Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1325041.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Inception_(2010)
  Relationship:
      Arthur/Eames_(Inception)
  Character:
      Arthur_(Inception), Eames_(Inception)
  Additional Tags:
      Homelessness, Underage_Prostitution, Reference_to_Past_Domestic_Violence,
      Gang_Violence, Gang_Rape, Heavy_Angst, Revenge, Retribution, Hurt/
      Comfort, Early_Recovery, Soulmates
  Series:
      Part 5 of Cigar_Box
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-03-22 Completed: 2014-03-25 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 10732
****** Carpus ******
by grizzly_bear_bane
Summary
     Dom Cobb was Eames' partner for years, until Cobb put a knife in his
     back.
     At fourteen, Arthur's never been arrested before, but being locked up
     in this room has to be far, far worse than any jail cell could be.
Notes
     ******READ THE TAGS. THIS IS A VERY HEAVY FIC.******
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
++
+
 
Arthur still remembers being nine and the social worker promising him that the
most traumatic of experiences didn’t get processed in the brain the way other
experiences do—or something like that.
Well, he’s never forgotten a single detail of the day his mom was killed. The
memory’s like one of those home movies that families make of Christmas mornings
or their child’s first steps. It’s all there.
She’d waited for him at the bus stop with her younger sister like she always
did, and took him to the playground behind their apartment complex so she could
tell her sister, as Arthur’s aunt would say, more fairytales of how she’d had
yet another accident that caused her face to get banged up. He remembers the
exact moment when their argument got so heated that his aunt stormed off. It
was the time that the ice cream truck arrived, and as usual, there was no money
for Arthur to buy himself any.
When he and his mother headed home, their neighbor was waiting for them in the
hall. Arthur's run up to him happily, ready for the hug, kiss, and candy like
always. He didn’t understand why she was so upset to see the man here. From
Arthur’s understanding, his mom liked having him come over to keep her company
while his dad was at work—a thought that made Arthur remember that his dad was
coming home early today, and sure enough, here he was, an odd expression on his
face to see Arthur with his arms still wrapped around the man's hips. His dad
certainly looked happy enough to see their neighbor talking to Arthur’s mom,
even if his mom wasn’t. Arthur remembers everyone being so angry at each other
that day. His aunt was mad at him mom, his mom was mad at her special friend,
and now Arthur’s dad was mad at her and Arthur, once the friend left. As soon
as the door had closed, his dad started yelling, pushing Arthur to his mom
asking her why Arthur was hugging that man. Arthur didn't understand why he was
in trouble. He hugged people all the time who were nice to him, and it
certainly was nothing to compared to the kind of hugging he'd seen his mom give
the neighbor, whenever they thought Arthur was napping or that the bedroom door
was closed.
He remembers the exact moment the gun went off. The air in the flat had felt
like a thunderstorm was coming. His mom had picked Arthur up and put him in
closet, locking them both in with his toys right as the evening news came on
the TV. At first, he thought she was going to stay with him and play dinosaurs
under the coats and the castle he’d made from shoeboxes again, at least until
his dad stopped yelling, but she told Arthur a funny joke, got her lipstick on
his forehead, and closed the door behind her when she left.
He had his hands over his ears when their shouting grew the loudest. He was
crying, his dinosaurs forgotten, because this fight was his fault, he was
certain. It had to be. He had half a mind to break out of the closet and tell
his dad that if he would stop yelling, Arthur would never hug anyone ever
again, right before he heard the three loud pops and a chair screech before a
fourth and final pop. The sound scared him so much, he couldn’t move. Arthur
has no reference for how long he stayed in the closet, but when his mom’s
sister found him, she was wearing different clothes and Arthur’s own were
dirty. He didn’t fight her when she took him out of the flat.
It’s just like this right now. A thunderstorm and once again, it has to be his
fault. If hadn't snuck out of the window and gotten caught, Eames and Cobb
wouldn't be pissed at each other. 
“For fuck’s sake,” Eames shouts at Cobb and another man on the other side of
the bedroom door, “give me a fucking minute!” He rolls off of Arthur and starts
to redress. “Fucking asshole never gives me a break these days, I swear.”
Arthur pulls his pants back on. “Eames—”
“No.” Eames pokes his finger at Arthur’s chest. “You’re still in trouble. I
don’t want to hear one more god damned word from you.”
“But I’m making up for it, right?” The voices on the other side make him
anxious. He grabs Eames’ hand. “Don't leave upset with me. I told you I was
sorry. Why don’t we stay in bed and finish? Please?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll get back to your little hungry ass once I’ve handled whatever
the hell is going on downstairs.”
Arthur feels like his stomach’s twisting. “Eames…”
“What, baby?”
He can’t speak at first. His blush creeps back to his ears. He likes hearing
Eames call him his little pet names. “Just… just hurry back.”
“Why, so you won’t get the urge to climb out of the fucking window again?”
“Well, hey! Why don’t we both just do that now? I could show you how I did it.
We could…we could go climb down and go somewhere. Anywhere. Yeah?”
Eames shakes his head. “Weirdo.” He opens the door and closes it behind him.
Arthur doesn't like being so on edge. He intends to steal one of the cigarettes
that Eames never lets him have so he can relax, when he hears shouting and
tussling down the hall. He can make out Eames’ voice, and Cobb’s, and then the
all too familiar loud popping sound from a gun going off, only this time, it’s
more than four shots and more than one gun.
Time stops. Several bullets come through the wall, narrowly missing him before
cheers flood the building.
His heart shreds itself when someone bangs on the door. “Hey, baby, open up. I
want to talk to you.” It’s not Eames. Where is Eames?
“Yeah baby, come on. Don’t you want to party with us?”
Arthur can’t breathe. He searches the room, looking for one of Eames’ stashed
guns, but he’s running out of time.
He hurries to the window, his hands shaking, his eyes blurred because he
doesn’t want to know what happened to Eames but he does and he needs to get out
of here and as far away as fast as possible.
He gets the window up, but it’s too late.
When they break down the door and rush in, they’re shouting, saying things, but
Arthur can’t hear them over the sound of his own heart beating and the blood
rushing through his veins. He tries to fight to keep his clothes on, clinging
to the window in some hopeless attempt to get away. Once he sees Eames’ bloody
body tossed into the dumpster below, he screams.
He can’t stop screaming. He claws at them, breaking free, but the only place to
go is the bathroom.
He locks the door behind him, gripped in shock as he curls up in the tiny space
behind the toilet. Eames is dead. Eames is dead and he has nowhere to go. His
mind won’t tell him what to do. He can’t plead his case over so much shouting
and the music they start to play in the speakers downstairs, and he can’t stay
in this bathroom forever.
“We won’t hurt you if you come out, baby. Promise. No fuss.”
“Yeah," someone else mutters, "we just want to see how good you fuck, that’s
all.” 
They're still laughing when Cobb's voice cuts through the noise. “Hey, back
up!”
For a split second, Arthur hopes that maybe Cobb has come to clear a path for
him to leave in peace. It’s what Arthur had wanted to do when he’d climbed out
the window. Leave. He’d explained this to Cobb when the man had caught him
sneaking out and brought him back into the apartment where everyone could see
him and know where he was going. That has to count for something.
“Arthur?” Cobb’s yells.
“Y-yes?”
“Listen, there's been a slight situation, but it's under control for now. I
still need you to stand clear of the door in case something else happens, so
you won't get hurt by anymore stray bullets, okay?”
That makes no sense, but he does it anyways, because it sounds like Cobb wants
him to believe that they were all attacked, that Cobb isn't responsible for
what happened to Eames. If it keeps Arthur safe to pretend that he believes
this, he'll do it. He crawls into the bathtub. “O-okay?”
He hears several men outside the door snicker before the lock gets shot off.
Cobb steps in. He looks nothing like he did the other night. Everything about
him has changed, like he’s lost his mind. He grabs Arthur by the back of his
hair and drags him out.
“Wait, wait,” Arthur begs, trying to free himself. “Why are you doing this?”
“Why?" Dom leans in close, near hissing as he speaks. "He wouldn’t help me save
her, but he saved you. She was carrying my baby and he let them kill her. Then
he let her killer run free, and brought you here, instead of finishing the
fucking job,” Dom bites out before raising his voice so that everyone can hear.
“Well, what do you know, he’s had you up here all to himself while everybody
else got nobody, right guys?” The men cheer. He lowers his voice again. “So…now
Eames and I are even.”
“No, no, no, no. If you let me go, I swear I won’t tell anybody. I don’t know
anybody, I don’t trust the cops, I won’t say anything. Please, please, I swear.
Cobb, I swear.”
The second he pushes Arthur on the floor, they’re on him.
He bites hard on the fingers that get shoved into his mouth, getting himself
almost knocked unconscious as a result. Once he’s on the bed he stops fighting.
It’s over for him. He’s just as dead as Eames now.
They’re overjoyed to find that he’s already soft. The first wastes no time
before climbing on top of him. Arthur can’t breathe. He tries to roll onto his
stomach, but they won’t let him. They want him to see their faces. All of them.
And when his skinny hands slip from the cuffs, they zip-tie them and bind his
ankles with cords. He tries to cry, but no sound comes out. He can’t hear
anything over their voices and the music.
They bring beer and raid Eames’ weed stash. Before the second hour's passed, a
few find Eames' money hidden under a floorboard and a fight breaks out over it.
It gets divided between pizzas and more beer to keep their party going well
into the morning.
“Come on, boy, let him in.” Arthur’s taunted, mocked, as if he wants this
torture, as if the degrading sport they make of this is anything like what he
did on the streets.
“You make men pay for this ass all the time, so stop pretending like you don’t
love it, bitch.”
Not that it matters, Arthur thinks to himself, as his exhaustion pulls him
under, but they’re wrong. No hell on the streets could ever compare to this.
+
 
