Fic: All is Violent, All is Bright 4/11
Title: All is Violent, All is Bright 4/11
Author: sparrow_hubris
Team: ANGST!!!
Prompt: innocence
Word count: 5,467 this part
Rating: PG-13 - NC-17 (This part R maybe)
Warnings: Underage 15/17, Apocalypse & general destruction, Violence, Mentions of death, violence towards animals (hunting) this part & other warnings as I get to them.
Betas: night_reveals ♥
Summary: Apocalypse AU / a.k.a bb!Survival / a.k.a. cockblockalypse!
Notes: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
A huge thank you to neomeruru for all the help with Vancouver as well as sending me inspiring pictures of poutine. Thanks to la_fours for a wondrous description of why poutine is delicious. Thanks to eternalsojourn for suggesting Eames' favorite dessert from her trip to England.
___
It’s clear, hours later, that Eames doesn’t intend to leave. Arthur wonders if he came here to drop off the tarp and then head back into the city, but Eames seems content to stay and look through Arthur’s camp, idly asking questions about some of Arthur’s possessions. Arthur is still weary, not knowing Eames’ motives, but he finds himself relaxing with the casual conversation. Eventually their discussion circles back to the blast; it’s inevitable, the bombing being such a central factor in each of their lives.
“How did you survive?” Arthur asks.
“Dumb luck, really.” Eames says. “I was out running an errand for … a friend. Wasn’t in the city when it all happened.”
Arthur scowls, but lets the lie go. He wouldn’t necessarily be comfortable sharing his own life story as well. It’s possible that something much worse happened that allowed Eames to survive. Arthur has seen enough to know that’s likely the case.
“Why’d you come back then?” Arthur asks instead.
Arthur stayed outside the city for a reason, not wanting to be in the middle of when the survivors eventually turned on each other. Tension coursed through the groups, back when the city seemed like the safer place to stay, splitting them apart into smaller packs that fought against each other for resources and territory. He didn’t want to be a part of that, didn’t want spend his energy fighting when he could be finding food. He had left to set up camp in the forest.
“No where else to go,” Eames answers plainly. Arthur understands; even though he tried to avoid the city after the violence broke out, he did have to stay close enough to it to get supplies. Staying across the inlet has it’s advantages. Very few people venture across the unstable bridges; those who stay in the city area of North Vancouver don’t often venture into the woods. He’s isolated, which keeps him safe.
It seems reasonable that Eames wouldn’t want to stay in the outlying areas though. Not everyone has the survival skills Arthur has, and finding supplies, especially where less people lived before everything was destroyed, can be difficult.
Eames settles, sitting on a plastic crate Arthur had picked up, thumbing through one of Arthur’s half-burned books. Arthur doesn’t quite know what to do with himself with Eames around, but his stomach answers for him by grumbling loudly and he remembers that the reason he met Eames at all is because he went looking for food. He digs out a can of beans from his pack, opening the lid carefully with a knife - he really needs to find a manual can-opener.
Arthur could just eat his food cold from the can, but a fire will keep him warm and a hot meal sounds like the best thing in the world after his grueling adventure through the city. He sets some of his wood pile in a fire pit, lighting it carefully and stoking the flames until they’re large enough to be left unattended. He then finds a pot and dumps half the can of beans into it. Rationing it and only eating a quarter of the can would be the best action, but he’s too hungry to limit himself right now.
Arthur sets the pot on the edge of the containment wall he’s built around the pit. He’s trying to build a makeshift grill so that he can cook above the fire eventually, but it’s not completed yet. Without the grill his food cooks unevenly and he has to keep turning the pot so the edges of his food don’t burn. The smell of cooking beans makes his stomach tighten angrily, impatient with the wait, and he tries to block it out by asking Eames more questions.
“You’re English,”Arthur says. It’s the first thing that stuck in his head after Eames took his gas mask off when they met.
“Astute observation, Arthur,” Eames laughs sarcastically.
“When did you … ?” Arthur gesticulates, trying to indicate the city while simultaneously controlling his annoyance at Eames’ tone.
“When I was ten,” Eames answers, apparently understanding Arthur’s unrefined waving. “Dad got a new job, packed us off to dear ol’ Canada here.”
Arthur could ask about Eames’ family, the statement being an obvious segue, but then he’d probably have to talk about his own. Bringing those memories up is too painful; it’s been less than a year since his dad died and he doesn’t want to think about it.
“You miss it?” Arthur asks instead.
“Arthur, look around us. Of course I miss it compared to this.” Eames waves his hand in a circle in the direction of the city, mimicking Arthur’s gesture from before.
Chagrined by giving Eames an opening for sarcasm, Arthur goes silent for few moments while he turns the cooking pot. He can’t think of any more questions to ask, he doesn’t really care, and his beans are now starting to boil so he pulls them from the fire to cool. Feeling eyes on him, he glances up to find that Eames is staring.
Arthur averts his eyes quickly. He had thought Eames was still reading, or searching through his possessions again, but apparently that’s not the case. He feels exposed under Eames’ cool gaze so he fumbles with his dinner as a distraction, shoveling in a mouthful before it’s properly cooled. The tip of his tongue burns, damaging some of his taste buds. Gasping and, opening his mouth wide to exhale over the food, he rolls it over his tongue too cool. Eames chuckles and Arthur frowns as soon as he can properly close his mouth to chew.
Arthur eats his dinner quickly since he can barely taste it with his damaged tongue. Usually he saviors the first meal after a supply run, but Eames is still glancing up at him him intermittently, and Arthur hasn’t offered any of his the food. Again he feels guilty, but Eames isn’t his family or his friend.
He doesn’t have to share.
Eames doesn’t seem too put out by Arthur’s lack of manners. He pulls something wrapped out from his bag and begins munching on half of it. It is probably a stale granola bar or a poptart. After he’s finished eating, Arthur tries to start conversation again because he feels awkward just sitting with Eames.
“What else do you miss?” Arthur asks. He hopes the question is generic enough that they don’t get into family issues, or something similarly heavy. It doesn’t feel like something Eames can throw back at him as well. To guide the direction of the conversation he adds, “I miss pop like you wouldn’t believe.”
Eames groans a little with empathy. The sound is deep and warm, and Arthur’s gut clenches involuntarily upon hearing it. “I miss sticky toffee pudding, with proper custard on top. You couldn’t even get that here, before all this I mean, but I miss it. That was my favorite dessert.”
“I miss poutine.” Arthur says, face going a bit slack as he thinks about the savory, filling quality of his favorite food.
“Gross, mate.” Eames’ face scrunches in distaste.
“Shut the fuck up, it’s delicious!” Arthur nearly screeches. “I mean, how can you go wrong? It’s fries, which are amazing on their own. They have to be slightly crispy though, so when you add gravy and cheese it doesn’t get soggy. It’s the best! My favorite is the veggie gravy. My dad liked the beef kind better, but I could eat both. And, oh God, when the cheese is fresh and squeaks when you chew it; God I miss cheese. I think I could eat my body-weight in poutine right now.”
