Inception fic
Title: Third Finger, Left Hand
Author: edoraslass
Warnings: Aftermath of a car wreck? Not graphic, though. Schmoop, a little H/C, a little angst, lack of knowledge of jewelry making, hospital procedure, and medicine in general. Teeny bit of scar fetishization [but not, like, ritual scarring]
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine
edit for a couple of repetitive word changes
For this prompt on the kinkmeme, which requested, “Somehow Arthur lost his wedding ring and is very upset.”
Also LJ is being a DICK and keeps screwing with my formatting,not to MENTION how it keeps REFUSING to let me save edits.
~*~
Fortunately, the nurse at the desk gives Eames no trouble at all when his curt reply to her question, “Are you family?” is “I’m his husband.”
Fortunately, because Eames has just driven like a bat out of hell across two-and-a-half states with minimal sleep, more caffeine and Red Bull than is strictly advisable, and nerves that have been stretched past the breaking point ever since the impersonal phone call from the doctor. He may or may not be itching to shoot someone, and he is in no mood to be thwarted.
“All right then,” she says, disinterested. “We don’t normally let visitors in this late, but I’ve just checked on him, he’s awake and rather upset. Seeing you might calm him down.”
Eames fights the urge to ask why Arthur’s not sedated if he’s so upset or why he’s not on enough painkillers to fell a Clydesdale and instead simply replies, “I understand, thank you.”
She blinks as if she was expecting an onslaught of questions or hostility, and pulls a startlingly brilliant smile out of nowhere. “He’s down the hall, room 4054. See if you can get him to sleep?”
“I’ll do my best,” Eames promises, returning the smile with some effort.
~*~
Arthur’s eyes are shut, and Eames can’t tell if he’s sleeping, faking sleep, or unconscious. He looks like he was inside a very small car when it got plowed over by an out-of-control 18-wheeler, and that’s exactly what happened.
He’s so battered that Eames stops breathing for a moment, then forces himself to quit trying to catalog every little thing and just take in the most obvious bits. Left leg: in traction. Left arm: in a cast. Nose: broken. Neck: immobilized by a collar. All visible areas of skin: covered in bruises, contusions, road-rash, gauze. Stitches running the length of one cheekbone. IVs. Monitors.
Yet despite all this, the crushing tightness in Eames’ chest eases somewhat, at just being able to see Arthur, hear him breathing, see his fingers twitching against the hospital sheets.
He’s all right, Eames tells himself as he comes quietly into the room. He’s all right. He’s not intubated, all the readouts are within acceptable range, he’s all right. It could be so much worse.
“Arthur,” he says, low enough that it won’t wake him if he’s drifted off.
Arthur’s eyes snap open, right hand reaching out instinctively. “Eames,” he murmurs; it’s garbled enough and his eyes are glassy enough to let Eames know that yes, he is on enough painkillers to fell a Clydesdale, but not only does he have a stupidly high tolerance for painkillers, he’s also being Arthur about it and trying to fight the effects. “ ‘m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” Eames asks, pulling up the lone chair in the room and taking Arthur’s hand carefully. His heart is still pounding with adrenaline and fear and he needs to touch Arthur, needs to convince himself that Arthur is alive, if somewhat less than whole. “Sorry that even your spectacular reflexes couldn’t keep you out of the path of a runaway lorry?”
Arthur’s fingers tighten on his. “My ring,” he says, shifting anxiously, voice fretful. “I lost my ring.”
Eames frowns, not quite understanding. “Your ring?”
Arthur nods; the motion makes his shoulders move more than his head, thanks to the collar. “It’s gone,” he says, lifting his head and glaring at the room like it’s hiding the ring from him. “I can’t find it my ring.”
Some part of Eames’ tired brain whispers the Precious, where is my Precious? and he swallow a bark of hysterical laughter, because right now, Arthur surely will not be amused.
“What ring, Arthur?” he asks gently, leaning forward and brushing Arthur’s cheek as delicately as he knows how.