Arthur doesn’t know why he thought they’d let him go after just one night. He’d
gotten his hopes up that next afternoon, when someone untied him to get him to
the bathroom to wash, but he wasn’t so lucky. The first day had just been
revenge against Eames. The second was Arthur’s initiation. Now, in the days
that have followed… now this is just him doing his job as the house’s whore.
He hates being on his back. He doesn’t want to see them. Drifting between
wakefulness and passing out, there are so many of them, some old enough to be
his father and others who have to be his own age. They roll weed and snort coke
on his stomach and pass the lube across him like he’s not even a person, just
some thing tied to a bed that gets use once their own jobs are done. In the
wake of Eames’ overthrow, Cobb’s been having them shake down other gangs—an
endeavor, Arthur’s learns from their chatter, that isn’t panning out as great
as Cobb had originally thought.
They’ve been losing men and losing territory. They take it out on Arthur.
How could Eames have trusted these men? He’d told Arthur that he’d been in
charge since he’d left home at seventeen and with them, he built something of
an empire in this city. How could he have controlled this gang of savages for
three whole years without them ever turning on him sooner?
But then, none of them had done a thing out of hand towards Eames until Dom
Cobb opened his mouth. Dom Cobb, Mal’s man, oh-so heartbroken that she was dead
that he would turn on his partner and the only other two people Mal had cared
for. He let them all believe that Eames was crooked. Cobb telling them stories
about Arthur being here was just icing on the cake.
Thinking of Eames just makes Arthur cry more. He can’t blame Eames for
anything. Eames had warned him, over and over, not to let anyone know that he
was here, but still he hadn’t listened. Eames knew what these men were like and
he’d kept Arthur safe and out of their reach for as long as Arthur had let him.
If Arthur could go back in time, he would have never stepped foot outside that
door or climbed from the window to get out.
Maybe he’d gotten scared. Something was just too good to be true, being here
with Eames instead of making his own way. He’d just thought he needed to be
somebody again, that Eames taking care of him had turned into a crutch these
past weeks, and the room was suffocating him, being here day in and day out
stealing what he could while Eames slept and waiting for Eames to return with
food and books Arthur couldn’t read.
Eames’ bedroom looks so different now. It’s big and terrifying without the man
here. And filthy. The trash and piles of pizza boxes and wrappers have made
their way up from the bottom floor to this room. They do it to torment Arthur,
he’s sure. They won’t let him leave the bed to eat and wash until tomorrow, if
someone remembers to untie him. For as much as there are always at least a
handful of men in this room, on this bed with him, they still forget that he’s
a human being with needs of his own.
The second man finishes and makes way for the third. When this group is done,
Arthur knows more will turn up in an hour or so. They always do. Sometimes he
won’t see certain men for a handful of days and then before he knows it, their
faces are the only ones he sees.
+
 
Considering what he’s up against, Arthur stays mostly unharmed, until he gets a
busted lip for gagging too much on one man and getting sick. He’d nearly
drowned himself, unable to turn over on his back and didn’t even realize that
he’d bitten the man’s dick until they’d freed his hands long enough for him to
get sick again over the edge of the bed.
If he has to choose, being tied down on his stomach is bearable. His face is
safer like this, he can’t see any of them, they won’t bother putting anything
in his mouth, and if he’s lucky, maybe the pressure from the ties on his skin
will make his wrists bleed and kill him.
But he’s not lucky. They leave, he falls asleep, and the next afternoon, the
process repeats itself.
He gets unbound and dragged to the bathroom, where seeing Eames’ undershirt
still on the sink each day makes him cry all over again. Catching Eames' scent
somewhere, or seeing his shoes in the corner rips Arthur’s heart to shreds
every time.
Under the showerhead, Arthur stares blankly at his feet, his hands still bound
together. They won’t let him take a bath, knowing that he’ll just drown
himself. They barely let him do anything other than brush his teeth and stand
under the shower's cold spray, with someone standing on the other side of the
curtain to hold his arm, making sure he doesn’t pass out and crack his head
open on the tub again. He watches the water swirl in the drain, certain that
his soul is being rinsed away along with their come and sweat and whatever
tears he has left to cry for Eames, the man he'd hardly known. 
He doesn’t get a towel to dry off, just a bowl of cereal or oatmeal waiting for
him on the bed that he can't keep down, and after, new zip ties and a new band
of boys on the bed within the hour.
+
 
