Chapter Text
Arthur opened his wallet and took out a picture. It was him, at Mal and Dom’s wedding. He’d been the man of honor (even though Mal had claimed Dom was poaching), and in this picture he was smiling and laughing with the newlyweds. It wasn’t a professional picture, just taken with a disposable camera, but it was his favorite. It was so honest, and they were all so happy.
Carefully, he ripped himself out of the picture, and tucked the remaining half with his friends back into his wallet. The piece with him on it was roughly shoved into a bag, where it fit nicely among the jawbone of a black cat, yarrow, and some graveyard dirt.
The hole at his feet wasn’t large or deep, but it was enough.
Behind him came the sound of displaced air, and an accented voice. “Arthur. Please, listen to me. You can’t seriously want this. You don’t know what you’re doing!”
“I know exactly what I’m doing, Eames,” He kicked some dirt over the bag. It barely sprinkled down; probably Eames’s doing. “Better than most.”
“No, Arthur, you don’t understand, you can’t do this, this affects more than just you!”
Arthur whirled around to face the other man. “You think I don’t know that?” He hissed, quietly seething. “You know what I can’t do? Watch Dom try to do suicide-by-monster one more time. Watch him draw in that fucking book. I’m not about to let that continue. You hit the nail right on the head last year- I’m nothing without him. Him, and Mal, and the kids are the only people in the world who even give a shit about me, and I can’t sit by and do nothing anymore!”
Desperation wasn’t a good look on him; he knew that. He also knew that he was beyond caring.
“This is selfish. They’ll mourn you. They all will. Fuck, I will.”
Arthur kicked again at the dirt. Nothing. “I don’t care! They’ll be a family again, and they’ll be okay. That’s what I care about.”
For a few seconds, there was silence. Turning his back on Eames, Arthur bent down and shoved the little dirt pile into the hole, neatly covering up his bag. Eames was quiet, but probably still there- there would have been a sound if he left- but Arthur wasn’t going to turn around and look at him.
He appeared out of nowhere on the peripheral of Arthur’s vision, wearing an impeccable dark grey suit. “I must say I am surprised to see you.” Saito’s voice was smooth and deep, just like the first time they’d met. He blinked the red of his eyes away, looking for all the world like any normal, Japanese businessman.
Arthur, however, didn’t have the patience for pleasantries. “I need to make a deal, tonight.”
The demon watched Arthur for a minute, considering. “And what would you have me do?”
“Bring back Mallorie Cobb.”
It wasn’t long before Arthur decided he didn’t really like the guy they were working with. And he wasn’t really sure he liked the job they were doing, either. The newspapers had made it clear there was something going on; two people were raving about a large black dog that no one else had seen, before offing themselves. They’d looked into less.
But the other hunter they’d found there, Nash; he seemed skeevy, with his greasy hair and pointed face. Well, all hunters came off as a bit rough at best- came with the territory- but something about Nash put Arthur off. Of course, Cobb just wanted to hunt and kill this thing, and didn’t care who they worked with, and Arthur was still new to this- it was only his fifth hunt. So, Arthur would put up with Nash, because Dom wanted him to.
His notes were spread all over the (somewhat sticky) motel table. Everything pertaining to Sean Boyd, a genius architect (and that was a laugh, wasn’t it?) who’d taken a nosedive off of his own building, was on the left. On the right was Dr Silvia Growman, who had taken off from her practice after seeing a large black dog, and holed up in a hotel, and been torn to bits by a dog no one could find. Both of them had gotten successful almost overnight, almost exactly ten years ago. The only connection they have is a picture Nash gave them, of Silvia at a bar- called Lloyd’s- that the first vic had worked at.
“Dom, we have to go to that bar.”
Dom looked up briefly from his worn, frayed sketchbook, before turning his gaze back to his drawing. Odds were, it was Mal again, smiling and lovely, the way Dom wanted to remember her. “Alright, I guess I’ll drive. Go get Nash.”
Arthur stopped himself from grinding his teeth, kept his face impassive, and went to inform Nash that they were going to scope out the bar.
The bar itself was unimpressive; it was at a crossroads, yes, but there was nothing else around it for miles, it seemed, and the grass and weeds around the road were overgrown and untended to. Dom stopped the car they were driving and got out, to look around a little before the went into the bar. Arthur followed him, deliberately waiting until Nash was out of the car and trying to keep the guy in sight.
Arthur idly pointed out the flowers and weeds to Dom, wondering aloud when the last time the owners had it mowed was.
Dom walked over to one flower and picked it, looking closely. “I know this plant. Yarrow, it’s used in summoning rituals. . .” He trailed off, turning a circle. “You don’t think. . . Oh, shit.”
