Eames, it seems, is as good at goodbyes as he is everything else. Eames, it seems, is gone this time. Not for good, but he is gone.
Arthur wakes up to a rising sun and a setting pair of eyes. Eames is a foot and a half from his face and he is leaning heavily against his own hand, carrying the weight of something Arthur can’t see.
“I’m leaving
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So he sits and eats and feels like a boy in an oversized shirt that isn’t his with a spoon in his hand that keeps an erratic beat against the bowl. And there’s a heartbeat in this, he thinks. Somewhere, there has to be a heartbeat in what they do, this back and forth, because nothing is alive without a heartbeat and Eames, he thinks, we are very much alive.
There's something about these few sentences that are just amazing. God, I can't even comprehend how much I love this; thank-you for writting it.
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But this fic, this fic; I loved the repetition, and this sense of resigned anxiety that was lingering below the surface, and the images of Mal dancing. Yum.
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