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30 September 2010 @ 11:36 am
[fic]: unforgiven  
Title: Unforgiven

Author: epistolic

Rating: M.

Word Count: 2,694.

Genre: Romance/Angst.

Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.

Summary: Eames is dead. Arthur goes out for revenge. Eames/Arthur, slash, One-Shot.

A/N: Style experiment, bbs. Fill for two inception_kink prompts at once (aren't I efficient!): this one (Arthur hunts down the man who killed Eames) and this one (The one where Arthur fucks up).

Please don’t forget to comment!


If there’s one thing that Arthur has learnt all these years, it’s that hating is easy.

Loving is hard.


Arthur drives.

Arthur drives with his headlights cutting the fog, engine humming, mileage raking up like the poker chips Eames used to keep on the dresser, little keepsakes. Arthur’s driven like this before, six or seven hours with only small breaks to eat, to drink, to go to the bathroom, to pull over to the side of the road and not sleep, desperately trying not to not sleep, that time when they were on the run in Frankfurt and Eames had said Arthur you’ll crash us like this, take a rest, come on, just two hours, come on.

Arthur drives with the road slipping past, black and silent, a dark ticker-tape from A to B. This is Eames’ old car, the beaten up Rolls Royce, with at least seven bullet-holes on the bumper. Arthur had pointed out once that bullet-holes draw attention. Eames had laughed, gone out and bought windscreen stickers, the type that look like bullet-holes and Eames had pasted them everywhere, on the doors, the windows, the back of the boot, the hubcaps.

Arthur had hated him.


The diner is cramped with the smell of old grease, the kind that forms a thin film on the walls. It’s almost empty. The clock by the window is chipped and reads two, at least ten minutes fast, Arthur thinks.

Arthur goes to the bathroom and tilts his face to the side, critically. He wets his hands, wipes them dry. His eyes feel sore so he squeezes them shut, once, very tightly, before opening them.

He shaves.

His phone rings while he’s still halfway through it, the shrill buzz that tells him it’s Ariadne. He turns the razor off and puts it down, pats his pockets.

He checks. It is Ariadne.

Arthur takes the phone out and puts it next to the cracked white sink. By the time Arthur’s finally finished shaving the ringing has stopped, Ariadne’s given up. Arthur washes the shaving cream off his chin and his neck. He runs his palm across the smooth skin.

For a moment there’s just the fluorescent light and the scent of Eames’ aftershave and the way Eames used to run his palm over Arthur’s face every morning after he’d shaved, just a small, quick touch.

Arthur pockets the phone.

By the time Arthur steps back out to his car he is clean, put-together, recognisable.


Eames is dead.

Car crash, not a car crash, purpose, not on purpose, the tiny square of newspaper print on that Saturday morning with Arthur at breakfast and the cup of coffee that never got finished, teaspoon trembling in Arthur’s fingertips.


Arthur drives.

Arthur drives because he has a name, a location, a small smattering of places that lead the way there. Arthur has a file he compiled in four days, hotel bed with the sheets tucked in, undisturbed, Arthur with the laptop screen on the inside of his eyelids whenever he blinks.

There’s a face.

There’s dates, associates, a particular favoured brand of gun. Smith & Wesson. Magnum.

Arthur drives.

Eames is sitting beside in the passenger seat, sometimes, with a dreadful paisley collar and flicking his nail against the window, whistling abominable, out-of-tune things. Eames has a grin that clashes with the upholstery. Arthur finds himself trying to search for it, ducking glances, a silent sort of twist whenever he takes a hand off the wheel and slides his palm up and over the passenger seat.

The leather is cold. The seats are supposed to be heated but that’s been broken for years. Eames never fixed it.


Five years ago –

Five years ago Arthur shot Eames for the first time, broke his nose for the first time, in reality, in a dream, in that order. Arthur built them both a cathedral and brought it crashing down about their ears. Arthur kissed Eames, too, for the first time that year, crouched behind a car while it pissed buckets, water running underneath their collars and the two of them squinting into the rain, ducking bullets.

Arthur fucked it up, that year.

It didn’t matter for a while. They were still sort of young, in their late twenties, and friction somehow got the jobs done. Eames made fun of Arthur’s ties. Arthur shot Eames every time they dreamed, and enjoyed it.

Eames fucked it up, that next year.

Eames fucked it up by turning up to Arthur’s apartment in Marseilles and refusing to budge, to leave, and that night Eames had curled up in Arthur’s bed, around Arthur, their thighs and their chests still sticky. The next morning, Eames had made them both crepes, slightly burnt.