Nash, thankfully, looked just as lost as Arthur was, which made Arthur happy, in a slightly mean-spirited way. But Dom seemed to notice their confusion, and backed up to explain. “Yarrow, the bones of a black cat, a picture, and graveyard dirt can be buried in a container at a crossroads to summon a demon. For the price of one soul, you can make a deal with a devil. . .” He beckoned Arthur to him, and together, they began to dig. It wasn’t hard to find the small, metal box, buried maybe six or eight inches deep. Inside was an expired driver’s license, with the name ‘George Darrow’, and an address. Dom pulled it out to look at it more closely.
Arthur brushed the dirt off his hands.“I guess we know where we’re going next.” George Darrow lived in a small, piece of shit apartment in an ugly, falling-apart building. He had black powder (“Goofer Dust” explained Dom, upon sniffing it. “It’s hoodoo.”) under his doorway, and made it clear to the hunters that he was just fine living with- and, more to the point, dying with- his deal.
“But the demon stuck around a little while, made deals with a few other people,” said Darrow, picking up his paintbrush. He was taller than Arthur, but looked older than his years, and unhealthy. The painting in front of him was quite macabre, with half of it being human-looking and normal, but for the bits of bone and blood showing through- Arthur almost shuddered looking at it. But it was important to Darrow, so he kept his mouth shut and his face carefully blank.
“Do you know those other people’s names?” asked Dom, somewhere to his right. Just behind Darrow, Nash was examining some of the finished paintings lining the walls. Arthur shifted, just a little, so that he could look as if he was paying attention to the painter’s words and still keep an eye on Nash.
“Nah, not really. There was the architect, the doctor lady. I kept up with them, they were in the papers. Least they got famous. And then there was the last guy, what was his name. Hudson, I think. Ethan? Don’t know what he asked for. Shame, he was a nice guy, too.” Darrow shrugged, dabbing at his canvas with the brush. “Don’t matter now. We done for.”
“No,” Dom insisted. “There’s always a way.”
“I called that thing! I brought it on myself. I brought it on them. I'm going to hell, one way or another. I told you, all I want is to finish my last painting. Day or two, I'm done. I'm just trying to hold them off 'till then. Buy a little time.” Darrow gave them a good, long look, and then gestured at the door. “Okay, boys. Time you went, go help somebody that wants help.” And he went back to painting.
Dom nodded. “Alright, sir, thank you for your time.” And left, Nash close behind. Arthur moved towards the exit, but stopped, hand on the open door. He could just barely see the other hunters waiting at the end of the hall, looking impatient. Let them. He had something to ask before he left.
“Mr. Darrow... What did you ask for?” What could be so important that someone would literally sell their soul?
“Talent. I mean, who don't want to be great? Who don't want their life to mean something? I just... I just never thought about the price.”
Arthur nodded. “Was it worth it?” he asked, voice soft.
Darrow laughed, bitterly. “Hell, no. Shoulda gone for fame. Now, I'm still broke, and lonely.” He sighed, waved at the door. “Go on, get. I have work to do.”
The hunter nodded again, and left, making sure not to disturb the line of Goofer Dust.
When he caught up to the others, Nash immediately started asking questions, but Dom didn’t say anything until they were all back in the car. “Nash, we’re going to head back to motel. Do you want me to drop you off somewhere?” It was a clear, if polite, dismissal, and Nash took the hint.
“Just my motel room is fine,” He said, looking away from Arthur, so his expression was hidden.
Dom let Nash out of the car in front of his room. Silence settled back over Dom and Arthur again as they drove around to the other side of the building, uncomfortable, if not exactly unfamiliar. Arthur had learned early on how to not fidget and squirm his way through the quiet, how to just go still and blank. Later, it would be a trademark, of sorts.
Finally, Dom realized that Arthur wouldn’t speak until he did, and said what he’d been holding back since Darrow’s apartment. Or, that’s what Arthur thought he was going to do, but all he offered was a simple, “Arthur.”
“Dom,” Arthur returned cautiously.
“You can’t save them all. You have to know that. In this business, you can’t save them all.”
“I know that, Dom.”
“I know you stayed behind to try to talk him into not giving up-” Dom said, parking the car, and beginning to gesture with his hands.
“I didn’t,” Arthur stated simply.
“What?”
“Ask him to live- I didn’t.” He wouldn’t look at Dom right now. Or maybe he couldn’t.
Dom hesitated, aware that he was on unstable ground. “Then what did you say?”
Arthur was actively looking away, now, taking in the detail of the motel’s dingy walls and the peeling paint on the faded green doors.
“I’d rather not repeat it.”
Arthur felt rather than saw Dom’s answering nod. “Okay,” His friend said, letting it drop. “Okay.”
