tabi_essentially (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tabi_essentially) wrote2011-01-02 08:23 pm
tabi_essentially) wrote2011-01-02 08:23 pm
Keep Calm and Carry On
Summary: From this prompt: Arthur and Eames Cleaning each other's wounds after a fight. Picking out broken glass, washing scrapes etc. Tender but methodical, with an undercurrent of worry for each other. I ran it past anon OP if hard h/c would be a problem and OP said that would be fine, so. :)
Warning for a scene of an animal's corpse. I'm very sorry that it didn't occur to me to warn for this in the first place, and very sorry if it upset anyone.
** ** **
It's not that the job went tits-up, it didn't. The job went off perfectly, because they'd learned to work with each other almost flawlessly. They were both relatively sane, relatively stable, they both had their shit together, and they'd both resolved most of their issues that would interrupt a good job. The intel had been precise, and the forgery a cakewalk.
They knew they were going into fucking crazytown, and Arthur had gotten enough inside info on the different factions and strike-times that it should have been a quick, safe, in-and-out job. It should have gone off regardless of the fact that this was not, in fact, some drug-addled territory war in gangland, but rather something more like a mating between Deliverance and Blair Fucking Witch. Ten minutes to set up, fifteen under, fifteen to clean up and get out. Separate cars and then a nice quiet dinner on that place on 3rd and Kroitel, far enough outside of Batshit Town that they would be safe. Arthur had looked it up and even booked a reservation. Maybe a shag later if the mood struck. Simple.
So, no, the job went perfectly, if somewhat disturbingly. The mark's projections were all angels, cherubim, and deeper down, disturbing iconic imageries of bondage-orgies in churches. Just the kind of thing that Eames was rumored to be passing fond of, but in reality he couldn't care less. He had to forge a priest, which was a joke.
But still, it went well. They got what they came for.
It was just that someone set the building on fire while they were in it. You just couldn't plan for things like that.
Eames was in the dream when it happened, just finishing up the tail-end, when he smelled the smoke and felt the heat. He was lucid throughout and he knew exactly what was going on. It was the dead of fucking winter, even the house they were in was frigid-cold, or should have been, if it hadn't been burning down. The mark's projections thought it was doomsday or the Rapture, brimstone, lava from the sky, bodies melting like wax candles, chaos.
Arthur was awake in the next room over, watching the window over the street, and he should have come to wake him, unhook him, and rescue him.
He didn't. Eames considered that Arthur might already be dead (he knew that Arthur wouldn't leave him to die, given the choice,) and that he was next.
The dream-ground split in two beneath his feet, revealing a vivid vision of hell complete with tormented, naked figures in chains. Eames dove into it.
And then he was jumping up, dizzy and sick, pulling the cannula from his wrist and trying to see through the smoke.
He pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth, wiped his eyes. The mark was still under. Eames unhooked him clumsily, ripping the needle out, and kicked his chair over. The man came awake panicking, not even knowing where he was or what had happened to him. Eames pushed him to the door, the only viable escape. He didn't look back to see if he went or not. He did stop to grab the PASIV. Surviving would do them no good if they got caught.
Flames licked at the walls, devoured the curtains. The door to the room where Arthur was trapped was barred by a fallen beam.
Adrenaline pushed him, and he pulled his sleeves down over his hands and used all of his not inconsiderable strength to lift the beam out of the way. His sleeves singed. He felt the skin on his hands tighten and swell.
The door was already splintered from the other side, as if someone had tried to break it down. He kicked it open, but it didn't go all the way. Arthur's body was blocking it. Arthur could have gone out the window, probably, but he had instead spent his only escape time trying to get past the door and the fallen beam in order to come for him.
And still, Eames didn't panic when he turned him over and saw the soot lining his nose and mouth. He didn't panic as he lifted him and and then threw him out the opened window, into the bushes. Next went the PASIV. Eames vaulted out after, narrowly missing landing on top of Arthur, then he threw him over both shoulders, grabbed the PASIV, and ran.
He didn't panic when he heard gunfire, close to where he'd just left. The fire had likely been a random event, but they were still swimming through the heart of a psychotically violent area, and this was real life. The fire would call attention to their mark, and subsequently to them. He couldn't stop to check Arthur, not yet.
With Arthur over his shoulders, he ran to where he had parked the car. Experience told him that Arthur didn't have much time, minutes, if even that. Once in the clear, he was going to have to put Arthur down and breathe for him until he was doing it on his own again. It didn't occur to him that he would fail.
These were the items that Eames kept in the boot of his car every time he went on a job: His old Special Forces first-responder kit, because knives, bullets, burns and abrasions existed vividly outside of dreams. An EAD, oxygen tank and rebreathing mask - he'd seen hearts stop when dreamsharing first began. As far as he knew, he was the only dreamworker who came prepared for this. Ammo, rope, hooks, pliers, a switchblade, matches, torch, bottled water. He'd been surprised in the past by the places he'd woken up. A change of clothes, a toothbrush, and condoms. He worked with Arthur a lot lately.
The oxygen was in his stolen car, so the closer he was to it when he was able to put Arthur down, the better.
He ran down a ditch and through a tiny, icy stream under an overpass. Arthur had mapped all of this out previously and the car was on the other side of the bridge. Sirens wailed in the distance, and the rising smoke and light from the fire overtook the color of streetlights in the distance. The city loomed above this backwater town.
He didn't feel any panic, any sense of impending loss, and he was not driven by emotion. Arthur was his occasional rival, occasional ally (they both had to admit that they were better allies than rivals,) his occasional slap-and-tickle and shag, and Eames sometimes thought, yes, he probably even loved the silly bastard.
But currently, Arthur was none of those things. Currently, Arthur was just his brother-in-arms, the best oppo he'd ever had, whom he now had to pull out of the line of danger. It wasn't the first time he'd done something like this, and so, panic didn't drive him. Duty did.
Over his shoulders, Arthur started coughing and struggling. Eames registered this fact with cold logic. Not having to stop to breathe for him would save some time.
"It's me," he said, panting as he ran the rest of the way to the car. Arthur stopped struggling immediately, because knew scenarios like this, too. He just gripped Eames's belt and held on. There was no shame in being rescued by your comrade.
Eames carefully placed him on the concrete when he got to the car, went 'round the other side and pulled out his many bags of equipment. Arthur was coughing and rasping, doubled up, and probably gagging on his own burning throat.
"Hang on," Eames said, his voice steady. Everything was steady.
The only light he currently had was from a streetlight and the passing traffic from the bridge above them. Arthur had gotten to his feet and was retching next to the car, his hand braced against the door.
Eames unpacked the oxygen tank and then bodily lifted Arthur into the back seat, sitting him to face the door with his feet on the ground. Arthur struggled, confused and disoriented once more until Eames barked his name like an order. And then Arthur turned his bloodshot eyes to him and came to attention.
