Work Text:
They were stuck in the lighthouse for the duration, it seemed. Unless something changed--but nothing had changed yet and it had been hours, so--
So.
They were stuck in the lighthouse for the duration.
Arthur tried to remember how this story ended, but the version he remembered didn’t involve a lighthouse, or a rabbit, and so they were probably in undiscovered territory.
Eames was convinced they were dreaming. Which was all well and good except that neither of them had a totem and there were no projections. No one else was there.
Only the rabbit.
And the seemingly endless hedge of rosebushes.
Maybe they were in Limbo.
Maybe he was dead, and this was hell.
‘The face you’re making now is thoroughly melodramatic, darling,’ Eames murmured, holding the rabbit out to him. ‘Perhaps a snuggle with Mr. Snuggles here will bolster your mood.’ The rabbit’s ears twitched.
Arthur ignored him, as he’d been doing all night.
At least he assumed it was night, as the sky outside still showed no sign of brightening. Perhaps there just was no morning to be had here.
Maybe this was the apocalypse.
Maybe this was the heat death of the universe.
Arthur had never supposed it would end like this, never considered his final moments might be in a lighthouse surrounded by rosebushes with Eames and a rabbit for company, and Arthur had considered a lot of things. Arthur was a planner.
He had not planned for this.
Eames was usually a planner as well. His lackluster response to this whole mess was baffling, frankly, and Arthur didn’t care for it.
‘You’re panicking, my love,’ Eames said, rubbing the rabbit between its ears. ‘We just have to wait it out, wait for the kick.’
Eames was wearing ice skates now, stomping around noisily, leaving deep gouges in what appeared to be the original nineteenth century wood plank flooring of the lighthouse. He’d made the rabbit a little sling with his undershirt and had strapped the small animal close to his chest.
Arthur went back outside.
The dark stretched above him, blank and starless and terrible. He walked out into the briar, felt thorns rip into his trousers and shirt and legs and arms and hands, walked until he stumbled on something underfoot and fell to his knees in the bramble--
There was no morning coming. There was no kick on its way; this was all there was left and he was going to die out here with the sweet stench of roses and the dark and the thorns.
‘None of this now.’ The hands that grabbed his shoulders were broad and strong, and they pulled him up and turned him around and marched him back to the lighthouse. The beacon at its peak shone down on them, the only light, it caught Eames’ brow and made him look stern in the shadow. ‘None of this,’ he repeated, leading Arthur back up the stairs to the crackling hearth of the woodburning stove.
He sat on the floor and brought Arthur down with him, placed his head on his lap and stroked it like he’d stroked the rabbit’s.
‘Wait for the kick, Arthur,’ he said. ‘It can’t be much longer now, just hold on. Wait here with me.’
Arthur could hear the rabbit scritching around somewhere else in the room, probably nosing around for something to eat.
Eames continued to comb through his hair. ‘Just wait for the kick, Arthur,’ he said.
Arthur fell asleep like that.