The day passed slowly, as Arthur dug up as much on the name as he could. There was no Ethan Hudson, but there was an Evan. Ten years ago, he was in the same living situation, with the same wife, and Arthur was almost out of his mind before he was able to find it- the reason why Hudson had given up rights to his soul.
“Dom. Hudson’s wife had cancer ten years ago. Now, it’s in complete remission.” He stared at his friend, who was currently brooding with his sketchbook. It couldn’t be healthy, drawing her over and over like that. But it wasn’t Arthur’s place to say so.
But his friend was like a dog with a bone when it came to work. He couldn’t research for shit- apparently it had always been Mal’s job- but he was clever, and a good con man, and tenacious as hell while on a hunt. He snapped shut his sketchbook, and turned to face Arthur. “That sounds like a reason to sell your soul, all right.” He gave Arthur a considering look. “So, here’s my plan...”
---
“You want me to do what?!”
“It’s a horrible plan,” Arthur informed Nash matter-of-factly. Knowing that didn’t change that it was best plan they had right now.
“There is no way in Hell that will work,” Nash said. “We are going to go down bloody.” He gestured tightly with his hand, something that was apparently synonymous with ‘dying horribly’. His greasy hair reflected the yellowed light of the motel lamps, and Arthur cringed internally a little bit.
“It’ll work.” Dom sounded sure. Arthur was less sure, of course, but where Dom went, he went. If Dom was going to die, it would be with Arthur fighting at his back.
----
They lined the outside of Evan’s house with Goofer Dust and salt. Dom was going to go inside and talk to Evan, explain the situation and try to be the last line of defence. Arthur and Nash were going to kill the hound of hell with a knife that Nash had- he swore it would kill demons. If the plan worked, they’d give Evan a hex bag and tell him to leave town so that another hellhound couldn’t be sent to collect.
The plan probably wouldn’t work. But Arthur had his pistols and his blessed-silver bullets at his sides, a sawed-off with rock salt and a supersoaker of holy water strapped to his back anyway. Nash seemed to have only the knife, and, to be quite honest, it wasn’t very impressive. It was a small thing, relatively, with a serrated blade and a wooden handle. There looked to be some sort of carvings on it, but Nash wouldn’t let Arthur close enough to really look.
He turned to Nash and was about to say something when he heard the growling. It was chilling, and Arthur readied his guns, more for the comfort of knowing his weapons were there than anything else. The thing had a sort of shape, a blurry outline that one could just see through the darkness. Arthur aimed and too his first shot, but it was fast. He didn’t flinch as it came barrelling his way- a combination of knowing he was in the salt circle and sheer stubbornness- and shot again, and again, missing every time.
Then, he realized, it wasn’t heading for him, or the front door. It was going to Nash, off to the side. Nash tried slashing at it with his knife, but the knife did nothing. It was a fake, Arthur realized. A fake, or just not working. Nash was screaming, and flailing, and Arthur could hear the hound snarling and the wind picking up.
Arthur ran over to Nash, to provide backup and, hopefully, get a clear shot at the hellhound without taking out his ally. Then, he heard what Nash was screaming.
“Take him, please God, just take him instead of me, it’s one soul, you won’t know the difference, just take them, take all of them-”
It was impossible not to want to shoot Nash, and hard not to aim his gun at the idiot’s pointy little nose. Instead, Arthur took out his aggression on the hound, not that the fucking coward deserved to live. Evan, he had to remember Evan. A wounded howl split the air once, and Arthur felt a brief moment of triumph-
Before a red-eyed man walked from the shadows, seemingly from nowhere. He was wearing a slick black suit, the shirt underneath obviously based off of Japanese styles, and looked Asian. “Nash, I thought we had an agreement.” His accented voice carried well over the hellhound’s snarls.
“Fuck you, Saito- just take him!” Nash pointed wildly at Arthur, but Saito didn’t even look his way.
“His soul was not the deal. Yours was. Come here, please.”
“If I shoot him, will you take him? I can gut him for you right now, Saito, just let me live. I’ll even fetch you the ones inside, three for one, please!”
The demon chuckled. “You do not understand. I was not asking.” The wind picked up, and the salt, predictably, blew away. A part Arthur’s brain dimly wondered if putting the salt in hulahoops or over glue might work, for next time.
Nash seemed to understand that his predicament was dire. “Arthur, Arthur please, help me!”
Arthur twitched. This man would’ve killed him, and moreover, Dom, just minutes ago, to save his own skin. But watching him get torn up right in front of him- Arthur wasn’t heartless.
Saito must have been watching him, after all, or maybe he was just that good. “Arthur, was it? In return for you not attacking me or this hound, the Hudson man’s life will be spared. His soul will be mine in death, but the rest of his life will be his. I will not interfere.” Saito blinked, and the red of his eyes was gone, replaced with something normal, human. “Try to stop me and I will kill all four of you and drag your souls to the pit.”
