didn’t want anything to change, didn’t want you to pull out or leave the job… leave me,” he sniffles a little and Eames nudges his nose, a weak attempt to get him to stop torturing himself.
Once Arthur regains his composure enough he continues. “But then protecting you kind of dissolved into the background and faded away, almost forgotten and then I was living with you because I wanted to live with you and I fell in love with you and this house and just everything,” his shudders and closes his eyes.
“I was selfish, I wanted it all. I bought the house and hoped maybe you would stay with me…totally forgetting the reason why I wanted to stay with you in the first place. I was stupid, careless, wrapped up in only my wants and needs…and then you’re taken from me and almost killed by the people I was trying to protect you from,” Arthur’s jaw clenches before he takes a deep, shaky breath, his eyes open and they’re wet.
“I don’t know what I would have done if they’d killed you…”
“But they didn’t,” Eames whispers, smoothing some hair behind Arthur’s ear with his one good hand, interrupting him because he’s heard enough and he’s tired of Arthur torturing himself- it going on for weeks. There had been enough torture done to one person he didn’t want another person going through it.
“Eames, I’m sorry,” his voice breaks. “I know it isn’t enough to fix things and why you still want me around I don’t know but I’ll do anything I can…”
“Arthur,” he whispers sternly.
“I love you dearly but please do shut up,” he smiles. Arthur stares at him wide eyed.
“Just take care of me and the house that’s all I ask…”Arthur seems shocked but the shock turns into a smile and he seems to have found that little glow that’s brought on by being back in his territory, the glow that Eames loves so much.
“Oh and one more thing,” he breathes and Arthur nods.
“Don’t stop loving this area or autumn because of what happened…because…” Eames can’t really think of a valid reason. “Because it’s very fetching on you and because....because I say so.”
Arthur is smiling crookedly and nods. “I think I can do that,” and he kisses him, almost knocking the wind out of Eames.
Arthur finds the fingers of Eames’ right hand and weaves theirs together. Eames doesn’t want them anywhere else. He imagines the glass that he once had over Arthur has shattered for good. There’s nothing in between them now, Eames is allowed to touch him and Arthur is allowed to roam free, to fly but he knows he’ll always come back to him, to the house they built, to the life they were starting together.
Afterwards
Arthur nurses him without one complaint or grimace. He has to practically carry him everywhere, help him in and out of bed, changing bandages, feeding him medication, fixing food (and Arthur is really not that good in the kitchen), bathe him, help him to the toilet, dress him and shave him and he does this all the while with a smile on his face.
Sometimes Eames wakes in the middle of the night screaming, bathed in cold sweat as he relives the torture. Arthur hands are on him immediately, touching him gently, whispering reassurances into his hair. “I’m here, I’m here. You’re ok.” And he’ll curl against him and hold him until Eames falls asleep once more.
But in better times they still laugh together and Arthur frequently wheels him out, down the front patio on the ramp and out to the now snow covered sand and gray ocean.
When Eames is strong enough Arthur sits on his lap while Eames is in his chair, nuzzling him close and Eames moves them down the beach. Sometimes they’ll read a book or look up at the stars, Arthur insisting Eames point out the constellations to him.
Eames can walk around on crutches by the time Christmas comes, his ankle healed. The living room is converted back to a proper living room, new and better furniture put in and the big bed is upstairs where it belongs for the two of them to share properly.
He’s a lot better, improving every day.
Arthur is in the kitchen trying to make gingerbread cookies, making a huge mess in the process and Eames hobbles up to him while his back is turned. He grabs Arthur’s waist from behind and pulls him close, something he’s wanted to do for so long but unable as he has been indisposed. He buries his face into his neck and inhales deeply, planting a kiss. Arthur is unusually quiet and still in his arms.
“What’s wrong?” he breathes, his voice is all but back to normal again.
Arthur’s shoulders slump as he slowly turns around, his lips turned down in a frown.
“I suppose now that you’re better you’d like to start planning on when we’re leaving to take a job. You can get around pretty well, can still tail people and forge, can move around in the airports now…”
“Arthur,” he interrupts. He takes his chin in his fingers and draws his face upwards to meet his eyes.
“I quite like it here. I thought maybe we could stay awhile.”
Arthur regards him with wide eyes, he blinks at him for a few heartbeats in disbelief it changing to adoration and his eyes round and soften.
“You mean?” he breathes.
