If Only You Could See The Stranger Next To Me
Adapted from a Kink Meme prompt. It called for the compounds they used to start affecting Eames by having him have violent outbreaks. They also called for some Arthur/Cobb action, but because I exclusively ship Arthur with Eames, that was a no go for me.
This is probably the darkest fiction I have ever written, and the darkest I will probably ever write for these two characters.
Warnings: Suicide, Murder, and Abuse.
The sickening sound of flesh striking flesh fills the room. Somewhere in his mind, the smallest of parts, begs him to stop. The rest of his mind ignores the thought and continues lunging and attacking. His companion tries to restrain him, tries to appeal to that one small, sane part of his brain.
The moral conscience starts to win over. This is wrong; you love him. Stop hurting him. Calm yourself. It's a slow, agonizing process. He eventually grows limp and collapses upon a couch, a bed, or the ground; whichever is closest. This time, it's the floor.
He shakes with self-disgust, able to recall every single punch, kick, and volatile word uttered in those moments of mindlessness. His boyfriend crouches down beside him, asking him if he's okay. The bruising around the left brown eye is already evident. Regaining his strength, Eames pushes himself off the floor and moves swiftly into the bathroom, locking the door. Leaning heavily against the counter, his eyes never dart up to look into the mirror. He doesn't know who he is anymore and hasn't for over a month now. The mirror contains a stranger, who he would love to dispose the world of. Any other person wouldn't remain breathing more than five seconds after hurting Arthur like he does.
Perhaps, it is a combination of forging and the drugs that are scrambling his brain. They don't know for sure and he's beginning to believe they never will.
"How did you manage to get a black eye?" Cobb inquires as Arthur walks in the next morning.
"Bar fight." The point man says shortly, leaving no room for other inquiries. He knows Cobb believes him; he's often prone to violent outbursts while drunk. As they set to work, Eames offers Arthur an icepack; he rejects it.
"Please. I already feel badly enough." Arthur, once again, refuses it. From across the warehouse, he notices Cobb watching their every move. When news of their relationship broke, they had promised to keep affectionate actions to a minimum.
From the look Cobb sends Arthur, if he believed him before, he sure doesn't now.
Arthur frantically tries to kick at him, punch him, something. The hands around his throat are constricting his airway. Blackness ebbs into his peripheral as he gasps, trying to drag any particles of oxygen into his lungs that he can. With one last effort, he manages to knee Eames in the stomach. Getting the wind knocked out of him allows Arthur time to get away from him.
When Eames doesn't come back up, he knows the spell is over. Eames looks up at him, eyes absolutely horrified. He scrambles to his feet, grabs his jacket, and bolts out of the hotel room. Arthur punches the wall and mutters a long string of swears.
He phones Yusuf and explains what happened through a strained voice.
"You finished the job today, correct? I say he doesn't use until I can visit from Mombassa in three weeks. Then, we'll start working on compounds." Arthur agrees.
Eames returns back to the hotel room a few hours later. Arthur tells Eames what Yusuf said; yet Arthur knows Eames barely listens. The distance in his eyes and his delayed responses fuel that belief.
They head to bed, yet neither goes to sleep. Arthur stares out into the darkness, trying to find the right words to say. "I love you." Arthur says quietly, filling the deadly silence of the room.
Eames rolls over, facing the opposite direction, "You shouldn't."
Eames barely makes it out of bed that morning, his self-hatred bogging him down. Before, the violence never escalated to that point. Merely a few punches or bitter words, never strangulation. The bright lights in the warehouse highlight the dark bruises against Arthur's pale throat. If Cobb notices, which he surely will, it'll be another lie covering up the truth for the bruises.
They arranged this final meeting to destroy evidence and documentation. Arthur enters the room first and Cobb's face becomes consumed in rage and concern. Dom rushes toward Eames and he does nothing to stop him. Any violence afflicted against him, he deserves. Dom punches Eames in the face with all his might. Arthur rushes over to a slightly dazed Eames, as Eames slips his hand over his broken nose.
"What the fuck, Cobb?" Arthur bellows, angrily glaring at him. Arthur's examines the nose with delicate touches.
"He deserves it, especially with what he does to you. You come to work with new bruises every day, Arthur. Do you really think I could continue buying your weak excuses?"
Arthur's eyes narrow, "My personal life is none of your concern. Did you ever consider that maybe I just like it rough? After everything everyone dealt with because of your projection of Mal, for you to be judgmental of anyone is astounding. Destroy the evidence yourself. You know where to wire the money." Another lie for the sake of their dirty secret. "Don't bother calling for any other jobs. I won't be answering." Arthur walks out and Eames sends Cobb an uneasy look before following the point man out.
Eames feels inexplicable guilt. He deserves only the worst punishments. Cobb should have ripped his throat out, put his destructive existence to an end. Perhaps, placing the barrel of a gun in his mouth would be best. The cold metal would put an end to the monstrosity he's become. Suicidal thoughts run rampant through the depth of his thoughts.
"Hopefully it's only a fracture. We'll see once the swelling goes down if it's crooked." Arthur mentions as he drives them to the airport in their rental. "Has the bleeding stopped?"
"Yes." Eames swallows heavily, "I deserved this." Arthur grows rigid in the driver's seat and purses his lips. "You can deny fact if you desire, Arthur, but it's getting worse."
"It's only because you've been using almost daily. And Yusuf has already agreed to work with us. It could just be certain chemical compounds."
"You don't know that. What if it just keeps happening? What if it has nothing to do with the chemicals? You'd be smart to just end this now before I seriously hurt you or kill you."
Annoyance edges into Arthur's voice, "I can defend myself."
"Right. That's why I nearly choked you to death last night. Over what? Nothing? One moment, we were fine and the next moment, inexpressible rage took over. What if my mind permanently snaps one day and I don't ever come back?"
