“Hamish, go back to your room.”
“I miss Dad. I want you to call him. I want you to tell him you’re sorry.”
“He’ll be back home with you in two days. He’s just giving me time to gather the things I need before I leave.”
“Why are you doing this, Father? Why are you going to live at Uncle Mycroft’s house instead of with us?”
“Hamish, I can’t possibly explain this to you. It’s far too complicated, and I’m busy right now.”
“You’re not busy. You’re watching telly.”
“And I’ve told you before: never make assumptions without facts. I might be watching something very important for a case.”
“You’re not, though. And I didn’t assume, Father. I can see part of the screen reflected in your glass on the table. You’ve spent the last hour watching your wedding video over and over. And your eyes are wet from trying not to cry.”
“Just go to bed, Hamish. Please.”
This was the last happy thing I had from this fandom.
THE. LAST. FUCKING. THING.
Reblogging for the emotional damage^^
[I’m writing part two right now, btw.
AU inception : Inception exists only in Arthur’s mind
“None of this happened, darling. It was only a dream”
“No, no, no, you don’t get it, do you? This is the dream. We still have to wake up, we just have to figure out when the kick is coming, that’s all,” Arthur is saying, the dark circles under his eyes smeared with chalk where his stained hands have rubbed at his face. He’s bordering on hysterical now, having not slept since he woke up two days ago and started raving like a mad man, the wall of their room now coated in drawings of impossible architecture, and Eames doesn’t know what to do.
“Listen to me, Arthur,” he says, trying to sound calm and failing, “you are awake. Please. Eat something, drink some water. Just take a break or something, the wall is full, you can’t draw anymore.”
Arthur stares from Eames back to the wall, eyes narrowing as he looks for more space, but the maze is complete and his shaking fingers drop the chalk onto the floor where it splinters into pieces. Eames steps forward, takes Arthur’s trembling hands in his own and starts to pull him towards the kitchen, but Arthur halts them.
“I know what to do. This is just like what happened with Mal. I know what to do,” Arthur mumbles, glaring at his hands like they’ve betrayed him before turning his head to the right.
Eames follows Arthur’s eyes to where he’s staring at their desk and the old x-acto knife sitting atop abandoned sketches and old photographs, the remains of a project Arthur had been working on just last week. Eames feels his heart stop, nearly choking on terror. He remembers Arthur telling him about Dominic Cobb and his late wife once before.
The story had ended with her body on a sidewalk, cold and broken but at peace.