“Yes,” Eames breathes back and Arthur grips him and kisses him fiercely because they both want to stay, even with Eames doing better, it being unspoken between them for too long, they need each other, all jobs they could be taking apart from one another long forgotten. They’re tired of running. They finally have a place that they can come back to, can come home to.
They cling to each other and their hands find each other as the world dissolves around them as they stand in their small, warm kitchen, in their small beach home, nestled in the sand in their little piece of Cape Cod.
Rating: R for language, scenes of violence and torture
Summary: Five time Eames took Arthur's hand and one time he didn't...
On a short job turned long in Cape Cod during autumn Eames rents a beach house and becomes fasinated as Arthur acts anything other than his usual self. He observes him loving everything fall and not wanting to break the spell he only tries to hold his hand until one time he finally can't. Somehow Arthur moves into the beach house with him and things just get more complicated from there as they slowly fall in love.
Some major h/c ensues as Eames is put in peril!
Word Count: About 12,500 total between the two parts full of schmoop, romance, and h/c goodness!
Notes: I don't own a thing in terms of Inception
This fic is written for a lot of things but mainly as a thank-you fic for the awesome:
indybree
They wanted a cute Arthur/Eames fic with lots of hand holding!
This fic is also written for this prompt that wanted Arthur and Eames on a long job in New England, Arthur loving fall and all the things that come with it and Eames content with just watching him until finally one day he can’t…
It’s also written for this and this prompt that wanted some h/c involving Eames being in danger, getting broken and really just being the one that receives it!
I tried my best to incorporate it all!
This fic is also loosely based off the song: “Two” from Ryan Adams, just a personal prompt of my own. The title of this fic comes from the song as well:
If you take me back
Back to your place
I'll try not to bother you I promise
'Cause it's cold in here
And I wish it was hot
The sink's broke, it's leaking from the faucet
And i'm fractured from the fall
And i wanna go home
But it takes two when it used to take one
It takes two when it used to take only one
Well, my money's no good when i'm up to no good
No good ever comes from it, honest
I got a really good heart
I just can't catch a break
If i could i'd treat you like you wanted me to i promise
But i'm fractured from the fall
And i wanna go home
I'm fractured from the fall
And i wanna go home
But it takes two when it used to take one
It takes two when it used to take one
It takes two when it used to take one
It takes two when it used to take only one
This is Part II of the two part fic. Part I is here. Please review :)
V
Its three days until the extraction. It’s happening on Monday when the mark is scheduled to have a colonoscopy. They’ll have about three hours as the mark will be in a hospital bed, recovering from the procedure. Plenty of time to do the two levels of the dream. It’ll just be Eames and Cobb entering, Arthur being the lookout and Johnny providing backup if needed. Everything is laid out and ready. They cannot be any more prepared, having gone over the plan thousands of times it seems. Cobb gives them the weekend off.
It’s almost Halloween.
Upon walking back from the factory that Friday in their usual walk back to the beach house Arthur spies a flyer stapled to a telephone pole. Arthur stops to read it, something catching his eye and Eames peers at it over his shoulder, reading it with him.
It’s a Cape Cod Halloween festival for the coming weekend. The market square and streets will be blocked off and there will be local growers selling their crops, pumpkin carving, music in the streets, vendors and other fall activities.
After Arthur reads it he keeps walking, not saying a word. Eames knows he wants to go, can see it in his eyes but Arthur’s too proud to ask, probably thinking he’ll look silly if he did so he doesn’t. Eames doesn’t mention it until after they’ve finished their bangers and mash-his grandmother’s recipe and they’ve retired on the front porch, drinking good scotch and smoking cigars.
Arthur is breathing deeply through his nose, eyelids drooping, swirling his drink, relaxed back into the wooden beach chair, looking out to the waves.
“You know we could use some fruit and vegetables since you used up all the apples again for that pie you tried to make,” Eames puffs on his cigar looking out as the tide retracts.
Arthur makes a noise of affirmation.
“I’m going to go to the market square tomorrow, see what they got.”
Arthur breathes out smoke, distributes ash over the porch and nods.
“I’ll come with you.”
And this is how they go to the Cape Cod Halloween festival.
Arthur is one big ball of quiet excitement come Saturday-his body practically humming and vibrating as he flits from room to room, unable to keep still. Eames suppresses a laugh when he finally suggests to Arthur coolly after lunch if they should shove off and get some groceries. Arthur practically jumps up and grabs his coat, nodding far too eagerly and is out the door before Eames has even shrugged on his own coat.
