five stages
Title: Five Stages
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Eames deals with his grief from losing Arthur.
Warnings/Spoilers: Character death.
Author's Notes: Can you guys not be at my house tomorrow with pitchforks? PLEASE?
Disclaimer: Characters are property of Chris Nolan<3
Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4
STAGE FIVE: ACCEPTANCE
The bullet whizzes by his ear so loudly that he thinks he’ll go deaf. He has to duck down and scurry up the stairs quickly as the walls are lined with gunfire. Once on the next floor, he takes cover and reloads his gun. He has to find some kind of vantage point, some way to get to all the shooters. He can hear more shooting, a body falling even. Then another, but after that it kind of stops. He’s worried. Why has it stopped? He gets behind a wall and looks out. He almost think he hears his name, but he can’t reply. He doesn’t want to blow his cover. He can see his friend now, taking cover behind some boxes, shooting at people. He hit’s a couple, but it’s not nearly enough. By his count, there’s four, five maybe, more shooters.
He moves, quickly, finds a good place where he can see some of the shooters. He takes down one, then another. Times like these make him grateful for taking those extra hours at the shooting range each week. Breathe, aim, shoot. There’s three he’s taken down by his count, and that means there’s a few more. It seems easy, too easy, but they had just been ambushed by about fifteen guys. It was a wonder they managed to kill as many as they had. He hadn’t been hit, at least not yet, but every second mattered. Another shooter. He takes him down. That makes four. Where’s the other shooter? He know there has to be one because there were shots fired at him from two different directions not too long before he took out the last guy. The problem is that even when he looks in that direction, he can’t see-
He’s hit. The bullet digs its way into his shoulder, stinging fiercely, but nothing beyond what he’s felt before. The problem is, however, that this time, he doesn’t feel the pain in a dream. It’s real. It’s bad. He stumbles, hit’s the ledge, and falls over. When he lands, it hurts more. He can’t feel his legs. Or can he? He’s not sure. There’s just an intense pain radiating through him.
“No!” He hears the scream, followed by a gunshot. His friend is running toward him now, kneeling next to him and pulling him close.
Eames groans and coughs up blood.
“No, no, no,” Arthur repeats. A tear falls from his eye, but he’s trying not to let anymore out. “Eames, goddammit, what did you do?”
This all feels incredibly wrong to him. It’s not supposed to be this way. Eames can remember this moment very distinctly, but not like this. He was down here. Arthur was up there. Arthur was the one shot, Arthur died. Not him. He knows this because he spent over six months mourning the loss. All up until Cobb in that hotel room…
“It worked,” He stammers out. The young, beautiful, alive point man looks confused. Eames can feel a smile grow on his face. Arthur doesn’t understand that this moment was something Eames had so tirelessly begged to change. He doesn’t even know if any of it was real, but he knows that there is a hole in his heart, a deep hurt that came from losing the love of his life once before.
“Remember that time in Mombasa,” Eames starts.
“Stop,” Arthur urges him. “Don’t talk like that. Don’t talk like this is the last time. We’re going to get you help and we can talk all about it.” He’s glaring at his phone like it will somehow work under his command. The warehouse was never a good place for cell phone reception. The only reason they had been there was to gather their things and go. Arthur planned on heading for the states whereas Eames was always a fan of Spain. Of course, Eames urged Arthur to take a vacation with him, but he insisted it was better for them to split up. They weren’t as easy to track that way.
“Look, I’m just going to find service-” Arthur attempts to say.
“Please don’t leave me,” Eames pleads as he coughs up blood. It’s difficult to say no to that. Arthur tries, he really does, to retain his composure as he nods and promises never to leave him.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur chokes out as tears form in his eyes.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about, love,” Eames assures him.
“I should have never pushed you away.” He runs his fingers delicately through Eames’ hair and smiles down at him. “I always loved you. No matter what I said, it was always you.”
“I know, darling.” There are tears flowing from his eyes. He thinks he can understand it. Before, what he felt, the pain from losing Arthur, it wasn’t technically real. They say that your life flashed before your eyes before you died, but what if it wasn’t always the case? Did he have to know what it felt like to lose Arthur so he could help the only man he ever loved get through the pain of losing him? He isn’t sure, but he likes the sound of it. This time, it isn’t out of selfishness. He doesn’t want to die, he knows that. He stares up at those beautiful brown eyes and knows he wants to spend an eternity in them, but he can’t.
“Promise me something,” Eames says. “You have to let me go.”
“No, no, don’t say-”
“It’s okay,” He interrupts. “I’m going to die and that’s fine but I have to know you’ll be okay.”
“Eames, please.”
“Promise me.” He coughs, harshly, and spits out more blood. “I don’t want to be trapped in your head. We’ll be together again someday. We’re connected, you and I.”
“Eames…”
“I love you.”
Arthur is quiet for a moment.
“I love you, too.”
----------
“How are you holding up?” Ariadne asks him. Arthur turns to see her in the doorway. He quickly shoves the poker chip into his pocket and avoids eye contact with her. It’s the only way he can lie.
