Fic: All is Violent, All is Bright 10/11
Title: All is Violent, All is Bright 10/11
Author: sparrow_hubris
Team: ANGST
Prompt: innocence
Word count: 4,336 this part
Rating: PG-13 - NC-17 (This part R)
Warnings: Underage 15/17, Apocalypse & general destruction, Violence (This part),
Mentions of death, violence towards animals (hunting: prev parts )
Betas: night_reveals
Notes: It's done guys! The final part is written and will be posted shortly!
Summary: Apocalypse AU / a.k.a bb!Survival / a.k.a. cockblockalypse!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9
_______
Three days in the city and Arthur hasn’t seen a trace of Eames. He knew it would be difficult, if not impossible, but he had to hope that he would find some sign of Eames somewhere. He tried to remember any of the small things Eames had been honest about, if he had been honest about anything
The walk past the burned-out oil distillery brings back memories of their first days together. He thought he had hated Eames then, that Eames was a nuisance. He remembers how beautiful Eames had looked, lit by the bright, burning orange glow, the angles of his face accented with dancing shadows. Had Arthur known that at the time and chose not to think about it? Did he think Eames was beautiful that day?
Arthur wanders Dunbar, checking houses idly. He thinks Eames mentioned that his boss lived in this area, and the neighborhood is nice. Homes like this always had food, or were built well enough to still be intact. There were signs of raiding, which isn’t surprising, but Arthur thinks it would be a good place to bunker down in the burned-out city.
The neighborhood will take days to search. He doesn’t know if it is the truth, that Eames would go to his boss’ house. He has to start somewhere, though. He’s making his way through Memorial Park which is deserted and blanketed in brown grass, probably from not being watered, when the hairs on his neck stand on end. Someone is following him.
He angles to the right and makes his way to an abandoned preschool. It’s eerie without kids playing and adults hovering nearby to wrangle them. It should give him cover though. He can use it as an obstacle, put it between him and whoever is following him. As he walks, he casually shifts his rifle into a better firing position. He doesn’t want to alert his tail.
He’s made it to the trees, near the road and close to the school, when a kid steps out from behind the building, pointing a shotgun directly at his chest. Arthur stops in his tracks, realizing he’s raised his own gun instinctively. The kid is skinny, smaller than Arthur, but not by much. Arthur thinks he could take him in a fight, not that he’d get the chance with guns already involved. They stare each other down.
“The pack,” the kids says, crystal eyes shimmering in the soft, overcast light. He looks like he’s about to cry, but his face is stony, angles gaunt because he’s too skinny.
I wonder how he’s survived, Arthur thinks. He nods his head no. The kid doesn’t look like he has it in him to shoot and Arthur is not about to give up any supplies if he doesn’t have to. The kid tenses, eyebrows knitting together in frustration.
“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.” The kid is trying to sound intimidating but failing.
Arthur stares, daring the kid to shoot. He’s not certain the kid is bluffing, but he has just as much a chance at taking the boy out if it comes to it. He’s focused, trying to urge the boy to back down. They can end this as a draw, both go their own ways. Arthur doesn’t want to kill anyone.
Arthur is so focused he doesn’t sense it coming. The blow sends pain shooting through his shoulder blades and he stumbles forward. He can’t recover quickly enough to protect himself when his legs are swept out from under him and he finds himself face first on the dead grass. Dirt gets into his mouth.
He reaches for his gun but before he can grab it someone kicks him in the ribs, hard. It’s enough to make Arthur yelp in pain and double in on himself. His lungs contract fitfully and he can’t breath. He tries again to get his gun, but the boot strikes him a second time.
Arthur’s vision goes black and starry. His eyes are bleary with tears when the fog fades, and what he sees when his vision clears doesn’t makes sense. The attack has stopped and there is a flurry of movement around him. Someone is screaming, but the words don’t make any sense through his haze of agony.
“Fuck off,” someone growls, and it sounds distinctly like Eames.
Arthur looks up and sees that the boy with the gun is still there, but has moved to the commotion. There is someone sprawled on the ground and Eames is standing over him with his rifle aimed at their head. Time seems to stand still as Arthur tries to make sense of what is going on.
Whimpering catches his attention and he looks to the side to see a young girl clutching herself, tears streaked down her pale face. The situation is unreal, like a bad dream. Maybe Arthur is dreaming, because Eames is there. But the pain reminds him that this is reality. Fighting the urge to cough he tries to assess the situation. When he looks up his stomach drops.
He can see it, the look in Eames’ eyes. The darkness that Arthur has seen surface before is full blown and murderous. A chill runs down his spine, which sends a sharp shock of pain shooting through his lungs.
Eames will kill this kid.
“Eames,” Arthur gasps out. “Eames, don’t!”
Arthur’s seen Eames kill now: rabbits, opossum, deer. This is different. Eames hand is steady, not tremble of trepidation as he aims his gun.
The girl is sobbing, tears streaming down her reddened cheeks and fear in her eyes. They’re only kids too; she’s younger than the other two. “Dom,” she says. “Dom, let’s go. Dom, c’mon!”
“Shut up, Ari,” the blond growls.
Eames hasn’t lowered his gun, but the intensity of his stare is cracking as time drags on. He glances worriedly back towards where Arthur is huddled on the ground. Arthur catches his eyes. He shakes his head, a vigorous no, willing Eames to back off.
The adrenaline of the fight is wearing off, the pain increasing. Arthur might have a broken rib; it’s at least bruised. The endorphins pumping through his body from the injury won’t last long. They need to get back to camp before he becomes completely immobile.
