capeandcowllogs | 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. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Arthur starts his sutures on the worst of the wounds, carefully. It will scar, because Arthur isn't a plastic surgeon, but he knows Eames doesn't want a real doctor anywhere near him]

They didn't mess up your tattoos.

Small miracles, mmhm?

[ there's a pause. he can feel the pull of the needle, strangely lacking in sensation. ]

It seems you'll have new scars to categorize.

Nothing I'm happy about, I promise.

[ he breathes a laugh. ]

I'm going to have to stop wearing this face.

[ because they know about it. ]

Time to make a new forge.

[He keeps stitching, infinitely patient.]

Something to do while I wait for this mess to heal.

[ at least in dreamspace he won't have to worry about ripping stitches. ]

You can sleep in the bed.

[Provided he keeps the bandages on]

I really almost died. That's the only way you'd make that kind of allowance.

[ the expression on his face is amused, in spite of the pull of the needle. ]

You're in a bad way, Mr. Eames.

[He cuts and sews methodically]

You really almost died.

I've lived through worse.

[ although he's not specifying whether he means through dreams or reality. ]

Is that your way of asking me not to get sentimental?

[Arthur finishes up the worst of the stitches and gets with the bandages]

Perhaps.

[ there's a pause. eames very carefully stretches. he's never enjoyed stitches, the feel of them pulling at his skin. ]

Thank you, my dear.

It's just a fact.

[Arthur has enough neosporin to antibacterialize a third-world country, and he is currently putting it in place on Eames' bandages.]

Careful, or I'll start thinking you're actually fond of me.

[ he takes a deep breath, running a finger over a neat line of stiches. ]

If I do sleep too deeply...

[ the implication is there. you'll pull me out? ]

I'll keep that in mind.

[Something in Arthur's face softens - less affection and more concern, though]

Don't worry.

[ very gently, eames touches arthur's cheek, scrutinizing his expression. ]

I'm not.

[ because he knows arthur, and knows that arthur is damn good at the business of keeping people safe. even eames, when it comes to that. ]

[Arthur doesn't seem to mind the touch, but he keeps bandaging]

You're going to be out of commission for a couple of weeks.

Surely I'll heal faster than that.

[ or he'll force himself to, either way. eames has things to do, torturers to find. ]

I hope so. Two weeks of bedrest will make you crazy.

[Which will make Arthur crazy. He finishes up the bandaging]

[ as if eames can handle being still for even one week. ]

I'm sorry about your car, Arthur.

[ there's a lot in that statement that isn't put to words. thank you for coming. thank you for stitching me back together. thank you. ]

You'll get me a new one.

[You're welcome. Arthur may not be good at emotional displays, or at being mostly human, but he's good at taking care of people.]

Need help or can you get on your feet without it?

Yes, I shall.

[ eames just holds out his hands. he won't admit it outright, but there's no real way for him to be good on his feet after that much blood loss. ]

[Arthur's hands go out to help Eames. Luckily, too, this particular apartment isn't a loft, it's one level.]

This way.

[He's ready to move in, support as much of Eames' weight as necessary.]

[ which is probably most of it, to eames' dismay. he's never liked feeling weak; this is the worst of situations, for him. ]

How secure is this place?

More secure than the loft. First off, no one knows I'm here.

[He opens the door to the bedroom and helps Eames to the bed]

There's a gun behind the headboard, if you need it.

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