Not Fair [Fic]
Nov. 13th, 2010 01:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
frickinchengTitle: Not Fair
What:Saw this lovely picture and it just inspired this fic out of me.
Who: Arthur, Eames
Warnings: character death
Before, Eames always thought he'd end up dying in bed with someone. He'd be laughing as a spurred lover shot him, grinning like a fool, even as his blood spread out on the sheets. It was easy enough to imagine, and it was something that he'd wanted. Going out with a smile, laugh, and a general 'fuck you' to the world.
~*~
He wasn't laughing now. He was just hurting now. You'd think that getting shot over and over in the dreamscape would get him used to this, not to mention the couple of times he got shot above. Maybe those times were just different, dreams being dreams after all, and his real life wounds just being on the periphery of his body, shoulder, thigh. It was different from this agony, centered right in his belly, every breath, every movement pure, unadulterated agony.
He tried to thrash, to squirm away but the lean body against his prevented it, the whipcord arms around him, strength deceptive, holding him in place. Arthur. His lovely fierce darling, and he managed to peel his eyes open, and look up and back.
Arthur was crying. Crying and not even bothering to hide it, tears streaming from his dark eyes, and Arthur never cried, well, almost never cried. Only on that job where both their extractor and architect were killed, where they had had to run, and didn't stop running until they had crossed the border from Russia and into Georgia. And only then, when they were in a hotel that smelled like mothballs, when Arthur was so drunk on vodka that Eames felt tipsy just from his breath, only then had he cried, sobbing and shaking against his chest as the forger held him close, whispering useless words into mussed dark hair.
But Arthur was crying now, and Eames tried to murmur the same words, trying to hit on the same combination he had found in Georgia, but all he managed to do was mumble, just incoherent syllables tumbling off his numbing lips and tongue. He heard, felt Arthur sniff hard behind him, felt the tremble go though his body, and then there were fingers on his lips, and shaky shushing sounds.
Eames loved Arthur fingers. Calloused with work, long, slender digits of an intellectual, strong and dexterous. When he would be cooking in their kitchen, Arthur would always dip his finger in the sauce, batter or dish, trying to steal an early taste. Eames was always quicker though, leaning in to lick Arthur's finger clean, savoring the flavor of the food, of the clean taste of Arthur's skin, telling him that it wasn't ready that he'd have to be patient. Arthur would always laugh then, eyes crinkled, dimples flashing.
Arthur just tasted like blood now, just a harsh, metallic tang, nothing more, nothing less. He tried to struggle again, reaching up trying to ground himself in something, the touch of skin, anything, when he felt the pressure on his belly lessen, and those lovely long digits tighten around his grasping fingers.
Eames didn't understand how he could be this cold. The blood flowing out of him was burning hot, sticky wave after wave, spreading over his belly, and soaking into his shirt. He shuddered, violently, and tried to press closer to Arthur, trying to steal his warmth away.
Eames had always imagined dying with a laugh, but that was before he met Arthur. After they started fucking, after the pointman whispered 'I love you', breath hot and sticky in his ear, after fucking turned into making love, after waking up, to a sleepy tousled head each morning. After Eames finally whispered back 'I love you too'. After that, Eames didn't think about dying anymore, the concept just shoved neatly out of his mind, replaced with a rare laugh and long, elegant fingers.
This wasn't fair. He wasn't ready yet, hadn't been given enough time. He started struggling again, really just twitching weakly as he felt his strength flow out in flood after scarlet flood. He had to tell Arthur something, anything something to cling to. He forced his lips, tongue to move, trying to form the words, heart beating desperately in his chest. He only managed one word, not the paragraph, not the novel that he wanted, needed to tell Arthur.
"....Darling."
"....Go to sleep, Mr. Eames."
What:Saw this lovely picture and it just inspired this fic out of me.
Who: Arthur, Eames
Warnings: character death
Before, Eames always thought he'd end up dying in bed with someone. He'd be laughing as a spurred lover shot him, grinning like a fool, even as his blood spread out on the sheets. It was easy enough to imagine, and it was something that he'd wanted. Going out with a smile, laugh, and a general 'fuck you' to the world.
~*~
He wasn't laughing now. He was just hurting now. You'd think that getting shot over and over in the dreamscape would get him used to this, not to mention the couple of times he got shot above. Maybe those times were just different, dreams being dreams after all, and his real life wounds just being on the periphery of his body, shoulder, thigh. It was different from this agony, centered right in his belly, every breath, every movement pure, unadulterated agony.
He tried to thrash, to squirm away but the lean body against his prevented it, the whipcord arms around him, strength deceptive, holding him in place. Arthur. His lovely fierce darling, and he managed to peel his eyes open, and look up and back.
Arthur was crying. Crying and not even bothering to hide it, tears streaming from his dark eyes, and Arthur never cried, well, almost never cried. Only on that job where both their extractor and architect were killed, where they had had to run, and didn't stop running until they had crossed the border from Russia and into Georgia. And only then, when they were in a hotel that smelled like mothballs, when Arthur was so drunk on vodka that Eames felt tipsy just from his breath, only then had he cried, sobbing and shaking against his chest as the forger held him close, whispering useless words into mussed dark hair.
But Arthur was crying now, and Eames tried to murmur the same words, trying to hit on the same combination he had found in Georgia, but all he managed to do was mumble, just incoherent syllables tumbling off his numbing lips and tongue. He heard, felt Arthur sniff hard behind him, felt the tremble go though his body, and then there were fingers on his lips, and shaky shushing sounds.
Eames loved Arthur fingers. Calloused with work, long, slender digits of an intellectual, strong and dexterous. When he would be cooking in their kitchen, Arthur would always dip his finger in the sauce, batter or dish, trying to steal an early taste. Eames was always quicker though, leaning in to lick Arthur's finger clean, savoring the flavor of the food, of the clean taste of Arthur's skin, telling him that it wasn't ready that he'd have to be patient. Arthur would always laugh then, eyes crinkled, dimples flashing.
Arthur just tasted like blood now, just a harsh, metallic tang, nothing more, nothing less. He tried to struggle again, reaching up trying to ground himself in something, the touch of skin, anything, when he felt the pressure on his belly lessen, and those lovely long digits tighten around his grasping fingers.
Eames didn't understand how he could be this cold. The blood flowing out of him was burning hot, sticky wave after wave, spreading over his belly, and soaking into his shirt. He shuddered, violently, and tried to press closer to Arthur, trying to steal his warmth away.
Eames had always imagined dying with a laugh, but that was before he met Arthur. After they started fucking, after the pointman whispered 'I love you', breath hot and sticky in his ear, after fucking turned into making love, after waking up, to a sleepy tousled head each morning. After Eames finally whispered back 'I love you too'. After that, Eames didn't think about dying anymore, the concept just shoved neatly out of his mind, replaced with a rare laugh and long, elegant fingers.
This wasn't fair. He wasn't ready yet, hadn't been given enough time. He started struggling again, really just twitching weakly as he felt his strength flow out in flood after scarlet flood. He had to tell Arthur something, anything something to cling to. He forced his lips, tongue to move, trying to form the words, heart beating desperately in his chest. He only managed one word, not the paragraph, not the novel that he wanted, needed to tell Arthur.
"....Darling."
"....Go to sleep, Mr. Eames."
