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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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.