pg | no warnings apply
(Eames is dead.)
As she breathes, slow and steady, chest barely rising. Her hand, warm, tiny, limp, and he almost wants to wake her up just to feel how fierce her grip can be. The stark white sheets make her look ashen; the bad lighting makes the bruises seem a million times worse.
Something in her mind disturbs her. She murmurs, twists her neck, turns away from him. He stands up, as if he could somehow protect her, hovering by the edge of her bed, whispering her name. But she defeats the demon on her own, her face relaxing, the tension leaving her body.
(Eames is dead.)
He accepts this, clings to it. Tries to, anyway. Envisions her corpse, bloating in the sun, rotting away to nothing, just bones. Bones, being ground away to dust. Nothing. Worm food.
This is Eames. This will be Eames. It could be Eames. It can be Eames. It is Eames. It is Eames. Her warm hand is just flesh that hasn't rotted yet. The faint pulse he feels when he presses her fingers to his lips, it's an illusion.
And that should make it easier for him to get up, easier for him to leave the room, easier for him to go home and sleep, easier for him to work with her everyday, easier for him to deal with random scumbags pulling their guns on her. Flesh, dead, dying flesh, always dying, we're all -
Except she's so warm, so soft, so loud with her grunts and moans when she shifted in her sleep. So animated that he can't envision her as anything but, can't shake the idea that she could live forever, if no one interfered.
She stirs when he cups her hand in his, when he kisses her knuckles. Her lips are chapped; they're rough against his.
(This will be harder to deal with than death.)