169
or the blood that rose into the silence
inception (arthur/eames)
1,730 words of battlestar galactica au. angst! melodrama! cylons! no real spoilers past the beginning of the series. also: thanks, denialgreen for assuring me that this makes sense. you are wonderful. ♥
“Bloody hell,” Eames says. “Arthur, tell me you’re lying to me.” They’re in the W.C., the wheel turned all the way closed, halfway to the pilot’s quarters, and Arthur’s bleeding.
Eames knows that they bleed, but he’s never seen it before. Or he thought he’d never seen it before. Now he’s not so sure.
Arthur wipes the blood from his fat lip, kneeling by the last of the sinks, and Eames’ knuckles are tingling from the force of the punch. Arthur’s whole jaw is going to bruise up; he hadn’t resisted at all. It doesn’t really matter, because Eames is probably going to have to kill him. His gun hand isn’t shaking.
“Tell me you are not a frakking toaster, Arthur. Not after Mal.” His finger is on the trigger, and from this close he won’t miss.
“I could tell you that, Eames, but it would be a lie,” Arthur says. His voice is that mix of tension and calm that he uses to keep the rookies in line. But Eames has known Arthur for longer than the rookies pulled off salvage vessels and backwater cargo ships. He’s known Arthur since basic. Their pilot tests were three days apart. “And you’d know it. You’d know it every time I ordered you to your bird, and you’d doubt me.”
“I’m frakking doubting you now.” Arthur is still bleeding and he hasn’t wiped it off again. Eames knows how his blood tastes - coppery, metallic, like any other mouth bitten a little too hard. There are probably still a few mouth-shaped bruises on the insides of Arthur’s thighs.
Arthur doesn’t say anything, he just crouches there, watching Eames face and completely ignoring the gun pointed at him.
Finally, Eames asks, “How long have you known?”
“Trust me,” Arthur says, and his face is calm, but there’s a thready undercurrent to his voice that sounds almost like a plea. It’s hard to tell given how soft his voice is - neither of them want to be overheard, even in the empty rec room. It’s hard to tell if it’s real.
“Tell me what they’re planning, Point Man,” Eames says. He knows that using Arthur’s call sign is a cheap ploy, but he can’t help it.
“I don’t know,” Arthur says. “I promise you, I don’t frakking know.”
Eames wants to believe him, believe it, but he can’t. Not entirely.
Arthur’s not silent, he never has been. He pants and curses, broken sounds, half moan, bitten out between his teeth. Eames bites into his mouth, his jaw, the curve of his neck, hands pushing, grappling. Arthur’s on his back in Eames’ rack, and he could turn the tables in half a second, but he doesn’t. He lets Eames press his fingers too hard into Arthur’s hips, lets Eames suck at the skin over Arthur’s heart until it leaves a red mark, the beginning of a bruise. He pants, hair slick to his forehead, and pushes his hips up, searching for friction. He’s exactly how he’s always been, and Eames isn’t sure why he expects anything to be different.
“C’mon,” Arthur says. “Eames, c’mon.”
“Frak.” Eames wants to push his fingers into Arthur’s mouth and make him be quiet. He wants to push and scratch and rend until he finds something inside that isn’t organic, microchips buzzing with electricity. He wants them to sizzle against his fingertips as he rips them out.
“C’mon,” Arthur says again, almost like he’s agreeing. He’s not pliant, but he’s giving in. Eames kisses him on the lips and tries not to draw blood.
“Five.” Arthur is counting out the number of raiders he’s destroyed since the admiral gave them the go ahead. They need the tillium. It can’t be helped. “Six.” His voice is even. He’s nothing like Eames, charged with adrenaline until he can do nothing but gloat and laugh.
“I’m ahead,” Eames says over the comms, and can’t keep the drawl out of his voice. He sounds smug, even to his own ears.
“Not for long,” Arthur replies, and Eames feels the vibration as Arthur swoops over his right wing, back into the fray. Eames doesn’t follow him with his eyes; there’s a job to do.
“You shouldn’t have told me,” Eames says. They’re still naked - post-mission fuck, still sweat slick from the cockpit, falling into it like the old pattern it is. Arthur’s hands as sure as anything on the zipper of his suit.
“Why not?” Arthur asks. He’s dragging his fingers over his own stomach, smearing the mess there. “I didn’t think you’d kill me.”
“Not that it would matter if I had.” Eames is watching Arthur’s hand move. He’s trying not to lick Arthur’s fingers.
“Yes,” Arthur says, acknowledging with a tilt of his head. “But I wanted you to be able to trust me.”
Eames laughs, though he’s not really amused. “Trust you?”