“Stop, stop, mate,” Eames laughs. “I don’t even like the stuff and the way you’re going on about it; you’re making me hungry.” Eames doesn’t say it with any malice, but Arthur winces as the comment anyway, thinking about the beans he hadn’t offered Eames.
“You can have the rest of this can if you want. I don’t eat a whole can at a time.” Arthur goes to grab the half can of food left but Eames stops him.
“No, it’s yours, mate.”
“But you found it. You gave it to me.”
“It was a gift. Don’t worry about it.”
Arthur’s at a loss. He had felt a little guilty before about not offering Eames food, but now, with Eames insisting that it was a gift, he feels so much worse. The half-filled can feels heavy in his hand, like lead weight, mocking him.
“Just take the damn food.”
Eames gives him a scrutinizing look and Arthur again feels exposed under his stare. Arthur feels about three times smaller than he actually is as Eames looks at him like that. Arthur knows that if Eames refuses, he’ll feel awful the rest of the night. He should have been polite; Eames has been nothing but nice to him ever since they met.
“All right,” Eames finally relents. “If you insist.”
Arthur reaches over to give Eames the can, trying to act casual. Eames takes the proffered beans with a smile. Arthur is taken yet again at how white Eames’ teeth are, how they light up his face when he flashes them. Arthur’s a little entranced by it. It’s been so long since he’s laughed, or smiled, or seen someone else do the same. He doesn’t really notice he’s still holding onto the can until Eames gives him a funny look when he tries to pull it away. Dropping the can quickly, Arthur snatches his hand away and gives an awkward smile before he turns around to ready his bed.
Eames doesn’t bother warming the beans, instead scooping them out, as is, with the spoon Arthur had left in the can. Realizing that Eames can’t travel back to the city tonight and that he doesn’t have anywhere for Eames to sleep, Arthur starts to gather up his spare fabric, as many of big pieces he can find, to make a second bed near the fire.
He can’t just let Eames freeze during the night. The tarp that Eames brought him will keep him dry for a long time and Arthur can’t just shrug that generosity off again. Eames can stay the night, and in the morning he’ll be on his way back home. Maybe Arthur can offer some of his less necessary supplies to Eames in exchange.
When Arthur looks up from his thoughts, Eames is picking at the food. He’s only eaten half of what’s left, it seems, before he sets it down. Arthur wonders if Eames wasn’t hungry after all. He guesses it doesn’t really matter. He offered and Eames accepted, that’s what counts. With nothing left to do, Arthur sits on his own bed and pulls out the book he’s been reading: Good Omens. Eames wanders over the bed Arthur has made for him and sits down.
“That’s a good one,” Eames says after dipping his head sideways to read the cover.
Arthur nods. He kind of relates to Crowley. It is a little weird though to be reading a story about the apocalypse with the city, and who knows how much of the rest of world, burned out around him. But it’s one of the few fiction books he has.
Eames picks up a singed copy of 1984 from among the random assortment, and sits down on his bedding. “You have a strange collection,” he says. “Cook books, theoretical mathematics, The Cat Who Moved a Mountain?"
“I just pick up what I can find,” Arthur replies.
“Well it’s better than the lot of romance novels my mom used to keep.”
“I have a couple of those as well.”
“Do you now? Well, I’ll have to check them out.” Eames is chuckling. “Where did you find all these?”
“The library.”
“No shit. Never would have thought. The library …”
Arthur rolls his eyes, but he can’t help corners of his lips tugging up. They read until it’s too dark to see, with the light from the fire finally dying down. Arthur stokes the coals once more so that they’ll at least burn through the night. He wraps himself in his blankets, bundled up tight against the frigid night air, and drifts off to sleep.
When Arthur wakes in the morning his eyes immediately dart to Eames’ bed. It’s empty. He sits up in in dismay, still slightly groggy from sleep, looking to see if anything is missing. He should have known not to sleep with Eames here. Arthur gave Eames the perfect opportunity to rob him blind. He’s already mentally kicking himself when he sees movement out of the corner of his eyes.
When Arthur spins around, he finds Eames is sitting on the crate again, eating the rest of the open can of beans. The sense of relief that washes over Arthur punches the air from his lungs in breath. He thought that Eames had taken off, possibly with something important, like his gun or ammo, and is glad to find that’s not the case. A remaining sense of paranoia remains though, from the fact that Eames is still here.
Eames doesn’t seem intent to leave. He’s eating slowly and reading more of Arthur’s book, hanging the spoon from his lips like a lollipop between bites. Arthur isn’t staring at the way his lips pillow around the metal and the way his fingers barely hold the handle.
When Arthur is able to stand, Eames looks up. “Morning, sunshine,” he grins.
Arthur doesn’t respond and resists the urge to return the smile. He digs through the new food find something for breakfast. He pulls out canned pumpkin and opens it. This time he only eats a quarter of the can, saving the rest. To save the remainder, he searches for Tupperware in his collection of dishes and when he finds one, deposits the fruit inside. The plastic seals in the smell of the food. It’s still not safe to keep open food near his shelter though, so he slips on his boots to take the dish to an area he keeps outside his camp.
It wasn’t a smart idea to let Eames keep part of the beans out last night, and he berates himself for the oversight. Invading animals are not something he wants to deal with. There are raccoons, skunks and, of course, bears that can completely destroy his camp. Thinking about the animals reminds him that he should go trapping and hunting. Now that he has some food in him, it won’t seem like such an insurmountable task.
Eames eyes him as he returns to the camp. “Feel better?” he asks and with a leer.
“What?” Arthur responds, confused by the question.
“You were gone a while. Figured you were off you know.” The gesture Eames makes is obscene. Arthur flushes red, white-hot embarrassment causing his brows to furrow into an angry scowl.
“I was storing the open food, you ass. Can’t keep it in camp, you know.”
“Whatever you say, mate,” Eames laughs, clearly not believing Arthur’s story. “I’m not judging.”
Arthur busies himself preparing his trapping and hunting gear. Even if he was out jerking off, it’s none of Eames’ business. And Arthur wasn’t anyway. He pockets extra bullets for his rifle and readies his bow, making sure he has his glove and bracer.
“Hunting trip, yeah? Mind if I tag along?” Eames has somehow moved to Arthur’s side without him noticing and Arthur nearly jumps when Eames speaks. Forcing his nerves to settle, he looks over his shoulder to find Eames trying to suppress a pleased smile. He’s obviously amused by making Arthur jump. Arthur swallows thickly and nods. Leaving Eames here is not something he is willing to do and if Eames isn’t heading back home, he’ll have to tag along for the hunt.