“My wedding ring,” Arthur snaps, offended. “My wedding ring, Eames. It’s gone, it must have come off in the wreck and the paramedics just left it out there on the highway - “
“Oh.” Eames is up to speed now; he blames exhaustion for not realizing immediately, it’s not like Arthur wears any other rings. Although Arthur thinking the impact of a car crash could send a ring merrily sailing off his finger worries him a bit. Maybe he was wearing it around his neck? He does that sometimes when he’s working - “Arthur, stop that this instant!”
Arthur is struggling with the bedsheets, as if he’s going to get out of bed and go search himself; Eames is obliged to stand and place his hands on Arthur’s shoulders. He doesn’t even need to apply pressure, just the minimal weight of his hands does the trick, and Arthur sinks back down against the pillows.
“I have to find it, Eames,” he says, single-minded and unreasonable like he is when he’s well and truly drunk. “Someone will run over it, they won’t even be able to see it, it’ll be smashed and - “
“Arthur, love.” Eames is more touched than he’ll ever admit aloud that Arthur’s so very agitated about a small circle of titanium. “I’ll find it. I’ll find it, all right? I’m sure it’s not lying in the road, darling, I imagine the doctors took it off so they could put the cast on, yeah? It’s probably safely ensconced in a bag of your personal effects.”
Arthur fixes him with a deeply hilarious, unfocused version of his normal, narrow-eyed scowl for a moment, then his face softens, and that expression melts away into a sweet, goofy, stoned smile. “Oh yeah,” he sighs, relaxing, although Eames waits a moment before removing his hands. “Personal effects.”
“Yes, indeed,” Eames smiles, placing a kiss on the least-bruised spot on Arthur’s forehead. “Personal effects.”
“Will you go look?” Arthur asks, plaintive enough to make Eames heart clench with emotion. “I don’t….don’t like not knowing where it is.”
“I’ll go ask the nurse,” Eames agrees, “if you promise to lie still and stop fighting the goddamn drugs.” He says it fondly, almost flippantly, but can’t keep out an undertone of steel that brooks no argument.
“Bossy,” Arthur mutters, the corner of his mouth turning up in an attempt at a smile. “ ‘m fine.”
Eames lets out a snort, the last of the tension draining out of his body. “You have a peculiar definition of ‘fine’, darling.”
Arthur mumbles something incoherent, eyes floating closed, and Eames just stares at him for a long, long minute. It could have been so much worse, he can’t keep himself from thinking. So much worse. It’s the devil’s own luck I didn’t lose him.
“You’re not looking,” Arthur slurs with a hint of petulance.
“I’m looking at you,” Eames replies softly, “and pondering how very fortunate I am.”
Arthur makes no sign that he’s even heard, so after a moment longer, Eames rises, and goes back to the nurses’ station.
~*~
“They had to,” the nurse says apologetically, and a little apprehensively. “His hand was nearly crushed, they had no choice but to cut it off.”
Eames stares at the two halves of metal lying in his palm. They managed to cut right between the engraving: he can read “Mr.” on one half, “Eames” on the other. His own ring has “Mr.” and “Arthur” engraved on the inside, partially as a joke, partially because he didn’t want to be walking around wearing Arthur’s real last name for anyone to find.
“Understandable,” he sighs, although it’s hard to speak past the lump in his throat. “Thank you for saving the pieces.” It’s just a ring, easily replaceable. It shouldn’t hurt so to see it broken. But it does.
“People have very strong feelings about their wedding rings,” she says in that soothing tone all good nurses seem to have mastered. “And it’s a clean cut - perhaps a jeweler can fix it?”
Eames happens to have dabbled a bit in jewelry repair; he’ll have to find the tools, but he thinks she’s right, he thinks it can be made whole again with a little work. “Thank you,” he says again, closing one hand around the broken ring and gathering up Arthur’s bag of effects with the other. He reminds himself to check for Arthur’s totem as soon as he’s back in the room. “That’s what had his knickers in such a twist; he didn’t know where it had gone.”
The nurse gives a knowing smile. “Newlyweds?”
Eames smiles back. “No,” he answers. “Not remotely.”