He’s dozing sometime near the early evening when someone sits on the side of
the bed.
The man puts the pill in his mouth and gives him water. It’s a drug. He’s never
had drugs before, but as the skinny man gets on top of him, covering his back,
the drug makes it easy to doze through it and dims his brain, making him forget
just for a little while that he’s not at all okay.
+
 
The party at last ends when they run out of lube. Arthur gets his clothes back
and is surprised when he’s not forced out of them again. He’s given an
opportunity to stretch his legs, even though they still won’t let him leave the
room. He just curls up in a corner with Eames’ undershirt anyways, as two of
the younger boys strip the bed and clean the room.
“Did anybody tell you,” Arthur overhears one whisper to the other, “about what
happened?”
“Nah, man, what’s up?”
“Eames is missing.”
He laughs at him. “Shit, man, duh. He’s fucking dead, you idiot—”
“No, no, no, man.” He shakes his head. “Cricket went out for a smoke and heard
noises at near the dumpster. When he checked it out, a big ass trail of blood
was going all the fucking way out to the street, dude.”
The other one’s cigarette falls out of his mouth. He glances at Arthur who
quickly tries to make himself invisible. “Holy shit.”
“And, when Cricket told Cobb about it, that little bitch fucking disappeared.
Nobody’s seen him since.”
“But he fucking bounces all the time. He’ll be back, right?”
The first one shakes his head again. “There’s rumors that we’re already under
new management. Only thing that’s not changing is that this one,” he points to
Arthur, “is off-limits until Big Sergeant comes to collect.”
“Shit. So, nobody gets a last ride before he’s out? That’s fucked up.”
“Ha! Told you, you shouldn’t have rushed all those times. You know whores don’t
last in a house like this. Watch, he'll probably get shipped out to New Orleans
with Big Sgt's girls for the fucking Superbowl, then poof, he's wiped off the
face of the earth before the Feds come sniffing for runaways.”
“Well, Big Sgt ain’t getting much off of him.”
“Says who? He’s like, what? Twelve? He'll grow into being a gold slut in a
couple years.”
“Bullshit. I did not fuck a twelve year old. Dude... my sister's twelve. Ew.
Hey,” he yells at Arthur, startling him, “how old are you?”
Before he can speak, an older man with a scar on his neck walks in and yells at
the boys. “Quit fucking chitchatting and do what you’re supposed to,” he orders
them, going straight for Arthur.
Arthur’s gets to his feet quickly, not sure what’s happening.
The two boys look at each other before their hands slide to their belts. One
boy speaks up. “Dude, who the fuck are you?”
The man says nothing. He grabs Arthur's arm and opens fire on the boys, hitting
them both in the face. Outside in the hallway, he pushes Arthur to the floor
and picks off the boys in the room next door. Several others join him,
exchanging fire with the men rushing up the stairs. A war breaks out right over
Arthur’s head.
He’s never seen half of these people before. And then it dawns on Arthur just
how much trouble he’s in. These people aren't Eames’ and right now their attack
is either filling the house with bodies or convincing the last of Cobb's boys
to cross sides. 
With Eames gone and Cobb out of the picture, the base has splintered. All order
is gone. 
+ 
 
 
***** Chapter 2 *****
+
 
Arthur crawls back into the room during the shootout and gets his hands on one
of the dead boy’s knives. Holding the handle in his teeth, he gets his wrists
free and hides under the bed, his socks soaked through with someone’s blood.
He doesn’t have a lot of options. He can hide here until someone finds him and
then…who knows what will happen. Or, he can test his luck and try the window
again. It’s shattered. A bit of broken glass to deal with, but if he makes it
out again, then he’s free.
He waits until the chaos moves downstairs. Quietly, he crawls out on the side
closest to the window. The sunlight baths the floor with light just beyond the
bed. He’s halfway out, half way there. If he can just reach the wall and climb
down, maybe he’ll be lucky.
“Going somewhere, cookie?”
Fuck. Arthur sighs and stays lying on the floor until the man with the scar
picks him up with a hand under his elbow.
He gets pushed to sit on the bed and immediately gets a gun pressed to his
chest over his heart.
“Who are you?”
Arthur can’t swallow. He shakes his head, his voice a whisper as a handful of
the new gang’s boys and some of the old ones make their way to the room.
“Nobody.”
“So if I kill you like I killed them others, nobody’s going to come looking for
you?”
Arthur’s shoulders sink. He gets it now. The man thought he had been kidnapped
and wanted to be sure that a potential ransom wasn’t going to be wasted by
killing the hostage by mistake. But since Arthur’s nobody, it doesn’t matter.
Arthur lets all the air out of his lungs again, but he’s not going to cry. They
terrify him, far more than Eames’ gang ever did, but… he has to try to be
strong. He shrugs a shoulder as a response, praying that the man will pull the
trigger and end this.
The man laughs. “Hey Cricket, who is this kid, huh?”
“Eames’ bitchboy. Or was.”
“Ah. I see. So, not 'nobody.' Somebody pretty special, huh?”
Oh no. Arthur can’t think of anything to say. He’s shaking, his eyes stinging,
but not because he’s afraid of the gun in his chest, but because he’s still a
whore in a house filled with gangsters. He opens his mouth to speak, but
nothing comes out.
“So no wonder they was fixing to send you down the river to Big Sgt, then.
Huh.” He hands his gun to someone else and drags Arthur to his knees back on
the floor. He unbuckles his belt. “Well, show me what you can do.”
Arthur would rather the gun. It’s a chilling decision, but the only one he’s
got. The man smacks him, though not hard, but still he keeps his mouth closed.
“Are you fucking dumb, kid? Hey, Cricket, is this kid dumb, or what?”
The boy shrugs. “He's more…pliant…on his back, boss.”
“Is that so?” He laughs at the dread in Arthur face. He punches him so hard, he
nearly loses consciousness. “Thank you, Cricket. Once again, you’ve been
extremely helpful.” He grabs a hold of Arthur’s shirt collar as Arthur’s head
lolls. “Good, good. Now crack him open for me, Cricket.”
Cricket watches Arthur try to regain his wits on the bed as his hands get bound
again. He glances at the others standing around, looking nervous, but trying to
play off his hesitant shuffle. “Uh. But, boss, see we, uh… I mean there’s no
lube or nothing, so…” He shrugs again.
The man shakes his head. “You boys wouldn’t last a day locked up. In prison,
you make do without such luxuries.”
Cricket and a few other boys glance at each other and take a step back. “You…
Dude, you mean like…”
“I mean like, exactly what I fucking said.” He pulls off Arthur’s pants and
spits on his cock. “Sorry, cookie. I would have been more generous if you’d
just done what I’d asked.”
Arthur stares up at the ceiling for as long as he can, in disbelief, because
this isn’t his life. It can’t be. No, he died in that alley. Had to, because
this can’t be his life. Nothing in his mind, in this world, can explain to him
what’s happening or why.
Even those who stand in the room, looking on in shock eventually come around,
as if he’s not bleeding, as if he's not screaming for his life, as if this
isn’t the worst thing they could ever do to a person, as if Arthur’s not a
person to begin with. And he’s not, he realizes. He’s not a person. He ceased
being a person years ago, in David’s bed. He’s a broken, shattered thing, like
the glass in the window or the pieces of the lamp vase before Eames had swept
them up for the trash bin.
There is no music. No celebrating, no pizza, no passing out on booze. All that
rings in his ears now is his own screams until the whole world goes black.
+
 