Arthur thrusts a bag of his trapping gear into Eames’ hands. With two people Arthur will be able to keep his eye out for large game as well as set snares for smaller animals. It might actually be convenient having Eames around for this today; it will take him half the time to do both tasks. “Don’t fucking drop this.” he says.
They set off for the long hike into the woods. Eames doesn’t stop talking. Now that he has someone to speak to, it seems, he doesn’t ever want to stop. Arthur would mind if they were farther in, Eames possibly scaring off prey, but they have a fair distance to travel before they’ll likely run into any animals and the trek can be boring on his own.
“It’s weird, yeah? I always thought that the future was going to be like that book you have, all government watching everything you do and making sure you fit in their plan and all. I mean cell phones already tracked everywhere you went. People complained about it, then they would go and use it for check-ins that tell exactly where they went anyway. But I really thought it was going to be like that, with microchips under your skin and your life narrowed down to ones and zeroes.”
Arthur nods absently. He’d never really thought that far in the future he realizes. He’d thought about upcoming goals and dates, college, but nothing past that too far. Even Architecture was just a dream. He didn’t even know if he wanted a family someday; not that he’ll ever have one now.
“So what did you do, before all this?” Eames asks. “Art? School?” He kicks a fallen pine cone out of his path.
“School, yes, and art, and sports …” Arthur says, but Eames cuts him off before he can finish.
“What sports?”
“Archery mostly.” Arthur steps up a rocky incline, shrugging his shouldered rifle back so it doesn’t get caught as he uses a tree for balance.
“Archery’s a sport?”
“There’s competitions, and trophies and stuff. So, yeah.”
“But there’s no running and athleticism, like soccer or something. It’s not really a sport sport.”
“There is when you do something like the archery biathlon, which is cross country skiing and shooting. But archery is an Olympic sport anyway, you know.”
“Oh, yeah. The Olympics just allowed anything in though, didn’t they? What with curling, and ballroom dancing.”
Eames has his eyes pointed down towards his feet, navigating the terrain, when Arthur glances back at him with a raised eyebrow. “Hey, you try any of those sports and tell me how easy they are. Dancing is fucking hard. So is curling,” Arthur snorts.
“Whatever you say, mate,” Eames replies, looking up with an easy smile.
Arthur leaves the conversation there. They’re far enough in now that they should keep talking to a minimum. Eames seems to pick up on that fact when Arthur stops responding to questions and begins setting up his snares. Hopefully he’ll catch a rabbit; even a squirrel would be welcome snag.
They trudge through the woods for most of the afternoon, setting up wire snares and a few conibear traps. He has some foothold traps, but he doesn’t like putting the animals through more pain than necessary. At least snares hurt less, and Arthur can put the animal out of it’s misery quickly when he comes back.
Arthur would prefer just shooting his dinner, but it’s unrealistic to depend solely on hunting for food. Running into game is infrequent. If he had the leisure of spending a whole week hunting, without worrying about running out of canned food, or water, or animals raiding his camp, he might be able to bring in deer or two. But he can’t be away that long, so trapping is his best bet.
When they’re done, and are on the way back to his camp, Arthur asks Eames about his past. “So what did you do, before?”
Eames laughs but doesn’t miss a beat before answering, “I was in the circus, mate, training for the trapeze. But I wasn’t good enough to perform yet, so they had me mucking out the animal cages and doing odd jobs while I worked up to it.”
“I thought you said you were James Bond.” Arthur smiles, because Eames’ story is such bullshit, but he finds it amusing anyway.
“No, that’s what you said. I never said that.” Eames points his finger accusingly at Arthur as he grins. “I said I tail people. Training you know, following my teacher around everywhere to get in his head. He’s a method performer.”
“You are so full of shit. You can’t be a method performer for trapeze. It’s not like he’s being an actor.”
Eames shrugs but doesn’t defend the accusation. They walk for a while in silence, picking their way back through the trees. “What do you think happened?” Eames asks when they’re nearly to Arthur’s camp.
“What do you mean? It was bombed.” Arthur’s not trying to be sarcastic, but it comes out that way anyway.
“No, I mean, who. Why?”
“I don’t know. It could be any number of reasons,” Arthur shrugs. “Were you alone when it happened? Where’s your family?”
Fuck, Arthur thinks as soon as he’s asked the question. He could kick himself for bringing up the subject. In his haste to turn the conversation towards Eames he’s brought up the one thing he doesn’t want to think about.
“I don’t have family,” Eames says flatly.
“But you said your dad moved you out here. Did they die before the blast or something?”
Jesus fuck, Arthur thinks again because he’s blurting out the most inappropriate questions. It’s tactless, but he can’t take it back.
“Not exactly.” Eames looks slightly agitated when he answers. Then it dawns on Arthur, a reason why Eames would be alone when the attack went down.
“Did you run away or something?”
Eames pauses, like he’s trying to decide if he should say anything at all. His expression is guarded and slightly pained. Arthur’s chest tightens with regret, wishing he could take his question back. “Yeah, mate. It’s how I’ve survived all this. Learned to take care of myself, you know? Lived on the streets awhile.”
Arthur doesn’t have a response for that. He stares ahead as he walks, searching the trees for movement and thinking about what life on the street must have been like. He wonders why Eames ran from his parents. He can’t imagine leaving his dad. They’re all each other had.
“Did you have a good reason to run?” Arthur asks, voice low and soft.
“Yeah,” Eames sighs, but doesn’t elaborate. Eames stares at the path in front of them, shoulders tense. He’s not looking up at Arthur between steps anymore. Arthur wants to ask more, he wants to know everything about why Eames ran, he wants to understand, but he lets it go. Eames is already upset enough.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur says instead, pausing in the path.
“For what?” Eames laughs bitterly as he adjusts his bag. “I get it, you’re curious. No harm done.”
“No. I’m sorry your family sucked, you know? Sorry you had to run away.”
Eames looks up at him with that intense gaze again, the one that makes Arthur feel laid bare, like Eames can see right through him. He’s only known Eames for two days and already he feels like Eames has figured him out.
They continue to walk quietly for a little while, leaving the conversation behind with every step they take. Eventually, Eames is the one who tries to start a conversation again, about something inane, but Arthur isn’t really listening anymore. He keeps imagining what it was like for Eames on the street. He deals with this type of life because he has to, because there is nothing else, and he knows he had a good life before. This is just a lot of the same for Eames, worse maybe, which Arthur thinks is horrible. Nobody deserves a life like that.
When they get back to camp, they busy themselves for the rest of the day. Arthur strains his water supply through nylons to get the debris out and stores it in some jars and pitchers he’s scavenged. He’ll boil it later to kill most of the bacteria. Eames helps him after watching Arthur do one bucket. By the time they're done with all of them, it’s starting to get dark.
The hunting trip took a while, even with Eames’ help, and suddenly Arthur realizes how hungry he is from the hike. He goes off to retrieve the pumpkin from the Tupperware outside camp and brings it back, wishing he could open something new. However, he doesn’t want the opened food to spoil, even if it is cold enough for the weather to be a natural refrigerator. He cooks enough for both him and Eames this time.
