the illustrious mr. eames. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pilfered) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
capeandcowllogs2012-02-17 08:42 pm
pilfered) wrote in capeandcowllogs2012-02-17 08:42 pm
Entry tags:
his wounds healed, the skin a bit thicker than before.
WHO: eames and arthur.
WHERE: somewhere in the city lol specifics.
WHEN: late friday night.
WARNINGS: swearing, blood and injuries, eames.
SUMMARY:
FORMAT: PROSE IN ACTION BRACKETS then whatever mici wants.
[ nothing hurts until the blindfold comes out, and then the pain is crippling, so much so that he staggers sideways, catches himself on the brickwall. his palm is bloody.
all of him is bloody, from the feel of it. he's bleeding beneath the fabric of his coat, and cursing doesn't alleviate the pain, but it distracts him from it for a moment. someone's been at him with some sort of blade, that he can tell, but he can't remember. there's a large chunk of missing time and he can't think back and understand how he got to this spot, to this moment.
is this a dream?
he remembers the morning. he remembers getting up and twisting until his spine cracked--sleeping on the couch never agreed with him, but he'd given sark the bed--and he remembers making tea and he remembers trailing his mark for three hours before lunch and he remembers walking through a department store and he remembers calling his client and then...
and then there is nothing, just a chunk of missing time before he woke up covered in his own blood and--
and he needs to sit down before he falls down. he doesn't know how much blood he's lost. there's no way of telling what is bleeding the worst; whoever is responsible for this is thorough. he knows that moving hurts, but he also knows that he's in not fit shape to lie his way into a hospital. so he forces himself onwards until he finds a bench (a bus stop, he'll be furious if he bleeds to death at a sodding bus stop) and sits and digs his phone from his pocket.
his thumb leaves smears of blood on the keypad. shame, he'd like this phone.
the message is brief. come at once, because explanations take too much time and he isn't certain of what happened in either event. and then he sits back and starts cleaning the blood off his shaking hands with the blindfold, if only because he needs at least some semblance of normalcy. ]
WHERE: somewhere in the city lol specifics.
WHEN: late friday night.
WARNINGS: swearing, blood and injuries, eames.
SUMMARY:
FORMAT: PROSE IN ACTION BRACKETS then whatever mici wants.
[ nothing hurts until the blindfold comes out, and then the pain is crippling, so much so that he staggers sideways, catches himself on the brickwall. his palm is bloody.
all of him is bloody, from the feel of it. he's bleeding beneath the fabric of his coat, and cursing doesn't alleviate the pain, but it distracts him from it for a moment. someone's been at him with some sort of blade, that he can tell, but he can't remember. there's a large chunk of missing time and he can't think back and understand how he got to this spot, to this moment.
is this a dream?
he remembers the morning. he remembers getting up and twisting until his spine cracked--sleeping on the couch never agreed with him, but he'd given sark the bed--and he remembers making tea and he remembers trailing his mark for three hours before lunch and he remembers walking through a department store and he remembers calling his client and then...
and then there is nothing, just a chunk of missing time before he woke up covered in his own blood and--
and he needs to sit down before he falls down. he doesn't know how much blood he's lost. there's no way of telling what is bleeding the worst; whoever is responsible for this is thorough. he knows that moving hurts, but he also knows that he's in not fit shape to lie his way into a hospital. so he forces himself onwards until he finds a bench (a bus stop, he'll be furious if he bleeds to death at a sodding bus stop) and sits and digs his phone from his pocket.
his thumb leaves smears of blood on the keypad. shame, he'd like this phone.
the message is brief. come at once, because explanations take too much time and he isn't certain of what happened in either event. and then he sits back and starts cleaning the blood off his shaking hands with the blindfold, if only because he needs at least some semblance of normalcy. ]