“Eames, please,” Arthur begs.
Eames’ gaze softens and his brows furrow, worried but less angry. He lowers his rifle slightly and steps back, closer to Arthur. The move puts him farther away from the captured pack. It looks like it physically pains Eames to back away, to give any room for the others to get the upper hand.
The other boy, the brunette with the pistol, is shaking and still pointing the muzzle directly at Eames. He seems unwilling to lower it, eyes darting between the blond and Eames in fear. The girl tries to calm him down.
“Robbie. Robbie, don’t. Let’s go.”
She places her hand on the muzzle of the pistol, lowering it for him. The kid is still shaking, obviously unsure of what to do. He seems hesitant to shoot, but nervous enough to pull the trigger. Eames eyes the blond, seeming to decide whether to risk one last fight for the pack or to come to Arthur’s aid.
After a long, tense moment he backs farther away from the trio. Dom scrambles to his feet, dragging Arthur’s pack with him. He backs tentatively away, still afraid that Eames will shoot him, to join the other two. The girl grabs Robbie’s wrists, pulling him away. They all back up until they are a reasonably safe distance away. Then they sprint off.
Arthur has lost the food he gathered and a good carrying bag, but at least he’s alive. At least Eames is alive, and here. That thought is nearly overwhelming. He wanted to find Eames, had tried so hard, and as soon as he needed him Eames had appeared. It was as if Eames had been watching him the entire time.
Eames doesn’t relax until the trio is out of sight. When he finally lowers his gun, he turns to Arthur, chewing on his bottom lip nervously. There are bags under Eames’ eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping well, and the distressed expression mars the features of his face.
“You alright?” Eames asks as he crouches down. The hand he places on Arthur’s shoulder is warm. Arthur nods, but his short, gasping breaths betray his injuries. Eames’ frown deepens. “Come one, lets get you up,” he says as he slides an arm under Arthur’s and gently lifts him to his feet.
They’ve walked for blocks silently before Arthur finally speaks. “Where are we going?” he asks.
“Back to camp,” Eames replies.
“I came to find you,” Arthur admits.
Eames expression is guarded as Arthur looks at him, fish-eyed from proximity with his arm wrapped tightly around Eames’ neck. The distortion makes the expression darker somehow and Arthur buries his face into Eames shoulder to block it out. He tries not to focus on the pain.
More time passes in silence, save for Arthur’s labored breathing. It takes twice the usual amount of time to make it to the bridge. The sun is already setting by the time they’ve crossed.
“We have to stop.” Arthur pleads, grimacing in pain. The ache has grown steadily as they made their way through the city.
“Can’t do that,” Eames says. “We won’t make it back before dark and we can’t camp here. I don’t want to be out longer than we have to, not with you injured.”
Arthur nods in understanding. It’s dangerous for them here. But his lungs burn; it takes so much effort to walk. “Thank you,” he whispers.
“Mmmm?” Eames hums.
“For saving my life. Where did you come from anyway?”
Eames looks away sheepishly. He works his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment before turning back. “I was tailing you.”
Arthur nods. For some reason that makes perfect sense. Eames had first found Arthur by doing the same thing. Eames shifts his weight to hitch Arthur higher and the movement makes him flinch.
“Sorry,” Eames says.
Hours later they finally make to their camp. Eames deposits Arthur on the bed as gently as possible then goes to grab some water. Arthur takes the offered cup thankfully when Eames holds it out. Arthur is exhausted, but he’s been dying to talk to Eames for so long. He doesn’t know where to start.
He’s in too much discomfort to really focus on a conversation anyway. Eames finishes the fire and comes to sit next to him in the bed, crossing his legs and gently moving Arthur’s head onto his lap. Puzzled, Arthur looks where Eames face is tipped down over him.
“How are you feeling?” Eames asks as he threads his fingers through Arthur’s hair lightly. It’s so gentle, so unlike any way Eames has touched him before. Arthur closes his eyes as Eames pets his hair.
“Hurts,” Arthur whispers.
“Can you breathe okay? It’s not sharp inside, is it? Doesn’t feel like it’s stabbing?” Eames face distorts in worry again. It looks extremely odd from Arthur’s upside-down position.
Arthur shakes his head no. It extremely painful but it’s stretched across his ribs, not sharp. Eames nods sucks his lip between his teeth. “Good. He got you good, hopefully your ribs are just bruised. They could be broken, but if there’s no sharp pain then at least nothing is going into your lungs.”
“You sound like you know from experience.”
Eames expression darkens again and he looks away. “I do,” he says with the kind of finality that leaves no room for questions. Arthur doesn’t push. Eames continues to run his fingers through Arthur’s hair as Arthur drifts into fitful sleep, exhausted from the journey.
He doesn’t sleep well, unable to get comfortable in any position. He sleeps a little, but ends up floating in and out of a semi-lucid state. Eames is there every time he wakes, getting him water, and playing with his hair until he falls back asleep. Finally, towards morning, he’s able to sleep steadily.
Waking up to the smell of cooking food is glorious. Arthur attempts to stretch, forgetting his injury for a moment. He gasps when his ribs flare with pain.
“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t move, okay? I’ll help you up.” Eames is at his side before he knows it, with his palms underneath Arthur’s shoulders to help lift him. Arthur grits his teeth and blinks his watery eyes. Eames runs a hand down his back, avoiding the side where his was kicked. If Arthur could press into the touch he would. It feels perfect.