~*~
Although Eames tells himself it’s most likely the drugs causing such a strong reaction, he can’t help wanting to kiss Arthur’s face all over at the tears that spring to Arthur’s eyes when he sees the severed band.
“Shit,” Arthur says, heartbroken, “Shit, Eames - I’m sorry, I’m so sorry - “
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, you silly prat,” Eames tells him, taking Arthur’s hand, feeling the pieces of the ring between their palms. “You’re alive, aren’t you? I can forgive you anything but not being alive.” His voice wavers a bit, and he takes a quick, deep breath to steady himself at even the possibility of a not-alive Arthur.
“I should have been more careful,” Arthur’s babbling, eyes about to overflow. “I know how dangerous that curve is, I should have been paying closer attention - “
“You are being ridiculous,” Eames says sternly. “They’re called ‘accidents’ because they aren’t ‘plans’. Now if you’d done it on purpose, I would certainly be unhappy, but - “
“Can you fix it?” Arthur is staring at him with hopeful, honest-to-Christ puppy-dog eyes. His pupils are huge. “You can fix it, can’t you?”
It would take a much stronger man that Eames has ever considered being to resist that look. Not that resisting Arthur often crosses his mind. “Yes,” he says decisively. “I can fix it, love.”
Arthur goes to asleep with his fist tight around the two halves, and Eames eventually falls asleep in the chair, one hand over Arthur’s the thumb of the other hand pressed against the cool metal of his own ring.
~*~
It takes a little more work than Eames had anticipated, but he completes the repairs the ring on the very day Arthur is set to be released. He wasn’t allowed to bring all his jewelry gear into the hospital, else he’d’ve finished sooner, but the choice between staying in a hotel room, bent over an torch and soldering iron or staying with Arthur every minute of the day wasn’t much of a choice. Especially as Arthur was, of course, gradually terrorizing the staff more every day of his recovery, and needed someone to keep him in line.
Eames threads the ring on a chain, and slips it over Arthur’s head; he won’t be able to wear it on his hand for some time yet. “The seam’s visible,” he says regretfully as Arthur examines it. “Tough to work with, is titanium, and I’m far from a master-craftsman, but I managed not to muck up the engraving. Lucky you were so set on having a plain band, I don’t know what I’d’ve done if I’d had to work around an actual gemstone.”
Arthur’s silent; Eames was afraid of this, afraid that the repair work wouldn’t meet Arthur’s ridiculous high standards, so he adds hastily, “We can replace it, if you don’t - “
“No,” Arthur cuts him off, clutching the ring as if he’s afraid Eames is going to jerk it away. “No. I don’t want another one. I want this one.”
Warmth floods through Eames, and to keep himself from turning into a giant sticky pot of treacle, he grins and says, “Your Precious, is it?”
Arthur rolls his eyes, but there’s a set to his shoulders which tells Eames he's not irritated at all. He runs the tip of his index finger across the seam, which isn't that visible, really, Eames was only nervous that Arthur would be upset that it wasn't good as new.
“And it’s not as if it’s ruined,” Arthur goes on. “Just....changed.”
The expression on his face is serious enough to put Eames on alert. Obviously he’s always known how vain Arthur is, but he couldn’t guess how Arthur would respond to the doctor’s warning that the long, thin cut along Arthur’s cheekbone would most likely leave a scar. Arthur has other scars, to be sure, and he’s supremely unselfconscious of them, until now, he’s somehow managed to keep his face untouched.
Eames regards him, and it only takes him a moment to be certain that Arthur’s concern is not for his appearance, but for how Eames himself will react. Oh, Arthur, you idiot, he thinks, reaching out to trace the mark on Arthur’s face, briefly touching the small but deep pock-marks from where gravel had embedded itself into Arthur’s temple. As if I’d care, so long as you’re still here.
“Changed,” Eames repeats, holding Arthur’s gaze unwaveringly. “Certainly not ruined. Still perfection.”
Relief flickers deep within Arthur's eyes. “Perfection?” he says doubtfully,trying to hide an awkward grin. "Hyperbolic as ever."
Eames takes Arthur’s face in both hands, and leans forward until their lips are nearly touching. “Perfection,” he breathes against Arthur’s mouth. “Always.”
