(02) → of coffee and crosswords
It happens much like this. The light turns green and Arthur drives. Headlights neighbor him, milliseconds in between the slam on the brakes and the impact.
J’y suis jamais allé plays quietly as the paramedics pry the metal of the car apart to pull him out. In the midst of it all, in medias res, he cries.
Or maybe it happens like this. There is no beginning and no end, just the sound of steel and the symphony of ambulance sirens and police lights.
Or maybe it happens when the man in the other car drives away in a drunken stupor, a three minute survey of the crash and a call to the police his only courtesies.
It doesn’t matter how it happens. It matters that it happens at all and that Eames is the first to know.
*
It’s eleven when a nurse calls Eames as the emergency contact.
There are three hours after that spent on-site of the accident while they pry Arthur from the car.
Eames holds his hand every second.
*
“Oh, darling,” Eames whispers, rubbing his hand over his face.
A nurse buzzes around the room, marking things off on a clipboard. “Vitals are good,” she says to Eames, tiny and quiet and for a moment, he thinks of Ariadne, wonders if he should call. Does Cobb know? There’s a tight feeling in his chest.
He stares. He only stares because Arthur is asleep right now and he can’t give him a what are you looking at, Eames? or pull a face at him. He stares because Arthur’s a wreck, blood staining the gauze pink from where his head was cut against the broken glass of the windshield. He stares because there are bruises blossoming up in shades of purple and yellow across the right side of his face, down his arm (which was broken in two places, for the record), and across his chest. Four ribs were smashed, shattered from the weight of the dashboard crushing him. For almost an hour, he struggled to breathe. For two, he sobbed. For three, he held onto Eames’ hand just as tight.
And so, because everything is horribly wrong about this and because Eames can taste his own fear on the tip of his tongue, heavy and sour, he stares.
*
Ariadne and Cobb stop by. They don’t stay long. Arthur sleeps, mostly. Eames half-expects Ariadne to cry. She doesn’t.
“It’s kind of strange, isn’t it?” She strokes through Arthur’s short hair, so young and maternal and Eames thinks of Mal. The whole room is awkwardly quiet, but everyone’s sense of protectiveness is so loud Eames wants to yell. “We’re prepared for anything a dream throws at us,” Ariadne continues. “But in the real world we’re all kind of fucked.”
Eames can’t agree more.
*
Arthur wakes up in the middle of the night. His room is empty and cold and there’s a streak of light coming from beneath the door.
He knows they called Eames. Somewhere in between pulling him out and knocking him out, he heard him.
“Darling. Arthur, love, you’ll be fine.”
He remembers squeezing his hand. He remembers crying. He doesn’t know why, but he did. He cried and sobbed and screamed and babbled a string of oh gods and please get me outs. He remembers Eames never leaving, holding on just as tight and pressing his forehead against his.
He never expects Eames to stay. He always expects him to come back.
*
He does.
*
Six days after the accident, to be precise.
Recovery is slow. He sleeps a lot, dozes off in the middle of eating, watching TV, reading. He does crossword puzzles one-handedly and never finishes them. There’s a constant ache in his arm, his head, shooting down his back and settling in his hips.
“Good to see you up,” is how Eames makes himself known.
Arthur is in the middle of determining an eight letter word for a Beirut native. “Lebanese,” he mumbles to himself, and scribbles it in.
“Bless you,” Eames offers, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Arthur is pale, he notes, and there’s a tremble in his fingers as he fills in the clue. He knows Arthur isn’t ready to leave here, but he asks anyway. “When can I break you out?”
“You can’t. I have to stay for another few days. Hospital policy.”
“As your emergency contact, I think it’s only fair I-“
Arthur is quick to cut him off. “Stop, Eames.”
“What? I think it’s sweet, darling. Flattering, even.”
“Stop. Damnit, Eames, it’s not something to joke about.” Arthur looks up for a second. It’s a second too long and Eames feels awful for making a mockery of it.
He remembers the look on Arthur’s face when they pulled him out. He remembers how badly he was shaking when they pushed the dashboard forward to help him breathe. He remembers how he sobbed like he was dying, and maybe he was. Eames can’t think straight anymore.
In the military, they don’t train you for normal occurrences. They train you for random explosions, how to handle a heavy-duty firearm, how to set off a grenade, the rough edges and sharp corners.
