Coup de Grâce [Inception]
Title: Coup de Grace
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Nolan
Notes: Written for a prompt over on inception_kink : "Arthur gets seriously hurt in a dream and for some reason neither of them [he nor Eames] have guns or a way to kill him and wake him up."
In the end, it really isn't anyone's fault.
Arthur researches the mark extensively and efficiently, the number of files and color coordinated notes written in small, precise handwriting spread out across metal tables, read and reorganized and reread yet again. Ariadne constructs a truly stunning maze; a masterpiece of skyscrapers made of golden glass and burnished steel, arching up high into an azure sky that stretches on for miles and miles without a single cloud in sight. Cobb is as professional as ever, now with no Shade or guilty memories clouding his focus, and Eames has his cover down perfectly within two days. It's just a routine job, extracting an idea from some rich heiresses mind, and as they hook into the machine, they're all confident of Cobb's plan, and that all things will go according to plan.
It doesn't. But it's not like any of them could have guessed that.
Really, there's no way anyone could have known that Jenna Brown, who's all happy sunshine and sweet cherry pie has an inner sadistic streak a mile wide. She's intelligent and witty, but her subconscious is bitter and harsh and a ruthless game of survival of the fittest, full of trained soldiers and masked members of black ops or something. She's probably the kind of kid who tortured small animals back in the woods behind her home because tequila-soaked Mommy was off sleeping with another man and Daddy loved his millions and millions more than his little girl, but that's another story.
They should have, though. Being in this line of work for however long or short a period of time always drives home the undeniable truth that nothing is as it seems, appearances can be deceiving, and the mind is far deadlier than some will ever know.
A bullet to the temple fells Ariadne two minutes into the dream and in the ensuing chaos, Cobb is snatched up by projections of the mark's subconscious whose default setting is apparently torture instead of kill. Then Arthur, whose default setting is apparently stupid or some variation thereof, hijacks a motorcycle and speeds on after the stereotypical black van, leaving Eames disguised as Miss Brown's best friend behind in a cloud of exhaust without a second glance back, his lean frame bent gracefully over the Ducati 848, black pinstripes sleek against the red metal.
(And really, Eames scolds himself, that shouldn't hurt as much as it did, because Arthur leaving him behind doesn't mean anything. Of course it doesn't.)
It's two hours before Eames tracks down his teammates, and the first thing he sees when he sets foot inside the concrete fortress that looks like a twenty-first century re-imagining of a dungeon from the Spanish Inquisition, is Arthur putting a bullet between Cobb's eyes.
Cobb slumps, and the projections all turn as one, their attention now fixed on the Point Man who stands before them, all sleek lines and sharp angles in the curve of his hard set jaw, in the cut of his finely tailored suit, in the way he holds the gun like an extension of his own arm. He stands tall, calm demeanor belied only by the ice in his furious gaze, and-
-and the entire building explodes.
- * - * -
Eames blinks; once, twice, and then again. He's lying flat on his back and staring up at what used to be either a really ugly sculpture of a flamingo or a portion of the stone wall hanging two feet above his face. His ears are ringing and there's a sharp pain in his shoulder, but no evident blood loss. Experimentally, he tries to shrug and grimaces. Yep, dislocated. Just beautiful.
Slowly, he scoots backwards and out of range of the huge concrete anvil posed to fall on his head, holding his injured arm close to his body and casting a cursory glance around. A dreamscape is built, crafted, and depends upon the mind and presence of the Architect - and with Ariadne gone so soon, the crumbling of architecture and small things like, oh say the ground beneath one's feet or the abrupt shortening of the entire landscape as entire pieces of road and buildings vanish into thin air. That's normal; it's to be expected. Those, Eames can deal with. But spontaneous explosions? Not so much.
Cursing under his breath, Eames touches a hand to his pounding head and lurches to his feet, staggering a bit. His fingers come away sticky with warm blood and he gazes around blearily, looking for... something, something he's not quite sure of until he sees it. Until he sees him. And when he does, Eames's stomach bottoms out.
"Oh darling," he murmurs, wavering unsteadily as he walks over to where Arthur's lying sprawled on his back, head turned away, unmoving. He can see crimson mingling with the dust that stains that finely pressed suit, now ruined. Eames takes to one knee beside the still form, one hand reaching out toward a long, diagonal cut down Arthur's cheek - when suddenly he catches a glimpse of the object lying a few feet away and stretches, fingers closing around the grip of the fallen gun instead.