They sit and eat in silence for a while before Eames asks, “What about you? Where’s your family?”
Arthur shifts uncomfortably. It was inevitable that Eames would ask, he knows. He brought up the subject in the first place. Arthur owes Eames an answer.
“My mom died when I was five. It was just me and my dad after that. Mr, my dad, and a friend of mine, were on a camping trip when the blasts happened. We could see the smoke from the fires; it was so huge. So we survived by luck too, I guess.”
“So, where are they now?” Eames hesitates in asking, his face pinching as he fiddles with his spoon. Arthur thinks it’s a fair question with the ones he asked earlier.
“He, uh …” Arthur swallows before continuing, “we were fine for months. Then my dad got injured, broke his leg when we were out hunting by falling into a ravine. It was pretty bad, the bone …”
It’s hard for Arthur to repeat the events, he chokes a little on the words. “It was a compound fracture, and it got infected, and we didn’t have any antibiotics. Greg and I got him back to camp, but when the infection set in, it got so bad he couldn’t move. It just got worse, until he couldn’t eat anymore, couldn’t even stay awake. His body … he was so thin, and so sick. Then one morning he was gone.”
Eames reaches out to grasp Arthur’s hand, to comfort him as tears begin to stream down Arthur’s face. The memories of watching his father die flood his mind. He can clearly remember the sweat-slick pallor of his father’s fevered skin, the smell of the infection, the sound of labored breathing. It haunts his dreams some nights. Pushing past the memories he tries to continue.
“Then it was just me and Greg, but …”
Arthur can’t. The words get stuck in his throat and he turns his head away, trying to block out the images of his friend slowly dying as he could do nothing to help him. Eames doesn’t push for more. He just sits, clutching Arthur’s hand reassuringly as they sit by the fire.
***
Eames stays for weeks. They fall into a rhythm around each other. Each morning they eat a little breakfast then they go off to check their traps. Sometimes they head farther into the forest to hunt, but usually have to rely on the occasional rabbit, opossum, or raccoon for their food.
Eames always talks, weaving false tales about his past, or making up strange scenarios they may encounter in the future. He’s always planning for something crazy to happen, like roving gangs of cannibals, or a surviving military convoy rolling through. Arthur hopes that nothing that exciting ever actually happens.
Arthur teaches Eames how to sets snares properly; the conibears are fairly straightforward but the snares take some practice to perfect. He also teaches Eames how to dress a kill, making sure to cut the skin away cleanly to not contaminate the meat with parasites. He shows Eames how to check the liver for disease and remove the entrails without bursting the intestines -just like his dad taught him. They have to be careful of contracting parasites, of not letting the meat spoil and curing it properly. Without much salt to preserve the meat, they have to eat their kill before they eat any of the canned food and they have to smoke the it as much as possible without the help of a proper shed.
Eames doesn’t like killing the animals when they find them alive in the snares but Arthur makes him do it, at least a couple times, so Eames knows what to expect. Eames said he used to kill rats and stuff for food, but snapping a small rat’s neck isn’t quite the same as putting down a fluffy rabbit.
The look on Eames face the first time heard the a rabbit scream made Arthur want to reach out and hug him. He never wanted to put Eames through something like that again, but he knew that Eames was better off knowing how to safely trap and hunt. As Eames knelt over the bloody carcass, staring and looking sickly pale, Arthur place a firm hand on Eames’ shoulder and told him that he did just fine.
The screaming and the blood still set Arthur’s nerves on edge, but he had to learn to deal with it and Eames has to learn also. They haven’t found any proper fishing gear yet, so a daily catch isn’t going to happen. Maybe if they plan another excursion in to the city they’ll get lucky. The nets Arthur has tried are more difficult and time consuming than he can afford when trapping works better.
It’s nice, having someone around. Arthur’s forgotten how easily things get accomplished with two sets of hands. Eames is always chatting, drowning Arthur’s doubts with reassurances or occupying his thoughts with trying to figure out when Eames is being serious or not instead of worrying about everything constantly. Eames gives him something to focus on. It makes the days go by faster. And Arthur is a little reluctant to admit it, but it’s nice having Eames at night now that it’s the end of winter; they can huddle closer together to keep warm. Arthur remembers when he, his dad, and Greg would do the same. Plus if they head to the city, it’ll be faster to search for supplies with Eames.
They’re washing the dishes as best they can in a stream, and Eames is telling him about his childhood as a performance artist, juggling or doing card tricks for audiences in some London park, pickpocketing unknowing spectators when he switched off with a friend. Arthur’s not sure if he believes this story either, but it sounds at least more plausible than some of Eames’ other tales. Arthur doesn’t want to interrupt and resolves to bring up scavenging with Eames in the morning.
The sun is bright when Arthur wakes. He’s cold, colder than usual since Eames and him started sleeping closer together as winter dragged on. Usually that means Eames has woken up first and started breakfast, but Arthur doesn’t smell food.
He sits up, stretching his arms out to work the sleep out of his system. Looking around for Eames, he crawls out of his bed. Arthur doesn’t see him anywhere. Eames could be off relieving himself or something, jerking off maybe. Arthur doesn’t think anything of it.
So he goes to gather some meat from the food stash and starts the fire back up to heat breakfast. He has their rations heated quickly, but Eames still hasn’t returned. Arthur starts to get a niggling feeling of worry on the back of his neck. There’s no reason why Eames should be gone this long, unless he was injured. Arthur tries not to think of anything worse.
He eats his portion of the breakfast and packs Eames’ ration away. He stores it away from camp again, even if Eames comes back. Something isn’t right. He can feel it in his gut. Gathering his rifle and bow, Arthur sets off into the woods to check the traps. He wants to wait for Eames, but leaving a captured animal out means he’s likely to lose it if there is one.
The hike seems so much longer without Eames’ stories to entertain him. The trees are silent, the wind the only noise besides Arthur’s heavy footsteps. It takes a while to check each trap, and Arthur comes back empty handed. He’s half expecting, hoping even, to see Eames’ sitting next to the campfire, reading another book with an apology waiting for why he’s missed the hike. But when Arthur gets back, Eames isn’t there.
Arthur’s anger flares. Where the fuck are you? He thinks, and This isn’t fucking funny, Eames. Because maybe it’s a bad joke, maybe Eames is waiting out in the woods to spring on Arthur and startle him. But that seems really unlikely. In just the few weeks they’ve stayed together, Eames hasn’t seemed one for practical jokes. Stories, sure, but not pranks.
Then a thought hits Arthur. Maybe this was Eames’ plan the entire time. To lull Arthur into a sense of safety while smuggling useful supplies away to a place where he could grab them quickly and take off. But when Arthur searches through his camp he finds nothing missing.