It had been a hard choice before, but- Dom. Evan, yes, but the reason he didn’t move was mostly Dom. He couldn’t do it; he couldn’t risk Dom’s life for a man who had offered seriously to kill them all.
“How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“I’m bound to it. If a crossroads demon goes back on their word, they die. Proviso written into the very fabric of our beings.”
“Don’t make me watch,” Arthur said, nodding at the demon. Saito inclined his head in return.
“You will not even hear the screams.”
Arthur turned around, trying not to hear the panicked sounds Nash was making, and wondered if this made him heartless.
-----
When he got home that night, Arthur pulled out his leather journal. On the back page, he wrote Nash’s name. He had been directly responsible for his death, no matter how much Dom told him he’d made the right call, and he wasn’t about to forget.
It would be the first of a very long list.
Waking up sucked. Contrary to popular belief, Arthur was very emphatically not a morning person. Dom’s portable speaker was hooked up to his phone, playing a song in French. One from Mal’s old playlist- she used to hum it all the time. Dom smirked at him from where he sat, already fully dressed, on the bed across from his. Arthur groaned at him, and pulled the pillow over his head. Like an asshole, Dom tugged it away. “C’mon, Arthur, you can’t hide forever.”
“I can,” Arthur protested weakly, hiding underneath the motel comforter instead. “And do we really need Edith Piaf this early in the morning?”
But Dom was used to this behavior, and just began to sing along with the woman. Badldy, off-key, and with a truly horrific accent. “Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…”
Arthur made one last sound of discontentment before dragging his ass to the shower. Dom called after him, informing him they were going out for breakfast. Good- he’d feel better after coffee.The town was small, like most of the ones they preferred for hunts, with a few hotels and some little tourist-y things. It’s only claim to fame was the local ‘Mystery Spot’ of Broward County. The tacky yellow pamphlet on it (snagged from a rack by the door of the diner as they walked in) proudly stated that the laws of physics ‘had no meaning’ there, with a few nonsense strings of numbers and equations. Arthur thought it was a joke of a job. (It may have had something to do with the fact that Arthur had studied physics in college for a while, or that the pamphlet’s neon color personally offended his sense of style. Or both.)
“I call bullshit. All these mystery spot places are just tourist traps- the only things in danger here are our wallets. We should just leave, find a real case,” he said, prodding at the Tuesday special cautiously with his fork. What was a ‘Pig n’ a Poke’ supposed to be, anyway? This was the last time Dom ever ordered for him. At least he’d managed to ask for a coffee when Dom ordered him a Coke.
Dom seemed happy enough with his breakfast, talking as he ate. “Some of these places actually are supernatural in origin,” he said, unconcerned.
Arthur scoffed. “Okay, then. What’s the lore?”
The expression on Dom’s face made it clear he didn’t have much to back this up with, besides personal belief. “It’s all over the place, but. The most popular theory is that the magnetic fields can be so strong, they actually bend space-time, sending the victims away into a type of vortex.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “Balls rolling uphill and furniture nailed to the ceiling does not impress me.”
“Someone went missing here! I’m not saying something is definitely happening, but we should at least check it out. If nothing’s going on, we’ll just leave.”
“Fine. We’ll take a look,” Arthur acquiesced, returning to his coffee. Dom made an agreeing noise and continued eating.
The waitress chose that moment to walk over, a glass of soda and a bottle of hot sauce on the tray. “I brought you a refill,” she said, with a smile at Dom. In fact, she was so busy trying to get Dom to notice her breasts that the bottle of hot sauce slid off the tray and smashed on the ground, spattering all over Arthur’s shoes and pants. “Wha- shit! Sorry, guys,” She said to Dom, before turning to leave. “Clean up at Table Six!” She snapped in the direction of the busboy, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Arthur raised his eyebrows at Dom, who grinned a little. “Don’t say a word,” he threatened, and Arthur held up his hands in mock surrender.
“I didn’t say anything!” But Arthur was grinning, too.
Breakfast passed quietly, after that.
---
The walk back to the hotel was pleasant enough, if a bit busy- there was a dog tied to a pole, barking; two guys trying to fit some piano through a too-small door, and arguing about it; a really hot girl bumped into Arthur and smiled flirtatiously. Arthur, for his part, ignored all of it, and focused on the task at hand.
“Let’s go ahead and get this Mystery Spot business over with.”
Dom shrugged. “Sounds fine. We’ll hit it tonight, after it closes.”
“Good. I don’t want to be seen walking into a place like that,” Arthur said, smirking.
