04 / 12 ⚀ the Henry that is not a Henry, the Henry with a needle and thread.shiftsApril 15 2011, 00:25:12 UTC
[ It's perfectly natural for Eames to hear Arthur come in rather late, if one thinks of near-midnight as late to dreamers, which he doesn't but all the same by casual notations it's still somewhat later by association alone. He'd spent the day searching for the PASIV until the search had gone bone-dry and, exhausted and perhaps somewhat defeated, had a few drinks before returning to the apartment to rest (because only four hours of sleep isn't enough for someone who can spend hours at a time under, regardless of the fact that he shouldn't feel tired at all, because he's been through all of this before and that's just how things are here).
It's the ruckus of what he hears through the thin walls, having the room adjacent to the bathroom, that wakes him. He spends two minutes debating simply rolling over and going back to sleep, but once awake he tends to stay awake so kicks off the thin sheets, hiking his sleep trousers up over his ass as he meanders out of his bedroom and toward the bathroom, bracing his hands on either side of the
( ... )
04 / 12 ⚀ the Henry that is not a Henry, the Henry with a needle and thread.specificsApril 15 2011, 00:47:05 UTC
[ He hears Eames' approach before his voice, which helps Arthur to not be so startled as to hit his head on the overhang of the cupboard located beneath the sink. After his less than pleasant but more or less harmless encounter with the Boy From the Fountain Hitherto Named Sora Or At Least Until Next Time, he had half forgotten the slice splitting the skin of his right forearm, baring things that really oughtn't be bared unless one planned on, say, removing that arm, permanently. The blood wasn't pumping of course; Arthur is dead, lest we forget. But more than that, Arthur knew - as he knows now, as he is sure Eames can deduce in a blink (which only irritates Arthur more) - the real problem at hand wasn't the injury. It was and is how he treats it, or doesn't. His thoughts at first were closer to: just let it be. Though these changed over because there was blood, though none of the running, bleeding out variety. Enough to ruin any new clothes
( ... )
04 / 12 ⚀ the Henry that is not a Henry, the Henry with a needle and thread.shiftsApril 15 2011, 01:22:06 UTC
[ Eames could attempt to, let Arthur to his business, but he catches sight of the wound - calling it a wound is polite, because it's more like the mottled left-overs of a cocoon, maybe, it's the first thing that comes in mind, that much of a split of skin - and cringes, and it becomes less of an option. It's not that Eames has a habit of holding onto people, because that time where the four of them worked closely knit with one another, interwoven in dreams, and the time even before that where they shared housing on base for conveniency's sake because Eames was the only one who didn't mind Arthur's neurotic tendency to clean everything at one in the morning on Thursdays (every Thursday) and Arthur didn't mind the fact Eames lifted weights at three in the morning even though everyone had basic and form-check at six anyway, so long as he put them away in the corner when he was finished - all of that is before, and this isn't that
( ... )
04 / 12 ⚀ the Henry that is not a Henry, the Henry with a needle and thread.specificsApril 15 2011, 01:44:25 UTC
[ With half a length wrapped not too clumsily, Arthur catches onto the forthright motion in view a second too slow, his wrist caught then and elbow as well, familiar with the weight and articulation of hands making the frame. He stills his own movement, statuesque as he does nothing but peer at the other man, like he could take him apart with a glance; but that's never been Arthur's specialty to his own knowledge, so much as Eames'. His gaze smooths to something less searching, less grasping - boxed up, like much of everything else has given itself over to being, between Arthur and everyone. No exceptions. ]
It's not like I'm going to bleed out - it's fine.
[ This point feels definitively valid, reasonable to Arthur who doesn't mind the shallow blood on the bandage as long as the bandage is thickly layered enough to keep it from everything else. Part of him knows just how ridiculous the whole set of circumstances happens to be, not even the death but their living arrangement - one they haven't had in so long that Arthur almost doesn
( ... )
→ ✘ i was a blindfold, never complainedproportionedApril 26 2011, 23:22:35 UTC
[ That dip of the couch right beside you, Arthur? That would be Ariadne. Small hands close around one of his and press a cold bottle of water into it without a word. ]
→ ✘ i was a blindfold, never complainedspecificsApril 26 2011, 23:36:11 UTC
[ Before she sits, Arthur knows it's Ariadne approaching - impossible to mistake her lighter steps for Eames', unless, he supposes, the listener is a remarkable idiot, but Arthur isn't despite his awareness of the dubiousness of his decisions regarding deals and guns. Then again, it's a skewed perspective, considering all of the other areas he won't cede even marginal compromise on, areas like Dominick Cobb and other glaring blindspots that don't require him to lose his physical sight.
