Archive of Our Own ^beta

** ** ** **

Arthur shot the lock off the door. It only flew open about four inches, stopped short by a chain. From behind it, he heard a man shouting, 'Oh shit, shit!' He took a few steps back and kicked the door, breaking the chain. The door slammed inwards, hitting the wall and almost coming off the hinges. He checked both sides of the door before entering. The scene was clear so he ran inside, gun still drawn.

"Shit!" said a scrawny looking man with a goatee. He was holding both hands up, backed into a corner. "Shit, listen mate, it's not what you think. There doesn't have to be any bloodshed or arse-kicking. Please, put down the gun, yeah?"

Arthur didn't lower his weapon. "Where's Eames?"

** ** ** **

A few weeks ago, Arthur had had a call from a guy he'd worked with on a few jobs after Cobb had ostensibly "retired." The guy's name was Jacob Brice and he was a decent enough extractor that he didn't make Arthur want to bounce the guy's skull off a brick wall a few times. Lately, that was rare. Or maybe Arthur was just willing to put up with less shit these days, but the deal was that when Brice called him with info, it was worth listening to. Especially since Arthur had been off the scene for about four months.

Brice had informed him about some kind of chemical glitch in the new compounds that made it impossible for some dreamers to wake up. Or that if they did wake up, they were "sick," in some mysterious way he hadn't sussed out yet. This had begun happening a week or so ago. He'd heard of at least two deaths in the dreamshare community. But he himself hadn't run into this particular compound, and neither had anyone he'd worked with, so he didn't know exactly what it did.

Anyway, Brice had told Arthur, the new, bad compounds were almost indistinguishable from the regular kind without having a full chemical work-up done on them beforehand. There was no way to detect, on short notice, which ones were fucked up and which ones were safe.

Arthur thanked him for the info, and promptly started making calls.

He called Eames first. He didn't get an answer, but that wasn't unusual. He hadn't heard from Eames since the Fischer job last year. It had been a success—their greatest one—but had ended awkwardly between the two of them. He knew that Eames was pissed at him for going to work exclusively with Cobb. And every time Arthur had tried to engage him in any kind of civil conversation, Eames had shot him down.

Towards the end of the job, the edges between them had softened a little. And when it was over, he had approached Eames in the airport terminal, knowing that they were both in full view of Robert Fischer, and made as if he were trying to pick Eames up, like some handsome stranger on a plane. 'I like your suit, who's your tailor, are you waiting for someone...' and lines like that. Eames had played along gamely, and agreed to go have a drink with him.

And that was exactly what they had done. They'd had a drink, and talked quietly about the job. Arthur had told him, with no small amount of smugness, about his zero gravity drop. That had gotten him a smile. And then just when Arthur thought that Eames was going to ask him to come along with him, maybe to his hotel perhaps (he only had one small bag on that huge trolley and Arthur had thought, vainly, Is he waiting for me?) Eames had announced that he had another flight to catch. He said he would see Arthur in a few weeks, maybe. And then he hadn't called back.

Arthur had made an effort to contact him once or twice and always gotten his voice mail (which did not, in fact, have Eames's voice and gave zero information about whose number it was.) So he'd given up, figuring that if Eames wanted to talk with him, or even to work with him again, he'd call. And he'd left it at that, until now.

After not getting Eames on the phone again, he called Cobb.

Cobb had heard about some bad compounds going around, but didn't know anything else. "I'm retired, remember?" he said to Arthur. Which just meant that what he did wasn't strictly illegal. He still did dreamwork.

"You could still come in contact with the tainted stuff," Arthur said, "so just be careful and work with a chemist you know, okay?"

He called Ariadne, who told him that she was back in school and hadn't done any dream stuff since the inception. She was eager to go back to it one day. Maybe in a more legal way. Or possibly just for fun, when she had the time. He hated that dreaming had made an addict out of her, but it had done the same with him, so he had no room to judge.

He sent an email to Saito, the header of which simply read: From Arthur: IMPORTANT. The email read, 'Dangerous compound. Please call for information. Within a day, Saito got in touch with him.

"I know if Arthur says it's important," Saito said, "then it must be so."

"Yeah, I think so," Arthur said. "Look, I don't know if you're still doing dreamshare, but there's a bad compound that's doing the rounds. Like, really bad. Dead people bad."

Saito sounded amused when he said, "I appreciate your thoughtfulness as always, Arthur. But I use my own chemist on the occasion that I want to use the dreams. I assure you, she knows exactly what goes into every compound."

"Oh," Arthur said. He felt immediately ridiculous. Of course Saito would have his own stuff made up; why wouldn't he? But it was just in Arthur's nature to cover every base, if he could. Saito had been a part of his team. He couldn't forget that. "Of course," he said. "I'm sorry, I just didn't think..."

"You did think, Arthur. And I appreciate it very much. You were looking out for my best interest."

"Oh," Arthur said again. Well, I failed you once, so... "Yeah, no problem, of course. You're welcome. Take care."

"You too, Arthur."

Feeling awkward and dumb, he hung up.

Then he tried Eames again, and still came up with nothing.

Finally, he called Yusuf.

"Yes, hello," Yusuf said. "Arthur, I'm quite surprised to hear from you."

"I try not to talk to people who sell me out," Arthur said. Which was really not the way he should have started the conversation.

"Do you still talk to Cobb?" Yusuf asked.

Arthur refrained from saying 'Well yes, but...'

"There, you see?" Yusuf said anyway. "It's time you got over it. As I said at the time, Cobb assured me that we would be safe in Fischer's dream. He had his reasons to withhold information on the compound, and I had my reasons to go along with his decision. If you called to tell me after all this time that my reasons aren't noble enough for you..."

"That's not why I called," Arthur said. And then, with a sigh, "And yeah, you're right. I'm not sorry that I'm still pissed off, though."

"I can't help you with that," Yusuf said. "But clearly I can help you with something, otherwise you wouldn't have bothered to call."

"Actually I just called to warn you about the compound that's going around, and ask if you knew anything about it."

"Ah!" Yusuf's voice brightened, as if he'd love to talk about it for hours. "I have heard, yes. I haven't got my hands on any myself. Apparently it's cut with a street drug called 'Nine-Ten' that makes the high of other drugs much realer. From what I understand, other chemists were using it with Somnacin to make the dream sharper, to blur the edge of reality for the dreamer."

"Which is really stupid," Arthur supplied. "Dreams are real enough as it is."

"Apparently not real enough for some."

"Well, it's killing people, from what I understand."

"Chemicals are neutral, Arthur," Yusuf said. "They're not good or evil; it all depends on how they are used. It's possible that there's a positive side to a drug like that, and we just haven't found it yet. And we never will, because it will be found and destroyed. That, or it will be picked up by pharmaceutical companies and distorted into something worse than what it already is."

"I can see," Arthur said, "that I didn't need to warn you about this."

"No, you didn't," Yusuf said, in such an arch tone that Arthur could picture the raised eyebrow. "You obviously called about something else."

"I can't get in touch with Eames," he blurted out. "And I just thought you might know..."

"Don't take it personally," Yusuf said, "no one can get in touch with Eames. He's a difficult man to find."

"Have you heard from him since Fischer?"

"Oh yes," Yusuf said. "I've worked two jobs with him since then. I did try to get him a few days ago. Now that you bring it to my attention, he was supposed to ring me back."

Arthur paced his apartment and chewed on a nail. A bad habit that he really wanted to stop, since it left his cuticles ragged.

"Do you know where he was supposed to be?" he asked.

"On a job in London, last I heard. With some man named Jonathan... Hmm. Let's see if I can recall his last name. Dale, or Vale, or something of the sort. Ah yes! It was Jonathan Vale. I remember because he said Vale was the point man, and that it was a shame that he was no Arthur, but then who could be? Then I asked why he didn't just get you for the job and he hemmed and hawed until I could no longer listen to him and I hung up."

Arthur put most of that out of his mind and said, "Jonathan Vale in London?"

"Yes," Yusuf said. "That sounds about right."

"Thank you for this," Arthur said. "I appreciate it."

"Then consider us even," Yusuf said, and hung up.

** ** ** **

The workspace whose door Arthur had just busted down was a shoddy, abandoned building. The point man, Jonathan Vale, held his hands up in surrender, panicking and babbling about how there didn't have to be any bloodshed and would Arthur please not kick his arse, please, he hadn't done anything. And on and on. When asked where Eames was, Vale led him over rotting floorboards to the next room.

There was one other guy in the room, lying on a cot by a window with the blinds drawn. Probably the extractor. He looked dead.

Eames lay on a different cot in the corner, motionless except for the reassuring rise and fall of his chest. Arthur stared, momentarily transfixed by the bloody marks on both of his arms. The PASIV lay on the floor beside him, but he wasn't hooked up to it.

"How many times did he go under?" Arthur asked.

"Just the once," Vale said. "And I can't get him to... either of them, they won't wake. It was a practice run and something with the compound...I wish I knew."

Arthur studied Vale. Someone whom Eames had trusted, obviously, but who had also not gone for help when his team had crashed. On the other hand, he hadn't left them to die, either. He was standing guard, probably waiting for someone. A good sign.

"How long has he been down there?"

"About twenty hours," Vale said.

"Did you go under with this compound?"

"Yes, but..."

"And you were able to wake." Arthur grabbed the PASIV and unspooled two lines.

"You're not hearing me," Vale said, when he saw what Arthur was doing. "The compound is dangerous. Yes, you can wake up from it. But it's complicated, you can't just..." Frustrated, he ripped the cannula from Arthur's hand. "Will you just fucking listen? I'm trying to give you information."

Arthur took a deep breath and counted to five. A trickle of blood ran from Eames's arm onto the dirty mattress. "Go ahead," he said.

Vale pointed to the motionless body by the window. "That's Jonesy, over there, our extractor. He tried to wake himself up with a shot to the head. Go take a closer look."

Arthur walked over to him and bent down. Dried blood crusted the sheets around Jonesy's head. Vale came over and tilted Jonesy's head to the side. A trickle of fresh blood ran out of his ear.

"He tried to shoot himself awake," Vale said. "Do you see? And he woke for a second, and then had some kind of seizure, holding his head and wailing, blood coming out of his ears and his nose. It was fucking awful. And Eamesy," he gestured to where Eames lay, "he was doing a forgery of a heroin addicted rock star. Do you see what I'm getting at here? You can wake up from the compound. But whatever happens to you in the dream seems to have a similar effect in the waking world."

Vale gingerly lifted the hem of his sweater. Bruises marked his ribs from sternum to clavicle. "The dream started to collapse. A block of cement fell onto me. But I was on a timer, because I was just there for a look around, see. I timed out of the dream before it could really crush me. Otherwise you'd see me lying here trying to breathe. What happens in the dream, to some extent, carries over. You have to time out with zero damage, or use an extremely safe kick topside. It's the only way."

"And you don't have any other compound?" Arthur asked.

"No. This batch must have been intercepted and cut. Our chemist is on her way back to us with something she's made up herself, and she's delivering it by hand so no one else can touch it. But she's flying in, so she won't be here until tomorrow. Which is why I haven't gone anywhere."

Arthur gave it a moment's thought. His head was clear; he knew what he was doing. "I can go in with this compound."

"Can you?" Vale asked. "You can go into the subconscious of a forger who might have lost his identity, and fight off his projections with no damage? If one of them shoots you, you'll end up like him." He nodded his head to Jonesy. "And Arthur, Eames has woken up once. He was in agony. It was easier to leave him asleep until the compound is cleared of his system."

"But in the meantime," Arthur said, "he could die down there. And if he dies down there...?"

"I don't know," Vale said. "Coma, maybe. Brain damage. I'm willing to wait for our chemist to help him, but in all honesty, I'm not willing to go down and get him. If I had died in his dream, the three of us would be rotting here."

Arthur sat on the cot next to Eames. He gestured to Vale to come and help him.

"Since Eames is already under, don't feed any of the compound into his line. Just put it into mine so I can go under quickly and get him out. We'll rely on the synchronizing chip for the actual dreamshare part. Put me on a timer, two minutes."

Vale brought a vial over and fit it into the vial cradle. "You sure about this? He's going to be really bad when he wakes up. You don't know what else the compound does. Fuck, I don't know. I could still have it in my system and it might show up later."

"There's no other way," Arthur said. He took the cannula and ran his fingers gently over Eames's arms, looking for a usable vein.

"There's that, too," Vale said, watching Arthur's fingers. "Veins collapsed."

Arthur turned his arm over and found a vein on the back of Eames's hand. He slid the needle in.

"You're mates, you and Eames, yeah?" Vale said.

Arthur didn't know how to answer that, so he said nothing. When Vale get the vial situated, Arthur hooked himself up.

"Two minutes," he said. "And then, if we don't wake up normally, give us both the kick. Just, I guess, knock us both out of the cot." He squeezed in next to Eames. There was no other choice but to wrap both arms around him, this way they would fall together. Under the scent of sweat and panic, Eames's hair smelled like clove, tea, a little bit of lavender. He'd probably just gotten here the day before, after a shower.

"That could be hours in the dream, depending on how deep he is in his own head," Vale said.

"I'll find him."

"Right." Vale set the timer. "It's not going to be pretty when you bring him out. And if his projections attack you, you're on your own. But in any case, good luck."

He pressed the button, and the compound suffused Arthur's system.

** ** ** **

Eames had never gotten lost in a job before. Ever. He was always in control of his forgeries. He knew he was out of control on this one. He could feel the compound riding him, filling every vein and cell, jerking on his limbs like he was a puppet on strings.

He could remember having woken up once, briefly, feeling like he was on fire. He must have been flailing, because Vale had been holding him down, telling him "Stop, stop, Eames, for Christ's sake mate." Pain had twisted every sinew in his body. He was cold and hot all at once.

He could also recall seeing, with horror, the marks that he had put onto his arms in the dream. He had been awake, but the marks were still there, bruised and crusted over, streaking his arms with dried blood.

"It's the compound," Vale had said, panicked. And, "Fuck, everything's gone wrong. I'll get the chemist, she'll figure it out."

And then, unable to take being topside anymore, he'd gone back down willingly. Here, at least he could trick his mind into dulling the pain. He could forge it away, with made-up drugs that kept him numb. He'd wait here until Vale figured it out. Until the chemist came and cleaned the compound out of his blood.

So he huddled into an alley in his dream, trying to be inconspicuous because there was no guarantee that his own subconscious wouldn't turn on him. He didn't know what had gone wrong with the compound, but it had obviously made him unstable. He couldn't trust his own mind and had to hide from himself.

The ground trembled a little, as if something had shaken it up. The brick wall he was leaning against creaked in protest. Something was happening in the dream – maybe he was waking up against his will? Or maybe it was noise from topside. Vale was still up there, and Jones, too. They might be trying something. Or perhaps the chemist had arrived. Truthfully, Eames dreaded what would come next. He didn't want to wake up.

The dream shuddered again, and gave that strange, shimmering, stretching feeling that always came when someone else entered it. Many dreamers didn't feel it, but Eames had trained himself to. He watched a few projections run past the alley. Some of them looked familiar, faces he'd seen here and there. A Vale projection ran by, looking panicked. This was not good. His projections were dangerous; he had to keep them calm. Difficult to do when he felt like he was choking on his own tongue.

One of them turned the corner and walked into the alley with him. Christ almighty, it was a projection of Arthur. Stupid bloody Arthur, who had left him years ago to follow Mad Cobb around the world. And then had bloody teased him as if there was still something between them.

"Of course," Eames rasped out to the projection. "You must be my conscience. Trust my subconscious to come up with the most repressed and uptight projection to try to speak sense to me."

But then a look of what appeared to be genuine hurt crossed Arthur's face. His steps faltered. But he walked on, and eventually sat down in the alley next to Eames.

"You have to wake up. Vale's giving us the kick soon and you have to go with it, try to stay awake. It's not safe for you down here."