Eames kneeled in front of him and pressed the rebreather mask over his nose and mouth.
"All right?" he asked.
Arthur nodded, bleary.
"Keep breathing, tell me if you need to cough or puke."
Arthur did, shoving the mask away and leaning out to the side. Eames busied himself opening a bottle of water and wetting some paper towels. He braced Arthur back up and wiped his face, trying to clear the soot from his lips before fitting the mask over his face again. It did little to clean him up.
Eames was able to remain utterly blank until Arthur's hand, shaking badly, came up to grip his where it held the mask in place. And then he came apart a little, using his other hand to stroke Arthur's hair back as he thought, Almost lost you, god, almost lost you.
Arthur was trying to say something. Eames moved the mask for a second.
"...mark?" he croaked.
"Jesus, Arthur." He put he mask back in place. "Last I saw, he was alive and heading toward the door. Just be glad we got out." He didn't mention that he knew Arthur had stayed on to try to save him. For that matter, Arthur didn't, and probably wouldn't mention that Eames had carried him out of the building. There was no need to, because that was just duty.
Attempting to clean the soot and filth from Arthur's face, that was practical. Continuing to pet and stroke his hair, that was just human, giving comfort. Taking Arthur's hand and kissing his palm, thankful beyond measure - well all right, that was maybe because he loved the silly bastard.
"It was a short fire," Arthur said, muffled under the mask. "Few minutes at most. I'm okay."
"I think this was a random occurrence, just your run of the mill arsonist," Eames said, trying to keep talking so that Arthur wouldn't interrupt, would just keep breathing. "I don't think we got made. I got the PASIV."
"Good," Arthur said. He sounded like he'd swallowed glass.
"We're not going to get the tail-end of our money." They'd gotten a substantial advance, already ferreted away.
"Fuck it," Arthur rasped.
Gunshots rang out again, this time closer. Footsteps—many, and running their way—quickly followed.
Eames pressed his forehead against Arthur's and hoped that the oxygen would be enough for now, as he shut the valve on the tank. Firefights and oxygen tanks didn't mix.
"Keep calm and carry on, eh Arthur?" he said.
Above the mask, Arthur's bloodshot eyes smiled. He nodded.
"Let's go," Eames said, and threw the tank, the kits, and the PASIV in beside Arthur.
"Drive," Arthur ordered – or tried to, through the wreck that was his throat. He pulled his Glock, got all the way into the back, and slammed the door.
A group of three armed men ran under the bridge, their guns drawn. An SUV spun out to a halt behind them.
Eames got behind the wheel.
** ** ** **
Arthur's lungs burned and ached, and his eyesight was for shit, dry and blurry. He also knew enough not to shoot out the back window and risk a dangerous reverb and a round of glass to the face to further blind him.
As Eames peeled out, Arthur rolled down the side window. He felt nauseous and sick when the car turned, but only for a moment. Then the haze cleared from his mind. The body believes everything the brain tells it.
The SUV gave chase, and a gun in a black-gloved hand came out the passenger side window and opened fire on their car.
Fucking amateurs, Arthur thought, and snaked his entire upper body outside the open back window, so that he was perched on the bottom of it.
He fired twice and missed every target in the world.
Slithering back into the seat, he tried to tell Eames to drive straight and stop wobbling the car. But there was something wrong with Eames's hands on the steering wheel. He couldn't quite see what it was. He guessed he would have to deal with it later.
Another shot hit the side of the car.
"Arthur!" Eames yelled.
"I'm okay."
Arthur checked for oncoming obstructions (a street sign, a narrow tunnel, anything,) saw none, and climbed out the window again.
The wind tore at him. He couldn't see, couldn't take the deep, calming breath he needed to take before sniping, but he could get to that place in his head if he was quiet enough.
His next shot took out the front windshield of the SUV. He stayed perched on the window long enough to see it swerve into a ditch, and then he climbed back in.
He tapped Eames on the shoulder.
"Switch cars," he rasped. "Up ahead."
He'd parked one around here somewhere.
Eames pulled the car to the side and barely turned it off before they were both getting out. Arthur grabbed the PASIV and the oxygen tank, because he'd like to breathe some more later, thank you very much. Eames grabbed his survival kit and fitted it over his shoulders.
They set off walking at a decent pace. Arthur took Eames's hand and turned it palm up, where, under a streetlight, he saw the blistering of second degree burns.
"I'm all right," Eames said.
Arthur tried to answer, but doubled over coughing for a few seconds.
They kept moving.
They came to the car that Arthur had set aside for them. He had parked this one in the open garage of a boarded up shanty of a house, with a "FOR SALE" sign dwarfed by overgrown weeds. It was across the way from a two-storey house that seemed made up of concrete on the first floor, and broken windows on the second. A torn-up set of railroad tracks and sparse weeds separated the two houses.
They loaded their equipment into the trunk of the car.
"Let's stop a moment," Eames said. "Go inside, take a breather, piss. Some running water to wash your face, maybe, get that soot off of you."
They approached the entrance. The bones and fur of a dead cat hung on the door, a railroad spike through its center pegging it in place.
"Let's not," Arthur said.
They both looked toward the house across the way, looked at each other, and shrugged. Arthur really needed a minute to breathe.
** ** ** **
They trudged wearily toward the other house. It was bitter cold, they had left behind their coats, and Arthur's lungs burned with dryness. He definitely felt eyes on him; it made the back of his neck prickle.
"I don't think they were shooting at us specifically," Eames mused as he lit the way with his flashlight. "Or, they were, but they didn't know who we were. I think we are entirely incidental to this plot."
Arthur raised his eyebrows in silent consideration and then nodded in agreement. When they got to the torn up doorway of the warehouse, they both pulled their guns and took up positions on on either side of it.
Eames mouthed the words, One, two, three, and then they both swiveled around, guns aimed into the room, Eames holding the flashlight in his other hand.
A cat darted out from beneath a table and they both jumped. They glanced at each other, eyes wide. Arthur shook his head. Un-fucking-believable.
The place stank of mold, piss, and death. There was a light switch next to the door, and to Arthur's surprise, when he flicked it, the lights fluttered on. Florescent tubes cast a weak, flickering glow on a stained linoleum floor. A shredded rug lay skewed in the center of a trashed room, the filthy sofa torn to shreds. Rats, probably.
The place looked utterly abandoned, save for evidence of a shitty stoner hang out: fresh melted candles on the floor, a broken bong, and graffiti on the walls.
"Arthur," Eames said. He was looking closely at one graffito on the farthest wall, his gun still drawn. Arthur still couldn't see too well, so he came in a little closer.
It wasn't a tag, spray-painted in haste and illegible to all but the uninitiated. The image was of a crucified...well, whore of a man, was really the only word he could think of. A whore with an erect penis, in fishnet stockings, blood running down his thighs, and a crown of thorns on his head. A demon raped him from behind. The word "sin" was scrawled three times beneath it.