It had somehow felt strangely perfect. It hadn’t at all felt temporary.


Five years ago –

Five years ago isn’t really that long, once you actually take time to think about it.


1719 N Rock Rd, Wichita, KS 67206.


The warehouse, when Arthur reaches it, is empty.

Arthur takes five minutes to crack the security code, which is long, but Arthur hasn’t had much sleep. Arthur isn’t even particularly careful about it – he parks the car out front, an invitation, or a warning. Arthur isn’t quite sure which exactly it is.

It’s daytime. Arthur could easily get sniped, standing here.

He doesn’t.

It’s a curse, or it could be a relief. Arthur isn’t quite sure which exactly it is.


1719 N Rock Rd, Wichita, KS 67206.


Eames had said, once, that the problem with Arthur was that he always had to work his way to something.

“Some things shouldn’t need to be forced, sweetheart,” Eames had said, which had seemed rather dumb at the time because Arthur had been busily occupied in trying to hack through a Level 5 CIA Clearance.

“Right,” Arthur had said and kept right on typing. “Like we don’t need to force our way into other people’s minds to steal secrets. Is that what you’re talking about?”

Eames had pouted.

Eames had always pouted too much for a full-grown man of thirty-three.

“I shouldn’t need to force my way into your pants,” Eames had said.

“Do some work,” Arthur had deadpanned back at him.

“Or your heart,” Eames had said.

Arthur had rolled his eyes. “Which movie are we supposedly re-enacting now, Eames?”

Eames had gone very quiet after that, flipping files and pestering Mal about tea. Arthur had gotten his Clearance eventually. Cobb had grinned. Mal had shoved sandwiches at him.


Following the Arkansas down through Kansas like a yellow-brick road, just not quite the right shade, into Oklahoma and there are towns Arthur ticks off the fold-up map, a sharp red that bleeds through the paper too quick.

He doesn’t really think about it, not too much, because there are some things you should think about and some things you should leave alone, like the way Eames’ hair had looked slightly too long until Arthur had snapped sometime mid-January and taken a pair of kitchen scissors to them. The result had been far from satisfactory and Arthur had laughed without meaning to, Eames with the plastic-handled mirror and gaping, not going out of the house for a week.

Those sorts of things.

There are bigger things, too, like the feeling that had clenched on Eames’ face when Arthur had jumped off a cliff in a dream, on a job, and for some reason hadn’t died immediately, just gasped on the rocks with the salt on the wind until the blood in his lungs had snuffed him out, finally.

Some things –

Five years ago –

– shouldn’t need to be forced.

They’d seen each other die, killed each other, sometimes. Killing each other had seemed easier, always, because at least that had made things controllable, a finger on the trigger of a Glock, a Sig Sauer.

At least that had made things a conscious choice, not a fragment of it left to accident.


It’s a shack just on the fringes of Tulsa, stinking of petroleum. It’s been burnt out, just a hulk in the set of the ground, tilting to one side, world-weary, half-dead.

There’s a ute and Arthur contemplates taking it; the Rolls Royce is not built for this kind of thing, slogging across all the dust and the country and the wheels turning that particular shade of orange, dipping a hesitant toe into brown.

The ridiculous fake bullet-holes Eames pasted on are peeling a little in all of this heat.

Arthur sleeps the night in the Rolls Royce, not dreaming, not of Eames, not of himself, not of anything.

The next morning he goes around the car and smoothes all the flaking bullet-hole edges, pats them back onto the metal, and hopes that they stay.

He doesn’t take the ute. It feels loyal, this way. He takes his pen out and crosses the shack off the list.


Sometimes Arthur thinks that the two of them were never even, never quite standing on the same level of ground.

Arthur fucked up.

Eames fucked up.

Arthur fucked up, again, the year after.

Arthur fucked up by taking a job in Peru and disappearing, really disappearing, because it was a high-profile job and there were eyes and ears and silenced pistols everywhere, and you never know what hits you until it does. Arthur kept off the radar for almost a month and didn’t tell Eames.

It was safer, not to, at the time.

It was safer up until the point Eames rang everyone, flew everywhere, looked in every place he could think of, hotels, motels, entire cities, starting from the bottom and working right up, starting from the top and working straight down. It was safer, really, Eames with the bruises under his eyes, Eames forging visas, Eames forging passports, Eames thinking he was dead and then maybe not dead and then maybe dead was better, perhaps, better than betrayal of this level, this kind, the kind that goes right to the heart and rips.

