Noise [Wingman verse]
Woohoo! My laptop is fixed! We are back in business, baby! Bigger and badder than ever before! Now have something entirely unrelated to any of the WIPs I'm working on. :|
Title: Noise
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~5800
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Arthur, Sam believes, understands what it's like to be a dog, especially when the rainclouds come around and make everything dark. Arthur understands. Sometimes it seems to rain around Arthur even when there isn't a cloud in the sky.
Author's Note: This is part of the Wingman verse, but no prior knowledge is strictly necessary.
ps OMG THERE IS ART WHAT IS THIS I LOVE platina SO MUCH OMG I CAN'T EVEN <3333
To understand why Sam loves Eames as much as he does, and why Sam has such a faithful connection to Arthur, one must understand where he comes from.
When Sam was a puppy, he was given as a gift to a lady who pulled a face and said he was stupid-looking. That's what she called him. Stupid-looking. She said he looked like an old man instead of a puppy, on account of his bristly muzzle and the way his forehead wrinkled when he looked expectant or worried.
The man, a big alpha, who had given Sam to her, ended up taking care of him mostly, which the man didn't enjoy. He let Sam play in the backyard, which was small and lined with bricks except where a jungle of weeds had grown through, for twenty minutes each day, even when it was raining and Sam would just stay huddled next to the door the whole time. Twenty minutes was not very much time for a growing puppy, and there wasn't very much to do out there besides, except sniff at insects.
Lots of times he had accidents in the house, and then the alpha-man would grab Sam by the scruff and drag him over to his mistake, rub his nose in it and then hit him on the snout and say “no” in a big, loud voice. Sam did not understand this, because he made sure to urinate and defecate out of the way, in tidy little corners where his marks would be unobtrusive but still say “this is my house”. But no matter where he did it he got in trouble, so that soon the stress of having to urinate would overwhelm him; he would hold it as long as he could and then pee behind the couch, and immediately hide under the bed, where he imagined nobody could see him if he didn't want them to.
That was silly, because the big man would always drag him out anyway, yank him around the house till they found the mistake so that he could scold Sam properly. Defecating was even worse; then his anger would fill the entire world, blotting out everything else, and he would raise a huge paw and strike Sam in the side of the head, just once but enough to knock him over, and the force of his rage was enough to paralyze a puppy.
This went on for awhile, until one day when it was drizzly and instead of tossing him in the yard, the alpha-man took Sam to a park where there were lots of kids and things to smell, and Sam didn't even mind that it was wet and muddy; he ran and ran and stretched his legs and played in the grass and when he thought to look, the alpha-man was gone. Sam had been left.
A nice lady took him to the shelter, and another lady took him home, but only for a couple of days because she complained that he wasn't trained or housebroken. So Sam went back to the shelter, where he cried until they turned the lights off at night; and in the morning, before he could really get warmed up, there was Eames. And with his big, gentle hands he lifted Sam up under each foreleg and studied him and said,
“I like him.”
And Sam had a home again. Not just any home, but a home with the best and smartest man who ever owned a dog. Because this is what Eames does, and this is what makes Sam love him more than anyone in the world; and this is why Sam thinks it is a damned shame that Arthur doesn't know Eames will love him regardless of all those things he's ashamed of: Eames doesn't care. Eames sees them both and loves them anyway.
+
Eames is the one who named Sam. He took him home and gave him a crate of his very own lined with soft towels, and gave him toys to chew on, and told him “no”, gently, when Sam chewed on the rug instead. Eames would hand him one of the rubber toys, and this way Sam understood what was and wasn't okay to chew on.
The first time he had to urinate was very stressful, because Eames is kind and smart but Eames is also an alpha-man, with a deep voice and commanding presence. So Sam urinated under the kitchen table, and hid under the bed for a couple of hours afterward. When Eames found him he didn't say anything, and when Sam came out he saw that his mess had been cleaned up; and every twenty minutes after that, Eames would take him outside, even though they lived on the sixth floor. He did this until Sam squatted and urinated under a bush, and then Eames cheered. He clapped his hands together and called Sam a good dog. He fed him liver treats and and rubbed the crease behind Sam's ear with his thumb and said he was so smart.
And after a couple repetitions of this, Sam understood.
Sam loves Eames, and he loved when it was the two of them together, though he didn't begrudge Eames' friend Yusuf, because Yusuf was nice even though he smelled like cats. Eames introduced them the day after he brought Sam home, and Yusuf studied him the way Eames had in the shelter, and he said:
“He's your replacement for Carmen, I take it?”
“Yeah, something like that,” Eames said, sheepish.
“He's better-looking than Carmen.”
“Don't,” said Eames, with a hurt-tone in his voice. “Not just yet.”
That was the last Sam heard of the mysterious Carmen, except sometimes when Eames had been drinking, and he would say things like, “Women, Sammy. They don't like it when you tell them you're one way for thirty-odd years, and then turn out gay.”
Sam didn't know that word, gay, and he didn't like the way Eames said it, sort of sad or bitter; but over time, the word came out more comfortably, happily, and that made Sam happy, too.
+
It was just the two of them for awhile. Eames would go to work in the morning, but he'd be home for lunch, and he walked Sam three times a day, so that was alright. Sometimes at night, though, he would put Sam's dinner in his Kong toy with some peanut butter, and then he'd go out, and not come home until much later, smelling of beer and sweat and musk. Then he'd get in the shower and go straight to bed, without even scratching Sam's ears first. Sam never knew what to make of this until he was awoken one of these nights by the scratching of the key in the lock, and he jumped up and went to greet Eames; but Eames said, “Down, boy,” and then he didn't say anything because another man was there and his mouth was fastened to Eames'.
Sam skulked away to the bedroom and hid under the bed, which was where he went when he felt like sulking, but they were there a few seconds later, leaving a trail of clothing across the flat behind them, so Sam went into his crate and watched. He watched as Eames got on top of the other man, a dominant position, and pressed their mouths together; and then as Eames mounted the man, and stayed on top of him for a long time. They didn't speak but they made sounds, harsh and panting, and the bed squeaked under them. Sam got bored and dozed off.
When he woke the room smelled of sweat and male musk, and also soap, because Eames' conquest had showered. Sam went up to the bed, to see if Eames was there, but he wasn't. The other man was, lying there like a contented cat, like it was his bed.
“Good dog,” he said, seeing Sam there, letting his hand dangle off the bed. Sam licked it, to be polite. “Nice dog,” he said, when Eames reappeared, wearing a towel around his waist.
“Oh ... yeah,” said Eames. He was not content, and Sam could smell that, too.
The man was gone in the morning and Eames sat on the edge of the bed and held his head in his hands.
“Take him home to meet the dog,” he muttered. “Who does that?”
