Shattered Beneath Your Fingers (Part 1)
Rating: R, maybe NC-17 for violence
Pairing(s) / Character(s): Arthur/Eames
Warnings: Violence, angst, character death
Summary: For This Prompt in Inception Kink
Arthur is beat to death with a brick. Either dreamspace or reality, but I prefer reality.
Author's notes: This is a companion story to The Consequences of Trust a.k.a. Eames POV.
What the hell is wrong with me? This is like the third fill for this prompt that I've done.
Beta(s):
queenofinfinite and space_raider182
Disclaimer: This story/artwork is based on characters and situations created and owned by the Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. They are not mine, I just like to play with them.
________
If you had told him that the first time he finally got to hold Arthur in his arms, the man would be crying, trembling like a small, frightened, animal, he'd have laughed in your face.
He's not laughing now.
***
He doesn't like this job. He never likes working with organized crime. You're always tiptoeing the line between friend and enemy and it's nerve wracking. Any small mistake can end with a gunshot to the gut or cement around your feet and water in your lungs.
Corporate is so much easier. Forgers are rare so they usually forgive him quickly for stealing because they'll need him later. And besides, he only steals a little in the grand scheme of things. Criminals, on the other hand, will kill you for swiping a bump of blow without asking. They're wound much too tight if he does say so himself.
He doesn't even really need this job. He has money stashed away in an account Arthur doesn't know about yet. But if he's honest with himself, and he always is because one has to be in order to suppress their personality to forge, he'll admit that he simply wants to work with Arthur again.
It's just a bonus that the job is dangerous in a way that no job has been since Inception those years ago. Plus, he'll get to see their darling architect again. It's been months since Ariadne has shoved her elbow in his ribs for an offhand comment, and the last job was much too short if he does say so himself.
He may be excited, but doesn't like this job. These men are dark; death is a constant threat on their lips. Oh, he's killed before. One can't escape causing death when you’re SAS and thrust into Afghanistan, young and under fire.
He's also been in his fair share of close calls escaping a mark's security. But that's war, that’s crime; it's kill or be killed. It isn't for fun. Waking up in a cold sweat at night with bad memories fluttering through your mind can hardly be considered fun.
Fun is making a certain young point man’s lips twitch up at the corners with a barely suppressed smile. He takes a special glee from drawing out reactions from Arthur. Arthur, who is so professional, so put together.
Eames knows very well that Arthur has a good sense of humor. That each barb finally returned is just a scratch on the surface of a mind full of wit and clever sarcasm. Each biting, backhanded compliment is delivered with the intent of keeping Eames on his toes. And Eames likes it. He likes the challenge.
***
Eames has to physically stop his eyebrows from shooting to his hairline when a group of men drag Arthur into the warehouse, struggling ferociously to free himself, but to no end. Arthur never gets caught, never alive at least.
They’re in the middle of the dream and Arthur is supposed to be drawing the attention of hostile projections. Their mark, Weiss, is quite mad. A violent fellow whose paranoia knows few bounds. His projections are not nice, to say the least, and it was Arthur’s job to draw them out so Jackson, their extractor, and Eames could work unimpeded.
How he got caught is anyone’s guess and Eames just hopes this doesn’t mess with the plan. They have three more scenarios to run through before their client will be satisfied enough to pay up.
He doesn’t envy Arthur right now, that’s for sure. The cuffs that have been snapped around the man’s thin wrists look like they’re much too tight. They always put cuffs on too tight.
He purses his lips together with a grimace, running his hand through the loose, dark, locks of his forge. Their mark rants and raves at Arthur who is strapped in a chair. Calm, collected, perfectly poised, Arthur who just stares in defiance at the psychopath posturing and flinging curses at him.
Eames wonders what would make Arthur break. He has a fleeting thought of his own lips, pressed softly against Arthur’s as the man moans in his mouth. Arthur fighting against the restraints as Eames drags his hands down the young man’s throat.
His attention snaps back when his name, his forge’s name, is called out.
“Kohler!
Eames fixes his posture back into that of the imposingly large, hunk of a man he’s impersonating.
“Get over here. I want you to take care of our guest.”
Eames approaches, pulling his Baretta from his holster, preparing to eject Arthur from the dream. Arthur isn’t the dreamer, so really this could still work out. He and Jackson could manage three more scenarios before the projections take them out.
He raises the gun to Arthur’s head when the mark calls out again.
“Wait!” He says, spinning on his heels and returning again to address Arthur.
“I have something more fun in mind.” And that sends a cold chill down Eames’ spine. Because this man is nuts, grade A psycho killer, even if his own hands don’t ever get dirty with it.
He reminds Eames of movie villains. People who only exist because of the over caffeinated and ultra violent musings of desensitized screenwriters. Frightening men who take far too much joy in taking people apart bit by bit.