They don’t teach you anything about the care of another person, a companionship. About the fragility of a life and the spontaneity of real, human disaster. It’s something Eames doesn’t want to be familiar with, especially not when it has to do with him.
“Arthur,” he whispers, wonders why this didn’t happen sooner. “I’m so sorry, darling.”
Arthur tastes like mint and medicine and fear and Eames is more gentle with him than he knows how to be naturally. A hand there, a tug forward, lips on lips and darling, I’m glad it was me and Arthur trembles.
*
Eames is gone by morning, but there’s a note on his bedside table.
Medicine is next to the bed. Had to go. 5 letter word for what I should be saying to you:
Sorry.
*
It’s five days later when Eames returns.
Autumn is pushing heavily towards them, chilly air nestling against the buildings, rustling up mini tornadoes of leaves. He likes it, this languid progression of things. He suspects Arthur does, too, inviting himself into the room to see him at the window, good arm curled almost protectively around his middle.
“D’you want to go for a walk, love?” Eames asks, not particularly sure why. He should apologize again, explain himself, maybe. But there’s something unspoken between them, because Arthur doesn’t even move, as if he knew Eames was coming, and just whispers out a beautiful little “yes” and Eames wants to kiss him now more than ever.
It’s only after Arthur adds an “I missed you” that he does.
*
Outside, they don’t hold hands. Eames knows better than to try, so he keeps a hand at Arthur’s back, mainly to keep him steady. But Arthur doesn’t say anything when he slides his palm under the hem of his shirt, fingers gliding over skin. He shivers.
They sit. For a while, that’s all they do. Eames doesn’t know what to say and Arthur just likes to watch sometimes, stare out at everything and nothing all at once. For a moment, Eames resists the urge to reach out and touch him. It’s a moment wasted. His hand settles on the back of Arthur’s neck, thumb making incessant patterns.
They sit. Arthur sighs.
“When you’re able,” Eames starts quietly. “Will you come home with me?” He whispers, his voice like its own little leaf pile, rough and colored and Arthur wants to sink right into it.
He doesn’t answer.
Eames takes that as a yes.
*
Eames stays for the night.
For a few hours, he remains stubbornly put in the recliner next to the bed. Arthur is sleeping silently, and Eames has to commend him for that. No matter how he sleeps, there’s no doubt he’s uncomfortable.
It doesn’t take much for Eames to move. Arthur lets out this noise, somewhere between a gasp and a moan and his voice shakes through it.
It’s for this reason that Eames climbs into bed next to him, hands sliding through his hair, down his back, pulling him towards his chest come here, darling, just sleep and they’re both out again in minutes.
When Eames wakes up, Arthur’s laying against his chest, fingers laced through his and Eames swears his expression in that moment is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
*
It’s the second day of November when Arthur is discharged. It’s unusually cold. Pink cheeks and heavy coats cold. The curtains are pulled back, though, and the room is bright, warm and sunny and it makes Eames that much happier.
Arthur’s doing pretty well, considering. It’s not so hard for him to move anymore, which they both find a gift in and of itself. He’s still tired a lot, falls asleep anywhere and Eames is kind of grateful for that. There’s a lot of sleep to catch up on, a lot of restless nights that need to be rewritten.
For the most part, things are good.
They work on a crossword puzzle over coffee and bagels, and when Arthur is ready to leave, they do.
This time, they hold hands.
*
Through winter, Arthur gets better and Eames falls in love.
Arthur still does his crossword puzzles in the morning and Eames still gets his coffee, tastes the caffeine on his tongue. Sugar, too, but not much. “We should have done this a long time ago,” Eames whispers against his neck, mouthing at the knob of his spine.
“Gershwin,” Arthur breathes, filling in the crossword. Eames can feel him shiver with his lips. His hands slide under the front of his shirt, I’ll be gentle, darling, fingertips dancing across his stomach. Arthur’s breath hitches.
“I wanted it to be you,” Arthur mumbles almost deliriously. Eames’ hand settles at the top of Arthur’s pajama pants. “I trust you - I always did.”
*
In the morning, Arthur will do his crossword puzzle and Eames will get his coffee and they will hold hands. And it’s silly and awful in the wrong sense of the word, but Arthur has one more clue and all the time in the world to solve it.
“Four letters,” Eames whispers against Arthur’s lips. “Starts with ‘L,’ darling.”