"Be with you in a moment, pet," he tells the Point Man's body, raising the gun to his temple. Click.
Oh, you have got to be bloody kidding me.
But of course Arthur would use his last bullet on Cobb, for Cobb. He would rather let their boss have the easy and relatively painful way out and get blown back into wakefulness himself than the other way around because that's Arthur for you. He's most definitely not Cobb's Point Man just for show; Eames knows this. He also knows that Arthur is fiercely loyal and unwavering, and that's part of what makes him the best at what he does. Unfortunately, Arthur's loyalty doesn't seem to extend to him and Eames settles back against a slab of concrete with a sigh. "So what now, hmm?" he asks aloud, directing the question at nobody in particular, given that there's no one around to hear.
Which is why the forger nearly jumps out of his skin at the weak, raspy voice that speaks. "Eames?"
Arthur turns his head, and gazes blearily up at the other man, blood caking the entire left side of his face. His dark eyes are unfocused, blinking rapidly at some point over Eamse's shoulder and before he can stop himself, Eames reaches out and gently turns Arthur's face toward him so that their gazes meet. "Right here." Surprisingly, the other man doesn't pull away or even roll his eyes at the term of endearment (and briefly, Eames wonders to himself when Arthur will finally realize that's what they are, terms of endearment ), instead, reaching up with one hand to grip Eames's arm, as if visual evidence of the forger's presence isn't enough, and tactile reassurance is needed as well.
"Are your legs pinned?" Eames asks quietly, breaking the silence. "If not, then perhaps there's a way to find the girl and finish the job."
Arthur laughs then; an awful, hollow sound that makes Eames's breath catch in his throat because as much as he pokes and prods at Arthur to get the normally straight-laced boy scout to do so much as crack a smile, this laugh is not one of hilarity or amusement, and it chills him to his core. "I don't think I'm going anywhere, Eames," Arthur says softly, and waves one hand, slowly and painfully.
Not only are both of Arthur's legs pinned, but there's a fucking pipe shish kabobing him right through the torso and into the floor below.
- * - * -
Usually, Eames is suave and debonair, witty enough charm the pants off of even a nun (if nuns wore pants). Usually, he pokes fun at Arthur just because he can, just to get a rise out of the other, and because Arthur has no pigtails for Eames to pull. Usually, he has a gun on him.
This is not a "usually" situation.
"Oh," is the only thing he can manage at the present moment, staring at the gruesome mess of Arthur's bloody abdomen and the shattered bones of his crushed legs, at Arthur's life literally leaking away from him.
"Oh," Arthur agrees quietly, but his breath hitches in his chest and he lets out a sharp hiss, fingers tightening fractionally on Eames's arm, of which he still hasn't let go, Eames notices distractedly.
"Know of any reason why the others haven't woken us?" he asks, eyes now fixed upon the fingers wrapped around his forearm. Arthur has nice hands, a square palm with long, elegant fingers. The hands of an artist. The knuckles are starting to go white due to how tightly he's gripping Eames's arm.
"Cobb probably-" Another hiss, and Eames glances back at Arthur, at the blood staining his starched white collar, at the Adam's apple bobbing in a tight swallow in the long throat, swallowing down a cry of pain. "-probably thinks we're trying to..." Brown eyes squeeze shut, and Eames can see sweat beading on the high, noble brow. "...t-to finish the job," Arthur stutters, straining to get the words out between labored breaths.
Another rumble passes through the dreamscape and the building shudders, debris shaking loose and shifting in pieces here and there. Eames sees it coming, and barely has enough time to reach down and seize Arthur's shoulder in a firm grip before the pipe shifts, just a few inches - but those inches are enough and Arthur is screaming, fingernails digging grooves into Eames's arm, back arching up off the floor as he spasms in agony. Eames struggles to hold him down, knowing that any bit of movement is causing white hot flashes of torture, and all he wants to do is help Arthur make it stop.
"Arthur - you have to lie still," he admonishes, and Arthur stares up at him, pupils blown wide, nearly delirious in the throes of suffering.