Arthur sneered at it and turned away. He didn't like looking at that kind of shit; in fact he would dearly love to put bullets into brains that thought like that.
There was a television set from the 80s or before in the corner; it even had an antenna and an old-model VCR hooked up to it. It was plugged in. Arthur watched with trepidation and interest as Eames turned it on and hit the "play" button on the VCR.
The image faded to life on the screen: a woman, naked on an altar, snakes writhing all over her as she twisted and screamed. A preacher above her, ordering demons to leave her body. The shots were shaky, grainy, amateur. This was no movie: this was the town they were in.
"What, seriously, is all this fuckery?" Eames asked, punching the button on the TV to shut it off. "I doubt the water here runs and if it did, I wouldn't put it on you. Let's go."
Arthur silently agreed, and they both turned to leave.
But the improvised explosive device that had just been tossed inside the door stopped him.
"Motherfuck," he managed, before grabbing Eames by the arm and pulling him up the stairs.
One of the wooden stairs gave out under Eames's boot, and his leg shot through it. When Arthur yanked him up, the wood scraped a deep cut into his calf. It bled like a bitch, immediately.
Once upstairs, Arthur shot out the windows to minimize the damage. Then he and Eames ran like hell and dived out.
He landed better than Eames, who twisted his ankle (Arthur actually saw it happen after he had tucked and rolled) and let out a yell. He glanced back up. The second floor had so much damn glass, and the first was so much fucking concrete.
He tackled Eames to the ground, got on top of him, and covered his own head with both hands.
The blast blew the walls and glass out of the house. A good deal of it lodged in his back, pinning his shirt to him.
"Come on, come on," he tried to urge Eames, getting off of him and grabbing at his arms.
He'd tackled Eames face-down, and when he flipped him over, he saw the very generous gash on his forehead from where he'd smacked into the ground. Eames looked like he couldn't bring Arthur into focus.
Arthur hauled him up, slung an arm around his waist, and ran back to the car.
A molotov cocktail landed way too close and burst into flames in front of them. Arthur dodged it and just about caught the silhouette of the motherfucker who'd thrown it, but didn't pursue. Incoming rounds had right of way.
He hated this bugshit crazy town and he was never taking another job like this again.
He pulled Eames to the car, threw him into the passenger side, and ran back around to get behind the wheel.
He couldn't see very well, he was winded and his chest and and throat hurt intensely, but Eames was probably already working on a concussion. He had to drive.
Arthur pulled out of the weed-covered drive and raced the car, swerving, down the road.
His little rented place was over an hour away.
** ** ** **
Eames leaned against the rail while Arthur opened the door. His head had stopped spinning, but he felt a little nauseous. Arthur allowed him to go in first and locked the door behind them. Then, quietly, Arthur went into the kitchenette.
The studio rental was small, close, made of dark wood, and there was no door to the bathroom, just a beaded curtain. Arthur had likely rented it for three months, but only planned to stay for a day. This was so much more practical than trying to get into a hotel looking the way they did – they'd learned this by experience.
Eames's head ached like an incredible bitch. He limped into the kitchenette where Arthur was filling a glass of water. His shirt was soaked in blood, and bits of glass and cement still clung to it. He'd deal with those later. Eames went to the freezer and found that Arthur had stocked it with frozen pizzas. Always thinking ahead, his Arthur. He popped one into the oven. He felt nauseous, but he would bet that Arthur was starving.
He went to Arthur and turned him around gently, by the shoulders.
"What," Arthur croaked.
Eames ripped off about five paper towels, ran them under the faucet, and finished what he'd wanted to do since he'd first found Arthur unconscious in the burning room. He meticulously cleaned the soot and ash from around his mouth and nose. He hated seeing it there; it just served to remind him that Arthur had nearly quit breathing for good. It didn't mean that he was fixing his rasping lungs or his burning throat, but at least he didn't have to look at the reminder anymore.
Arthur just closed his eyes and allowed him.
When he was done, Arthur grabbed some paper towels of his own, wet them under the faucet, and cleaned the blood from the wound on Eames's forehead. It stung and throbbed, he knew there was going to be a massive goose-egg there. Arthur then looked carefully, critically into each of his eyes.
"I'm all right," Eames said.
"Not dizzy?" Arthur's voice was a broken whisper.
"Ankle's worse."
"Ice," Arthur said.
"I'll get it set up. You strip that shirt off and get into the shower. I need to take a look at your back. Your shoulder is bleeding quite badly."
Arthur shrugged with the other shoulder, then took Eames's hand and turned his palm up again, looking at the burns there.
"I have burn cream in my kit," Eames said.
Arthur nodded. They looked at each other for just a moment. Arthur's vague smile, to anyone else, might have been inscrutable.
Then Arthur pushed away from the counter and made his way into the bathroom, stripping his shirt off as he went.
Eames hobbled around the small house, turning on every light he could find, and the television, with the evening news, to see if anything came up. He heard the water running from the bathroom, and Arthur's enforced silence. Grabbing his kit from beside the door where he'd left it, he laid it all out on the bed and pulled up two chairs. He put two ice packs into the freezer in the kitchenette, and rifled around under the sink until he found a bucket, which he filled with cold water and ice cubes.
He popped a pain-killer and unwrapped some gauze. He also unwrapped his suture kit, because he'd seen the gash the back or Arthur's shoulder and it didn't look likely to quit bleeding any time soon.
Arthur was quick in the shower, and came out in sweatpants, his shirt off. Eames was right about the wound. Arthur dripped blood all the way out.
"There goes your security," Eames said, indicating the blood on the floor.
"Shit," Arthur rasped.
"That's all right. We'll bleach it tomorrow."
"..need... help... shower?" Every other one of Arthur's words cut out, but Eames got the idea. Arthur was pointing to his ankle.
"I'll manage. Take a pain killer and go and sit down. I'll be a few minutes."
He grabbed some clothes and limped into the bathroom, where it dismayed him to see the amount of blood Arthur had left on the tiles. He'd hastily tried to wipe it up, but couldn't get all of it.
Eames ran the water and got into the shower. He washed just as quickly as Arthur, gently dabbing at the cut on his head. It was painful as hell with the burns on his palms, but he would have to just bloody well deal with them later. They were first and some second degree. The worst of it was a blister along the soft inner edge of his left palm. Wouldn't be jerking off any time soon, that was certain.
When he came out of the shower, Arthur was sat on a pile of towels in the center of the bed, bleeding onto them. A plate with two pizza crusts was beside him, his laptop, open in front of him. He was playing WordWhomp. The oxygen mask was strapped onto his face, the tank beside him hissing softly.
Eames smiled at him. "Baby wants to fuck?"
Arthur jerked his head up, supremely confused at first, and then he smiled and pulled the mask away for a second.