It was safer.

It was safer.

It was safer this way.

It was safer and it was a terrible lie.


Broken Arrow and that’s funny, Arthur thinks. In an extremely ironic kind of way.

Pauls Valley, Ardmore, Dallas. Dallas where JFK got shot. Dallas of the Dallas Cowboys and then the long drive down, down, down, gas stations with perpetual dust layers, the stretch of a sky that doesn’t end, just comes back around again like a circle, like getting absolutely nowhere.

Waco, Austin, Lockhart, Boerne, the tiny apartment in San Antonio already empty and with a sign to rent, Arthur’s red pen scratching, the map turning creased and the coffee stains on three of the corners from diners in three different US states. Eames, Eames had always been good with maps, humming and running the routes through his head, clipping out directions from the passenger seat and God, Eames, the careless splay of his hands on the dashboard and this country so empty, so extremely vast like Arthur is the only one still left in it, Eames gone somewhere else, Eames not here, Eames not here.


Arthur fucked up by going away.

Eames fucked up by coming back.


Eames fucked up by being something worth having.

Arthur fucked up by not realising this.


Eames fucked up the year after Arthur did, them always doing this, back and forth, your punch, then mine, though Eames never really pulled any punches and was always trying to get back onto Arthur’s side.

Eames fucked up by calling after half a year of ignoring Arthur, not taking his jobs, not wanting anything to do with him after Peru and then Eames calling to say Arthur, darling, where are you, Arthur telling him, Eames flying up from Cape Town. Peru stayed firmly back in Peru and Eames never brought it up again.

It was always there, though. It was real.

It happened.




Lax, loose, everything easy to enter in Mexico, like plunging into someone’s head and finding it hard to exit again, like finding it hard to let go of something.




Mexico City.


Arthur buys from street vendors, stays in motels, combs his hair back in the mirror each morning and brushes his teeth from muscle memory. The sky is scorching and Eames always loved the heat, learnt to crave it like it was a part of him, or a part of Arthur he couldn’t quite reach, but still tried.

Eames always tried everything.


It wasn’t that Arthur didn’t care.

Arthur cared. Arthur cared about the way Eames never took things seriously, relied on his gut and his instinct, his flair for improvising, for being able to disappear everywhere he went and not on street plans, on risks, on percentage, on the things that can ward off coincidence.

In the mornings when Eames swore in great streams at the alarm clock, in the shape of his pillows, the pool of his sheets, the curve of him pressed up to Arthur’s back, little things. Details. Specificity.


Arthur cared. Arthur cared quite a lot, actually.

It is possible that Arthur fell in love with him.

A lot of things in this world are possible.

A lot of things in this world are missed.


Calz. Azcapotzalco la villa #1155 bis, Col. Lindavista, C.P. 07300, México D.F.


Arthur drives.

Past the Instituto del Petroleo station and the children by the side of the road, the hawkers, the priests, this squat, sprawled city where Aztec kings once lived and learnt and loved. Here, in these narrow streets, the sun cast in triangles and strange oblongs on the walls, this sense of clash, of not really belonging, here is where Eames would go, where Eames went.

Here, after the fifth and the last, all of five years, not really long if you think about it and Arthur has been thinking about it, not meaning to, not trying to, just the last time that Arthur ever saw Eames at that airport in Los Angeles, looking back before finding the taxi rank.

Here, after all of five years, the fifth year – this year – and Arthur fucked up one last time by choosing Dominick Cobb over Eames.

Mal happened, because she had to happen.

Inception happened, because it had to happen.

Arthur drives, the weight of his Glock by his back and Arthur drives because he has to drive, because hating is easy, regretting is hard, and revenge is what Arthur can strive for, at least.


This is different.


This place – this studio – is alive, still. There are people in here.

This is the right place.


Arthur leaves the car a few streets away, strolls into the complex casually and tasting the air, remembering that Eames was here, maybe once, that Eames was ended by someone in here.

Arthur’s careful but only this one last time, silent in the corridors.


There’s a wife.

There are children, a boy and a girl.

Arthur knows this.

Arthur shoots the man point-blank all the same.

It feels good, in the way only killing feels good, that terrible weight at the base of your spine like howling, like all the things you can’t say because they’re all raw noises, animal things. It feels good, even though killing never feels good. It feels good, it feels awful, it feels like it doesn’t quite end because revenge never really ends anything.