Eames has simply disappeared.
part 5
Author: sparrow_hubris
Team: ANGST!!!
Prompt: innocence
Word count: 5,467 this part
Rating: PG-13 - NC-17 (This part R maybe)
Warnings: Underage 15/17, Apocalypse & general destruction, Violence, Mentions of death, violence towards animals (hunting) this part & other warnings as I get to them.
Betas: night_reveals ♥
Summary: Apocalypse AU / a.k.a bb!Survival / a.k.a. cockblockalypse!
Notes: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
A huge thank you to neomeruru for all the help with Vancouver as well as sending me inspiring pictures of poutine. Thanks to la_fours for a wondrous description of why poutine is delicious. Thanks to eternalsojourn for suggesting Eames' favorite dessert from her trip to England.
___
It’s clear, hours later, that Eames doesn’t intend to leave. Arthur wonders if he came here to drop off the tarp and then head back into the city, but Eames seems content to stay and look through Arthur’s camp, idly asking questions about some of Arthur’s possessions. Arthur is still weary, not knowing Eames’ motives, but he finds himself relaxing with the casual conversation. Eventually their discussion circles back to the blast; it’s inevitable, the bombing being such a central factor in each of their lives.
“How did you survive?” Arthur asks.
“Dumb luck, really.” Eames says. “I was out running an errand for … a friend. Wasn’t in the city when it all happened.”
Arthur scowls, but lets the lie go. He wouldn’t necessarily be comfortable sharing his own life story as well. It’s possible that something much worse happened that allowed Eames to survive. Arthur has seen enough to know that’s likely the case.
“Why’d you come back then?” Arthur asks instead.
Arthur stayed outside the city for a reason, not wanting to be in the middle of when the survivors eventually turned on each other. Tension coursed through the groups, back when the city seemed like the safer place to stay, splitting them apart into smaller packs that fought against each other for resources and territory. He didn’t want to be a part of that, didn’t want spend his energy fighting when he could be finding food. He had left to set up camp in the forest.
“No where else to go,” Eames answers plainly. Arthur understands; even though he tried to avoid the city after the violence broke out, he did have to stay close enough to it to get supplies. Staying across the inlet has it’s advantages. Very few people venture across the unstable bridges; those who stay in the city area of North Vancouver don’t often venture into the woods. He’s isolated, which keeps him safe.
It seems reasonable that Eames wouldn’t want to stay in the outlying areas though. Not everyone has the survival skills Arthur has, and finding supplies, especially where less people lived before everything was destroyed, can be difficult.
Eames settles, sitting on a plastic crate Arthur had picked up, thumbing through one of Arthur’s half-burned books. Arthur doesn’t quite know what to do with himself with Eames around, but his stomach answers for him by grumbling loudly and he remembers that the reason he met Eames at all is because he went looking for food. He digs out a can of beans from his pack, opening the lid carefully with a knife - he really needs to find a manual can-opener.
Arthur could just eat his food cold from the can, but a fire will keep him warm and a hot meal sounds like the best thing in the world after his grueling adventure through the city. He sets some of his wood pile in a fire pit, lighting it carefully and stoking the flames until they’re large enough to be left unattended. He then finds a pot and dumps half the can of beans into it. Rationing it and only eating a quarter of the can would be the best action, but he’s too hungry to limit himself right now.
Arthur sets the pot on the edge of the containment wall he’s built around the pit. He’s trying to build a makeshift grill so that he can cook above the fire eventually, but it’s not completed yet. Without the grill his food cooks unevenly and he has to keep turning the pot so the edges of his food don’t burn. The smell of cooking beans makes his stomach tighten angrily, impatient with the wait, and he tries to block it out by asking Eames more questions.
“You’re English,”Arthur says. It’s the first thing that stuck in his head after Eames took his gas mask off when they met.
“Astute observation, Arthur,” Eames laughs sarcastically.
“When did you … ?” Arthur gesticulates, trying to indicate the city while simultaneously controlling his annoyance at Eames’ tone.
“When I was ten,” Eames answers, apparently understanding Arthur’s unrefined waving. “Dad got a new job, packed us off to dear ol’ Canada here.”
Arthur could ask about Eames’ family, the statement being an obvious segue, but then he’d probably have to talk about his own. Bringing those memories up is too painful; it’s been less than a year since his dad died and he doesn’t want to think about it.
“You miss it?” Arthur asks instead.
“Arthur, look around us. Of course I miss it compared to this.” Eames waves his hand in a circle in the direction of the city, mimicking Arthur’s gesture from before.
Chagrined by giving Eames an opening for sarcasm, Arthur goes silent for few moments while he turns the cooking pot. He can’t think of any more questions to ask, he doesn’t really care, and his beans are now starting to boil so he pulls them from the fire to cool. Feeling eyes on him, he glances up to find that Eames is staring.
Arthur averts his eyes quickly. He had thought Eames was still reading, or searching through his possessions again, but apparently that’s not the case. He feels exposed under Eames’ cool gaze so he fumbles with his dinner as a distraction, shoveling in a mouthful before it’s properly cooled. The tip of his tongue burns, damaging some of his taste buds. Gasping and, opening his mouth wide to exhale over the food, he rolls it over his tongue too cool. Eames chuckles and Arthur frowns as soon as he can properly close his mouth to chew.
Arthur eats his dinner quickly since he can barely taste it with his damaged tongue. Usually he saviors the first meal after a supply run, but Eames is still glancing up at him him intermittently, and Arthur hasn’t offered any of his the food. Again he feels guilty, but Eames isn’t his family or his friend.
He doesn’t have to share.
Eames doesn’t seem too put out by Arthur’s lack of manners. He pulls something wrapped out from his bag and begins munching on half of it. It is probably a stale granola bar or a poptart. After he’s finished eating, Arthur tries to start conversation again because he feels awkward just sitting with Eames.
“What else do you miss?” Arthur asks. He hopes the question is generic enough that they don’t get into family issues, or something similarly heavy. It doesn’t feel like something Eames can throw back at him as well. To guide the direction of the conversation he adds, “I miss pop like you wouldn’t believe.”
Eames groans a little with empathy. The sound is deep and warm, and Arthur’s gut clenches involuntarily upon hearing it. “I miss sticky toffee pudding, with proper custard on top. You couldn’t even get that here, before all this I mean, but I miss it. That was my favorite dessert.”
“I miss poutine.” Arthur says, face going a bit slack as he thinks about the savory, filling quality of his favorite food.
“Gross, mate.” Eames’ face scrunches in distaste.
“Shut the fuck up, it’s delicious!” Arthur nearly screeches. “I mean, how can you go wrong? It’s fries, which are amazing on their own. They have to be slightly crispy though, so when you add gravy and cheese it doesn’t get soggy. It’s the best! My favorite is the veggie gravy. My dad liked the beef kind better, but I could eat both. And, oh God, when the cheese is fresh and squeaks when you chew it; God I miss cheese. I think I could eat my body-weight in poutine right now.”