Sam, who could not speak nor offer comfort like Yusuf could, laid his head across Eames' knee and tried to understand, but it was all beyond him. He could sense, when they went on walks and met nice men who stopped to pat Sam, the particular way Eames perked up, and so Sam would laugh and wag and be charming. He knew it was all part of some intricate human mating ritual, and yet, when he'd brought that man home to his bed, Eames had not seemed happy at all. So Sam didn't understand. He didn't know what Eames wanted.
Several more times this happened, Eames bringing another man home. In the morning he would look tired and ill and he would pet Sam's head and say he was sorry, and Sam didn't know what he was apologizing for. All he knew was that the smell of guilt pervaded Eames as surely as the bitter tang of last night's alcohol.
+
Sometimes Eames went away altogether, for three days or seven. Then Sam would go to Yusuf's flat and not growl at his cat, even when it ate his food -- right in front of him! -- lest he get swatted across the face. His crate and his toys would come too, but all the same, he imagined every time that Eames had left him, and at night, he cried and cried. When he saw the suitcase come out at home, and whenever Eames returned, he would start to limp so that Eames would see his suffering and stay with him.
“I know, mate,” Eames would say, thumbing the crease behind his ear, and sounding very tired. “It's just the job.”
He told Yusuf about the job offer before he told Sam, and Sam can't pretend that doesn't hurt. But worst of all was being bundled up into his crate, just two weeks after Eames told him, long after Sam had forgotten about it; and he was bundled up and packed onto a plane and made to hold his bladder for eight hours, and then he spent two weeks alone, at a new shelter.
Alone! At a shelter!
He cried. He cried for hours in the hopes that Eames might find him. He did not want to go home with somebody else. And these people walked him only twice a day, and did not mix his kibble with warm water and leave it sitting for awhile before they gave it to him, the way Eames sometimes did, to make it special.
After two weeks Eames was there, looking exhausted and disheveled and smelling of stale sweat like he'd been sitting in his clothes for too long, but he was there and Sam licked his face, too happy to be angry with him. He took Sam to the new house. That was what he called it, “the new house”, and Sam liked it very much, because it had a yard, which their flat had not.
Also, it had Arthur.
+
Sam's favourite people in the world are, in order: Eames, because he is smart and good and he loves Sam very much; and Arthur is a close second. (Then Sam might have to say Yusuf, even though he smells like cats; and then maybe the young lady at the dog park who owns the cocker spaniel, because she gives Sam liver treats out of a pouch.)
Sam loves Arthur, and these are his reasons:
1. Arthur rarely looks directly at him, which Sam thinks is very polite. Most people look at a dog directly when they see it. This, actually, makes Sam very uncomfortable, as it would any other dog. Arthur doesn't do this very much, and that's nice.
2. Arthur smells so good. He smells clean, even after he's just been running. Like women do, except that Arthur's scent is exceedingly, attractively, masculine, and Sam likes that about him very much. Arthur smells like what he does: rise with the sun and run with nature, like the morning's dewdrops cling to him, the way they cling to Sam's belly when he goes running in tall grass during a drizzle. An attractive scent is a virtue and Arthur smells the best.
3. Arthur, Sam believes, understands what it's like to be a dog, especially when the rainclouds come around and make everything dark. Arthur understands. Sometimes it seems to rain around Arthur even when there isn't a cloud in the sky.
Most of the time, Arthur talks the way Yusuf's cat walked, like he knows something about him is inadequate and he tries to cover it up by overcompensating (even though everything about him is adequate, which he would know if people would just listen to Sam, who knows a lot). But sometimes, when there is nobody around to make Arthur feel insecure, he talks to Sam the way Eames does, as if he's a person. Sam doesn't think he really knows he's doing it, because the things he tells Sam are things he would never say aloud, all his fears and insecurities; and this is how Sam knows that Arthur understands; but Arthur does not know that Sam understands him, too, and Sam just doesn't know how to communicate that, which is sad.
+
The first time they meet Arthur, Eames' interest almost radiates off him like an odour. But he doesn't say anything. All he says, to himself and not even to Sam, is, “He's gorgeous,” like this observation surprises him.
Sam knows Eames better than anyone, even better than Yusuf, and at this point in time he's spent long enough with Eames to know that he's very lonely. All the same, he doesn't understand at first why Eames keeps insisting that they wake at the crack of dawn. Not until Arthur keeps appearing, and keeps appearing.
Arthur jogs. Eames doesn't jog with Sam. It looks like fun. Sam wants to jog, too, and Arthur begins taking him.
Before long the routine goes like this: Eames smokes on the porch and Sam dozes at his feet until he hears Arthur's distinctive footsteps on the sidewalk. Then, he runs down the front path and through the open gate that stands between the tall hedges, trailing his leash, and he skids onto the sidewalk in front of Arthur, who will stop, and sigh, and hesitate, and finally stoop down and pick up the end of Sam's leash and jog off again.
“Only because you'll follow me either way, and there are leash laws,” he mutters.
Arthur's ears aren't sensitive enough to hear Eames' chuckle on the porch, but Sam's are.
They jog and it's so much fun. Even when Arthur says something to him like, “I don't even like dogs,” like it's important to him that Sam know this. Or he'll slow to a walk and look down at Sam and say, critically, with his face pinched, “You look like a sea lion.”
Sam thinks it is much better to look like a sea lion than to be called stupid-looking.
+
The winds are blowing in a new direction when Arthur finally starts invading their territory instead of the other way around, and this is why:
While courting Arthur, Eames had been bold and confident. But now, with the elusive Arthur in his grasp, he's slowing down, backing off as if Arthur is showing his teeth, even though he isn't. Even though Arthur is receptive to his advances and doesn't make a move to deter him, Eames acts as though he is.
“I'm going to ruin this, aren't I?” Eames says to Sam. And Sam lifts his eyebrows and tilts his head and tries to glean the meaning of that defeated, uncertain tone in his voice. He has Arthur; isn't that what they wanted?
Arthur is precise. He brings order to their home. Eames doesn't drink nearly as much now that Arthur's around and Sam is glad for that. He makes Eames stop smoking and Sam is especially glad for that because cigarette smoke prickles his nostrils. Arthur throws out their matches and lighters. Later, Eames doesn't know what to light their candles with. This is not significant to him.
As long as Arthur leaves Sam's crate alone (because it's his crate and nobody else's), Sam is okay, and even if Arthur wanted to reorganize the crate Sam would not complain, because he likes having Arthur in his house. He likes following Arthur and sleeping underneath his chair at the kitchen table while he and Eames eat. But he doesn't know how to handle Eames' changing attitude. It makes his hackles itch. It makes him want to get in between them, and sometimes he does; it makes him want to snap at Arthur, which he doesn't, because he loves Arthur.
So he's confused. Eames should be happy; he has an Arthur. Arthur is happy -- he's got Eames. Sam is happy because he has both of them, his two best friends in the world, and yet, and yet. Eames' behaviour clashes with their good moods.
