Note: First time posting, but I couldn't resist! (:
"He's going to be okay."
They were empty words, spoken in the hushed silence of the hospital's corridor. Just lost in the white space, floating with all the other meaningless nuances people doll out like the suckers at the front counter. She had been saying those words or something like them since the nurses and doctors had forced him back into the waiting room, her one hand poised as if she's not sure whether or not she wants to touch him or not (but most likely trying to figure out if he'll snap her fingers or her neck if she does). It's not that he can blame her. He's not the picture of calm at that moment, white-knuckled grip matching the terrible plastic chair, his back ram-rod straight, his feet tapping a beat he isn't aware of, a heartbeat that he hopes matches one just down the hall, through the double doors, into the OR where -- where --
"Really, Arthur," Ariadne's trying again, this time her hand falling ever so slightly to his elbow, fingers digging into the curve of it, thumb gently stroking at the side. "They said that -- that we were lucky, you know? Got him here so fast -- "
"I was driving," he counters, as if that's reason enough for that. She listens to her swallow her pride, unable to feel any guilt in his stomach. Not when it's overflowing with a fear he refuses to admit to. But he lets her keep her arm there, and that's enough to let her continue.
" -- and the belt, that helped, too, they said. He would have -- " she pauses, unable to really continue the thought, unable to actually say the words "bled out" aloud. She swallows them down with her pride, thumb still stroking softly at Arthur's arm, voice still a gentle whisper in his ear. "But he won't now. He won't, Arthur."
"He can't, Ariadne," he replies, his voice as broken as Eames' arm, tone as shattered as his ribs, "He can't." She can hear it, every agonized scream Eames had let out in the backseat of the car as Arthur fastened his belt tightly around his thigh, hand jammed over the whole to staunch the bleeding even more; she can hear every last ounce of pain that Eames must have felt before he had passed out, alive and raw in Arthur's voice. "... I'll fucking kill him myself, Ariadne, he just can't."
She stops talking, then, just continues to swipe her thumb back and forth in the crook of his elbow, watching Arthur watch the doors separating them from Eames, tortured and brutally beaten. Arthur knows the names of every single person who had done this to him, and he intends to return the favor in kind.
Soon [Inception, Arthur/Eames, Arthur/Ariadne frienship] Part 1.
"He's going to be okay."
They were empty words, spoken in the hushed silence of the hospital's corridor. Just lost in the white space, floating with all the other meaningless nuances people doll out like the suckers at the front counter. She had been saying those words or something like them since the nurses and doctors had forced him back into the waiting room, her one hand poised as if she's not sure whether or not she wants to touch him or not (but most likely trying to figure out if he'll snap her fingers or her neck if she does). It's not that he can blame her. He's not the picture of calm at that moment, white-knuckled grip matching the terrible plastic chair, his back ram-rod straight, his feet tapping a beat he isn't aware of, a heartbeat that he hopes matches one just down the hall, through the double doors, into the OR where -- where --
"Really, Arthur," Ariadne's trying again, this time her hand falling ever so slightly to his elbow, fingers digging into the curve of it, thumb gently stroking at the side. "They said that -- that we were lucky, you know? Got him here so fast -- "
"I was driving," he counters, as if that's reason enough for that. She listens to her swallow her pride, unable to feel any guilt in his stomach. Not when it's overflowing with a fear he refuses to admit to. But he lets her keep her arm there, and that's enough to let her continue.
" -- and the belt, that helped, too, they said. He would have -- " she pauses, unable to really continue the thought, unable to actually say the words "bled out" aloud. She swallows them down with her pride, thumb still stroking softly at Arthur's arm, voice still a gentle whisper in his ear. "But he won't now. He won't, Arthur."
"He can't, Ariadne," he replies, his voice as broken as Eames' arm, tone as shattered as his ribs, "He can't." She can hear it, every agonized scream Eames had let out in the backseat of the car as Arthur fastened his belt tightly around his thigh, hand jammed over the whole to staunch the bleeding even more; she can hear every last ounce of pain that Eames must have felt before he had passed out, alive and raw in Arthur's voice. "... I'll fucking kill him myself, Ariadne, he just can't."
She stops talking, then, just continues to swipe her thumb back and forth in the crook of his elbow, watching Arthur watch the doors separating them from Eames, tortured and brutally beaten. Arthur knows the names of every single person who had done this to him, and he intends to return the favor in kind.
Once he knows that Eames is alive.
Heaven help those fuckers if he dies.