The man grins wickedly at Arthur, malice dancing in his eyes as he calls for a brick from outside. Eames’ stomach nearly drops out of his body.
***
The block feels heavy in his hand. He eyes Arthur warily, deciding where to begin. He wants nothing more than to release Arthur and to run away from this place. Or to end this immediately with a bullet instead.
But he can’t. He can’t compromise this job because he feels queasy about murdering his friend in a dream. And Arthur seems fine, sitting there defiant, and not showing any emotion at all. He can at the very least try and make it as speedy as possible.
He swings the brick down hard aiming for Arthur’s temple, going for soft spots that will give in quickly, will kill quickly. The sound is sickening. The loud pop of contact with hard bone combines with the acidic smell of fresh blood. It takes nearly all the will Eames has to strike again.
If he thought the first blow was awful, the second is worse. He can hear the bones break in Arthur’s face. His hands are slick with Arthur’s blood and the wounds he’s inflicting resemble the mice his mum’s cat used to bring in.
He swings, again and again, willing Arthur to die. To give up, to let go. How can it be this hard to kill someone?
He changes the angle, trying to inflict damage somewhere that will at least knock Arthur unconscious. But it fails. Arthur, the infuriating little bastard, is too tough for that.
He can barely hang on to the cinder his hands are so slippery. His shirtsleeve is soaked in red. He knows now why Kohler always keeps a change of clothes handy. The thought makes him twitch. How many men has this man tortured that Weiss could ask so casually for this?
And then Arthur is struggling, straining against his bindings. He’s whining, and whimpering and desperate. There’s only so much pain a man can take and Eames wishes he never found out just how much that is for Arthur.
He wishes with all his heart that he could stop this. He wishes he could cradle Arthur in his hands, comfort him, to tell him everything is going to be ok. That his is all going to be over. He wants to take Arthur in his arms and press his gun against the man’s blood dampened hair and put him out of his misery.
Arthur lets out a pathetic cry. Eames hears the blood curdle in the man’s throat, choking as he struggles to breathe. Eames very nearly drops his forge. He locks eyes with Arthur and his mind goes blank. Everything pinpoints into a silent moment as the world around him fades into the background. He takes in the point man’s bleary, one eyed gaze.
This is gone on long enough. Far too long.He swings the brick down impossibly hard. Finally Arthur crumples. His body goes slack in the chair and Eames all but sighs in relief. Weiss chuckles with delight from across the room.
Continue to Part 2
Pairing(s) / Character(s): Arthur/Eames
Warnings: Violence, angst, character death
Summary: For This Prompt in Inception Kink
Arthur is beat to death with a brick. Either dreamspace or reality, but I prefer reality.
Author's notes: This is a companion story to The Consequences of Trust a.k.a. Eames POV.
What the hell is wrong with me? This is like the third fill for this prompt that I've done.
Beta(s):
queenofinfinite and space_raider182 Disclaimer: This story/artwork is based on characters and situations created and owned by the Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. They are not mine, I just like to play with them.
________
If you had told him that the first time he finally got to hold Arthur in his arms, the man would be crying, trembling like a small, frightened, animal, he'd have laughed in your face.
He's not laughing now.
***
He doesn't like this job. He never likes working with organized crime. You're always tiptoeing the line between friend and enemy and it's nerve wracking. Any small mistake can end with a gunshot to the gut or cement around your feet and water in your lungs.
Corporate is so much easier. Forgers are rare so they usually forgive him quickly for stealing because they'll need him later. And besides, he only steals a little in the grand scheme of things. Criminals, on the other hand, will kill you for swiping a bump of blow without asking. They're wound much too tight if he does say so himself.
He doesn't even really need this job. He has money stashed away in an account Arthur doesn't know about yet. But if he's honest with himself, and he always is because one has to be in order to suppress their personality to forge, he'll admit that he simply wants to work with Arthur again.
It's just a bonus that the job is dangerous in a way that no job has been since Inception those years ago. Plus, he'll get to see their darling architect again. It's been months since Ariadne has shoved her elbow in his ribs for an offhand comment, and the last job was much too short if he does say so himself.
He may be excited, but doesn't like this job. These men are dark; death is a constant threat on their lips. Oh, he's killed before. One can't escape causing death when you’re SAS and thrust into Afghanistan, young and under fire.
He's also been in his fair share of close calls escaping a mark's security. But that's war, that’s crime; it's kill or be killed. It isn't for fun. Waking up in a cold sweat at night with bad memories fluttering through your mind can hardly be considered fun.
Fun is making a certain young point man’s lips twitch up at the corners with a barely suppressed smile. He takes a special glee from drawing out reactions from Arthur. Arthur, who is so professional, so put together.