Sam would probably have figured it out sooner if he had any testicles to speak of, and therefore a sex drive. But he doesn't, so it takes him a little longer to pick up on the signals Arthur is putting out. Arthur wants Eames. Arthur is like a bitch in heat; he wants Eames to get him done, he wants that so badly. And the more receptive he is, the more afraid Eames gets.
“What if him and I don't mean anything afterward?” Eames mumbles to himself at night when Arthur has gone, cradling Sam's head in his lap. “What if that's all he wants? I don't know men, Sammy. I don't know.”
And all Sam can do is lift his eyebrows and tilt his head and try to understand, because he's only a dog and he just doesn't.
+
One night he has an exhausting ordeal and when he wakes up, Arthur is in Eames' bed.
Now they're all happy.
Some nights Arthur stays over and Sam's crate door is open and he's allowed to sleep on the floor next to Eames, and they don't keep him up. But lots of nights, Eames shuts Sam in the crate and goes to bed with Arthur. It's not like his other trysts, fast and and bitter and all those other sour-smelling emotions. With Arthur he lingers, and they stay together for a long time, and in between the sounds they make, from his crate Sam can hear the words they murmur to each other and the soft laughter they share. Like they're playing, not just coupling. He realizes that Eames' fears were unfounded all along: this act doesn't make them less. It makes them more.
Now they're happy.
Except.
Except Arthur has a secret.
+
Eames doesn't see it.
He isn't home when Arthur fetches a chair and Sam wakes up and follows him groggily to the hall, where Arthur stands on top of the chair and prods at the round white box affixed to the top of the wall. It screeches out a shrill, blaring tone that makes Sam flatten his ears and whine. Arthur makes the round box stop shrieking and then he just looks at Sam like he knows he's done something wrong.
And then he proceeds to visit all the round white boxes in the house and he makes them all screech, and all he says to Sam is, “Don't tell him.”
Eames did this one time, when they first moved in; he'd gone to each of the alarms and made them screech, and when Sam whined he'd said, “Sorry, little mate. Just checking the batteries.”
Which would be okay, except that sometimes, Arthur checks them six days in a row.
There are three alarms in the house and when he's done, he drops into the chair and holds his head in his hands; and when Sam tries to nose him, all he says, quietly, is, “Don't tell him.”
+
It invades their lives slowly, more and more.
Sam understands. He understands how it feels to be Arthur when these dark thoughts descend on him. Like being shut in a glass box, isolated from the world, forced to look out, unable to communicate anything. This is how a dog feels. When Arthur gets upset because Eames doesn't understand why it's so wrong that he set the alarm clock for 5:00 instead of 4:57 exactly, Sam feels his frustration clearly, can smell his anxiety. It's the same way Sam feels when he senses a thunderstorm coming on, and Eames just doesn't understand why this is terrifying.
It's not Eames' fault. He isn't as connected to his basest, primal fears. Sam's fears, Arthur's fears, rattle down through older generations from an ancient, dark place, where thunderstorms are frightening and fire is a very real threat.
Sometimes Arthur is okay and the world is a bright and happy place. Sometimes he doesn't mind when Eames lights candles to “set the mood” (what the mood is, Sam doesn't know). But other days, when the darkness comes, he is snappish and irritable. On those days, when something is not exact, or familiar, Sam can sense him crumbling inside, and this, too, is familiar to Sam. What is a dog when he doesn't have structure? A dog needs structure more than anything, and so does Arthur. But unlike Sam, he does not pace, or whine; he has to correct this imbalance in the universe with an act seemingly entirely unrelated. His morning routine is off by two minutes: he has to reorder everything in multiples of three.
“I know you think I'm crazy,” he says to Sam on one of these dark days. He's sitting on the couch and, appropriately, the lights aren't on. Eames is still at work. Sam rests his chin on Arthur's knee gently, trying to communicate a kinship with him. “I'm not scared. I'm not scared of fire or anything. It's not that. That's why I can't tell him, because he wouldn't get it. It's like ...” And he lays a hand on Sam's head, a heavy, exhausted hand, as if he's not conscious that he's doing it. Like he's talking in his sleep, not to Sam, but to the idea of somebody who cares.
“You know what I'm most afraid of?” he asks rhetorically. “Being straight, and having to tell Eames this has been a sham all along and we have to break up so I can go be in a relationship with a woman. And that's so stupid, because I'm not straight, and I don't even like sex with women, and it still scares me. But if I think about it, if I even let that thought into my head, the only way to make it untrue is to do this ... this stupid, irrational stuff. And I think about the house burning down, and I know it won't, but if I don't double-check everything ...”
He looks straight down at Sam.
“That's how that works,” he says. “Obsessions and compulsions. And nobody in the world gets it.”
Sam folds back his ears and tries to look expressive, trying his hardest to channel to Arthur, I hear you.
“So that's that,” Arthur says finally, flatly, slumping back against the couch. “That's why I can't tell him. Either I'm a crazy person, or I'm a person who has to take drugs to stay sane and still has panic attacks anyway. And I can't do that in front of him, so I'll just be crazy, on my own time. Eames deserves a normal boyfriend.”
If Eames wanted normal, Sam wants to say, he would have picked a dog who wasn't whimpering and weird-looking. He would have abandoned Sam the first time Sam left a puddle under the kitchen table or the first time there was a thunderstorm and Sam destroyed a couch cushion in a frothing panic. If he wanted normal, Sam wants to shout, he wouldn't be Eames, and you wouldn't want him either!
But he's a dog, so he doesn't say anything. And when Eames comes home, any trace of Arthur's darkness has been carefully tucked away, and he smiles easily when Eames kisses him.
He never shows it on the outside. Like a dog, Arthur is stoic, masking his illness to put on a strong front. Even though he lets Eames roll him onto his back and mouth at his throat, Sam has no illusions: the stronger of the two is Arthur.
+
Anxiety radiates from Arthur like the smell of charged ions when Eames cooks on the stove. But Eames doesn't have Sam's sensitive nose. So it isn't telling, it's not even worth noticing at first, not until they're watching some movie one night, and Sam is trying more to doze at their feet than to pay attention to the flickering pictures on the TV screen. But it's difficult, because Arthur is getting up every so often, and Sam has to follow him to the kitchen just so that he knows where Arthur is. Then he tries to settle down, but soon Arthur goes back to the couch, so Sam has to get up again, and this keeps happening.
“Have a lot to drink or something?” Eames inquires. Arthur is back on the couch at his side. Sam flops once more at their feet and immediately closes his eyes to go back to sleep.
“No,” Arthur says.
“Upset stomach?”
“No!”
“Alright, just asking.”
Sam is almost asleep when Arthur gets up again. Heaving a huge sigh, Sam gets to his feet, stretches, and plods faithfully after him.
The movie is still playing, so Sam doesn't expect Eames to follow them. He's trying to doze now on the cool tiles, and Arthur is hovering over the stove, and Sam opens his eyes and Eames is there.