They really do need produce but Eames figures that can wait. He wants Arthur to have his fun first.
The New England air has gotten significantly colder and Eames blows into his hands as they make their way to the square, Arthur practically bouncing as he steps. The air is heavy with the smell of burning leaves. It’s also crisp-all things fall.
Their warm breath expels out in front of them in little puffs as they approach the square. It’s decorated in true Halloween and autumn fashion. Lots of orange twinkly lights hang from across telephone poles like Christmas lights. There’s carved pumpkins everywhere, fake cobwebs hanging from lights and other kitschy and endearing décor strewn about. Arthur’s breath catches in his throat, eyes wide as he takes it in. Eames stands a step back from him and lets him, not wanting to ruin the moment for him. And then Arthur is dragging him into a shop and is buying him a scarf and gloves.
“It’s getting colder,” he mumbles as he fishes out his wallet.
He waves off the bag to the shop clerk and then he’s winding a warm, soft, baby blue scarf around Eames’ neck. “It brings out your eyes,” he mumbles as he fixes his scarf and hands him the black, soft leather gloves. Eames is thankful they don’t match. Their faces are an equal match of red as they suit up. Arthur’s scarf is a brown tweed and it’s hard, so hard not to grab Arthur by the soft scarf with his rosy cheeks and wide, excited eyes and pull him into a kiss.
He watches him put on a brown, newsboy type hat that covers his ears, brown leather gloves and then he’s exiting the shop, not waiting for Eames, eager to get back to whatever is outside.
People are milling around in costume and Arthur takes delight in this, pointing some out to Eames like he can’t see them himself.
They walk the square, Arthur stopping at everything. Eames lets him, let’s him do whatever he wants, lets him drag him wherever he wants to go.
Eames swears he sees a familiar face in a passing crowd of people, wants to pause and take a look but then Arthur is dragging him by the sleeve to a “build your own caramel apple” stand.
Arthur pays for Eames to do one too even though Eames doesn’t really care for candy or caramel apples but he lets him. He knows Arthur would eat his too if he didn’t want it.
Eames laughs as Arthur elbows his way to the front of the line, pushing mostly children out of the way, pure eagerness on his face, pulling Eames along.
They watch as the clerk dips their green apples in heavy caramel. Eames swears he can see Arthur’s mouth water. And then they can pick from the multitude of toppings. Arthur has a hard time deciding so Eames goes first. He picks peanuts, chocolate and M&M’s candies-all things he knows Arthur likes.
After what feels like a lifetime Arthur chooses chocolate, white chocolate drizzled over it, marshmallows and walnuts.
Eames whispers to the clerk not to wrap Arthur’s up as she rings them up.
With huge caramel apples in tow, Arthur digging into his right away they walk the square some more. Again Eames thinks he spies someone he recognizes and then Arthur is taking his elbow and then they are picking out blackberries. Arthur feeds one to Eames unexpectedly to both of their embarrassment and pleasure.
It’s evening before Eames knows it. Again the obvious seems to slip through his fingers, catches him unawares.
They’ve paused so Arthur can work on his ginormous caramel apple. It’s gotten significantly more crowded and there’s nowhere to sit. Arthur has a look of pure love on his face as he they stand under a street lamp close together. Arthur’s face is covered with chocolate and caramel and he doesn’t seem to care-he’s a little boy in love with his native haunts and autumn. Eames thinks it’s probably the most irresistible thing he’s done yet. He’s all eager eyes and flushed face from dragging Eames around and around.
And Eames can’t take it anymore, not one more instant. It’s been almost two months of living together having to endure Arthur’s absolute adorableness and love for his old stomping grounds and the season, them gliding around each other, barely touching and suddenly he’s shoving Arthur’s hat over his eyes, taking his sticky, chocolaty chin in his fingers and is kissing him, kissing him like he’s wanted to for the eight years of knowing him, the months living together and everything else.
He needs this. He’s been in denial about the job coming to a close soon, this life coming to a close soon. He knows that after Monday their time of playing house will be through. Arthur will leave this place, his native lands and go off on another job and Eames on a different one, their lives splitting off from one another once again. Arthur will be buttoned up tight, closed up, cut off, polished, cold, shined and groomed, he’ll be “on” again and Eames won’t be able to stop it from happening.
The beach house they built up together will be left gutted and empty once more.