Eames turned his head sluggishly and looked over Arthur's profile. His hair was slick and neat, as usual. His skin looked dry, his eyes tired. A smattering of freckles dotted his cheekbone beside his nose. All details that Eames remembered vividly, and could easily copy, but...

"You're not a projection, are you?" he asked.

Arthur shook his head.

"You came looking for me?"

"I tried to contact you," Arthur said, "to warn you about the compound. But I couldn't get your stupid phone, you fuck. You never pick up when it's me."

"So you came to London," Eames said, starting to believe again that he had dreamed this Arthur up. "And you hooked up to the PASIV to get me? Is the chemist there? Did she get a new compound?"

"There was no time for that. You look like shit topside, almost as bad as you do here. I couldn't afford to wait."

"So," Eames said, putting it together slowly, "you, what? Used the tainted compound yourself to come and get me?"

Arthur didn't answer.

"Why, Arthur?"

Arthur scowled at him. "Because. Asshole."

"Who's the arsehole? You could die, you bloody fucking moron."

Arthur turned to face him. "I honestly can't even tell if you're flattering yourself or insulting me. I'm not going to die. We're going to wait for the kick, and we're both going to wake up, and that'll be that. I'll get you out of here and then, I don't know, you can go back to whatever you were doing."

"Well, working," Eames said. "But apparently that's not going to happen for a while."

"Probably not," Arthur conceded. "I guess you'll feel the effects of withdrawal, topside."

"I've never done that in real life," Eames said. "Opiates, I mean. I can only imagine what it will be like." Unfortunately, his imagination was extremely vivid, and he had done enough research on his forgery to know what to expect. "The body believes what the mind tells it," he went on. "If I tell it I'm not actually ill..."

"Worth a try," Arthur said. "But the compound is laced with a street drug that kind of... it's like it incepts you with the idea that the dream is real. Apparently, from what little I know so far, what happens in the dream carries over. The body does believe what the mind tells it. You just can't shut the signal off, with this drug; this 'Nine-Ten,' as they call it. I guess that's how it works."

"'Nine-Ten?'" Eames repeated. "What does that mean?"

Arthur shrugged, thought for a moment, then almost laughed, like he'd just gotten the punchline of a joke. "It's a pop culture reference. 'Nine, Ten, never sleep again.' It's from Nightmare on Elm Street. The bad guy in that could hurt you, or kill you in your dream, and your body would..."

"I know who Freddy Krueger is, Arthur," Eames said. "We do have films in the UK."

"Right," Arthur said. "Of course."

They were quiet for a while, waiting for the kick.

"I'll stay with you, if you want," Arthur said, staring at the brick wall opposite them. He looked troubled. "When we wake up, I mean."

"Not sure I want anyone to see me like that," Eames told him.

"You can't be alone. But then, Vale will be there and your chemist is on the way. Do you want me to leave once you're out?"

Eames gave it some thought. It might be humiliating, but having Arthur around in a crisis was always good, in case anything went wrong. Or if they had to make a getaway, or needed protection that he would not be able to provide.

"No," Eames said. "I don't want you to leave."

Arthur nodded, still not looking at him. He seemed about to say something, but then closed his mouth. Opened it again, and then changed his mind again. Eames waited.

"I tried to call you," Arthur said. "To warn you about the compounds, first of all. But before that, too. After the Fischer job. I thought we could at least... I know you were pissed off at me for going with Cobb, but I'm not going to apologize for doing what I thought was right."

"Fuck's sake," Eames said. Because it hadn't been about Cobb. It had been about Arthur, and the way he'd pushed Eames away, after he'd been so ready to give it a try.

"I mean, we were okay with each other by the end of that job. I don't see any reason we can't at least just be friends, like we were."

"Is that what we were?" Eames asked, remembering waking up in Arthur's apartment, in his bed, pressed together and kissing languidly in the early morning light. That was the day before Mal had died.

Arthur turned to him, exasperated, with a pained expression, and said, "Eames."

He didn't get to finish his thought. The world shifted beneath them. Arthur dove on top of him, wrapped both arms around him, and then they were falling, waking up together.

** ** ** **

Arthur's back hit the floor hard. Eames had landed awkwardly on top of him, flailing as he struggled to get up. Arthur dodged an elbow to the mouth and rolled out from under him.

Eames tried to sit up and fell backwards against the cot. Vale was on him, grabbing his hands and saying, "Mate, hey, you're all right."

"Arthur," Eames said in a wrecked voice. "I saw Arthur."

"Right here." Arthur crawled over to him.

"That was real. You're real."

"I'm real."

Blood streaked Eames's arms. His lips were nearly white, his eyes rimmed in red. Arthur had seen Eames get taken down by a load of birdshot and even then he hadn't looked this ill or panicked. Then Eames turned to the corner and vomited bile onto the cement floor. Vale slumped against the cot, unsure of what to do.

"All right," Arthur said, getting up and dusting his pants off. "Okay, we're awake, the hard part is done." He splayed his hand on Eames's back, feeling his muscles tremble. His skin felt feverish under his shirt. He waited until Eames had caught his breath, then helped him to sit back.

"Any water in this place?" he asked Vale.

"Only a little." He scrambled up and went to a small overnight bag. "We didn't really bring supplies. This was meant to be a quick practice run."

Arthur took the water from Vale and opened it, because he had a feeling that Eames's hands were too slick and shaky to do it himself, and he knew that Eames didn't want anyone to watch him struggle with something so simple. He handed Eames the water.

"We should get out of here," Arthur said.

"But the chemist..." Vale said.

"Can find us when she gets here." He looked at Eames. "Seriously. Let me take you home. It's going to be a while."

Eames looked at Vale. "Jonesy?"

"Err." Vale shifted. "Not well, I'm afraid. I can't see leaving him here while we bugger off. I can get him out of here now that I have some help."

"Great," Arthur said. "You all have cars nearby?"

Eames swallowed his water painfully and nodded. "If you can drive," he said to Arthur.

"Of course I can drive, asshole."

"In England."

"Uhh, yeah, since I stayed here a while back. If you think about it."

"No need to get nasty." Eames was the only man who could look like he was about to fall off the edge of life and still snark back at him.

Vale and Arthur left Eames momentarily, and made quick work of getting Jones downstairs. Jones had stopped moving except for a few painfully drawn-in, rattling breaths. Arthur knew what that sound meant, but he didn't mention this to Vale.

Arthur gave Vale the keys to his rented car, took his luggage and laptop out, and put them into the trunk of Eames's car. With the Vale and Jones on their way, he went back up to get Eames.

"I can do it," Eames protested, shoving Arthur off as he stood. He took two steps and stumbled. Arthur caught him as his knees gave out and held him up. He was lighter than he had been the last time Arthur had seen him. Eames always said that he was in perfect control of his forgeries and never let them affect him, but, this time at least, it had. Before the bad compound had even gotten into him, apparently. He wondered if he was going to have to put Eames over his shoulders to get him down the stairs.

"I've got this," Eames said. He took a moment to steady himself against Arthur, then straightened his legs and spine. They made it down the stairs slowly, Eames's arm over his shoulders and a hand on the filthy guardrail.

"I've got a flat nearby," Eames said, once they were in his car. He pressed a button under a digital map on the console and said, "Nevermore." A route highlighted on the map and a voice told him to turn left at the next intersection.

Arthur smiled as he buckled Eames in. "Smart."

It seemed an eternity before they got to Eames's place. Arthur watched him deteriorate in the car, alternately nodding off and shivering. By the time they got there, Eames was in a different state. He didn't seem to know where he was as Arthur parked outside of a relatively modest, non-descript home, and helped him out of the car.

"How did I get here?" Eames asked. It wasn't memory loss, as it would be with anyone else.

"You're awake," Arthur said. "Where's your totem?"

"I'm my own totem," Eames answered. "In the mirror. Bathroom."

That made sense. On the Fischer job, Arthur had watched Eames toy with a poker chip, which most people assumed was his totem. But Eames was a forger. It made sense that he wouldn't rely on something like like a poker chip all the time; something that someone could take from him.

Arthur got him inside and helped him to the bathroom, letting Eames direct their progress. Down the hall, Eames staggered into the bathroom and quickly shut the door, saying, "A moment, please."

Arthur waited outside for a few minutes, wondering if he should listen for any signs of distress, or if he should mind his business. He opted for walking back down the hall and taking a look around.

Eames's house was tidy, all dark, warm colors and what were probably a few antiques. An easel stood by a bay window, covered with a tarp. A small hearth nestled in a corner. For all of their time together, Arthur had never seen how Eames chose to live, when given options. The only messy spots were around the easel, and around desk in a small work-station where it looked like chaos reigned. Everything else remained neat, tucked, clean and comfortable. He wondered how much time Eames spent here. Obviously not the entire year, as he lived a lot of the time in Mombasa, too.

Arthur wondered why he'd come back to stay in England.

He looked around until he heard a thump from a bathroom, which turned into a thunderous crash, and then he took off back down the hall. He opened the door without knocking or asking.

Eames was half on the floor, half in the tub, with his shirt off. He struggled to get his arms under him, but they refused to hold him up.

"Jesus," Arthur said, his heart still battering against his ribs. He pulled Eames up and checked him over. The fall had cut his cheekbone, which was blooming into a bloody bruise. He had never seen Eames so battered; had never even imagined it.

"You could have asked for help," Arthur said.

"Don't want you to see me like this."

Arthur eased him back against the tiled wall, grabbed a hand-towel, wet it under the faucet and pressed it against Eames's cheek.

"I'm pretty sure you've seen me in worse condition," he said. "That's actually how we met, so."

Eames replied with a non-committal "Hmm," before his eyes rolled back and he started to lose consciousness again.

"Hey." Arthur tried to gently rouse him.

"Saw you in a cafe," Eames muttered. "When we met."

"No. You rescued me from a military compound, Eames. Remember?"

"Yeah."

"All right. Let's get you cleaned up."

Between them, the managed to get the rest of Eames's clothes off. Arthur did this as pragmatically as he could, reminding himself that it was nothing he hadn't seen before. They'd had sex twice, and seen to each other's various injuries even more often than that. Arthur could still discern the tiny, round scars on Eames's hip and leg, from where he himself had dug birdshot out of him years ago.

As he maneuvered him to sit in the tub, he was pleased to notice that Eames had a detachable shower-head. Eames was shivering again, his skin like ice, so Arthur didn't want to take too long. Gently, but quickly, he washed away the blood that had caked his arms and legs.

Blood that had no physical reason to be there. That had oozed out of skin which had been opened in a dream. It didn't make sense.

"Thank you, darling," Eames said. But his eyes were closed and he didn't seem to know where he was, or even who was with him. "How's my Mum?" he went on. "Is she all right?"

Arthur shut the water off and grabbed a towel. "I'm sure she is. Don't worry." He didn't give the question much thought. He had only just reminded Eames of their first days together—days they'd spent at Eames's mother's safe-house in Swansea—and that had probably put her on his mind.

"I need to see her," Eames said, as Arthur helped him stand.

"We can do that," Arthur told him. "Hopefully the new chemist will get here tomorrow. We'll get you fixed up, get this crazy shit out of your system, and then we can go there if you want. I've got nothing else lined up."

It took him about five minutes to get Eames to his bedroom. They had to stop and lean against the wall every few steps, and Eames seemed to occasionally not know where he was.

Once there, Arthur put him, still naked, into his bed. The bed was large, hastily made-up with what he assumed were really expensive sheets and comforters. Arthur was new to luxury; he couldn't yet put his finger on what was quality and what wasn't, without help. He had tailors for that sort of thing when it came to clothes, but that was all.

The bed also had a heated pad, which Arthur switched on. Then he turned on a low bedside lamp, sat himself in a chair, took a book from Eames's shelf, and waited.

About a half an hour went by, with Eames shifting to get comfortable, half awake. Finally he turned towards Arthur, eyes open, aware.

"Everything okay?" Arthur said.

Eames sighed. "Please don't take it personally. I just wish you weren't here to see me like this. I hate it."

"I know. And I understand, really." Arthur folded his book, and thought maybe Eames needed a little privacy. It didn't mean he had to leave the house. "Look, can I borrow your shower? I still smell like an airplane."

Eames smiled a little at that, and seemed for a moment like he was weighing Arthur's words, or the fact that he'd gotten on a plane to come and make sure he was all right. It wasn't that big of a deal. Arthur had done more than that for Dom, after all.

"Also, I left all my shit in your stupid car. If I could borrow something to wear, too, maybe?"

Eames waved his hand in the direction of his closet, then burrowed back under the blankets, as if he'd do anything to get Arthur out of the room.

As quietly as he could, Arthur opened the closet. It smelled of violets, and some other dark, woodsy scent that he couldn't put his finger on. There must be a sachet or something in there. At work, Eames always smelled like cologne and hair product. This was his personal stuff, and it made Arthur feel even more intrusive.

He picked a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring, and a T shirt that was going to be far too large for him, but he didn't want to linger too long, going through Eames's stuff.

In the spacious shower, he used Eames's high-end soap and shampoo. When he was done, he only snooped a little, while searching the cabinet for deodorant and mouthwash. He stopped to sniff Eames's cologne and hair product, to see if he could find the scent of him that he knew from work. He couldn't; this was all different, personal.

By the time he got back to the room, he was shocked to see how quickly Eames had gone downhill again. He'd thrown the blankets off and was clawing at his arms and chest, hyperventilating. Arthur hurried over, thinking 'Shit, I should have stayed.'

"Off," Eames said. "Get them off, Christ get them off of me."

"Eames, there's nothing..."

Arthur had to stop. There was nothing on Eames; it was a hallucination. But that didn't mean that his body wasn't reacting to it anyway. Bright red marks bloomed on him, some of them darkening quickly. In horror, Arthur watched as one appeared on his shoulder, with two tiny punctures at the center. Bite marks. Arthur had never, in all of his days of dreamwork, seen anything like this.

"Shit. Eames. Wake up!" He shook him hard, even slapped him a little. As long as the compound was still in him, everything that he dreamed would have a physical effect. He had to either dream peacefully, or not dream at all.

"Arthur," Eames called. "Arthur!" His eyes opened. He looked around, frantic and confused.

"I'm here. Hey, it's all right. Stay awake." He sat on the edge of the bed, gripping Eames's shoulder, waiting for him to calm. Blood dripped slowly from his shoulder and he took long, shuddering breaths. Arthur waited until he was sure Eames was entirely awake and said, "Hey, I'll be right back. I'm going to get something to clean you up, okay? Don't fall asleep."

He waited for Eames's nod of understanding before heading to the bathroom to get a washcloth and the kitchen for a bowl of warm water.

"I'm all right now," Eames said when Arthur returned. "No need to coddle."

Arthur sat next to him on the bed anyway. "I'm not coddling. You're bleeding. Do you want it all over your sheets?"

"I'm...?" He turned his head, looking at his shoulder. "Shit. Am I awake now?"

"Yes." Arthur said, gently wiping at the blood. "It's the compound. Nine-Ten, remember? It makes your dreams come true. Too bad the dreams suck." He rinsed the cloth and took it to Eames's face, dabbing at the cut on his cheek. He stared, even though he tried not to. Even bruised, as pale as his sheets and white-lipped, Eames still looked good to him. Arthur wanted to touch him, to be allowed to put his mouth on him, like he used to. It was ridiculous, but he doubted he would ever get over wanting to do that.

Eames took the washcloth from him. "What did we say about coddling?" He wiped at his own face.

"I'm not. I'm just..." 'Staring in a creepy way and thinking inappropriate things?' "I'm not leaving again. I should be here to wake you up in case something else happens."

"Arthur..." Eames began, in his exasperated voice.

"Use your head," Arthur snapped. "I'm just asking for a little logic, that's all. Tomorrow the chemist will get here and she'll figure it out. Or it'll be out of your system naturally by then and I'll be out of your hair forever. But I'm not going to leave so that you can die because you're so fucking obstinate."