Eames moves away too quickly, to stir the cooking food before it burns. “You’re going to be useless for at least a week or two. Breathing is going to be hard for a few days, movement, sleeping. But you’ll loosen up soon. You just won’t be able to do any hard labor. No lifting.”
Arthur groans. He hates being useless. He hates staying still.
Eames grins at him, a spoon help up in his hand as he crouches by the fire. “Try not to be a baby about it, yeah? I know how you get cooped up, but there’s nothing to be done about it, except let yourself recover.” He points the spoon accusingly towards Arthur before using it to stir the food again.
“Who died and made you doctor?” Arthur jokes.
“You, nearly. Anyway, I wish we had ice, but nothing can be done about that. You have to take deep breaths every once in a while, to get air into your lungs.”
Arthur scowls at the idea. The short breaths he is taking now hurt enough. He can’t imagine trying to expand his lungs beyond that. He tries a bigger breath, just to test it out, and grimaces from the tight pull of sore muscle over his bruised bones.
“I know it sounds unappealing, but you’ll catch pneumonia otherwise, and we don’t have the meds for that.”
Arthur nods his understanding. Eames’ extensive knowledge about the nature of ribcage injuries has him curious. He wants to ask about it, but remembers the look Eames had last night. For the time being he’s just happy Eames is using the word we, like he still lives here. It makes Arthur hope that Eames will stay.
Eames walks over with the finished breakfast and hands Arthur a bowl. Swallowing isn’t he easiest task either. Neither is changing, or walking too far, or pissing, or even sitting for that matter. Everything hurts.
Eames helps as much as he can, but even he can’t help keep Arthur from accidentally bumping into things, or stretching too far, or laughing. In fact, Eames is the cause of most of the laughing. At least he has the good sense to feel bad about it for a moment when Arthur whines.
They fall into a new routine of Eames taking care of Arthur. He goes off to check the traps, but only every other day. He cooks, gathers water, and cleans. He helps Arthur out of bed, helps him dress, and helps him walk to relieve himself. Arthur’s not actually an invalid though, so he doesn’t let Eames help him piss or anything, though Eames probably would if he had to. It makes Arthur feel a strange mix of joy and annoyance. He hates being helpless, but he kind of likes the attention.
It’s easy between them when they aren’t fighting, and Arthur doesn’t know why he tried so hard to push Eames away. Eames wouldn’t do any of this if he didn’t care. Arthur regrets making Eames upset. He didn’t deserve that, not even for keeping his past hidden.
But Eames’ past still bothers Arthur a lot. Everything he learns about Eames makes him want to know more. He’s seen the violence held inside of him. Eames has obviously been in some rough situations. Arthur just wants to know. He wants to understand.
They’re sitting together by the fire one night when Arthur finally decides to be straightforward with Eames. “Tell me something true,’ Arthur says. Eames is starting a fire and when he looks up, his eyes shine within the dark shadows under his brow. Arthur can see the trepidation behind them, the start of a lie forming. “Something important,” Arthur clarifies. “I don’t really know anything about you.”
Eames hesitates. Maybe Arthur is is asking too much to ask too soon. But Eames scrapes his thumbnail along his lip nervously and starts to speak.
“I wasn’t exactly a good person, Arthur.”
“I know. You told me about running away. You said you lived and stole, stuff like that. I got that you were kind of a bad boy.”
“No, that’s not what I’m getting at,” Eames pauses, gathering his words. “I ran with a bad crowd. I … did things.”
“Like what?”
“You know how I told you I was out of town on the day of the blast?”
Arthur nods. Eames continues, “I was delivering drugs to a client for my boss.”
“So you were an actual criminal?”
Eames nods solemnly. Arthur mulls that over in his head, trying to process the information. Then he remembers the fight, remembers the way Eames looked at that blond kid on the ground.
“You would have killed that kid, wouldn’t you?” He asks and searches Eames eyes, pleading for honesty.
Eames hold his gaze for a moment before dropping his eyes to the ground and nodding. “They hurt you,” he whispers. His foot taps a nervous rhythm in the dirt and he shuffles something through his fingers. Arthur can’t figure out what it is. Eames looks back up with the most open expression Arthur has ever seen from him. He looks so worried and Arthur realizes that he’s waiting for something. Then it hits him: Eames is waiting for Arthur to reject him.
“Hey, hey,” he says as he grabs Eames’ hand in his own, stilling the movement. Eames clutches at whatever he was playing with. “Thank you.” Eames doesn’t relax, so Arthur tries again. “Eames, thank you. You protected me.”
“I never wanted you to know me like that, you know.”
“Like what?”
Eames doesn’t answer directly but continues on, “I had a fresh start when I met you. You didn’t know anything about me, and I didn’t have to be judged by what I used to do.”
Arthur wants to say that he wouldn't have judged Eames, but he doesn’t. He didn’t even want to deal with Eames at first, he doesn’t know how he would have reacted early on.
“I don’t care what you did, Eames. It can’t be bad enough to make me not care about you, to not be your friend.”
Eames looks at him seriously again, weighing Arthur’s words. Arthur gives him the most sincere look he can manage. Eames bursts into laughter.
“That is not a good look for you, mate.”
Arthur smiles automatically, reacting to the grin plastered on Eames’ face. “What? I’m trying to be serious here!”
“You look constipated.”
“I’d punch you in the arm if it wouldn’t hurt me more at this point.”