“What're you doing?”
Arthur leaps back.
“Looking for something to eat,” he says guardedly.
Eames's tone is cautious, gentle. He knows he doesn't get it. “If there wasn't anything five trips ago, there probably isn't anything now.”
Arthur folds his arms over his chest, an aggressive stance. Eames mirrors him, quietly asserting himself, and after a few moments, Arthur lets his hands drop to his sides.
“I was checking the stove. To make sure you ... you turned it off.”
“Six times?”
“Yes.” Sam can sense Arthur bristling, slightly. “The majority of house fires start in the kitchen and stoves are behind most of those. It could have a bad burner or bad wiring or a cut cord. If you left it on and it malfunctioned, or if too much grease got under the top, or if there was a short in the wires, or if a fire started inside the oven -- don't laugh!” he snaps, his hands curling into fists, even though Eames isn't laughing.
“I'm not,” Eames says, but he is smiling. “I'm glad you're taking the safety of my home so seriously.”
“Don't make fun of me -- I already know how stupid it sounds, okay?”
“It doesn't sound stupid at all,” Eames says. Even Sam knows that he's lying. “But I'm pretty sure we're safe for the night, so why don't you just sit down and enjoy the movie with me? Look, Sam's slogging back and forth with you, and he's trying to sleep ...”
And suddenly the world is a dark place.
Nobody says anything for a moment. Sam looks from one to the other, the ridges of his eyes raised worriedly. Arthur is stiff. Eames obviously knows he's done something wrong, but doesn't know what it is or how to fix it.
Finally Arthur yanks a chair out from under the kitchen table, almost hitting Sam's outstretched hind leg, and drops into it.
“Fine,” he says. “I'll stay here. If I'm so disruptive.”
“Arthur,” says Eames. “That's not what I meant. I'm sorry.”
“I know what you meant. Sorry for disturbing your damn dog.”
Sam knows the malice in Arthur's voice isn't directed at him, but he feels the air crackling with tension all the same. He flattens his ears and wrinkles his forehead, trying to be unobtrusive, but he's concerned.
“Please come and watch the movie,” says Eames.
They're missing a car chase, Sam can hear the sound effects from here.
“I don't want to,” says Arthur.
Sam wants to say, I'll watch the stove. He doesn't even know why it's important. The tension in the room is opressive and cloying, like the air before a thunderstorm. Eames hovers, helpless. Sam wants to say to him, It's not your fault.
But nobody hears him.
And then he sees it. Arthur crumbles. He crumbles like the weight of the tension is crushing him to the floor, but he catches himself just in time.
“I should go home,” he says.
“Stay.”
“It's getting late.”
There's at least an hour till bedtime. Even Sam knows that. But this time Eames does the right thing. He stops arguing. Arthur lets Eames pull him to his feet, and kiss him, and hold him for a moment. Sam can see his will faltering and that's frightening, because Arthur is normally so rock-solid. He wants to tell Arthur that thunderstorms pass. That's what Eames tells him. Sam wishes he would say it now.
He doesn't. He lets Arthur go home. He checks on the stove before he goes to bed, like he just can't figure out what's so scary about it. Sam doesn't know; he doesn't know either.
+
Sam wakes up one night and knows immediately that everything is wrong. But it's not Arthur's darkness this time. It's his own demon who's descended upon him once more.
Wildly, Sam tries to lurch out of his crate. The door is closed. Arthur is over. He batters at the door. He whines. He barks. He chews at the wire mesh until his gums bleed and then he cries aloud some more.
A lamp flicks on and there's Arthur, yanking on a robe, scowling, “Fuck, Sam!”
He stoops down and Eames, in the bed, grunts sleepily, “Don't let him--”
Arthur pops the door open. Sam shoots out under his arm and races out of the room.
“... out,” Eames finishes behind him in a sigh.
It's the demon who compels Sam to run to the bathtub. Instinct tells him he'll be safe in here. But he doesn't feel safe, the disaster is still impending, and he cries, his nails clattering on the porcelain. He cries because he doesn't know what else to do. Arthur appears in the doorway.
“Goddamnit, Sam,” he says angrily. “I have a meeting in the morning--”
“There's a storm coming,” Eames says, yawning, behind him. “He'll settle down once it's passed ...”
Arthur curses. Sam hears him stomp off to the kitchen. When he returns, he enters the bathroom and turns the light on. He kneels down and holds out a hand.
“Have a treat,” he says.
Sam doesn't look at it or even register that there's a pill in his hand until Eames is there, knocking Arthur's hand away. The pill skitters across the floor of the bathtub and comes to rest next to the drain.
“Don't give him that!”
“Eames,” Arthur says, frustrated. “The vet said to give him one next time he starts doing this.”
“And dope him up until he's not even a dog anymore?” Eames snaps. “No, thank you.”
Sam whimpers, long rising, quavering notes building up to a howl. He's drooling and can't seem to stop. Next to the bathtub, Arthur is staring at Eames like he's seeing him for the first time.
“He's fine,” Eames says. “I just have to teach him there's nothing to be afraid of. Coddling him like this won't help.”
“And how long have you been trying to teach him?”
Eames doesn't say anything. Arthur gets to his feet and the pressure in the room changes abruptly. Eames is no longer the alpha here. He knows it, too, because he folds his arms, attempting to assert himself.
“I don't want to drug my dog, Arthur,” he says.
“Your dog has something wrong with his brain,” says Arthur. Not angry anymore, but measured and forceful. “Faulty wiring, whatever. For whatever reason, something in his brain is telling him that thunder is the end of the world. And maybe he knows it isn't, maybe he realizes nothing's ever happened all the other times there's been a storm, and he knows he's being irrational, but he can't help it, Eames. You're never going to teach him, because he doesn't get it, either. The only thing you can do is switch off that part of his brain and give him some goddamn peace. Look at your dog.”
Eames does. He looks down at Sam who is still crying, shedding loose hair, drooling blood-tinged saliva, clattering around in tight circles in the bathtub like he can somehow make this the safe place he wants it to be.
“Now take care of him, for God's sake,” Arthur orders.
Eames curses softly. Then he kneels down and picks up the pill. He grabs Sam's snout on his next turn, pops open his jaws and flicks it to the back of his throat. Sam gulps, too startled to be offended.
Eames gets up and leaves because he doesn't like to see Sam when he's drugged. But Arthur stays. He sits on the toilet and watches Sam circle in the tub and howl out his terror to the world. Before long his paws drag and he has to sit. Then he lies down.
Arthur sits on the edge of the tub. Sam gazes up at him with glazed eyes, chin on his paws. The lights flicker and thunder rumbles outside. Sam heaves a sigh through his nostrils. The demon slumbers, for now.
“See,” Arthur says quietly. He rests his hand on Sam's head. His thumb slides down to the crease behind Sam's ear, the same way Eames' does. “See? It's all just a lot of noise.”