The first thing Arthur thinks every time he wakes up is that they’ve sawed him
in half. The pain is that severe, like his tailbone’s broken and his hipbones
crushed. He bites his lip until it bleeds because he can’t make a sound. The
sob is trapped in the hollow of his neck, but if he lets it rise any higher, he
knows he won’t be able to lie here in peace another second. Any noise he makes
is like an alarm, telling the house that he’s still alive and apparently in
need of more pain.
Looking at the window tells him that it’s only early morning. There are people
sleeping in the room with him again. He freezes, but his anxiety won’t let him
stay still. They’ve got him in handcuffs. It makes him cry, silently, to see
them, because this is his ticket to freedom. His right hand is almost out, but
what then? There is no place he can go without someone wanting to fuck or kill
him, no space that he can move to without that ferocious pain.
He was naked before, with the men this gang had killed, but these ones don’t
care about what he’s got going on up top, and yet even with Eames’ sweater
still on and a sheet pulled over him, he’s never felt this exposed. Only one of
his ankles is tied, but when he tries to close his legs, that sound in his
throat tries to rise again, new tears blur his eyes, his hands shake, it hurts.
But lying on his back hurts anyways. Slowly, slowly, he turns his lower half
until he’s twisted on his side, his free leg pulled in close to his body. Now
his whole spine hurts, but he can't move again.
He can’t see the window anymore either, just the man with the scar sleeping in
Eames’ chair and the room littered with trash and other slumbering men.
+
 
A week passes. Arthur's soul is now threadbare. It takes him longer and longer
to assess himself and where he's at, or what happens from one minute to the
next. His mind drifts and goes blank more often than not. He'll be dead soon,
give or take a month. He can feel it, like someone's taken a pencil to his feet
and started erasing them. Bit by bit, he's disappearing. 
He’s dozing, exhausted by the pain. He's trying not to wake anyone again as the
sun creeps up in the sky, when he hears something.
Footsteps. Arthur doesn’t want to open his eyes. For some reason, these people
never rape him while he’s asleep. They wait until he's awake, perhaps thinking
that he’s dead whenever he loses consciousness for too long. Only this one,
this skinny man, doesn’t seem to care either way. Arthur can’t see him as he
eases on the bed, quiet as a mouse to nestle in behind him.
“Please,” Arthur whispers, shaking violently. “Please, no.”
He silenced by the pill on his lips, the water to swallow it down, and the hand
over his mouth that follows.
He wonders if this is the same man who gave him the drugs before. It doesn’t
help the way it did the first time. The man’s almost finished by the time
Arthur’s brain goes into drug autopilot. He’s sobbing, loud enough to wake
someone.
“Hey! I thought I fucking told you not to come back.” The man is dragged from
the bed with a knife at his throat. “Get the fuck out of here, you fucking
rat.” He’s pushed out of the room. “Hey, make sure nothing ends up in his
pockets before he steps foot outside that door, alright? Fucking junkies, man.
Damn!”
More people are stirring now. The man climbs onto the bed with a smile. “Hey
cookie, cookie.”
Arthur breaks down, trying to move away from him, but there’s no place to go.
His skin crawls and his stomach twists. He doesn’t care how loud he cries now.
They all know he isn’t dead. He just hopes that soon, he will be.
+
 