Dom rolled his eyes at him, glancing over his shoulder. “What, afraid it will sully your reputation as-”
Mid-sentence, Dom was hit by a car. He flew through the air, and landed hard on his side. Arthur was kneeling next to him before he could even think about it, grabbing at his friend’s shoulders and feeling too shocked to cry, or say anything.
And then he woke up.
---
“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…”
Arthur turned towards the sound, looking at where Dom was standing over Arthur’s bed, ready to wake him up. He looked surprised- Arthur only woke up by himself if he was either a) in danger, b) thought he was in danger, or c) waking from a nightmare that both of them would pretend didn’t happen.
Dom, guessing which of the three it was, smiled hesitantly. “Hey, you’re up. Everything… Okay?”
“Yeah.” The word was out of his mouth before he could think about it. Like hell was going to tell Dom about the… Dream? Was it a dream? It had been really vivid- and Arthur was usually very good about what was reality and what wasn’t. He needed to get his head back in order, put it out of his mind. A shower- a shower would be a good idea. And then some breakfast. He shoved back the blankets and climbed out of the bed, ready to get the day over with.
As it turned out, the shower was a good idea. The warm water, even with it’s uneven pressure, felt good on his face and neck. Arthur had almost managed to clear his head, and convince himself it was just a strange nightmare.
Breakfast undid all of that within fifteen minutes, when Dom happily ordered a soda and the Tuesday special- Pig n’ a Poke- for himself and Arthur. Unlike last time, Arthur wasn’t with it enough to ask for a coffee instead, just nodding and watching the waitress walk away (ignoring the sway in her hips, which wasn’t for his benefit anyway). He consoled himself with the fact that the breakfast was just as terrible as in the dream, and that Dom had bad taste in food.
But he’d officially had it when the waitress brought a refill of Coke for Dom, flirting outrageously enough to let the hot sauce teeter on the tray. Making a split-second decision, Arthur stuck his hand out where the bottle had fallen in the dream. A moment later, the glass bottle smacked into his palm.
“Good catch,” said the stunned waitress, eyeing Arthur with a new appreciation. Arthur set the bottle on the table in front of him, face blank, and the waitress wandered away.
“Is everything alright?” Dom asked, setting down his fork. “You’re acting really strange today, Arthur.”
“You don’t remember any of this?” He shot back, pushing his plate aside and leaning forward, forearms pressing down on the cold table.
“What, like deja-vu?” Now Dom just looked confused, furrowing his brows.
Arthur shook his head. “No. I mean like, haven’t we done this before?”
“So… Deja-vu.”
“No.” Arthur kind of wanted to yell at him. Two or three years ago, he might have. But hunting had made him wary of getting loud- when Arthur was angry, nine times out of ten, he got quiet. “Forget about deja-vu. It’s like… We’re living yesterday all over again.”
Obviously concerned, Dom squinted at Arthur. “How is that not-“
“Don’t. Say deja-vu.”
The rest of breakfast was rather quiet, and Arthur didn’t eat anything. He felt like he’d throw up if he tried.
---
Outside, the same dog barked as they passed by.
“Arthur, I’m sorry, but you’re not making any sense,” Dom said, sounding worried.
Repressing a grunt of frustration, Arthur turned to him. “Okay. So, yesterday was Tuesday. But today is also Tuesday. We’ve gone to the same diner, ordered the same thing- the waitress even dropped the hot sauce again.” He snapped, dodging the bickering movers.
“But you caught it.”
Arthur rubbed a hand against his forehead, trying to control his temper. “Yes, because I knew it was going to happen.” If he were in Dom’s shoes, he’d.... No, fuck that, he’d accept it and move on. Dom was difficult.
“I hate to say it, but this is a little crazy. Even for me. Could this be-”
“Dom. If you say deja-vu, I will end you.”
Dom smiled. “I was going to say a ‘psychic premonition’.”
“…Oh.” Arthur grinned back a little (Dom’s smiles were contagious) before it slammed into him.
Premonition. That meant Dom would die today. Soon.
But Dom hadn’t noticed Arthur’s change in mood, and just kept speaking. “…so we’ll do this case, see if Hasselback disappeared because of the mystery spot, and maybe see if it has something to do with this whatever-it-is that’s going on with you. Let’s lie low until after they close, and check it out then.”
Arthur agreed, but last time this didn’t end well. He needed to change something, quickly.
Desperate, he reached out as casually as he could to grab Dom’s shoulder. “Dom, I just... Thanks. For believing me,” He said awkwardly, as the car barreled past. Bullet dodged. Arthur tried very hard not to breath a sigh of relief.
---
Something about the atmosphere, or how upset Arthur looked that morning, kept them from doing anything too serious. Research, for once, was ignored. They watched old eighties movies, and a movie in French without subtitles because they remembered how it used to make Mal smile. They were both fluent, because she’d taught them back in high school and never let them forget it. Arthur still made sure to practice regularly, for her.