Arthur just smiles. “One day you’ll see that you can trust me. Everything, every secret, is discovered. Nothing is entirely free of talk. You would have found out anyway, just like you’ll find the rest of them, eventually. I’d rather set the terms.”
Eames watches Arthur breathe. His breath is even, measured. He’s not at all nervous, even exposed here like this. Eames supposes that he has very little to be afraid of.
“Does Mal know?” Eames can’t help asking it. Arthur is looking over the pilot assignments for the next two days. Arthur’s the CAG. The CAG is a toaster and no one but Eames knows it.
“I don’t know,” Arthur says. “I didn’t know, then.” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
Eames snorts. “Cobb very nearly let her have this ship. She was above suspicion. She killed billions of people.” President of the Colonies. Beloved by many, married to an admiral. Perfect. A cylon. The final killing blow that brought them here, to this.
He can see the top curve of a bite mark peeking out from the collar of Arthur’s suit. They’re not being careful enough.
Arthur doesn’t look up from his paper. “Now you see what trust can do.”
Eames has to close his eyes for a moment, eyelids fluttering, when Arthur slides in. Braced above him, bangs hanging in his face, cheeks flushed, Arthur looks exactly human. Down to the dilated pupils, the sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“Don’t you see what you’ve reduced us to?” he asks, and then gasps as Arthur snaps his hips forward. Eames digs the heel of his left foot into the divot just below Arthur’s ass. “Twelve ships, twelve.”
“You’re an endangered species,” Arthur says, and then he kisses Eames. His mouth is hot, sloppy, his teeth sharp. Eames wraps a hand in Arthur’s hair. It’s slightly dirty.
It’s the details that really get to him.
“There’s definitely a leak.” Cobb’s voice is hard, and his frown twists the scar running down his left cheek. Mal’s most recent gift to her husband. His office is disorganized, in shambles - piles of paper so high they tilt under their own weight, the half-constructed ship still lying in splinters in the corner.
“We knew there could be cylons still in the fleet, possibly even on the ship.” Arthur’s eyebrows are raised, his legs crossed primly. He’s cool and collected. Eames can’t stop looking at him.
“No one should have known about that last maneuver. It cost us -”
“We know what it cost,” Eames interrupts. Cobb could send him to the brig for his insolence, but he can’t hear, again, about the explosion on the Queen Harvest. About how it took the Dark Star and the Atlantica with it. 3,052 casualties.
Cobb, however, just nods. “I’m counting on you two,” he says. “Find the leak. Plug it.”
Eames wonders why Ariadne isn’t here - as CO, she should be.
He looks at Arthur and knows what he should do. He doesn’t say a word.
Cobb’s had Yusuf in the brig for two months now. Cobb doesn’t tolerate failure well. Eames visits him, sometimes, when he has the chance.
“Why’d the detector fail?” He’s sitting on the floor outside the bars. Yusuf’s lost weight, but he’s in relatively high spirits.
“Why does anything fail?” he asks. “Because I got the formula wrong.”
“Do you know how to fix it?” Eames tugs at a thread hanging off the hem of his uniform tank.
“Yes, of course,” Yusuf says, like the answer is obvious. “But I would need a nuclear device. And we both know that the admiral has none to spare.”
Eames nods, and stands. He’s not relieved. Or, he’s not as relieved as he was afraid he might be.
Arthur pushes Eames facedown in his rack. He shoves at his uniform pants, and bites into the back of Eames’ neck. The sound Eames makes is a little embarrassing, almost a keen.
“You haven’t told yet,” Arthur says. His voice is tranquil like still water, but Eames can feel his labored breathing. He pushes his hips back into Arthur’s hands.
“Are you the leak?” Eames asks, the last word ending in a gasp.
Arthur doesn’t answer him, and Eames doesn’t really care.
The ship rocks as something explodes deep in the bowels. It’s 0900, and none of the alarms have gone off. Eames is sleeping, just off the night shift. He shouldn’t be as surprised as he is.
He finds Arthur in the ship dock, standing in front of his viper. He’s touching it with soft hands, more gentle than Eames has ever seen him. He’s saying goodbye.
“It's time to go,” he says, and Eames wants to kiss the vulnerable back of his neck, hunched over the wing of his bird. Eames wants to shoot him in the stomach and watch him bleed to death for the betrayal. Eames doesn’t know what he wants.
“I love you,” is what he says. He doesn’t mean to.
Arthur turn to look at him, then. He’s smiling. “I know,” he says. “That’s why you’ll come with me.”
There are gunshots ringing from the corridor, and Eames knows the sound of them - centurions.
“Do I have a choice?” he asks, and isn’t expecting it when Arthur cups his cheek. He wants to lean in, but he doesn’t.
“You always have a choice, Eames,” he says, and his voice is almost sad. The palm of his hand is warm. “You always have.”