During the course of the week, the shattered glass in the window has finally
collapsed. It’s the unbearable mix of frigid, snowy air and his deteriorating
state that wakes Arthur from restless sleep at dawn.
Someone is here. He first hears something like a heavy boot drop on the floor
below, then another, and another.
Arthur doesn’t dare move as the odd, faint noises come closer upstairs. A door
creaks down the hall and someone coughs. Arthur takes a deep breath and tries
to sleep again until he hears something drag on the wood floor out in the
hallway. It stops just beyond the room he's in. The door’s been busted in since
that first night, when Cobb and the others brought it down, so there is no
seclusion here. 
In the low light of the morning, Arthur can’t help but sneak a peek because
something about these noises makes him scared.
He has every right to be, when the hooded man at last walks in. Arthur lifts
his head when the man’s back is turned, watching him rummage through the room,
picking up knifes and guns from the slumbering men with quick hands.
Arthur panics. Tears slip from his eyes because he knows what this man is
doing. He’s taking away their weapons, leaving every man empty-handed. It’s
smart, but Arthur’s not happy at all. Whatever new gang this man has come from
might just be worse than the last two, once they succeed in taking the house.
When the man leaves the room with his arms full, Arthur considers his options.
If he gets free of the cuffs, there is nothing else. He can’t even get to the
bathroom without being dragged, so what good would freeing his hands do? But if
he stays here like this, he’s toast anyways. He’ll be raped until he dies.
Dying is the option he chooses, but making a decision is a whole lot different
than having to see it through. When the man returns, carrying something in one
of his hands, Arthur knows his death won’t come easy at all.
The heavy thing gets propped on the bedside table. Arthur squeezes his eyes
shut, shaking so much that the metal cuffs rattle on the headboard, until a
thumb caresses, soft as a whisper, across his cheek and ear.
Then his hands are slipped free of the cuffs.
He looks up at last and cries. He cries because this has to be the last dream
before he loses the battle against his wounds and dies. What a cruel dream it
is, only…
Eames’ breath is labored, his neck covered in bandages, the same as his left
hand and what he can see of his stitched up arm.
Arthur opens his mouth, but Eames puts his finger over it before he glances at
the man sleeping in the chair.
When Eames attempts to slip his arms under Arthur to lift him, pain shoots up
Arthur’s spine, forcing a loud groan from his throat. Arthur covers his mouth,
but it’s too late. Eames lets him go, frowning before he tosses the sheet off
of Arthur and sees…red. The mess of bruises and blood that Arthur himself can’t
stomach to look at.
His hand hovers over Arthur’s hip, trembling until it closes into a fist. The
look on Eames’ face is something Arthur can’t describe.
“E-Eames?”
The man with the scar startles awake.
This isn’t a dream. Arthur knows it’s not, because when the man rises from his
chair, speechless and just as wide-eyed as Arthur is at seeing this ghost,
Eames levels the man a look so severe, so terrifying, that Arthur wants to piss
himself and is completely sure that the man already has.
Arthur watches him reach for a gun in his pants that isn’t there just as Eames
swings his axe, catching the man in the face with it. It’s so quick and
absolute, Arthur can’t believe it actually happened. His eyes were closed, but
when he cracks one open, Eames is working the axe out of the man’s jaw, cold
and focused, uncaring of the blood pouring over his hands.
The sound startles another man awake. He scrambles to his feet and tries to run
for the door, but Eames swings the awe in his back one time. He does the same
to another boy, who can’t run past him fast enough, his leg bleeding out,
immobilizing him.
But not dead. None of them are dead save for the boss. They all lie where they
fell, clutching at their deep wounds and moaning as Eames leaves the room
again, hunting down one man after another.
Arthur can hear it, even as he pulls the blanket over his head. The dull thud
after a swing, screaming and begging. Someone on the second floor breaks out a
window, but the dull thud and crunch of a bone breaking makes that room fill
with more screams. It’s unending. In all the time that’s passed since Arthur
was bound to this bed, he knows how many men are in this house. He can’t
believe that not one of them has managed to escape.
Above the chaos of screams and moaning, soft, clumsy feet hurry up the stairs.
Three boys rush into Arthur’s room, out of breath and sweating, already covered
in blood, but their wounds are shallow. One boy skids to a halt. “Wait, wait,
grab the kid!” he hisses. “If he finds us, we can negotiate with him!”
“Are you fucking nuts, that’s who he’s after. Look at the fucking room already!
Come on!”
The argument is cut short when boots stomp up the stairs. The three stop
breathing, moving to the bathroom, closing the door silently behind them.
Eames enters, headed for Arthur. He props the axe on the bedside table again
and pulls the covers back from Arthur’s face, but he pauses when Arthur extends
his arm.
Shaking, Arthur points his finger at the bathroom door. He knows that the boys
are young, he knows that they're unarmed. He doesn't care. 
Eames looks in that direction and picks up the axe again.
Arthur hides back under the blanket as Eames smashes the door in.
“No, no, no! Wait, wait, please!” is all he hears before Eames corners them.
When the axe gets stuck in the first boy, Eames simply pummels the other two
with his bare hands.
Arthur says nothing, nor does Eames. This isn’t the man who’d given him the
cigar box, or even the man who’d saved Arthur’s neck in that alley. No, this
one…this one is something from a nightmare, though thankfully, blessedly, not
Arthur’s.
In spite of that, a terrified sound still crawls out from Arthur’s mouth as
Eames approaches.
And just like that, with that one sound, Eames changes.
“Easy, baby,” he soothes, “I got you.” He hushes Arthur with a gentle voice,
his expression soft, careful, like his hands as they slowly gather the blankets
around Arthur to bundle him up.  
Arthur bites his lip, clutching Eames and groaning as he’s moved, but Eames
keeps up his quiet reassurances.
In a clearer state of mind, perhaps, Arthur would be mortified to see what
Eames has done. Eames has to step over men, all still alive and trying to crawl
to some safe place or another, though more than most can’t move at all.
Arthur’s carefully placed on the kitchen counter, where he sees the piles of
weapons stored under the table.
When he looks for Eames, the man is gone. Quickly, he wipes his eyes,
searching, his heart pounding. Maybe this really was a dream, some moment of
delirium as some other gang has come to take over.
But Eames stomps past him, a gas container in his hands. Arthur watches him
cover the downstairs. Screams rise up again, followed by coughing and
sputtering as he pours gas on a few of the more mobile boys. The smell makes
Arthur’s head swim, though soon enough, Eames is back.
There’s a car waiting out front. Arthur’s never seen the man at the wheel. He
grips Eames’ shirt and hoodie when he’s put in the backseat.
“Eames, Eames? Don’t leave me, please,” he whispers.
"Hey, hey, it's okay. It's okay, Arthur." Eames takes a moment to hold him
tight, soothing him again, and for a second, Arthur thinks Eames really will
let the man drive off without him as Eames goes back into the apartment.
“Here,” the man upfront says, a bottle offered over his shoulder. “It’s vitamin
water,” he explains, in as odd an accent as Eames’.
Arthur simply holds it to his chest until Eames shuts the apartment door behind
him, Arthur’s box tucked under his arm.
The water’s forgotten on the floor once that little box is back in Arthur’s
hands.
From the car, Arthur can see Eames pause to take a moment to look up back at
the building, unflinching when something explodes in one of the top floor
rooms. It shatters the windows and feeds the growing fire as the flames spread
through the house. Eames stoops down, pained and grimacing, and sinks his hands
under the snow. He cups handfuls of it and rubs it in his face, cleaning away
most of the red.
There’s blood under his nails and in his hairline still, but he gets into the
car and pulls Arthur to lie against him with care.
The man at the wheel turns to look at Eames. "It's done?"
He nods. "It's done. Drive to a place outside of the city, Yusuf, just in
case.”
+
***** Chapter 3 *****
+
 