"Arthur..."

"You'll just have to put up with me for a little while longer, for fucksake. Stop complaining."

Eames grabbed his wrist, circling it gently with his hand, and said, "Arthur, you're such an idiot sometimes."

He didn't know why Eames wanted to keep shoving him away by saying hurtful things, but it got to him. "Fine, maybe I am. But you're a stubborn..."

Eames kissed his palm and then pressed it against his face. His skin was hot, damp, scratchy with stubble.

"I wish you'd just listen to me sometimes," Eames said.

Arthur swallowed hard. Once again, he was off-balance and didn't know what to think, what to do. Eames always did this to him. He said one thing, and did another. Arthur pulled his hand away from Eames, gently, and grabbed the washcloth back.

"I wish you'd listen to yourself," Arthur said, and continued wiping the blood from his arm. "You make me insane."

"I know I do."

Arthur finished cleaning him up in silence, aware of Eames watching him. It made his skin prickle, made him feel self conscious. After, he went to the kitchen, dumped the bloody water, and and came back with a glass of filtered water from Eames's refrigerator.

"Think you can keep some of this down?" he asked. "You don't want to dehydrate."

Eames gestured for it, and took a few sips. Then he fell back against his pillows, clearly done.

Arthur went back to the chair and started reading again, trying to be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible.

A few hours went by in silence, before Eames started calling him again. When Arthur went to see what he needed, it became clear that Eames was still asleep. He made some vague sound of distress and called for Arthur again.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Arthur touched his arm. He felt ice cold. "Right here."

"We have to get back on the train," Eames said.

"We can do that."

"Come here to me." Eames tugged on his arm a little. "You're freezing."

Arthur wasn't--in fact he felt too hot, stifled--but he leaned down a little anyway. Not to take advantage, but to make sure that the dream didn't turn into a bad one. Or a worse one, possibly.

Eames pulled him more insistently, and Arthur gave up and climbed into the bed with him. It felt wrong, like a violation. Eames was sleeping, sick, confused, and naked, and had only a while ago told Arthur that he wanted him to leave. But this seemed to calm him. Arthur just hoped that he could get out of it before Eames woke up and caught him like this.

"I thought I'd never find you," Eames said, and wrapped his arms around Arthur, pulling him close. "Out there in the cold, thought you were gone." His hand came up to cup the back of Arthur's head, fingers threading through his hair. "But I've got you now."

"Yeah," Arthur said in a small voice. "I'm all right."

"We'll go home," Eames continued. "The trees will turn to gold, my love."

It was babble, but at least it sounded like peaceful babble. Arthur squirmed, trying to make himself feel uncomfortable and guilty. He couldn't quite manage. He had no clue what Eames could possibly have been dreaming about, but his words left Arthur with some strange, unnameable, yet profound feeling. He didn't know why.

Eames breathed into his hair and fell quiet. Arthur had to admit, it was a tremendous improvement over dreaming about bugs, or whatever it had been, biting him.

Eventually, he couldn't keep himself held rigid anymore. The weight of Eames's arm over his shoulder, the firmness of his other arm under Arthur's head, made him feel sleepy - even comfortable. Exhaustion overtook him. He didn't mean to—in fact, he fought it all the way—but he fell asleep as well.

When he woke, it was near dark. He knew immediately where he was, and panicked, tilting his head to make sure Eames was still asleep. He wasn't. He was staring down at Arthur, his eyes too wide.

"Eames, I'm sorry, but you were..."

He stopped when he noticed that Eames didn't react, didn't answer, didn't even acknowledge that he'd spoken. Just kept staring, eyes nearly blank, wide enough to show just a bit too much iris. Still asleep.

"Eames? Hey." Arthur leaned up on his elbow and shook him by the shoulder a little.

Eames said, "Don't let them take you into the hospital."

** ** ** **

When Eames's phone rang the next morning, Arthur stressed for thirty seconds over what to do about it. Eames was sleeping, and didn't seem to want to stir. Arthur wasn't even sure if he'd know where he was, if he should wake up right now. So finally, he just picked up.

"Hello?" Arthur said.

"Hello?" said a British-accented voice. "Who is this?"

"This is Arthur. Who is this?"

"Oh, thank god. This is Johnny. Johnny Vale, from Eamesy's team. Listen – hey, is he all right? Why did you pick up?"

"Umm, he's okay," Arthur said. "He's just sleeping and it was kind of a rough night." Eames had been half-awake some of the time, and possibly half-aware. He'd given Arthur another scare when his heart had started racing. Whatever had been going on in the dream had not been good, so Arthur had given up and just held onto him, talking about nothing in particular. He didn't want to think too hard about why his presence in the bed seemed to calm Eames. "What's the news?" he asked.

"The news," Vale said, "is that our chemist has been killed. She turned up in a warehouse in the same state as Jonesy. And she wasn't alone. There were two other dreamers there with her, both well known in the business here. I don't know what to do, Arthur. We're getting picked off and I want to leave the country. What would Eames do?"

That was a good question. Arthur wished he could ask him.

"There's another chemist I can call," Arthur said. "I'm not sure if he'll come, but either way, I should probably tell him that someone's coming after all the high-profile people in the industry." Which might, he mused, get Yusuf to come to him for protection. Seemed mutually beneficial.

And now that he thought of it, perhaps he should call Dom, too. And Ariadne. Saito he didn't worry about too much, but it did seem better to let him know.

"I'm more concerned," Vale said, "about getting my arse to safety than I am about the Nine-Ten, to be quite honest."

"Then do it," Arthur said. "Seriously, there's nothing else you can do. What about the other guy? Jonesy."

"The same. I can't know for sure, but I think he's gone, in his mind, I mean. He's still got a pulse. I tried getting fluids into him and... he's just completely unresponsive. I don't want to just dump him off, but I don't know what else to do."

"Leave him at the hospital," Arthur said. "This way, at least his vitals can be taken care of. Then you can get yourself to safety. My best guess, that's probably what Eames would tell you."

"Yeah," Vale said. "Is that what you're doing? With Eames, I mean."

"Oh. Uhh, no. I'm staying with him."

"Right," Vale said. "Well, it's different, I guess, if Eames is able to walk and communicate. You're right. Eames always says how smart you are, so I should probably take your advice."

"Well, I don't know about that," Arthur said. "Just get Jones to the hospital and then get yourself to safety. Hopefully Eames will be able to take your phone calls soon enough, but until then, lie low."

"Right. You take care of Eamesie, now. All right?"

"Sure," Arthur said. "I'll do my best."

After the phone call, he sat at the edge of the bed to check on Eames again. Eames had his eyes open and was watching him cautiously.

"Awake?" Eames asked.

"Yeah."

"Chemist?"

"Dead. I'm sorry. Looks like we're in the shit, to be honest. A lot of people are turning up dead and it seems to have something to do with this Nine-Ten stuff. I think we need to get to safety, at least out of London. Think you could manage that?"

"To my Mum's," Eames said. "Remember? I need to see if she's all right."

"I'm sure she's fine," Arthur said, even though he knew no such thing. It was doubtful, though, that she would be involved in this, or anywhere near it. Her home was a safe-house and she lived off the radar. It was there that Eames had taken Arthur after their escape from the military. She'd been in hiding for years in Rhossili, after she and Eames had faked her death to hide her from Eames's batshit father.

His batshit father, who was also a dreamshare pioneer. Arthur hoped she wasn't involved. And if she was, then how safe was her home?

"We'll go there," Eames said, struggling to sit up. "To make sure she's all right."

Arthur pushed him back down with a hand on his chest. "All right," he relented. "I'll take you there, but just rest a while. I'll get our shit together. Are you sure about this?"

Eames's eyes drifted shut again. "Make sure she's all right," he muttered.

Arthur sighed, and started gathering up necessities from the closet and the bathroom. He helped Eames struggle into some clothes, no longer feeling embarrassed, but pragmatic and practical now that he had something to accomplish aside from waiting.

Then he got him into the backseat, threw their necessities into the trunk, and drove.

Years ago, Eames had shoved Arthur, unresponsive, into the back seat and driven the same route. Over Severn Bridge into Wales. It had been forever ago, but Arthur still remembered the way to the house in Rhossili. He would probably never forget. It had rained that day, torrential, a downpour. It was raining again, but this time bitterly cold and mixed with ice. Arthur turned up the heat in the car.

Six hours later, as the sun was setting, they arrived. Eames had slept nearly the whole way, waking only a few times to tell Arthur that they had to make sure his Mum was doing all right. He seemed a little more present. In the rearview, Arthur looked at his eyes. They were troubled, like there was something he should know.

It didn't make sense to him until Elaine Eames—known legally now as Helen Tate—answered the door. She was obviously surprised to see Arthur there, and shocked to see him dragging her son along as he stumbled to get one foot in front of the other.

She might even have been more shocked than Arthur was when he saw her. He remembered her as a vital, vibrant woman, with white hair and red lips, sharp eyes and a stately, regal beauty that she had retained into her late fifties, along with what he privately admitted was a kickass body. It felt weird to think of Eames's Mom like that, but there it was. He remembered her in red, her skin still smooth, her hands stained with ink and paint.

She hadn't lost the regal beauty, but she had lost about twenty pounds, and all of her beautiful hair.

"Oh, dear," she said, as she took in the sight of them.

** ** ** **

When Eames was able to crack his eyes open a little, the light stung them. His joints ached, and his skin itched like fire.

Worse, though, was the memory of the past two days. How he had clung pathetically to Arthur. How he'd asked for his Mum, and had Arthur bring him to her. He'd never live that down. Even if Arthur never bothered to tease him about that (and he might not; Arthur could be quite class about situations like these,) he would never be rid of the humiliation he felt. He could not remember a time when he had felt so low.

Still, he felt the absence of Arthur at his side keenly. That was perhaps the most alarming part of it. It was humiliating to think of Arthur coddling him like that, and how Eames had just allowed him – more than allowed, needed him. And yet, he still felt that need. He wanted Arthur's hands on him again, Arthur's back to his chest, and the safety that had come with it.

The drug was still in his system, that was probably why. It might take a while to shake that feeling. He had no idea how he would behave when he saw Arthur, whom, he imagined, was probably downstairs waiting for him. He needed to get himself under control.

Now that he was somewhat lucid again, it was probably time to get his arse in gear and act like an adult, even though he did want to just lie around in bed for the rest of his life. It was the same room, and the same bed Arthur had stayed in ages ago, when he'd been laid up here.

Eames's overnight bag lay stashed beside the bed. Arthur had probably put it there for him. He grabbed some clothes and went into the bathroom. He didn't like to look in the mirror for too long, because he didn't look like himself. He'd lost weight and muscle mass during this job. His skin was still bruised and marked up from the effects of the dream. It was unnatural. That was how he looked: unnatural.

He took a shower, quickly and without looking at himself too much. The hot water eased some of the cramps in his muscles, but did little to quell the crawling, nauseated feeling that still plagued him on the inside. He wanted to stay in longer, but no sense in postponing the inevitable. Now, he'd have to face them both; Arthur and his Mum. There was no avoiding it, so he just went downstairs and steeled himself for the worst.

He smelled toasted cheese cooking, which alternately made him feel ill and starved for food. The kitchen was too bright, with the afternoon sun streaming in from the bay window. His Mum stood by the stove, cooking, with her back to him. She looked so thin and frail, he was afraid of what he would see when she turned around.

"Heard you get up, pet," she said.

"Err. Thanks, Mum. Sorry for barging in."

"Don't be stupid."

When she finally did turn, Eames found that she looked at once both worlds different, and exactly the same as ever. The weight loss and hair were the most jarring. Her eyes were the same.

"I was worried about you," Eames said lamely, as he took a seat at the table.

She snorted in derision. "Me? I think you should look at your own sorry state."

"Yeah, cheers for that."

She set a plate with a toasted cheese sandwich in front of him, then sat down across from him. "Arthur told me you ran into some trouble at your highly illegal and dangerous job."

Hunger won out over nausea, and he started to eat. "Yeah. Well, not just me, but nearly everyone. It's a bad compound going around. Did Arthur... Is he still here, or did he..."

"Well, I assume he'll come back," she said. "He told me he had to fetch someone from the airport. A chemist, someone he said could help you."

"Yusuf? Did he say..."

"He didn't tell me, darling. I've never seen a man in such a social panic; it was awkward. He didn't know what to do with himself."

"Arthur's good at his job," Eames said. "But he's not good at people."

"He was panicking over you, too, just so you know. He wanted to make sure you'd be all right before he left. I always thought him rather sweet, in a 'baffled American' sort of way."

Eames snorted into his glass of water, as he thought about Arthur's serious scowl as he fought off projections. About his brutal efficiency when he needed to get something done, and mowed down anyone who got in his way. Perhaps Arthur had been "sweet" ages ago, and certainly he hadn't been at his deadliest when Eames's Mum had met him, but he still couldn't imagine looking at Arthur and having "sweet" come to mind.

When Eames finished eating, his Mum took his plate and rinsed it in the sink. The light from her window illuminated her and for a second she looked just as resplendent as she always had; strong, cutting, ready to fight. Even though he didn't see her all that often, he didn't know what he would do without her, without knowing that she was just here, in her house, painting her forgeries for him to sell a few times a year. It was crushing; worse than the drug had made him feel.

She would sense it if he was dwelling on her illness, though, so he acted cheerful as he wandered around the house, looking at her new work.

A few hours later, Eames's cell phone rang. It was Yusuf, asking where Arthur was.

"He never showed?" Eames asked.

"No, and I'm standing here in the terminal, with crates of compounds. Suppose I could get a taxi, but..."

"No," Eames snapped. He went to the spare room his Mum kept for him, opened the closet, and retrieved a locked box which contained his emergency weapons. "You stay where you are, no matter how long it takes," he said. "Don't leave the terminal. Stay in plain sight of security. I'm coming to get you. Cardiff, right?"

"Yes, of course. You think there's danger?"

Eames knew there was. Arthur wouldn't just get side-tracked and not show up. "Just stay put," he said. "I'll be there in an hour."

When he kissed his Mum goodbye and she saw that he was armed, she shook her head. "Are you in any state to be running around playing soldier again?" she asked.

"Arthur's disappeared," he told her. "I haven't much choice."

She patted him gently on the cheek. "I know you haven't, darling."

** ** ** **

He found Arthur's car—actually his own car, the one Arthur had used to get them to Swansea—in the airport carpark. A streak of dried blood marked the door. Maybe Arthur's blood, maybe someone else's, but it was already brown, which meant that Arthur had been taken hours ago, maybe even before Yusuf arrived. There were scuff marks and a scratch on the door, too.

He leaned down to check the ground, to see if they, or Arthur, had dropped anything. Underneath the car lay Arthur's cell phone and car keys. He grabbed them both. The car keys had blood on them. The blood on the car was probably from the assailant as well, then. And Arthur must have left his cell phone for a reason. He obviously hadn't had time to make any calls or punch in any information, but he'd wanted Eames to have it.

Standing up, he checked the list of Arthur's latest calls. He'd phoned Dom, Ariadne, and "S.E." The initials could only belong to Saito. He'd been getting in touch with the Inception team.

The assailants had likely pulled up beside him and done the grab, probably with more than one person, but likely no more than four, and using sedation. They wanted to get him alone, for their convenience and safety. Which meant there was probably another team waiting for Yusuf. A team who would get suspicious if he didn't come out and get a taxi soon.

Eames was about to call him to tell him this, formulating a plan quickly in his head, when Arthur's cell phone rang. The initials "E.S." flashed on the screen.

"Yes, hello?" Eames said.

Silence from the other end.

"Don't hang up," Eames said. "This is Eames." It was a risk, but one he had to take.

"Mr. Eames," Saito replied. "Might I ask what you are doing with Arthur's phone, or is this a private matter?"

