Until the Willow Weeps
Title: Until the Willow Weeps
Word Count: 2,444
Rating: NC-17
Beta:
eternalsojourn, who's such a dear to keep putting up with me ♥
Warnings: Character death, effects of grief
Summary: Eames begs Arthur to fuck him, but Arthur is a tease and likes to take his time. Everything may not be as it seems, though.
A/N: I originally went anon on this because I'm a coward and was afraid the OP would hate me for making this so angsty when the prompt didn't call for it. Fortunately, she seemed to enjoy it, so here we go.
(If you'd like to read the version with a happy ending, click here)
Eames ambles down the street, not in any hurry to reach his empty flat. He stops dead in his tracks when he reaches his neighborhood and sees light shining through his window, a beacon in the dark. He knows immediately. Arthur.
Eames hasn’t seen Arthur for eight months — eight long, torturous months. He’s not sure how long he stands there, heart racing, before he bursts into a sprint. Months without contact, and now, knowing how close Arthur is, Eames can’t get to him soon enough. He races into the building and up the stairs, calling apologies over his shoulder to Mr. and Mrs. Tau when he bumps them but not slowing at all.
His hands shake as he tries to fit the key in the lock, which is ridiculous, because Eames has had guns shoved in his face more times than he can count and remained calm, but having Arthur waiting for him can apparently reduce him to a quivering mess.
When Eames finally, finally gets the door open, he sees Arthur sitting with a book in his hand, staring at Eames with a small smile on his face, apparently amused by Eames’s obvious problems with the lock. One of Yusuf’s cats is lounging in Arthur’s lap, and Eames doesn’t even know what it’s doing here, but he doesn’t care because his only thoughts are for Arthur.
Eames crosses the expanse between them in quick strides. The cat startles and leaps away, which suits Eames perfectly because it lets him fall to his knees in front of Arthur and wrap his arms around his waist, burying his face in Arthur’s lap and holding on for all he’s worth. It’s an awkward position, but somehow utterly perfect.
“Jeez, Eames.” Eames can’t see Arthur’s face, but he can hear Arthur smiling. “It’s like you thought I was dead.”
Eames doesn’t quite whimper, but it’s close. His grip tightens, because that’s exactly what he thought. Now Arthur is here, in his arms, and Eames can’t imagine ever letting him go again.
Arthur knows what Eames needs, like always, and he doesn’t say anything else, just cards his fingers through Eames’s hair gently. They stay like that for several minutes, both of them luxuriating in the feel of the other, before Arthur moves to stand, and Eames moves with him.
“Arthur,” Eames whispers reverently, hands still clutching Arthur close to him. It’s the first thing he’s said, and it seems to shift something between them, their chaste tranquility suddenly frantic and fevered. They tear at each other’s clothes, buttons and cloth becoming martyrs to their lustful fervor, neither man willing to slow down or step back.
“Christ, Arthur,” Eames murmurs into Arthur’s mouth. There’s nothing between them, bodies pressed so closely together it almost hurts and they’re still not close enough. “Fuck me.”
Arthur nods, and Eames could sob with relief. It’s such a bad idea — they have so much to talk about, so much has happened, but Eames needs it, needs Arthur more than anything.
They slowly make their way to their bedroom, mouths still attached, and they miraculously manage not to break anything on the way. When Eames is sitting on the bed, knees splayed to make room for Arthur, he runs his mouth across Arthur’s stomach, hips, anything he can reach. Arthur lightly pushes Eames onto his back, crawling onto the bed and stretching out over him. Eames loves the weight of him, wants more, but Arthur ignores Eames’s tugs at his elbows, staying propped up.
They just kiss for a while, content to finally be in each other’s arms again, but then they’re gasping and rutting against each other, and Eames grabs Arthur’s hand and guides it to his ass, silently begging.
“Lube?” Arthur asks.
“Same place as always,” Eames says, and he knows it’s irrational, but he’s a little hurt that Arthur has to ask.
Arthur is gone and back before Eames can overthink things. Arthur must see something on his face, though, because he doesn’t open it and slick his fingers, just tosses it onto the bed, then wraps a hand around the base of Eames’s cock. He takes the rest in his mouth, tonguing the slit.
“Fuck,” Eames breathes. It’s been far too long since anyone has touched him, let alone Arthur, who knows his body like no one else. “Oh, fuck, yes,” he says, lost in the sensation of Arthur’s tongue swirling around and around and around.