"Please," he gasps out, and blood speckles his lips. "Please, Eames, please. It hurts. It-"
Eames knows what Arthur's asking of him, even without so many words. Wildly, he casts his gaze around for something to help end it, for a shard of glass or another gun, for anything. All he sees are pieces of broken concrete and so now he's sitting here with one useless arm, a gun with no bullets, and a man who's literally begging for death. Well, isn't this Sophie's bloody choice, Eames thinks grimly. What's he supposed to do, pistol whip the poor boy to death? Or let him die slowly and painfully from the pipe stuck through his gut?
Arthur is pulling at now though, those artist's fingers scrabbling almost desperately along his arm and down along his wrist, taking his hand and putting it on that white column of a throat, folding trembling fingers down over his- "Please," Arthur wheezes, and, with a jolt of unpleasantness and a cold sinking feeling, Eames understands just exactly what Arthur wants him to do.
But dear merciful God, he can't.
"No," he whispers, but doesn't remove his hand from Arthur's throat.
Arthur's smile was pinched; his eyes tight. "Didn't know you cared," he whispered back, equally quiet and for a moment the two of them just breathed, eyes locked. "Call it a dying man's final request."
That is not fair.
Slowly, Eames brings his other hand up to Arthur's pale throat, thumb brushing the underside of that clean shaven jaw, fingers overlapping, knuckles bumping against Arthur's chin. There's a twitch at the corner of Arthur's lips and he nods, tilting his head back to further to accommodate Eames's large hands, eyes falling shut as he surrenders himself to death. Swallowing tightly, Eames directs his gaze toward the ceiling, and squeezes.
Ten seconds tick by. Then twenty. Eames is counting them inside his head. Then, at the thirty second mark, Arthur's body suddenly convulses upwards because as much as Arthur wants to be free of the pain, his body is reacting outside the restrictions of the mind, fighting for breath, fighting for air, fighting the hands around his throat. Eames very determinedly does not look down, and squeezes all the tighter.
Forty seconds. Arthur's choking, his hands are wrapping around Eames's and pulling, pushing, clawing.
Fifty seconds. Sixty. Eames feels wetness on his hands, and he doesn't have to look down to know that they're tears.
Seventy seconds. Arthur's probably a swimmer. Eames's hands have been clawed into bloody ribbons.
Eighty seconds. Arthur's movements are growing slower. Sluggish. Ninety. His hands fall limply, splayed out to the sides.
Eames keeps steady pressure for ten more seconds, and then looks down. Arthur's eyes are closed, thank God , because the forger really can't stand the thought of facing anyone right now. He unwraps his fingers from around the bruised throat and leans down, pressing his forehead against the other man's and reaching up to gently thumb tears away from Arthur's face. "Forgive me, love," he whispers. "I do care."
Of course, Arthur doesn't respond.
- * - * -
Eames jerks awake and balances the rickety lawn chair before it tips over, and then looks up. Cobb's already got a black bag over the mark's head, Ariadne sits on another chair, watching him worriedly, and Arthur-
He turns his head away so fast that his neck gives a twinge of protest but Eames doesn't care and he's on his feet, ripping the line out of his arm and storming away from the semicircle of chairs, ignoring Ariadne's calls and Cobb's questions as the sound of their voices follow after him. Arthur, as far as he can hear, is silent.
The bathroom door slams behind him and Eames ducks his head down as he twists the taps because he can't possibly look himself in the eye right now. The water is cool against his skin and he buries his face in his hands, pressing his fingers against his eye sockets, trying to burn the image and memory of what he'd done out of his mind.
He hears the squeak of the hinges of the old garage's bathroom door, and then a hand falls on his back. "Eames-"
Eames whirls around and catches the wrist, glaring full force into the other man's face. "Never again," he growls, and thinks of how easily he could crush that wrist in his grip, just like he crushed Arthur's windpipe, just like he crushed the life out of him. "Don't you dare ask me to do that for you ever again."
Arthur, to his credit, doesn't say a word, and simply nods.
They stay like that for a moment, frozen in time, and another moment longer, Eames's face still wet and his fingers curled around Arthur's wrist. There's a pulse beneath his fingers, steady and strong - and for right now, that's all that matters.
"I do care, pet," Eames says softly, eyes on Arthur's throat, searching for the bruises that aren't there. This time though, Arthur answers.
