InsaneJournal

Who: Arthur and Eames
Where: Arthur’s apartment
When: Shortly after this. (8th June)
What: Trying (and failing) to deal with Ariadne’s death
Rating: Sad. Sad. Saaaaaaaad. tears. Sad. Look at the icon! Sad.
Status: Closed/Complete



In the time between Glory deciding that she needed to mangle most of Eames’ bones and internal organs (since killing the woman he loved in front of him just wasn’t torture enough, apparently) and Claire working her healing blood magicks, Morpheus had kept an eye on the Forger’s mind while his body lay in the park, waiting for Sirius to find him. Much like the vague fever-dream that Eames only remembered bits and pieces of, Dream had kept him safe and mostly sane while he tried his best to go off the rails with grief. He had woke briefly when Claire had finished donating some of her blood and as ever, it had healed him completely, but he’d only just managed to blink at her and mutter that he felt fine before Morpheus had pulled him back down into a dream once more. The Lord of Dreams was beyond livid now that Eames was fully healed and capable of taking part in a small council of war, and he was looking to know every detail Eames now knew about Glory. So his grief was set aside and he did his job and then he woke up.

Eames woke in a different place than before, in clean clothes that weren’t ripped and torn and sodden with blood, and he blinked a few times before his tired brain recognised the room as Arthur’s.

Oh. Oh fuck, Arthur. Where was he? He had to find Arthur, he needed to find him, so he got to his feet, slightly bemused at how it didn’t hurt because his last coherent memory involved his thigh bones being snapped, and walked out of the room.

He had intended to go and find Arthur, he really had, but Ariadne’s door was slightly open. He went to close it but then he looked in and there she was. She looked like she was sleeping, if you ignored the bruising and the various injuries and the fact that the room was freezing and his breath was making clouds but Ariadne’s wasn’t and he had to leave the room or he’d drive himself mad, only his feet weren’t working and somehow he was walking into her room. He ended up kneeling on the floor beside her bed, and reached over to pick up her hand.

He’d dealt with dead bodies countless times, and never had a problem with them but the instant he touched her, his brain shrieked “WRONG!” Jerking back from the bed, he forced himself to catch a grip and picked up her hand once more. He reached over and brushed a few strands of hair from her face, then ran the backs of his fingers gently over her cheek

“Ariadne, love, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t... I should have... I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, oh fuck...”

Between the time that Sirius had arrived with Ariadne and Eames, Arthur had done his best to remain completely stoic. He barely blinked an eye at the sight of Ariadne’s body. He wore his normally cool and calm exterior like armor, because deep down, Arthur felt nothing but the need to cry out. Mal’s death had affected him, but nowhere near like this. He felt sick, and had been sick in the bathroom for about thirty minutes before Sirius arrived. All he could do was thank the man because he felt if he said much more, he’d unravel. So for the hour or so Sirius stayed, Arthur kept himself together, and refused to go to pieces. That would be saved for when the other left.

He knew he should have checked on Eames first, it probably would have grounded him a bit more if he had. Instead, he walked into Ariadne’s room. The lights had been shut off, so when he flicked them on, the illusion of her simply being asleep faded. The sight made his stomach lurch again. Ariadne had been beaten terribly and her pale skin showed off the bruises all the more. Taking the short steps from the door to the edge of her bed, Arthur carefully sat on the edge, making sure not to disturb her positioning.

He’d seen plenty of dead bodies, some of them being caused by his own hand, but he’d never seen this. This was horrific. The soft lines of Ariadne’s face were either peppered with cuts and bruises or swollen bits and it was all too much too soon. But Arthur held himself together for at least a minute before losing it. Her hand was so cold, so heavy. And he had to keep reminding himself it wasn’t her anymore. Arthur just wanted her to wake up. But not like this.