"It's not private," Eames said. "Someone grabbed him out of the car park and he left his phone for me to find."

"It seems that Arthur was not exaggerating when he called to warn me of danger."

"No, he wasn't," Eames said. And then he made a cagey decision. "If you're openly involved in dreamcades, you should tighten your security." Eames knew as well as anyone that Saito didn't need to tighten his security. No one could get to him.

"In fact," Saito said, "I was calling Arthur to tell him that he was right about the new drug. The Nine-Ten. It seems that it has infiltrated dreamcades here, making them unsafe. I'd like to find out who is behind it. I had hoped he might have some information, so I made a trip to find him."

"I don't think he does," Eames said. Arthur couldn't have found out anything vital or incriminating on his drive to Cardiff. "I think they took him for another reason. He's made a name for himself, and apparently these people are picking off the experienced dreamers. He was exposed for just enough time. He was picking Yusuf up at the airport."

"Is Yusuf with you now?"

"Still inside," Eames said. "Look, I've got to go; I have to get him out of there and I need to track Arthur before it's too late. I'll call you when it's over and we have some information."

He counted to three, and was about to hang up, when Saito spoke again.

"You'll need back up," he said.

"I don't know yet what I need. I need to find Arthur, fast."

"I have people in London. Let me send some contacts to Arthur's phone. They'll help you run an operation, if need be. When you find out where you are going, send my man a message via text. I can have people meet you there."

"Thank you," Eames said. It was what he'd been waiting for. "I'll do that and I'll be in touch when I find anything out for you."

"Good luck, Mr. Eames," Saito said, and hung up without another word.

Then he used his own phone to call Yusuf.

"Where the bloody hell are you?" Yusuf said as he picked up.

"I'm outside. Listen, carefully; we only get one chance at this and we need to do it right. I'll need five minutes. Here's what you'll do during that time: Look at your watch frequently. Try to look annoyed."

"I am annoyed," Yusuf said.

"Look as though you're trying to get someone to pick you up, and they're not coming."

"That is exactly my situation."

"Then buy something to eat, quickly, and leave the terminal to get a taxi."

"You told me not to do that," Yusuf said.

"And now I'm telling you to. Get a taxi to the nearest hotel. I'll be a few minutes behind you in a car you won't recognize. When you get to the hotel, don't go straight in. Fuss with your luggage a bit."

There was silence from the other end for a few seconds, and then Yusuf said in a hiss, "Eames, am I bait? Are you setting me up to flush out the people who took Arthur?"

"No other choice."

"Jesus Christ. You're going to let them grab me."

"If all goes well, it won't come to that."

"If all goes well! That's hardly reassuring."

"Best I can do," Eames said.

"No, the best you can do is come to the terminal and pick me up."

"Yes," Eames said, "and then leave you alone again so I can go looking for Arthur, and they'll grab you while I'm nowhere around. Just do it, please, otherwise you're completely on your own."

"You're... you're... Jesus," Yusuf said, relenting. "All right. Five minutes. You had better not get me killed, Eames."

"I'll do level best," Eames said, and then hung up before he had to listen to any more bitching.

He was an old hand at breaking into and hotwiring cars even before his military career, so it took him less than five minutes to find one in long-term parking and to get it running. Then he drove round to the terminal, where he saw Yusuf packing his many heavy, sturdy pieces of luggage into the boot of a taxi.

When they left, Eames followed three cars behind.

Three cars turned into four, when another sedan started tailing the taxi once they left the airport. Eames put on a hat and sunglasses, pulled down the car's visor, and fell back.

He wasn't too far behind when the taxi pulled up to the hotel, with the trailing car behind it. He pulled into a space a few meters behind and ditched the car. Yusuf's assailants—three of them--waited until the taxi pulled away and he was standing on the sidewalk, fussing with his various bags and chemicals. Then they rushed him. Yusuf probably did not have to fein his look or surprised horror.

Eames was on them in a second. He grabbed the gun out of the first guy's hand, then broke his elbow and muffled his scream. The second guy was bulkier. They were all still surprised though, and Eames whipped him under the chin with the butt of the gun.

The third guy was older, a tall, thin, grey man with calm eyes. He did nothing but raise his hands in acquiescence that did not reach his expression. This bloke wasn't finished fighting. Eames surmised straight away that he was their field commander. He'd probably even organized the grab on Arthur.

Eames had done the whole thing quietly, with as little fuss as possible. So far, they hadn't attracted any attention on the busy London street.

"Get in the car," Eames said. To the younger fellow whose arm he had not torn up, he said, "You drive."

He quickly checked the glove box and under the front seat for any stashed weapons, found one, and took it. Then he hustled Broken Arm—still whimpering—into the front seat where he would be useless. And shoved Field Commander and Yusuf into the back, before getting in with them.

"We're going a few blocks up and turning when I say," he said. "Then we're going to go to a nice, quiet place and all of us will have a chat."

He instructed Young Bloke where to go, and took them to a secluded alley, where they made a final turn and parked. Then he got them all out of the car and lined the three of them up against the brick wall of an abandoned building.

Field Commander was still quiet, stoic, and planning his next move.

"You coordinated the grab on Arthur, yes?" Eames asked him.

The man nodded.

Eames shot him in the head.

Young Bloke jumped back against the wall like he wanted to scramble up the side of it. Broken Arm began crying in earnest. Even Yusuf gave a sharp gasp.

"He wasn't going to tell me anything," Eames said. No one was listening, so he slapped Young Bloke to get his attention. "Do you both understand? That man, your commander, wasn't going to tell me anything. So here's what's going to happen next. One of you is going to tell me where you took Arthur, and the other of you is going to eat a bullet. It's up to you to decide who does which."

They both started babbling to him at the same time. He caught the words "old hospital" and "experienced dreamers" and "Nine-Ten," but no physical address. He pointed the gun at Broken Arm.

"There's an abandoned hospital across town," he rattled off, "the data is on my phone, my phone is in my pocket, please don't shoot, I'm just a... an..."

"Right, just an accomplice," Eames said. He shoved him around and grabbed his phone.

Then he shot Young Bloke in the arm to slow him down, just a little nick that he could get stitched up later, if he dared to show his face in a hospital. The kid wailed and screamed as if Eames had shot him in the cock or something.

He texted the address to the contact that Saito had given him. It seemed like these people were running a big operation; Eames would take help any way he could get it.

He grabbed Broken Arm by his good arm and said to Yusuf, "I'm getting us some back up. Let's go."

He left Young Bloke with his dead boss in the alley, took Yusuf and his hostage to the car, and started driving.

** ** ** **

It was not the first time Arthur had woken up in the trunk of a car—actually it was the second--but it never got any easier. He couldn't make anything out by the sliver of light coming in from the back seat. He was freezing, groggy, and his hands were zip-tied behind his back. His head throbbed with every motion of the car.

It wasn't that it had happened too fast for him to react; he'd just been outnumbered. He had no sooner parked the car in the airport, gotten out, and started to dial Yusuf, when the other car had come sliding up beside him. The door opened, scratching up the side of his car, blocking him in on that side. He started to scramble over the hood, but a hand caught the back of his shirt.

He'd thrown his elbow back, possibly broken someone's nose, crushed someone's instep, and then used his car key to draw blood on the third guy. Then something jabbed him in the arm. That was all it took before things started going hazy. He dropped the phone and had the presence of mind to kick it under the car. Someone would come looking for him. Eames, he hoped. He'd find the phone, find his contacts, and send for help.

The problem after that would be finding him in time. Arthur had no idea where they were taking him, but he would stall as much as possible to give someone else time to figure it out. Also, there was the chance that he could run. He counted his ability to create opportunities among his strengths.

The car slowed, turned, and stopped. He heard people getting out, slamming doors, speaking words too muddled for him to understand. When they opened the trunk, he made them drag him out. It was always better to pretend to be worse off than you were. He resisted the urge to open his eyes and look around until he was thrown over someone's shoulder and could safely hide his face.

He saw dirty, cracked pavement. Oil in the rain-puddles. Some scrubby underbrush. A chain link fence, cut with wire-cutters, which they had to maneuver him through. And finally, the side of a run-down building with cracks all over the facade. It was some sort of abandoned place, that much he knew. But he saw no street signs, no landmarks by which to orient himself.

"You got Arthur," someone said in an impressed voice.

"Yeah," answered a British accented man, walking beside the one who was carrying him. "We saw him and decided to move. The chemist can come later. This one will do a lot better when we take him under."

"What happened to your nose, man?" asked the other voice.

There was no answer.

He began to wonder what his next move should be. When the guy finally put him down, would it be time to fall backwards and loop his legs under his bound wrists, so his hands would be in front of him? Or should he wait and see if they took them off? It would help if he knew what they had in mind for him. If, say, they were going to cuff him to a chair, he'd have a few seconds with his hands free.

They went through another set of doors. Arthur heard the beep-beep of heart monitors – many, it sounded like. And the smell of blood was overwhelming. Heart racing, he cracked his eyes open again.

There were sleeping bodies everywhere. Probably about a hundred that he could see, all lying on cots, presumably hooked up to the monitors. He spied a PASIV device in the center of a circle of bodies, and that's when panic crept up on him. He couldn't quite make out the details, but none of this looked good at all.

He heard more voices as others entered the room with them, and he shut his eyes tight again, thinking, 'Shit, shit, shit!' Whatever the hell they were doing, and were about to make him a part of, it was bad.

A voice said, "That Arthur Calloway?"

"Yup," answered the man carrying him.

He placed Arthur on what felt like one of the many cots, on his side.

"Shit," the other man said. "Go get Prescott. He's going to be really happy with that."

Prescott. That was a name Arthur had never forgotten. Prescott was the man who had got hold of Arthur when he was 21; the man who had been assigned to break into his mind and extract the whereabouts of Dom and Mal. His methods were brutal, in dreams and topside. Prescott was the man that Eames had worked for, and had subsequently rescued Arthur from. The man that he and Eames, and Dom and Mal, had later exposed as a torturer and sent to prison. Arthur was dismally unsurprised that he had not stayed there.

He was also the same man who had, back then, been working under the orders of Eames's father, a pioneer in the dreamshare business.

Rage, unfiltered and explosive, replaced his panic. He contained it. It wasn't time yet.

A moment later, he heard a few more people enter the room. And then Prescott's voice, which he would likely never forget.

"You've got Arthur Calloway!" Prescott said. "I am truly delighted. What a find. What an honor. I've followed his career, you know."

The voice was the same, but his inflections sounded different. He sounded honestly delighted. There was an edge in his voice, something not quite right; an unpleasant glee that hadn't been there in the brief time Arthur had known him.

Someone grabbed his arms behind his back and clipped the zip-tie. Arthur thought, 'Now, now, now.'

"Oh, be careful now," Prescott said. "He's only pretending to be asleep. He is very good, from what I've heard."

It only took a second for Arthur to open his eyes and get a look around. Prescott was close. The IV stand next to the cot was closer. Arthur flipped onto his back, grabbed the metal pole, and swung. He caught Prescott with only a glancing blow, but it was enough to send him reeling. Prescott's arms pinwheeled madly. He tottered backwards and fell over a table with a PASIV on it.

Prescott was down, but only for a few seconds. Arthur took those few seconds to swing the IV stand again. This time he got the guy behind him in the jaw.

No time to stay and fight them all. He looked past the cots loaded with sleeping bodies, in the direction of the door. The two men who had been guarding it started toward him. One of them drew his pistol. If Arthur could only get around him--

"Wait!" Prescott shouted. "Don't shoot him!"

That was all Arthur needed to hear to get his ass moving. They weren't going to shoot. He ran, wobbling, his vision still blurry. But he was going forward, towards the door. People shouted and clamored around him, and he swung the IV pole. He didn't know who he hit, who he missed.

Stumbling through the cots and tables, he came up to another PASIV, to which about five people were hooked. He grabbed it and threw it at the first person he saw. PASIVs weren't all that heavy, but the shattering glass vials and the fact that he had actually just thrown a PASIV at someone seemed to shake his pursuers up.

Prescott kept yelling: "Get him! Catch him! I want him alive!" and Arthur kept making his way toward the door, shoving cots out of the way, tipping tables, ripping PASIV lines, and throwing whatever was within reach.

Just before he got to the door, someone tackled him around his legs. He flailed and went down, kicking and trying to turn over. He felt his shoe connect with someone's face, heard a shout of pain. Then someone else came and pinned his arms. He was flipped over onto his back. A hand came down towards his mouth, holding a cloth, as if the person was going all Victorian on him and using chloroform. Arthur turned his head and bit the arm that was attached to the hand. He sunk his teeth into skin and tissue and didn't let go.

The man over him screamed, wailed, slapped at him.

Someone else grabbed his jaw and pried his teeth out of the man's arm. The man's blood filled his mouth. It made him sick; he turned his head to spit and cough it out.

Eventually, enough people got hold of him that they were able to manhandle him onto one of the cots. He kept fighting. He was pretty sure he kicked someone in the chest, and also fairly certain he punched one of them in the dick. Arthur felt slight satisfaction that he had done so much damage, but panic soon overrode that, as they overpowered him. His arms and legs were strapped down and he was immobile. He even tried twisting hard enough to flip the cot over, but to no avail.

It seemed more than a few minutes before the room quieted down again to nothing but muttered curses, a whisper of 'that fucker bit me!' groans of pain, and the 'beep-beep' of the heart monitors. And then he heard a slow clap.

Prescott approached and stood over him. "That was indeed impressive, Arthur," he said. "You did about fifty thousand dollars worth of damage in the space of three minutes. And you didn't even give me a chance to explain what we're doing here."

Arthur doubted it would make a difference.

"I'm going to get this blood off your face," Prescott said. "Don't bite me. If you bite me, I'll remove your teeth."

Arthur nodded. It was worth it to let him clean up the blood. It felt disgusting.

Prescott took a wet cloth and wiped his lips. Arthur was gratified to note that Prescott was bleeding from the temple, and seemed to be forming a big goose-egg. His eye was already swollen purple.

"We're experimenting with Nine-Ten," Prescott said, as if this in any way could explain or excuse the hundreds of probably unwilling bodies hooked up to PASIVs. "This is a ground-breaking drug for dreamers. Street druggies and addicts are using it for fun, but we're using it for science."

Prescott finished cleaning him up and tossed the cloth aside.

Arthur said, "So you're torturing people in the dream and watching them bleed in real life."

"Your vision is so narrow," Prescott said. "We're talking about physical manifestations of dreams, Mr. Calloway. It's simply the most fascinating thing to come along since the beginning of dreamshare. How can you not be excited about that? All we've ever wanted to do was explore."

"We?" Arthur asked.

"Years ago," Prescott said, as if Arthur hadn't spoken, "probably about ten years, I think, when we first met, I was looking for Dom and Mal Cobb. We were trying to further our knowledge of dreamshare. You refused to help me find them."

"And you were into torture back then, too," Arthur said.

"I was following orders. You used to follow orders, too. You killed under orders."

"I didn't..." have a choice, I didn't want to, I didn't enjoy it... Arthur dismissed all of these thoughts as inconsequential.

"Sometimes we have to do unpleasant things in the name of knowledge. You know that. You know it's true. I'm not taking pleasure in torture. I know that's what you're thinking. And yes, back then, you and the Cobbs ruined me. When you exposed what we were doing in dreamshare, I was the one who went down. Not any of the higher-ups. Me, I took all the blame. Because that was my station. I served some time, even. But worse, I lost my life's work. All that I had built, all of the respect..." He slammed his palm on the metal table next to the cot, upsetting a tray of syringes. Then his face went blank and he got himself under control. He spread his hands, placating. "Still. I don't bear you any grudge. You're here because you're good at what you do. You're an extremely experienced dreamer, probably better than everyone else we've got here. The simple fact of the matter is, you'll make a superb study. I'm very curious to see how Nine-Ten will work in someone like you. How much—or how little—control you'll have over its effects. Arthur, you have nothing to worry about. You're going to be amazing."

