Fic: Apocalypse
Another Arthur/Eames ficlet inspired by the trope meme here.
Apocalypse
It's not zombies or plague or fire and brimstone that gets them all in the end--it's cold.
Scientists don't know why it's happening, can't explain how the sun can keep shining as brightly as it ever did while the earth spins as it always has and yet the temperature keeps dropping, all over. First snow comes instead of rain, then ice instead of snow. Finally, precipitation stops altogether, because all the water's frozen and there's not enough moisture left to condense and form clouds.
"How long?" Eames asks, and Arthur doesn't know how to answer that--isn't even sure he knows what question Eames is asking. How long do they have left? How long until their next meal? How long can they stay in a dream that's three layers deep before their bodies shut down up above?
Arthur looks up at the skylight in the roof of their shelter, bright sunshine beaming on them even as their overtaxed heaters fail, one by one. Then he looks down at the last remaining vial of Somnacin: barely a quarter full. "Not long."
Eames rolls up his sleeve and holds out his arm to Arthur, eyes grey and clear and still shockingly, painfully beautiful. "Long enough."
Apocalypse
It's not zombies or plague or fire and brimstone that gets them all in the end--it's cold.
Scientists don't know why it's happening, can't explain how the sun can keep shining as brightly as it ever did while the earth spins as it always has and yet the temperature keeps dropping, all over. First snow comes instead of rain, then ice instead of snow. Finally, precipitation stops altogether, because all the water's frozen and there's not enough moisture left to condense and form clouds.
"How long?" Eames asks, and Arthur doesn't know how to answer that--isn't even sure he knows what question Eames is asking. How long do they have left? How long until their next meal? How long can they stay in a dream that's three layers deep before their bodies shut down up above?
Arthur looks up at the skylight in the roof of their shelter, bright sunshine beaming on them even as their overtaxed heaters fail, one by one. Then he looks down at the last remaining vial of Somnacin: barely a quarter full. "Not long."
Eames rolls up his sleeve and holds out his arm to Arthur, eyes grey and clear and still shockingly, painfully beautiful. "Long enough."