“I’m fine,” He tells her. He smiles, just to be extra convincing, but she isn’t quite buying it. Still, she doesn’t pursue it any longer. It was three weeks ago that Eames died in his arms. Asking how he was holding up was obviously stupid, but she doesn’t really know how to handle loss or grief. She’s never lost anyone. She’s never loved anyone. For this, Arthur pities her. There’s a saying about this kind of thing that he never really bought before. Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. At first, he rejected the idea. Why would you want to put yourself through so much grief? Well, the answer was simple. The time you spent with the one that you loved, every memory you held onto so dearly, was stronger than the grief.
“I think I’m going-” Ariadne starts, but he cuts her off.
“He loved the color yellow,” He says. “I was wearing this…hideous yellow tie the first time I met him. I hadn’t done laundry in over a week and it was all I had. He was so forward. The way he looked at me made me feel…like someone gave a damn.”
He laughs. When he looks at her, she looks so damn awkward that he can’t bring himself to continue. He supposed it was never really fair to put her in the situation. What would she have to say, exactly?
“I’ll see you later,” He says, like he gives her permission to leave. She does.
----------
Arthur doesn’t like the taste of scotch. It’s too strong for him. Burns when it swims down his throat. He doesn’t know why he even attempts to drink it, but being as how he already ordered the damn thing, he couldn’t wuss out now. So he downs it, fast, and then orders a glass of wine. It’s more to his liking. Tasteful, smooth, easy to go down. People, and by people he really meant Eames, made fun of him for his inability to hold down the really strong stuff. There was this one time when he’d been drinking whiskey because Eames was and he just had to impress him. Well, Eames was considerably better at holding his booze than Arthur was. All he remembered from that night was his face down in the toilet while Eames laughed and propped him up whenever he needed to throw up.
“You know, darling, you shouldn’t be drinking those,” the smooth, English voice says as he approaches. “Then again, I’m not quite sure if alcohol has the same effects in a dream. Maybe you should drink more and see if we can get a little nostalgic.”
Arthur smiles.
“I was wondering when you’d show,” he says as he turns to Eames. He knows he shouldn’t do this. He’s been trying, relentlessly, but every once in a while, he just wanted to see him. It wasn’t his guilt that projected Eames. It was his love.
“You’ll always find me here, whenever you need me.”
He takes comfort in this. He knows it's only temporary, but that's fine. One day, he'll really be together with Eames again. Until then, this was enough for him.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Eames deals with his grief from losing Arthur.
Warnings/Spoilers: Character death.
Author's Notes: Can you guys not be at my house tomorrow with pitchforks? PLEASE?
Disclaimer: Characters are property of Chris Nolan<3
Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4
STAGE FIVE: ACCEPTANCE
The bullet whizzes by his ear so loudly that he thinks he’ll go deaf. He has to duck down and scurry up the stairs quickly as the walls are lined with gunfire. Once on the next floor, he takes cover and reloads his gun. He has to find some kind of vantage point, some way to get to all the shooters. He can hear more shooting, a body falling even. Then another, but after that it kind of stops. He’s worried. Why has it stopped? He gets behind a wall and looks out. He almost think he hears his name, but he can’t reply. He doesn’t want to blow his cover. He can see his friend now, taking cover behind some boxes, shooting at people. He hit’s a couple, but it’s not nearly enough. By his count, there’s four, five maybe, more shooters.
He moves, quickly, finds a good place where he can see some of the shooters. He takes down one, then another. Times like these make him grateful for taking those extra hours at the shooting range each week. Breathe, aim, shoot. There’s three he’s taken down by his count, and that means there’s a few more. It seems easy, too easy, but they had just been ambushed by about fifteen guys. It was a wonder they managed to kill as many as they had. He hadn’t been hit, at least not yet, but every second mattered. Another shooter. He takes him down. That makes four. Where’s the other shooter? He know there has to be one because there were shots fired at him from two different directions not too long before he took out the last guy. The problem is that even when he looks in that direction, he can’t see-
He’s hit. The bullet digs its way into his shoulder, stinging fiercely, but nothing beyond what he’s felt before. The problem is, however, that this time, he doesn’t feel the pain in a dream. It’s real. It’s bad. He stumbles, hit’s the ledge, and falls over. When he lands, it hurts more. He can’t feel his legs. Or can he? He’s not sure. There’s just an intense pain radiating through him.
“No!” He hears the scream, followed by a gunshot. His friend is running toward him now, kneeling next to him and pulling him close.
Eames groans and coughs up blood.
“No, no, no,” Arthur repeats. A tear falls from his eye, but he’s trying not to let anymore out. “Eames, goddammit, what did you do?”
