Safe Places
Aug. 29th, 2011 09:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eternalsojournThe final posting day for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
ae_match was yesterday, and damn but that snuck up on me fast. So this past weekend has been ca-razy amounts of writing: my drabble for ae_ldws and the last bit of Greater than Want, Deeper than Need (see next post). And, because I actually really like pressure (a lot of pressure), I decided to write another entry for the match at the 11th hour. Well, okay, more like the 10th hour. I think I wrote this with two hours left to go before the deadline.
ALSO! You guys, this match was fucking amazing. I can't believe how much was produced, and the quality still blows my mind. I'm so proud of both teams.
So anyway, here: have a bit of angst over at the original post or here below the cut. Don't worry; I managed to exceed my tolerance for relationship-based angst, so in this one Eames and Arthur find comfort in each other.
Prompt(s): Home
Word Count: ~850
Rating: PG (for references to death)
Warnings: (Canon) Character Death
Summary: The day of Mal’s funeral, Arthur heads home, finding that safe places aren’t places; they’re people.
A/N: A special thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
countrypixie1 who cheerleads, validates me, and whose suggestion it was to write the whole Eames section, which was, in retrospect, the missing piece in this little fic.
Arthur emerges into the cool evening air, drunkenness surprising him slightly. It hadn’t felt this bad while he was still sitting. Still, it’s not drunk enough; he can remember why he was there to begin with.
He can still hear her voice in his head. Still feels like he could just go over to their house, hear the kids playing, listen to Dom’s theories while Mal pours them all more wine and gently interjects her own additions. That kitchen, the sun streaming in the window from their yard.
Arthur wonders what possessed him to leave the pub already. He can’t bring himself to walk back in, though.
He walks towards his apartment, occasionally course correcting away from the curb, putting his hand out to avoid the lamp post. When he gets to the next corner, he stops walking. He pictures his apartment, mostly tidy but for the paperwork for the next job strewn across the desk. It’s his home, has been for the past four years, yet inexplicably, he hates it with a loathing that digs right down to his core.
He wanders, some bleary part of his brain thinking it perfectly rational to walk all night and into the morning. Maybe he’ll pass by a late night liquor store. And after that, a park bench somewhere. After all, that kitchen is no longer an option for comfort. Cobb’s soothing voice, his unshakeable calm, gone. Arthur muses that depression is simply having no place left to go that feels safe.
He sees the headline on the newspaper in the box; he has to squint to read it, swaying slightly. He doesn’t finish, doesn’t even care what worries the world right now, when his attention is drawn upwards to the bright lights of the hotel lobby beyond it. He’s not surprised.
He walks in and the doorman moves to intercept but Arthur stops him with a look. It probably wouldn’t have worked but the suit Arthur’s still wearing from the funeral lends him an air of respectability, despite the acrid scent of alcohol coming off him. He weaves his way to the front desk, the girl there giving him a soft, pitying look.
“I need the room for Ea— uh. Connor. Mr. James Connor.”
“Is he expecting you, sir?”
“No, but he’ll accept this visit, I assure you.” Arthur tries for lucid, and figures if he gets halfway there that’s a win.
It appears to be enough because she wavers for a moment, then leans forward and says, quietly, “Sixteen-oh-four. And I sincerely hope you’re right about him wanting to see you. I’d hate for him to complain to my boss.”
“He won’t.” Normally Arthur would flirt a little just to keep her sweet, but he hasn’t the heart for it. He makes his way to the elevator and takes an interminable amount of time to actually get to Eames’s door.
When he knocks, it takes only a moment for the footsteps to sound on the other side, accompanied by the low murmur of the tv. The door swings open.
The sight of Eames’s silhouette against the flickering light snips the last few strings holding him together and Arthur squeezes his eyes, unable to stop the tears or the silent sobs that wrack him. Eames gathers him up and holds him tight, burying his face in Arthur’s hair.
The door closes behind him.
----
The tv is bollocks. American shows have too many adverts, letting his thoughts intrude too often, for too long. Eames considers heading down to the hotel bar, but can’t be arsed.
He thinks about Mal, and it aches, but it aches more not to think about her. In a business that moves forward with dizzying speed, with every new technique discovered, the latest trick pounced on and exploited, Mal brought a sense of family to this ragtag, motley crowd. Amid professors, architects and other morally flexible but otherwise respectable figures, Eames often had the distinct impression that he was in interloper. A thief, a con man had value, but his ideas didn’t always hold the same weight. Mal made no distinction, listening to everything he had to say.
Eames changes the channel again, some reality show about crab fisherman or some nonsense. He’s not paying attention. He’s given up all hope of sleep. He gets up to raid the mini-fridge when there’s a knock at the door.
Arthur stands, rumpled, hair a mess, bags under his eyes. It’s alarming but unsurprising. At the funeral he had stood, still as a statue, stony-faced. Eames gave him a matter of hours before cracking. He hadn’t figured Arthur would drink himself into a stupor, but he’s frequently been wrong about Arthur. It’s the reason Arthur unnerves him. Most people are predictable.
He stands there for a moment, about to invite Arthur in, but before he can open his mouth, Arthur crumples, and that, more than anything, breaks Eames’s heart. Arthur — unflappable, dependable Arthur — should not be like this. Eames pulls Arthur to him, breathes him in.
He smells like home.