Eames knows very well that Arthur has a good sense of humor. That each barb finally returned is just a scratch on the surface of a mind full of wit and clever sarcasm. Each biting, backhanded compliment is delivered with the intent of keeping Eames on his toes. And Eames likes it. He likes the challenge.
***
Eames has to physically stop his eyebrows from shooting to his hairline when a group of men drag Arthur into the warehouse, struggling ferociously to free himself, but to no end. Arthur never gets caught, never alive at least.
They’re in the middle of the dream and Arthur is supposed to be drawing the attention of hostile projections. Their mark, Weiss, is quite mad. A violent fellow whose paranoia knows few bounds. His projections are not nice, to say the least, and it was Arthur’s job to draw them out so Jackson, their extractor, and Eames could work unimpeded.
How he got caught is anyone’s guess and Eames just hopes this doesn’t mess with the plan. They have three more scenarios to run through before their client will be satisfied enough to pay up.
He doesn’t envy Arthur right now, that’s for sure. The cuffs that have been snapped around the man’s thin wrists look like they’re much too tight. They always put cuffs on too tight.
He purses his lips together with a grimace, running his hand through the loose, dark, locks of his forge. Their mark rants and raves at Arthur who is strapped in a chair. Calm, collected, perfectly poised, Arthur who just stares in defiance at the psychopath posturing and flinging curses at him.
Eames wonders what would make Arthur break. He has a fleeting thought of his own lips, pressed softly against Arthur’s as the man moans in his mouth. Arthur fighting against the restraints as Eames drags his hands down the young man’s throat.
His attention snaps back when his name, his forge’s name, is called out.
“Kohler!
Eames fixes his posture back into that of the imposingly large, hunk of a man he’s impersonating.
“Get over here. I want you to take care of our guest.”
Eames approaches, pulling his Baretta from his holster, preparing to eject Arthur from the dream. Arthur isn’t the dreamer, so really this could still work out. He and Jackson could manage three more scenarios before the projections take them out.
He raises the gun to Arthur’s head when the mark calls out again.
“Wait!” He says, spinning on his heels and returning again to address Arthur.
“I have something more fun in mind.” And that sends a cold chill down Eames’ spine. Because this man is nuts, grade A psycho killer, even if his own hands don’t ever get dirty with it.
He reminds Eames of movie villains. People who only exist because of the over caffeinated and ultra violent musings of desensitized screenwriters. Frightening men who take far too much joy in taking people apart bit by bit.
The man grins wickedly at Arthur, malice dancing in his eyes as he calls for a brick from outside. Eames’ stomach nearly drops out of his body.
***
The block feels heavy in his hand. He eyes Arthur warily, deciding where to begin. He wants nothing more than to release Arthur and to run away from this place. Or to end this immediately with a bullet instead.
But he can’t. He can’t compromise this job because he feels queasy about murdering his friend in a dream. And Arthur seems fine, sitting there defiant, and not showing any emotion at all. He can at the very least try and make it as speedy as possible.
He swings the brick down hard aiming for Arthur’s temple, going for soft spots that will give in quickly, will kill quickly. The sound is sickening. The loud pop of contact with hard bone combines with the acidic smell of fresh blood. It takes nearly all the will Eames has to strike again.
If he thought the first blow was awful, the second is worse. He can hear the bones break in Arthur’s face. His hands are slick with Arthur’s blood and the wounds he’s inflicting resemble the mice his mum’s cat used to bring in.
He swings, again and again, willing Arthur to die. To give up, to let go. How can it be this hard to kill someone?
He changes the angle, trying to inflict damage somewhere that will at least knock Arthur unconscious. But it fails. Arthur, the infuriating little bastard, is too tough for that.
He can barely hang on to the cinder his hands are so slippery. His shirtsleeve is soaked in red. He knows now why Kohler always keeps a change of clothes handy. The thought makes him twitch. How many men has this man tortured that Weiss could ask so casually for this?
And then Arthur is struggling, straining against his bindings. He’s whining, and whimpering and desperate. There’s only so much pain a man can take and Eames wishes he never found out just how much that is for Arthur.
He wishes with all his heart that he could stop this. He wishes he could cradle Arthur in his hands, comfort him, to tell him everything is going to be ok. That his is all going to be over. He wants to take Arthur in his arms and press his gun against the man’s blood dampened hair and put him out of his misery.
Arthur lets out a pathetic cry. Eames hears the blood curdle in the man’s throat, choking as he struggles to breathe. Eames very nearly drops his forge. He locks eyes with Arthur and his mind goes blank. Everything pinpoints into a silent moment as the world around him fades into the background. He takes in the point man’s bleary, one eyed gaze.
This is gone on long enough. Far too long.He swings the brick down impossibly hard. Finally Arthur crumples. His body goes slack in the chair and Eames all but sighs in relief. Weiss chuckles with delight from across the room.
Continue to Part 2