Eames twines his fingers in Arthur’s free ones and he kisses him deeply because he needs it once before Arthur flies off, before the glass is removed, shifted, broken or replaced. He isn’t sure anymore and doesn’t care as he glides his tongue over his sickly sweet one and Arthur is tense and cold in his arms, not struggling or protesting but not reciprocating either.
And then there’s a loud boom in the air and the sky explodes in fireworks. Eames jerks away from him surprised and both their faces are glued to the dazzling night sky. Eames keeps a steady, gloved hand in Arthur’s, their fingers laced together as the sky turns different colors, reflected back in their eyes. He only releases Eames’ hand when they are back at the beach house, almost immediately collapsing on the couch/his bed and nodding off almost immediately after he shrugs off his coat and shoes. He must have been exhausted-all the fresh air and exciting new things. Eames wonders faintly if it’s ok to kiss him all the time now as he locks the front door. They have one day left. Maybe they can go up to Boston, make a day of it. The thought makes him smile as he enters the kitchen, remembering and then cursing himself. He does an about face. They had bought no produce besides some blackberries. The festival is still going on for a couple hours so he shrugs his coat back on, kisses Arthur’s sleeping forehead, murmuring in his hair that he’ll be back soon and slips back outside.
VI
He’s glad for the new scarf and gloves as the night has turned quite bitterly cold.
He’s hurrying-all thoughts of Arthur, wondering if he can convince him to share the bed with him tonight. He only has one more night with him; he wants to make it count.
He’s smiling, lost in thought. He rounds a corner and is about to head down some stairs to the market square below when he feels a sudden, quick presence behind him.
Three of them, he thinks before he’s being shoved and flying in the air, his feet missing the steps completely and then his body is meeting cold concrete, tumbling down stairs, feeling and hearing sickening cracks and faintly realizing it’s his bones breaking.
The fall feels like forever, like he’s suspended in time, his mind rattled like his brain has come loose from his head. His vision is swirling and doubling, pain exploding throughout his body and he can’t pinpoint from where exactly-it’s everywhere. And then there’s three faces dancing in front of his vision and he recognizes one. One he had seen in the crowd earlier and Eames closes his eyes because he knows he is done, tears sliding down his face and he doesn’t care.
* * *
His eyes blink open and the environment has changed. It takes him a moment to try to comprehend where he is. It’s dark and damp, only one small light hanging from the ceiling. His body is in so much agony that it’s hard to breathe, hard to think. He thinks he has two or three fractured or broken ribs and arm and leg. His vision is totally shot in one eye, hoping it’s just because blood got in it. His head feels too hot and his body is doused in sweat.
His head lolls. He pathetically tries to move but his broken body is secured tightly to a chair.
He isn’t going anywhere.
Men seem to materialize out of thin air. One is rolling a metal cart toward Eames; the others glare down at him menacingly, with hungry, mad, glistening eyes.
The man with the cart stops when he’s right in front him, cracking knuckles, looking eager. Eames spies the cart knowing already what’s going to be on it: pliers, hacksaw, hammer, meat tenderizer, shears, ice pick, restraints, blindfolds, knives, and various devices to pry or hold skin open. He sees them all resting on the cart, glistening like surgeons tools. He’s only surprised to see the small tank of gasoline, funnel and tube. Eames faintly realizes that one or more of them are ex military just like Eames. They even may have been interrogators. Eames sees the mark’s co-worker stare down at him-eyes black, face hard as stone. Nowhere in the information Eames was given did it say he had a military background. Eames is stunned. Arthur would never miss something like that, something so obvious and important.
His thoughts are silenced by a violent slap to his face making his head flop stupidly to one side, pain erupting, the room spinning.
He hears knuckles being cracked again, vicious laughs being exchanged.
“You didn’t think I noticed you tailing me did you? Didn’t know I had hired a bodyguard after the second day and had them follow you around as you were trying to follow me, you prick!” he screamed right in his ear.
“I’ve been in the military and in special services. I know when someone’s tailing me,” he spits in Eames’ face.
He doesn’t hear much after that; just the loud pounding of his heart and blood behind his ears and then his face is being taken between two pinch-like fingers, being twisted up directly into the mark’s co-worker’s snarly face.
“You’re going to tell me right now why you were following me around or else we’re going to start removing fingernails or worse,” he yanks hard at one of Eames’ nails with his fingers as if to prove a point.
Eames has endured a little torture before but not like this. Not when his body already feels shattered and has betrayed him. Not when he feels totally blindsided and bewildered. He usually always sees things coming, even torture.