Author: edoraslass
Warnings: Aftermath of a car wreck? Not graphic, though. Schmoop, a little H/C, a little angst, lack of knowledge of jewelry making, hospital procedure, and medicine in general. Teeny bit of scar fetishization [but not, like, ritual scarring]
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine
edit for a couple of repetitive word changes
For this prompt on the kinkmeme, which requested, “Somehow Arthur lost his wedding ring and is very upset.”
Also LJ is being a DICK and keeps screwing with my formatting,not to MENTION how it keeps REFUSING to let me save edits.
~*~
Fortunately, the nurse at the desk gives Eames no trouble at all when his curt reply to her question, “Are you family?” is “I’m his husband.”
Fortunately, because Eames has just driven like a bat out of hell across two-and-a-half states with minimal sleep, more caffeine and Red Bull than is strictly advisable, and nerves that have been stretched past the breaking point ever since the impersonal phone call from the doctor. He may or may not be itching to shoot someone, and he is in no mood to be thwarted.
“All right then,” she says, disinterested. “We don’t normally let visitors in this late, but I’ve just checked on him, he’s awake and rather upset. Seeing you might calm him down.”
Eames fights the urge to ask why Arthur’s not sedated if he’s so upset or why he’s not on enough painkillers to fell a Clydesdale and instead simply replies, “I understand, thank you.”
She blinks as if she was expecting an onslaught of questions or hostility, and pulls a startlingly brilliant smile out of nowhere. “He’s down the hall, room 4054. See if you can get him to sleep?”
“I’ll do my best,” Eames promises, returning the smile with some effort.
~*~
Arthur’s eyes are shut, and Eames can’t tell if he’s sleeping, faking sleep, or unconscious. He looks like he was inside a very small car when it got plowed over by an out-of-control 18-wheeler, and that’s exactly what happened.
He’s so battered that Eames stops breathing for a moment, then forces himself to quit trying to catalog every little thing and just take in the most obvious bits. Left leg: in traction. Left arm: in a cast. Nose: broken. Neck: immobilized by a collar. All visible areas of skin: covered in bruises, contusions, road-rash, gauze. Stitches running the length of one cheekbone. IVs. Monitors.
Yet despite all this, the crushing tightness in Eames’ chest eases somewhat, at just being able to see Arthur, hear him breathing, see his fingers twitching against the hospital sheets.
He’s all right, Eames tells himself as he comes quietly into the room. He’s all right. He’s not intubated, all the readouts are within acceptable range, he’s all right. It could be so much worse.
“Arthur,” he says, low enough that it won’t wake him if he’s drifted off.
Arthur’s eyes snap open, right hand reaching out instinctively. “Eames,” he murmurs; it’s garbled enough and his eyes are glassy enough to let Eames know that yes, he is on enough painkillers to fell a Clydesdale, but not only does he have a stupidly high tolerance for painkillers, he’s also being Arthur about it and trying to fight the effects. “ ‘m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” Eames asks, pulling up the lone chair in the room and taking Arthur’s hand carefully. His heart is still pounding with adrenaline and fear and he needs to touch Arthur, needs to convince himself that Arthur is alive, if somewhat less than whole. “Sorry that even your spectacular reflexes couldn’t keep you out of the path of a runaway lorry?”
Arthur’s fingers tighten on his. “My ring,” he says, shifting anxiously, voice fretful. “I lost my ring.”
Eames frowns, not quite understanding. “Your ring?”
Arthur nods; the motion makes his shoulders move more than his head, thanks to the collar. “It’s gone,” he says, lifting his head and glaring at the room like it’s hiding the ring from him. “I can’t find it my ring.”
Some part of Eames’ tired brain whispers the Precious, where is my Precious? and he swallow a bark of hysterical laughter, because right now, Arthur surely will not be amused.
“What ring, Arthur?” he asks gently, leaning forward and brushing Arthur’s cheek as delicately as he knows how.
