Inception: Shadows
Title: Shadows
Pairings or Characters: Arthur/Eames
Genre: dark/tragedy with a dash of H/C
Kinks: -
Summary: Arthur returns to the safe-house late at night. Something doesn't feel right but he doesn't know what it is until he finds a letter with devastating news...
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,109
Warnings: death but no character-death
Author's Note: This is my first fic in this fandom so this might not make sense. I just head his image in my head and it wouldn't go away. This is also not beta'd.
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns the characters, I just play with them for fun. The lyrics are from "Shadows of lies" by Joseph Arthur (no pun intended).
Shadows
lying next to you at night when you're sleeping
wishing I could join you on the other side
when you shake I wonder what are you dreaming
in the dead of night there's no place I can hide
shadows of lies by Joseph Arthur
When Arthur returned to the safe-house, it was close to 3 o'clock in the morning. All he wanted was to crawl to bed and sleep for a day or two. The last mission or case or whatever they were calling it these days had exhausted him.
If he was any less tired, he'd wonder why their work - purely mental in nature - was tiring his body so much. In a drunken stupor he'd once told a stripper about what they did and she had beamed her candy-glossed grin at him, telling him he had the best job in the world: Sleep all day and still make a lot of money. He had only laughed at that.
As he unlocked the door, a chill ran down his back. Something didn't feel right but he couldn't put a finger to it. He was just too tired.
He dropped his belongings right by the door, shrugging out of his coat and jacket. He kicked off his shoes and unbuttoned his waistcoat, then pulled the shirt from the waistband of his slacks. At last, he ran a hand through his gelled hair, loosing some of the raven strands to fall into his face. The others hardly ever saw him in this state of misrule, it was something he saved for the latest of night when nobody was watching.
And then it struck him. He knew what felt so out of place.
The house was quiet. Which, generally, would be a good thing as it meant no trouble or immanent danger but it still felt weird. Usually, when he came home, there was music playing or he could hear the TV. This time, though, there wasn't a sound to be heard.
Alerted, Arthur tiptoed into the living area, all senses peaked in case someone intended to jump on him or put a gun to his head.
The TV was on but turned to mute. He rounded the device, taking a mental note to mock whoever would watch a golf tournament at this time of night.
Then he spotted the envelope on the coffee table and an almost empty bottle of scotch next to it. Frowning at the piece of paper, he picked it up and examined it in the flickering light of the TV.
The letter was addressed to one of their box PO boxes. It didn't say who it was from, the only indication being a British stamp in the corner. The envelope contained nothing but a newspaper clipping. At closer inspection, it turned out to be an obituary.
Arthur swallowed, knowing that nothing good ever came from letters like this. He stepped closer to the TV to get a better look at the writing. When he had read it, he breathed out a sigh.
"We are saying goodbye to our beloved Millicent Katherine Parker nee Eames.
She passed following a courageous battle with cancer.
A funeral service will take place at 10:30 a.m. on Monday, June 15 at Manor Park Cemetery."
Arthur ran a hand over his face, letting the news sink in.
A groan behind him startled him and it took a good amount of his willpower not to yelp like a girl. He whipped around, peering into the dark of the room until he spotted a shadow in one of the lounge chairs.
He'd recognize Eames' curled-up frame anywhere, that he had an empty tumbler sitting on the side table next to him being another tell. Next to the lounge chair, the portable PASIV buzzed quietly, one of the retractable IV lines fastened to Eames' wrist.
Arthur rolled his eyes at the sight. That he had hooked himself up to the PASIV was pointless at best. That he was drunk out of his mind was even worse. The science of dreams was a shaky one, if you added massive amounts of alcohol to the mix, who the hell knew what his mind was conjuring up.
But somehow, Arthur was pretty sure what Eames would be dreaming of.
Entering this profession had come with sacrifice. Cobb would probably tell them his was loss had been the greatest when, in fact, they all had left things behind - their friends, their families, their lives. It wasn't necessary to break off all contacts but it was the better choice. What they did was dangerous and if anyone was to pay the price, it'd be them and no one else.
They never spoke about these things. The less they knew about each other, the less was in their heads for other people to steal.
One example was not knowing one another's full name. They called each other either by first or last name, sometimes a nickname.
It did surprise Arthur a little that Eames had picked his mother's maiden name. It was strangely sentimental.
The obituary was a few weeks old, the date of the funeral long past. It took their contacts always a while to figure out where they were, which PO box to use.
Even if the news had reached Eames in time, he couldn't have gone to the funeral. It was too dangerous. Had he even known about his mother's illness?
Arthur's heart sank when he heard him mumble something in his sleep, followed by a pained moan.
He shrugged out of his waistcoat, dropped the envelope back on the table, then finished the last of the scotch in one swig. The alcohol burned down his throat but he suppressed a cough.
He knew, in reality, he'd never hear the end of it. Hell, Eames might even punch him for the mere attempt to show his condolence. That was the way they were: bickering, nagging, annoying the hell out of each other but never something personal. Never a kind word, a gesture of support. Kindness didn't seem to exist.
Arthur knew there was nothing he could do. No matter what he said or did would make this any less painful. At least not when they were awake.
Reaching for one of the other IVs, he climbed into the lounge chair, careful not to jostle Eames too much and trigger a kick. He winced as the needle pierced his skin but the pain subsided quickly as real and induced exhaustion washed over him.
He wrapped his arm around Eames' shoulder, snuggling a little closer to his broad back. Their fingers entwined as Arthur slipped off into their shared dream space.
Neither of them was a very good Architect but the details didn't matter as long as he could be there for him.