But it's not an issue he figures will come up, in immediate comparison to their circumstances now shared, and when Ariadne hands him the bottle of water it's not hard for him to smile a little though he guesses she probably isn't. ] Thanks. [ This much he's fine with: unscrewing the cap, lifting it to his mouth without mishap. Within reason, he supposed finger foods would also be safe, as opposed to say soup or anything where he has to use a fork/other utensils that are Sharp and could prove Troublesome. These thoughts thin out in idle modes across
( ... )
→ ✘ i was a blindfold, never complainedproportionedApril 26 2011, 23:43:22 UTC
[ It's a bemusing suggestion, one that Ariadne lets come but then just as quickly lets go again like a roadsign to an attraction she's not headed towards, at least not in this conversation. ]
I'm not planning on it, [ she tells him instead, drawing her feet up onto the couch, her legs pulled in towards her chest, knees forming a rest she can lean her temple against as she looks at Arthur, watching the glazed stare of his eyes and wondering what it must be like to be in his shoes right now. Formerly dead, newly remade, but at a price, a cost, a flaw sewn into his systems. For a man who strove to operate at such a high standard she imagines it's infuriating and equally inescapable. It makes Ariadne irritated to think about -- equal parts the stupidity of the chain of events that set this off in the first place, as well as her sudden inability to much of anything other than simply be there with Arthur (something she imagined he didn't quite welcome, but which was non-negotiable in any case). ]
→ ✘ i was a blindfold, never complainedspecificsApril 27 2011, 00:00:45 UTC
[ This time he sighs, a new acquisition of expressions but he doesn't even know what expressions he's making half of the time, the entirety of his perception either magnified to a sharpness or overly done to that of something blown out and imprecise and irritating. It's not that he dislikes Ariadne, far from it, but perhaps Arthur hasn't got as smooth of a hold on his propriety as he usually does, though whether he would accredit this to the blindness, the death, or simply being here, well, that's debatable. Arthur himself really can't say. He just glances the direction he knows is away from Ariadne, because even the gesture helps him gather and order what more present thoughts need to be, a muscle memory that jogs the mental process he's accustomed to
( ... )
→ ✘ wind in the wiresshiftsMay 2 2011, 22:27:26 UTC
[ It's become part of a routine, by now, to help Arthur with getting dressed - though as the days have progressed the point's come to need less of his help in the matter of things, other than ensuring he was grabbing the right items as far as their color from the closet. Arthur's things have shuffled all to one side of it, Ariadne's on the other, and Eames debates whether or not it'd be plausible to start pulling resources together to invest in a larger flat. For now, though, it suits all of them - Arthur has an unrelinquished hold on the couch to the point where Eames thinks it'd be a better idea to simply buy a pull-out rather than an entirely new apartment. At least, while Arthur is still blind, it's not worth to have to let him figure out his surroundings all over again. And, too, the strange and uncertain shape the Underground has taken and his experiences with it the night before haven't exactly left him with an ease of mind of their entire affairs here. Later, though, he'll tell them both - as soon as he can derive the words
( ... )
→ ✘ wind in the wiresspecificsMay 2 2011, 22:45:17 UTC
[ Rolling up his sleeves, fastening the button at the shortened cuff, Arthur pauses when Eames turns back to him - which he hears preceding the question itself. At first he says nothing, waits until Eames has it looped under and through the collar before lifting his own hand to it, brushing a thumb across the narrower width, the tapered section closest to the throat yet untied. That he knows all of his ties by feel would be an inaccurate statement to make, but this one has the faintest etching in the material, a crosshatch of a softer gray than the body of the tie, just enough to be visible in the right light or, in this case, under the pad of fingertips. ]
Day after we got here.
[ It's talking around things really, talking just to talk, which they never did before and Arthur tries not to remember but it's an impossibility, to block out that part of life which did happen even though he also, as truthfully, left it behind. It's not his to want anymore, he tells himself, ever aware of the way Eames still smells familiar because he can
( ... )
→ ✘ wind in the wiresshiftsMay 2 2011, 23:35:44 UTC
With whose money?
[ It's wry, not accusatory - whether it be Eames' or the shower of gifts Arthur ended up in upon their arrival. Not so literal, no, but there had been a bit of a welcoming sense in a way that people had been surprised to see him back, but not displeased for it. And then there was that Saya woman, whom he wasn't even sure what to make of to begin with, and he makes quiet note to see what it is he can find on her (he thinks, for a brief moment, about asking Arthur but then remembering he doesn't remember eitherway
( ... )
→ ✘ wind in the wiresspecificsMay 2 2011, 23:49:23 UTC
Not yours. [ He pauses. ] And not mine.