“I am truly terrified of your recovery if you’re going to threaten me with physical violence every time I make fun of you.”
A bitter thought flits through Arthur’s head. That’s the only way I will get to touch you once I’m not injured anymore. Eames is being affectionate while Arthur is helpless, but he knows that won’t last. Eames picks up on the shift in mood immediately.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Arthur lies and looks away. Eames flicks his ear.
“None of that, mate. It’s honesty hour. What’s wrong?”
Arthur hesitates, looking down at his lap, then he speaks quietly. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”
“What do you mean?”
Arthur frowns. “You told me not to touch you.” Eames looks horrified and Arthur scrambles. “I mean, I can stop touching you and not be an asshole about it. I was being a dick, and I promise I can stop. I’m just … I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I don’t want you to leave again.”
“Woah, Arthur, calm down,” Eames says, grabbing Arthur’s head between his hands. Arthur snaps his mouth shut. “I never wanted you to stop touching me.”
“But you said.”
“That’s not what I meant, mate.”
Arthur scowls in confusion and jerks his head away from Eames’ hold. “What did you mean then?” They sit in silence for a few minutes, while Eames gathers his thoughts. What he says next is not anything Arthur expected.
“I like you, Arthur.”
Arthur sits dumbly, staring at Eames in shock. “What?”
“I like you, and I didn’t … I didn’t want you to like me.”
“What?” Arthur says again.
“I thought I was effecting you, even though I didn’t it to be like that. I’m not good for anyone. I have a lot of shit issues and you are all I have. I don’t want to lose you because you find out that I’m not what you want.”
Arthur doesn’t know what to make of any of this. How could he not like Eames? Eames is everything to him. The only thing that’s come between them so far is Eames’ past and Arthur’s feelings.
“You know, you never let me decide that for myself. You never told me anything.”
Eames frowns and seems to get upset. He’s still holding onto his secrets, guarding himself from Arthur. Or he thinks he’s guarding Arthur from him. “There is nothing good about my past, okay? I’m not my past,” he hisses. “There’s nothing that relates to now. There’s nothing that relates to you, or us, or anything anymore.”
“Eames. There won’t be an us if you aren’t honest with me. This … all this will get worse, and I’ll end up hating you anyway.”
Eames looks at him like Arthur has wounded him, like the words have left him open and raw. The anger, the fear, is just below the surface and Arthur wants to tear it out and release it into the wind.
“Maybe you should hate me,” Eames says.
“Fuck that Eames!” Arthur yells, then flinches because his ribs can’t take the effort. With a lower voice he continues, “what makes you think like that? You saved me. We’ve been living together for months. I don’t hate you, and I don’t think I can.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Because you don’t let me!”
They’re at a stalemate. It’s the same one they’ve been at before, but now their entire future together is on the line. They can’t go back from here. Arthur can’t pretend he doesn’t want more from Eames, and Eames can’t pretend he doesn’t notice.
Eames wants me, he said so himself, Arthur thinks. That’s the hope he has to hang onto. He swallows the thick lump in his throat and decides that he’s going to be the one who has to do something. Eames will continue to hide from him if he doesn’t. Arthur pushes himself from sitting and kneels in front of Eames. Eames looks startled by the move.
Arthur cups his hands around Eames’ face and slowly presses a kiss to Eames’ lips. When he pulls away he looks squarely into Eames’ eyes. “We can’t do this anymore,” he says. “I want you. I want you to stay with me. But you can’t be here if you aren’t honest with me. We can’t work as friends, or as anything else, if you hide everything from me.”
That’s all Arthur can say. He can’t promise that things will work if Eames is honest. But he sure as hell knows it won’t if Eames isn’t. He also doesn’t know what will happen to them in the future either. But he wants to try. “Please,” he whispers.
Eames sighs into Arthur’s hands. He looks like he wants to run away, but then Arthur sees something change in Eames’ eyes. A hand wraps around the back of Arthur’s head. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll try.” Then Eames draws him closer, pressing their lips together again.
Arthur is overwhelmed because this is what he’s been wanting ever since the first time he kissed Eames. He’s so desperate for it, for more, for everything, that he presses into the kiss harder. Arthur runs his tongue along the seam of Eames’ lips and Eames parts them for him. Eames groans at the intrusion and it stirs something in Arthur. He demands more, stealing Eames’ breaths and clutching at his shoulders. Eames pulls away, gently holding Arthur back as to not hurt his ribs.
“Stop,” he says. “We can’t do this.”
Arthur whimpers, heartbroken at the comment.
“Shhh, no. I mean … I want to Arthur. But I don’t think I can control myself if we do this, and you’re injured. We can’t do this now.”
Eames runs the pad of his thumb along Arthur’s lip; it’s an intimate, tender gesture. Arthur wants to anyway, though he knows it is a bad idea. Finally he nods. It’s the smart thing to do, to wait.
“Why don’t we go to bed, yeah?” Eames says.
They undress, Arthur carefully with Eames’ help, and climb underneath the covers before the chill night air can seep into their skin. Arthur presses himself into Eames’ arms, his nose buried in Eames’ neck. He strokes a hand over Eames’ side, reveling in the smell of him as Eames cards a hand through his hair.