Arthur pulls his hand away, sliding his mouth down farther. Eames raises his hips, trying to get even deeper into Arthur’s mouth. Arthur lets him at first, but then he presses Eames’s hips into the mattress and holds him there, and that’s just as good, if not better, because Eames has always loved how deceptively strong Arthur is.
“Arthur,” Eames groans, feeling himself getting close. He tugs at Arthur’s hair in warning. Arthur pulls off and then — nothing. He doesn’t finish Eames off, and he grabs Eames’s hands and holds them down when Eames reaches for his own cock.
“Arthur,” Eames repeats, and he’s too far gone to care that he’s whining.
“I don’t want you coming just yet,” Arthur says, reaching for the lube. He slicks his fingers while he leans in for a kiss, waiting for Eames to come down from the edge. Once he’s satisfied, he sits back on his knees and presses one finger to Eames’s hole, applying pressure but not pushing in.
“Please,” says Eames, drawing his knees up farther. “Arthur, please.”
“Oh, look at you,” Arthur says, his voice full of wonder, like he’s the lucky one here. “All spread out for me.”
Arthur finally works one finger in, and Eames groans. Eight months, he keeps thinking. Eight whole months since another person has touched him, and that’s got to be why it feels like just one finger is better than anything he’s ever felt.
“So gorgeous,” Arthur says, softly kissing Eames’s stomach.
Eames closes his eyes and asks for more, imagining how good two, three fingers will feel when one already has him shuddering apart, but Arthur just keeps on fucking him with the one.
Eames rocks his hips, wordlessly asking Arthur for more, but Arthur either doesn’t get it or doesn’t care. “Fuck, Arthur, I need it,” Eames breaks and cries after a few minutes, the ache for more almost agonizing. “I need it, please.”
“Shh,” Arthur hushes. “I’ve got you. Just relax. No need to rush.” He slides in a second finger, and Eames groans, partially from pleasure and partially from impatience, both of them knowing he could handle three by now.
Eames opens easily, always has, and he keeps expecting Arthur to draw his fingers back and fuck him, but Arthur doesn’t, just keeps finger-fucking Eames on and on and on.
“Arthur, love, please, fuck me,” says Eames, and he’s certain he’s never begged this much this easily, but he doesn’t care at all if it gets Arthur in him now. Arthur has his own plans, though, and he just keeps moving the same two fingers in and out, tantalizingly slowly.
“Not yet. Just a little more patience.” There’s the slightest hint of strain in Arthur’s voice, and his cock hard and leaking, but he’s otherwise perfectly composed. Eames thinks it’s categorically unfair that Arthur can remain so cool and collected while Eames is going out of his bloody mind.
“Are you ready for a third?” Arthur asks, and Eames does whimper at that.
“I’m ready,” he protests. “Just fuck me. I need your cock. I need you, Arthur, fuck!”
Arthur presses a soft kiss to the inside of each thigh. “You’ll get it,” Arthur promises, words contradicting his actions as he adds a third finger. “Just a little more. God, you’re so beautiful. Always.”
Eames feels crazy with lust, thrusting down onto Arthur’s hand, pleas of more, more and harder, fuck, harder escaping him. He’s not sure how long Arthur fingers him, probably only minutes but it feels like hours before Arthur orders him onto his knees.
Eames rolls over as quickly as possible, almost falling off the bed in his haste, not expecting his limbs to be quite so useless. He waits for the unmistakable press of Arthur’s cock against his ass, longs for the exquisite sensation of that first push, so it’s completely understandable when he jumps and yelps when he feels Arthur’s tongue instead.
“Fuck,” Eames groans, long and low. It’s good, unbelievably good, Arthur’s wet, hot tongue curling in and out of his hole, but it’s not enough.
A sob tears out of Eames’s throat. “Arthur, please. Now.” His pleas are mostly ignored, but Arthur does slide a finger back in, licking around it, and Eames thinks he might be able to come just from this, before Arthur ever fucks him and without a hand on his cock. Arthur must know, because he pulls back, and Eames is not proud of the noise he makes but he can’t stop it.
“Not yet,” Arthur murmurs, stroking Eames’s back. “I want you to come with me. Can you do that? Can you hold on?”
“Yes,” Eames says. “Stop teasing. Just fuck me already,” he demands.
