Fic: The Last Dance (Inception, R)
title: The Last Dance
author: ilovetakahana
pairing: Arthur/Eames
warnings: DEATH FIC. This is the prequel to Another hero, another mindless crime. Inspiration taken in part from fanlay's fantastic art The Accomplices. Second person POV, violence. I guess you’ll want tissues handy for this. Title and cut text translated from "Saigo no Dansu", from the Japanese productions of the musical Elisabeth. Beta’d by chn_breathmint.
disclaimer: I don’t own the original story or the characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.
summary: This is how the end began.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/
They’re shouting outside, coarse German and god knows what other languages. There are more than a dozen of them, now. The suits are ill-fitting, black stained with sweat, with blood, with hate.
You watch the blood draining from Arthur’s face, the thin press of lips gone white, but all he does is whirl, rapidfire movement on his impeccable shoes.
You watch his eyes tracking around to the gun that he watched you beat out of the emissary’s hands.
So much for neutral territory, for bloody fucking Switzerland. Knives are of no use against an army.
You are still hurting from the man’s punch, feel the pinch of pain around your eye. Hell of a left hook, and nothing else. Very few men can withstand a roundhouse kick to the face, fewer still a heel to the groin, and none a stomp to the nose.
You watch his hand close around the gun and you watch him grip your wrist, fatal grip tightening as you place your hand over his. Crimson wells in widening spots on the edges of the bandage, torn strips of his handkerchief wrapped around your shattered fingers.
You look him straight in the eyes. Time is running out, the booming strikes on the door getting louder and louder, the metal audibly buckling, ominous echoes in the dark silence.
You pick out the beloved features, one by one: his strong brows, pulled together in lines of worry and fear. His cheeks, hot from exertion. The harsh pant of his breath gusting over your face. His mouth, a hairsbreadth away.
You hold his eyes.
There are so many things to say. I’m sorry. You’re the only one I trust. Dream a little bigger. And over and over again, the three words.
You gather your courage and you pull him in close, kiss him with bruising force.
You feel him try to push you away and you grab his hand on your chest, hold him prisoner. You close your eyes and whisper into his suddenly slack mouth.
And in one smooth movement you’re on your feet, the gun in your hand leveled at him on his knees, right between his eyes.
You watch as everything dawns on him and you look at him for one last, long time.
And you watch the tears form in the corners of his eyes, hard and resolute and you think this is why.
Thank you.
You watch him get up, turn and run, slipping away into the darkness, and you steady your shaking hands on the pistol and bring it up to face the gang as they force their way in, eyes and flashlights looking at you.
You block out the hate and the anger in their faces, and you think of him, living to fight another day.
When they throw you to the ground, when the beating begins, you smile, and you close your eyes.
Goodbye, Arthur.
author: ilovetakahana
pairing: Arthur/Eames
warnings: DEATH FIC. This is the prequel to Another hero, another mindless crime. Inspiration taken in part from fanlay's fantastic art The Accomplices. Second person POV, violence. I guess you’ll want tissues handy for this. Title and cut text translated from "Saigo no Dansu", from the Japanese productions of the musical Elisabeth. Beta’d by chn_breathmint.
disclaimer: I don’t own the original story or the characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.
summary: This is how the end began.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/
They’re shouting outside, coarse German and god knows what other languages. There are more than a dozen of them, now. The suits are ill-fitting, black stained with sweat, with blood, with hate.
You watch the blood draining from Arthur’s face, the thin press of lips gone white, but all he does is whirl, rapidfire movement on his impeccable shoes.
You watch his eyes tracking around to the gun that he watched you beat out of the emissary’s hands.
So much for neutral territory, for bloody fucking Switzerland. Knives are of no use against an army.
You are still hurting from the man’s punch, feel the pinch of pain around your eye. Hell of a left hook, and nothing else. Very few men can withstand a roundhouse kick to the face, fewer still a heel to the groin, and none a stomp to the nose.
You watch his hand close around the gun and you watch him grip your wrist, fatal grip tightening as you place your hand over his. Crimson wells in widening spots on the edges of the bandage, torn strips of his handkerchief wrapped around your shattered fingers.
You look him straight in the eyes. Time is running out, the booming strikes on the door getting louder and louder, the metal audibly buckling, ominous echoes in the dark silence.
You pick out the beloved features, one by one: his strong brows, pulled together in lines of worry and fear. His cheeks, hot from exertion. The harsh pant of his breath gusting over your face. His mouth, a hairsbreadth away.
You hold his eyes.
There are so many things to say. I’m sorry. You’re the only one I trust. Dream a little bigger. And over and over again, the three words.
You gather your courage and you pull him in close, kiss him with bruising force.
You feel him try to push you away and you grab his hand on your chest, hold him prisoner. You close your eyes and whisper into his suddenly slack mouth.
And in one smooth movement you’re on your feet, the gun in your hand leveled at him on his knees, right between his eyes.
You watch as everything dawns on him and you look at him for one last, long time.
And you watch the tears form in the corners of his eyes, hard and resolute and you think this is why.
Thank you.
You watch him get up, turn and run, slipping away into the darkness, and you steady your shaking hands on the pistol and bring it up to face the gang as they force their way in, eyes and flashlights looking at you.
You block out the hate and the anger in their faces, and you think of him, living to fight another day.
When they throw you to the ground, when the beating begins, you smile, and you close your eyes.
Goodbye, Arthur.