It takes a while for the cure to make it's way over to Arthur, given that he hasn't been quarantined in the tents, but he survives... only to be caught in the blood transfusion for two days, running a deadly high fever. It's touch and go for a while, between Arthur almost passing out several times and needing to be given fluids constantly to stop the cracks from further forming and disintegrating him.
Then Eames is left to care for him as Arthur seems to further wither, weight dropping from him like flies and leaving him several kilos lighter than he should be, skin pallid and veins dark under the pale flesh. Most of the time, Arthur doesn't seem all there. Muttering rapidly under his breath, eyes moving busily under half-closed lids, shaking his head as he argues with people that aren't there.
Eames is tired but he'll pull on that infuriating smile of his when Arthur is awake, just to give him a little bit of energy to fight against this, to do it out of spite if nothing else. Arthur isn't going to remember much of it, but Eames sleeps in the bed with him a lot of times, just so he is close enough to tell if Arthur stops breathing at some point. Because he's afraid to close his eyes otherwise.
He magics whatever they need, even food, new sheets for the bed, new clothes. It's a whole bloody dreaming tour for several weeks.
But the cure is working and Arthur keeps getting better. So Eames tells himself while he forces Arthur to drink, to keep gulping down soup that he doesn't want to eat, when he gives up on all modesty and quilts Arthur into taking showers with him so he doesn't fall over and crack his skull on the tiles. He hopes Arthur will forget half of what goes on during those weeks. Because Eames doesn't want to hear the awkward apologies or the thank yous. He just wants things to get back to the way they were. He wants back the Arthur that will drop kick him in the gut when he says something outrageous, not the ghost that is laying on the bed right now.
He has a lot of time to draw while Arthur is unconscious. He draws everything and anything, but a lot of it is Arthur. He'll hide these sketches somewhere Arthur will never find them, because it is such an awful reminder of what he went through.
He also reads to Arthur, or rather, recites books from memory and comes up with the parts that he doesn't remember, until he's just telling Arthur some random stories that he rips completely out of his sleeve. To pass time. They play cards when Arthur feels strong enough to sit. They talk about nonsense.
The cure, however, isn't as instant as they are in the movies and Eames is tired. He sits in a chair beside Arthur's bed and watches him argue with people in his sleep. Eventually he reaches for Arthur and takes the cold towel off of his forehead. He'll go rinse it out soon enough.
The restless muttering continues before Arthur suddenly convulses with a suspiciously wet, garbled noise caught in his throat. His eyes roll up and he's clawing at his throat, tendons visibly rising against his brittle flesh as he starts choking on whatever it is that's rising up. His fingers actually manage to dig into the fissures all along his throat, flakes of skin disintegrating into the air and blood welling up underneath. The coughing is horrendous and wet, and it's honestly a miracle that he's not coughing up blood from how hard it's shaking his body.
Jesus, okay, obviously this is not over yet. Eames had been hoping but it seems like he was wrong.
He throws away the towel and reaches for Arthur's hands instead, grabbing his wrists and yanking him up so the coughing will be easier. But once Arthur is upright and Eames has him held up, he doesn't let him claw at his throat. That's enough about that.
"Arthur," he says with a clear warning. "Stop hurting yourself."
He's like a cat hurling up a furball, it sounds even worse. Eames is afraid he will choke on whatever's stuck in his throat. "Come on, darling," he encourages Arthur with a hand smacking him onto the back to help loosen up whatever's stuck while holding both of Arthur's wrists captive in one big hand. They feel so damn thin right now, bones moving under Eames' touch and making his jaw tighten while the ache in his chest grows stronger.
The weakened man struggles against Eames' grip, bloody fingers clawing ineffectively at the air. Each solid smack to his back jostles the frail body, and then he's dropping his head forward with a weak groan, thick, black, tar-like liquid welling up in his mouth and oozing out, accompanied with gurgling noises from deep in his throat.
Finally, finally, the small, rock-like thing that had been lodged in his throat is coughed up, dropping off the side of the bed with a solid 'thud', leaving a trail of the black liquid behind. Arthur collapses bonelessly, breathing heavily but easily. The cracks on his skin close up immediately - chapped, irritated looking, but no longer flaking or oozing blood.
Meanwhile, the Plague is gathering itself up on the floor, wheezing quietly as it rears up, staring up at Eames and Arthur with white eyes.
Eames isn't going to let go of Arthur's hands when he collapses. So he can collapse on Eames's chest or not at all. That hand behind Arthur's back continues to rub his back up and down comfortingly.
"What the hell...?!"
He doesn't pay much attention at first to the stuff on the floor but instead reaches over to grab the damp towel to help Arthur wipe his face.
Bloody hell.
