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maybe we show some mercy
[Usually, facing your fears means discovering they're not as bad as they seemed in your head. That your mind catastrophises and exaggerates and the reality is nowhere near what it seemed. Eames certainly wishes that were the case here, but it turns out the reality is far worse than anything that crossed his mind. He'd long since come to terms with the idea that getting caught meant death, but the captain of this discreet little crew made a point of talking about "re-education" with such conviction that it seems like a very real possibility. A real possibility that terrifies Eames in ways he didn't even know he could feel.]
[It's hard not to be mad at himself, and in fact he is. He's fucking furious. Years of being meticulous about hiding from the Empire rendered obsolete because some asshole wanted to make some quick money and Eames hadn't spotted the signs even though that's exactly the kind of thing he's supposed to be good at. And now here he is, bound in a cell on a ship, no idea how long he's been here or where they are — no idea about much of anything outside this room, actually — pumped full of power inhibitors to make doubly sure he can't escape.]
[Fucking hell but it hurts. Hands cuffed behind his back, made to stay on his knees for... A long time. Simultaneously can't feel his legs and yet the muscles burn and ache. All of him a mess of cuts and bruises, a mix of injuries from fighting back and some from cruelty passed off as discipline. He thinks his nose might be broken and one of his eyes is swollen into a semi-permanant squint. The longer he kneels here, the more Eames thinks the inhibitor injections were less about preventing escape and more about making sure he couldn't heal away the beatings; making sure he'd suffer through every moment of the trip "home."]
[It's hard not to be mad at himself, and in fact he is. He's fucking furious. Years of being meticulous about hiding from the Empire rendered obsolete because some asshole wanted to make some quick money and Eames hadn't spotted the signs even though that's exactly the kind of thing he's supposed to be good at. And now here he is, bound in a cell on a ship, no idea how long he's been here or where they are — no idea about much of anything outside this room, actually — pumped full of power inhibitors to make doubly sure he can't escape.]
[Fucking hell but it hurts. Hands cuffed behind his back, made to stay on his knees for... A long time. Simultaneously can't feel his legs and yet the muscles burn and ache. All of him a mess of cuts and bruises, a mix of injuries from fighting back and some from cruelty passed off as discipline. He thinks his nose might be broken and one of his eyes is swollen into a semi-permanant squint. The longer he kneels here, the more Eames thinks the inhibitor injections were less about preventing escape and more about making sure he couldn't heal away the beatings; making sure he'd suffer through every moment of the trip "home."]
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I don't see it that way. You are what you choose to be, and you've chosen to be something different all this time. That doesn't change just because they shot you up with something that takes away your powers.
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Yeah.
[His shoulders sag weakly, and he nods, backing up to get out of the shower. He doesn't know what he needs right now, but he also doesn't think he's going to find it here.]
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I’ll be out soon. Just need to freshen up.
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[By the time Arthur comes out, Eames is back in bed in some underwear it took him longer to put on than he'd readily admit, staring at the ceiling in some effort to not think about anything.]
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Can I lay down with you?
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[He squeezes Arthur's hand.]
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C’mere.
[He’s got a shoulder perfect for napping on.]
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I'm sorry.
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For what?
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[He rubs his thumb back and forth affectionately.]
I kind of thought they'd never catch me.
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I killed the guy that sold you out, so that loose end is taken care of.
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[He sounds a little disappointed, but in the "I was saving that" sort of way rather than actual upset.]
I was quite looking forward to that.
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Sorry. There are a few more along the chain that I never got to.
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Later.
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[Arthur hums and noses at the top of Eames’ head briefly again before he settles in for sleep as well.]
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[It's a fitful sleep, dreams-- nightmares of all sorts. Of being turned into the perfect soldier, of Arthur dead, of beatings and more creative tortures. Eames doesn't toss or turn much, but he makes a lot of noises of distress in his sleep, groans and almost growls, face pulled into an expression of pain.]
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You were having a nightmare.
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[He's out of breath, he realises, and he presses his forehead against Arthur's shoulder for a long few moments with another uttered curse.]
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[He rubs Eames’ back and shoulders.]
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Thank you.
[For more tjan just this, though he's not sure Arthur will realise.]
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It's nothing.
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