“My wedding ring,” Arthur snaps, offended. “My wedding ring, Eames. It’s gone, it must have come off in the wreck and the paramedics just left it out there on the highway - “
“Oh.” Eames is up to speed now; he blames exhaustion for not realizing immediately, it’s not like Arthur wears any other rings. Although Arthur thinking the impact of a car crash could send a ring merrily sailing off his finger worries him a bit. Maybe he was wearing it around his neck? He does that sometimes when he’s working - “Arthur, stop that this instant!”
Arthur is struggling with the bedsheets, as if he’s going to get out of bed and go search himself; Eames is obliged to stand and place his hands on Arthur’s shoulders. He doesn’t even need to apply pressure, just the minimal weight of his hands does the trick, and Arthur sinks back down against the pillows.
“I have to find it, Eames,” he says, single-minded and unreasonable like he is when he’s well and truly drunk. “Someone will run over it, they won’t even be able to see it, it’ll be smashed and - “
“Arthur, love.” Eames is more touched than he’ll ever admit aloud that Arthur’s so very agitated about a small circle of titanium. “I’ll find it. I’ll find it, all right? I’m sure it’s not lying in the road, darling, I imagine the doctors took it off so they could put the cast on, yeah? It’s probably safely ensconced in a bag of your personal effects.”
Arthur fixes him with a deeply hilarious, unfocused version of his normal, narrow-eyed scowl for a moment, then his face softens, and that expression melts away into a sweet, goofy, stoned smile. “Oh yeah,” he sighs, relaxing, although Eames waits a moment before removing his hands. “Personal effects.”
“Yes, indeed,” Eames smiles, placing a kiss on the least-bruised spot on Arthur’s forehead. “Personal effects.”
“Will you go look?” Arthur asks, plaintive enough to make Eames heart clench with emotion. “I don’t….don’t like not knowing where it is.”
“I’ll go ask the nurse,” Eames agrees, “if you promise to lie still and stop fighting the goddamn drugs.” He says it fondly, almost flippantly, but can’t keep out an undertone of steel that brooks no argument.
“Bossy,” Arthur mutters, the corner of his mouth turning up in an attempt at a smile. “ ‘m fine.”
Eames lets out a snort, the last of the tension draining out of his body. “You have a peculiar definition of ‘fine’, darling.”
Arthur mumbles something incoherent, eyes floating closed, and Eames just stares at him for a long, long minute. It could have been so much worse, he can’t keep himself from thinking. So much worse. It’s the devil’s own luck I didn’t lose him.
“You’re not looking,” Arthur slurs with a hint of petulance.
“I’m looking at you,” Eames replies softly, “and pondering how very fortunate I am.”
Arthur makes no sign that he’s even heard, so after a moment longer, Eames rises, and goes back to the nurses’ station.
~*~
“They had to,” the nurse says apologetically, and a little apprehensively. “His hand was nearly crushed, they had no choice but to cut it off.”
Eames stares at the two halves of metal lying in his palm. They managed to cut right between the engraving: he can read “Mr.” on one half, “Eames” on the other. His own ring has “Mr.” and “Arthur” engraved on the inside, partially as a joke, partially because he didn’t want to be walking around wearing Arthur’s real last name for anyone to find.
“Understandable,” he sighs, although it’s hard to speak past the lump in his throat. “Thank you for saving the pieces.” It’s just a ring, easily replaceable. It shouldn’t hurt so to see it broken. But it does.
“People have very strong feelings about their wedding rings,” she says in that soothing tone all good nurses seem to have mastered. “And it’s a clean cut - perhaps a jeweler can fix it?”
Eames happens to have dabbled a bit in jewelry repair; he’ll have to find the tools, but he thinks she’s right, he thinks it can be made whole again with a little work. “Thank you,” he says again, closing one hand around the broken ring and gathering up Arthur’s bag of effects with the other. He reminds himself to check for Arthur’s totem as soon as he’s back in the room. “That’s what had his knickers in such a twist; he didn’t know where it had gone.”
The nurse gives a knowing smile. “Newlyweds?”
Eames smiles back. “No,” he answers. “Not remotely.”
~*~
Although Eames tells himself it’s most likely the drugs causing such a strong reaction, he can’t help wanting to kiss Arthur’s face all over at the tears that spring to Arthur’s eyes when he sees the severed band.