“Stop, stop, mate,” Eames laughs. “I don’t even like the stuff and the way you’re going on about it; you’re making me hungry.” Eames doesn’t say it with any malice, but Arthur winces as the comment anyway, thinking about the beans he hadn’t offered Eames.
“You can have the rest of this can if you want. I don’t eat a whole can at a time.” Arthur goes to grab the half can of food left but Eames stops him.
“No, it’s yours, mate.”
“But you found it. You gave it to me.”
“It was a gift. Don’t worry about it.”
Arthur’s at a loss. He had felt a little guilty before about not offering Eames food, but now, with Eames insisting that it was a gift, he feels so much worse. The half-filled can feels heavy in his hand, like lead weight, mocking him.
“Just take the damn food.”
Eames gives him a scrutinizing look and Arthur again feels exposed under his stare. Arthur feels about three times smaller than he actually is as Eames looks at him like that. Arthur knows that if Eames refuses, he’ll feel awful the rest of the night. He should have been polite; Eames has been nothing but nice to him ever since they met.
“All right,” Eames finally relents. “If you insist.”
Arthur reaches over to give Eames the can, trying to act casual. Eames takes the proffered beans with a smile. Arthur is taken yet again at how white Eames’ teeth are, how they light up his face when he flashes them. Arthur’s a little entranced by it. It’s been so long since he’s laughed, or smiled, or seen someone else do the same. He doesn’t really notice he’s still holding onto the can until Eames gives him a funny look when he tries to pull it away. Dropping the can quickly, Arthur snatches his hand away and gives an awkward smile before he turns around to ready his bed.
Eames doesn’t bother warming the beans, instead scooping them out, as is, with the spoon Arthur had left in the can. Realizing that Eames can’t travel back to the city tonight and that he doesn’t have anywhere for Eames to sleep, Arthur starts to gather up his spare fabric, as many of big pieces he can find, to make a second bed near the fire.
He can’t just let Eames freeze during the night. The tarp that Eames brought him will keep him dry for a long time and Arthur can’t just shrug that generosity off again. Eames can stay the night, and in the morning he’ll be on his way back home. Maybe Arthur can offer some of his less necessary supplies to Eames in exchange.
When Arthur looks up from his thoughts, Eames is picking at the food. He’s only eaten half of what’s left, it seems, before he sets it down. Arthur wonders if Eames wasn’t hungry after all. He guesses it doesn’t really matter. He offered and Eames accepted, that’s what counts. With nothing left to do, Arthur sits on his own bed and pulls out the book he’s been reading: Good Omens. Eames wanders over the bed Arthur has made for him and sits down.
“That’s a good one,” Eames says after dipping his head sideways to read the cover.
Arthur nods. He kind of relates to Crowley. It is a little weird though to be reading a story about the apocalypse with the city, and who knows how much of the rest of world, burned out around him. But it’s one of the few fiction books he has.
Eames picks up a singed copy of 1984 from among the random assortment, and sits down on his bedding. “You have a strange collection,” he says. “Cook books, theoretical mathematics, The Cat Who Moved a Mountain?"
“I just pick up what I can find,” Arthur replies.
“Well it’s better than the lot of romance novels my mom used to keep.”
“I have a couple of those as well.”
“Do you now? Well, I’ll have to check them out.” Eames is chuckling. “Where did you find all these?”
“The library.”
“No shit. Never would have thought. The library …”
Arthur rolls his eyes, but he can’t help corners of his lips tugging up. They read until it’s too dark to see, with the light from the fire finally dying down. Arthur stokes the coals once more so that they’ll at least burn through the night. He wraps himself in his blankets, bundled up tight against the frigid night air, and drifts off to sleep.
When Arthur wakes in the morning his eyes immediately dart to Eames’ bed. It’s empty. He sits up in in dismay, still slightly groggy from sleep, looking to see if anything is missing. He should have known not to sleep with Eames here. Arthur gave Eames the perfect opportunity to rob him blind. He’s already mentally kicking himself when he sees movement out of the corner of his eyes.
When Arthur spins around, he finds Eames is sitting on the crate again, eating the rest of the open can of beans. The sense of relief that washes over Arthur punches the air from his lungs in breath. He thought that Eames had taken off, possibly with something important, like his gun or ammo, and is glad to find that’s not the case. A remaining sense of paranoia remains though, from the fact that Eames is still here.
Eames doesn’t seem intent to leave. He’s eating slowly and reading more of Arthur’s book, hanging the spoon from his lips like a lollipop between bites. Arthur isn’t staring at the way his lips pillow around the metal and the way his fingers barely hold the handle.
When Arthur is able to stand, Eames looks up. “Morning, sunshine,” he grins.
Arthur doesn’t respond and resists the urge to return the smile. He digs through the new food find something for breakfast. He pulls out canned pumpkin and opens it. This time he only eats a quarter of the can, saving the rest. To save the remainder, he searches for Tupperware in his collection of dishes and when he finds one, deposits the fruit inside. The plastic seals in the smell of the food. It’s still not safe to keep open food near his shelter though, so he slips on his boots to take the dish to an area he keeps outside his camp.
It wasn’t a smart idea to let Eames keep part of the beans out last night, and he berates himself for the oversight. Invading animals are not something he wants to deal with. There are raccoons, skunks and, of course, bears that can completely destroy his camp. Thinking about the animals reminds him that he should go trapping and hunting. Now that he has some food in him, it won’t seem like such an insurmountable task.
Eames eyes him as he returns to the camp. “Feel better?” he asks and with a leer.
“What?” Arthur responds, confused by the question.
“You were gone a while. Figured you were off you know.” The gesture Eames makes is obscene. Arthur flushes red, white-hot embarrassment causing his brows to furrow into an angry scowl.
“I was storing the open food, you ass. Can’t keep it in camp, you know.”
“Whatever you say, mate,” Eames laughs, clearly not believing Arthur’s story. “I’m not judging.”
Arthur busies himself preparing his trapping and hunting gear. Even if he was out jerking off, it’s none of Eames’ business. And Arthur wasn’t anyway. He pockets extra bullets for his rifle and readies his bow, making sure he has his glove and bracer.
“Hunting trip, yeah? Mind if I tag along?” Eames has somehow moved to Arthur’s side without him noticing and Arthur nearly jumps when Eames speaks. Forcing his nerves to settle, he looks over his shoulder to find Eames trying to suppress a pleased smile. He’s obviously amused by making Arthur jump. Arthur swallows thickly and nods. Leaving Eames here is not something he is willing to do and if Eames isn’t heading back home, he’ll have to tag along for the hunt.
Arthur thrusts a bag of his trapping gear into Eames’ hands. With two people Arthur will be able to keep his eye out for large game as well as set snares for smaller animals. It might actually be convenient having Eames around for this today; it will take him half the time to do both tasks. “Don’t fucking drop this.” he says.