When the mark’s co-worker doesn’t get a response from Eames he nods his head at the other men and Eames closes his eyes. He knows it’s starting. He wonders when he’ll pass out completely from the pain, only to be revived and put through it again. He wonders how long he’ll last in the state he’s in-four, maybe five hours tops?
He shudders and squeezes his eyes as he feels cold metal and pressure on a finger.
I’m done, love, I’m done.
At least we had a little time…we built a home out of sand and glass together.
I got to see you, really see you…I got to kiss you once.
And then his vision is white hot as pain erupts at his finger and he’s glad he can’t see the blood spurting everywhere as his nail is ripped completely off. He screams until his voice is raw and then voices are yelling at him to talk but he can’t talk.
He can only see Arthur as he curls up onto his makeshift bed in the tiny living room, dark curls on the white pillow, him working the beach with the sun on his pale skin, his pants and shirt sleeves rolled up and he’s laughing as he chases the tide, him scooping out handfuls of pumpkin innards, hands orange and sticky as he dutifully carves out eyes and mouth, giving it to Eames, him watching the leaves fall from almost barren trees, one almost hitting him square in the eye and he clings to Eames half in shock and half laughing, him curled up against the radiator on the bare wooden floor with a book in one of Eames’ old sweatshirts.
He sees all of this through his tear stained eyes as he feels cold metal and pressure on another finger.
Love, if we had more time…
If the job was longer…
He thinks the pain is one iota less excruciating as another nail is ripped from his skin without warning but he screams all the same.
He screams and screams in agony as they finish with nail ripping and switch to bashing his knee again and again with what he guesses is either the hammer or meat tenderizer. And then he doesn’t think anything at all.
* * *
He awakes to cold water being doused on him. His body is the definition of pain. He is pain. He writhes and twists in the chair, his body too big and swollen for it now.
He sputters and shakes violently, feeling he may vomit and then the client’s competition-the mark himself is staring down at him.
He’s yelling directly into Eames’ face but Eames can’t make anything out, his ears ringing and it’s like he’s floating above it all, above the pain and madness, like it’s all a dream.
He receives hard blows to his stomach that makes him snap out of a little, the fresh pain bubbling up and clutching him, his head hanging pathetically. Harsh voices scream at him again and then his head is being tipped back and a funnel is being forced into his mouth. He can see the gas being rolled over, a tube being connected.
Eames closes his eyes because the tears are overwhelming them.
I’m done, love, I’m done.
We we’re stupid, blinded, too caught up. We didn’t see…we didn’t see…
Powerful hands are holding him as he struggles. He sees the tube hovering over the funnel, liquid rushing out, the gasoline smell hitting his nose and then it’s traveling down his throat and he imagines his insides are being burned to a crisp as the deadly toxins fill him up.
And he’s telling Arthur in his mind to not forget to take the trash out on Monday, telling him various things about the upkeep on the house they once shared sweetly together, his last wishes.
Keep it, darling…keep it…so you’ll remember…
And then he doesn’t remember anything as the gasoline and darkness swallows him up completely.
* * *
His eyelids hurt too much as he flutters them a little in attempt to test them. Everything hurts way too much so he settles on closing them and tries to focus on just breathing but something feels like it’s stuck in his throat. He wonders if it’s still the gasoline.
He thinks he hears something, tries to pinpoint it but it’s hard. Everything is too hard.
“Eames.”
He thinks he knows that voice.
The voice is very close and he feels a warm hand on his forehead, sweeping away hair in the kindest of gestures, feels a light kiss to it a second later followed by what sounds like faint sobs. Eames tries to smile but something is in his mouth preventing him. Again, it’s too hard so he decides to just rest his eyes instead.
* * *
He chances moving his eyes, the only thing he feels he can move. The pain is bad but not unbearable this time. Everything is white and bright, it hurts his eyes to look at it. He blinks several hundred times he guesses and he can only see out of one eye. He thinks he may be alive but he’s not sure.
His one good eye sweeps the room, settling on a solitary figure slumped in a chair next to him on his right side, eyes closed, dark hair sticking out boldly against the white walls.
He tries to work his mouth, his lips, his tongue but again something is in the way, preventing him. He can only feebly stare. He tests other things, inspects. His right arm is the only thing that is workable though his fingers are bandaged. His left leg is hanging, suspended in a cast. His right ankle doesn’t want to move so he figures it’s in a cast. His left arm too is in a cast. He feels bandages wrapped around his skin as he shifts ever so slightly in the hospital gown. He touches the apparatus at his mouth, feels that it is a tube that’s helping him breathe. This all saps his energy and his right hand flops to the side of the bed, hitting the little rail in the process.