Prescott patted him on the shoulder, smiling beatifically. Then he gestured behind him and said, "Bring the PASIV."

** ** ** **

A few blocks away from the address his hostage had given him, Eames met with Saito's group. Saito had gathered about six soldiers. Not a lot, but they were heavily armed and in riot gear. They also had an ambulance standing by.

"In case there are any wounded," a woman with a military grade stun gun informed Eames. "Mr. Saito has a wing in the hospital. Totally private, no questions asked. This is your operation from here on in, Mr. Eames."

Eames handed his hostage over and asked for someone to stay back guard Yusuf while he led the rest of them to the address.

As always, he ran a tight, efficient operation. Eames believed in using the least amount of time and energy to do the most damage. He sent four of the soldiers to surround the building, and kept the woman with the stun gun at his side. Two guards stood by the dilapidated gate. Eames signaled her to take them out quietly. He had no idea what to expect when he got into the abandoned hospital, but he'd seen his fair share of shit. And he was in the zone; no surprise would shake him.

And then they were in.

In the chaos of their break-in, Eames took in the scene and made as much sense of it as possible. Groups of six people sleeping on cots, PASIV devices in the center of each group. Heart monitors beeping to alert guards and probably medics standing by. Obviously they were running experiments with Nine-Ten, probably five dreamers against one, and monitoring the effects topside. The only difficulty: Immediately knowing which were the victims and which were the perpetrators. Quite probably, the victims were the ones in the worst shape. But unless one of them were in distress or bleeding, it was hard to figure out who was who.

But that could come later. All of these people could be sorted as soon as the shouting and fighting died down.

Eames took out every upright person he met as he searched the room for Arthur. An elbow to someone's throat, foot to a knee, fist to a sternum. He wouldn't open fire unless he had to, and so far, none of the other soldiers had, either. The chaos they had caused was on their side.

The back-up that Saito had supplied was excellent, the hospital crew were a shambles, and this entire raid was fairly straightforward.

Until he saw Arthur on one of the tables.

Eames didn't lose his focus; that would only put everyone—including Arthur—in danger. He did, though, bypass everyone else, and quite possibly knock a few people out of their cots on his way.

Arthur was strapped down, but was jerking hard against the restraints, fighting in his sleep. Eames rushed to him and started undoing the buckles. There were five men hooked up with him. One of them was bleeding from both ears. Another turning blue.

"There's a good lad," Eames said, hoping Arthur could hear him. "Well done."

And then Arthur's monitor flatlined. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

"No, no, no, no," Eames said, hurrying with the last few buckles, knowing he had to get Arthur out of the dream, one way or another, before making any attempts to help him.

He could shoot the other people hooked up with him – but no, he didn't know who the dreamer was; that could cause the dream to collapse on Arthur, and then he'd never get him out.

Arthur jerked again, twisted to the side, and his heartbeat picked up a rhythm again.

Fuck, they're killing him, they keep killing him, how many times?

Someone was calling Eames's name. One of his soldiers. He ignored it. Dumping Arthur out of the cot wasn't the best idea, but it was his only one, the only way he could kick him awake. Eames caught him clumsily before he could crack his head on the cement floor. Then he unhooked him from the PASIV.

Arthur didn't wake. He gasped, his eyes fluttered, and he clutched at Eames's shirt. He was out of the dream, but unconscious. Eames lifted him easily. His hand stuck to the back of Arthur's shirt with what could only be blood. He glanced at the table he'd dumped Arthur from. Blood had soaked into the mattress in a criss-cross pattern. It was clear that Arthur had matching cuts on his back.

"Fuck this," Eames said, and shot two of the men who had been hooked up with Arthur before anyone could stop him. Before he could stop himself.

"Eames!" The woman with the stun-gun ran up to him. She gripped his arm, bracing him. "I got Saito on the line; he's sending more back up in and more ambulances. He says he's on his way, too."

"Good," Eames said, and tried to hurry past her.

"Is that Arthur? Should I tell him you got Arthur out?"

"Yes. Thank you."

She radioed a message for backup, and tersely informed whoever was waiting outside to bring the ambulance around, that Eames was priority and had right of way. "The scene is under control," she said.

Arthur was the one he'd gone in for, and he clearly was a priority to Saito, too. So as far as Eames was concerned, the operation was over and he had to get his injured partner to safety.

He left the others to clean up the rest of the mess.

** ** ** **

A few hours later found Eames sitting in a horrible plastic hospital chair, feeling a numb sort of buzz throughout his body. He'd watched Arthur code again in the ambulance. They couldn't seem to keep him stable, yet they couldn't find anything outwardly wrong with him. So he'd been brought in for X rays, CT scans, everything. He was losing blood from somewhere, his pressure kept dropping, his body temperature was below normal, but no one could locate the exact site of his injuries.

The only thing they could think to do was flush the drug out of his system and hope the effect wore off sooner rather than later.

Yusuf had gone up to the lab to take a look at the compound, and to help them figure out the quickest way to counteract it.

An image had taken up residence in Eames's mind, in the place of the various ones he'd just witnessed. It was a photograph that Mal had shown him once, years ago, when he'd done a job with the Cobbs and Arthur.

In the photograph, Arthur and Mal, still children, stood side by side in Arthur's back yard. Arthur was twelve or thirteen or so in the photo, Mal a few years older. They were smiling, Arthur's arm tight around Mal's waist, his face lit up in a grin. His hair was long, light brown in the summer sunlight.

That image of Arthur as a child, happy with his best friend, sometimes flickered to Arthur struggling to breathe in the ambulance, choking on blood. Eames forced himself to keep them separate.

His imagination, as it sometimes did, betrayed him. He thought of Arthur and Mal together, cousins and best friends, and wondered morbidly, What if they want to be together? What if Arthur is too much like Mal, staying in a dream that's going to kill him?

He knew it was ridiculous. It was the drug keeping Arthur in the dream, the drug that manifested his dream-injuries as physical ones. It was not Arthur's choice to stay there.

Nine, Ten, Eames thought, never sleep again. He looked down at his clasped hands and knew that if he unwound them, they would shake. Arthur's blood had dried under his fingernails and into the lines of his hands. He also knew that at the end of this—no matter how it turned out--once he was alone, he would go to pieces. Just maybe not in a way that anyone else could see.

Eames had watched his mates, people who had stood beside him in battle, fall. He'd watched them struggle to live, and sometimes lose the fight. Right before he'd gotten out of special ops, he'd watched his partner die. So he recognized the place he was at in his own head. He knew what it was.

The glass doors opened. Eames looked up, expecting a doctor, expecting the worst, really, even though they were the doors leading to the outside of the hospital.

Still, he was shocked when he found himself looking at Ariadne. For a moment, he considered checking his totem. But then it made sense, her being here. Arthur had called her.

She still had all of her luggage with her. She'd run straight to the hospital from the airport, hadn't made any other stops. She didn't rush over to hug him. In fact, she didn't rush over at all. She just took the seat next to him and said, "How's Arthur?"

What to tell her? He couldn't share the details; he was sure Arthur wouldn't want her to know.

"Waiting to find out," Eames said.

"He called me a few days ago," she said. "And then it just kept sounding more and more serious. Saito got in touch with me. He's getting Cobb over here, too. Maybe he can help."

Cobb had some brilliant ideas occasionally, but Eames doubted that he would get here in time.

"Yusuf's here," he told her. "He's in the lab with the doctors, trying to figure out a compound to counteract the drug. The faster they can find one, the better chance Arthur will have. The dream won't let go of him. It's a matter of how long he can hang on."

"Eames," she said. "It's Arthur. He'll be all right."

Yes, it was Arthur and he was the toughest bastard that Eames knew. But Ariadne hadn't seen the things that Eames had. She hadn't seen the thousand simple ways a human body could fail. How quickly it happened, and how, sometimes, there was no going back. He'd watched people cross that line. Death was so easy.

"Whatever is happening in the dream," Ariadne said, "he can hold out until it's over."

Until it's over, Eames repeated in his head.

But Ariadne just meant the dream. Until the dream was over, until he could wake... But waking hadn't helped him the first time. The dream was over. The injuries that he had sustained in it would keep manifesting physically until those injuries healed. If they did.

Sometimes, when Eames had ideas, they crept up on him slowly, forming almost without his involvement, it seemed. And other times—like now—they just appeared, and he knew the answer.

He jolted out of his seat, startling Ariadne.

"I've got it," he said.

She stood up, eyes wide, unsure if she should follow.

"Yes," he said, waving his hand at her, "follow; I'll need you on this."

"What are we doing?" She grabbed one of her pieces of luggage, one that had wheels.

"Leave it!" he called. But she didn't. He sprinted off toward the lab, because he had to catch Yusuf and the other doctors before they took another step. Before they even touched Arthur again.

"Eames!" she called, hurrying behind him. "If you have a plan, you have to tell me!"

He ran through the hallways until he got to the doors to the lab. There were two people standing guard. One of them held up a hand in a 'Please wait' gesture. Eames pushed the doors open and barreled past, hearing something in his wake like, 'Sir, you're not allowed in there,' and something else about protective gear. Ariadne followed, lagging a bit as she tugged her huge suitcase behind her.

Yusuf stood hunched over a beaker, holding a pipette. He was wearing a mask, his hair tied back into a thick bun. His eyes looked wide and startled behind his goggles. He almost looked comical. Eames felt such relief at his own brilliant idea that he nearly laughed.

"Eames... Ariadne? No, I don't have it ready yet, I need more time."

"There is no time," Eames said. "And anyway, forget all this nonsense. It won't help."

"We have to get the street drug..."

"We have to give him more," Eames said.

Yusuf stared, and flatly announced, "You're panicking."

Eames waved him off. "The injuries he sustained in the dream are what's killing him topside. Counteracting the drug won't help him. Fixing the injuries will."

Another doctor turned away from a CT readout he'd been looking at and said, "We can't fix what we can't find."

God, Eames hated it when everyone was stupider than he was. "Because the injuries are in the dream and that's where we have to go to fix them. I'll need a team." He turned to Ariadne. "I'll need you to go under and build us a hospital, and maintain it no matter what. Can you do it?"

She nodded, her face pale. "Yes."

"Are you willing to do it?" he pressed. "Will you take a dangerous drug in order to..."

"Yes," she said, "yes, what the hell are we waiting for, come on."

"And I'll need some doctors to go under. It's a dream – it doesn't have to be perfection; his mind will fill in the gaps and he won't even be completely aware of what's happening. We just have to convince his mind that his body has been fixed. But he's also smart, and his unconscious mind will know the difference between fake medical procedures and real ones. Will anyone go under with us?"

The doctors stood around looking at each other.

"I'll go under," Yusuf said. "I'm a doctor. I'm no surgeon, but I could do a kind of dream-anesthesia. You did some time as a medic in the field. You can stand by, yes?"

Eames nodded, numb, ready to get started.

"You can do it, right?" Yusuf asked, stripping off his goggles and mask. "It's Arthur, after all. You'll be all right?"

"Yes, of course." He looked around the lab. "Really? No one else?"

A Japanese woman stood up from her chair at the counter, where she'd been spinning tubes in a centrifuge. "I'm Dr. Sato. I'm a neurologist," she said. "I'll go in the dream as a doctor, as well."

Eames could have hugged her. Instead he just breathed a sigh of thanks.

Yusuf grabbed the beaker of Nine-Ten they'd been researching.

"PASIV," Eames shouted, as they rushed through the doors, back out into the hallway. "Fucksake, this is Saito's hospital, there's got to be a PASIV. Or someone must have brought one from the rescue. If not then someone will have to go back..."

"Eames!" Ariadne was saying. She grabbed his arm, tugging him back. "Will you stop? I have one. I have one."

He turned to her. She jiggled the suitcase she'd been wheeling behind her, giving him an impatient look. Then she pushed past him, only to remember that she didn't know where Arthur was.

"Come on," Eames said, and led the way to Arthur's room.

Doctors and nurses made way for them, under Dr. Sato's terse orders. A different doctor was leaning over Arthur, shining a light into his eyes. Dr. Sato shooed him away.

Eames wasn't entirely over the dread he felt at seeing Arthur laid out like this, covered in tubes and wires, skin the color of cement and blood still staining the sheets under him. But he'd seen worse, for godsakes, and couldn't afford to lose his concentration.

"Someone get more beds in here," Eames snapped at a nurse.

"What on earth..." the doctor asked.

"Don't ask questions," Ariadne snapped, "just do it." She set the PASIV on the table next to Arthur's bed and began unspooling the lines.

Yusuf brought over the vial of Nine-Ten and installed them, while Eames pulled the other hospital bed over, so it was closer to Arthur's. He couldn't think of an exact reason why; the lines would reach either way.

Before he got in the bed, he leaned over Arthur and cupped the side of his face. The oxygen mask looked uncomfortably tight, leaving lines in his skin where the plastic dug in. His skin was damp and cold. His eyes moved randomly behind the lids, and that little furrow he got between his brows when he was frustrated looked more like pain. Eames smoothed his forehead with his thumb.

"I know you can hear me," he said, "because I could hear you while I was under. We're coming in, all right, Arthur? Ariadne's here, and Yusuf, and another doctor, Dr. Sato. Don't cause any trouble for us, all right? We're going in to fix you up, sweetheart. Like you did for me." He kept talking as he waited for them to set up, assuring Arthur that everyone knew what they were doing, that he'd had a brilliant idea as usual and it was going to work, that Arthur just had to wait a few more moments. All the while stroking his forehead with his thumb.

"Eames," Yusuf said, "you don't have to go under. We can manage without you, if you'd rather stay topside."

"No," Eames said. "Arthur came under to get me out. I have to do the same."

"You still have the drug in your system, too," Yusuf went on. "And we don't know the effects..."

"I'm going under."

"Right. Yes, of course. Then I think we're all set."

Some orderlies and nurses had crammed some extra beds into the hospital room. Yusuf took a seat on one, Dr. Sato on another.

"Listen up," Ariadne said, climbing into the last beds. "In case you haven't all figured it out, what happens to you in the dream happens topside. So you can't shoot yourself or jump off any buildings to get out of the dream. You have to keep yourself safe and wait for the timer to run out. We're going into Arthur's dream and he's militarized. I'm going to keep the dream stable so his subconscious doesn't freak out on us. The sooner we find him," she said, glancing at Eames, "the sooner he'll be in control of the dream, and we'll be safe. But it's still unpredictable. Anyone who wants to change their mind, do it now."

They all looked around the room expectantly.

"Good," Ariadne said, when no one spoke up.

Eames told Arthur, "Just lead me to where you are, love." Then he took the bed closest to Arthur's and hooked himself up to the PASIV.

Ariadne asked, "Ready?"

As soon as she saw everyone was set up, she told the orderly to press the button. They fell into Arthur's dream.

It was freezing. Eames immediately dreamed himself a coat, but it did little to drive out the chill that the other dreamers had put into Arthur's mind.

Colors looked grey and bled out. Arthur's projections were tired of fighting, like the rest of him. This actually worked to the team's advantage. Eames found him easily, on a street vaguely resembling the one the abandoned hospital had been on. Eames guessed Arthur hadn't seen much of it when they'd brought him in. His mind had filled in some minor details. He sat slumped against the side of a building, both hands pressed over his chest.

Arthur opened his eyes and mouthed Eames's name with bloody lips. He tried to stand up.

"All right now," Eames said, helping him, careful as he could be of the wounds - so many of them, everywhere. Broken ribs, punctured lung, was Eames's guess. Arthur didn't complain. "We've got a team to help you. You remember how the drug works?"

Arthur nodded. He stumbled, and Eames lifted him.

"Then this won't take long," he said. "I brought in Yusuf and a surgeon. They fix you up down here, and then you're fixed topside. Understand?"