“God,” Arthur chokes out, like Eames is the one who’s been making them wait. “You’re so —” Arthur doesn’t finish, just rolls Eames onto his back and kisses him hungrily, claiming and all-consuming. Eames wraps his legs around Arthur’s waist, trying to draw him as close as possible. “You have no idea what you do to me,” Arthur mutters against Eames’s mouth. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Eames’s whole body jerks. He can’t handle this right now, can’t handle the emotions that Arthur’s words bring when he’s this out of his mind with lust and Arthur is still teasing him, fingers rubbing against his entrance.
“No,” Eames says without thought. “Give me your cock. Let me feel you — I need to feel you, Arthur, please.”
“Alright,” Arthur says softly, and then his fingers are gone, replaced by the head of his cock, and he’s pressing in. He moves slowly, even though Eames takes him so easily.
“Oh, fuck. Yes,” Eames breathes. He lifts his hips to take more of Arthur in, both of them groaning when Arthur bottoms out.
Arthur doesn’t move at first, just rests, cradled in Eames’s arms and hips. Eames is patient for as long as he can be, but it’s only a few seconds before he’s moving his hips, urging Arthur to do the same.
Arthur starts to move, his thrusts long and deep. It’s slow, but not exactly gentle, and it’s so fucking good, exactly what Eames needs, that it takes all he has not to come.
“Arthur, god.” Eames can’t think straight enough to say anything beyond that, so he doesn’t even try, but Arthur picks up where Eames left off.
“I missed you,” Arthur says into Eames’s neck, voice muffled but perfectly audible. “Missed you so much. I love you.”
“Love you,” Eames replies, and he tightens his already impossible grip, wanting, needing Arthur closer — always closer.
“Eames, Eames, Eames,” Arthur chants, his pace speeding up. Eames tries to match his thrusts, but they’re both so close already, movements turning erratic.
Arthur reaches between them and fists Eames’s cock, hand moving in time with his hips, and it’s not even a minute before Eames is coming, groaning “oh, oh fuck, Arthur” as he does.
Arthur wraps his hand around Eames’s neck and mashes their mouths together, kissing him messily, and Eames thinks he should be upset that Arthur is getting come all over his neck, but he’s not.
“Fuck, Eames,” Arthur says. His thrusts are quick and hard now, searching for his own release. Eames latches onto Arthur’s neck, bites down gently, and that seems to send Arthur over the edge, because he’s coming, spilling inside Eames.
Arthur collapses on top of Eames, both of them breathing heavily. Eames rolls them onto their sides and they lie there, staring into each other’s eyes as they catch their breaths.
“You left me,” Eames says finally.
“I didn’t want to,” says Arthur. “If I could do it all again...”
Eames wants to rant and rail, because they can’t do it again, what happened cannot be undone, but he bites his tongue. He’s had eight months to come to terms with the fact that Arthur was gone, and arguing over it now would be as useless as Arthur’s platitudes.
He somehow manages to move closer, throwing an arm and a leg over Arthur and cradling Arthur’s head. He breathes in Arthur’s scent, tinged with sex but still the same, and it calms him. “You’re here now,” is all he says.
They fall asleep like that, entangled in each other, just like they’ve always been.
--
“Send me back,” Eames demands as soon as he wakes. He’s angry — angry with Arthur for taking the Sanna job in the first place, angry with Yusuf for being so calm, angry with the world for being so damn happy and oblivious in the face of his misery, but mostly angry with himself for resisting this option for so long.
“Eames,” Yusuf says, hesitant. “Don’t.”
Eames isn’t sure if Yusuf is warning or begging, and he doesn’t particularly care. He wants neither right now. “Look around, Yusuf,” says Eames, gesturing one-handedly to the other sleepers surrounding them. “Now is not the time to pretend you have morals.”
Yusuf doesn’t even have the good grace to look abashed. “You know it would kill Arthur to see you like this.”
“He’s not seeing any of this. He’s dead,” says Eames, viciously pleased when he sees Yusuf cringe at his bluntness.
Yusuf starts to protest, but he falls silent when the dream watcher gently lays a wrinkled hand on his shoulder. He leans in to whisper to Yusuf, and Eames remembers what he had said the first time Eames had seen the den for himself: The dream has become their reality. Who are you to say otherwise?
Yusuf stares at Eames, and Eames holds his gaze, never wavering. Eventually, Yusuf sighs and looks away, turning and leaving without a word.
The watcher switches the vial connected to Eames’s line with one presumably loaded with sedative. His finger hovers over the button that will send Eames to sleep for the final time, giving Eames a second chance they both know he won’t take.
“Thank you,” Eames says.