And if his voice wavers a little bit, Sam doesn't say anything. Sam won't say anything at all.
Title: Noise
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~5800
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Arthur, Sam believes, understands what it's like to be a dog, especially when the rainclouds come around and make everything dark. Arthur understands. Sometimes it seems to rain around Arthur even when there isn't a cloud in the sky.
Author's Note: This is part of the Wingman verse, but no prior knowledge is strictly necessary.
ps OMG THERE IS ART WHAT IS THIS I LOVE platina SO MUCH OMG I CAN'T EVEN <3333
To understand why Sam loves Eames as much as he does, and why Sam has such a faithful connection to Arthur, one must understand where he comes from.
When Sam was a puppy, he was given as a gift to a lady who pulled a face and said he was stupid-looking. That's what she called him. Stupid-looking. She said he looked like an old man instead of a puppy, on account of his bristly muzzle and the way his forehead wrinkled when he looked expectant or worried.
The man, a big alpha, who had given Sam to her, ended up taking care of him mostly, which the man didn't enjoy. He let Sam play in the backyard, which was small and lined with bricks except where a jungle of weeds had grown through, for twenty minutes each day, even when it was raining and Sam would just stay huddled next to the door the whole time. Twenty minutes was not very much time for a growing puppy, and there wasn't very much to do out there besides, except sniff at insects.
Lots of times he had accidents in the house, and then the alpha-man would grab Sam by the scruff and drag him over to his mistake, rub his nose in it and then hit him on the snout and say “no” in a big, loud voice. Sam did not understand this, because he made sure to urinate and defecate out of the way, in tidy little corners where his marks would be unobtrusive but still say “this is my house”. But no matter where he did it he got in trouble, so that soon the stress of having to urinate would overwhelm him; he would hold it as long as he could and then pee behind the couch, and immediately hide under the bed, where he imagined nobody could see him if he didn't want them to.
That was silly, because the big man would always drag him out anyway, yank him around the house till they found the mistake so that he could scold Sam properly. Defecating was even worse; then his anger would fill the entire world, blotting out everything else, and he would raise a huge paw and strike Sam in the side of the head, just once but enough to knock him over, and the force of his rage was enough to paralyze a puppy.
This went on for awhile, until one day when it was drizzly and instead of tossing him in the yard, the alpha-man took Sam to a park where there were lots of kids and things to smell, and Sam didn't even mind that it was wet and muddy; he ran and ran and stretched his legs and played in the grass and when he thought to look, the alpha-man was gone. Sam had been left.
A nice lady took him to the shelter, and another lady took him home, but only for a couple of days because she complained that he wasn't trained or housebroken. So Sam went back to the shelter, where he cried until they turned the lights off at night; and in the morning, before he could really get warmed up, there was Eames. And with his big, gentle hands he lifted Sam up under each foreleg and studied him and said,
“I like him.”
And Sam had a home again. Not just any home, but a home with the best and smartest man who ever owned a dog. Because this is what Eames does, and this is what makes Sam love him more than anyone in the world; and this is why Sam thinks it is a damned shame that Arthur doesn't know Eames will love him regardless of all those things he's ashamed of: Eames doesn't care. Eames sees them both and loves them anyway.
+
Eames is the one who named Sam. He took him home and gave him a crate of his very own lined with soft towels, and gave him toys to chew on, and told him “no”, gently, when Sam chewed on the rug instead. Eames would hand him one of the rubber toys, and this way Sam understood what was and wasn't okay to chew on.
The first time he had to urinate was very stressful, because Eames is kind and smart but Eames is also an alpha-man, with a deep voice and commanding presence. So Sam urinated under the kitchen table, and hid under the bed for a couple of hours afterward. When Eames found him he didn't say anything, and when Sam came out he saw that his mess had been cleaned up; and every twenty minutes after that, Eames would take him outside, even though they lived on the sixth floor. He did this until Sam squatted and urinated under a bush, and then Eames cheered. He clapped his hands together and called Sam a good dog. He fed him liver treats and and rubbed the crease behind Sam's ear with his thumb and said he was so smart.
And after a couple repetitions of this, Sam understood.
Sam loves Eames, and he loved when it was the two of them together, though he didn't begrudge Eames' friend Yusuf, because Yusuf was nice even though he smelled like cats. Eames introduced them the day after he brought Sam home, and Yusuf studied him the way Eames had in the shelter, and he said:
“He's your replacement for Carmen, I take it?”
“Yeah, something like that,” Eames said, sheepish.
“He's better-looking than Carmen.”
“Don't,” said Eames, with a hurt-tone in his voice. “Not just yet.”
That was the last Sam heard of the mysterious Carmen, except sometimes when Eames had been drinking, and he would say things like, “Women, Sammy. They don't like it when you tell them you're one way for thirty-odd years, and then turn out gay.”
Sam didn't know that word, gay, and he didn't like the way Eames said it, sort of sad or bitter; but over time, the word came out more comfortably, happily, and that made Sam happy, too.
+
It was just the two of them for awhile. Eames would go to work in the morning, but he'd be home for lunch, and he walked Sam three times a day, so that was alright. Sometimes at night, though, he would put Sam's dinner in his Kong toy with some peanut butter, and then he'd go out, and not come home until much later, smelling of beer and sweat and musk. Then he'd get in the shower and go straight to bed, without even scratching Sam's ears first. Sam never knew what to make of this until he was awoken one of these nights by the scratching of the key in the lock, and he jumped up and went to greet Eames; but Eames said, “Down, boy,” and then he didn't say anything because another man was there and his mouth was fastened to Eames'.
Sam skulked away to the bedroom and hid under the bed, which was where he went when he felt like sulking, but they were there a few seconds later, leaving a trail of clothing across the flat behind them, so Sam went into his crate and watched. He watched as Eames got on top of the other man, a dominant position, and pressed their mouths together; and then as Eames mounted the man, and stayed on top of him for a long time. They didn't speak but they made sounds, harsh and panting, and the bed squeaked under them. Sam got bored and dozed off.
When he woke the room smelled of sweat and male musk, and also soap, because Eames' conquest had showered. Sam went up to the bed, to see if Eames was there, but he wasn't. The other man was, lying there like a contented cat, like it was his bed.
“Good dog,” he said, seeing Sam there, letting his hand dangle off the bed. Sam licked it, to be polite. “Nice dog,” he said, when Eames reappeared, wearing a towel around his waist.
“Oh ... yeah,” said Eames. He was not content, and Sam could smell that, too.
The man was gone in the morning and Eames sat on the edge of the bed and held his head in his hands.
“Take him home to meet the dog,” he muttered. “Who does that?”
Sam, who could not speak nor offer comfort like Yusuf could, laid his head across Eames' knee and tried to understand, but it was all beyond him. He could sense, when they went on walks and met nice men who stopped to pat Sam, the particular way Eames perked up, and so Sam would laugh and wag and be charming. He knew it was all part of some intricate human mating ritual, and yet, when he'd brought that man home to his bed, Eames had not seemed happy at all. So Sam didn't understand. He didn't know what Eames wanted.