Then he realises that the thing on the floor seems to have a mind of its own, eyes of its own.
Eames stops breathing for a moment, then springs to life, letting go of Arthur as he pulls a plastic cake dome out of thin air and smacks it on top of the thing on the floor, pressing it down.
"What the fuck is that?" he asks, as if Arthur is supposed to know any better than him.
Shaking his head, Arthur focuses on keeping himself upright from where Eames had released him, swaying slightly, staring blearily at the captured creature. The Plague presses itself up against the dome, its black essence spreading slightly against the plastic, pushing itself and its prison forward, inch by inch, to get closer to the bed again.
"Don't... know..." he mumbles, trying to concentrate despite his clear fatigue. "But I feel... a lot better now."
It's true - he can actually breathe, the fever is at a much more bearable temperature (still present, but on it's way out, now), and his skin doesn't feel like it's going to disintegrate around him. Clearly the black thing had been causing those troubles while it was infesting him.
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Erasure Virus cure
Then Eames is left to care for him as Arthur seems to further wither, weight dropping from him like flies and leaving him several kilos lighter than he should be, skin pallid and veins dark under the pale flesh. Most of the time, Arthur doesn't seem all there. Muttering rapidly under his breath, eyes moving busily under half-closed lids, shaking his head as he argues with people that aren't there.
no subject
He magics whatever they need, even food, new sheets for the bed, new clothes. It's a whole bloody dreaming tour for several weeks.
But the cure is working and Arthur keeps getting better. So Eames tells himself while he forces Arthur to drink, to keep gulping down soup that he doesn't want to eat, when he gives up on all modesty and quilts Arthur into taking showers with him so he doesn't fall over and crack his skull on the tiles. He hopes Arthur will forget half of what goes on during those weeks. Because Eames doesn't want to hear the awkward apologies or the thank yous. He just wants things to get back to the way they were. He wants back the Arthur that will drop kick him in the gut when he says something outrageous, not the ghost that is laying on the bed right now.
He has a lot of time to draw while Arthur is unconscious. He draws everything and anything, but a lot of it is Arthur. He'll hide these sketches somewhere Arthur will never find them, because it is such an awful reminder of what he went through.
He also reads to Arthur, or rather, recites books from memory and comes up with the parts that he doesn't remember, until he's just telling Arthur some random stories that he rips completely out of his sleeve. To pass time. They play cards when Arthur feels strong enough to sit. They talk about nonsense.
The cure, however, isn't as instant as they are in the movies and Eames is tired. He sits in a chair beside Arthur's bed and watches him argue with people in his sleep. Eventually he reaches for Arthur and takes the cold towel off of his forehead. He'll go rinse it out soon enough.
"You tell them, darling."
cw: some gore
no subject
He throws away the towel and reaches for Arthur's hands instead, grabbing his wrists and yanking him up so the coughing will be easier. But once Arthur is upright and Eames has him held up, he doesn't let him claw at his throat. That's enough about that.
"Arthur," he says with a clear warning. "Stop hurting yourself."
He's like a cat hurling up a furball, it sounds even worse. Eames is afraid he will choke on whatever's stuck in his throat. "Come on, darling," he encourages Arthur with a hand smacking him onto the back to help loosen up whatever's stuck while holding both of Arthur's wrists captive in one big hand. They feel so damn thin right now, bones moving under Eames' touch and making his jaw tighten while the ache in his chest grows stronger.
no subject
Finally, finally, the small, rock-like thing that had been lodged in his throat is coughed up, dropping off the side of the bed with a solid 'thud', leaving a trail of the black liquid behind. Arthur collapses bonelessly, breathing heavily but easily. The cracks on his skin close up immediately - chapped, irritated looking, but no longer flaking or oozing blood.
Meanwhile, the Plague is gathering itself up on the floor, wheezing quietly as it rears up, staring up at Eames and Arthur with white eyes.
no subject
"What the hell...?!"
He doesn't pay much attention at first to the stuff on the floor but instead reaches over to grab the damp towel to help Arthur wipe his face.
Bloody hell.
Then he realises that the thing on the floor seems to have a mind of its own, eyes of its own.
Eames stops breathing for a moment, then springs to life, letting go of Arthur as he pulls a plastic cake dome out of thin air and smacks it on top of the thing on the floor, pressing it down.
"What the fuck is that?" he asks, as if Arthur is supposed to know any better than him.
no subject
"Don't... know..." he mumbles, trying to concentrate despite his clear fatigue. "But I feel... a lot better now."
It's true - he can actually breathe, the fever is at a much more bearable temperature (still present, but on it's way out, now), and his skin doesn't feel like it's going to disintegrate around him. Clearly the black thing had been causing those troubles while it was infesting him.