He falls asleep with a smile on his face.
Word Count: 2,444
Rating: NC-17
Beta:
eternalsojourn, who's such a dear to keep putting up with me ♥Warnings: Character death, effects of grief
Summary: Eames begs Arthur to fuck him, but Arthur is a tease and likes to take his time. Everything may not be as it seems, though.
A/N: I originally went anon on this because I'm a coward and was afraid the OP would hate me for making this so angsty when the prompt didn't call for it. Fortunately, she seemed to enjoy it, so here we go.
(If you'd like to read the version with a happy ending, click here)
Eames ambles down the street, not in any hurry to reach his empty flat. He stops dead in his tracks when he reaches his neighborhood and sees light shining through his window, a beacon in the dark. He knows immediately. Arthur.
Eames hasn’t seen Arthur for eight months — eight long, torturous months. He’s not sure how long he stands there, heart racing, before he bursts into a sprint. Months without contact, and now, knowing how close Arthur is, Eames can’t get to him soon enough. He races into the building and up the stairs, calling apologies over his shoulder to Mr. and Mrs. Tau when he bumps them but not slowing at all.
His hands shake as he tries to fit the key in the lock, which is ridiculous, because Eames has had guns shoved in his face more times than he can count and remained calm, but having Arthur waiting for him can apparently reduce him to a quivering mess.
When Eames finally, finally gets the door open, he sees Arthur sitting with a book in his hand, staring at Eames with a small smile on his face, apparently amused by Eames’s obvious problems with the lock. One of Yusuf’s cats is lounging in Arthur’s lap, and Eames doesn’t even know what it’s doing here, but he doesn’t care because his only thoughts are for Arthur.
Eames crosses the expanse between them in quick strides. The cat startles and leaps away, which suits Eames perfectly because it lets him fall to his knees in front of Arthur and wrap his arms around his waist, burying his face in Arthur’s lap and holding on for all he’s worth. It’s an awkward position, but somehow utterly perfect.
“Jeez, Eames.” Eames can’t see Arthur’s face, but he can hear Arthur smiling. “It’s like you thought I was dead.”
Eames doesn’t quite whimper, but it’s close. His grip tightens, because that’s exactly what he thought. Now Arthur is here, in his arms, and Eames can’t imagine ever letting him go again.
Arthur knows what Eames needs, like always, and he doesn’t say anything else, just cards his fingers through Eames’s hair gently. They stay like that for several minutes, both of them luxuriating in the feel of the other, before Arthur moves to stand, and Eames moves with him.
“Arthur,” Eames whispers reverently, hands still clutching Arthur close to him. It’s the first thing he’s said, and it seems to shift something between them, their chaste tranquility suddenly frantic and fevered. They tear at each other’s clothes, buttons and cloth becoming martyrs to their lustful fervor, neither man willing to slow down or step back.
“Christ, Arthur,” Eames murmurs into Arthur’s mouth. There’s nothing between them, bodies pressed so closely together it almost hurts and they’re still not close enough. “Fuck me.”
Arthur nods, and Eames could sob with relief. It’s such a bad idea — they have so much to talk about, so much has happened, but Eames needs it, needs Arthur more than anything.
They slowly make their way to their bedroom, mouths still attached, and they miraculously manage not to break anything on the way. When Eames is sitting on the bed, knees splayed to make room for Arthur, he runs his mouth across Arthur’s stomach, hips, anything he can reach. Arthur lightly pushes Eames onto his back, crawling onto the bed and stretching out over him. Eames loves the weight of him, wants more, but Arthur ignores Eames’s tugs at his elbows, staying propped up.
They just kiss for a while, content to finally be in each other’s arms again, but then they’re gasping and rutting against each other, and Eames grabs Arthur’s hand and guides it to his ass, silently begging.
“Lube?” Arthur asks.
“Same place as always,” Eames says, and he knows it’s irrational, but he’s a little hurt that Arthur has to ask.
Arthur is gone and back before Eames can overthink things. Arthur must see something on his face, though, because he doesn’t open it and slick his fingers, just tosses it onto the bed, then wraps a hand around the base of Eames’s cock. He takes the rest in his mouth, tonguing the slit.
“Fuck,” Eames breathes. It’s been far too long since anyone has touched him, let alone Arthur, who knows his body like no one else. “Oh, fuck, yes,” he says, lost in the sensation of Arthur’s tongue swirling around and around and around.