----
ae_match was yesterday, and damn but that snuck up on me fast. So this past weekend has been ca-razy amounts of writing: my drabble for ae_ldws and the last bit of Greater than Want, Deeper than Need (see next post). And, because I actually really like pressure (a lot of pressure), I decided to write another entry for the match at the 11th hour. Well, okay, more like the 10th hour. I think I wrote this with two hours left to go before the deadline.ALSO! You guys, this match was fucking amazing. I can't believe how much was produced, and the quality still blows my mind. I'm so proud of both teams.
So anyway, here: have a bit of angst over at the original post or here below the cut. Don't worry; I managed to exceed my tolerance for relationship-based angst, so in this one Eames and Arthur find comfort in each other.
Prompt(s): Home
Word Count: ~850
Rating: PG (for references to death)
Warnings: (Canon) Character Death
Summary: The day of Mal’s funeral, Arthur heads home, finding that safe places aren’t places; they’re people.
A/N: A special thanks to
countrypixie1 who cheerleads, validates me, and whose suggestion it was to write the whole Eames section, which was, in retrospect, the missing piece in this little fic.Safe Places
Arthur emerges into the cool evening air, drunkenness surprising him slightly. It hadn’t felt this bad while he was still sitting. Still, it’s not drunk enough; he can remember why he was there to begin with.
He can still hear her voice in his head. Still feels like he could just go over to their house, hear the kids playing, listen to Dom’s theories while Mal pours them all more wine and gently interjects her own additions. That kitchen, the sun streaming in the window from their yard.
Arthur wonders what possessed him to leave the pub already. He can’t bring himself to walk back in, though.
He walks towards his apartment, occasionally course correcting away from the curb, putting his hand out to avoid the lamp post. When he gets to the next corner, he stops walking. He pictures his apartment, mostly tidy but for the paperwork for the next job strewn across the desk. It’s his home, has been for the past four years, yet inexplicably, he hates it with a loathing that digs right down to his core.
He wanders, some bleary part of his brain thinking it perfectly rational to walk all night and into the morning. Maybe he’ll pass by a late night liquor store. And after that, a park bench somewhere. After all, that kitchen is no longer an option for comfort. Cobb’s soothing voice, his unshakeable calm, gone. Arthur muses that depression is simply having no place left to go that feels safe.
He sees the headline on the newspaper in the box; he has to squint to read it, swaying slightly. He doesn’t finish, doesn’t even care what worries the world right now, when his attention is drawn upwards to the bright lights of the hotel lobby beyond it. He’s not surprised.
He walks in and the doorman moves to intercept but Arthur stops him with a look. It probably wouldn’t have worked but the suit Arthur’s still wearing from the funeral lends him an air of respectability, despite the acrid scent of alcohol coming off him. He weaves his way to the front desk, the girl there giving him a soft, pitying look.
“I need the room for Ea— uh. Connor. Mr. James Connor.”
“Is he expecting you, sir?”
“No, but he’ll accept this visit, I assure you.” Arthur tries for lucid, and figures if he gets halfway there that’s a win.
It appears to be enough because she wavers for a moment, then leans forward and says, quietly, “Sixteen-oh-four. And I sincerely hope you’re right about him wanting to see you. I’d hate for him to complain to my boss.”
“He won’t.” Normally Arthur would flirt a little just to keep her sweet, but he hasn’t the heart for it. He makes his way to the elevator and takes an interminable amount of time to actually get to Eames’s door.
When he knocks, it takes only a moment for the footsteps to sound on the other side, accompanied by the low murmur of the tv. The door swings open.
The sight of Eames’s silhouette against the flickering light snips the last few strings holding him together and Arthur squeezes his eyes, unable to stop the tears or the silent sobs that wrack him. Eames gathers him up and holds him tight, burying his face in Arthur’s hair.
The door closes behind him.
----
The tv is bollocks. American shows have too many adverts, letting his thoughts intrude too often, for too long. Eames considers heading down to the hotel bar, but can’t be arsed.
He thinks about Mal, and it aches, but it aches more not to think about her. In a business that moves forward with dizzying speed, with every new technique discovered, the latest trick pounced on and exploited, Mal brought a sense of family to this ragtag, motley crowd. Amid professors, architects and other morally flexible but otherwise respectable figures, Eames often had the distinct impression that he was in interloper. A thief, a con man had value, but his ideas didn’t always hold the same weight. Mal made no distinction, listening to everything he had to say.
Eames changes the channel again, some reality show about crab fisherman or some nonsense. He’s not paying attention. He’s given up all hope of sleep. He gets up to raid the mini-fridge when there’s a knock at the door.
Arthur stands, rumpled, hair a mess, bags under his eyes. It’s alarming but unsurprising. At the funeral he had stood, still as a statue, stony-faced. Eames gave him a matter of hours before cracking. He hadn’t figured Arthur would drink himself into a stupor, but he’s frequently been wrong about Arthur. It’s the reason Arthur unnerves him. Most people are predictable.
He stands there for a moment, about to invite Arthur in, but before he can open his mouth, Arthur crumples, and that, more than anything, breaks Eames’s heart. Arthur — unflappable, dependable Arthur — should not be like this. Eames pulls Arthur to him, breathes him in.
He smells like home.
----
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-10-04 05:31 pm (UTC)You write wonderfully.
no subject
Date: 2011-10-04 05:43 pm (UTC)