It’s not another gang base that Yusuf takes them to. It’s a hospital.
Eames begins to slip into his coat once they're parked, but Yusuf glances back
at him. “Let me.”
“Fuck off.”
“Eames, you bloody look like the fucking mass murderer that you are. If you
don’t want to end up in county holding tonight, you’ll stay put and let me get
him in.”
Things go by in a blur after that. Yusuf gets Arthur out the car and into the
emergency room staff’s arms quickly before disappearing.
Arthur goes blank during the doctors’ exam. He doesn’t know why he has to do a
rape kit now that everyone has been burned alive in that apartment. The bright
lights, the combs, the white coats, white walls…none of it does his head any
good.
They give him something in his IV drip and he’s out cold.
He’s alone in the cramped little room when he wakes up. As the day progresses,
nurses come in, the doctor leaves, and by the time lunch rolls around, Arthur
starts to get nervous.
It’s the worst thing in the world to be here. He knows what’s going to happen.
They’ll all continue to rotate, in and out of his room, until they can figure
out enough of who he is, and then he’ll be sent back into foster care and all
the hell that place will bring.
So, he bites his tongue and hopes beyond hope that something terrible didn’t
happen to Eames.
The man finally shows up around the time that the nurses give him the right
dosage of medicine to make him loopy enough to talk.
Eames looks so frayed and tired that Arthur wonders at first if it really was
Eames that saved him this morning.
“You’ve been out for two days,” Eames mutters, stunning Arthur. “I’ve told them
you’re my cousin, but I have nothing to back that up with, and considering…what
happened… They’re curious to know who hurt you.” He runs his bandaged hand
through his hair, looking through the little glass window on the door.
Arthur follows his eyes. There’s a cop outside talking with one of the nurses.
At once, Arthur tries to sit up so he can run, but Eames keeps him planted.
“What are you doing? Eames, we have to go. Now.”
“As soon as the cop’s gone, you betcha.” He frowns, rubbing his face. “How are
you… How are you feeling?”
Arthur doesn’t have an answer for that. His IV drip is a lifesaver, that’s for
sure. The medication gives him the chance to run from all the bogeymen chasing
him in his head. He just doesn’t know if he’ll be prepared to fight them off
once the medication’s gone.
Eames sighs. “I’m sorry. Fucking hell, Arthur, I’m sorry. If I could have come
back for you sooner, I would have. If not for Yusuf, I would have been dead,
but… I just had to make sure I could save you before I did. I mean, fuck me,
I’m still finding bullets to dig out of my back, but… It’s no excuse. I know
it’s not.”
“But you did. You came back and you don’t even really know me.”
“Well…” Eames still frowns, looking at his hands. His mouth is open to speak,
but nothing comes out.
“Why did you save me, Eames?” Arthur reaches out to touch Eames’ hand, but
Eames moves it a little out of his reach, his eyes still anywhere but on
Arthur. “Eames, you could have been… killed. I’m nobody.”
Eames looks up at that. “Not to me.”
Before Arthur can respond, a nurse walks in, clipboard in hand. Eames moves
back to sit in the corner, eyeing the woman with an expression that makes her
quickly look away from him. 
She clears her throat. “We were able to find possible paperwork for you in the
system…Arthur?”
Damn. “Yes, ma’am.”
“It says here that you’re originally from California, but you have a foster
family not far from here?” When he nods at his feet, she flips the page. Her
eyes go wide. “You’ve been missing…for quite some time, Arthur.” She glances
nervously at Eames.
“I couldn’t stay there,” Arthur mutters, twisting the blanket in his hands,
feeling a little seed of panic plant itself in his stomach.
“Trouble?” she asks, nodding with him. “Well, honey, running away is about the
worst thing you could have done.”
“I…” He takes a breath, trying to stop the panic from growing. “My case worker
and the police didn’t believe me, so… I… I left.”
She tilts her head and Arthur feels like that little child again, about to be
chastised before being handed back into the arms of his abusers. “Honey,
nothing is worse than running away. You were twelve years old, you’re only
fourteen now… it’s not a good idea, as I'm sure you realize now, in order to
end up like you have. There’s too many crazies in this world who want to take
advantage of you.” Her words, he knows, are directed to Eames.
“I had my cousin,” Arthur quickly says, pointing at Eames. He’s distracted for
a moment looking at him. Eames is staring at the floor like he’s trying not to
see at a ghost flying around the room. When at last he looks at Arthur, Eames
is clearly having a fit behind his blank expression.
The nurse glances at Eames, her brow arched in disbelief. “That’s fantastic,
and I'm sure he’s a fun guy to hang out with, but your cousin’s a little young
to be taking care of you.” She takes off her glasses. “I’m going to call the
agency, okay? And you, son,” she says to Eames, “need to bring me some kind of
an ID or something, since neither one of you two seem to know what your names
are. You shouldn't have even ever been let in here without it.”  
Arthur buries his face in his hands as soon as she leaves. “Eames, look, I
don’t care what she says, I’ve taking care of myself long enough. I’m not a
child.”
Eames rubs his face, pacing the room. “I fucked a fourteen-year-old.”
“Come on, Eames. It’s no big deal. You’re not that much older.”
“I’ll be old enough to drink in this country in less than a year, so that's
bullshit. Too fucking old to—” He rubs his face again. “Are you at
least…almost fifteen?”
“Yes. Three months. No, two.” He's shocked to learn just how much time has
passed when he sees the date written on the whiteboard.
Eames tries to chew it over. He stands beside the bed, looking pale. “Arthur…
She’s right.”
“She has no idea what she’s talking about. She doesn’t know what I’ve been
through. She doesn’t know you.”
“Neither do you! I’ve…" He lowers his voice. "I fucking butchered a entire
house full of people and set them on fire. After it was my arrogance that got
you brutalized, okay? That’s the only reason why you’re here, Arthur. I caused
you to get hurt.” He curses under his breath and sighs. “Listen, I… They’re not
going to ask me for ID anymore, they’re just going to throw me out, or arrest
me, so…”
Arthur’s mouth goes slack. “What are you saying? Eames, no, you’re not going to
fucking leave me here.”
“I am.” He nods. “I am. I have to.”
“Eames—”
“Arthur, look at yourself. Think of all the times your neck’s been on the line.
Fourteen year olds shouldn’t have to deal with any of that. You don’t have to
be on the streets.”
“No.” Arthur grabs the front of Eames' coat. “Eames, please. You don’t know
what it was like. I’m not going back there.” 
Eames shakes his head, carefully trying to pry Arthur's hands away. "Arthur,
come on. You've got to get someplace where you can be taken care of, like other
kids. I can't give you that. God, you already know that all too well."
"No. Please. If you let them take me... Eames, please. No." He squeezes his
eyes shut and blurts out over Eames's continued protests, "I was raped by my
foster father and the other boys he raised, okay?" He won't wipe his eyes,
afraid that if he lets Eames go for a second, he'll be gone forever. "They ran
me out of the house. I didn't have a choice. When I asked for help, no one was
there for me, so I left. If I go back, it will happen again. It won't stop
happening. I will kill myself. Please."
Eames' face twists into a pained expression, his shoulders sinking. "Fuck,
baby. I'm sorry. You know that I am. But Arthur, sweetheart, you don't know
what will happen this time. What if you get placed with different people? You
could have a family, you know? And... and grow up safe, and have a good life.
You're a fucking kid. You shouldn't be out here like this, and you damn well
shouldn't be with me."
"I don't want to be anywhere else. Eames, you're the only person I have. Don't
let them take me."
"Christ. No. I'm so fucking sorry, Arthur, but I can't... God damn it, what has
happened to me?" He takes Arthur's face in his hands. "I care about you. A lot,
but... If I... I'll end up in prison faster than you can learn how to spell my
name correctly. Okay? Then you'll be right back where you started. Or dead. You
are the only innocent person I know and being with me will ruin that. I just...
I just want you to be safe. Okay? You can't be around me anymore. I won't have
it."
Arthur lets go of his shirt to sob in his hands. Still, he nods, because what
else can he say? Eames doesn't want him anymore. Eames doesn't want him
anymore. 
Eames kisses the top of his head and rubs his ears. "So...yeah. Yeah, you're
going to be safe now. They'll place you with a... with a great family. I hope.
I really, really fucking hope so. You deserve it, you know? You're a good kid.
So hopefully they'll find you good people." He doesn't sound overly convinced
the more he keeps repeating his encouragements, more to encourage himself, it
seems, than Arthur.
 
