She doesn't know how long they sit there; it's funny how dreams sometimes corrupt one's sense of time. When seconds feel like minutes and minutes feel like hours and hours feel like days. She thinks it's Wednesday when the doctor finally pushes through the door; she remembers they brought Eames to the hospital on Tuesday, but she can't remember. She can't think of anything as she lets herself be pushed away. She numbly watches as Arthur stiffly pushes himself from the chair and meets the man halfway. She gingerly pushes herself to her feet, cautiously walking forward like one might approach a wounded animal. She's prepared for anything, she thinks.
That is until Arthur dissolves into the most heartbreaking sobs.
She moves before she can even think to move, catching his body against her own. He's still larger than her; he's still hysterical, and so they fall. They slide down the wall together, Arthur's face in her neck, her fingers in her hair. He's clutching her shirt so tightly she's afraid he's going to tear it. The wetness on her neck is foreign and unfamiliar and unpleasant and it breaks her fucking heart, "Arthur, Arthur, Arthur," she whispers because she doesn't know what else to say. She whispers because she's afraid to ask the question; she's afraid she doesn't want to know the answer.
"He made it, Ari," Arthur breathes into her neck between another hysterical sob, sixteen hours of surgery later, and Eames is okay.
He clutches her tightly to him, exhausted with lack of sleep and relief, sagging against her as he rides out the last few relieved sobs that hiccup past his lips, and she holds him back just as fiercely, whispering promises to remain until Eames can hold Arthur like this again.
Re: Soon [Inception, Arthur/Eames, Arthur/Ariadne friendship] Part 2/2.
That is until Arthur dissolves into the most heartbreaking sobs.
She moves before she can even think to move, catching his body against her own. He's still larger than her; he's still hysterical, and so they fall. They slide down the wall together, Arthur's face in her neck, her fingers in her hair. He's clutching her shirt so tightly she's afraid he's going to tear it. The wetness on her neck is foreign and unfamiliar and unpleasant and it breaks her fucking heart, "Arthur, Arthur, Arthur," she whispers because she doesn't know what else to say. She whispers because she's afraid to ask the question; she's afraid she doesn't want to know the answer.
"He made it, Ari," Arthur breathes into her neck between another hysterical sob, sixteen hours of surgery later, and Eames is okay.
He clutches her tightly to him, exhausted with lack of sleep and relief, sagging against her as he rides out the last few relieved sobs that hiccup past his lips, and she holds him back just as fiercely, whispering promises to remain until Eames can hold Arthur like this again.
"Soon."