Fic: A Father's Promise
A Father's Promise
Feedback: Yes, send to email@example.com
Disclaimer: Fiction based on fictional characters.
Summary: Arthur is dead and Eames seeks out to avenge his death.
A Father's Promise I
As the plane landed in JFK International Airport, Eames had a strange feeling sitting in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps, it was the way he and Arthur had ended their conversation last night before Eames had boarded the plane from Cairo. Since they had become lovers, they would always end their phone conversations with `I'll see you later'. It was a promise to each other that no matter what circumstances they were in, they'd find each other. Eames told him last night, "I'll see you later". Arthur didn't echo his words. Instead Arthur told him, "I love you". Arthur had never uttered those words before.
When Eames finally arrived at Arthur's Manhattan apartment without the usual `Non je ne regretted rien' welcoming him, Eames knew then and now that something was terribly wrong. He rushed into the lobby, failing to acknowledge the receptionist or the bellboy. He pounded his fist repeatedly on the close button and when the elevator door finally closed, Eames slumped to the floor and hung his head between his drawn up knees.
"Please be okay. Please be okay," Eames chanted silently to himself.
When the elevator doors opened with a loud ding, Eames slowly lifted his head. He staggered to his feet and slowly trudged to apartment 403. Eames inserted his key and pushed open the door to the quiescent apartment. Eames tossed his keys on the coffee table and crossed the living room floor with trepid steps toward the bedroom. He wrapped his fingers around the door knob and twisted it.
He didn't need to look up to know what lay before him. He could smell the stench of blood weeping across the hardwood floor. When he finally dared to look up, Eames collapsed at the foot of the bed. Arthur was bound to the bed by his wrists and ankles, with a clear plastic bag covering his head. He was stripped naked and from the blood stains along his inner thighs, Eames knew he had been raped. There were ligature marks from his belt around his neck, deep cuts along his chest, stabbing wounds in his abdomen. An empty camcorder was still running in the background. It was when Eames heard the unmistakable sound of Arthur's labored breaths crackling against the plastic that Eames shot to his feet.
Eames rushed toward the bed. "Oh, fuckin' God!" He cried as he hastily sliced the designer silk ties that kept Arthur's wrists bound to the bed with his pocket knife. Arthur buckled into Eames' arms. Eames cradled Arthur's lithe body and carefully removed the plastic bag. "Please tell me who did this," whispered Eames into Arthur's ear.
"Do you love me?" Arthur asked.
"By now, if you still must ask, then I don't know what to do with you, darling," Eames replied, forcing a laugh.
"Then promise me you'll let it go," Arthur breathed.
"Please," Arthur begged. "Please."
"Yes," Eames said, nodding his head. "Yes. Yes. I promise."
Arthur looked up and caressed Eames' left cheek. He gave Eames the dimpled smile that Eames loved so much. "I'll see you later, Mr. Eames," Arthur whispered and then he was gone- his hand slipping past Eames'.
"Oh, God! No!" Eames wailed out loud, holding onto Arthur's body tightly against his chest.
He rocked them back and forth with his head in the crook of Arthur's neck as he shed copious amount of tears. When he spent his tears, Eames gently cradled the back of Arthur's head and lowered him back carefully to the bed. He placed a delicate kiss to Arthur's lips and whispered aloud, "I'll see you later, my sweet Arthur."
Closing Notes: To read all my fics including this one and other Inception Slash stories, visit Aphrodite's Labyrinth. There you'll also find stories inspired by the sparkly boys of 'Nsync like the classic, "A Tale of Two of Boybands", first archived here a decade ago, and some stories inspired by my current muse, Jason Castro. For a complete collection of Jason Castro slash, vist my author's page at Castrofics.