Arthur doesn't sleep at all that night, alone in the room, staring at all the
tiny lights on the machines, listening to the tap of soft shoes and faint
voices as the nurses make their rounds and gossip together. 
Tomorrow's going to be a nightmare. Social workers, counselors, paperwork, and
cots and bunk beds shared with however many boys they could fit into whatever
house he'll be sent to. Maybe the people will be nice, maybe in a month or
another year, he'll be placed into a nice family's house...or he could end up
with either another David next week, or—he shudders to think—the very man
himself, since Arthur's sure David's family still fosters the same kids. 
He thinks more than once of pulling out the IV needle or suffocating himself
under his pillow, but he doesn't have the willpower to do more than lie there,
wishing he could steal one of Eames' cigarettes, waiting for the sun to come
up. Around midnight, though, a nurse comes in to check on him and seeing him
awake, she gives him medicine that makes him sleep.
He dreams of his mother and his aunt, that they are coming to pick him up in
the morning. Then Eames.
+
 
"Okay, sugar," the nurse smiles, scribbling instructions on a slip of paper she
then tucks into the bag with his medications. "Kimberly, your new case worker,
said she's running a bit behind this morning, so she should be here in about
ten or fifteen minutes. If you want to take a nap until then, feel free. I'm
down the hall if you need anything."
"Okay." He lies back down on his side carefully and inspects the contents in
the bag. Bottles and bottles and packets of pills. He holds the bag to his
chest and closes his eyes.
He keeps them closed even as the door opens and clicks shut quietly, until
someone shakes his shoulder, startling him.
"Get up, Arthur," Eames whispers. "Quickly, come on."
"What? Eames?" He doesn't wait to be asked a third time. He gives Eames the
pill bag to zip up in the little backpack on his shoulder and lets Eames help
him to the wheelchair he's stolen. Arthur notices then that Eames has on
sweatpants and a jacket in plain-enough colors to look like one of the clinic's
orderlies.
In fact, when Eames hurries the wheelchair towards the doors, a lady with a
badge stating that her name is Kimberly on her coat just smiles and holds open
the door for them.
"Eames?"
"Yeah, kitty cat?"
"Where are we going?"
"No idea. And no more fucking questions either. I haven't entirely though this
through, so I can still change my mind." He unlocks the doors on a car with
Texas license plates and helps Arthur in. He leaves the wheelchair on the curb.
"I've got some favors to collect on, so here's hoping at least one pans out."
"Eames?"
"Mhm?"
Arthur reaches across the space between them to touch Eames' shoulder. "Thank
you." 
Eames chuckles and shrugs him off. "Don't thank me yet, baby. I'm not exactly a
knight in shining armor here. I got you from the fucking dragon's tower, but
there's no fucking palace to take you to, so... If this is a fairytale, it's an
awfully shitty one."
Arthur smiles a little at Eames' grimace. He couldn't disagree more though, but
he said nothing. His eyes stay on Eames, his savor, his big hand held in
Arthur's little ones.
+
 