It took him a while to leave, but he made it to the kitchen and made himself some tea. He made it to pouring a cup before he couldn’t see through the tears anymore. His body shook and he couldn’t hold back again. He gave up on the tea and moved into the living room, looking out the window at the calm street beneath. It should have just been a normal day. But Arthur slunk himself to the floor, leaning his head against the sill under the window next to the couch. This was worse than anything he could have conceived going wrong. The worries he’d had before with Eames back years ago were completely overshadowed by this situation. Arthur had always had a plan, was always prepared. He wasn’t the type to let his guard down and it was hard enough to have let the two of them in. It had all been taken away so quickly.

Eames spent a few minutes in with Ariadne, although he’d fallen silent after about thirty seconds or so. Eventually, he realised that the flat wasn’t nearly as quiet as he’d first thought. There was a very faint sound of someone sniffling, and it took him a moment to work out what it was, or who it was, rather. He put Ariadne’s hand back down on the bed, leant over and kissed her forehead, and then got up and left the room.

He paused in the doorway, listening to the sound and placing it in the room, and then walked quickly over to where it was coming from. Arthur was curled up between the couch and the wall, so Eames sat down beside him and leant in against his side. “I... Arthur, I...” he said, trying to apologise or something, he really wasn’t sure, but his voice broke slightly as he said Arthur’s name so he trailed off.

Arthur didn’t say anything, he knew all that would come out was more sobbing or wheezing. He was doing enough of that already. Instead, he reached over, taking Eames’ hand and gripping it tightly, fingers lacing with his. He’d always wondered what it would feel like to lose someone close to him (given he’d lost Mal), but he never imagined something like this. He choked out a, “I should have been there,” before he finally turned to look at Eames, “There’s..”

His chest shuddered as he took in another breath, trying to calm his voice, “There’s nothing to be sorry about. You’re lucky you’re not dead either.” The very thought caused Arthur’s body to tighten up and he quickly quieted himself, moving to rest his head on the sill again. A part of him wanted the pain to numb him up quicker then this.

“You should not have been there, or we’d all three of us be dead right now,” Eames snapped. If he looked at what had happened objectively, like when he’d been discussing things with Morpheus, he could see that nothing was his fault and that there could only ever have been two possible outcomes: either he would have died as well as Ariadne, or - as was the case - someone would find them and be able to carry out sufficient first aid to keep him alive until he’d been seen by someone at the clinic or Claire. As he’d pointed out to the Boss, he wasn’t in the habit of carrying god-slaying weapons around in his pocket, although he’d know for next time.

If he looked at it like a normal person, though, it was entirely his fault and he should have known some way of killing that bitch before she’d even got her hands on Ariadne. He should have stopped her. Somehow. But he couldn’t and now Ariadne was dead and he’d almost died and it was all because he hadn’t been able to kill Glory.

It was only when he realised that his hands were shaking despite Arthur clinging to one of them that he noticed he’d been muttering his thoughts out loud. He’d paused to see how bad the shaking was, and then wondered why the room suddenly went quiet before he worked it out. He glanced round at Arthur, who had gone ridiculously tense, and spent a long moment just looking at the other man because he didn’t know what else to say. Arthur didn’t want apologies, and Eames couldn’t think of anything else to give him.

Arthur knew what he needed, and that it would only be a temporary solution, but if it could dull the pain, he’d be more then willing to have at it. Straightening himself into a sitting position, Arthur wiped away the tears staining his cheeks and leaned over to kiss Eames, if only for a moment. And then he was up on his feet.

He was already listing off things in his head, what he’d need to do. Explosives, map routing, he could get Eames to scout ahead, Aria-

Arthur stopped dead in his tracks and his arm lashed out to grab at the island counter, steadying himself while his stomach lurched. It was a long shot, but he’d really hoped he could just...forget about the present by doing what he did best. It wasn’t working, but he knew this still needed to be done. So swallowing heavily, Arthur continued to make his way into the kitchen, determined to finish making his tea, the one he got Ariadne, before he started to lose it again.

Eames had tried to stop thinking when Arthur kissed him, tried to lose himself even if it was only for a moment, but then Arthur was pulling back and on his feet and in the kitchen before Eames could even react. He sat where he was, looking in Arthur’s general direction, and chewed at a rag-nail on his thumb.