"I'll fuck anything that moves," he whispered. "Blue Velvet. Nice, Eames." He put the mask back in place, shut down his laptop, and scooted to the edge of the bed.
Arthur had already set up the bucket of ice on the floor next to the bed, but Eames moved it next to the chair he was going to sit in.
"Go on, Arthur," he said, indicating the second chair. "Let me see your back, all right?"
Arthur looked gloriously concerned and arched one eyebrow. After a moment, he shut the tank valve, ditched the mask and whispered, "You're going to stitch me with your burned hands, and a concussion? Jesus Christ."
"You're going to treat the burns first and help me get into the gloves. And then, yes, Arthur, I'm going to stitch you. I'm sorry. You're already short on oxygen, and if you keep losing blood, it's not going to go well. Did you take the pill I got for you?"
Arthur nodded.
"Then take a seat."
** ** ** **
Eames wouldn't let him bandage his hands until after he'd finished stitching him. Arthur frowned at him and tried to convey his annoyance, but really all he could do was sit there and bleed. Finally, he tugged the latex gloves over both of Eames's hands. He knew it had to hurt, and he winced in sympathy, because burns were a real bitch.
Then he shut up, turned around so that he was straddling the chair, and rested his good arm on the back of it.
Eames pulled his chair up close behind him, stuck his foot into the bucket of ice and shifted around for a comfortable position.
"Sorry about this, love," Eames said, as he used a towel to try to rinse the blood away from the back of Arthur's shoulder.
Arthur silently watched the evening news as Eames first used a pair of tweezers to coax stubborn pieces of glass from the rest of his back, the bits that had gone through his ruined shirt. The news was all about the fire and the explosion, but there was no mention of guns, no mention of disturbing religious imagery, hate crimes, or dead cats.
Arthur reached to the nightstand for his glass of water. It scalded going down, hurt worse than Eames plucking glass out of his back.
"Here," Eames said, reaching around and handing him the ice pack he'd put on his own head. "For your throat."
Silently, Arthur took it and pressed it to the front of his neck. It only helped a little.
Removing the glass took about twenty minutes, and Eames tipped the chunks and slivers into an ashtray on the bed. Arthur thought that Eames probably wanted a cigarette about now, but he wouldn't even dare, with so much smoke already in both their lungs.
"This one big gash here," Eames said, his voice clinical. "Looks like it'll take about four stitches. I'll be quick about it."
"Well don't be too quick," Arthur whispered.
"Quick but careful. I'm fairly good at this, or at least I used to be."
"I know you are."
He heard Eames opening packets, he heard the pull of suture and the snick of scissors, felt Eames's gloved hand on his shoulder. And then the pinprick of an analgesic needle, quick and easy. After a few seconds, Eames prodded the wound and there was no pain, only pressure.
"Won't be a moment," Eames said.
He was quick about it, a little clumsy with the pulling -- Arthur could feel it over the tingle of the analgesic--but that was hardly Eames's fault. His hands were probably throbbing with pain. Arthur knew that this scar would probably be jagged and twisted. He didn't much care about that aspect of it.
Five times, he felt the tug-tug-tug of Eames making knots in the suture, and heard the snick-snick of him cutting the ends off. It took about ten minutes, and then he was slathering sticky ointment onto his back and taping gauze over it.
"Bob's your uncle," Eames said, and patted Arthur carefully on the shoulder with the back of his hand. And then, very lightly, ran his latex-clad knuckles up his neck, to the back of his ear. Arthur shivered a little at the light touch.
Arthur turned back around in his chair, gently testing the limits of his arm's range of motion. It wasn't so bad, but maybe the pain killers were kicking in.
"Pull those stitches and I'll murder you," Eames said.
Arthur gave him a smirk, then carefully tugged the latex gloves off of him. Eames pressed his lips together and waited it out. Arthur reapplied the burn cream, and then set Eames's hand in his lap as he gauzed and bandaged first one, then the other. He was aware of Eames's eyes on him the entire time, like a totem, a constant reality check.
That done, Arthur went to his knees and lifted Eames's foot out of the bucket of ice. The ice had melted, and the cut on his leg had made the water bloody. The cut looked pretty clean and shallow; he decided against bandaging it.
The ankle looked a little worse. He'd feared that the ligaments might be torn, but it wasn't as bad as he'd thought. The outside of it was puffy and bruised.
Arthur snapped his fingers at Eames without looking up, and waved his hand in the direction of the kit on the bed. Wordlessly, Eames handed him a wrapping bandage.
"Let me know if it's too tight," Arthur said. He wrapped it firmly, looping under his foot, around the top, and a few inches above the joint. The bandage was self-adhesive, his favorite kind because he hated those little metal snaps that had a way of getting lost.
He patted Eames on the knee and sat back on his heels, looking up at him.
"Bed?" Eames suggested.
Arthur nodded in exhaustion.
** ** ** **
Eames lay on his back, his eyes closed, utterly bombed out. Arthur had propped pillows under his ankle. Arthur was lying on his belly beside him, which was the way Arthur usually slept anyway, with one arm wrapped under his pillow and the other running his thumb on the inside of Eames's wrist, the only place he could comfortably reach
Eames muttered to him, just thoughts about the job, and Arthur mostly answered in nods, grunts of assent or rough half-laughs. His voice was still shot.
"I really wanted the rest of that money," Eames said. "We completed the job."
Arthur shrugged beside him. "Happens."
"I know. It went well. Until we went on fire."
"Yeah. Got shot at."
"And blown up," Eames added.
Silence for a few minutes. Arthur shifted uncomfortably.
"Care for a tumble?" Eames asked.
Arthur snorted a laugh. "Not really. Wouldn't be able to breathe."
"Just as well. I'm not up for it and I hate to fall short of expectations."
"Mmm."
Eames rolled onto his side, tucking the pillows between his ankles, and facing Arthur. He stroked the back of his neck, his touch light. Checked the state of the bandages to make sure they were sticking. Gently pet his hair, which he could rarely resist.
"Quit," Arthur said, with no real intent. When he turned his head to face Eames, his eyes were closed but he was smiling. Eames didn't quit.
"Really thought for a minute that I'd lose you," he said.
Arthur cracked open an eye. "No you didn't. You had this."
"Perhaps."
"How's your head?"
Eames prodded it with his fingertips. "Been better. I'll live though."
"Mmm."
"I've always enjoyed reducing your adroit eloquence to grunts, Arthur, but this is not how I like to envision it."
"Hmm," Arthur laughed, and closed his eyes.
Eames resumed petting of his hair, which was a little longer than when he'd last worked with him, and drying into those stupid curls that he liked. Arthur exhaled long and soft, almost a sigh, and didn't seem to object so much after all.
"Good job out there today, Eames," he said.
"You too. Good show."