It takes all the willpower Arthur has to keep the kisses light, to keep from doing something stupid and hurting himself more. But it feels so good to be able to finally touch Eames how he wants to. They finally drift off to sleep after hours of kissing lazily, stopping every once in a while before it can go farther. Despite his sore ribs, it’s the best night of sleep Arthur has had in a very long time.
part 11
Author: sparrow_hubris
Team: ANGST
Prompt: innocence
Word count: 4,336 this part
Rating: PG-13 - NC-17 (This part R)
Warnings: Underage 15/17, Apocalypse & general destruction, Violence (This part),
Mentions of death, violence towards animals (hunting: prev parts )
Betas: night_reveals
Notes: It's done guys! The final part is written and will be posted shortly!
Summary: Apocalypse AU / a.k.a bb!Survival / a.k.a. cockblockalypse!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9
_______
Three days in the city and Arthur hasn’t seen a trace of Eames. He knew it would be difficult, if not impossible, but he had to hope that he would find some sign of Eames somewhere. He tried to remember any of the small things Eames had been honest about, if he had been honest about anything
The walk past the burned-out oil distillery brings back memories of their first days together. He thought he had hated Eames then, that Eames was a nuisance. He remembers how beautiful Eames had looked, lit by the bright, burning orange glow, the angles of his face accented with dancing shadows. Had Arthur known that at the time and chose not to think about it? Did he think Eames was beautiful that day?
Arthur wanders Dunbar, checking houses idly. He thinks Eames mentioned that his boss lived in this area, and the neighborhood is nice. Homes like this always had food, or were built well enough to still be intact. There were signs of raiding, which isn’t surprising, but Arthur thinks it would be a good place to bunker down in the burned-out city.
The neighborhood will take days to search. He doesn’t know if it is the truth, that Eames would go to his boss’ house. He has to start somewhere, though. He’s making his way through Memorial Park which is deserted and blanketed in brown grass, probably from not being watered, when the hairs on his neck stand on end. Someone is following him.
He angles to the right and makes his way to an abandoned preschool. It’s eerie without kids playing and adults hovering nearby to wrangle them. It should give him cover though. He can use it as an obstacle, put it between him and whoever is following him. As he walks, he casually shifts his rifle into a better firing position. He doesn’t want to alert his tail.
He’s made it to the trees, near the road and close to the school, when a kid steps out from behind the building, pointing a shotgun directly at his chest. Arthur stops in his tracks, realizing he’s raised his own gun instinctively. The kid is skinny, smaller than Arthur, but not by much. Arthur thinks he could take him in a fight, not that he’d get the chance with guns already involved. They stare each other down.
“The pack,” the kids says, crystal eyes shimmering in the soft, overcast light. He looks like he’s about to cry, but his face is stony, angles gaunt because he’s too skinny.
I wonder how he’s survived, Arthur thinks. He nods his head no. The kid doesn’t look like he has it in him to shoot and Arthur is not about to give up any supplies if he doesn’t have to. The kid tenses, eyebrows knitting together in frustration.
“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.” The kid is trying to sound intimidating but failing.
Arthur stares, daring the kid to shoot. He’s not certain the kid is bluffing, but he has just as much a chance at taking the boy out if it comes to it. He’s focused, trying to urge the boy to back down. They can end this as a draw, both go their own ways. Arthur doesn’t want to kill anyone.
Arthur is so focused he doesn’t sense it coming. The blow sends pain shooting through his shoulder blades and he stumbles forward. He can’t recover quickly enough to protect himself when his legs are swept out from under him and he finds himself face first on the dead grass. Dirt gets into his mouth.
He reaches for his gun but before he can grab it someone kicks him in the ribs, hard. It’s enough to make Arthur yelp in pain and double in on himself. His lungs contract fitfully and he can’t breath. He tries again to get his gun, but the boot strikes him a second time.
Arthur’s vision goes black and starry. His eyes are bleary with tears when the fog fades, and what he sees when his vision clears doesn’t makes sense. The attack has stopped and there is a flurry of movement around him. Someone is screaming, but the words don’t make any sense through his haze of agony.
“Fuck off,” someone growls, and it sounds distinctly like Eames.
Arthur looks up and sees that the boy with the gun is still there, but has moved to the commotion. There is someone sprawled on the ground and Eames is standing over him with his rifle aimed at their head. Time seems to stand still as Arthur tries to make sense of what is going on.
Whimpering catches his attention and he looks to the side to see a young girl clutching herself, tears streaked down her pale face. The situation is unreal, like a bad dream. Maybe Arthur is dreaming, because Eames is there. But the pain reminds him that this is reality. Fighting the urge to cough he tries to assess the situation. When he looks up his stomach drops.
He can see it, the look in Eames’ eyes. The darkness that Arthur has seen surface before is full blown and murderous. A chill runs down his spine, which sends a sharp shock of pain shooting through his lungs.
Eames will kill this kid.
“Eames,” Arthur gasps out. “Eames, don’t!”
Arthur’s seen Eames kill now: rabbits, opossum, deer. This is different. Eames hand is steady, not tremble of trepidation as he aims his gun.
The girl is sobbing, tears streaming down her reddened cheeks and fear in her eyes. They’re only kids too; she’s younger than the other two. “Dom,” she says. “Dom, let’s go. Dom, c’mon!”
“Shut up, Ari,” the blond growls.
Eames hasn’t lowered his gun, but the intensity of his stare is cracking as time drags on. He glances worriedly back towards where Arthur is huddled on the ground. Arthur catches his eyes. He shakes his head, a vigorous no, willing Eames to back off.
The adrenaline of the fight is wearing off, the pain increasing. Arthur might have a broken rib; it’s at least bruised. The endorphins pumping through his body from the injury won’t last long. They need to get back to camp before he becomes completely immobile.