Yusuf and Eames cut a deal, but only because Yusuf seems to know that without
making Eames work – using his muscle and reputation to collect owed money for
the trapper – in exchange for a floor to sleep on, Eames won’t leave Arthur’s
side.
Eames needs fresh air, Arthur always hears Yusuf say all the time. Arthur
hardly ever sees Yusuf himself. In fact that first week, all Arthur sees is
Eames, which could be odd, but this Eames, after all. Keeping Arthur holed up
in a space is just something that Eames does. Only this time, Arthur is
perfectly fine with it. It's paradise; quiet, peace, and the corner of an empty
heated room for him to curl up in Eames’ sleeping bag and heal. He sleeps
through most of the day until Eames returns from Yusuf’s errands.
Eames finds him sleeping there in his corner, burrowed in the mound of blankets
and pillows that the other squatters and the junkies gave him. He stirs awake,
groggy and disoriented for a long time under the grip of his medications, but
Eames sits close, patiently, awkwardly petting his hair until Arthur brain is
back online.
“Hey,” Arthur mutters.
“Hey, kitty cat. How you feeling today?"
"Somebody put a brick in my head." He rubs his cheeks.
Eames chuckles. "Some of this shit will definitely make that happen. Did you
take your afternoon ones yet? I got food, if your appetite's back.”
Arthur nods his head against the pillow. “I had a bad dream. It made me sick.”
Eames frowns, but keeps his voice soft. He never stops petting Arthur hair even
as Arthur starts to doze again. “Sounds like you must have forgotten something
then. How much stuff are you taking?”
Arthur has to sit up in order to stay awake. He grimaces, trying to get
comfortable. He keeps the little backpack with his cigar box and his pills
hidden behind the blankets, away from the junkies. “Um…Let's see.” He dumps the
bag over. “I got this one for sleeping,” he says, his voice still thick and his
words slow, “these two for an antibiotic and painkiller, since I have damaged
scar tissue, or something…”
Eames sighs, looking at all the little bottles.
“This one’s for…something I have no idea how to pronounce…" He squints at the
information sheet he pulls out of the backpack. "C-h-l-a-m-y-d—”
Eames’ face falls as Arthur spells it out.
“And…these four are ‘preventive,’ but I don’t know what they’re preventing,
so—”
Eames plucks the bottle from Arthur’s hand. His eyes look from the medications
to Arthur. “How long until they know whether you’ve caught something?”
Arthur shrugs. “They said I should get tested again in three months, but for
what, I have no idea. I should be back on my feet by then anyways. What?”
Eames stares at him for a long time, making Arthur nervous. Finally he speaks,
his voice wavering slightly. “You used condoms when you hustled, right—”
“Huh?” His brow furrows. “I don’t understand.”
“Arthur…you…” Eames takes a deep breath. “This one here is a medication for an
STI that you already have.”
Arthur blinks, slowly, nodding out a little again. “Okay.”
Eames stares at him, taking another deep breath. “Okay. Did you not know that
you had chlamydia before?”
“No. What’s that?”
“No? But you're a... You honestly don’t know?”
Arthur looks down, his cheeks turning pink as he puts the pills back into the
bag. “No. The nurse kept talking about a bunch of stuff, but I—”
“They don’t fucking teach kids sex education in schools in this country?”
“I don’t know, okay? I have no idea. Sorry.”
“Oh, god damn.” Eames rubs his face and groans. “Arthur, you and me, we didn't
used condoms when we fucked.”
"Wait, you mean those little plastic tubes?" Arthur huffs at that. "They're
stupid. A few johns had them, some times, but I just thought they were weird.
Like little trashbags for come. Right?"
"Oh, fuck me."
"What? Eames, come on." He nudges Eames' shoulder when the man hides his face
behind his hands.
"How are you still fucking alive right now?" Eames snaps. "Whose skull do I
have to bash in? Who is fucking responsible for making you so fucking—God, how
old were you when you started having sex?"
Arthur sits back, his ears red, and twists the blankets in his hands. He's
watching Eames through his lashes, feeling stupid himself now. “Eames, please
don’t make fun of me.”
“Baby, I’m not. It’s just… Wow. This isn’t good at all, Arthur. What was the
last year that you were school—Or what grade, as you said?”
Arthur looks away and sighs, wishing he can go back to sleep. “Fifth,” he says
softly. “I'm not an idiot or anything, I just—Well, I was supposed to be in the
fifth, but… I didn’t finish the third year. When my mom died, my aunt took me
out of school, because she didn’t want my dad’s family to find me. But then
when I ended up in foster care, I had to repeat the grade again, since I failed
the math placement test, but then I got taken out of school again anyways,
when…David.”
Eames asks numbly, “Who the fuck is David?”
“My foster dad.” Arthur rubs his eyes. “He was supposed to homeschool me, but…
other stuff happened, so… yeah. Technically third, but I know I could have been
farther than that, so it still counts.”
“Baby... Jesus Christ.”
“I’m tired, Eames,” Arthur says to his feet under the blankets. He lies back
down. “I don’t want to talk about this stuff anymore.”
Eames sits back and breathes deeply again. “Yeah, okay, sorry. I, um…” He
scratches his neck. “Okay.” He sits quietly for a while, listening to the cars
drive by on the street below, watching Arthur stare at the floor. “It’s just
that—”
“I get it, Eames. I’m dumb and diseased. I fucking get it. Who cares?”
“No, baby. Look at me. All I was going to say is that…” He rummages in the bag
and pulls out of the medications again. “These five here, you need to take
these religiously, okay? Sure, the antibiotics and the sleeping stuff are all
important, but these five will save your life, okay? It won't last forever.
This is really fucked up to say, but you got lucky with just chlamydia, because
these pills here will fix that, but you have to take all of them. Can you do
that for me?”
Arthur wipes his eyes and nods.
“Good. When you’re feeling better, we’ll talk about it. Deal?”
“I don’t want to,” Arthur mutters.
“Well… tough shit, because it has to happen. And I’m pretty sure I’ve got
whatever you’ve got, considering how this shit gets passed through sex when
idiots don't use condoms.”
Arthur covers his face, wishing he can disappear. “Sorry.”
“No. Fuck. I'm sorry. I didn't mean you. It's not your fault. But me? I'm a
fucking idiot. I'm just as much to blame as them because I was supposed to be
the bloke that cared about you, and caring about you means that I should have
been responsible. Look, I like you Arthur, but… you’re a child. You don't know
anything.”
“No, I’m not.” He falls quiet at the look Eames gives at him.
Eames snorts. “No? Okay, fine. You're right. You stopped being a child the day
your legs got opened up. Children don't have responsibilities, but you do,
which means that you’ve got to get smart about your body. Adults, in theory,
take their issues very seriously. You can't avoid it now, so instead of lying
here all day, with nothing in your head, I’m going to bring you books—”
“You’re going to rob a library? Please don’t.”
“If I have to, yes, because I refuse for you to be fucking illiterate. Do you
even know what that word means? Exactly. This is why you need books. You’re
going to catch up, at least on the basics. That way you won’t be lost in the
fucking dark anymore, okay?” When Arthur doesn’t say anything, Eames crosses
his arms. “You’re scared?” He lets Arthur turn his back to him. He sighs.
“Look, I don’t blame you. This world is a very scary place for all of us, kitty
cat, but… I’m here. Your mine now. I'm going to protect you, and take care of
you as good as I can, so you don't have to be afraid.”
Arthur still doesn’t speak. Eames watches him wipe at his eyes again. "Okay."
He leans in to kiss his shoulder before he gets to his feet.
“Eames?” Arthur calls behind him.
“Hm?”
"Please don't be mad at me. I didn't mean to make you sick too. I... I didn't
know."
Eames shakes his head. "Don't be silly, Arthur, it's not attractive."
Arthur can't hold back his blush. He rolls his eyes. “Do you want to lie down
with me?”
Eames gives him a little grin. "Sure." He kicks out of his shoes quickly and
starts to unlatch his belt.
Arthur's heart stops, hearing that belt clatter to the floor and the sound of
pants being unzipped. “Eames, wait, no—What are you doing?”
When Eames glances at him, Arthur’s sitting up, his eyes wide, his arm out and
his hand up, like he’s bracing or blocking something. He’s in a tiny ball with
that hand out, making sure no one can come near him, even though the others in
the flat all asleep in another room. "Not that, Eames. I'm not ready for
that... You'll hurt me. Please, I can't..."
Eames pales, but Arthur doesn’t see him anymore. “Oh no, Arthur, I wasn’t—I was
just—Shit, I’m sorry. I'm sorry.” Eames redresses, even puts his shoes on
before carefully approaching, lacing his fingers with Arthur’s, startling him.
“Hey. Hey, you okay? I wasn’t trying anything funny, I just don’t like sleeping
in my trousers. It's me.”
Arthur quickly puts his hand down, tucking it around his legs. “Oh." His voice
wavers. "S-Sorry.”
“It’s fine. Do you still… I can go, if—”
“No. No, I’m okay.” But Arthur’s trembling, as flat against the wall as he can
manage, watching Eames as if he doesn’t know who the man is at first. He grabs
a handful of Eames’ shirt. "Please. I'm okay."
"No, Arthur, you're a wreck, but that's okay. It's okay." Eames has to fight
him a little to get his arms around him, but once he does, Arthur melts. 
"I'm not okay, Eames." Arthur hides his face in Eames' neck.
"I know, kitty cat, I know." He gets them both lied down, but keeps the
blankets between them. He kisses Arthur's head and rocks him. "It's okay, baby.
Just give it time. Okay? Just give it time." 
++
+
 
End. 
 
End Notes
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