Arthur stirs at once and Eames has never been so happy to see him in his life.
He sees him blink awake, wipe at his red eyes and stretch. He notices Eames and he almost jumps, relief washing over his haggard features.
He’s on him at once, taking his right hand in his, face contorted in anguish and pain. He grips his hand, hangs his head as he hears him murmur: “Thank God, thank God, thank God…”
* * *
Arthur stays with him the entire time, through it all. He looks haggard, eyes bloodshot, hair a mess, deep bags under his eyes and he’s looking like he hasn’t eaten or slept. Eames guesses by his stubble, almost full blown facial hair donning the other man’s face that he’s been in the hospital for at least a week already. This shocks him, enrages him. He’s fucked up the job for them.
Arthur sits by his side, takes his one good hand in his and talks to him.
First it seems to fill the silence as he’s practically babbling in a rush, relief that he’s alive. Then it moves to Eames himself.
“Three broken ribs, shattered left knee, broken fibula from your fall on the same leg, broken radius in your left arm, fractured right ankle, three fingernails removed from your right hand, left eye temporarily swollen shut and…”Arthur chokes back something and Eames hopes it isn’t a sob, he hates seeing him this way, not taking care of himself.
“And the gasoline poisoning…they performed emergency surgery on you to remove the burnt skin in your esophagus, intestines and stomach. You…you almost died…” and his lips are quivering and Eames is motioning for the legal pad and pen that a nurse left him the other day so that he could write down what he needed since he still needed the breathing machine to help him, his organs still too weak and raw to work on their own.
Arthur hands it to him, blinking away tears.
“It’s all my fault,” he mumbles, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve.
What happened to them? Eames writes sloppily on the legal pad because it’s been bothering him and he wants to know if the job was abandoned or what.
Arthur blinks at the words on the pad, his eyes going dark after a while. Eames knows that look.
“They’ve been taken care of,” he says darkly and he looks away, suddenly fascinated with the controls on Eames’ beside remote.
Eames touches Arthur’s hand and Arthur looks at him after a while, his face a mask of pain.
“I hunted them down, Eames. I killed them…and I wasn’t nice about it. All of them-the mark, his co-worker and his henchmen,” Arthur snorts a little in disgust. “The client walked away pleased-his completion obliterated…we just didn’t get paid fully for it.”
Eames can only stare widely at him with his one good eye.
Arthur catches his stare and a sad smile crosses his face.
“We’ll be safe now…plenty of time for you to recover.”
Arthur, the bastard, depresses the button on his control to dispense the pain medication. He feels drowsy almost immediately.
Arthur leans in and kisses his forehead and Eames can feel fresh wetness at Arthur’s eyes.
“Just sleep, love,” he murmurs and Eames does just that.
* * *
It’s another week before the tube can be removed from his throat.
Arthur has never left his side for more than a couple hours.
Arthur smiles when Eames can work his mouth again. He still feels like he’s in constant pain but Arthur being there, holding his hand, comforting him and helping him with whatever he needs alleviates some of that pain.
Arthur smoothes back Eames’ hair affectionately from his forehead when Eames smiles for the first time in weeks. Arthur buries his face in the crook of his neck and Eames knows he’s trying not to cry.
“You’ll be fine. They say you’ll be ok enough in no time that I can take you home,” he murmurs into his neck.
Eames knows he is lying to placate him. He’ll probably be in the hospital for another week or so.
“Are you taking me back to the beach house? Is it our home?” his voice is strange sounding to his ears, thick, weak, wheezy and gargled after not using his vocal chords in so long. It also burns horribly.
Arthur slips his hand into his and squeezes it, his face lifting from his neck.
“Yes, you idiot. Yes, it always was. I bought it.” A solitary tear slides down his face and his lips are trembling. “I was going to surprise you on that Sunday and tell you...” He kisses his hand, one of the only things that doesn’t hurt and Arthur closes his eyes.
“I love you and you better not fucking die. You better get well,” he chokes.
“I plan on it,” he whispers because it still burns to talk.
Arthur buries his face in Eames’ hand and cries softly.
* * *
Arthur drives him home, back to their beach house when he is released. Where he gets a car Eames has no idea.