*
It happens much like this. The light turns green and Arthur drives.
fin.
J’y suis jamais allé plays quietly as the paramedics pry the metal of the car apart to pull him out. In the midst of it all, in medias res, he cries.
Or maybe it happens like this. There is no beginning and no end, just the sound of steel and the symphony of ambulance sirens and police lights.
Or maybe it happens when the man in the other car drives away in a drunken stupor, a three minute survey of the crash and a call to the police his only courtesies.
It doesn’t matter how it happens. It matters that it happens at all and that Eames is the first to know.
*
It’s eleven when a nurse calls Eames as the emergency contact.
There are three hours after that spent on-site of the accident while they pry Arthur from the car.
Eames holds his hand every second.
*
“Oh, darling,” Eames whispers, rubbing his hand over his face.
A nurse buzzes around the room, marking things off on a clipboard. “Vitals are good,” she says to Eames, tiny and quiet and for a moment, he thinks of Ariadne, wonders if he should call. Does Cobb know? There’s a tight feeling in his chest.
He stares. He only stares because Arthur is asleep right now and he can’t give him a what are you looking at, Eames? or pull a face at him. He stares because Arthur’s a wreck, blood staining the gauze pink from where his head was cut against the broken glass of the windshield. He stares because there are bruises blossoming up in shades of purple and yellow across the right side of his face, down his arm (which was broken in two places, for the record), and across his chest. Four ribs were smashed, shattered from the weight of the dashboard crushing him. For almost an hour, he struggled to breathe. For two, he sobbed. For three, he held onto Eames’ hand just as tight.
And so, because everything is horribly wrong about this and because Eames can taste his own fear on the tip of his tongue, heavy and sour, he stares.
*
Ariadne and Cobb stop by. They don’t stay long. Arthur sleeps, mostly. Eames half-expects Ariadne to cry. She doesn’t.
“It’s kind of strange, isn’t it?” She strokes through Arthur’s short hair, so young and maternal and Eames thinks of Mal. The whole room is awkwardly quiet, but everyone’s sense of protectiveness is so loud Eames wants to yell. “We’re prepared for anything a dream throws at us,” Ariadne continues. “But in the real world we’re all kind of fucked.”
Eames can’t agree more.
*
Arthur wakes up in the middle of the night. His room is empty and cold and there’s a streak of light coming from beneath the door.
He knows they called Eames. Somewhere in between pulling him out and knocking him out, he heard him.
“Darling. Arthur, love, you’ll be fine.”
He remembers squeezing his hand. He remembers crying. He doesn’t know why, but he did. He cried and sobbed and screamed and babbled a string of oh gods and please get me outs. He remembers Eames never leaving, holding on just as tight and pressing his forehead against his.
He never expects Eames to stay. He always expects him to come back.
*
He does.
*
Six days after the accident, to be precise.
Recovery is slow. He sleeps a lot, dozes off in the middle of eating, watching TV, reading. He does crossword puzzles one-handedly and never finishes them. There’s a constant ache in his arm, his head, shooting down his back and settling in his hips.
“Good to see you up,” is how Eames makes himself known.
Arthur is in the middle of determining an eight letter word for a Beirut native. “Lebanese,” he mumbles to himself, and scribbles it in.
“Bless you,” Eames offers, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Arthur is pale, he notes, and there’s a tremble in his fingers as he fills in the clue. He knows Arthur isn’t ready to leave here, but he asks anyway. “When can I break you out?”
“You can’t. I have to stay for another few days. Hospital policy.”
“As your emergency contact, I think it’s only fair I-“
Arthur is quick to cut him off. “Stop, Eames.”
“What? I think it’s sweet, darling. Flattering, even.”
“Stop. Damnit, Eames, it’s not something to joke about.” Arthur looks up for a second. It’s a second too long and Eames feels awful for making a mockery of it.
He remembers the look on Arthur’s face when they pulled him out. He remembers how badly he was shaking when they pushed the dashboard forward to help him breathe. He remembers how he sobbed like he was dying, and maybe he was. Eames can’t think straight anymore.
In the military, they don’t train you for normal occurrences. They train you for random explosions, how to handle a heavy-duty firearm, how to set off a grenade, the rough edges and sharp corners.