Eames made his a long time ago.
inception (arthur/eames)
1,730 words of battlestar galactica au. angst! melodrama! cylons! no real spoilers past the beginning of the series. also: thanks, denialgreen for assuring me that this makes sense. you are wonderful. ♥
“Bloody hell,” Eames says. “Arthur, tell me you’re lying to me.” They’re in the W.C., the wheel turned all the way closed, halfway to the pilot’s quarters, and Arthur’s bleeding.
Eames knows that they bleed, but he’s never seen it before. Or he thought he’d never seen it before. Now he’s not so sure.
Arthur wipes the blood from his fat lip, kneeling by the last of the sinks, and Eames’ knuckles are tingling from the force of the punch. Arthur’s whole jaw is going to bruise up; he hadn’t resisted at all. It doesn’t really matter, because Eames is probably going to have to kill him. His gun hand isn’t shaking.
“Tell me you are not a frakking toaster, Arthur. Not after Mal.” His finger is on the trigger, and from this close he won’t miss.
“I could tell you that, Eames, but it would be a lie,” Arthur says. His voice is that mix of tension and calm that he uses to keep the rookies in line. But Eames has known Arthur for longer than the rookies pulled off salvage vessels and backwater cargo ships. He’s known Arthur since basic. Their pilot tests were three days apart. “And you’d know it. You’d know it every time I ordered you to your bird, and you’d doubt me.”
“I’m frakking doubting you now.” Arthur is still bleeding and he hasn’t wiped it off again. Eames knows how his blood tastes - coppery, metallic, like any other mouth bitten a little too hard. There are probably still a few mouth-shaped bruises on the insides of Arthur’s thighs.
Arthur doesn’t say anything, he just crouches there, watching Eames face and completely ignoring the gun pointed at him.
Finally, Eames asks, “How long have you known?”
“Trust me,” Arthur says, and his face is calm, but there’s a thready undercurrent to his voice that sounds almost like a plea. It’s hard to tell given how soft his voice is - neither of them want to be overheard, even in the empty rec room. It’s hard to tell if it’s real.
“Tell me what they’re planning, Point Man,” Eames says. He knows that using Arthur’s call sign is a cheap ploy, but he can’t help it.
“I don’t know,” Arthur says. “I promise you, I don’t frakking know.”
Eames wants to believe him, believe it, but he can’t. Not entirely.
Arthur’s not silent, he never has been. He pants and curses, broken sounds, half moan, bitten out between his teeth. Eames bites into his mouth, his jaw, the curve of his neck, hands pushing, grappling. Arthur’s on his back in Eames’ rack, and he could turn the tables in half a second, but he doesn’t. He lets Eames press his fingers too hard into Arthur’s hips, lets Eames suck at the skin over Arthur’s heart until it leaves a red mark, the beginning of a bruise. He pants, hair slick to his forehead, and pushes his hips up, searching for friction. He’s exactly how he’s always been, and Eames isn’t sure why he expects anything to be different.
“C’mon,” Arthur says. “Eames, c’mon.”
“Frak.” Eames wants to push his fingers into Arthur’s mouth and make him be quiet. He wants to push and scratch and rend until he finds something inside that isn’t organic, microchips buzzing with electricity. He wants them to sizzle against his fingertips as he rips them out.
“C’mon,” Arthur says again, almost like he’s agreeing. He’s not pliant, but he’s giving in. Eames kisses him on the lips and tries not to draw blood.
“Five.” Arthur is counting out the number of raiders he’s destroyed since the admiral gave them the go ahead. They need the tillium. It can’t be helped. “Six.” His voice is even. He’s nothing like Eames, charged with adrenaline until he can do nothing but gloat and laugh.
“I’m ahead,” Eames says over the comms, and can’t keep the drawl out of his voice. He sounds smug, even to his own ears.
“Not for long,” Arthur replies, and Eames feels the vibration as Arthur swoops over his right wing, back into the fray. Eames doesn’t follow him with his eyes; there’s a job to do.
“You shouldn’t have told me,” Eames says. They’re still naked - post-mission fuck, still sweat slick from the cockpit, falling into it like the old pattern it is. Arthur’s hands as sure as anything on the zipper of his suit.
“Why not?” Arthur asks. He’s dragging his fingers over his own stomach, smearing the mess there. “I didn’t think you’d kill me.”
“Not that it would matter if I had.” Eames is watching Arthur’s hand move. He’s trying not to lick Arthur’s fingers.
“Yes,” Arthur says, acknowledging with a tilt of his head. “But I wanted you to be able to trust me.”
Eames laughs, though he’s not really amused. “Trust you?”
Arthur just smiles. “One day you’ll see that you can trust me. Everything, every secret, is discovered. Nothing is entirely free of talk. You would have found out anyway, just like you’ll find the rest of them, eventually. I’d rather set the terms.”