After hours of laughing with his best friend, Arthur was finally beginning to relax- he’d gotten Dom past the part where he died in the dream, and was almost giddy with relief. Too soon, though, the mystery spot closed, and it was time to head out.
---
“Uncanny,” Arthur remarked sarcastically, staring at the furniture nailed tackily to the ceiling. It would be immature to say that he’d called it- or was that conversation part of the dream?- so he settled for: “Find anything?”
Dom looked where Arthur shined the light, and glances at the EMF meter in his hand. “No.”
“Do you know what I’m even supposed to be looking for?” He asked, making an attempt to sound long-suffering. It failed miserably. He just sounded amused.
Dom bristled. “Of course!”
Arthur thought the way he simply raised his eyebrow at his friend, unconvinced, was rather eloquent, and a moment later, Dom relented.
“No. I have no clue.”
“What the hell are you doing here?!” A voice yelled from behind him. Arthur whirled around to see the owner of the voice holding a shotgun, aimed straight at Dom, gun already in hand.
“Okay, calm down,” Dom said soothingly, holding his hands up in surrender, letting his gun hang loose from his fingers. Arthur drew his gun quietly, aiming for the stranger standing between him and his friend. He hadn’t seemed to notice Arthur, and that would work in their favor. Dom tried to keep the man’s attention, still talking. “I can explain.”
“You robbing me?” The man shrieked, and Arthur clicked the safety off quietly, trying to maintain his cool. This wasn’t the first time he’s watched a friend be held at gunpoint, or pointed his gun at a man, but it was the first time he’d been in the situation with a civilian.
“Nobody’s robbing you. Just calm down. I’m going to put my gun down now, alright?” Dom continued, and started moving slowly, bending to lay his gun aside on a shelf.
“Don’t move! Don’t move!” screamed the guy, aiming his gun squarely at Dom’s chest.
But the other hunter was good at keeping calm. “I’m just putting my gun down,” he assured the guy, continuing.
The gun jumped in Arthur’s hand, the bang startlingly loud. The guy with the shotgun went down, but the bullet had passed through his leg and, as Arthur watched with horror, Dom dropped to the floor, presumably trying to get out of the way and instead moving straight into the bullet’s path. If he’d have gone for his gun, like Arthur had thought he would, he would have been clear. As it was, the bullet caught him in the chest.
Arthur rushed over, not caring about the stranger- he’d live- and propped Dom’s head up on his lap. “I- I didn’t mean to-”
It was useless and he knew it, but he had to do something. His hands flitted over Dom’s chest, trying to find something to use to stop the bleeding. But the blood was everywhere, staining Dom’s shirt, his jacket, his lips when he tried to speak or cough, and was steadily soaking into Arthur’s jeans, slick and warm. He wanted to be sick. “Dom, hang in there. Dom. Dom!” He resisted the urge to fist his hands in his Dom’s jacket- it wouldn’t help.
He was already gone.
And then Arthur gasped awake. Again.
---
“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…”
Arthur was already up and out of his bed before Dom had a chance to say anything. When most people flipped out, they got sloppy and frozen; when Arthur freaked out, he got efficient. It had saved his life before, in the military, so he never tried to change it. Now, Dom looked at him, confused, as Arthur grabbed his clothes in short, controlled movements and headed for the shower and it’s (hopefully) calming properties.
While he was taking the shower and trying to get his thoughts straight, Dom opened the door into the motel’s bathroom. Ostensibly, Dom was going to ask if he was okay, but instead he tripped on the towel Arthur had thrown down (to mop up the water he was sure to track out) and hit his head on the side of the tub. Red stained the water swirling around his feet, and his friend’s body slid down to the ground slowly.
Arthur took a deep breath, hands curling into fists and eyes closing, trying to control himself. Don’t shout. Don’t throw up.
And then, he woke up.
---
“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…”
---
The diner table that they’d been seated at was still a bit wet this time- they must have arrived a bit earlier, and the waitress informed them that she’d just wiped it down. It soon dried back into its usual state, but Arthur wasn’t concerned with that right now.
“So you’re living Tuesday over and over again, and I’m not allowed to say- um, those words, and I die today,” Dom said, cocking his head to side and looking at Arthur strangely. Arthur, for his part, wanted to cry in frustration. Or scream. Or both. He just had a lot of feelings, right now, and it was freaking him out.
“Yes. And Dom, I can’t, I cannot, keep doing this. I can’t keep watching you die.” Arthur hung his head, a bit ashamed of how weak he was right then. But Dom was his friend for a reason, and knew Arthur well. He reached out, clapping him on the shoulder. It was a little awkward, over the diner table, but it was Dom and he always makes it work.
