InsaneJournal

Who: Arthur and Eames
Where: Warehouse District
When: Tuesday afternoonish
What: Eames finds Arthur.
Ratings: PG-13 for gross talk of injuries.



Eames wasn't frantic. He wasn't allowing himself to act like that, because his Arthur needed him, and if Eames panicked, then he might miss something and then he would never find the Point Man, and that just wasn't an option. Besides, Ariadne would have strung him up if he'd done something like that, and so he just kept on checking with contacts, drinking godawful caffeine drinks full of sugar and chemicals to keep from crashing, and looking, looking, looking everywhere and every hour, he sent Ariadne a text message. "I'm okay. Still looking. Love you."

Every so often, he'd go back to the warehouse district, on foot or in yet another stolen car, and drive around pretending to look for random shipping companies or storage firms in case anyone asked questions (there were more than enough legitimate businesses in the area for it to be a valid reason) and he would check everywhere he could get at. He'd lost count of the number of times he checked.

That was a lie. It was fourteen times, actually. Fourteen times, he'd driven round and seen nothing. On the fifteenth go round, he was so close to going home for a few hours sleep, and then he saw something that hadn't been there before. A warehouse belonging to a delivery company, it had a wide alleyway that ran up the side of it that had been full of lorries and vans the last time he'd looked. This time, most of the vans were gone, and there, sprawled in a heap against the far wall, was Arthur. Ignoring the signs that told him only company vehicles could be in that area, Eames drove his new car up and stopped a few metres from Arthur, and almost fell out of the car in his hurry to get to him.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

He landed on his knees - in a puddle, too, although he hardly noticed - in front of Arthur, and reached out to try and touch him, but there didn't seem to be any part of the younger man that wasn't covered in bruises or barely-healing scabs or injuries of some sort. There were shallow knife cuts all up and down Arthur's arms, and cigarette burns in the palms of his hands and in between his fingers. His wrist was red and swollen, the skin stretched tight over what had to be a broken bone. His trousers (the charcoal grey ones, Eames noted absently. His favourite pair of Arthur's trousers) were ripped and blood-stained in a number of places, including a huge tear along the left thigh - when Eames looked closer, the bruising was almost black and bigger than both his hands put together. His undershirt was in shreds, and it looked like Arthur's entire torso was covered in one giant bruise. His eyes had been blacked, his cheek was puffy and there was yet another horrific-looking bruise spreading out from under Arthur's hair-line. That would explain why Arthur was out cold, then.

Eames' fingers skimmed gently over the not-as-injured side of Arthur's face, and then he dug out his phone and sent some text messages, one to Ariadne and the rest to Sirius. He carefully moved Arthur into the recovery position, making sure that he avoided the puddle, and then checked his guns in case of unwanted visitors. "Hello? Can you hear me, love?" he asked quietly, running his fingers very gently through Arthur's blood-soaked hair. "Arthur? Arthur, wake up, please."