“Eames, please,” Arthur begs.
Eames’ gaze softens and his brows furrow, worried but less angry. He lowers his rifle slightly and steps back, closer to Arthur. The move puts him farther away from the captured pack. It looks like it physically pains Eames to back away, to give any room for the others to get the upper hand.
The other boy, the brunette with the pistol, is shaking and still pointing the muzzle directly at Eames. He seems unwilling to lower it, eyes darting between the blond and Eames in fear. The girl tries to calm him down.
“Robbie. Robbie, don’t. Let’s go.”
She places her hand on the muzzle of the pistol, lowering it for him. The kid is still shaking, obviously unsure of what to do. He seems hesitant to shoot, but nervous enough to pull the trigger. Eames eyes the blond, seeming to decide whether to risk one last fight for the pack or to come to Arthur’s aid.
After a long, tense moment he backs farther away from the trio. Dom scrambles to his feet, dragging Arthur’s pack with him. He backs tentatively away, still afraid that Eames will shoot him, to join the other two. The girl grabs Robbie’s wrists, pulling him away. They all back up until they are a reasonably safe distance away. Then they sprint off.
Arthur has lost the food he gathered and a good carrying bag, but at least he’s alive. At least Eames is alive, and here. That thought is nearly overwhelming. He wanted to find Eames, had tried so hard, and as soon as he needed him Eames had appeared. It was as if Eames had been watching him the entire time.
Eames doesn’t relax until the trio is out of sight. When he finally lowers his gun, he turns to Arthur, chewing on his bottom lip nervously. There are bags under Eames’ eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping well, and the distressed expression mars the features of his face.
“You alright?” Eames asks as he crouches down. The hand he places on Arthur’s shoulder is warm. Arthur nods, but his short, gasping breaths betray his injuries. Eames’ frown deepens. “Come one, lets get you up,” he says as he slides an arm under Arthur’s and gently lifts him to his feet.
They’ve walked for blocks silently before Arthur finally speaks. “Where are we going?” he asks.
“Back to camp,” Eames replies.
“I came to find you,” Arthur admits.
Eames expression is guarded as Arthur looks at him, fish-eyed from proximity with his arm wrapped tightly around Eames’ neck. The distortion makes the expression darker somehow and Arthur buries his face into Eames shoulder to block it out. He tries not to focus on the pain.
More time passes in silence, save for Arthur’s labored breathing. It takes twice the usual amount of time to make it to the bridge. The sun is already setting by the time they’ve crossed.
“We have to stop.” Arthur pleads, grimacing in pain. The ache has grown steadily as they made their way through the city.
“Can’t do that,” Eames says. “We won’t make it back before dark and we can’t camp here. I don’t want to be out longer than we have to, not with you injured.”
Arthur nods in understanding. It’s dangerous for them here. But his lungs burn; it takes so much effort to walk. “Thank you,” he whispers.
“Mmmm?” Eames hums.
“For saving my life. Where did you come from anyway?”
Eames looks away sheepishly. He works his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment before turning back. “I was tailing you.”
Arthur nods. For some reason that makes perfect sense. Eames had first found Arthur by doing the same thing. Eames shifts his weight to hitch Arthur higher and the movement makes him flinch.
“Sorry,” Eames says.
Hours later they finally make to their camp. Eames deposits Arthur on the bed as gently as possible then goes to grab some water. Arthur takes the offered cup thankfully when Eames holds it out. Arthur is exhausted, but he’s been dying to talk to Eames for so long. He doesn’t know where to start.
He’s in too much discomfort to really focus on a conversation anyway. Eames finishes the fire and comes to sit next to him in the bed, crossing his legs and gently moving Arthur’s head onto his lap. Puzzled, Arthur looks where Eames face is tipped down over him.
“How are you feeling?” Eames asks as he threads his fingers through Arthur’s hair lightly. It’s so gentle, so unlike any way Eames has touched him before. Arthur closes his eyes as Eames pets his hair.
“Hurts,” Arthur whispers.
“Can you breathe okay? It’s not sharp inside, is it? Doesn’t feel like it’s stabbing?” Eames face distorts in worry again. It looks extremely odd from Arthur’s upside-down position.
Arthur shakes his head no. It extremely painful but it’s stretched across his ribs, not sharp. Eames nods sucks his lip between his teeth. “Good. He got you good, hopefully your ribs are just bruised. They could be broken, but if there’s no sharp pain then at least nothing is going into your lungs.”
“You sound like you know from experience.”
Eames expression darkens again and he looks away. “I do,” he says with the kind of finality that leaves no room for questions. Arthur doesn’t push. Eames continues to run his fingers through Arthur’s hair as Arthur drifts into fitful sleep, exhausted from the journey.
He doesn’t sleep well, unable to get comfortable in any position. He sleeps a little, but ends up floating in and out of a semi-lucid state. Eames is there every time he wakes, getting him water, and playing with his hair until he falls back asleep. Finally, towards morning, he’s able to sleep steadily.
Waking up to the smell of cooking food is glorious. Arthur attempts to stretch, forgetting his injury for a moment. He gasps when his ribs flare with pain.
“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t move, okay? I’ll help you up.” Eames is at his side before he knows it, with his palms underneath Arthur’s shoulders to help lift him. Arthur grits his teeth and blinks his watery eyes. Eames runs a hand down his back, avoiding the side where his was kicked. If Arthur could press into the touch he would. It feels perfect.