Several more times this happened, Eames bringing another man home. In the morning he would look tired and ill and he would pet Sam's head and say he was sorry, and Sam didn't know what he was apologizing for. All he knew was that the smell of guilt pervaded Eames as surely as the bitter tang of last night's alcohol.
+
Sometimes Eames went away altogether, for three days or seven. Then Sam would go to Yusuf's flat and not growl at his cat, even when it ate his food -- right in front of him! -- lest he get swatted across the face. His crate and his toys would come too, but all the same, he imagined every time that Eames had left him, and at night, he cried and cried. When he saw the suitcase come out at home, and whenever Eames returned, he would start to limp so that Eames would see his suffering and stay with him.
“I know, mate,” Eames would say, thumbing the crease behind his ear, and sounding very tired. “It's just the job.”
He told Yusuf about the job offer before he told Sam, and Sam can't pretend that doesn't hurt. But worst of all was being bundled up into his crate, just two weeks after Eames told him, long after Sam had forgotten about it; and he was bundled up and packed onto a plane and made to hold his bladder for eight hours, and then he spent two weeks alone, at a new shelter.
Alone! At a shelter!
He cried. He cried for hours in the hopes that Eames might find him. He did not want to go home with somebody else. And these people walked him only twice a day, and did not mix his kibble with warm water and leave it sitting for awhile before they gave it to him, the way Eames sometimes did, to make it special.
After two weeks Eames was there, looking exhausted and disheveled and smelling of stale sweat like he'd been sitting in his clothes for too long, but he was there and Sam licked his face, too happy to be angry with him. He took Sam to the new house. That was what he called it, “the new house”, and Sam liked it very much, because it had a yard, which their flat had not.
Also, it had Arthur.
+
Sam's favourite people in the world are, in order: Eames, because he is smart and good and he loves Sam very much; and Arthur is a close second. (Then Sam might have to say Yusuf, even though he smells like cats; and then maybe the young lady at the dog park who owns the cocker spaniel, because she gives Sam liver treats out of a pouch.)
Sam loves Arthur, and these are his reasons:
1. Arthur rarely looks directly at him, which Sam thinks is very polite. Most people look at a dog directly when they see it. This, actually, makes Sam very uncomfortable, as it would any other dog. Arthur doesn't do this very much, and that's nice.
2. Arthur smells so good. He smells clean, even after he's just been running. Like women do, except that Arthur's scent is exceedingly, attractively, masculine, and Sam likes that about him very much. Arthur smells like what he does: rise with the sun and run with nature, like the morning's dewdrops cling to him, the way they cling to Sam's belly when he goes running in tall grass during a drizzle. An attractive scent is a virtue and Arthur smells the best.
3. Arthur, Sam believes, understands what it's like to be a dog, especially when the rainclouds come around and make everything dark. Arthur understands. Sometimes it seems to rain around Arthur even when there isn't a cloud in the sky.
Most of the time, Arthur talks the way Yusuf's cat walked, like he knows something about him is inadequate and he tries to cover it up by overcompensating (even though everything about him is adequate, which he would know if people would just listen to Sam, who knows a lot). But sometimes, when there is nobody around to make Arthur feel insecure, he talks to Sam the way Eames does, as if he's a person. Sam doesn't think he really knows he's doing it, because the things he tells Sam are things he would never say aloud, all his fears and insecurities; and this is how Sam knows that Arthur understands; but Arthur does not know that Sam understands him, too, and Sam just doesn't know how to communicate that, which is sad.
+
The first time they meet Arthur, Eames' interest almost radiates off him like an odour. But he doesn't say anything. All he says, to himself and not even to Sam, is, “He's gorgeous,” like this observation surprises him.
Sam knows Eames better than anyone, even better than Yusuf, and at this point in time he's spent long enough with Eames to know that he's very lonely. All the same, he doesn't understand at first why Eames keeps insisting that they wake at the crack of dawn. Not until Arthur keeps appearing, and keeps appearing.
Arthur jogs. Eames doesn't jog with Sam. It looks like fun. Sam wants to jog, too, and Arthur begins taking him.
Before long the routine goes like this: Eames smokes on the porch and Sam dozes at his feet until he hears Arthur's distinctive footsteps on the sidewalk. Then, he runs down the front path and through the open gate that stands between the tall hedges, trailing his leash, and he skids onto the sidewalk in front of Arthur, who will stop, and sigh, and hesitate, and finally stoop down and pick up the end of Sam's leash and jog off again.
“Only because you'll follow me either way, and there are leash laws,” he mutters.
Arthur's ears aren't sensitive enough to hear Eames' chuckle on the porch, but Sam's are.
They jog and it's so much fun. Even when Arthur says something to him like, “I don't even like dogs,” like it's important to him that Sam know this. Or he'll slow to a walk and look down at Sam and say, critically, with his face pinched, “You look like a sea lion.”
Sam thinks it is much better to look like a sea lion than to be called stupid-looking.
+
The winds are blowing in a new direction when Arthur finally starts invading their territory instead of the other way around, and this is why:
While courting Arthur, Eames had been bold and confident. But now, with the elusive Arthur in his grasp, he's slowing down, backing off as if Arthur is showing his teeth, even though he isn't. Even though Arthur is receptive to his advances and doesn't make a move to deter him, Eames acts as though he is.
“I'm going to ruin this, aren't I?” Eames says to Sam. And Sam lifts his eyebrows and tilts his head and tries to glean the meaning of that defeated, uncertain tone in his voice. He has Arthur; isn't that what they wanted?
Arthur is precise. He brings order to their home. Eames doesn't drink nearly as much now that Arthur's around and Sam is glad for that. He makes Eames stop smoking and Sam is especially glad for that because cigarette smoke prickles his nostrils. Arthur throws out their matches and lighters. Later, Eames doesn't know what to light their candles with. This is not significant to him.
As long as Arthur leaves Sam's crate alone (because it's his crate and nobody else's), Sam is okay, and even if Arthur wanted to reorganize the crate Sam would not complain, because he likes having Arthur in his house. He likes following Arthur and sleeping underneath his chair at the kitchen table while he and Eames eat. But he doesn't know how to handle Eames' changing attitude. It makes his hackles itch. It makes him want to get in between them, and sometimes he does; it makes him want to snap at Arthur, which he doesn't, because he loves Arthur.
So he's confused. Eames should be happy; he has an Arthur. Arthur is happy -- he's got Eames. Sam is happy because he has both of them, his two best friends in the world, and yet, and yet. Eames' behaviour clashes with their good moods.