Pairings or Characters: Arthur/Eames
Genre: dark/tragedy with a dash of H/C
Kinks: -
Summary: Arthur returns to the safe-house late at night. Something doesn't feel right but he doesn't know what it is until he finds a letter with devastating news...
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,109
Warnings: death but no character-death
Author's Note: This is my first fic in this fandom so this might not make sense. I just head his image in my head and it wouldn't go away. This is also not beta'd.
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns the characters, I just play with them for fun. The lyrics are from "Shadows of lies" by Joseph Arthur (no pun intended).
Shadows
lying next to you at night when you're sleeping
wishing I could join you on the other side
when you shake I wonder what are you dreaming
in the dead of night there's no place I can hide
shadows of lies by Joseph Arthur
When Arthur returned to the safe-house, it was close to 3 o'clock in the morning. All he wanted was to crawl to bed and sleep for a day or two. The last mission or case or whatever they were calling it these days had exhausted him.
If he was any less tired, he'd wonder why their work - purely mental in nature - was tiring his body so much. In a drunken stupor he'd once told a stripper about what they did and she had beamed her candy-glossed grin at him, telling him he had the best job in the world: Sleep all day and still make a lot of money. He had only laughed at that.
As he unlocked the door, a chill ran down his back. Something didn't feel right but he couldn't put a finger to it. He was just too tired.
He dropped his belongings right by the door, shrugging out of his coat and jacket. He kicked off his shoes and unbuttoned his waistcoat, then pulled the shirt from the waistband of his slacks. At last, he ran a hand through his gelled hair, loosing some of the raven strands to fall into his face. The others hardly ever saw him in this state of misrule, it was something he saved for the latest of night when nobody was watching.
And then it struck him. He knew what felt so out of place.
The house was quiet. Which, generally, would be a good thing as it meant no trouble or immanent danger but it still felt weird. Usually, when he came home, there was music playing or he could hear the TV. This time, though, there wasn't a sound to be heard.
Alerted, Arthur tiptoed into the living area, all senses peaked in case someone intended to jump on him or put a gun to his head.
The TV was on but turned to mute. He rounded the device, taking a mental note to mock whoever would watch a golf tournament at this time of night.
Then he spotted the envelope on the coffee table and an almost empty bottle of scotch next to it. Frowning at the piece of paper, he picked it up and examined it in the flickering light of the TV.
The letter was addressed to one of their box PO boxes. It didn't say who it was from, the only indication being a British stamp in the corner. The envelope contained nothing but a newspaper clipping. At closer inspection, it turned out to be an obituary.
Arthur swallowed, knowing that nothing good ever came from letters like this. He stepped closer to the TV to get a better look at the writing. When he had read it, he breathed out a sigh.
"We are saying goodbye to our beloved Millicent Katherine Parker nee Eames.
She passed following a courageous battle with cancer.
A funeral service will take place at 10:30 a.m. on Monday, June 15 at Manor Park Cemetery."
Arthur ran a hand over his face, letting the news sink in.
A groan behind him startled him and it took a good amount of his willpower not to yelp like a girl. He whipped around, peering into the dark of the room until he spotted a shadow in one of the lounge chairs.
He'd recognize Eames' curled-up frame anywhere, that he had an empty tumbler sitting on the side table next to him being another tell. Next to the lounge chair, the portable PASIV buzzed quietly, one of the retractable IV lines fastened to Eames' wrist.
Arthur rolled his eyes at the sight. That he had hooked himself up to the PASIV was pointless at best. That he was drunk out of his mind was even worse. The science of dreams was a shaky one, if you added massive amounts of alcohol to the mix, who the hell knew what his mind was conjuring up.
But somehow, Arthur was pretty sure what Eames would be dreaming of.
Entering this profession had come with sacrifice. Cobb would probably tell them his was loss had been the greatest when, in fact, they all had left things behind - their friends, their families, their lives. It wasn't necessary to break off all contacts but it was the better choice. What they did was dangerous and if anyone was to pay the price, it'd be them and no one else.
They never spoke about these things. The less they knew about each other, the less was in their heads for other people to steal.
One example was not knowing one another's full name. They called each other either by first or last name, sometimes a nickname.
It did surprise Arthur a little that Eames had picked his mother's maiden name. It was strangely sentimental.
The obituary was a few weeks old, the date of the funeral long past. It took their contacts always a while to figure out where they were, which PO box to use.
Even if the news had reached Eames in time, he couldn't have gone to the funeral. It was too dangerous. Had he even known about his mother's illness?
Arthur's heart sank when he heard him mumble something in his sleep, followed by a pained moan.
He shrugged out of his waistcoat, dropped the envelope back on the table, then finished the last of the scotch in one swig. The alcohol burned down his throat but he suppressed a cough.
He knew, in reality, he'd never hear the end of it. Hell, Eames might even punch him for the mere attempt to show his condolence. That was the way they were: bickering, nagging, annoying the hell out of each other but never something personal. Never a kind word, a gesture of support. Kindness didn't seem to exist.
Arthur knew there was nothing he could do. No matter what he said or did would make this any less painful. At least not when they were awake.
Reaching for one of the other IVs, he climbed into the lounge chair, careful not to jostle Eames too much and trigger a kick. He winced as the needle pierced his skin but the pain subsided quickly as real and induced exhaustion washed over him.
He wrapped his arm around Eames' shoulder, snuggling a little closer to his broad back. Their fingers entwined as Arthur slipped off into their shared dream space.
Neither of them was a very good Architect but the details didn't matter as long as he could be there for him.