[ Other than that, he stays still, stays quiet the way he is accustomed to doing in these morning interactions, not even breathing normally for all purposes, eyes cast in an off-angled direction despite not being able to see, familiar with the feeling of it. It's only when he finds himself pulled forward in a rough, reflexive tug that he blinks, comes back to himself, to Eames cursing, Eames who sounds like he's in very particular kind of pain. Briefly, Arthur freezes, and then, ordering the panic that rises in his throat at just not knowing, he listens for the other man, hears him muffle his own discomfort no doubt with his hand, hears him sit on the floor heavily and hearing this, follows.
One of his own hands finds Eames' shoulder, grips a little too tight but he doesn't know what else to do, kneeling beside him, brow creased deep and jaw set with the tension. ]
Eames. [ I can't see. ] You have to tell me what's happening. Should I get help?
[ His words come out rushed, suddenly seven
( ... )
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It's the ruckus of what he hears through the thin walls, having the room adjacent to the bathroom, that wakes him. He spends two minutes debating simply rolling over and going back to sleep, but once awake he tends to stay awake so kicks off the thin sheets, hiking his sleep trousers up over his ass as he meanders out of his bedroom and toward the bathroom, bracing his hands on either side of the ( ... )
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It's not like I'm going to bleed out - it's fine.
[ This point feels definitively valid, reasonable to Arthur who doesn't mind the shallow blood on the bandage as long as the bandage is thickly layered enough to keep it from everything else. Part of him knows just how ridiculous the whole set of circumstances happens to be, not even the death but their living arrangement - one they haven't had in so long that Arthur almost doesn ( ... )
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But it's not an issue he figures will come up, in immediate comparison to their circumstances now shared, and when Ariadne hands him the bottle of water it's not hard for him to smile a little though he guesses she probably isn't. ] Thanks. [ This much he's fine with: unscrewing the cap, lifting it to his mouth without mishap. Within reason, he supposed finger foods would also be safe, as opposed to say soup or anything where he has to use a fork/other utensils that are Sharp and could prove Troublesome. These thoughts thin out in idle modes across ( ... )
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I'm not planning on it, [ she tells him instead, drawing her feet up onto the couch, her legs pulled in towards her chest, knees forming a rest she can lean her temple against as she looks at Arthur, watching the glazed stare of his eyes and wondering what it must be like to be in his shoes right now. Formerly dead, newly remade, but at a price, a cost, a flaw sewn into his systems. For a man who strove to operate at such a high standard she imagines it's infuriating and equally inescapable. It makes Ariadne irritated to think about -- equal parts the stupidity of the chain of events that set this off in the first place, as well as her sudden inability to much of anything other than simply be there with Arthur (something she imagined he didn't quite welcome, but which was non-negotiable in any case). ]
I'll go when you can come with me.
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Day after we got here.
[ It's talking around things really, talking just to talk, which they never did before and Arthur tries not to remember but it's an impossibility, to block out that part of life which did happen even though he also, as truthfully, left it behind. It's not his to want anymore, he tells himself, ever aware of the way Eames still smells familiar because he can ( ... )
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[ It's wry, not accusatory - whether it be Eames' or the shower of gifts Arthur ended up in upon their arrival. Not so literal, no, but there had been a bit of a welcoming sense in a way that people had been surprised to see him back, but not displeased for it. And then there was that Saya woman, whom he wasn't even sure what to make of to begin with, and he makes quiet note to see what it is he can find on her (he thinks, for a brief moment, about asking Arthur but then remembering he doesn't remember eitherway ( ... )
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[ Other than that, he stays still, stays quiet the way he is accustomed to doing in these morning interactions, not even breathing normally for all purposes, eyes cast in an off-angled direction despite not being able to see, familiar with the feeling of it. It's only when he finds himself pulled forward in a rough, reflexive tug that he blinks, comes back to himself, to Eames cursing, Eames who sounds like he's in very particular kind of pain. Briefly, Arthur freezes, and then, ordering the panic that rises in his throat at just not knowing, he listens for the other man, hears him muffle his own discomfort no doubt with his hand, hears him sit on the floor heavily and hearing this, follows.
One of his own hands finds Eames' shoulder, grips a little too tight but he doesn't know what else to do, kneeling beside him, brow creased deep and jaw set with the tension. ]
Eames. [ I can't see. ] You have to tell me what's happening. Should I get help?
[ His words come out rushed, suddenly seven ( ... )
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but first you still owe me a new pair of moccasins
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