Another nod, this one against his shoulder. Eames crossed the road to the hospital that Ariadne had built.

Dr. Sato wasn't an emergency surgeon, but Eames explained to her that Arthur wasn't, either. She just had to convince his mind that she had mended all of the injuries. It had to be a good enough job that he'd buy it; that he'd feel it. Arthur knew what his injuries were; he'd know, at least pragmatically, what it would take to fix them.

Eames stayed in the dream-operating room until they shooed him out, promising they'd come get him if they needed any more help. He didn't want to think about what they'd done to Arthur in the dream. He had seen the welts across his back, and heard Yusuf and Dr. Sato deciding to ignore in favor of seeing to the internal bleeding. Eames's imagination was damnably good enough that he didn't have to take too many guesses about how they got there.

He'd been beaten like a dog; and later, when there was time, Eames would find out who was behind it. He sincerely hoped that the leader was one of the people who'd been hooked up with Arthur. The ones he'd watched bleeding and dying on their tables, because Arthur had fought back. Or one of the ones he had already shot dead.

The dream lasted a few hours, with Eames mostly waiting around in Ariadne's dream-hospital. She sat with him and tried to create an atmosphere of calm. They had to keep all the dreamers safe when Arthur surfaced and realized what was going on. As his projections gained their lucidity and strength back.

Shifting towards him, Ariadne said, "So, you and Arthur... Are you, I don't know, together?"

"No," was his immediate response. Because it wasn't like that, it wasn't about being a couple, being in love and doing couple-things, which he imagined was what Ariadne was thinking. She had been in the room with them when he'd been hovering over Arthur, whispering frantic encouragement like he couldn't imagine doing for anyone else.

"During the Fischer case," she said, "I thought you guys were lovers."

"It's different, with us," he said. "We're just a good team, despite our differences. Which are many, by the way. Arthur is valuable to the business." She was watching him, listening intently, waiting for him to go on. "And we've been through some things together, which naturally makes people feel close in these situations. Like being at war together. He's the person I want on my six. It's not something one can really describe. I suppose we like each other in some ways outside of that situation, too. Arthur is a good man. I think that in our line of work, people overlook his goodness."

"Cobb took advantage," she said.

"Arthur allowed him to," Eames was quick to point out. "He and Mal were cousins. He felt he owed it to her. But yes, Cobb took advantage. Of all of us. Of you, too."

She nodded, folded her hands between her knees and looked down the hall of the dream-hospital, towards the OR she'd built for Arthur.

"We weren't, during the Fischer job," Eames said, while her attention was diverted. "Lovers, I mean. At the time. Too angry at each other, back then."

"Why were you angry?"

Ariadne and her endless questions. But it took his mind off of what might be going on with Arthur. "I..." No, not me, Arthur... "Arthur..." And also me. "Arthur was doing what he thought was right. But." But he left me without a word. "But he handled it in an unfair way. We all did, I suppose."

"But before that? Before the inception job?"

"On and off," he said. "Never serious."

She was quiet for a few moments, looking away. Then she put her hand on his arm and squeezed. "You're a good man, too, you know."

 

When Dr. Sato and Yusuf came out into the hall, saying they had done the best they could, and it was time to wait and see, Eames went to stay with Arthur in the dream-room. There, he sat beside him and waited for the timer to run out, holding onto his hand as it warmed up. Eames talked to him, like he vaguely remembered Arthur doing for him a few days ago. The dream remained stable; Arthur's subconscious appeared calm, and allowed everyone to stay in unharmed.

When Eames woke, it was to a flurry of doctors, all crowding into the room to check on Arthur. Eames leaned up on his elbows and waited until he heard the word "stable," before falling back down into the bed. His own relief was exhausting.

"Hey. Eames."

He opened his eyes. Ariadne was standing beside him, peering into his face.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, love, I'm fine. Thank you." He leaned up again. "I mean, properly thank you. For doing this. For everything."

She shrugged. "It's Arthur. He'd do the same for anyone else."

"He would." Had done, for Eames, just two days before.

"We're gonna wait outside, clear the room. Give the doctors some space. You staying?"

Eames nodded, closing his eyes and lying back down.

"I'll be waiting out there for you."

He'd thank them all properly later, possibly extravagantly if they'd let him. But for now, he just wanted to rest here next to Arthur.

Doctors buzzed around for a while, but mostly just ignored him. He was sure he was getting some concerned or maybe irritated looks from them. Eventually they all dwindled out of the room, leaving him alone with Arthur and the now-steady beep of the heart monitor. When he looked over, Arthur was asleep. So Eames slept for a while, too.

The light was a little dimmer when he woke again. He felt eyes on him. He hadn't slept well, just barely on the edge of consciousness. When he cracked his eyes open and turned his head, he found Arthur watching him from his bed. When Arthur saw that he was awake, his eyes crinkled in a small smile and he reached up to take the oxygen mask off.

"Hey, Eames," he croaked out.

"Hello, my love."

Arthur reached out from his bed and opened his hand.

Eames stretched his arm out. They were just close enough to link their pinkies together. It wasn't the most comfortable, but Eames was willing to stay like that as long as Arthur was.

Arthur had gone back to staring at the ceiling. Eames studied his profile, unwilling to look away.

After some indeterminable amount of time, Arthur pulled his hand back and shifted around—gingerly, painfully—to lie on his side, facing Eames. Eames shifted to face him, too.

Then Arthur frowned and said, "I have an idea."

** ** ** **

A few days later, when they were ready to begin Arthur's idea, Arthur wasn't feeling one hundred percent. Maybe about thirty, and he was still freezing. The clinic was warm enough inside, but the chill stayed in his bones. He couldn't shake the weariness, either. He'd had just about enough energy to shower and dress himself before his ribs ached and his legs wanted to buckle. He lost his breath too quickly, and needed to sit. He hadn't done his hair or shaved.

Eames didn't seem to be doing too well either, but this couldn't wait. Eames actually looked horrible; not as bad as he had a few days ago, but nearly.

Arthur came into the lab, wearing another jumper over his sweater vest. He looked around at the team, who sat in a semi-circle around a PASIV, and tried to pick out their motives for being here, and for putting themselves in danger.

Dom was here partly because he was curious. He'd never gotten past his need to delve into things that might not be good for him, in the name of knowledge. He wanted to try out what was essentially a street drug in a controlled environment.

Ariadne probably had a similar motivation, at least partly. She would never completely give up dreaming, and she also had a taste for trying things that weren't exactly safe. She also genuinely wanted to help.

Yusuf, because he wanted to test this fascinating new drug and see what it could do for him – for his business, his clients, and probably his own intellectual curiosity.

Saito was here because he was interested in the uses of the drug, and how he might be able to control it. And also because, Arthur suspected, he craved the excitement.

But really, he thought, they were all here because he had called them. And that made him responsible for them.

Eames was here because they were testing compounds, ideas, and ultimately, procedures that they were going to try on his mother.

Arthur's idea was, essentially, Eames's idea, although Arthur wasn't about to tell him that. If you can't fix something topside, you use the Nine-Ten compound (or a safer variation, which Yusuf was working on,) to fix it from within the dream. Eames had worked this out to save Arthur. Arthur had simply thought to try it on Eames's Mom.

Eames didn't want to bring the entire team to his mother's house, which Arthur could understand. Dom, who had flown in the day before, had already been there, years before, but none of the others had. It was possible, Arthur thought, that Eames just didn't trust anyone – which he could understand. And there was no guarantee that they weren't still being watched and followed.

So Eames had sent a cab to bring his Mom in from Rhossili up to Saito's hospital. While the doctors looked her over, tested her blood to see if she was strong enough to withstand the drug, they gathered around the chemicals and the PASIV in the lab, and worked while they waited.

"Wow," Ariadne said, as Arthur took the chair next to Eames, "your hair is curly. You're scruffy. Arthur, you're cute. Who knew?"

"Umm, just about everyone?" he said with a smile.

"And so modest," Eames said.

Arthur shot him a sharp glance. "You're one to talk."

"Shall we get started?" Saito asked.

Arthur hadn't seen Saito since the Fischer case. He had the same feeling now as he did when he'd first seen him: respect mixed with mild irritation that no matter how he tried, he would never look as put-together, confident, stylish or badass as Saito did. He also had a lingering social fear of trying to pronounce Saito's name, because he had a way of always getting it wrong. So he addressed him as little as possible.

"Yes, sorry," Arthur said.

"If this works," Saito said, "then just imagine how medicine will change. If the drug gets into the right hands."

"Yours, I suppose?" Dom asked.

"I know very little about medicine, Mr. Cobb. Business is my area of expertise."

"It'll never happen," Arthur said. "At least in America it won't. All you have to do is look at what happens when a street drug is deemed useful to medicine. It's either suppressed, or the big pharma companies buy it out and change it so much that it's useless. There's more profit in disease."

"You sound paranoid," Ariadne said.

"I have good reason to be paranoid," Arthur answered. He didn't mean for it to come out sounding as bitter as it had. But Dreamshare had been usurped by the government, too, and they had used it to refine torture techniques and extract secrets from people who had served them. People like him, which he supposed, yes, he was still bitter about.

"So, what?" Ariadne asked. "We use it on Eames's mom, and she gets better, and then it gets buried? No one else gets a chance?" She cast an apologetic glance at Eames.

"I can, of course, open another clinic," Saito said, "with a certain amount of anonymity and immunity. Some people would still benefit."

"Ones who were in a place to find out about it, and to afford it," Ariadne said. "Everyone else gets left out?"

"We can only do what we can," Saito told her.

"Ariadne," Arthur said, "if you want out, I totally understand."

"I don't want out," she said. "I'm just making it clear to everyone the way things are so that we don't have any illusions that we're doing a huge favor for all of mankind. I mean, yes, if we find something that can help people, that's great. But we have to realize that we're going to be screwing other people over at the same time."

"Let's try to figure out first if it's really going to work," Dom said. "Arthur's an experienced dreamer, as well as a soldier; maybe he took it better than a civilian would. We're all experienced here, but we can play around with different ideas to see if we can get something to work on a person who doesn't have that experience. See if we can shake things up."

"What I think worked," Eames said, "was that we used logical, realistic treatments to help Arthur. Arthur is supremely logical above all else, therefore, that's what worked for him. In someone else, would a different treatment be more effective?"

"Like if someone was really religious," Ariadne said, "could you literally pray them well in the dream? Or if it was a little kid—or, let's not judge—an adult—who for instance believed in magic. Could you use, like, Harry Potter spells on them?"

"When I was in the dream," Arthur said, remembering suddenly, "one of the men, kind of goofing off I guess, pointed a stick at me and said 'Crucio.' It surprised me enough that it actually really hurt. Believe me, I don't think that magic is real, but there was some cultural expectation that surprised me into feeling something." He saw Eames's eyes go dark with quiet rage, and he looked away quickly. Arthur didn't need that now. Later, after this experiment was over, he'd tell Eames everything he needed to know.

"To someone who's familiar with that," Ariadne said, "then all sorts of that stuff might work. Even the healing ones?"

"That depends," Cobb said. "It probably wouldn't work on a lucid dreamer who wasn't already in distress. Magic, potions, miracles, things like that, they might work a little bit on a person who didn't know they were dreaming. But on someone who was aware, stable and in control, it probably wouldn't."

"My Mum knows about the dreaming," Eames said. "We explained to her what we wanted to try. Believe me, her mind is drier than Arthur's. If we tried any dream-magic on her, she'd tell us to stop with the bullshit and get on with it."

Arthur considered for a moment being annoyed that Eames had taken a shot at his lack of imagination again. But Eames had just said the same of his own Mom. It occurred to him that, at least this time, he didn't mean it in a negative way.

"So," Saito said, "we'll need experienced doctors to go under with her, and do medical procedures. Is that so?"

"It seems so, yeah," Eames said. "If they're willing."

"Anyone is willing, for the right amount of money," Saito said.

Eames looked uncomfortable. "I don't want to put anyone in a position where they have to do something. That, and, we haven't discussed payment."

"There is no amount of money that you could offer me, Mr. Eames," Saito said. "But we'll discuss payment after this is over."

Dom waved his hand, as if none of that mattered. To him, it didn't. He was focused now on this fascinating new thing. "Here's the other thing we need to wonder about. When you went in with Arthur, the injuries he sustained—that the doctors fixed—happened in the dream. In the case of Eames's mother, this is something that exists topside. It doesn't originate in a dream. Will a dream, with this drug, fix it?"

As always, Arthur waited for Dom to answer his own question. Usually when he asked something, it was to get other people considering it. Most of the time, he'd already figured something out.

"So then let's find out," Dom said, and rose from his chair. "First of all, who's willing to go under with me for about three minutes?" He went to a tray that held, among other things, a few scattered medical instruments. He picked up a scalpel. "And also, who can do stitches?"

When Dom raised the scalpel to the back of his forearm, Arthur leapt from his seat. He went right back to the place in his mind where Dom was unstable, where he could slit his wrists at any time, and Arthur had to stop him at all costs.

Dom made a cut on his arm and then dropped the scalpel back onto the table, motioning Arthur away from him with a 'calm down' gesture.

"Jesus Christ," Yusuf said, sounding more annoyed than anything. "You did that on purpose so I would have to go under with you."

"Not at all," Dom said, dripping blood onto the floor. "In fact, you should probably stay topside in case this doesn't work, and you have to stitch me up here. I'll take someone else."

"I can do stitches, actually," Saito said. He was smiling a little, a disbelieving, slightly impressed smile, one that Arthur understood immediately. Dom is still such a mad man, was what that look said. He knew it well.

Yusuf placed the PASIV between their two chairs and hooked them both up. His look of disapproval was gone, replaced with curiosity. "Ready?" he asked.

"The sooner the better," Dom said, "since I'm sitting here bleeding."

Yusuf had pressed the button before Dom had even finished speaking.

They all gathered around Dom's chair. Yusuf kneeled down beside him and swabbed the wound with plain water, the better to see what was happening.

Arthur didn't have the best view, and didn't trust himself to squat down for a closer look and then get up again without falling over. But he still saw what everyone else saw.

Within the first thirty seconds, nothing happened. Yusuf kept swabbing the blood away.

And then Dom stopped bleeding. The blood trickled to a halt. Arthur hadn't seen exactly how deeply Dom had cut himself, but surely there should still be some blood pouring out of him.

"I'll be damned," Ariadne whispered, peering at the wound. "It isn't... I mean it's not closed up or anything, but look!"

Yusuf poked the skin around the wound, which was red and inflamed. It oozed a little blood, but didn't spill. Arthur braced his hands on his knees and leaned closer. The cut itself was open, but only on the surface.

"It was a deep cut," Yusuf marveled. "Was. Now it's shallower, I'd swear it."

They waited, all quiet, for the timer to run out. Arthur glanced at Eames, who was watching, rapt and hopeful.

Dom and Saito woke up simultaneously.

"Well?" Saito asked.

Dom looked down at his arm. He showed it to Saito, who merely raised his eyebrows.

"How about that?" Dom asked everyone. He turned to Eames. "You know? I think this might work."

** ** ** **

"This is humiliating," Eames said as he cleaned a beaker with a bottle brush, although he was secretly relieved. "Banned from my own life's work."

"It's the right decision," Arthur said, setting another glass tube on a rack to dry. "You would have been useless down there, Eames."

"Oh, why thank you, Arthur."

They stood together in the hospital lab, tidying and cleaning, while the rest of the team went under with Eames's own Mum. This was basically what the others had told him—that he'd be useless, and maybe even harmful--but to hear it put so bluntly stung a little.

"Seriously," Arthur said. "I would have been, too, because we're both still messed up from the compound. But with you, it's just safer for your Mom that you don't go. No one can predict how your subconscious would react to the situation. You could mess it all up."

"Thank you for your confidence."

"It has nothing to do with job performance. Be reasonable."