"I know," He replies, his voice equally soft. "I know."
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Nolan
Notes: Written for a prompt over on inception_kink : "Arthur gets seriously hurt in a dream and for some reason neither of them [he nor Eames] have guns or a way to kill him and wake him up."
In the end, it really isn't anyone's fault.
Arthur researches the mark extensively and efficiently, the number of files and color coordinated notes written in small, precise handwriting spread out across metal tables, read and reorganized and reread yet again. Ariadne constructs a truly stunning maze; a masterpiece of skyscrapers made of golden glass and burnished steel, arching up high into an azure sky that stretches on for miles and miles without a single cloud in sight. Cobb is as professional as ever, now with no Shade or guilty memories clouding his focus, and Eames has his cover down perfectly within two days. It's just a routine job, extracting an idea from some rich heiresses mind, and as they hook into the machine, they're all confident of Cobb's plan, and that all things will go according to plan.
It doesn't. But it's not like any of them could have guessed that.
Really, there's no way anyone could have known that Jenna Brown, who's all happy sunshine and sweet cherry pie has an inner sadistic streak a mile wide. She's intelligent and witty, but her subconscious is bitter and harsh and a ruthless game of survival of the fittest, full of trained soldiers and masked members of black ops or something. She's probably the kind of kid who tortured small animals back in the woods behind her home because tequila-soaked Mommy was off sleeping with another man and Daddy loved his millions and millions more than his little girl, but that's another story.
They should have, though. Being in this line of work for however long or short a period of time always drives home the undeniable truth that nothing is as it seems, appearances can be deceiving, and the mind is far deadlier than some will ever know.
A bullet to the temple fells Ariadne two minutes into the dream and in the ensuing chaos, Cobb is snatched up by projections of the mark's subconscious whose default setting is apparently torture instead of kill. Then Arthur, whose default setting is apparently stupid or some variation thereof, hijacks a motorcycle and speeds on after the stereotypical black van, leaving Eames disguised as Miss Brown's best friend behind in a cloud of exhaust without a second glance back, his lean frame bent gracefully over the Ducati 848, black pinstripes sleek against the red metal.
(And really, Eames scolds himself, that shouldn't hurt as much as it did, because Arthur leaving him behind doesn't mean anything. Of course it doesn't.)
It's two hours before Eames tracks down his teammates, and the first thing he sees when he sets foot inside the concrete fortress that looks like a twenty-first century re-imagining of a dungeon from the Spanish Inquisition, is Arthur putting a bullet between Cobb's eyes.
Cobb slumps, and the projections all turn as one, their attention now fixed on the Point Man who stands before them, all sleek lines and sharp angles in the curve of his hard set jaw, in the cut of his finely tailored suit, in the way he holds the gun like an extension of his own arm. He stands tall, calm demeanor belied only by the ice in his furious gaze, and-
-and the entire building explodes.
- * - * -
Eames blinks; once, twice, and then again. He's lying flat on his back and staring up at what used to be either a really ugly sculpture of a flamingo or a portion of the stone wall hanging two feet above his face. His ears are ringing and there's a sharp pain in his shoulder, but no evident blood loss. Experimentally, he tries to shrug and grimaces. Yep, dislocated. Just beautiful.
Slowly, he scoots backwards and out of range of the huge concrete anvil posed to fall on his head, holding his injured arm close to his body and casting a cursory glance around. A dreamscape is built, crafted, and depends upon the mind and presence of the Architect - and with Ariadne gone so soon, the crumbling of architecture and small things like, oh say the ground beneath one's feet or the abrupt shortening of the entire landscape as entire pieces of road and buildings vanish into thin air. That's normal; it's to be expected. Those, Eames can deal with. But spontaneous explosions? Not so much.
Cursing under his breath, Eames touches a hand to his pounding head and lurches to his feet, staggering a bit. His fingers come away sticky with warm blood and he gazes around blearily, looking for... something, something he's not quite sure of until he sees it. Until he sees him. And when he does, Eames's stomach bottoms out.
"Oh darling," he murmurs, wavering unsteadily as he walks over to where Arthur's lying sprawled on his back, head turned away, unmoving. He can see crimson mingling with the dust that stains that finely pressed suit, now ruined. Eames takes to one knee beside the still form, one hand reaching out toward a long, diagonal cut down Arthur's cheek - when suddenly he catches a glimpse of the object lying a few feet away and stretches, fingers closing around the grip of the fallen gun instead.