Sam would probably have figured it out sooner if he had any testicles to speak of, and therefore a sex drive. But he doesn't, so it takes him a little longer to pick up on the signals Arthur is putting out. Arthur wants Eames. Arthur is like a bitch in heat; he wants Eames to get him done, he wants that so badly. And the more receptive he is, the more afraid Eames gets.
“What if him and I don't mean anything afterward?” Eames mumbles to himself at night when Arthur has gone, cradling Sam's head in his lap. “What if that's all he wants? I don't know men, Sammy. I don't know.”
And all Sam can do is lift his eyebrows and tilt his head and try to understand, because he's only a dog and he just doesn't.
+
One night he has an exhausting ordeal and when he wakes up, Arthur is in Eames' bed.
Now they're all happy.
Some nights Arthur stays over and Sam's crate door is open and he's allowed to sleep on the floor next to Eames, and they don't keep him up. But lots of nights, Eames shuts Sam in the crate and goes to bed with Arthur. It's not like his other trysts, fast and and bitter and all those other sour-smelling emotions. With Arthur he lingers, and they stay together for a long time, and in between the sounds they make, from his crate Sam can hear the words they murmur to each other and the soft laughter they share. Like they're playing, not just coupling. He realizes that Eames' fears were unfounded all along: this act doesn't make them less. It makes them more.
Now they're happy.
Except.
Except Arthur has a secret.
+
Eames doesn't see it.
He isn't home when Arthur fetches a chair and Sam wakes up and follows him groggily to the hall, where Arthur stands on top of the chair and prods at the round white box affixed to the top of the wall. It screeches out a shrill, blaring tone that makes Sam flatten his ears and whine. Arthur makes the round box stop shrieking and then he just looks at Sam like he knows he's done something wrong.
And then he proceeds to visit all the round white boxes in the house and he makes them all screech, and all he says to Sam is, “Don't tell him.”
Eames did this one time, when they first moved in; he'd gone to each of the alarms and made them screech, and when Sam whined he'd said, “Sorry, little mate. Just checking the batteries.”
Which would be okay, except that sometimes, Arthur checks them six days in a row.
There are three alarms in the house and when he's done, he drops into the chair and holds his head in his hands; and when Sam tries to nose him, all he says, quietly, is, “Don't tell him.”
+
It invades their lives slowly, more and more.
Sam understands. He understands how it feels to be Arthur when these dark thoughts descend on him. Like being shut in a glass box, isolated from the world, forced to look out, unable to communicate anything. This is how a dog feels. When Arthur gets upset because Eames doesn't understand why it's so wrong that he set the alarm clock for 5:00 instead of 4:57 exactly, Sam feels his frustration clearly, can smell his anxiety. It's the same way Sam feels when he senses a thunderstorm coming on, and Eames just doesn't understand why this is terrifying.
It's not Eames' fault. He isn't as connected to his basest, primal fears. Sam's fears, Arthur's fears, rattle down through older generations from an ancient, dark place, where thunderstorms are frightening and fire is a very real threat.
Sometimes Arthur is okay and the world is a bright and happy place. Sometimes he doesn't mind when Eames lights candles to “set the mood” (what the mood is, Sam doesn't know). But other days, when the darkness comes, he is snappish and irritable. On those days, when something is not exact, or familiar, Sam can sense him crumbling inside, and this, too, is familiar to Sam. What is a dog when he doesn't have structure? A dog needs structure more than anything, and so does Arthur. But unlike Sam, he does not pace, or whine; he has to correct this imbalance in the universe with an act seemingly entirely unrelated. His morning routine is off by two minutes: he has to reorder everything in multiples of three.
“I know you think I'm crazy,” he says to Sam on one of these dark days. He's sitting on the couch and, appropriately, the lights aren't on. Eames is still at work. Sam rests his chin on Arthur's knee gently, trying to communicate a kinship with him. “I'm not scared. I'm not scared of fire or anything. It's not that. That's why I can't tell him, because he wouldn't get it. It's like ...” And he lays a hand on Sam's head, a heavy, exhausted hand, as if he's not conscious that he's doing it. Like he's talking in his sleep, not to Sam, but to the idea of somebody who cares.
“You know what I'm most afraid of?” he asks rhetorically. “Being straight, and having to tell Eames this has been a sham all along and we have to break up so I can go be in a relationship with a woman. And that's so stupid, because I'm not straight, and I don't even like sex with women, and it still scares me. But if I think about it, if I even let that thought into my head, the only way to make it untrue is to do this ... this stupid, irrational stuff. And I think about the house burning down, and I know it won't, but if I don't double-check everything ...”
He looks straight down at Sam.
“That's how that works,” he says. “Obsessions and compulsions. And nobody in the world gets it.”
Sam folds back his ears and tries to look expressive, trying his hardest to channel to Arthur, I hear you.
“So that's that,” Arthur says finally, flatly, slumping back against the couch. “That's why I can't tell him. Either I'm a crazy person, or I'm a person who has to take drugs to stay sane and still has panic attacks anyway. And I can't do that in front of him, so I'll just be crazy, on my own time. Eames deserves a normal boyfriend.”
If Eames wanted normal, Sam wants to say, he would have picked a dog who wasn't whimpering and weird-looking. He would have abandoned Sam the first time Sam left a puddle under the kitchen table or the first time there was a thunderstorm and Sam destroyed a couch cushion in a frothing panic. If he wanted normal, Sam wants to shout, he wouldn't be Eames, and you wouldn't want him either!
But he's a dog, so he doesn't say anything. And when Eames comes home, any trace of Arthur's darkness has been carefully tucked away, and he smiles easily when Eames kisses him.
He never shows it on the outside. Like a dog, Arthur is stoic, masking his illness to put on a strong front. Even though he lets Eames roll him onto his back and mouth at his throat, Sam has no illusions: the stronger of the two is Arthur.
+
Anxiety radiates from Arthur like the smell of charged ions when Eames cooks on the stove. But Eames doesn't have Sam's sensitive nose. So it isn't telling, it's not even worth noticing at first, not until they're watching some movie one night, and Sam is trying more to doze at their feet than to pay attention to the flickering pictures on the TV screen. But it's difficult, because Arthur is getting up every so often, and Sam has to follow him to the kitchen just so that he knows where Arthur is. Then he tries to settle down, but soon Arthur goes back to the couch, so Sam has to get up again, and this keeps happening.
“Have a lot to drink or something?” Eames inquires. Arthur is back on the couch at his side. Sam flops once more at their feet and immediately closes his eyes to go back to sleep.
“No,” Arthur says.
“Upset stomach?”
“No!”
“Alright, just asking.”
Sam is almost asleep when Arthur gets up again. Heaving a huge sigh, Sam gets to his feet, stretches, and plods faithfully after him.
The movie is still playing, so Sam doesn't expect Eames to follow them. He's trying to doze now on the cool tiles, and Arthur is hovering over the stove, and Sam opens his eyes and Eames is there.
“What're you doing?”
Arthur leaps back.
“Looking for something to eat,” he says guardedly.