It irked him that Arthur was right. It irked him slightly less that Arthur wasn't trying to spare his feelings by pit-patting around the issue, like the others had. What it came down to was the fact that not only was he helpless to do anything for his Mum, but his presence would harm her. There was no way around that. But he didn't have to like it, or accept it graciously.

"Relegated to scrubbing boys," he groused.

Arthur smiled a little, and nudged him companionably with his shoulder. They were quiet for a while, listening to Yusuf's iPod playing classical music in the background. The rest of the lab was deserted. It smelled dank, of chemicals and bleach. A chill pervaded the air and he knew Arthur was probably still cold.

"I would have gone under," Arthur said. "To help, I mean. I really would have, if I thought we'd be more help than harm..."

"No," Eames said. He thought of Arthur using the Nine-Ten again, going back into a dream with the drug that had nearly killed him. Well, had nearly killed them both, actually. And the answer was 'No' and he knew it was. Still. "I just feel useless, is all. She's my Mum, and everyone else is putting their health on the line to help her, and I'm here rinsing bloody tubes and beakers."

Arthur nodded, but didn't have anything to add. He appeared deep in thought for a few minutes as Eames observed him out of the corner of his eye, every few moments. Probably thinking of a way to distract him, to take his mind off of his Mum.

"Your friends, or those guys you were working with," Arthur said. "Jonesy and Vale. What ever..."

"Jonesy is still in a coma. He's not coming out of it."

"I'm sorry," Arthur said. "Vale?"

"Still around, lying low."

"Seems like a good guy," Arthur said. "He did his best."

"Yes."

Arthur seemed to not know what else to say. After a few moments of silence, he said, "Umm, so. By the way, it was Prescott. Who took me, I mean. Who was running the Nine-Ten experiments. Julian Prescott, your..."

"I know who he is," Eames said. This information was hardly a 'By the way,' but trust Arthur to mention it in passing like that. He fought down the bitter anger that threatened to surface. Tamped down the urge to throw things, to break glass. Julian Prescott was the man he used to work under in black ops, ages ago. The man who'd gotten his hands on Arthur once before. Eames had known that Prescott hadn't gone away for good, he just never expected him to surface in Dreamshare again.

"I was only able to clock him in the head with an IV stand," Arthur said. "And I just figured that you hadn't seen him when you came to get me, because you would have told me if you'd seen him."

"I didn't see him," Eames said. If he had, he would have shot on sight.

That meant that Prescott was probably long gone by now. Out of reach once again.

"We'll get him," Arthur said. "Once this is all done, and... You know, your Mom gets better. Because I'm pretty sure there will be some improvement. Maybe even significant improvement. I mean it's not an actual cure, but Dom was saying he thought there was a really good chance it could help her."

"I know that," Eames said. Arthur was terrible at this. It almost made him laugh.

"Then once that's out of the way," Arthur went on, "or, not out of the way, but once your Mom is doing better or whatever, then we can go ahead and search for him. And, you know, get him."

He gave Arthur a small smile, amused by his attempts to lighten the situation. 'Get him, indeed. Eames would do a lot more than get him. Obviously, just exposing Prescott and having him put away wasn't enough. He just kept coming back. No, Eames wanted to finish him off, next time. He thought again of Arthur in the ambulance, trying to live. The rage, now that he knew who had hurt Arthur, burned him.

Yusuf's iPod went silent for a few seconds between songs, and the only sound was the trickle of water, and the clink of the glasses they were cleaning, until the next song came on. Something by Rachmaninoff, it sounded like.

He glanced at Arthur again, at the tightness of his shoulders, probably from pain where his shirt rubbed against his back. And Eames thought:

I know him.

Well yes, of course I know him.

But I know him.

The feeling was so overwhelmingly intimate, as if he'd spent eternities with Arthur. He wondered briefly if that was what Dom and Mal had felt in Limbo. But he'd never been there, and certainly not with Arthur. Still, the feeling went right down to the marrow of his bones.

Arthur looked at him, about to say something, and stopped, as if he'd seen it too. Or felt it. Whatever it was. He looked confused for a moment, before angling towards Eames and taking a hesitant step, the word 'What?' unnecessary but still hovering on his lips.

And then his lips were on Eames's mouth, his tongue snaking out, and Eames couldn't do anything aside from open for him, reel him in so they were chest to chest. Arthur's white, even teeth nipped at his lips, and his hands came up to pull Eames tighter against him.

Eames was aware that he made some kind of helpless noise as he kissed back. He rested his hands on Arthur's hips, careful to not touch his back, unsure of where the wounds ended. The idea that they'd struck him all over like that filled Eames with the primal desire to kill. He channeled it instead into kissing Arthur harder.

A sudden noise—the clink of breaking glass—made them break away for a moment. Eames had dropped the tube he'd been cleaning and it lay shattered at their feet. Arthur pulled back and searched his face, looking a little lost, a lot overwhelmed, and as confused as Eames felt.

They'd kissed before, messed around a few times and fucked once, so this wasn't new territory for them. Yet it couldn't have felt more different. His skin ached where Arthur wasn't touching it. His insides felt too hot, his body restless like he would jump out of it without Arthur's hands holding him together. It wasn't right. But he couldn't stop.

"Jesus Christ," Arthur whispered, before kissing him again, rubbing on him like a cat, clutching the back of his shirt.

He cupped Arthur's jaw and licked the inside of his sweet mouth, recalling in the back of his mind that there was a sofa somewhere in the next room over, in the lounge. That was all he needed, to get them both horizontal before his legs failed him. Arthur gasped when Eames pulled away from him, looking confused when Eames took him by the hand and started leading him urgently along. He asked no questions, just pressed himself up against Eames's back as they walked, almost stepping on his heels.

"God, yes," Arthur said when Eames opened the door and he saw the sofa.

Eames didn't know what he'd have done if someone had been in the room. As it happened, they were alone. He locked the door behind him and pulled Arthur to the sofa. All he could think about was pushing him down and loving him breathless – which he had promised himself he would never, ever do again, after Arthur had brushed him off to go traipsing after Cobb. That didn't matter anymore. None of his caution did. In the small part of his brain where he could still access logic and reason, he knew this was a bad idea, and yet stopping was out of the question. He felt the same way he had on the Nine-Ten, forging a junkie. Out of control.

Sinking down onto the sofa, he pulled Arthur with him, and arranged them so that he was lying against the back of it with Arthur half on top of him. The last thing he wanted to do was push Arthur against anything and aggravate his injuries. He congratulated himself on still having the presence of mind to consider that.

Arthur half-kneeled up and started tugging at Eames's shirt, pulling it free from his trousers and trying to get it off. He looked flushed and frantic. Eames leaned up and pulled his shirt off, tossing it aside. His hands went to Arthur's buttons and slowed down, waiting for his reaction. Arthur had always been a little hesitant because of the burn scars that marked his shoulder and his hip. And now, with the welts across his back...

But Arthur set about unbuttoning his own shirt, giving a tight little shake of his head as if to say 'That doesn't matter now.' So Eames helped him out of the rest of the buttons.

He didn't get too long to stare at the smooth, freckled skin of Arthur's chest, with the sparse patch of hair, or even at the scars, before Arthur was on top of him again, kissing his mouth, his jaw, and his neck.

"Arthur, Christ," Eames said in a strangled voice, running his hands down and back up his arms, scratching through the coarse hair on his forearms, going gently over the ridges of scar tissue on his shoulder, to the back of his neck to pull him closer.

If Arthur cared about Eames touching him where he used to be so sensitive, he didn't say anything about it. Instead, the hand that he wasn't braced on got busy undoing the flies of Eames's trousers. Eames swallowed hard, frozen for a second, again thinking vaguely that this was too strange, too fast, too familiar to be right. But then Arthur was cupping him inside of his trousers, and reason fled. His own fingers went to Arthur's flies as well. Arthur sucked in a breath like he was already overstimulated, but made no move to stop him.

Shifting them so they were side by side, Eames leaned back into the sofa to give Arthur more room, and so that he could more easily reach into Arthur's pants.

Arthur moaned into his mouth and arched into his touch, eyelids fluttering as his hand worked into Eames's pants as well. Arthur's hand was large, warm, firm, and extremely welcome.

Yet nothing was happening. Eames shifted a little again, feeling lightheaded from lack of oxygen, and feeling his face flush a little. Maybe he just needed another few minutes. He concentrated on getting his fingers around Arthur, expecting hot, solid flesh.

And found that Arthur seemed to be in the same exact situation.

"Mmm," Arthur said, a questioning noise against his mouth. He pulled back and looked down. His own cheeks flushed redder than before, this time not from arousal. "This has never... Oh god." He dropped his forehead against Eames's collarbone. "Everyone says that. 'This has never happened before.'" He gave a short, embarrassed laugh.

"Well, I appear to have the same problem," Eames said. He felt Arthur's fingers wiggle over him, a little ticklish, and he squirmed.

"It's probably the stupid compound," Arthur said, muffled against his chest. "Jesus." He dropped a few wet kisses across Eames's clavicles, sucked on his neck for a few seconds and then said, "Still... still feels good though. Right?"

Eames drew his hand out of Arthur's pants and cupped his jaw, pulling his mouth up for a long, wet kiss. "Yes," he said against his lips. "Still good." He hooked Arthur's thigh and pulled it up over his hip, drawing them together. Suddenly it didn't matter that neither of them were even hard – all that mattered was Arthur's skin on his, their hips and mouths pressed together, Arthur's arm around his back, holding tight.

Eames snaked his bottom hand up to Arthur's hair, which was long and loose and curling, and slid his fingers through it. He gripped gently, pulling Arthur's head back to expose his throat. He had some stubble and felt scratchy against Eames's lips. His pulse jumped under Eames's tongue, and when Arthur hummed his approval, Eames felt the vibration of it all down his spine. He pulled Arthur's hips closer and pressed against him.

Arthur started panting, moving against him faster, fingers gripping his back in spasms. His body tensed up. Remarkably, it felt like he was about to come.

And then Eames felt it, too. The familiar build of heat, the sweet ache that came right before release.

"Christ," he breathed out, before the feeling suffused his entire body, and he was gasping in deep breaths, clutching at Arthur's hip and the back of his hair, spasming against him.

Arthur went lax against him. His kisses turned lazy, until Arthur was just rubbing his lips on Eames's face, his jaw, under his chin. God, Arthur was nuzzling him. His strong fingers came to the back of Eames's head, raking through his hair again and again, blunt nails massaging his scalp. Arthur felt more dangerous in that moment than when he was fully clothed and fully armed. Yet Eames didn't want to move a centimeter away from him.

Finally Arthur said, "Did we just...?"

"I did," Eames said. "Or at least that's sort of what it felt like."

"That was weird," Arthur commented. He ducked his dark head and licked Eames's throat, one leg still curled over his hip.

"Yes," Eames said in a strangled voice. "Weird."

"Hmm," Arthur sighed. Eames felt his eyelashes against his neck as Arthur closed his eyes, apparently ready to lie there and have an afternoon nap still tangled up with him.

Against his will, Eames though, 'Yes, good, stay here with me. I never want to see you in the back of an ambulance again.' Along with this, he felt so comfortable—so exhausted--that he started to doze off too.

A knock at the door roused them both.

"Hello," Yusuf called through the door, "everything all right in there?"

Arthur nearly flailed off the sofa, whispering "Shit," under his breath. He stood up and started doing up his trousers.

"Yes," Eames called back, doing the same. "Yes, just... taking a break, won't be a moment." He tugged his shirt back on and threw Arthur's back to him. Arthur's cheeks were pink, and probably so were his, but there was nothing to be done about that. He straightened his hair and looked to Arthur to see if he was decent. Arthur nodded.

Eames opened the door and let Yusuf in.

"There's broken glass all over the floor in the lab," Yusuf said. "You two were meant to be cleaning." He looked around at the empty room, at the sofa, and then back to Eames. "Christ," he said, exasperated.

"Any news?" Eames said, ignoring him.

"The only news as of yet is that the lab is in worse shape than when I left it. Apart from that, Cobb says that the dream went well, without a hitch. As far as seeing improvement in your Mum, for that, we'll have to wait a few days and X ray again."

"Yes, of course," Eames said.

"But the dream?" Arthur said. "I mean, Cobb said he thought it had a pretty good chance of working, if they could pull it off. And since it went well..."

"Yes," Yusuf said. "Since it went well, it looks hopeful. I would be cautiously optimistic, at least for an improvement. I can't say anything further."

Arthur stood next to him and nudged his arm, offering a small, encouraging smile. Eames smiled back, feeling absurdly grateful, feeling illogically as if Arthur, and Arthur alone, had made everything right.

** ** ** **

Arthur felt happy. Deeply, sometimes manically happy. The feeling was so out of his control that he questioned it; was sometimes frightened by it.

He'd stayed in London, sharing a hotel room with Eames, next to the hospital. It was a week since they had taken Eames's Mom into the dream, and her X rays looked promising. Eames spent his days with her, and Arthur missed him profoundly during the few hours he was gone.

Ariadne had gone back to Paris, after giving him a tight hug and saying, "There's something really off about you, Arthur. Take care of it." He'd brushed her words aside, but now, as he walked out of the hospital cafe into the light drizzle, waiting for Eames, he thought about it again.

There was something off about him. He could feel it.

When he saw Eames leave the hospital and walk briskly to join him, the feeling dissipated. All was right with the world. Eames looked happy.

And then Eames swept him up and they were kissing, clinging, like they did every time they were within a few feet of each other in the last week. Lately, this was the only time that Arthur felt like he could breathe.

He also felt drugged, like he was still in a dream.

Eames pulled back for a moment, his mouth red and slick. His eyes looked troubled, confused, just for a moment, before he pulled Arthur back in.

"Something is wrong with me," Eames said against his mouth, before kissing again.

Someone passed by on the street and catcalled. Arthur, usually so concerned with security and not calling attention to himself, noticed with a small measure of horror that he didn't give a shit.

They went back to their hotel room and had what passed for sex these days. It didn't matter to Arthur anyway; it was just one body part and he didn't necessarily need to use it. Everything else worked. Fingers and hands, lips and tongues, and being pressed skin to skin against Eames was all he wanted. He let Eames touch him everywhere, and he did the same to him, cataloguing scars, tattoos, ridges of muscle; memorizing the shape of his face over and over again with his fingers. It was better than actual sex, maybe. Made him feel sleepy, comfortable, euphoric. 'High,' his brain whispered once in a while, but he ignored it.

They fell asleep for a while. Close to Eames, his dreams were pleasant. He didn't have to worry about pain or injury, and could, at least for now, let go of the fear that they would manifest in the waking world. Because once in a while, they still did, though to a lesser extent. A bruise on his thigh or hip, a love bite he had dreamed up... though it was hard to tell what might have come from the dream, and what had actually happened topside.

Then Dom called him, and said that he would like to meet him and Eames at the hospital. He said it was important; that he had some new information for them about the drug. Arthur wasn't too interested in the information, but dinner did sound pretty good. He realized he hadn't eaten much lately. For that matter, he hadn't seen Eames eat, either. (Earlier, Eames had run his dry, rough fingertips over Arthur's collarbones and said, sounding distantly concerned, "I think you've lost some weight.")

But they had to go, and so they got into the shower, where Arthur let Eames gently wash his back, so careful of the bruises and healing cuts that Arthur could barely feel his fingertips. The lingering pain receded when Eames did this, as if he'd taken some opiate that had just kicked in.

His memories of the dream were still there if he really concentrated. How they had twice stopped and restarted his heart in the dream, to see how it affected him topside. Those were the "experiments." The unabashed cruelty had come later, after Arthur had killed two of their men in the dream, almost certainly leaving them brain-dead for good topside. After that, they didn't even pretend to do any of it in the name of science. He'd fucked them up, and they had lost control. They had just bound him with his face to the wall and started beating the shit out of him, with belts, ropes, whatever they could dream up. When they'd let him down, the kicking and spitting started. You piece of shit, you killed Donnelly, like a fucking animal, they had growled, along with other pleasantries and accusations. That had enraged him worse than anything physical they could have done: making it seem like he was in the wrong for defending himself, that he was the bad guy. He was so infuriated that he'd found it in him to break another guy's kneecap with his foot before they started in on him again.