Arthur pulls his hand away, sliding his mouth down farther. Eames raises his hips, trying to get even deeper into Arthur’s mouth. Arthur lets him at first, but then he presses Eames’s hips into the mattress and holds him there, and that’s just as good, if not better, because Eames has always loved how deceptively strong Arthur is.
“Arthur,” Eames groans, feeling himself getting close. He tugs at Arthur’s hair in warning. Arthur pulls off and then — nothing. He doesn’t finish Eames off, and he grabs Eames’s hands and holds them down when Eames reaches for his own cock.
“Arthur,” Eames repeats, and he’s too far gone to care that he’s whining.
“I don’t want you coming just yet,” Arthur says, reaching for the lube. He slicks his fingers while he leans in for a kiss, waiting for Eames to come down from the edge. Once he’s satisfied, he sits back on his knees and presses one finger to Eames’s hole, applying pressure but not pushing in.
“Please,” says Eames, drawing his knees up farther. “Arthur, please.”
“Oh, look at you,” Arthur says, his voice full of wonder, like he’s the lucky one here. “All spread out for me.”
Arthur finally works one finger in, and Eames groans. Eight months, he keeps thinking. Eight whole months since another person has touched him, and that’s got to be why it feels like just one finger is better than anything he’s ever felt.
“So gorgeous,” Arthur says, softly kissing Eames’s stomach.
Eames closes his eyes and asks for more, imagining how good two, three fingers will feel when one already has him shuddering apart, but Arthur just keeps on fucking him with the one.
Eames rocks his hips, wordlessly asking Arthur for more, but Arthur either doesn’t get it or doesn’t care. “Fuck, Arthur, I need it,” Eames breaks and cries after a few minutes, the ache for more almost agonizing. “I need it, please.”
“Shh,” Arthur hushes. “I’ve got you. Just relax. No need to rush.” He slides in a second finger, and Eames groans, partially from pleasure and partially from impatience, both of them knowing he could handle three by now.
Eames opens easily, always has, and he keeps expecting Arthur to draw his fingers back and fuck him, but Arthur doesn’t, just keeps finger-fucking Eames on and on and on.
“Arthur, love, please, fuck me,” says Eames, and he’s certain he’s never begged this much this easily, but he doesn’t care at all if it gets Arthur in him now. Arthur has his own plans, though, and he just keeps moving the same two fingers in and out, tantalizingly slowly.
“Not yet. Just a little more patience.” There’s the slightest hint of strain in Arthur’s voice, and his cock hard and leaking, but he’s otherwise perfectly composed. Eames thinks it’s categorically unfair that Arthur can remain so cool and collected while Eames is going out of his bloody mind.
“Are you ready for a third?” Arthur asks, and Eames does whimper at that.
“I’m ready,” he protests. “Just fuck me. I need your cock. I need you, Arthur, fuck!”
Arthur presses a soft kiss to the inside of each thigh. “You’ll get it,” Arthur promises, words contradicting his actions as he adds a third finger. “Just a little more. God, you’re so beautiful. Always.”
Eames feels crazy with lust, thrusting down onto Arthur’s hand, pleas of more, more and harder, fuck, harder escaping him. He’s not sure how long Arthur fingers him, probably only minutes but it feels like hours before Arthur orders him onto his knees.
Eames rolls over as quickly as possible, almost falling off the bed in his haste, not expecting his limbs to be quite so useless. He waits for the unmistakable press of Arthur’s cock against his ass, longs for the exquisite sensation of that first push, so it’s completely understandable when he jumps and yelps when he feels Arthur’s tongue instead.
“Fuck,” Eames groans, long and low. It’s good, unbelievably good, Arthur’s wet, hot tongue curling in and out of his hole, but it’s not enough.
A sob tears out of Eames’s throat. “Arthur, please. Now.” His pleas are mostly ignored, but Arthur does slide a finger back in, licking around it, and Eames thinks he might be able to come just from this, before Arthur ever fucks him and without a hand on his cock. Arthur must know, because he pulls back, and Eames is not proud of the noise he makes but he can’t stop it.
“Not yet,” Arthur murmurs, stroking Eames’s back. “I want you to come with me. Can you do that? Can you hold on?”
“Yes,” Eames says. “Stop teasing. Just fuck me already,” he demands.