“I trust you to keep me safe, Arthur. And I know you can figure this out.”
Arthur smiled weakly, utterly miserable. “Okay, but I need to research. Let’s head back to the motel.”
He only got an hour’s worth of research done before Dom slammed his neck in the doorway and broke it. The crunch would be added to Arthur’s nightmares for life.
---
Days five through seventeen are spent in the motel, getting various amounts of research done. Dom drowns, chokes, gets electrocuted, gets food poisoning, gets a mysterious and unexplained illness, falls off of his bed and onto a corner of the nightstand, chews on and then falls onto a pencil (leaving it sticking grotesquely out of the back of his neck as he choked), gets accidentally hanged, slits his wrists on glass as he falls into a window, is the target of what looks to be a professional hit carried out by ninjas, shoots himself while cleaning his gun (this one is by far the most unlikely), and the one time he leaves the motel, gets the piano dropped on him by the bickering movers.
David Hasselback, the missing man, was forgotten around day nine, when Arthur started digging into the history of the Mystery Spot itself. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t much of one, though he went back into the history of the land as far back as the records allowed. He found nothing, absolutely nothing.
---
“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…”
Arthur used to like this song.
---
“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…””
It reminded him of Mal. How she would hum it when she was happy.
---
“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…”
Now he doesn’t think he can ever listen to it again without wanting to break something.
---
“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…”
That day, Arthur broke Dom’s phone. Dom pouted all through the day, right up until he was stabbed by a wayward knife, thrown by an out-of-work circus performer.
---
After day sixty-four (or maybe sixty-five?), Arthur decided to stop keeping count. All it did was drive him crazy(er). The worst part about all of this was how tired he was, waking from Dom’s death straight into Tuesday again. No breaks. No rest.
Arthur had to at least make an effort to keep his friend alive. Even if he was sure that the Mystery Spot wasn’t what was causing this, and he had absolutely no leads. Even if he’d failed so often there has been more than one day where he simply stayed in bed, and ordered Dom to follow suit, hoping against hope the cycle would break. This particular Tuesday was one of them. The death of the day came when Dom tripped coming back from the bathroom, and grabbed Arthur to catch his fall, dragging him out of bed in the process. Arthur’s elbow ended up jammed in Dom’s windpipe, crushing it.
It’s almost enough to make him cry.
---
The next day, Arthur decided to fuck everything, and wanted to annihilate the Mystery Spot completely. He made the place a firetrap, strategically placing cans of gasoline and lines of lighter fluid so that he could burn the place down to ash within the hour, and smiled as he flung the match inside.
And then the little boy started screaming. The kid must’ve snuck back in after hours, for some reason, and Dom threw down his weapons and dashed inside.
Arthur’s first instinct was to run in after him, but all he could do was stand there. If Dom died, and he woke up, back on Tuesday, the little boy might wake up, too- but he had no idea what will happen if he died. And so he stood there, petrified, listening to them scream. Dom even called for him to help, a few times. He decides that, of all the nightmares this hunting trip has tailor-made for him, this one will be the one that haunts him to his grave.
Arthur cries for hours the next day, and Dom doesn’t understand what’s going on.
Later that day, Dom will fall in the shower.
---
It was some time after that, when he’s back at the diner with Dom, sipping at his sweet, black coffee, that he noticed something.
Naturally detail oriented, Arthur had memorized all of the patron’s orders by now. Cal had just enough change for a coffee, Tony the mechanic had toast and scrambled eggs and hash browns, the short man whose name he’d never caught had pancakes drowned in maple syrup, et cetera, et cetera.
Except for today. The small guy got up and walked away from his plate the same as usual, black hair brushed back from his face the same, faded black jacket the same, white button up the same, leaving behind just a little of his… Pancakes with strawberry syrup. Different.
He stared after the man, the only person besides him to change their order since that very first Tuesday. While he’s distracted, Dom chokes to death on a piece of bacon.
---
The next day, Arthur is ready. He’s got his gun and his knife with him (although, being honest, it’s a rare day when he doesn’t have a knife strapped to his forearm), and when the man got up to leave, Arthur followed him.
Behind him, Dom was trying to get his attention. It didn’t take him long to figure out that Arthur wasn’t going to say anything, so he followed his friend, swearing and tossing some bills on the table.
It was child’s play for Arthur to tail the man into an alleyway behind the diner. It’s even simpler for him to grab the guy and pin him against a brick wall, his blessed silver knife pressed to the man’s throat and his gun to the man’s temple. It’s his favorite silver knife, with a blessed blade and warding carved into the handle by Yusef, and the gun has a bullet of iron. He’s covered as many bases as he can; he’ll carve this guy to bits and burn them if that’s what it takes.
“I know it’s you,” he said, low and threatening.
