born to laugh through my tears, (1/1)
title: born to laugh through my tears
rating: r
pairing: eames/always-a-girl!arthur
spoilers: none glaring, though assume references to the full film
disclaimer: all hail nolan, dreamer extraordinaire.
writer's note: Eames & Arthur for inception_claim, "laugh" prompt.
word count: 370 of pure emotional torture. Warning for bleak outlooks, potential character death.
summary: It's all his fault.
She's laughing.
Out of all the things she could do, at this moment, in this place, she is laughing, and he wants to hate her more than anything in the world, wants to hate her because that would hurt less than loving her through this.
"And here I thought-you'd be the one-to make such a-stupid mistake," she coughs, laughing, wheezing, a burble in the back of her throat that makes his own throat ache in sympathy.
"God damn it, Artie," is all he says, pushing her hair out of her eyes with bloody fingers. "Damn it."
And it's his fault, he knows it, his fault for being careless, for not listening, for being more interested in the flick-swish of her ponytail than the gunman on the roof. It's his fault she's lying there, a bullet in her gut and blood all over her favourite blouse (and his), and it's all he can do to keep a hand to her side when she's laughing about it. And he says "god damn it," again, even though she's shaking her head, and her eyes are half-closed and her perfect eyeliner is smudging and this is not the Arthur he knows and he loves her all the same. And she's still laughing but he can't see it because there's something in his eyes and she's reaching a hand up, manicured fingers brushing his lips and he can't do this, he won't, and he tells her as much.
And she laughs again and says "Eames."
And he thinks about how the poem goes, knowing that he's watching the world end, knowing they've had the bang and they're waiting for the whimper. And he doesn't say he's sorry and he doesn't tell her it'll be all right, because when they were soldiers in the desert they promised never to lie to each other.
She's not laughing any longer.
He wonders if this is how it feels to drown.
And she's reaching and he's lifting and it's not perfect but it's theirs, just like everything else, and he kisses her and kisses her and kisses her even after her body goes slack in his arms, even as he hears the sirens in the distance.
rating: r
pairing: eames/always-a-girl!arthur
spoilers: none glaring, though assume references to the full film
disclaimer: all hail nolan, dreamer extraordinaire.
writer's note: Eames & Arthur for inception_claim, "laugh" prompt.
word count: 370 of pure emotional torture. Warning for bleak outlooks, potential character death.
summary: It's all his fault.
She's laughing.
Out of all the things she could do, at this moment, in this place, she is laughing, and he wants to hate her more than anything in the world, wants to hate her because that would hurt less than loving her through this.
"And here I thought-you'd be the one-to make such a-stupid mistake," she coughs, laughing, wheezing, a burble in the back of her throat that makes his own throat ache in sympathy.
"God damn it, Artie," is all he says, pushing her hair out of her eyes with bloody fingers. "Damn it."
And it's his fault, he knows it, his fault for being careless, for not listening, for being more interested in the flick-swish of her ponytail than the gunman on the roof. It's his fault she's lying there, a bullet in her gut and blood all over her favourite blouse (and his), and it's all he can do to keep a hand to her side when she's laughing about it. And he says "god damn it," again, even though she's shaking her head, and her eyes are half-closed and her perfect eyeliner is smudging and this is not the Arthur he knows and he loves her all the same. And she's still laughing but he can't see it because there's something in his eyes and she's reaching a hand up, manicured fingers brushing his lips and he can't do this, he won't, and he tells her as much.
And she laughs again and says "Eames."
And he thinks about how the poem goes, knowing that he's watching the world end, knowing they've had the bang and they're waiting for the whimper. And he doesn't say he's sorry and he doesn't tell her it'll be all right, because when they were soldiers in the desert they promised never to lie to each other.
She's not laughing any longer.
He wonders if this is how it feels to drown.
And she's reaching and he's lifting and it's not perfect but it's theirs, just like everything else, and he kisses her and kisses her and kisses her even after her body goes slack in his arms, even as he hears the sirens in the distance.