But now, Eames was running wet fingers over his scars, kissing across his shoulders and whispering "my love" against his neck.

"I killed some of them," Eames murmured into his ear. "And when I find the rest, I'll kill them, too."

Relief swallowed him whole.

When they left the shower, it was with some reluctance that he put his clothes on, (and what a shame it was that Eames had to get dressed, too,) and got ready to leave.

The day was overcast, but still too bright for his eyes after the subdued light of the hotel room. The walk to the hospital was uncomfortable and he felt cold, even with Eames's arm around him. Eames stumbled once or twice on the way. Arthur figured he was probably as exhausted as he was.

Once inside, they made their way through the glaringly white halls towards the lab, where Cobb had said to meet him. Arthur felt Eames stiffen beside him. The hospital might be the place where his Mom's life was saved, but his memories of the place itself, and all its moments of anxiety, were probably always going to trigger this reaction.

They went into the bright, sterile lab, where Cobb took one look at them and pressed his lips into a thin line, shaking his head. Arthur hated that reaction in Cobb. It meant that he had fucked up. Although he couldn't imagine how.

"Come in," Cobb said, terse. "Sit. We have a few details to go over about the Nine-Ten and some of its lingering side effects."

"Is this to do with my Mum?" Eames asked.

"No, fortunately," Cobb said. "Or at least if so, then not enough for it to be a concern. This is about the street drug and a very, err, specific set of circumstances."

Eames relaxed beside him. They all pulled chairs up to sit in a semi-circle.

"So," Cobb said, crossing one leg over the other and resting his elbow on his knee to lean forward—his 'lecture' posture--"I'm going to tell you a few things about the drug's chemistry first, how we found it reacts with the endocrine system, then we're going to talk a little more about specifics that pertain to you.

"To start off with, it was easy enough to know that the street drug was lighting up the limbic system, because that's where psychosomatic illnesses come from. Its most immediate effect was on the hypothalamus. So now you've got the hypothalamus running on overdrive. Yes?"

"Sure, Cobb," Arthur said. "That's basic stuff. The question is how long it's going stay in our bodies?"

Cobb shook his head as if dismissing his question – a gesture that had always annoyed Arthur. "That's not even the point anymore. The Nine-Ten is probably gone by now, or if not, there are only some residual traces."

"So," Eames said, "then we're all right. Whatever we dream should stop having a topside effect."

"Should," Cobb said. "But the hypothalamus is also deeply connected to some of the body's other responses." He reached into his ever-present bag and pulled out a small mirror, which he handed to Arthur. "Look," he said, when Arthur just stared at him, perplexed.

Arthur looked at his reflection.

He looked ill—no shit—and tired as hell. Maybe he'd lost some weight, too, but...

"Look at your eyes," Cobb said.

Arthur brought the mirror closer. In the brightly-lit lab, his pupils were dilated wide, and sluggish when the mirror blocked the light for a few moments.

"I'm going to get a little personal right now," Cobb said.

Eames shifted uncomfortably. Arthur handed him the mirror. Eames looked distinctly worried, as if he was starting to understand something that Arthur hadn't yet caught on to. Normally that would piss him off. He thought it strange, for a moment, that he only felt impressed.

"When the drug is used in dreams to hurt people, the body doesn't want that. It responds with adrenaline, cortisol, ACTH - the fight or flight chemicals. While there are some people who can get addicted to that..."

"Adrenaline junkies," Arthur supplied.

"Right," Cobb said, "it is possible. And it is possible also for bodies to get addicted to the endorphins released during pain. But that's not where I'm going with this. When the drug is in the body and the pleasure center is lit up, the hypothalamus starts the cascade of hormones that deal with sexual response. In a situation where a drug is heightening the physical reactions of hormones such as dopamine and oxytocin, that is highly addictive. To the point where even after the Nine-Ten is mostly out of your system, you're still going to be getting high, and craving more of it." He stopped, and looked awkwardly from one to the other, attempting a smile that looked weak and unsure. "In other words, you end up like the song says. Addicted..."

"Yes, yes," Eames said, his voice sharp, waving Cobb off. "All right, we've got the idea."

Cobb scrubbed his hand over his face, suddenly tired and frustrated. "Right. Okay, on a personal level, from my experience, this seems pretty similar to what happened with me and Mal. Different compound, but the same kind of unrealistic connection to something that isn't real." Before either of them could protest, he held up his hand. "I'm not saying that anything you feel isn't real. I'm just saying that the drug is a mind-altering one that skews your perception of reality. It's going to catch up with you. These situations don't end well."

Eames fiddled with the mirror. Arthur watched his hands for a moment—so familiar, so necessary to him—and then stared at the floor.

Cobb sat back in his chair. "I think you're both the best at what you do. There's no question of that. And aside from that, Arthur, you've been my right hand for years. I've known you since you were a college kid. You knew Mal better than almost anyone and you were the only person who tried to talk sense into the both of us when we started to lose it. No one else had the balls to tell us that they thought it was dangerous. That's why I'm telling you this.

"And what's more, I think that the two of you are good together. I mean as a working team and, I don't know, maybe personally, too. I know this is none of my business, but I think that the two of you could have something good, despite your differences. And when you're not high out of your minds, you do have differences, let's not deny that. But your differences work well together, too. I'd hate to see you lose that because this feeling that you have now is false, and it's going to wear off. When it does, it's going to turn bad.

"Eames," he went on, "your Mom seems to be doing well. Yusuf and Saito took some shares of the altered Nine-Ten to see what else they could use it for. Yusuf seems to have been able to eliminate at least some of the negative side effects, but you know, it's a drug, so it's never going to be completely perfect. This whole team did an amazing job. You two just got hit with mega-doses of a bad compound beforehand. How you proceed from here is up to you guys. I just wanted you to know all the facts before you decide on your next step."

Cobb got up to leave without another word. He put his hand on Arthur's shoulder as he passed by and squeezed, in that semi-brotherly way he had, unsure as always of where Arthur's boundaries were, but willing to try. Arthur had always found that both annoying and kind. Then he left the two of them alone in the lab.

If I leave Eames because of Cobb again, Arthur thought, I'll never get another chance.

Eames stood from his chair and came to stand beside Arthur. He wound his fingers through Arthur's hair, gently raking through it.

He'll ask me to stay, and I will, Arthur thought.

Sighing, Eames said, "I bloody fucking hate it when Cobb is right." He pulled Arthur's head to rest on his hip.

Arthur looked up at him, knowing it was true, but – "He is, but we – We could... The two of us, I think we can..."

"We can," Eames said. "Just not now. I remember the feeling of opiates from my first dream with the Nine-Ten. How bad it was, and how much worse it got the longer I waited." He gave a short, harsh laugh. "Besides, I'd like to use my dick again at some point."

Arthur laughed too, though he didn't feel like it. "Yeah," he said, only because he had to. "Cold turkey then, I guess?"

"I suppose this is the wrong time to make an 'I wish I could quit you' joke."

This time Arthur laughed a little more sincerely, resting his head against Eames's hip. How was he going to do without the scent of him? Without his hands, his mouth?

"We can give it some time," he suggested. "I'll go back to the states for a while. Until it's over and we feel normal again." Arthur thought he might never feel 'normal' again, but so be it. "And then we can, I don't know, start over if you want. We never did have the easiest time really..." Being together, was what he almost said. "I mean we never tried. It's always been some fucked up circumstance when we end up together."

"Start over," Eames mused. "We've too much history for a clean start, but to see you outside of a job... Arthur, I don't even know who you are off of a job."

"Then we'll find out. Give it a shot." He looked up at Eames again. "Right? Without the dreams and the stupid fucked up drug."

"Yes," Eames said. "We could. But not now."

"No. Later. Like maybe..."

"Six months or so," Eames suggested.

Which was longer than Arthur was going to suggest, by about five months. It wouldn't take anywhere near that long to get the chemicals out of their bodies. Especially when they didn't have each other to feed into them. But maybe it was different for Eames. Arthur didn't want to push him.

"I'll go back to the states," Arthur said. "I can get some low profile work for a while. I should probably, you know, go soon. In case it gets worse."

"I can see you off," Eames said.

"No. I'm tired of saying goodbye to you at airports."

"True. I can take you back to the hotel, help you pack."

Arthur stood up and faced him. "If you take me back to the hotel, we'll never get anything packed and we won't leave. You know that."

Eames laughed quietly, and raised a hand to touch his thumb to Arthur's cheek. "Also true. So... Then here? Goodbye?"

Arthur leaned into the touch. "Well, for now."

Eames made a small sound of acknowledgment and raked both hands through Arthur's hair, cupping the back of his neck. Arthur could feel the curl of his damaged pinky finger on the side of his neck, calloused thumbs rubbing against his jaw as Eames pulled him forward. Arthur clutched at his waist, pulling Eames against him as they kissed and he thought, 'How long do I have to wait before I have this again?' and 'This isn't me,' at the same time. Because he felt like he was floating, medicated with opiates, like none of it could ever be real or solid enough no matter how he tried to hold onto it.

He barely heard the door open. But they both heard the exasperated snort that followed. They broke apart, but Arthur didn't relinquish his hold on Eames's waist until he saw who had come into the room.

"Really," Eames's Mom huffed. "Break it up before I get the fire extinguisher."

"Mum," Eames said, embarrassed and scandalized. He took a few steps back from Arthur and looked down at the floor.

"Sorry," Arthur said. For mauling your son, for being a huge jackass, for keeping him here when it's better if we're apart, for making you walk in on that... "Umm. Sorry."

"Nonsense. It can't be helped," she said. "I understand you're the one I should be thanking for the fact that I'm upright today?"

Arthur looked her over. She had a light down of fuzz coming in on her scalp. She'd put on a pound or two and her eyes looked clear and bright. She wasn't out of the woods by any stretch, but she looked better. More present. And she was wearing her normal clothes, with a bit of lipstick on. Not her usual vibrant red, but it gave her some color.

"What, me?" Arthur finally managed.

"No, the bunsen burner behind you. Of course you. Don't be stupid."

"Sorry. No, it wasn't exactly my idea. Eames thought it up in order to help me and then I just said, you know, well let's apply this idea to Eames's Mom and see what happens, and that's what we did. So really Eames thought it up."

"Well, perhaps," she said, "but he's spent his life knowing he was too clever, but unable to apply it to situations where he's too emotionally invested. It's why he's so cold so much of the time."

"Mum!" Eames scolded for the second time. "I know you've gotten used to saying the first thing that comes to your mind since you've been ill, but now you're better and you've no excuse."

"I'm not better, darling," she said. "I'm getting better, but I'm not there yet. I could still die, you know."

"Christ," Eames muttered.

"So until I'm in the clear, I retain the right to be as obnoxious as I feel like, and say things I think are important with no fear of social repercussions."

"Oh, here we go," Eames griped.

"I've heard the chemist and all of the others whispering about the two of you, how the drug turned you both into endorphin-dependent sex fiends."

"It's called 'patient confidentiality!'" Eames said, his voice a few steps higher than normal. "But I suppose that counts for nothing!"

"And about how it would be better if the two of you split until you could control your urges," she went on, as if Eames hadn't said anything. "Well I must say, I agree. The two of you are far too smart to waste on a life of sex and drugs. Or sex as a drug, in your case. And I'm very sorry, Arthur, truly I am." Her voice softened as she looked at him, sincere. "Because I think you're very nice, in a strange, awkward sort of way. It was brave of you to come all the way to England to look after William, and get yourself embroiled in this. And it was good of you to think of me in your moment of distress. And if you make William happy, that's also very nice. But, with that said, it's best if you leave."

"Yes, we know that," Eames said. "That's what..." He waved his hand around between the two of them. "We were just... We talked about this already. Arthur is going back to the states."

"Oh!" she said. "So this was a farewell snog."

Eames sighed, long-suffering.

"In that case, go on and say goodbye. I'll wait outside. Arthur, thank you again, darling. Perhaps I'll see you again, when you're not high." She walked over and kissed him on the cheek, patting the side of his face, then stopped to thumb off the lipstick she had left on him.

She gave Eames a quick kiss, too, and then was on her way, closing the door behind her.

Eames said, "Even if I had been able to get an erection, it would be long gone by now."

Arthur chuckled in response, still feeling a dull sense of humiliation. "I guess we shouldn't make this harder than it has to be. I'll go and get my shit together, and I'll be gone by the time you get back, okay?"

Eames shoved his hands into his pockets. "Yes, of course. That makes sense."

"I'll still keep tabs on you."

"I know you will. I'll do the same."

"And I'll call you in six months. Or you can call me."

Eames nodded, looking worried, and maybe a little lost.

Arthur would never quite figure out why he did exactly this, but he cupped Eames's face in his hands and leaned up to press a chaste kiss to his forehead.

After looking bemused for a moment, Eames's gave him a small smile and did the same thing back to him. He had to tip Arthur's head down a little further, because Arthur had about an inch of height on him.

"Goodbye for now, darling," Eames said softly against his temple.

Arthur nodded and turned to leave, eyes forward. He knew better than to turn back.

** ** ** **

Eames's phone doesn't ring.

It's not that he's been counting the days, exactly, but he's aware of them in the back of his mind, and at six months, his phone doesn't ring. At six months and ten days, still nothing. He's done some jobs here and there, and recently he's stopped hearing people mentioning Arthur.

So he calls. Because after all, why not be the one to call? Has he ever called Arthur first? He can't remember.

Arthur picks up with a cautious, "Hello?" He doesn't recognize the number.

"Hello, Arthur."

Silence for a second, and then, "Oh! Hey. Eames."

"Yes."

"It's good to hear from you. I had this job a few weeks ago and it didn't go so perfectly. I was laying low for a bit. Didn't want to get anyone involved. You know."

It's probably wrong that a bad job makes Eames feel slightly relieved. "But you're all right," Eames says, more a question than a statement.

"Yeah, I'm okay, I took care of it."

"You always do," Eames says, smiling.

And then silence. They don't know what to say to each other. Six months is a long time when the last contact they'd had had been so strange – awkward doesn't even begin to cover it. How weak he had been. How he had clung so pathetically to Arthur. They had both been at their lowest. No one wants to remember that, or be remembered by others like that. It's humiliating.

And so much has changed. At the time, it had felt so necessary to be back with Arthur at all costs. Under healthier circumstances, but still. To not be away from him. Now, that feels a little silly.

He still likes him, though. Still feels attracted and fond. Still respects him, although he isn't sure if Arthur feels the same.

"I'm glad you called," Arthur says. "Umm, I don't want you to feel obligated, but I have a job coming up, and we could use a good forger."

"Oh yes?" He doesn't have to feign professional interest.

"Just because it's a little weird, and I know you're good with weird jobs. I could give you the details in advance if you want to meet up beforehand."

Classy way to send out some feelers, Eames thinks. Get together to ostensibly discuss a "weird" job, and still have time to decide what they want to do with each other, if anything.

"If you have time, I mean," Arthur says, letting him off the hook.

He thinks, briefly—just a quick flash in his mind—of Arthur in the ambulance again. It sends a jolt of panic through him, which he quells without hesitation. That's done with. It's not a part of the equation anymore, otherwise they won't even be able to work together.

And, just as briefly, a flash of Arthur in bed with him, holding him still, murmuring nonsense to keep the nightmares at bay while Eames sweated and shook and fought. He doesn't need that kind of humiliation either, and just as quickly blocks it out.

At least they're on somewhat even ground.

"Yes," Eames says, already having decided the second Arthur picked up. "I've got plenty of time."

** ** ** **

 

 

--End