It feels –

It feels like it’s much too late, which it is.

It feels so unforgiven.

Arthur stands with the red slicking past his shoes. A baby is crying in the room upstairs.


This is the end of the yellow-brick road, and Eames would be laughing at Arthur for that.


There was never any yellow-brick road.


Revenge was never going to heal anything.


The sky is still the same shade of blue; the cold feeling in Arthur’s chest is still there. There is one more line crossed off of the list. It means everything and nothing.

Arthur drives.

The End.

A/N: Yes, I'm a sucker for the ambiguous ending. Yes, I'm a sucker for the inward-direction vs. outward-direction theme. Yes, I fucked around with the movie timelines a little to make this work. I claim poetic licence/laziness. :grin: Hopefully after all the recent crack I can still write angst convincingly! Though, mind you, I did write this at three last night, so...

Please don't forget to comment, darlings! My other Inception fics are here; my other inception_kink fills are here. Please feel free to check them out, or friend me for future Arthur/Eames!

[There is now FANART for this, by the wonderful incandescent!]

[There is now a pod-fic for this fic, by the ever-lovelyemilianadarling!]
Kaitlyn: JGL: up closekaitmaree77 on September 30th, 2010 01:47 am (UTC)
Well, I admit I was the anon OP of the revenge prompt.


Holy crap, I loved this. And I loved the ambiguous ending. AND I loved the discussion of the dying in dreams, not immediately, but slower than they'd like, the yellow brick road and all of the places he went and just...ghfjkdghfj fantastic. SO FANTASTIC. You incorporated so many things I wanted written without me having to say so.

ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on September 30th, 2010 01:53 am (UTC)
Re: Well, I admit I was the anon OP of the revenge prompt.

♥ ♥

But whoas, so happy you liked it, my darling little OP! Now that I know it was you, I'm not a tiny bit surprised. :glomps: Glad I could fill your prompt well, hun! :glomps again:
darth_fezdarth_fez on September 30th, 2010 01:57 am (UTC)
I haven't read it yet, but I'm about to. Check your phone woman! I'm bored and wish lunch.
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on September 30th, 2010 02:02 am (UTC)
Gaaaaaaah I have no transport today. :sadface: And ha, the funny thing is, I'm probably more on LJ than I am on my phone WHAT WHAT WHAT. Don't judge me.

I can probs do sometime next week, though? Tuesday morning before 2pm?
- darth_fez on September 30th, 2010 02:35 am (UTC) (Expand)
- epistolic on September 30th, 2010 04:09 am (UTC) (Expand)
celestineangel: Inception - The Point Mancelestineangel on September 30th, 2010 01:58 am (UTC)

OMGs, you write the most amazing stuff. YOU ARE AMAZING!

ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on September 30th, 2010 02:10 am (UTC)
Gaw, THANK-YOU!! :glomps: You are made of such awesome. Thanks so much for reading and commenting, darling! ♥
shoppermania: I'll be your mirrorshoppermania on September 30th, 2010 02:26 am (UTC)
oh, wow.
this was utterly amazing and heartbreaking
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on October 1st, 2010 01:41 am (UTC)
Thank-you so much, darling! ♥
Seraphittaseraphitta on September 30th, 2010 02:42 am (UTC)
Ahh, fuck. I can't take character deaths and yet I still read them like a fat man eats cake...or even like I eat cake. I really want some cake now.

This is amazing. The emptiness that is always present, the space Eames once used to occupy but never will again. The things he did but will never do again.

And Arthur, having to forever live with not only the loss, but his guilt and regret. Things he can never truly resolve because the dead don't really help much.

ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on October 1st, 2010 01:45 am (UTC)
Oh, darling. Thank-you so much. I'm so glad I managed to get that emptiness and that regret through, I was hoping I wasn't just completely missing the ball and throwing nonsensical angst at everyone. (It wouldn't be the first time. Or even the tenth.) I was thinking of all these different endings for this piece - and I'm very relieved that my whole "revenge doesn't help" ending worked! Thank-you so much, I was worried it would be too ambiguous! Gaw. You're so lovely, darling. Thank-you. ♥
Scrib: Tom Hardyscribjerky on September 30th, 2010 02:43 am (UTC)


This was fabulous! <3
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on October 1st, 2010 01:46 am (UTC)

Thank-you so much, darling! I think I have another death!fic coming up soon, so. :grins: ♥
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debase the beef canoe: crank it - robinshichiloaf on September 30th, 2010 03:06 am (UTC)
...I love your icon.