That was really all that needed to be said. There was no need for him to thank Arthur for taking shrapnel for him, or for Arthur to thank him for pulling him out of the fire.
This was just what allies did.
END
Warning for a scene of an animal's corpse. I'm very sorry that it didn't occur to me to warn for this in the first place, and very sorry if it upset anyone.
** ** **
It's not that the job went tits-up, it didn't. The job went off perfectly, because they'd learned to work with each other almost flawlessly. They were both relatively sane, relatively stable, they both had their shit together, and they'd both resolved most of their issues that would interrupt a good job. The intel had been precise, and the forgery a cakewalk.
They knew they were going into fucking crazytown, and Arthur had gotten enough inside info on the different factions and strike-times that it should have been a quick, safe, in-and-out job. It should have gone off regardless of the fact that this was not, in fact, some drug-addled territory war in gangland, but rather something more like a mating between Deliverance and Blair Fucking Witch. Ten minutes to set up, fifteen under, fifteen to clean up and get out. Separate cars and then a nice quiet dinner on that place on 3rd and Kroitel, far enough outside of Batshit Town that they would be safe. Arthur had looked it up and even booked a reservation. Maybe a shag later if the mood struck. Simple.
So, no, the job went perfectly, if somewhat disturbingly. The mark's projections were all angels, cherubim, and deeper down, disturbing iconic imageries of bondage-orgies in churches. Just the kind of thing that Eames was rumored to be passing fond of, but in reality he couldn't care less. He had to forge a priest, which was a joke.
But still, it went well. They got what they came for.
It was just that someone set the building on fire while they were in it. You just couldn't plan for things like that.
Eames was in the dream when it happened, just finishing up the tail-end, when he smelled the smoke and felt the heat. He was lucid throughout and he knew exactly what was going on. It was the dead of fucking winter, even the house they were in was frigid-cold, or should have been, if it hadn't been burning down. The mark's projections thought it was doomsday or the Rapture, brimstone, lava from the sky, bodies melting like wax candles, chaos.
Arthur was awake in the next room over, watching the window over the street, and he should have come to wake him, unhook him, and rescue him.
He didn't. Eames considered that Arthur might already be dead (he knew that Arthur wouldn't leave him to die, given the choice,) and that he was next.
The dream-ground split in two beneath his feet, revealing a vivid vision of hell complete with tormented, naked figures in chains. Eames dove into it.
And then he was jumping up, dizzy and sick, pulling the cannula from his wrist and trying to see through the smoke.
He pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth, wiped his eyes. The mark was still under. Eames unhooked him clumsily, ripping the needle out, and kicked his chair over. The man came awake panicking, not even knowing where he was or what had happened to him. Eames pushed him to the door, the only viable escape. He didn't look back to see if he went or not. He did stop to grab the PASIV. Surviving would do them no good if they got caught.
Flames licked at the walls, devoured the curtains. The door to the room where Arthur was trapped was barred by a fallen beam.
Adrenaline pushed him, and he pulled his sleeves down over his hands and used all of his not inconsiderable strength to lift the beam out of the way. His sleeves singed. He felt the skin on his hands tighten and swell.
The door was already splintered from the other side, as if someone had tried to break it down. He kicked it open, but it didn't go all the way. Arthur's body was blocking it. Arthur could have gone out the window, probably, but he had instead spent his only escape time trying to get past the door and the fallen beam in order to come for him.
And still, Eames didn't panic when he turned him over and saw the soot lining his nose and mouth. He didn't panic as he lifted him and and then threw him out the opened window, into the bushes. Next went the PASIV. Eames vaulted out after, narrowly missing landing on top of Arthur, then he threw him over both shoulders, grabbed the PASIV, and ran.
He didn't panic when he heard gunfire, close to where he'd just left. The fire had likely been a random event, but they were still swimming through the heart of a psychotically violent area, and this was real life. The fire would call attention to their mark, and subsequently to them. He couldn't stop to check Arthur, not yet.
With Arthur over his shoulders, he ran to where he had parked the car. Experience told him that Arthur didn't have much time, minutes, if even that. Once in the clear, he was going to have to put Arthur down and breathe for him until he was doing it on his own again. It didn't occur to him that he would fail.
These were the items that Eames kept in the boot of his car every time he went on a job: His old Special Forces first-responder kit, because knives, bullets, burns and abrasions existed vividly outside of dreams. An EAD, oxygen tank and rebreathing mask - he'd seen hearts stop when dreamsharing first began. As far as he knew, he was the only dreamworker who came prepared for this. Ammo, rope, hooks, pliers, a switchblade, matches, torch, bottled water. He'd been surprised in the past by the places he'd woken up. A change of clothes, a toothbrush, and condoms. He worked with Arthur a lot lately.
The oxygen was in his stolen car, so the closer he was to it when he was able to put Arthur down, the better.
He ran down a ditch and through a tiny, icy stream under an overpass. Arthur had mapped all of this out previously and the car was on the other side of the bridge. Sirens wailed in the distance, and the rising smoke and light from the fire overtook the color of streetlights in the distance. The city loomed above this backwater town.
He didn't feel any panic, any sense of impending loss, and he was not driven by emotion. Arthur was his occasional rival, occasional ally (they both had to admit that they were better allies than rivals,) his occasional slap-and-tickle and shag, and Eames sometimes thought, yes, he probably even loved the silly bastard.
But currently, Arthur was none of those things. Currently, Arthur was just his brother-in-arms, the best oppo he'd ever had, whom he now had to pull out of the line of danger. It wasn't the first time he'd done something like this, and so, panic didn't drive him. Duty did.
Over his shoulders, Arthur started coughing and struggling. Eames registered this fact with cold logic. Not having to stop to breathe for him would save some time.
"It's me," he said, panting as he ran the rest of the way to the car. Arthur stopped struggling immediately, because knew scenarios like this, too. He just gripped Eames's belt and held on. There was no shame in being rescued by your comrade.
Eames carefully placed him on the concrete when he got to the car, went 'round the other side and pulled out his many bags of equipment. Arthur was coughing and rasping, doubled up, and probably gagging on his own burning throat.
"Hang on," Eames said, his voice steady. Everything was steady.
The only light he currently had was from a streetlight and the passing traffic from the bridge above them. Arthur had gotten to his feet and was retching next to the car, his hand braced against the door.
Eames unpacked the oxygen tank and then bodily lifted Arthur into the back seat, sitting him to face the door with his feet on the ground. Arthur struggled, confused and disoriented once more until Eames barked his name like an order. And then Arthur turned his bloodshot eyes to him and came to attention.
Eames kneeled in front of him and pressed the rebreather mask over his nose and mouth.
"All right?" he asked.
Arthur nodded, bleary.
"Keep breathing, tell me if you need to cough or puke."