They set off for the long hike into the woods. Eames doesn’t stop talking. Now that he has someone to speak to, it seems, he doesn’t ever want to stop. Arthur would mind if they were farther in, Eames possibly scaring off prey, but they have a fair distance to travel before they’ll likely run into any animals and the trek can be boring on his own.
“It’s weird, yeah? I always thought that the future was going to be like that book you have, all government watching everything you do and making sure you fit in their plan and all. I mean cell phones already tracked everywhere you went. People complained about it, then they would go and use it for check-ins that tell exactly where they went anyway. But I really thought it was going to be like that, with microchips under your skin and your life narrowed down to ones and zeroes.”
Arthur nods absently. He’d never really thought that far in the future he realizes. He’d thought about upcoming goals and dates, college, but nothing past that too far. Even Architecture was just a dream. He didn’t even know if he wanted a family someday; not that he’ll ever have one now.
“So what did you do, before all this?” Eames asks. “Art? School?” He kicks a fallen pine cone out of his path.
“School, yes, and art, and sports …” Arthur says, but Eames cuts him off before he can finish.
“What sports?”
“Archery mostly.” Arthur steps up a rocky incline, shrugging his shouldered rifle back so it doesn’t get caught as he uses a tree for balance.
“Archery’s a sport?”
“There’s competitions, and trophies and stuff. So, yeah.”
“But there’s no running and athleticism, like soccer or something. It’s not really a sport sport.”
“There is when you do something like the archery biathlon, which is cross country skiing and shooting. But archery is an Olympic sport anyway, you know.”
“Oh, yeah. The Olympics just allowed anything in though, didn’t they? What with curling, and ballroom dancing.”
Eames has his eyes pointed down towards his feet, navigating the terrain, when Arthur glances back at him with a raised eyebrow. “Hey, you try any of those sports and tell me how easy they are. Dancing is fucking hard. So is curling,” Arthur snorts.
“Whatever you say, mate,” Eames replies, looking up with an easy smile.
Arthur leaves the conversation there. They’re far enough in now that they should keep talking to a minimum. Eames seems to pick up on that fact when Arthur stops responding to questions and begins setting up his snares. Hopefully he’ll catch a rabbit; even a squirrel would be welcome snag.
They trudge through the woods for most of the afternoon, setting up wire snares and a few conibear traps. He has some foothold traps, but he doesn’t like putting the animals through more pain than necessary. At least snares hurt less, and Arthur can put the animal out of it’s misery quickly when he comes back.
Arthur would prefer just shooting his dinner, but it’s unrealistic to depend solely on hunting for food. Running into game is infrequent. If he had the leisure of spending a whole week hunting, without worrying about running out of canned food, or water, or animals raiding his camp, he might be able to bring in deer or two. But he can’t be away that long, so trapping is his best bet.
When they’re done, and are on the way back to his camp, Arthur asks Eames about his past. “So what did you do, before?”
Eames laughs but doesn’t miss a beat before answering, “I was in the circus, mate, training for the trapeze. But I wasn’t good enough to perform yet, so they had me mucking out the animal cages and doing odd jobs while I worked up to it.”
“I thought you said you were James Bond.” Arthur smiles, because Eames’ story is such bullshit, but he finds it amusing anyway.
“No, that’s what you said. I never said that.” Eames points his finger accusingly at Arthur as he grins. “I said I tail people. Training you know, following my teacher around everywhere to get in his head. He’s a method performer.”
“You are so full of shit. You can’t be a method performer for trapeze. It’s not like he’s being an actor.”
Eames shrugs but doesn’t defend the accusation. They walk for a while in silence, picking their way back through the trees. “What do you think happened?” Eames asks when they’re nearly to Arthur’s camp.
“What do you mean? It was bombed.” Arthur’s not trying to be sarcastic, but it comes out that way anyway.
“No, I mean, who. Why?”
“I don’t know. It could be any number of reasons,” Arthur shrugs. “Were you alone when it happened? Where’s your family?”
Fuck, Arthur thinks as soon as he’s asked the question. He could kick himself for bringing up the subject. In his haste to turn the conversation towards Eames he’s brought up the one thing he doesn’t want to think about.
“I don’t have family,” Eames says flatly.
“But you said your dad moved you out here. Did they die before the blast or something?”
Jesus fuck, Arthur thinks again because he’s blurting out the most inappropriate questions. It’s tactless, but he can’t take it back.
“Not exactly.” Eames looks slightly agitated when he answers. Then it dawns on Arthur, a reason why Eames would be alone when the attack went down.
“Did you run away or something?”
Eames pauses, like he’s trying to decide if he should say anything at all. His expression is guarded and slightly pained. Arthur’s chest tightens with regret, wishing he could take his question back. “Yeah, mate. It’s how I’ve survived all this. Learned to take care of myself, you know? Lived on the streets awhile.”
Arthur doesn’t have a response for that. He stares ahead as he walks, searching the trees for movement and thinking about what life on the street must have been like. He wonders why Eames ran from his parents. He can’t imagine leaving his dad. They’re all each other had.
“Did you have a good reason to run?” Arthur asks, voice low and soft.
“Yeah,” Eames sighs, but doesn’t elaborate. Eames stares at the path in front of them, shoulders tense. He’s not looking up at Arthur between steps anymore. Arthur wants to ask more, he wants to know everything about why Eames ran, he wants to understand, but he lets it go. Eames is already upset enough.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur says instead, pausing in the path.
“For what?” Eames laughs bitterly as he adjusts his bag. “I get it, you’re curious. No harm done.”
“No. I’m sorry your family sucked, you know? Sorry you had to run away.”
Eames looks up at him with that intense gaze again, the one that makes Arthur feel laid bare, like Eames can see right through him. He’s only known Eames for two days and already he feels like Eames has figured him out.
They continue to walk quietly for a little while, leaving the conversation behind with every step they take. Eventually, Eames is the one who tries to start a conversation again, about something inane, but Arthur isn’t really listening anymore. He keeps imagining what it was like for Eames on the street. He deals with this type of life because he has to, because there is nothing else, and he knows he had a good life before. This is just a lot of the same for Eames, worse maybe, which Arthur thinks is horrible. Nobody deserves a life like that.
When they get back to camp, they busy themselves for the rest of the day. Arthur strains his water supply through nylons to get the debris out and stores it in some jars and pitchers he’s scavenged. He’ll boil it later to kill most of the bacteria. Eames helps him after watching Arthur do one bucket. By the time they're done with all of them, it’s starting to get dark.
The hunting trip took a while, even with Eames’ help, and suddenly Arthur realizes how hungry he is from the hike. He goes off to retrieve the pumpkin from the Tupperware outside camp and brings it back, wishing he could open something new. However, he doesn’t want the opened food to spoil, even if it is cold enough for the weather to be a natural refrigerator. He cooks enough for both him and Eames this time.