And it must be Memento the end reminded me of too, I just couldn't place it until you mentioned it. XD
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Morrieuraylie on September 30th, 2010 02:54 am (UTC)
Break my heart why don't you. This was so perfect, so them, so real with their fucked up relationship. Loved it.
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on October 1st, 2010 01:49 am (UTC)
Glad you liked it! Thank-you so much for reading and commenting, love! ♥ ♥
debase the beef canoe: 8D - spikeshichiloaf on September 30th, 2010 03:01 am (UTC)
You continue to pump out the best fucking angst EVER.


Really, I'm totally blown away by every fic you write, especially the angst. Guh.

I really love the style of this one, if that makes sense. Fuck I loved the whole goddamn thing.
Neveeeer stop writing. Seriously, even in other fandoms. The internet would be missing a fucking amazing author.
*loooooooves on* I don't have a happy enough icon. 8C
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on October 1st, 2010 01:50 am (UTC)

Gaw, you're just. Thank-you. :blushes: I don't think I will stop writing for this pairing any time soon, not while I have such support for everything I churn out, it still blows me away every time. Thank-you so much. You're just too lovely, I don't even have the words. Thank-you. For the, like, umpteenth time. ♥
- shichiloaf on October 1st, 2010 10:10 pm (UTC) (Expand)
almostgaby: act || tom hardyalmostgaby on September 30th, 2010 03:35 am (UTC)
Gah this was so heartbreaking. When I read your summary and it said Eames was dead my heart already dropped b/c i know how beautiful you write and i was afraid I would cry. This was just amazing ♥
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on October 1st, 2010 01:51 am (UTC)
Thank-you so much, darling! I'm so glad you read and commented, even though you had initial doubts. Thank-you! It really means so much. ♥ ♥
we_reflamingos: Killer abswe_reflamingos on September 30th, 2010 03:46 am (UTC)
Oh no, much as I loved the lighter stuff, I can guarantee you're still doing fine with the angst. ;) And I'm grateful for it, as usual.

Just an aside, from experience on both sides of The Pond, it's possible that most people won't know what a ute is.
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on October 1st, 2010 01:52 am (UTC)
Gaw, thank-you! :blushes:

And - oh, crap. I keep forgetting that I'm a goddamn Australian and that everything in this 'verse is pretty much never set in Australia. If it's not a ute, what is it meant to be? Just... a truck, or something? Gawd. I'm so bad at this, ha. ♥
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arty_darc on September 30th, 2010 03:59 am (UTC)
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on September 30th, 2010 04:58 am (UTC)

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Bonaparte: Sisterskyvehicle on September 30th, 2010 04:31 am (UTC)
And yet, Arthur was off the map for a month and Eames thought he was dead and looked everywhere for him, and here Arthur is doing the same thing, and here I am wanting it to be the same thing, wanting it so badly. I really liked this. Your style experiment was a great success. You, fabulous as always.

You've been doing quite a bit of writing recently, m'dear, and I have to catch up! WAH!! Which I will. ;)
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on October 1st, 2010 01:55 am (UTC)
Ha, actually, funnily enough, while I was writing the ending I was contemplating writing it is a completely different theme - having it that Eames had died completely by accident, just an ordinary car crash and nothing more, but that Arthur needed something to "work towards" and focus his hate and regret on, and that the man he'd tracked down actually had nothing to do with Eames' death.

...but, obviously, that didn't end up happening. Mainly because I had no goddamn idea how to write it. :sniffles:

I know, I've been a writing maniac. My studies have suffered accordingly. OH WELL. Fandom > RL any day. :grin:

Amy: Inception: Armani + Arthur = EPIC LOVEsionnach_liska on September 30th, 2010 04:34 am (UTC)
This is absolutely freaking amazing! Oh Arthur. *sigh*

Also I couldn't help but smile at the Wichita, KS part as that's where I currently live! :D
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on October 1st, 2010 01:59 am (UTC)
Oh, thank-you so much! I'm so happy you liked it, darling. And gaw, you actually live in Wichita? Funnily enough, I have never been to America so I'm not even sure if the road-plan I've drawn up for Arthur is even possible, but gaw. Thank-you so much for the comment, dear! ♥
epic escapist love: jglchaoticallyclev on September 30th, 2010 04:51 am (UTC)
grr...livejournal fought with my internet and then the computer forced a shutdown. so, A LIFETIME LATER:

aaaaaaaaaaaand I teared up, and sniffled, and got all blubbery. blubbery. Obviously, the answer to you angst question is: yes, the bruises on my heart say, you can. and do. and ow