Arthur did, shoving the mask away and leaning out to the side. Eames busied himself opening a bottle of water and wetting some paper towels. He braced Arthur back up and wiped his face, trying to clear the soot from his lips before fitting the mask over his face again. It did little to clean him up.
Eames was able to remain utterly blank until Arthur's hand, shaking badly, came up to grip his where it held the mask in place. And then he came apart a little, using his other hand to stroke Arthur's hair back as he thought, Almost lost you, god, almost lost you.
Arthur was trying to say something. Eames moved the mask for a second.
"...mark?" he croaked.
"Jesus, Arthur." He put he mask back in place. "Last I saw, he was alive and heading toward the door. Just be glad we got out." He didn't mention that he knew Arthur had stayed on to try to save him. For that matter, Arthur didn't, and probably wouldn't mention that Eames had carried him out of the building. There was no need to, because that was just duty.
Attempting to clean the soot and filth from Arthur's face, that was practical. Continuing to pet and stroke his hair, that was just human, giving comfort. Taking Arthur's hand and kissing his palm, thankful beyond measure - well all right, that was maybe because he loved the silly bastard.
"It was a short fire," Arthur said, muffled under the mask. "Few minutes at most. I'm okay."
"I think this was a random occurrence, just your run of the mill arsonist," Eames said, trying to keep talking so that Arthur wouldn't interrupt, would just keep breathing. "I don't think we got made. I got the PASIV."
"Good," Arthur said. He sounded like he'd swallowed glass.
"We're not going to get the tail-end of our money." They'd gotten a substantial advance, already ferreted away.
"Fuck it," Arthur rasped.
Gunshots rang out again, this time closer. Footsteps—many, and running their way—quickly followed.
Eames pressed his forehead against Arthur's and hoped that the oxygen would be enough for now, as he shut the valve on the tank. Firefights and oxygen tanks didn't mix.
"Keep calm and carry on, eh Arthur?" he said.
Above the mask, Arthur's bloodshot eyes smiled. He nodded.
"Let's go," Eames said, and threw the tank, the kits, and the PASIV in beside Arthur.
"Drive," Arthur ordered – or tried to, through the wreck that was his throat. He pulled his Glock, got all the way into the back, and slammed the door.
A group of three armed men ran under the bridge, their guns drawn. An SUV spun out to a halt behind them.
Eames got behind the wheel.
** ** ** **
Arthur's lungs burned and ached, and his eyesight was for shit, dry and blurry. He also knew enough not to shoot out the back window and risk a dangerous reverb and a round of glass to the face to further blind him.
As Eames peeled out, Arthur rolled down the side window. He felt nauseous and sick when the car turned, but only for a moment. Then the haze cleared from his mind. The body believes everything the brain tells it.
The SUV gave chase, and a gun in a black-gloved hand came out the passenger side window and opened fire on their car.
Fucking amateurs, Arthur thought, and snaked his entire upper body outside the open back window, so that he was perched on the bottom of it.
He fired twice and missed every target in the world.
Slithering back into the seat, he tried to tell Eames to drive straight and stop wobbling the car. But there was something wrong with Eames's hands on the steering wheel. He couldn't quite see what it was. He guessed he would have to deal with it later.
Another shot hit the side of the car.
"Arthur!" Eames yelled.
"I'm okay."
Arthur checked for oncoming obstructions (a street sign, a narrow tunnel, anything,) saw none, and climbed out the window again.
The wind tore at him. He couldn't see, couldn't take the deep, calming breath he needed to take before sniping, but he could get to that place in his head if he was quiet enough.
His next shot took out the front windshield of the SUV. He stayed perched on the window long enough to see it swerve into a ditch, and then he climbed back in.
He tapped Eames on the shoulder.
"Switch cars," he rasped. "Up ahead."
He'd parked one around here somewhere.
Eames pulled the car to the side and barely turned it off before they were both getting out. Arthur grabbed the PASIV and the oxygen tank, because he'd like to breathe some more later, thank you very much. Eames grabbed his survival kit and fitted it over his shoulders.
They set off walking at a decent pace. Arthur took Eames's hand and turned it palm up, where, under a streetlight, he saw the blistering of second degree burns.
"I'm all right," Eames said.
Arthur tried to answer, but doubled over coughing for a few seconds.
They kept moving.
They came to the car that Arthur had set aside for them. He had parked this one in the open garage of a boarded up shanty of a house, with a "FOR SALE" sign dwarfed by overgrown weeds. It was across the way from a two-storey house that seemed made up of concrete on the first floor, and broken windows on the second. A torn-up set of railroad tracks and sparse weeds separated the two houses.
They loaded their equipment into the trunk of the car.
"Let's stop a moment," Eames said. "Go inside, take a breather, piss. Some running water to wash your face, maybe, get that soot off of you."
They approached the entrance. The bones and fur of a dead cat hung on the door, a railroad spike through its center pegging it in place.
"Let's not," Arthur said.
They both looked toward the house across the way, looked at each other, and shrugged. Arthur really needed a minute to breathe.
** ** ** **
They trudged wearily toward the other house. It was bitter cold, they had left behind their coats, and Arthur's lungs burned with dryness. He definitely felt eyes on him; it made the back of his neck prickle.
"I don't think they were shooting at us specifically," Eames mused as he lit the way with his flashlight. "Or, they were, but they didn't know who we were. I think we are entirely incidental to this plot."
Arthur raised his eyebrows in silent consideration and then nodded in agreement. When they got to the torn up doorway of the warehouse, they both pulled their guns and took up positions on on either side of it.
Eames mouthed the words, One, two, three, and then they both swiveled around, guns aimed into the room, Eames holding the flashlight in his other hand.
A cat darted out from beneath a table and they both jumped. They glanced at each other, eyes wide. Arthur shook his head. Un-fucking-believable.
The place stank of mold, piss, and death. There was a light switch next to the door, and to Arthur's surprise, when he flicked it, the lights fluttered on. Florescent tubes cast a weak, flickering glow on a stained linoleum floor. A shredded rug lay skewed in the center of a trashed room, the filthy sofa torn to shreds. Rats, probably.
The place looked utterly abandoned, save for evidence of a shitty stoner hang out: fresh melted candles on the floor, a broken bong, and graffiti on the walls.
"Arthur," Eames said. He was looking closely at one graffito on the farthest wall, his gun still drawn. Arthur still couldn't see too well, so he came in a little closer.
It wasn't a tag, spray-painted in haste and illegible to all but the uninitiated. The image was of a crucified...well, whore of a man, was really the only word he could think of. A whore with an erect penis, in fishnet stockings, blood running down his thighs, and a crown of thorns on his head. A demon raped him from behind. The word "sin" was scrawled three times beneath it.
Arthur sneered at it and turned away. He didn't like looking at that kind of shit; in fact he would dearly love to put bullets into brains that thought like that.