Arthur looks more alive, a little color returning to his features and his face doesn’t look as sunken in.
Eames has been worried about him this entire time. To say he was a wreck would be putting it mildly. Eames thinks he was self inflicting torture maybe a little bit, feeling guilty and he also thinks he didn’t get a full night’s rest the entire time Eames was in the hospital. Eames would write to him on the legal pad, urging him to leave to at least sleep but Arthur would refuse, saying he wouldn’t leave his side.
Eames eyes are transfixed to the window as the now graying ocean rolls past him.
Arthur touches his cheek affectionately.
“Missed it didn’t you?”
And then he sees it down below the small hill. He can just make it out- their little beach house nestled into the sand.
He closes his eyes and sighs and Arthur kisses his cheek.
It’s not easy work as Arthur helps him out of the car and rolls Eames’ wheelchair down the little hill. Nothing is going to be easy for the point man as taking care of Eames is not going to be any picnic. He can’t walk nor use his left arm at all and he has to be careful of what he eats and also has to take medication at certain times. He’ll have to change his bandages every day and monitor him closely. If Arthur is put out he doesn’t show it.
Arthur rolls him in his wheelchair past the ocean, their ocean and Eames smiles. And then they’re staring up at their house but it’s different. Eames sees that Arthur has taken care of it in his absence. When he was supposed to be showering or sleeping Arthur installed a ramp up into the house and had painted and fixed the exterior of the house as well. It looked brand new.
“I wanted you to come home to something nice,” he whispers in his ear and kisses it, making him shiver.
Eames can only stare up at it stupidly; can only stare up at Arthur in awe.
He wheels a still stupefied Eames inside.
Arthur wheels him into what used to be the living room but has been transformed into a full blown bedroom complete with a low to the ground king size bed, new arm chair with a foot stool, dresser and nightstand. All old furniture is gone save the bookshelf which Arthur has fixed and of course the stereo.
Eames can’t find any words so he just smiles and laughs a little in disbelief.
“You did this all for me?” he whispers out of amazement after a time.
Arthur rests his head on top of his and whispers: “All for you. All for you…”
Arthur crouches down to his level and rests his head on Eames’ knee.
“What do you need? What would you like?”
Eames wants to protest, doesn’t want to be a burden but he knows he’ll have to get used to Arthur asking this as he is completely at his mercy for the next couple months.
Eames smiles. “Just you. Though I would like to try out that bed,” he winks.
Arthur laughs a little and he thinks he’s getting the old Arthur back, the one that smiled and laughed all the time with the salt breeze in his hair and morning sun on his skin. Arthur’s face lights up a little and he looks more alive than he’s seen in him in the past three weeks.
He helps Eames into the bed which takes quite a while, most of his limbs useless.
Arthur snuggles against him to his surprise once he gets him situated.
“I thought it would be nice to sleep next to you for a change,” he’s tracing a figure eight into Eames’ shirt, a slow blush on his cheeks.
“You never once asked me in all that time,” and he’s studying Eames’ face. “I would have you know…” he trails off.
“How long did you know?” Eames rasps out and he isn’t talking about sleeping next to Arthur and Arthur knows this because his face falls.
Eames put two and two together somewhere along the way since he was alone with his thoughts a lot in the hospital. He just wanted Arthur to say it out loud, to confirm his suspicions.
When Arthur doesn’t respond Eames continues. “Why didn’t you tell me?” his whisper is gentle but he does feel some anger and hurt bubbling up.
“Because I was selfish…because I still am selfish,” and then he’s cupping Eames’ face and is kissing him deeply, all questions and thoughts pushed out of Eames’ mind, his anger and hurt melting away.
“I love you,” he breathes into Eames’ mouth and then he’s breaking away just a little so he can talk, their lips still very close. “At first I moved in with you to protect you, so I could watch your back. I knew the mark and his friend, his co-worker, had some heavy military background, experience in interrogation and torture and so forth. I wanted to tell you, warn you but I was so afraid. I also got so used to living with you and got swept up in living here in our house and our little world and I didn’t want anything to change, didn’t want you to pull out or leave the job… leave me,” he sniffles a little and Eames nudges his nose, a weak attempt to get him to stop torturing himself.
Once Arthur regains his composure enough he continues. “But then protecting you kind of dissolved into the background and faded away, almost forgotten and then I was living with you because I wanted to live with you and I fell in love with you and this house and just everything,” his shudders and closes his eyes.