(arthur running his hand over the cold seat of the passenger's side is where i first went all sniffly and stupid)
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on October 1st, 2010 02:00 am (UTC)
What, what, what, woman. Blubbery? :melts: Gaw, darling. Darling. I'm just... I always get worried my angst just turns into angst-without-any-redeeming-factor, so I'm very very pleased that you liked this fic. And that it actually, emotionally, connected with you. That really makes my day, and would make any author's day, really. Thank-you so much, darling! You are just. Seriously. ♥
AYMSzeto on September 30th, 2010 06:36 am (UTC)
I totally did not Google 1719 N Rock Rd, Wichita, KS 67206....

windscreen stickers, the type that look like bullet-holes
I've seen those before and thought they were soooo tacky. OMG Eames. *facepalm*

;-; I want Eames back. Arrrthur. T_T
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on October 1st, 2010 02:01 am (UTC)

I want Eames back too. :sniffles: With Arthur. So they can make happy babies together. Even though that's not theoretically possible. But still.
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unwillinglymineunwillinglymine on September 30th, 2010 06:48 am (UTC)
Sigh.....this is so beautiful. My heart..it broke. Ambiguous ending = one of my favorite things in life.
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on October 1st, 2010 02:02 am (UTC)
Thank-you so much! I'm so happy you liked it. ♥
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ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on October 1st, 2010 02:03 am (UTC)
Gaw, darling. You are much too lovely. I'm so happy the ending worked, I just. Thank-you. ♥
The Sizzling Shizzagdementedsiren on September 30th, 2010 10:23 am (UTC)
Oh fuck.
Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.

I both hate and love deathfic. Particularly well-written deathfic.

Also, it's funny to say, but in all of this one line that really stood out was
ive years ago Arthur shot Eames for the first time, broke his nose for the first time, in reality, in a dream, in that order
It wasn't necessarily the best (probably not), but it was like, I don't know, a particularly precise dot on an "i", flicked and neat, something that could be simple was wasn't, quite. Anyway. Very good :-)
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on October 1st, 2010 02:05 am (UTC)

Gaw, you're much too lovely. I'm so happy you liked that line, I'm pretty pedantic with my sentence structure, so. I am happy. :grin: Thank-you so much for the lovely comment, and hopefully I didn't break your heart too much, eek! ♥ ♥
clair3clair3 on September 30th, 2010 12:18 pm (UTC)
ohh my heartaches!
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on October 1st, 2010 02:08 am (UTC)
Oh noes! :gives chocolates: Thanks so much for commenting, darling! ♥
Maddie: tyler durden smokingsillyoldbearr on September 30th, 2010 02:04 pm (UTC)

you continue to get me time and time again.
only this time... my heart is in my throat. this was so achingly beautiful and i loved the style switch up so much. so so much. i loved all the repetition. the reality of his situation and his feelings and ugh. revenge. so many lines worth saving in this one. i'm bookmarking (surprise?) because i know i'll need to read this again.
tragic. just so beautifully tragic.
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on October 1st, 2010 02:12 am (UTC)
dfgnsufgnsui THANK-YOU.

I'm just so guh. Thank-you. You have no idea howmuch it means to me to hear that the style worked for you, I'm always rather nervous about new styles. And guh, seriously. Thank-you. You are so wonderful to me, I don't even.

Laria: Arthurlaria_gwyn on September 30th, 2010 03:36 pm (UTC)
I really shouldn't read your fics at work anymore because they have the power to make me cry. ;_;
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on October 1st, 2010 02:15 am (UTC)
Gaw, darling. Thank-you so much for the lovely comment, I just. ♥
letox2: JGL+THletox2 on September 30th, 2010 07:36 pm (UTC)
Haaa why do I always do this to myself?! Please, tell me, but I think it's because your writing is always just too delicious and wonderful and damn, what are you doing to me?!

I think I have to read it again!
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on October 1st, 2010 02:15 am (UTC)
♥ ♥

Thank-you so much, darling! You're much too lovely, your comment pretty much just made my morning, thank-you! ♥
Tia Frijoles: Ebert saysbeanarie on October 1st, 2010 01:14 am (UTC)
It's amazing how this is sweet and sad and dark at the same time. Very nicely done.
ABC, her eyelids say.epistolic on October 1st, 2010 02:16 am (UTC)
Thank-you! ♥