fic: grey would be the color
Title: grey would be the color
Author: ester_inc
Team: ANGST
Prompt: overwhelmed
Word Count: ~395
Warnings: Murder
Rating: PG
Summary: The first time is always the hardest.
Beta: eternalsojourn
*
Arthur's vision goes in and out of focus, and there's a strange quality to the world around him, like the edges are bleeding out, leaving behind a peculiar lack of color.
He startles and looks up when someone touches his shoulder; it's Eames. There's a splatter of color across his chest. Arthur fixates on it, not even noticing his preoccupation until Eames slaps him gently on the cheek, drawing his attention.
"Arthur," he says, and his voice sounds distant. "You did what you had to do, don't dwell on it."
He puts his hand back on Arthur's shoulder and squeezes, a heated point of contact that makes Arthur shiver. They've had sex before; he doesn't remember Eames' being so hot. Or, well --
-- it's inappropriate to entertain such thoughts in his current situation, and something hysterical bubbles in his chest, trying to break free; he tries to push it back down but the attempt at scolding himself strikes him as absurd and only makes it worse.
"Hey, hey," Eames says, giving him a little shake. "We've still got work to do. If you're going to go bonkers over this, save it for when we're out of here."
Arthur nods on automatic and feels numb again, failing to recall what he found so funny in the first place.
"Okay?" Eames is saying. "You're not going to zone out on me again?"
Arthur carefully shakes his head, trying to focus. They need to finish here, clean up and --
"I've only ever killed in dreams before," Arthur says. He looks up, meets Eames' eyes.
"I know," Eames says. His tone is calm, but the look in his eyes is impatient. In some distant part of his mind, Arthur knows he's falling down on the job, and he hates himself for it. Just give me a minute, he thinks of saying. One minute, and I'll be fine.
Instead, he says,
"I thought it was supposed to be harder than this."
-- and throws up.
He's bent over, breathing hard, and somewhere above him Eames is sighing; he gives Arthur one last pat on the back before stepping away.
"I'll go get the bleach," Eames rumbles, his footsteps moving away.
Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, one hand braced against his thigh. He's still holding the gun, and the familiar shape of it feels alien against his skin.
Author: ester_inc
Team: ANGST
Prompt: overwhelmed
Word Count: ~395
Warnings: Murder
Rating: PG
Summary: The first time is always the hardest.
Beta: eternalsojourn
*
Arthur's vision goes in and out of focus, and there's a strange quality to the world around him, like the edges are bleeding out, leaving behind a peculiar lack of color.
He startles and looks up when someone touches his shoulder; it's Eames. There's a splatter of color across his chest. Arthur fixates on it, not even noticing his preoccupation until Eames slaps him gently on the cheek, drawing his attention.
"Arthur," he says, and his voice sounds distant. "You did what you had to do, don't dwell on it."
He puts his hand back on Arthur's shoulder and squeezes, a heated point of contact that makes Arthur shiver. They've had sex before; he doesn't remember Eames' being so hot. Or, well --
-- it's inappropriate to entertain such thoughts in his current situation, and something hysterical bubbles in his chest, trying to break free; he tries to push it back down but the attempt at scolding himself strikes him as absurd and only makes it worse.
"Hey, hey," Eames says, giving him a little shake. "We've still got work to do. If you're going to go bonkers over this, save it for when we're out of here."
Arthur nods on automatic and feels numb again, failing to recall what he found so funny in the first place.
"Okay?" Eames is saying. "You're not going to zone out on me again?"
Arthur carefully shakes his head, trying to focus. They need to finish here, clean up and --
"I've only ever killed in dreams before," Arthur says. He looks up, meets Eames' eyes.
"I know," Eames says. His tone is calm, but the look in his eyes is impatient. In some distant part of his mind, Arthur knows he's falling down on the job, and he hates himself for it. Just give me a minute, he thinks of saying. One minute, and I'll be fine.
Instead, he says,
"I thought it was supposed to be harder than this."
-- and throws up.
He's bent over, breathing hard, and somewhere above him Eames is sighing; he gives Arthur one last pat on the back before stepping away.
"I'll go get the bleach," Eames rumbles, his footsteps moving away.
Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, one hand braced against his thigh. He's still holding the gun, and the familiar shape of it feels alien against his skin.