“I was selfish, I wanted it all. I bought the house and hoped maybe you would stay with me…totally forgetting the reason why I wanted to stay with you in the first place. I was stupid, careless, wrapped up in only my wants and needs…and then you’re taken from me and almost killed by the people I was trying to protect you from,” Arthur’s jaw clenches before he takes a deep, shaky breath, his eyes open and they’re wet.
“I don’t know what I would have done if they’d killed you…”
“But they didn’t,” Eames whispers, smoothing some hair behind Arthur’s ear with his one good hand, interrupting him because he’s heard enough and he’s tired of Arthur torturing himself- it going on for weeks. There had been enough torture done to one person he didn’t want another person going through it.
“Eames, I’m sorry,” his voice breaks. “I know it isn’t enough to fix things and why you still want me around I don’t know but I’ll do anything I can…”
“Arthur,” he whispers sternly.
“I love you dearly but please do shut up,” he smiles. Arthur stares at him wide eyed.
“Just take care of me and the house that’s all I ask…”Arthur seems shocked but the shock turns into a smile and he seems to have found that little glow that’s brought on by being back in his territory, the glow that Eames loves so much.
“Oh and one more thing,” he breathes and Arthur nods.
“Don’t stop loving this area or autumn because of what happened…because…” Eames can’t really think of a valid reason. “Because it’s very fetching on you and because....because I say so.”
Arthur is smiling crookedly and nods. “I think I can do that,” and he kisses him, almost knocking the wind out of Eames.
Arthur finds the fingers of Eames’ right hand and weaves theirs together. Eames doesn’t want them anywhere else. He imagines the glass that he once had over Arthur has shattered for good. There’s nothing in between them now, Eames is allowed to touch him and Arthur is allowed to roam free, to fly but he knows he’ll always come back to him, to the house they built, to the life they were starting together.
Afterwards
Arthur nurses him without one complaint or grimace. He has to practically carry him everywhere, help him in and out of bed, changing bandages, feeding him medication, fixing food (and Arthur is really not that good in the kitchen), bathe him, help him to the toilet, dress him and shave him and he does this all the while with a smile on his face.
Sometimes Eames wakes in the middle of the night screaming, bathed in cold sweat as he relives the torture. Arthur hands are on him immediately, touching him gently, whispering reassurances into his hair. “I’m here, I’m here. You’re ok.” And he’ll curl against him and hold him until Eames falls asleep once more.
But in better times they still laugh together and Arthur frequently wheels him out, down the front patio on the ramp and out to the now snow covered sand and gray ocean.
When Eames is strong enough Arthur sits on his lap while Eames is in his chair, nuzzling him close and Eames moves them down the beach. Sometimes they’ll read a book or look up at the stars, Arthur insisting Eames point out the constellations to him.
Eames can walk around on crutches by the time Christmas comes, his ankle healed. The living room is converted back to a proper living room, new and better furniture put in and the big bed is upstairs where it belongs for the two of them to share properly.
He’s a lot better, improving every day.
Arthur is in the kitchen trying to make gingerbread cookies, making a huge mess in the process and Eames hobbles up to him while his back is turned. He grabs Arthur’s waist from behind and pulls him close, something he’s wanted to do for so long but unable as he has been indisposed. He buries his face into his neck and inhales deeply, planting a kiss. Arthur is unusually quiet and still in his arms.
“What’s wrong?” he breathes, his voice is all but back to normal again.
Arthur’s shoulders slump as he slowly turns around, his lips turned down in a frown.
“I suppose now that you’re better you’d like to start planning on when we’re leaving to take a job. You can get around pretty well, can still tail people and forge, can move around in the airports now…”
“Arthur,” he interrupts. He takes his chin in his fingers and draws his face upwards to meet his eyes.
“I quite like it here. I thought maybe we could stay awhile.”
Arthur regards him with wide eyes, he blinks at him for a few heartbeats in disbelief it changing to adoration and his eyes round and soften.
“You mean?” he breathes.
“Yes,” Eames breathes back and Arthur grips him and kisses him fiercely because they both want to stay, even with Eames doing better, it being unspoken between them for too long, they need each other, all jobs they could be taking apart from one another long forgotten. They’re tired of running. They finally have a place that they can come back to, can come home to.
They cling to each other and their hands find each other as the world dissolves around them as they stand in their small, warm kitchen, in their small beach home, nestled in the sand in their little piece of Cape Cod.