They sit and eat in silence for a while before Eames asks, “What about you? Where’s your family?”
Arthur shifts uncomfortably. It was inevitable that Eames would ask, he knows. He brought up the subject in the first place. Arthur owes Eames an answer.
“My mom died when I was five. It was just me and my dad after that. Mr, my dad, and a friend of mine, were on a camping trip when the blasts happened. We could see the smoke from the fires; it was so huge. So we survived by luck too, I guess.”
“So, where are they now?” Eames hesitates in asking, his face pinching as he fiddles with his spoon. Arthur thinks it’s a fair question with the ones he asked earlier.
“He, uh …” Arthur swallows before continuing, “we were fine for months. Then my dad got injured, broke his leg when we were out hunting by falling into a ravine. It was pretty bad, the bone …”
It’s hard for Arthur to repeat the events, he chokes a little on the words. “It was a compound fracture, and it got infected, and we didn’t have any antibiotics. Greg and I got him back to camp, but when the infection set in, it got so bad he couldn’t move. It just got worse, until he couldn’t eat anymore, couldn’t even stay awake. His body … he was so thin, and so sick. Then one morning he was gone.”
Eames reaches out to grasp Arthur’s hand, to comfort him as tears begin to stream down Arthur’s face. The memories of watching his father die flood his mind. He can clearly remember the sweat-slick pallor of his father’s fevered skin, the smell of the infection, the sound of labored breathing. It haunts his dreams some nights. Pushing past the memories he tries to continue.
“Then it was just me and Greg, but …”
Arthur can’t. The words get stuck in his throat and he turns his head away, trying to block out the images of his friend slowly dying as he could do nothing to help him. Eames doesn’t push for more. He just sits, clutching Arthur’s hand reassuringly as they sit by the fire.
***
Eames stays for weeks. They fall into a rhythm around each other. Each morning they eat a little breakfast then they go off to check their traps. Sometimes they head farther into the forest to hunt, but usually have to rely on the occasional rabbit, opossum, or raccoon for their food.
Eames always talks, weaving false tales about his past, or making up strange scenarios they may encounter in the future. He’s always planning for something crazy to happen, like roving gangs of cannibals, or a surviving military convoy rolling through. Arthur hopes that nothing that exciting ever actually happens.
Arthur teaches Eames how to sets snares properly; the conibears are fairly straightforward but the snares take some practice to perfect. He also teaches Eames how to dress a kill, making sure to cut the skin away cleanly to not contaminate the meat with parasites. He shows Eames how to check the liver for disease and remove the entrails without bursting the intestines -just like his dad taught him. They have to be careful of contracting parasites, of not letting the meat spoil and curing it properly. Without much salt to preserve the meat, they have to eat their kill before they eat any of the canned food and they have to smoke the it as much as possible without the help of a proper shed.
Eames doesn’t like killing the animals when they find them alive in the snares but Arthur makes him do it, at least a couple times, so Eames knows what to expect. Eames said he used to kill rats and stuff for food, but snapping a small rat’s neck isn’t quite the same as putting down a fluffy rabbit.
The look on Eames face the first time heard the a rabbit scream made Arthur want to reach out and hug him. He never wanted to put Eames through something like that again, but he knew that Eames was better off knowing how to safely trap and hunt. As Eames knelt over the bloody carcass, staring and looking sickly pale, Arthur place a firm hand on Eames’ shoulder and told him that he did just fine.
The screaming and the blood still set Arthur’s nerves on edge, but he had to learn to deal with it and Eames has to learn also. They haven’t found any proper fishing gear yet, so a daily catch isn’t going to happen. Maybe if they plan another excursion in to the city they’ll get lucky. The nets Arthur has tried are more difficult and time consuming than he can afford when trapping works better.
It’s nice, having someone around. Arthur’s forgotten how easily things get accomplished with two sets of hands. Eames is always chatting, drowning Arthur’s doubts with reassurances or occupying his thoughts with trying to figure out when Eames is being serious or not instead of worrying about everything constantly. Eames gives him something to focus on. It makes the days go by faster. And Arthur is a little reluctant to admit it, but it’s nice having Eames at night now that it’s the end of winter; they can huddle closer together to keep warm. Arthur remembers when he, his dad, and Greg would do the same. Plus if they head to the city, it’ll be faster to search for supplies with Eames.
They’re washing the dishes as best they can in a stream, and Eames is telling him about his childhood as a performance artist, juggling or doing card tricks for audiences in some London park, pickpocketing unknowing spectators when he switched off with a friend. Arthur’s not sure if he believes this story either, but it sounds at least more plausible than some of Eames’ other tales. Arthur doesn’t want to interrupt and resolves to bring up scavenging with Eames in the morning.
The sun is bright when Arthur wakes. He’s cold, colder than usual since Eames and him started sleeping closer together as winter dragged on. Usually that means Eames has woken up first and started breakfast, but Arthur doesn’t smell food.
He sits up, stretching his arms out to work the sleep out of his system. Looking around for Eames, he crawls out of his bed. Arthur doesn’t see him anywhere. Eames could be off relieving himself or something, jerking off maybe. Arthur doesn’t think anything of it.
So he goes to gather some meat from the food stash and starts the fire back up to heat breakfast. He has their rations heated quickly, but Eames still hasn’t returned. Arthur starts to get a niggling feeling of worry on the back of his neck. There’s no reason why Eames should be gone this long, unless he was injured. Arthur tries not to think of anything worse.
He eats his portion of the breakfast and packs Eames’ ration away. He stores it away from camp again, even if Eames comes back. Something isn’t right. He can feel it in his gut. Gathering his rifle and bow, Arthur sets off into the woods to check the traps. He wants to wait for Eames, but leaving a captured animal out means he’s likely to lose it if there is one.
The hike seems so much longer without Eames’ stories to entertain him. The trees are silent, the wind the only noise besides Arthur’s heavy footsteps. It takes a while to check each trap, and Arthur comes back empty handed. He’s half expecting, hoping even, to see Eames’ sitting next to the campfire, reading another book with an apology waiting for why he’s missed the hike. But when Arthur gets back, Eames isn’t there.
Arthur’s anger flares. Where the fuck are you? He thinks, and This isn’t fucking funny, Eames. Because maybe it’s a bad joke, maybe Eames is waiting out in the woods to spring on Arthur and startle him. But that seems really unlikely. In just the few weeks they’ve stayed together, Eames hasn’t seemed one for practical jokes. Stories, sure, but not pranks.
Then a thought hits Arthur. Maybe this was Eames’ plan the entire time. To lull Arthur into a sense of safety while smuggling useful supplies away to a place where he could grab them quickly and take off. But when Arthur searches through his camp he finds nothing missing.
Eames has simply disappeared.
part 5