Arthur was clearly hiding in his professional persona, and that was fine. More than fine, it made perfect sense. He’d already done so while talking with Morpheus, and he’d be doing it again when he left the flat and spoke to anyone who wasn’t Arthur. But right now, at this point in time, all he could think was that Ariadne was dead and Arthur had shut down and walked away. It didn’t matter that he knew, he knew Ariadne would be back, since everyone came back, didn’t they? And he knew that this was how Arthur coped with the big scary things in life, and it wasn’t any sort of reflection on Eames himself. He was only in the kitchen, for fuck’s sake, it wasn’t like he’d left or been sent home again. He was being stupid, that was all, and he couldn’t think through the pain that all of Sirius’ magic and all of Claire’s blood couldn’t even begin to touch.

He reached up to wipe at his eyes without even thinking about it. His hands were shaking even more than before, and they came away from his cheeks absolutely sodden, which confused him until he tried to breathe in and he made some horrible hitching sound deep in his throat and oh, right. He was crying and he could not stop.

The sound wasn’t one that Arthur had really heard before. He remembered being at Mal’s funeral, maybe himself shedding a few tears, but he couldn’t ever remember a time that he’d heard Eames cry. It brought all the things that Arthur didn’t want to know or deal with right now back into perspective and he wouldn’t ignore this. He set the tea he was getting ready to drink back on the counter and headed back to Eames. Arthur would deal with his emotions on his own time, Eames needed him for now.

Sitting back in the position he was previously in, he pulled Eames over, hooking a leg around his backside to hold him closer, “Eames.. It’s..” He would have liked to tell the Forger that things were alright, that things would be ok, but he refused to lie about something like that. He truly disliked false hope, and didn’t like the feeling as much as the next person. He didn’t know if Ariadne would come back; just because someone had returned before (namely, Eames), didn’t mean they would always come back, would they? He wouldn’t promise something he couldn’t guarantee. “Just let it out, okay..” Arthur pressed his nose to Eames’ temple while his arms hugged around him.

Eames huddled in close to Arthur, and let himself shatter into pieces for a while. He clung to the other man, forgetting to keep his many, many defences up and he cried until he felt hollow and wrung out. If he had tried to say anything, he couldn’t really remember, but chances were that he wouldn’t have made much sense anyway. As it was, he gradually came back to himself and discovered that he was slumped against Arthur, his face pressed in tight to the Point Man’s neck and one arm trapped between their bodies, slowly going numb from his circulation being cut off.

“Oh, Christ,” he murmured, trying to ignore the headache that was starting to kick in, then slowly pulled away and winced when he saw what a mess he’d made of Arthur’s clothes. He flexed his fist, trying to start the circulation in his arm once more, and hissing when the pins and needles kicked in. “I’m... I’m sorry, love. You didn’t need that.”

Arthur shook his head, reaching up to smooth back Eames’ hair, “We’ve got to hold each other up. We’re all we’ve got for now.” Leaning in, Arthur lifted Eames’ chin and kissed him lightly, letting their foreheads rest against one another. “You know I’d do anything for either of you. I love you two.”

Sighing, he rubbed a hand over Eames’ back and helped him to stand, “I’ve got some tea. I’ve got a few things I need to run over, but I’m going to need you to have my back over the next few days, okay?”

Eames nodded as he wiped his face with his tee-shirt, then dropped his head down so that his forehead was resting on Arthur’s shoulder. Wrapping his arm round the other man’s waist, he would have been content to stand there like that for a very long time, but he knew Arthur and he knew the man would soon need to be doing things. Possibly very violent things, at that. “I’ll always watch your six, darling, you know that,” he murmured, then turned his head very slightly to press a soft kiss against Arthur’s throat. “Tea sounds wonderful, though. Tea and painkillers,” he said as he stood up straight once again, and let Arthur lead him out to the kitchen.