Eames's tone is cautious, gentle. He knows he doesn't get it. “If there wasn't anything five trips ago, there probably isn't anything now.”
Arthur folds his arms over his chest, an aggressive stance. Eames mirrors him, quietly asserting himself, and after a few moments, Arthur lets his hands drop to his sides.
“I was checking the stove. To make sure you ... you turned it off.”
“Six times?”
“Yes.” Sam can sense Arthur bristling, slightly. “The majority of house fires start in the kitchen and stoves are behind most of those. It could have a bad burner or bad wiring or a cut cord. If you left it on and it malfunctioned, or if too much grease got under the top, or if there was a short in the wires, or if a fire started inside the oven -- don't laugh!” he snaps, his hands curling into fists, even though Eames isn't laughing.
“I'm not,” Eames says, but he is smiling. “I'm glad you're taking the safety of my home so seriously.”
“Don't make fun of me -- I already know how stupid it sounds, okay?”
“It doesn't sound stupid at all,” Eames says. Even Sam knows that he's lying. “But I'm pretty sure we're safe for the night, so why don't you just sit down and enjoy the movie with me? Look, Sam's slogging back and forth with you, and he's trying to sleep ...”
And suddenly the world is a dark place.
Nobody says anything for a moment. Sam looks from one to the other, the ridges of his eyes raised worriedly. Arthur is stiff. Eames obviously knows he's done something wrong, but doesn't know what it is or how to fix it.
Finally Arthur yanks a chair out from under the kitchen table, almost hitting Sam's outstretched hind leg, and drops into it.
“Fine,” he says. “I'll stay here. If I'm so disruptive.”
“Arthur,” says Eames. “That's not what I meant. I'm sorry.”
“I know what you meant. Sorry for disturbing your damn dog.”
Sam knows the malice in Arthur's voice isn't directed at him, but he feels the air crackling with tension all the same. He flattens his ears and wrinkles his forehead, trying to be unobtrusive, but he's concerned.
“Please come and watch the movie,” says Eames.
They're missing a car chase, Sam can hear the sound effects from here.
“I don't want to,” says Arthur.
Sam wants to say, I'll watch the stove. He doesn't even know why it's important. The tension in the room is opressive and cloying, like the air before a thunderstorm. Eames hovers, helpless. Sam wants to say to him, It's not your fault.
But nobody hears him.
And then he sees it. Arthur crumbles. He crumbles like the weight of the tension is crushing him to the floor, but he catches himself just in time.
“I should go home,” he says.
“Stay.”
“It's getting late.”
There's at least an hour till bedtime. Even Sam knows that. But this time Eames does the right thing. He stops arguing. Arthur lets Eames pull him to his feet, and kiss him, and hold him for a moment. Sam can see his will faltering and that's frightening, because Arthur is normally so rock-solid. He wants to tell Arthur that thunderstorms pass. That's what Eames tells him. Sam wishes he would say it now.
He doesn't. He lets Arthur go home. He checks on the stove before he goes to bed, like he just can't figure out what's so scary about it. Sam doesn't know; he doesn't know either.
+
Sam wakes up one night and knows immediately that everything is wrong. But it's not Arthur's darkness this time. It's his own demon who's descended upon him once more.
Wildly, Sam tries to lurch out of his crate. The door is closed. Arthur is over. He batters at the door. He whines. He barks. He chews at the wire mesh until his gums bleed and then he cries aloud some more.
A lamp flicks on and there's Arthur, yanking on a robe, scowling, “Fuck, Sam!”
He stoops down and Eames, in the bed, grunts sleepily, “Don't let him--”
Arthur pops the door open. Sam shoots out under his arm and races out of the room.
“... out,” Eames finishes behind him in a sigh.
It's the demon who compels Sam to run to the bathtub. Instinct tells him he'll be safe in here. But he doesn't feel safe, the disaster is still impending, and he cries, his nails clattering on the porcelain. He cries because he doesn't know what else to do. Arthur appears in the doorway.
“Goddamnit, Sam,” he says angrily. “I have a meeting in the morning--”
“There's a storm coming,” Eames says, yawning, behind him. “He'll settle down once it's passed ...”
Arthur curses. Sam hears him stomp off to the kitchen. When he returns, he enters the bathroom and turns the light on. He kneels down and holds out a hand.
“Have a treat,” he says.
Sam doesn't look at it or even register that there's a pill in his hand until Eames is there, knocking Arthur's hand away. The pill skitters across the floor of the bathtub and comes to rest next to the drain.
“Don't give him that!”
“Eames,” Arthur says, frustrated. “The vet said to give him one next time he starts doing this.”
“And dope him up until he's not even a dog anymore?” Eames snaps. “No, thank you.”
Sam whimpers, long rising, quavering notes building up to a howl. He's drooling and can't seem to stop. Next to the bathtub, Arthur is staring at Eames like he's seeing him for the first time.
“He's fine,” Eames says. “I just have to teach him there's nothing to be afraid of. Coddling him like this won't help.”
“And how long have you been trying to teach him?”
Eames doesn't say anything. Arthur gets to his feet and the pressure in the room changes abruptly. Eames is no longer the alpha here. He knows it, too, because he folds his arms, attempting to assert himself.
“I don't want to drug my dog, Arthur,” he says.
“Your dog has something wrong with his brain,” says Arthur. Not angry anymore, but measured and forceful. “Faulty wiring, whatever. For whatever reason, something in his brain is telling him that thunder is the end of the world. And maybe he knows it isn't, maybe he realizes nothing's ever happened all the other times there's been a storm, and he knows he's being irrational, but he can't help it, Eames. You're never going to teach him, because he doesn't get it, either. The only thing you can do is switch off that part of his brain and give him some goddamn peace. Look at your dog.”
Eames does. He looks down at Sam who is still crying, shedding loose hair, drooling blood-tinged saliva, clattering around in tight circles in the bathtub like he can somehow make this the safe place he wants it to be.
“Now take care of him, for God's sake,” Arthur orders.
Eames curses softly. Then he kneels down and picks up the pill. He grabs Sam's snout on his next turn, pops open his jaws and flicks it to the back of his throat. Sam gulps, too startled to be offended.
Eames gets up and leaves because he doesn't like to see Sam when he's drugged. But Arthur stays. He sits on the toilet and watches Sam circle in the tub and howl out his terror to the world. Before long his paws drag and he has to sit. Then he lies down.
Arthur sits on the edge of the tub. Sam gazes up at him with glazed eyes, chin on his paws. The lights flicker and thunder rumbles outside. Sam heaves a sigh through his nostrils. The demon slumbers, for now.
“See,” Arthur says quietly. He rests his hand on Sam's head. His thumb slides down to the crease behind Sam's ear, the same way Eames' does. “See? It's all just a lot of noise.”
And if his voice wavers a little bit, Sam doesn't say anything. Sam won't say anything at all.