There was a television set from the 80s or before in the corner; it even had an antenna and an old-model VCR hooked up to it. It was plugged in. Arthur watched with trepidation and interest as Eames turned it on and hit the "play" button on the VCR.
The image faded to life on the screen: a woman, naked on an altar, snakes writhing all over her as she twisted and screamed. A preacher above her, ordering demons to leave her body. The shots were shaky, grainy, amateur. This was no movie: this was the town they were in.
"What, seriously, is all this fuckery?" Eames asked, punching the button on the TV to shut it off. "I doubt the water here runs and if it did, I wouldn't put it on you. Let's go."
Arthur silently agreed, and they both turned to leave.
But the improvised explosive device that had just been tossed inside the door stopped him.
"Motherfuck," he managed, before grabbing Eames by the arm and pulling him up the stairs.
One of the wooden stairs gave out under Eames's boot, and his leg shot through it. When Arthur yanked him up, the wood scraped a deep cut into his calf. It bled like a bitch, immediately.
Once upstairs, Arthur shot out the windows to minimize the damage. Then he and Eames ran like hell and dived out.
He landed better than Eames, who twisted his ankle (Arthur actually saw it happen after he had tucked and rolled) and let out a yell. He glanced back up. The second floor had so much damn glass, and the first was so much fucking concrete.
He tackled Eames to the ground, got on top of him, and covered his own head with both hands.
The blast blew the walls and glass out of the house. A good deal of it lodged in his back, pinning his shirt to him.
"Come on, come on," he tried to urge Eames, getting off of him and grabbing at his arms.
He'd tackled Eames face-down, and when he flipped him over, he saw the very generous gash on his forehead from where he'd smacked into the ground. Eames looked like he couldn't bring Arthur into focus.
Arthur hauled him up, slung an arm around his waist, and ran back to the car.
A molotov cocktail landed way too close and burst into flames in front of them. Arthur dodged it and just about caught the silhouette of the motherfucker who'd thrown it, but didn't pursue. Incoming rounds had right of way.
He hated this bugshit crazy town and he was never taking another job like this again.
He pulled Eames to the car, threw him into the passenger side, and ran back around to get behind the wheel.
He couldn't see very well, he was winded and his chest and and throat hurt intensely, but Eames was probably already working on a concussion. He had to drive.
Arthur pulled out of the weed-covered drive and raced the car, swerving, down the road.
His little rented place was over an hour away.
** ** ** **
Eames leaned against the rail while Arthur opened the door. His head had stopped spinning, but he felt a little nauseous. Arthur allowed him to go in first and locked the door behind them. Then, quietly, Arthur went into the kitchenette.
The studio rental was small, close, made of dark wood, and there was no door to the bathroom, just a beaded curtain. Arthur had likely rented it for three months, but only planned to stay for a day. This was so much more practical than trying to get into a hotel looking the way they did – they'd learned this by experience.
Eames's head ached like an incredible bitch. He limped into the kitchenette where Arthur was filling a glass of water. His shirt was soaked in blood, and bits of glass and cement still clung to it. He'd deal with those later. Eames went to the freezer and found that Arthur had stocked it with frozen pizzas. Always thinking ahead, his Arthur. He popped one into the oven. He felt nauseous, but he would bet that Arthur was starving.
He went to Arthur and turned him around gently, by the shoulders.
"What," Arthur croaked.
Eames ripped off about five paper towels, ran them under the faucet, and finished what he'd wanted to do since he'd first found Arthur unconscious in the burning room. He meticulously cleaned the soot and ash from around his mouth and nose. He hated seeing it there; it just served to remind him that Arthur had nearly quit breathing for good. It didn't mean that he was fixing his rasping lungs or his burning throat, but at least he didn't have to look at the reminder anymore.
Arthur just closed his eyes and allowed him.
When he was done, Arthur grabbed some paper towels of his own, wet them under the faucet, and cleaned the blood from the wound on Eames's forehead. It stung and throbbed, he knew there was going to be a massive goose-egg there. Arthur then looked carefully, critically into each of his eyes.
"I'm all right," Eames said.
"Not dizzy?" Arthur's voice was a broken whisper.
"Ankle's worse."
"Ice," Arthur said.
"I'll get it set up. You strip that shirt off and get into the shower. I need to take a look at your back. Your shoulder is bleeding quite badly."
Arthur shrugged with the other shoulder, then took Eames's hand and turned his palm up again, looking at the burns there.
"I have burn cream in my kit," Eames said.
Arthur nodded. They looked at each other for just a moment. Arthur's vague smile, to anyone else, might have been inscrutable.
Then Arthur pushed away from the counter and made his way into the bathroom, stripping his shirt off as he went.
Eames hobbled around the small house, turning on every light he could find, and the television, with the evening news, to see if anything came up. He heard the water running from the bathroom, and Arthur's enforced silence. Grabbing his kit from beside the door where he'd left it, he laid it all out on the bed and pulled up two chairs. He put two ice packs into the freezer in the kitchenette, and rifled around under the sink until he found a bucket, which he filled with cold water and ice cubes.
He popped a pain-killer and unwrapped some gauze. He also unwrapped his suture kit, because he'd seen the gash the back or Arthur's shoulder and it didn't look likely to quit bleeding any time soon.
Arthur was quick in the shower, and came out in sweatpants, his shirt off. Eames was right about the wound. Arthur dripped blood all the way out.
"There goes your security," Eames said, indicating the blood on the floor.
"Shit," Arthur rasped.
"That's all right. We'll bleach it tomorrow."
"..need... help... shower?" Every other one of Arthur's words cut out, but Eames got the idea. Arthur was pointing to his ankle.
"I'll manage. Take a pain killer and go and sit down. I'll be a few minutes."
He grabbed some clothes and limped into the bathroom, where it dismayed him to see the amount of blood Arthur had left on the tiles. He'd hastily tried to wipe it up, but couldn't get all of it.
Eames ran the water and got into the shower. He washed just as quickly as Arthur, gently dabbing at the cut on his head. It was painful as hell with the burns on his palms, but he would have to just bloody well deal with them later. They were first and some second degree. The worst of it was a blister along the soft inner edge of his left palm. Wouldn't be jerking off any time soon, that was certain.
When he came out of the shower, Arthur was sat on a pile of towels in the center of the bed, bleeding onto them. A plate with two pizza crusts was beside him, his laptop, open in front of him. He was playing WordWhomp. The oxygen mask was strapped onto his face, the tank beside him hissing softly.
Eames smiled at him. "Baby wants to fuck?"
Arthur jerked his head up, supremely confused at first, and then he smiled and pulled the mask away for a second.
"I'll fuck anything that moves," he whispered. "Blue Velvet. Nice, Eames." He put the mask back in place, shut down his laptop, and scooted to the edge of the bed.
Arthur had already set up the bucket of ice on the floor next to the bed, but Eames moved it next to the chair he was going to sit in.