“Bwuh- huh?” The man seemed confused. It was a good act. “I- who are you? What? Just- take my wallet! Please!”
Behind him, Dom was talking, too. “Arthur, let him go. Whatever this is, it isn’t him, okay? Arthur? Let him go.”
“No!” Arthur shoved at the short guy again. The man whimpered. “No. I will kill you, right here, right now, if you don’t tell me what’s going on, and why you’re killing Dom every day!”
The guy in front of him shook for a minute, and Arthur saw him begin to laugh. His face changed, and he became taller, broader. About Arthur’s height, in fact. The man’s hair lightened, parted itself to the side and looked as if’d been combed down. Stubble grew. His clothes went from cheap and nondescript to a singularly offensive style. He gave Arthur a knowing smirk. “You can’t kill me, Arthur. Although, good job! I was wondering when you’d figure me out!” His voice is deeper than before, and saturated with mirth, his British accent lending his words a distinct smugness.
(In the background, Dom freaked out, demanding answers. He was ignored by both parties.)
Arthur was less than amused. He pressed the knife tip closer to the man’s throat, drawing one red bead of blood. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?” He hissed.
The man just laughed again. “So many questions. Well, you can call me Eames, darling.”
Eames may be broader, but they’re pretty much the same height and Arthur’s pissed enough that it doesn’t matter; he could probably take on an elephant. He slammed Eames back against brick again, but the other man doesn’t react.
“Answer me,” Arthur growled, “or I will decapitate you, put a silver bullet in your heart and an iron one in your severed head, then set you on fire for fun. If you’re still not dead, I’ll keep going, until I find something that does kill you.”
“So vicious!”
“Tell me why you’re doing this to Dom!”
Eames smirked. “Why, Arthur, it’s not about Dom. It’s about you.”
Stilling, Arthur looked at the man- or monster- suspiciously. “What.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, you. You’re always following Dom around, acting like a big stick in the mud. His loyal, respectable, responsible partner. You so devoted to him, you won’t even think about yourself anymore. About how you’re still grieving for his wife. She was your best friend, wasn’t she?”
A vein in Arthur’s cheek jumped as he clenched his jaw.
“And you won’t even let yourself miss her. You just concentrate on Dom and pretend it’s not a problem. Admit it, Arthur- you don’t even know who are anymore, when you’re not in Dom’s shadow.”
Arthur snapped, pulling back his arm to better slash this Eames guy’s throat. Eames chuckles. “Now, now, we can’t have that,” he said, and snapped his fingers.
---
“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien…”
Arthur woke up, ready to hurt something. But the song wasn’t the same, and the alarm by his bed read Wednesday. It wasn’t being played in a tinny tone by the speakers, it was being sung, by a woman’s voice. A beautiful voice that he had missed, for a very long time.
“Ah, Arthur!” Mal looked just as he remembered her. Well, almost. Her hair was longer, as if she’d let it grow out, her smile brighter than memory could properly capture. “You’re awake!”
Dom walked up, hair wet from a shower, and smiled in a way he hadn’t since Mal had died, wrapping his arm around Mal’s waist.
It was easy to remember two, separate series of events: a timeline in which Mal had died, and he had been stuck in a grotesque parody of Groundhog’s Day; and another, where they had called on him for back-up in the nick of time, and Mal had been saved. God, he could even remember seeing Pippa and James last week, tucking them into bed and, when they insisted, reading them a bedtime story while Dom pouted and Mal laughed.
Arthur shot out the bed, gathering his friends close in a hug. It was a lot more affectionate than he normally was, but Jesus Christ, he’d missed them. He couldn’t stop himself from laughing and tearing up, even if he refused to cry. He had them back. He had his family back.
Dom returned the embrace awkwardly, even as Mal squeezed Arthur tight. “Jesus Christ, Arthur, how many Tuesdays did you have?” Dom asked, sounding strained.
“Enough.” It was all he would say on the subject.
Their day was spent lazily enjoying each other’s company (Arthur cheeks were starting to hurt from smiling), before he decided he couldn’t stand another moment in the hotel room. So they packed up, chatting and bantering easily. Dom and Mal volunteered to lug the bags out to the car while Arthur did the last check of the room, to make sure they hadn’t left anything valuable or suspicious (or both), taking his time. He wanted to give the married couple a little time alone.
By the time he got out to the car, Mal and Dom were dead, holding each other’s hands and staring into each to each other’s eyes. They’d been stabbed, Mal in the stomach and Dom in the chest. Arthur rushed over, grabbing their joined hands and squeezing his eyes shut, waiting.
Nothing happened.
He opened his eyes and the Cobbs were still there, miserable and bloody. And it was Wednesday, and he wasn’t waking up.
He figured the roaring rampage of revenge he promised himself was his right.