They don’t teach you anything about the care of another person, a companionship. About the fragility of a life and the spontaneity of real, human disaster. It’s something Eames doesn’t want to be familiar with, especially not when it has to do with him.
“Arthur,” he whispers, wonders why this didn’t happen sooner. “I’m so sorry, darling.”
Arthur tastes like mint and medicine and fear and Eames is more gentle with him than he knows how to be naturally. A hand there, a tug forward, lips on lips and darling, I’m glad it was me and Arthur trembles.
*
Eames is gone by morning, but there’s a note on his bedside table.
Medicine is next to the bed. Had to go. 5 letter word for what I should be saying to you:
Sorry.
*
It’s five days later when Eames returns.
Autumn is pushing heavily towards them, chilly air nestling against the buildings, rustling up mini tornadoes of leaves. He likes it, this languid progression of things. He suspects Arthur does, too, inviting himself into the room to see him at the window, good arm curled almost protectively around his middle.
“D’you want to go for a walk, love?” Eames asks, not particularly sure why. He should apologize again, explain himself, maybe. But there’s something unspoken between them, because Arthur doesn’t even move, as if he knew Eames was coming, and just whispers out a beautiful little “yes” and Eames wants to kiss him now more than ever.
It’s only after Arthur adds an “I missed you” that he does.
*
Outside, they don’t hold hands. Eames knows better than to try, so he keeps a hand at Arthur’s back, mainly to keep him steady. But Arthur doesn’t say anything when he slides his palm under the hem of his shirt, fingers gliding over skin. He shivers.
They sit. For a while, that’s all they do. Eames doesn’t know what to say and Arthur just likes to watch sometimes, stare out at everything and nothing all at once. For a moment, Eames resists the urge to reach out and touch him. It’s a moment wasted. His hand settles on the back of Arthur’s neck, thumb making incessant patterns.
They sit. Arthur sighs.
“When you’re able,” Eames starts quietly. “Will you come home with me?” He whispers, his voice like its own little leaf pile, rough and colored and Arthur wants to sink right into it.
He doesn’t answer.
Eames takes that as a yes.
*
Eames stays for the night.
For a few hours, he remains stubbornly put in the recliner next to the bed. Arthur is sleeping silently, and Eames has to commend him for that. No matter how he sleeps, there’s no doubt he’s uncomfortable.
It doesn’t take much for Eames to move. Arthur lets out this noise, somewhere between a gasp and a moan and his voice shakes through it.
It’s for this reason that Eames climbs into bed next to him, hands sliding through his hair, down his back, pulling him towards his chest come here, darling, just sleep and they’re both out again in minutes.
When Eames wakes up, Arthur’s laying against his chest, fingers laced through his and Eames swears his expression in that moment is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
*
It’s the second day of November when Arthur is discharged. It’s unusually cold. Pink cheeks and heavy coats cold. The curtains are pulled back, though, and the room is bright, warm and sunny and it makes Eames that much happier.
Arthur’s doing pretty well, considering. It’s not so hard for him to move anymore, which they both find a gift in and of itself. He’s still tired a lot, falls asleep anywhere and Eames is kind of grateful for that. There’s a lot of sleep to catch up on, a lot of restless nights that need to be rewritten.
For the most part, things are good.
They work on a crossword puzzle over coffee and bagels, and when Arthur is ready to leave, they do.
This time, they hold hands.
*
Through winter, Arthur gets better and Eames falls in love.
Arthur still does his crossword puzzles in the morning and Eames still gets his coffee, tastes the caffeine on his tongue. Sugar, too, but not much. “We should have done this a long time ago,” Eames whispers against his neck, mouthing at the knob of his spine.
“Gershwin,” Arthur breathes, filling in the crossword. Eames can feel him shiver with his lips. His hands slide under the front of his shirt, I’ll be gentle, darling, fingertips dancing across his stomach. Arthur’s breath hitches.
“I wanted it to be you,” Arthur mumbles almost deliriously. Eames’ hand settles at the top of Arthur’s pajama pants. “I trust you - I always did.”
*
In the morning, Arthur will do his crossword puzzle and Eames will get his coffee and they will hold hands. And it’s silly and awful in the wrong sense of the word, but Arthur has one more clue and all the time in the world to solve it.
“Four letters,” Eames whispers against Arthur’s lips. “Starts with ‘L,’ darling.”
*
It happens much like this. The light turns green and Arthur drives.
fin.