"Go on, Arthur," he said, indicating the second chair. "Let me see your back, all right?"
Arthur looked gloriously concerned and arched one eyebrow. After a moment, he shut the tank valve, ditched the mask and whispered, "You're going to stitch me with your burned hands, and a concussion? Jesus Christ."
"You're going to treat the burns first and help me get into the gloves. And then, yes, Arthur, I'm going to stitch you. I'm sorry. You're already short on oxygen, and if you keep losing blood, it's not going to go well. Did you take the pill I got for you?"
Arthur nodded.
"Then take a seat."
** ** ** **
Eames wouldn't let him bandage his hands until after he'd finished stitching him. Arthur frowned at him and tried to convey his annoyance, but really all he could do was sit there and bleed. Finally, he tugged the latex gloves over both of Eames's hands. He knew it had to hurt, and he winced in sympathy, because burns were a real bitch.
Then he shut up, turned around so that he was straddling the chair, and rested his good arm on the back of it.
Eames pulled his chair up close behind him, stuck his foot into the bucket of ice and shifted around for a comfortable position.
"Sorry about this, love," Eames said, as he used a towel to try to rinse the blood away from the back of Arthur's shoulder.
Arthur silently watched the evening news as Eames first used a pair of tweezers to coax stubborn pieces of glass from the rest of his back, the bits that had gone through his ruined shirt. The news was all about the fire and the explosion, but there was no mention of guns, no mention of disturbing religious imagery, hate crimes, or dead cats.
Arthur reached to the nightstand for his glass of water. It scalded going down, hurt worse than Eames plucking glass out of his back.
"Here," Eames said, reaching around and handing him the ice pack he'd put on his own head. "For your throat."
Silently, Arthur took it and pressed it to the front of his neck. It only helped a little.
Removing the glass took about twenty minutes, and Eames tipped the chunks and slivers into an ashtray on the bed. Arthur thought that Eames probably wanted a cigarette about now, but he wouldn't even dare, with so much smoke already in both their lungs.
"This one big gash here," Eames said, his voice clinical. "Looks like it'll take about four stitches. I'll be quick about it."
"Well don't be too quick," Arthur whispered.
"Quick but careful. I'm fairly good at this, or at least I used to be."
"I know you are."
He heard Eames opening packets, he heard the pull of suture and the snick of scissors, felt Eames's gloved hand on his shoulder. And then the pinprick of an analgesic needle, quick and easy. After a few seconds, Eames prodded the wound and there was no pain, only pressure.
"Won't be a moment," Eames said.
He was quick about it, a little clumsy with the pulling -- Arthur could feel it over the tingle of the analgesic--but that was hardly Eames's fault. His hands were probably throbbing with pain. Arthur knew that this scar would probably be jagged and twisted. He didn't much care about that aspect of it.
Five times, he felt the tug-tug-tug of Eames making knots in the suture, and heard the snick-snick of him cutting the ends off. It took about ten minutes, and then he was slathering sticky ointment onto his back and taping gauze over it.
"Bob's your uncle," Eames said, and patted Arthur carefully on the shoulder with the back of his hand. And then, very lightly, ran his latex-clad knuckles up his neck, to the back of his ear. Arthur shivered a little at the light touch.
Arthur turned back around in his chair, gently testing the limits of his arm's range of motion. It wasn't so bad, but maybe the pain killers were kicking in.
"Pull those stitches and I'll murder you," Eames said.
Arthur gave him a smirk, then carefully tugged the latex gloves off of him. Eames pressed his lips together and waited it out. Arthur reapplied the burn cream, and then set Eames's hand in his lap as he gauzed and bandaged first one, then the other. He was aware of Eames's eyes on him the entire time, like a totem, a constant reality check.
That done, Arthur went to his knees and lifted Eames's foot out of the bucket of ice. The ice had melted, and the cut on his leg had made the water bloody. The cut looked pretty clean and shallow; he decided against bandaging it.
The ankle looked a little worse. He'd feared that the ligaments might be torn, but it wasn't as bad as he'd thought. The outside of it was puffy and bruised.
Arthur snapped his fingers at Eames without looking up, and waved his hand in the direction of the kit on the bed. Wordlessly, Eames handed him a wrapping bandage.
"Let me know if it's too tight," Arthur said. He wrapped it firmly, looping under his foot, around the top, and a few inches above the joint. The bandage was self-adhesive, his favorite kind because he hated those little metal snaps that had a way of getting lost.
He patted Eames on the knee and sat back on his heels, looking up at him.
"Bed?" Eames suggested.
Arthur nodded in exhaustion.
** ** ** **
Eames lay on his back, his eyes closed, utterly bombed out. Arthur had propped pillows under his ankle. Arthur was lying on his belly beside him, which was the way Arthur usually slept anyway, with one arm wrapped under his pillow and the other running his thumb on the inside of Eames's wrist, the only place he could comfortably reach
Eames muttered to him, just thoughts about the job, and Arthur mostly answered in nods, grunts of assent or rough half-laughs. His voice was still shot.
"I really wanted the rest of that money," Eames said. "We completed the job."
Arthur shrugged beside him. "Happens."
"I know. It went well. Until we went on fire."
"Yeah. Got shot at."
"And blown up," Eames added.
Silence for a few minutes. Arthur shifted uncomfortably.
"Care for a tumble?" Eames asked.
Arthur snorted a laugh. "Not really. Wouldn't be able to breathe."
"Just as well. I'm not up for it and I hate to fall short of expectations."
"Mmm."
Eames rolled onto his side, tucking the pillows between his ankles, and facing Arthur. He stroked the back of his neck, his touch light. Checked the state of the bandages to make sure they were sticking. Gently pet his hair, which he could rarely resist.
"Quit," Arthur said, with no real intent. When he turned his head to face Eames, his eyes were closed but he was smiling. Eames didn't quit.
"Really thought for a minute that I'd lose you," he said.
Arthur cracked open an eye. "No you didn't. You had this."
"Perhaps."
"How's your head?"
Eames prodded it with his fingertips. "Been better. I'll live though."
"Mmm."
"I've always enjoyed reducing your adroit eloquence to grunts, Arthur, but this is not how I like to envision it."
"Hmm," Arthur laughed, and closed his eyes.
Eames resumed petting of his hair, which was a little longer than when he'd last worked with him, and drying into those stupid curls that he liked. Arthur exhaled long and soft, almost a sigh, and didn't seem to object so much after all.
"Good job out there today, Eames," he said.
"You too. Good show."
That was really all that needed to be said. There was no need for him to thank Arthur for taking shrapnel for him, or for Arthur to thank him for pulling him out of the fire.
This was just what allies did.
END
no subject
I feel like the creepy house injuries were even worse than the fire injuries. You were really mean to them.
no subject
Thank you for reading and commenting, I'm glad you enjoyed it! ^_^