"Be with you in a moment, pet," he tells the Point Man's body, raising the gun to his temple. Click.
Oh, you have got to be bloody kidding me.
But of course Arthur would use his last bullet on Cobb, for Cobb. He would rather let their boss have the easy and relatively painful way out and get blown back into wakefulness himself than the other way around because that's Arthur for you. He's most definitely not Cobb's Point Man just for show; Eames knows this. He also knows that Arthur is fiercely loyal and unwavering, and that's part of what makes him the best at what he does. Unfortunately, Arthur's loyalty doesn't seem to extend to him and Eames settles back against a slab of concrete with a sigh. "So what now, hmm?" he asks aloud, directing the question at nobody in particular, given that there's no one around to hear.
Which is why the forger nearly jumps out of his skin at the weak, raspy voice that speaks. "Eames?"
Arthur turns his head, and gazes blearily up at the other man, blood caking the entire left side of his face. His dark eyes are unfocused, blinking rapidly at some point over Eamse's shoulder and before he can stop himself, Eames reaches out and gently turns Arthur's face toward him so that their gazes meet. "Right here." Surprisingly, the other man doesn't pull away or even roll his eyes at the term of endearment (and briefly, Eames wonders to himself when Arthur will finally realize that's what they are, terms of endearment ), instead, reaching up with one hand to grip Eames's arm, as if visual evidence of the forger's presence isn't enough, and tactile reassurance is needed as well.
"Are your legs pinned?" Eames asks quietly, breaking the silence. "If not, then perhaps there's a way to find the girl and finish the job."
Arthur laughs then; an awful, hollow sound that makes Eames's breath catch in his throat because as much as he pokes and prods at Arthur to get the normally straight-laced boy scout to do so much as crack a smile, this laugh is not one of hilarity or amusement, and it chills him to his core. "I don't think I'm going anywhere, Eames," Arthur says softly, and waves one hand, slowly and painfully.
Not only are both of Arthur's legs pinned, but there's a fucking pipe shish kabobing him right through the torso and into the floor below.
- * - * -
Usually, Eames is suave and debonair, witty enough charm the pants off of even a nun (if nuns wore pants). Usually, he pokes fun at Arthur just because he can, just to get a rise out of the other, and because Arthur has no pigtails for Eames to pull. Usually, he has a gun on him.
This is not a "usually" situation.
"Oh," is the only thing he can manage at the present moment, staring at the gruesome mess of Arthur's bloody abdomen and the shattered bones of his crushed legs, at Arthur's life literally leaking away from him.
"Oh," Arthur agrees quietly, but his breath hitches in his chest and he lets out a sharp hiss, fingers tightening fractionally on Eames's arm, of which he still hasn't let go, Eames notices distractedly.
"Know of any reason why the others haven't woken us?" he asks, eyes now fixed upon the fingers wrapped around his forearm. Arthur has nice hands, a square palm with long, elegant fingers. The hands of an artist. The knuckles are starting to go white due to how tightly he's gripping Eames's arm.
"Cobb probably-" Another hiss, and Eames glances back at Arthur, at the blood staining his starched white collar, at the Adam's apple bobbing in a tight swallow in the long throat, swallowing down a cry of pain. "-probably thinks we're trying to..." Brown eyes squeeze shut, and Eames can see sweat beading on the high, noble brow. "...t-to finish the job," Arthur stutters, straining to get the words out between labored breaths.
Another rumble passes through the dreamscape and the building shudders, debris shaking loose and shifting in pieces here and there. Eames sees it coming, and barely has enough time to reach down and seize Arthur's shoulder in a firm grip before the pipe shifts, just a few inches - but those inches are enough and Arthur is screaming, fingernails digging grooves into Eames's arm, back arching up off the floor as he spasms in agony. Eames struggles to hold him down, knowing that any bit of movement is causing white hot flashes of torture, and all he wants to do is help Arthur make it stop.
"Arthur - you have to lie still," he admonishes, and Arthur stares up at him, pupils blown wide, nearly delirious in the throes of suffering.