Eames moves away too quickly, to stir the cooking food before it burns. “You’re going to be useless for at least a week or two. Breathing is going to be hard for a few days, movement, sleeping. But you’ll loosen up soon. You just won’t be able to do any hard labor. No lifting.”
Arthur groans. He hates being useless. He hates staying still.
Eames grins at him, a spoon help up in his hand as he crouches by the fire. “Try not to be a baby about it, yeah? I know how you get cooped up, but there’s nothing to be done about it, except let yourself recover.” He points the spoon accusingly towards Arthur before using it to stir the food again.
“Who died and made you doctor?” Arthur jokes.
“You, nearly. Anyway, I wish we had ice, but nothing can be done about that. You have to take deep breaths every once in a while, to get air into your lungs.”
Arthur scowls at the idea. The short breaths he is taking now hurt enough. He can’t imagine trying to expand his lungs beyond that. He tries a bigger breath, just to test it out, and grimaces from the tight pull of sore muscle over his bruised bones.
“I know it sounds unappealing, but you’ll catch pneumonia otherwise, and we don’t have the meds for that.”
Arthur nods his understanding. Eames’ extensive knowledge about the nature of ribcage injuries has him curious. He wants to ask about it, but remembers the look Eames had last night. For the time being he’s just happy Eames is using the word we, like he still lives here. It makes Arthur hope that Eames will stay.
Eames walks over with the finished breakfast and hands Arthur a bowl. Swallowing isn’t he easiest task either. Neither is changing, or walking too far, or pissing, or even sitting for that matter. Everything hurts.
Eames helps as much as he can, but even he can’t help keep Arthur from accidentally bumping into things, or stretching too far, or laughing. In fact, Eames is the cause of most of the laughing. At least he has the good sense to feel bad about it for a moment when Arthur whines.
They fall into a new routine of Eames taking care of Arthur. He goes off to check the traps, but only every other day. He cooks, gathers water, and cleans. He helps Arthur out of bed, helps him dress, and helps him walk to relieve himself. Arthur’s not actually an invalid though, so he doesn’t let Eames help him piss or anything, though Eames probably would if he had to. It makes Arthur feel a strange mix of joy and annoyance. He hates being helpless, but he kind of likes the attention.
It’s easy between them when they aren’t fighting, and Arthur doesn’t know why he tried so hard to push Eames away. Eames wouldn’t do any of this if he didn’t care. Arthur regrets making Eames upset. He didn’t deserve that, not even for keeping his past hidden.
But Eames’ past still bothers Arthur a lot. Everything he learns about Eames makes him want to know more. He’s seen the violence held inside of him. Eames has obviously been in some rough situations. Arthur just wants to know. He wants to understand.
They’re sitting together by the fire one night when Arthur finally decides to be straightforward with Eames. “Tell me something true,’ Arthur says. Eames is starting a fire and when he looks up, his eyes shine within the dark shadows under his brow. Arthur can see the trepidation behind them, the start of a lie forming. “Something important,” Arthur clarifies. “I don’t really know anything about you.”
Eames hesitates. Maybe Arthur is is asking too much to ask too soon. But Eames scrapes his thumbnail along his lip nervously and starts to speak.
“I wasn’t exactly a good person, Arthur.”
“I know. You told me about running away. You said you lived and stole, stuff like that. I got that you were kind of a bad boy.”
“No, that’s not what I’m getting at,” Eames pauses, gathering his words. “I ran with a bad crowd. I … did things.”
“Like what?”
“You know how I told you I was out of town on the day of the blast?”
Arthur nods. Eames continues, “I was delivering drugs to a client for my boss.”
“So you were an actual criminal?”
Eames nods solemnly. Arthur mulls that over in his head, trying to process the information. Then he remembers the fight, remembers the way Eames looked at that blond kid on the ground.
“You would have killed that kid, wouldn’t you?” He asks and searches Eames eyes, pleading for honesty.
Eames hold his gaze for a moment before dropping his eyes to the ground and nodding. “They hurt you,” he whispers. His foot taps a nervous rhythm in the dirt and he shuffles something through his fingers. Arthur can’t figure out what it is. Eames looks back up with the most open expression Arthur has ever seen from him. He looks so worried and Arthur realizes that he’s waiting for something. Then it hits him: Eames is waiting for Arthur to reject him.
“Hey, hey,” he says as he grabs Eames’ hand in his own, stilling the movement. Eames clutches at whatever he was playing with. “Thank you.” Eames doesn’t relax, so Arthur tries again. “Eames, thank you. You protected me.”
“I never wanted you to know me like that, you know.”
“Like what?”
Eames doesn’t answer directly but continues on, “I had a fresh start when I met you. You didn’t know anything about me, and I didn’t have to be judged by what I used to do.”
Arthur wants to say that he wouldn't have judged Eames, but he doesn’t. He didn’t even want to deal with Eames at first, he doesn’t know how he would have reacted early on.
“I don’t care what you did, Eames. It can’t be bad enough to make me not care about you, to not be your friend.”
Eames looks at him seriously again, weighing Arthur’s words. Arthur gives him the most sincere look he can manage. Eames bursts into laughter.
“That is not a good look for you, mate.”
Arthur smiles automatically, reacting to the grin plastered on Eames’ face. “What? I’m trying to be serious here!”
“You look constipated.”
“I’d punch you in the arm if it wouldn’t hurt me more at this point.”
“I am truly terrified of your recovery if you’re going to threaten me with physical violence every time I make fun of you.”