Eames watches Arthur breathe. His breath is even, measured. He’s not at all nervous, even exposed here like this. Eames supposes that he has very little to be afraid of.
“Does Mal know?” Eames can’t help asking it. Arthur is looking over the pilot assignments for the next two days. Arthur’s the CAG. The CAG is a toaster and no one but Eames knows it.
“I don’t know,” Arthur says. “I didn’t know, then.” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
Eames snorts. “Cobb very nearly let her have this ship. She was above suspicion. She killed billions of people.” President of the Colonies. Beloved by many, married to an admiral. Perfect. A cylon. The final killing blow that brought them here, to this.
He can see the top curve of a bite mark peeking out from the collar of Arthur’s suit. They’re not being careful enough.
Arthur doesn’t look up from his paper. “Now you see what trust can do.”
Eames has to close his eyes for a moment, eyelids fluttering, when Arthur slides in. Braced above him, bangs hanging in his face, cheeks flushed, Arthur looks exactly human. Down to the dilated pupils, the sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“Don’t you see what you’ve reduced us to?” he asks, and then gasps as Arthur snaps his hips forward. Eames digs the heel of his left foot into the divot just below Arthur’s ass. “Twelve ships, twelve.”
“You’re an endangered species,” Arthur says, and then he kisses Eames. His mouth is hot, sloppy, his teeth sharp. Eames wraps a hand in Arthur’s hair. It’s slightly dirty.
It’s the details that really get to him.
“There’s definitely a leak.” Cobb’s voice is hard, and his frown twists the scar running down his left cheek. Mal’s most recent gift to her husband. His office is disorganized, in shambles - piles of paper so high they tilt under their own weight, the half-constructed ship still lying in splinters in the corner.
“We knew there could be cylons still in the fleet, possibly even on the ship.” Arthur’s eyebrows are raised, his legs crossed primly. He’s cool and collected. Eames can’t stop looking at him.
“No one should have known about that last maneuver. It cost us -”
“We know what it cost,” Eames interrupts. Cobb could send him to the brig for his insolence, but he can’t hear, again, about the explosion on the Queen Harvest. About how it took the Dark Star and the Atlantica with it. 3,052 casualties.
Cobb, however, just nods. “I’m counting on you two,” he says. “Find the leak. Plug it.”
Eames wonders why Ariadne isn’t here - as CO, she should be.
He looks at Arthur and knows what he should do. He doesn’t say a word.
Cobb’s had Yusuf in the brig for two months now. Cobb doesn’t tolerate failure well. Eames visits him, sometimes, when he has the chance.
“Why’d the detector fail?” He’s sitting on the floor outside the bars. Yusuf’s lost weight, but he’s in relatively high spirits.
“Why does anything fail?” he asks. “Because I got the formula wrong.”
“Do you know how to fix it?” Eames tugs at a thread hanging off the hem of his uniform tank.
“Yes, of course,” Yusuf says, like the answer is obvious. “But I would need a nuclear device. And we both know that the admiral has none to spare.”
Eames nods, and stands. He’s not relieved. Or, he’s not as relieved as he was afraid he might be.
Arthur pushes Eames facedown in his rack. He shoves at his uniform pants, and bites into the back of Eames’ neck. The sound Eames makes is a little embarrassing, almost a keen.
“You haven’t told yet,” Arthur says. His voice is tranquil like still water, but Eames can feel his labored breathing. He pushes his hips back into Arthur’s hands.
“Are you the leak?” Eames asks, the last word ending in a gasp.
Arthur doesn’t answer him, and Eames doesn’t really care.
The ship rocks as something explodes deep in the bowels. It’s 0900, and none of the alarms have gone off. Eames is sleeping, just off the night shift. He shouldn’t be as surprised as he is.
He finds Arthur in the ship dock, standing in front of his viper. He’s touching it with soft hands, more gentle than Eames has ever seen him. He’s saying goodbye.
“It's time to go,” he says, and Eames wants to kiss the vulnerable back of his neck, hunched over the wing of his bird. Eames wants to shoot him in the stomach and watch him bleed to death for the betrayal. Eames doesn’t know what he wants.
“I love you,” is what he says. He doesn’t mean to.
Arthur turn to look at him, then. He’s smiling. “I know,” he says. “That’s why you’ll come with me.”
There are gunshots ringing from the corridor, and Eames knows the sound of them - centurions.
“Do I have a choice?” he asks, and isn’t expecting it when Arthur cups his cheek. He wants to lean in, but he doesn’t.
“You always have a choice, Eames,” he says, and his voice is almost sad. The palm of his hand is warm. “You always have.”
Eames made his a long time ago.