"Please," he gasps out, and blood speckles his lips. "Please, Eames, please. It hurts. It-"
Eames knows what Arthur's asking of him, even without so many words. Wildly, he casts his gaze around for something to help end it, for a shard of glass or another gun, for anything. All he sees are pieces of broken concrete and so now he's sitting here with one useless arm, a gun with no bullets, and a man who's literally begging for death. Well, isn't this Sophie's bloody choice, Eames thinks grimly. What's he supposed to do, pistol whip the poor boy to death? Or let him die slowly and painfully from the pipe stuck through his gut?
Arthur is pulling at now though, those artist's fingers scrabbling almost desperately along his arm and down along his wrist, taking his hand and putting it on that white column of a throat, folding trembling fingers down over his- "Please," Arthur wheezes, and, with a jolt of unpleasantness and a cold sinking feeling, Eames understands just exactly what Arthur wants him to do.
But dear merciful God, he can't.
"No," he whispers, but doesn't remove his hand from Arthur's throat.
Arthur's smile was pinched; his eyes tight. "Didn't know you cared," he whispered back, equally quiet and for a moment the two of them just breathed, eyes locked. "Call it a dying man's final request."
That is not fair.
Slowly, Eames brings his other hand up to Arthur's pale throat, thumb brushing the underside of that clean shaven jaw, fingers overlapping, knuckles bumping against Arthur's chin. There's a twitch at the corner of Arthur's lips and he nods, tilting his head back to further to accommodate Eames's large hands, eyes falling shut as he surrenders himself to death. Swallowing tightly, Eames directs his gaze toward the ceiling, and squeezes.
Ten seconds tick by. Then twenty. Eames is counting them inside his head. Then, at the thirty second mark, Arthur's body suddenly convulses upwards because as much as Arthur wants to be free of the pain, his body is reacting outside the restrictions of the mind, fighting for breath, fighting for air, fighting the hands around his throat. Eames very determinedly does not look down, and squeezes all the tighter.
Forty seconds. Arthur's choking, his hands are wrapping around Eames's and pulling, pushing, clawing.
Fifty seconds. Sixty. Eames feels wetness on his hands, and he doesn't have to look down to know that they're tears.
Seventy seconds. Arthur's probably a swimmer. Eames's hands have been clawed into bloody ribbons.
Eighty seconds. Arthur's movements are growing slower. Sluggish. Ninety. His hands fall limply, splayed out to the sides.
Eames keeps steady pressure for ten more seconds, and then looks down. Arthur's eyes are closed, thank God , because the forger really can't stand the thought of facing anyone right now. He unwraps his fingers from around the bruised throat and leans down, pressing his forehead against the other man's and reaching up to gently thumb tears away from Arthur's face. "Forgive me, love," he whispers. "I do care."
Of course, Arthur doesn't respond.
- * - * -
Eames jerks awake and balances the rickety lawn chair before it tips over, and then looks up. Cobb's already got a black bag over the mark's head, Ariadne sits on another chair, watching him worriedly, and Arthur-
He turns his head away so fast that his neck gives a twinge of protest but Eames doesn't care and he's on his feet, ripping the line out of his arm and storming away from the semicircle of chairs, ignoring Ariadne's calls and Cobb's questions as the sound of their voices follow after him. Arthur, as far as he can hear, is silent.
The bathroom door slams behind him and Eames ducks his head down as he twists the taps because he can't possibly look himself in the eye right now. The water is cool against his skin and he buries his face in his hands, pressing his fingers against his eye sockets, trying to burn the image and memory of what he'd done out of his mind.
He hears the squeak of the hinges of the old garage's bathroom door, and then a hand falls on his back. "Eames-"
Eames whirls around and catches the wrist, glaring full force into the other man's face. "Never again," he growls, and thinks of how easily he could crush that wrist in his grip, just like he crushed Arthur's windpipe, just like he crushed the life out of him. "Don't you dare ask me to do that for you ever again."
Arthur, to his credit, doesn't say a word, and simply nods.
They stay like that for a moment, frozen in time, and another moment longer, Eames's face still wet and his fingers curled around Arthur's wrist. There's a pulse beneath his fingers, steady and strong - and for right now, that's all that matters.
"I do care, pet," Eames says softly, eyes on Arthur's throat, searching for the bruises that aren't there. This time though, Arthur answers.
"I know," He replies, his voice equally soft. "I know."