"I won't let that happen."
"Don't make promises you can't keep."
Instead of nightly rages, they begin dwindling down to every other day by the end of the first week. Eames has more time to dedicate himself to Arthur before succumbing to the violence. The point man's dedication to him is both stupid and heartwarming. Mainly stupid, but still remarkable, nonetheless. No other person would consistently live with the fear of facing a monster, capable of killing a person with their bare hands in approximately twenty-five different ways. But Arthur stays. He remains what anchors him back each and every time. It's Arthur and the reality of hurting him that lets his sane and conscious mind break through and silence the viciousness within.
He examines the bruises on Arthur's back gently, the latest marks of the latest incident. The other man jolts awake, his defenses put in place until he realizes that Eames is normal, not an anger-driven animal.
"You're stupid. So bloody stupid." Eames murmurs, licking his slightly chapped lips. "Why do you stay? Why do you even bother?"
Arthur heaves a sigh, "Because I am not going to abandon you during this. I'd rather you leave bruises on me than possibly kill someone and wind up in prison. After all of the prison time you've avoided, it would be a shame." He tries to lighten the mood, trying to take Eames's place as the comic relief. "Beside which, Mr. Eames, I don't believe in giving up on a relationship when it gets hard."
"You were ready to leave that first time."
Arthur shrugs, "Perhaps, but I'm still here, aren't I?"
"Because you're a masochist. Any other sane person would have left and never looked back. And I really wish you would. The thought of me taking your life during one of these rages… I can't even bear to think of it, Arthur. I would rather die than ever kill you. I would rather die than continuously hurt you as well."
"You're not allowed to kill yourself. We'll figure this out. Just have some faith. You've already started to improve. Your outbursts are less frequent and violent. But then poses the question, could you live without dreaming if the chemicals are the cause?"
The question is one that Eames should know the answer to. But what's a life without dreaming? Without doing something worthwhile with his existence? Would Arthur retire with him? Most likely not. Eames does not picture himself as a stay-at-home husband, doing absolutely nothing. "I don't know. Let's see what Yusuf says."
"There's an extract in most of the compounds that can affect how the brain controls anger. It helps to induce the clarity of the dream. While not absolutely essential, without that extract, the clarity is weaker than what you're used to. There are substitutions that I've been experimenting with. One dreamer, unfortunately, suffered a severe allergic reaction. That's the only negative side effect I've seen from the research." Yusuf pauses, "How have the symptoms been otherwise?"
"The rages are less frequent since we stopped going under. Now, they mostly are just verbal." Arthur tries to forget all of the horrible things Eames keeps saying; they hurt more than any broken bones could have.
Eames is flipping through pages of notes Yusuf has supplied them with. "Is there any relation to the previous extract and the one in which you're substituting?"
"There are similar properties, but they are two different chemicals. The dreamers in the experimental runs have actually preferred this compound to others. Shall I set up the PASIV?"
Arthur nods, standing from his seat and moves to the window. The sun blinds him, reflecting off the building across the street. You're fucking worthless; you know that? Even your mother didn't love you. Decided killing herself was better than putting up with you and what a disgrace you were. Those words echo in his mind; all uttered in Eames's voice masked by biting hatred.
Eames apologized profusely, naturally. Arthur had forgiven him. But he couldn't forget them as hard as he tried. Arthur could handle broken bones, bruises, and probably any other abuse whether it is physical, emotional, or mental. But not about that.
How are they going to recover from this? If this solves Eames's problem, what will solve them? They cannot simply go on, pretending like nothing happened. Arthur knows that Eames is practically suicidal. He's merely a fucking shade of himself; carrying all of the pain of having hurt and abused Arthur without meaning to.
"Are you ready, Arthur?" Eames stands behind him, voice blank of emotion. He turns and faces the forger. The sadness in his eyes makes Arthur ache, makes Arthur want to scream maniacally. What he would do to hear Eames sounds like Eames, joke around, call him those ridiculously stupid pet names. The desperation becomes lodged in his throat, so he merely nods in response to Eames.
Blood, so much blood.
This wasn't supposed to happen. The compound was different. Things were supposed to be different.
The bloodied knife hits the ground with a loud clatter. He drops to his knees, the blood seeps into the fabric of his jeans. His arms cradle the broken body, knowing no amount of medical treatment can do anything. Nothing can bring the dead to life. Hectic sobs rip through his throat as he clings closer, growing more hysterical by the stillness of his lover's body.
Genuine anger comes out as he starts screaming at the still body, "I bloody told you! Why did you stay? You stupid, fucking moron. I told you that you couldn't defend yourself." Tears fall down his face, mingling with the smeared blood. Eames pulls Arthur's body flesh against his, rocking back and forth, in absolute misery. The hot rage of anger slowly leaves his body, leaving the cold, deadening realization of loneliness. I killed Arthur. I bloody stabbed him no less than ten times.
He clutches Arthur's body closer, eyes closing as the scene replays. The genuine shock on Arthur's face as the knife pierced his body. The bloodcurdling scream he tried stifling. The way his body crumpled to the ground as he pressed a protective hand to the wound. How he struggled with slippery, bloodied hands to try to stop more attacks. But he hadn't been able.
He didn't even receive comfort during his final moments. Just maniacal laughter and cruel utterances. He died with a look mixed between defeat and betrayal on his face. The last thing Arthur probably heard was how glad everyone would be with him dead. How he was a worthless person.
Eames's pulse fills his ears, his heart hammering on. Grabbing the discarded knife, he rams it into his own stomach, barely feeling the accompanying pain. Crawling to the dresser, he digs through the drawer and grabs Arthur's spare Glock. Leaning against the wall, he places the gun under his chin and…