“God,” Arthur chokes out, like Eames is the one who’s been making them wait. “You’re so —” Arthur doesn’t finish, just rolls Eames onto his back and kisses him hungrily, claiming and all-consuming. Eames wraps his legs around Arthur’s waist, trying to draw him as close as possible. “You have no idea what you do to me,” Arthur mutters against Eames’s mouth. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Eames’s whole body jerks. He can’t handle this right now, can’t handle the emotions that Arthur’s words bring when he’s this out of his mind with lust and Arthur is still teasing him, fingers rubbing against his entrance.
“No,” Eames says without thought. “Give me your cock. Let me feel you — I need to feel you, Arthur, please.”
“Alright,” Arthur says softly, and then his fingers are gone, replaced by the head of his cock, and he’s pressing in. He moves slowly, even though Eames takes him so easily.
“Oh, fuck. Yes,” Eames breathes. He lifts his hips to take more of Arthur in, both of them groaning when Arthur bottoms out.
Arthur doesn’t move at first, just rests, cradled in Eames’s arms and hips. Eames is patient for as long as he can be, but it’s only a few seconds before he’s moving his hips, urging Arthur to do the same.
Arthur starts to move, his thrusts long and deep. It’s slow, but not exactly gentle, and it’s so fucking good, exactly what Eames needs, that it takes all he has not to come.
“Arthur, god.” Eames can’t think straight enough to say anything beyond that, so he doesn’t even try, but Arthur picks up where Eames left off.
“I missed you,” Arthur says into Eames’s neck, voice muffled but perfectly audible. “Missed you so much. I love you.”
“Love you,” Eames replies, and he tightens his already impossible grip, wanting, needing Arthur closer — always closer.
“Eames, Eames, Eames,” Arthur chants, his pace speeding up. Eames tries to match his thrusts, but they’re both so close already, movements turning erratic.
Arthur reaches between them and fists Eames’s cock, hand moving in time with his hips, and it’s not even a minute before Eames is coming, groaning “oh, oh fuck, Arthur” as he does.
Arthur wraps his hand around Eames’s neck and mashes their mouths together, kissing him messily, and Eames thinks he should be upset that Arthur is getting come all over his neck, but he’s not.
“Fuck, Eames,” Arthur says. His thrusts are quick and hard now, searching for his own release. Eames latches onto Arthur’s neck, bites down gently, and that seems to send Arthur over the edge, because he’s coming, spilling inside Eames.
Arthur collapses on top of Eames, both of them breathing heavily. Eames rolls them onto their sides and they lie there, staring into each other’s eyes as they catch their breaths.
“You left me,” Eames says finally.
“I didn’t want to,” says Arthur. “If I could do it all again...”
Eames wants to rant and rail, because they can’t do it again, what happened cannot be undone, but he bites his tongue. He’s had eight months to come to terms with the fact that Arthur was gone, and arguing over it now would be as useless as Arthur’s platitudes.
He somehow manages to move closer, throwing an arm and a leg over Arthur and cradling Arthur’s head. He breathes in Arthur’s scent, tinged with sex but still the same, and it calms him. “You’re here now,” is all he says.
They fall asleep like that, entangled in each other, just like they’ve always been.
--
“Send me back,” Eames demands as soon as he wakes. He’s angry — angry with Arthur for taking the Sanna job in the first place, angry with Yusuf for being so calm, angry with the world for being so damn happy and oblivious in the face of his misery, but mostly angry with himself for resisting this option for so long.
“Eames,” Yusuf says, hesitant. “Don’t.”
Eames isn’t sure if Yusuf is warning or begging, and he doesn’t particularly care. He wants neither right now. “Look around, Yusuf,” says Eames, gesturing one-handedly to the other sleepers surrounding them. “Now is not the time to pretend you have morals.”
Yusuf doesn’t even have the good grace to look abashed. “You know it would kill Arthur to see you like this.”
“He’s not seeing any of this. He’s dead,” says Eames, viciously pleased when he sees Yusuf cringe at his bluntness.
Yusuf starts to protest, but he falls silent when the dream watcher gently lays a wrinkled hand on his shoulder. He leans in to whisper to Yusuf, and Eames remembers what he had said the first time Eames had seen the den for himself: The dream has become their reality. Who are you to say otherwise?
Yusuf stares at Eames, and Eames holds his gaze, never wavering. Eventually, Yusuf sighs and looks away, turning and leaving without a word.
The watcher switches the vial connected to Eames’s line with one presumably loaded with sedative. His finger hovers over the button that will send Eames to sleep for the final time, giving Eames a second chance they both know he won’t take.
“Thank you,” Eames says.
He falls asleep with a smile on his face.