This all feels incredibly wrong to him. It’s not supposed to be this way. Eames can remember this moment very distinctly, but not like this. He was down here. Arthur was up there. Arthur was the one shot, Arthur died. Not him. He knows this because he spent over six months mourning the loss. All up until Cobb in that hotel room…
“It worked,” He stammers out. The young, beautiful, alive point man looks confused. Eames can feel a smile grow on his face. Arthur doesn’t understand that this moment was something Eames had so tirelessly begged to change. He doesn’t even know if any of it was real, but he knows that there is a hole in his heart, a deep hurt that came from losing the love of his life once before.
“Remember that time in Mombasa,” Eames starts.
“Stop,” Arthur urges him. “Don’t talk like that. Don’t talk like this is the last time. We’re going to get you help and we can talk all about it.” He’s glaring at his phone like it will somehow work under his command. The warehouse was never a good place for cell phone reception. The only reason they had been there was to gather their things and go. Arthur planned on heading for the states whereas Eames was always a fan of Spain. Of course, Eames urged Arthur to take a vacation with him, but he insisted it was better for them to split up. They weren’t as easy to track that way.
“Look, I’m just going to find service-” Arthur attempts to say.
“Please don’t leave me,” Eames pleads as he coughs up blood. It’s difficult to say no to that. Arthur tries, he really does, to retain his composure as he nods and promises never to leave him.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur chokes out as tears form in his eyes.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about, love,” Eames assures him.
“I should have never pushed you away.” He runs his fingers delicately through Eames’ hair and smiles down at him. “I always loved you. No matter what I said, it was always you.”
“I know, darling.” There are tears flowing from his eyes. He thinks he can understand it. Before, what he felt, the pain from losing Arthur, it wasn’t technically real. They say that your life flashed before your eyes before you died, but what if it wasn’t always the case? Did he have to know what it felt like to lose Arthur so he could help the only man he ever loved get through the pain of losing him? He isn’t sure, but he likes the sound of it. This time, it isn’t out of selfishness. He doesn’t want to die, he knows that. He stares up at those beautiful brown eyes and knows he wants to spend an eternity in them, but he can’t.
“Promise me something,” Eames says. “You have to let me go.”
“No, no, don’t say-”
“It’s okay,” He interrupts. “I’m going to die and that’s fine but I have to know you’ll be okay.”
“Eames, please.”
“Promise me.” He coughs, harshly, and spits out more blood. “I don’t want to be trapped in your head. We’ll be together again someday. We’re connected, you and I.”
“Eames…”
“I love you.”
Arthur is quiet for a moment.
“I love you, too.”
----------
“How are you holding up?” Ariadne asks him. Arthur turns to see her in the doorway. He quickly shoves the poker chip into his pocket and avoids eye contact with her. It’s the only way he can lie.
“I’m fine,” He tells her. He smiles, just to be extra convincing, but she isn’t quite buying it. Still, she doesn’t pursue it any longer. It was three weeks ago that Eames died in his arms. Asking how he was holding up was obviously stupid, but she doesn’t really know how to handle loss or grief. She’s never lost anyone. She’s never loved anyone. For this, Arthur pities her. There’s a saying about this kind of thing that he never really bought before. Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. At first, he rejected the idea. Why would you want to put yourself through so much grief? Well, the answer was simple. The time you spent with the one that you loved, every memory you held onto so dearly, was stronger than the grief.
“I think I’m going-” Ariadne starts, but he cuts her off.
“He loved the color yellow,” He says. “I was wearing this…hideous yellow tie the first time I met him. I hadn’t done laundry in over a week and it was all I had. He was so forward. The way he looked at me made me feel…like someone gave a damn.”
He laughs. When he looks at her, she looks so damn awkward that he can’t bring himself to continue. He supposed it was never really fair to put her in the situation. What would she have to say, exactly?
“I’ll see you later,” He says, like he gives her permission to leave. She does.
----------
Arthur doesn’t like the taste of scotch. It’s too strong for him. Burns when it swims down his throat. He doesn’t know why he even attempts to drink it, but being as how he already ordered the damn thing, he couldn’t wuss out now. So he downs it, fast, and then orders a glass of wine. It’s more to his liking. Tasteful, smooth, easy to go down. People, and by people he really meant Eames, made fun of him for his inability to hold down the really strong stuff. There was this one time when he’d been drinking whiskey because Eames was and he just had to impress him. Well, Eames was considerably better at holding his booze than Arthur was. All he remembered from that night was his face down in the toilet while Eames laughed and propped him up whenever he needed to throw up.
“You know, darling, you shouldn’t be drinking those,” the smooth, English voice says as he approaches. “Then again, I’m not quite sure if alcohol has the same effects in a dream. Maybe you should drink more and see if we can get a little nostalgic.”
Arthur smiles.
“I was wondering when you’d show,” he says as he turns to Eames. He knows he shouldn’t do this. He’s been trying, relentlessly, but every once in a while, he just wanted to see him. It wasn’t his guilt that projected Eames. It was his love.
“You’ll always find me here, whenever you need me.”
He takes comfort in this. He knows it's only temporary, but that's fine. One day, he'll really be together with Eames again. Until then, this was enough for him.