A bitter thought flits through Arthur’s head. That’s the only way I will get to touch you once I’m not injured anymore. Eames is being affectionate while Arthur is helpless, but he knows that won’t last. Eames picks up on the shift in mood immediately.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Arthur lies and looks away. Eames flicks his ear.
“None of that, mate. It’s honesty hour. What’s wrong?”
Arthur hesitates, looking down at his lap, then he speaks quietly. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”
“What do you mean?”
Arthur frowns. “You told me not to touch you.” Eames looks horrified and Arthur scrambles. “I mean, I can stop touching you and not be an asshole about it. I was being a dick, and I promise I can stop. I’m just … I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I don’t want you to leave again.”
“Woah, Arthur, calm down,” Eames says, grabbing Arthur’s head between his hands. Arthur snaps his mouth shut. “I never wanted you to stop touching me.”
“But you said.”
“That’s not what I meant, mate.”
Arthur scowls in confusion and jerks his head away from Eames’ hold. “What did you mean then?” They sit in silence for a few minutes, while Eames gathers his thoughts. What he says next is not anything Arthur expected.
“I like you, Arthur.”
Arthur sits dumbly, staring at Eames in shock. “What?”
“I like you, and I didn’t … I didn’t want you to like me.”
“What?” Arthur says again.
“I thought I was effecting you, even though I didn’t it to be like that. I’m not good for anyone. I have a lot of shit issues and you are all I have. I don’t want to lose you because you find out that I’m not what you want.”
Arthur doesn’t know what to make of any of this. How could he not like Eames? Eames is everything to him. The only thing that’s come between them so far is Eames’ past and Arthur’s feelings.
“You know, you never let me decide that for myself. You never told me anything.”
Eames frowns and seems to get upset. He’s still holding onto his secrets, guarding himself from Arthur. Or he thinks he’s guarding Arthur from him. “There is nothing good about my past, okay? I’m not my past,” he hisses. “There’s nothing that relates to now. There’s nothing that relates to you, or us, or anything anymore.”
“Eames. There won’t be an us if you aren’t honest with me. This … all this will get worse, and I’ll end up hating you anyway.”
Eames looks at him like Arthur has wounded him, like the words have left him open and raw. The anger, the fear, is just below the surface and Arthur wants to tear it out and release it into the wind.
“Maybe you should hate me,” Eames says.
“Fuck that Eames!” Arthur yells, then flinches because his ribs can’t take the effort. With a lower voice he continues, “what makes you think like that? You saved me. We’ve been living together for months. I don’t hate you, and I don’t think I can.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Because you don’t let me!”
They’re at a stalemate. It’s the same one they’ve been at before, but now their entire future together is on the line. They can’t go back from here. Arthur can’t pretend he doesn’t want more from Eames, and Eames can’t pretend he doesn’t notice.
Eames wants me, he said so himself, Arthur thinks. That’s the hope he has to hang onto. He swallows the thick lump in his throat and decides that he’s going to be the one who has to do something. Eames will continue to hide from him if he doesn’t. Arthur pushes himself from sitting and kneels in front of Eames. Eames looks startled by the move.
Arthur cups his hands around Eames’ face and slowly presses a kiss to Eames’ lips. When he pulls away he looks squarely into Eames’ eyes. “We can’t do this anymore,” he says. “I want you. I want you to stay with me. But you can’t be here if you aren’t honest with me. We can’t work as friends, or as anything else, if you hide everything from me.”
That’s all Arthur can say. He can’t promise that things will work if Eames is honest. But he sure as hell knows it won’t if Eames isn’t. He also doesn’t know what will happen to them in the future either. But he wants to try. “Please,” he whispers.
Eames sighs into Arthur’s hands. He looks like he wants to run away, but then Arthur sees something change in Eames’ eyes. A hand wraps around the back of Arthur’s head. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll try.” Then Eames draws him closer, pressing their lips together again.
Arthur is overwhelmed because this is what he’s been wanting ever since the first time he kissed Eames. He’s so desperate for it, for more, for everything, that he presses into the kiss harder. Arthur runs his tongue along the seam of Eames’ lips and Eames parts them for him. Eames groans at the intrusion and it stirs something in Arthur. He demands more, stealing Eames’ breaths and clutching at his shoulders. Eames pulls away, gently holding Arthur back as to not hurt his ribs.
“Stop,” he says. “We can’t do this.”
Arthur whimpers, heartbroken at the comment.
“Shhh, no. I mean … I want to Arthur. But I don’t think I can control myself if we do this, and you’re injured. We can’t do this now.”
Eames runs the pad of his thumb along Arthur’s lip; it’s an intimate, tender gesture. Arthur wants to anyway, though he knows it is a bad idea. Finally he nods. It’s the smart thing to do, to wait.
“Why don’t we go to bed, yeah?” Eames says.
They undress, Arthur carefully with Eames’ help, and climb underneath the covers before the chill night air can seep into their skin. Arthur presses himself into Eames’ arms, his nose buried in Eames’ neck. He strokes a hand over Eames’ side, reveling in the smell of him as Eames cards a hand through his hair.
It takes all the willpower Arthur has to keep the kisses light, to keep from doing something stupid and hurting himself more. But it feels so good to be able to finally touch Eames how he wants to. They finally drift off to sleep after hours of kissing lazily, stopping every once in a while before it can go farther. Despite his sore ribs, it’s the best night of sleep Arthur has had in a very long time.
part 11