“Shit,” Arthur says, heartbroken, “Shit, Eames - I’m sorry, I’m so sorry - “
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, you silly prat,” Eames tells him, taking Arthur’s hand, feeling the pieces of the ring between their palms. “You’re alive, aren’t you? I can forgive you anything but not being alive.” His voice wavers a bit, and he takes a quick, deep breath to steady himself at even the possibility of a not-alive Arthur.
“I should have been more careful,” Arthur’s babbling, eyes about to overflow. “I know how dangerous that curve is, I should have been paying closer attention - “
“You are being ridiculous,” Eames says sternly. “They’re called ‘accidents’ because they aren’t ‘plans’. Now if you’d done it on purpose, I would certainly be unhappy, but - “
“Can you fix it?” Arthur is staring at him with hopeful, honest-to-Christ puppy-dog eyes. His pupils are huge. “You can fix it, can’t you?”
It would take a much stronger man that Eames has ever considered being to resist that look. Not that resisting Arthur often crosses his mind. “Yes,” he says decisively. “I can fix it, love.”
Arthur goes to asleep with his fist tight around the two halves, and Eames eventually falls asleep in the chair, one hand over Arthur’s the thumb of the other hand pressed against the cool metal of his own ring.
~*~
It takes a little more work than Eames had anticipated, but he completes the repairs the ring on the very day Arthur is set to be released. He wasn’t allowed to bring all his jewelry gear into the hospital, else he’d’ve finished sooner, but the choice between staying in a hotel room, bent over an torch and soldering iron or staying with Arthur every minute of the day wasn’t much of a choice. Especially as Arthur was, of course, gradually terrorizing the staff more every day of his recovery, and needed someone to keep him in line.
Eames threads the ring on a chain, and slips it over Arthur’s head; he won’t be able to wear it on his hand for some time yet. “The seam’s visible,” he says regretfully as Arthur examines it. “Tough to work with, is titanium, and I’m far from a master-craftsman, but I managed not to muck up the engraving. Lucky you were so set on having a plain band, I don’t know what I’d’ve done if I’d had to work around an actual gemstone.”
Arthur’s silent; Eames was afraid of this, afraid that the repair work wouldn’t meet Arthur’s ridiculous high standards, so he adds hastily, “We can replace it, if you don’t - “
“No,” Arthur cuts him off, clutching the ring as if he’s afraid Eames is going to jerk it away. “No. I don’t want another one. I want this one.”
Warmth floods through Eames, and to keep himself from turning into a giant sticky pot of treacle, he grins and says, “Your Precious, is it?”
Arthur rolls his eyes, but there’s a set to his shoulders which tells Eames he's not irritated at all. He runs the tip of his index finger across the seam, which isn't that visible, really, Eames was only nervous that Arthur would be upset that it wasn't good as new.
“And it’s not as if it’s ruined,” Arthur goes on. “Just....changed.”
The expression on his face is serious enough to put Eames on alert. Obviously he’s always known how vain Arthur is, but he couldn’t guess how Arthur would respond to the doctor’s warning that the long, thin cut along Arthur’s cheekbone would most likely leave a scar. Arthur has other scars, to be sure, and he’s supremely unselfconscious of them, until now, he’s somehow managed to keep his face untouched.
Eames regards him, and it only takes him a moment to be certain that Arthur’s concern is not for his appearance, but for how Eames himself will react. Oh, Arthur, you idiot, he thinks, reaching out to trace the mark on Arthur’s face, briefly touching the small but deep pock-marks from where gravel had embedded itself into Arthur’s temple. As if I’d care, so long as you’re still here.
“Changed,” Eames repeats, holding Arthur’s gaze unwaveringly. “Certainly not ruined. Still perfection.”
Relief flickers deep within Arthur's eyes. “Perfection?” he says doubtfully,trying to hide an awkward grin. "Hyperbolic as ever."
Eames takes Arthur’s face in both hands, and leans forward until their lips are nearly touching. “Perfection,” he breathes against Arthur’s mouth. “Always.”