A/Ns: AU prompt *can't remember where FFFFF-* that asked for Eames to be a hitman and Arthur to show up bruised or bloody and Eames to help him. This has since taken on a life of its own.


Eames wakes up to a thud against his flat's door, and he pulls his Glock from under his pillow before he has even discerned if that noise came from reality or left over from whatever he was dreaming.

He pauses his thoughts and just listens, not even breathing as he keeps perfectly still to listen for fucking anything to make a sound.

Something hits against his apartment door and he clambers out of bed as quickly and silently as possible. He pauses at the door, flicking off the safety, as he pauses again before stepping out into the darkened hall way. Raising his gun at any possible intruders. His mind stays clear of trying to jump ahead, and he focuses on making sure no one has gotten inside any of the other two bedrooms, and bathroom before going out into the living/dining area. It is sparse, there isn't anything for someone to hide behind, he didn't even own a couch.

But still he walks the room, head jerking to the sound of a definitive voice outside his door.

Focus, he tells himself. It could be a diversion. His eyes flicker over the room again, before moving to the kitchen that is separated by a half wall. It is empty.

Finally admitting that the flat is void of anyone, Eames moves to the door. He checks the peep hole, only making out a lower leg and foot sprawled out into hall.

The person sounds masculine as he says something again, plus judging by the pant leg, it is more than likely a man.

Eames cocks his gun, and watches as the leg doesn't even flinch. He continues to watch as he unbolts the door but if he is prepping to lean in and shoot Eames, he hasn't flinched his leg once.

Quickly, he unlocks and yanks the door open, Eames moves with the door, because it is bulletproof and he is definitely not.

No gunshot ring out, just the soft slump of a man landing on the door.

Eames peeks around the door, gun first, eyes rake over the man, and he winces. There was no way that that man was doing anything to anyone, except be unconscious, if not dead.

Granted, Eames still nudges him a bit, the man lets out a groan of pain, but doesn't move.

Stepping over him, Eames checks the hall, but it is empty as well. Brows furrowed together, Eames comes back to look at the man, lying mostly dead in his entrance way, bleeding onto his hardwood floor.

He kneels down, and picks up the man's head and grimaces at the damage done to his face. One eye is swollen shut, the other has a dark ring partially around it. The man's nose is broken and blood is clotting in each nostril. It goes well with the swollen busted lip and cut across his temple and it's pair cutting across his left eyebrow.

The right eye, being the one not swollen, flutters a bit as he seems to be trying to wake back up. It flickers slowly around then back to Eames' face, as if trying to remember what was going on. His arm shifts toward Eames, but it doesn't raise from the floor.

The eye is set on Eames, perhaps something to focus on. Eames wishes he couldn't read the fear, need, and hope in it. The man is pleading with him.

"I-" the man chokes out, in a gruff cough. He shakes under Eames' hands until slowly he slips unconscious.

For a moment, Eames studies the man's face, taking in the details of his bloodied state. A small part of his brain thinks to shoot the bloody sod, put him out of his misery as it were, but Eames can't find support for that course of action.

Sighing, he supposes there really was only one other course. Tucking his other arm under the man's legs, Eames lifts him as he stands. He kicks the door close, before taking him to one of the spare rooms, never seeing the small flash drive that falls from the injured man's pocket that gets knocked under the coffee table.

Setting the man on the bed, Eames returns to his room, taking up his cell. He presses #3 and then send.

The other side rings three times before a sleepy feminine voice picks up.

"'ello?"

"Ariadne, it's me. Can you grab your kit and come over? I need your help."

"Eames? It's-fuck-four oh two am. You said you didn't have a job this week," there is rustling as she shifts around in her bed.

He mentally swears, Ariadne did not do well in the early hours, and he tried to not have to wake her unnecessarily.

"It's not for me. It's for- for some bloke," Eames gestures with his gun in the direction of the man down the hall.

"I'm confused. You need me to come over with my medical kit for some 'bloke'?" she says bloke in a tone that makes Eames wonder what she is implying.

"Look, just do it, yeah? I'll explain when you get here," he huffs, wishing he'd just taken the damn man to a hospital, but they ask questions, and it is best if no one asks questions about him.

"Fine, I'll be there in a few," then she hangs up.

Eames tucks his gun in his waist band, before going to check that the stranger hadn't died and made the whole phone call pointless.

But he wasn't. He slept on, breathing through his mouth as there was no relief for his nose yet.

Eames waited, watching the stranger for twelve minutes, until he heard the flat door open. His hand went to his gun before he heard a tentative, "Eames?"

"In here," Eames calls out, not moving until Ariadne comes into the room. Her gaze went form him to the man on the bed, she flicked on the light making Eames wince.

"Shit, what the hell happened to him?" Ariadne asked.

"Don't know," Eames answered, grateful she didn't ask why he was sitting in the dark.

"He's not a-ya know-is he?" she asks, waving one hand as if that would convey her meaning.

"A what? A target? No, sweets, I wouldn't be bloody calling you if I was supposed to kill the bloke," Eames drawled.

Ariadne seemed to relax at this and started setting up. She shed her rumpled coat, and Eames got a good look at what she was wearing. This consisted of a oversized t-shirt with the periodic table on the back, tucked into some well worn jeans that were faded a bit at the knees with a pair of converses. Eames noted that he was still in his pajama bottoms, and should probably put on a shirt. He ignored this since she had seen him in less and instead asked, "How's Yusuf?"

"Cranky, his girlfriend got called out of bed at four am," she said, snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

Eames moved his feet around. "Well at least you're getting paid," Eames said.

"You know I'm not here for the money," Ariadne said, but didn't push further than that. They had a standing arrangement for the last four years.

When Eames got tore up on a job, she would come and patch him up. They had met one night when she found him dying on the street, she had been a lowly surgical intern then, but when he pressed for no hospital, she had taken him home and patched him up.

Overtime, he had begun to rely more on her to keep him bandaged and found even paying someone to care for his wounds helped soothe the lonely ache that had been persistent throughout his life.

Ariadne, for all her smarts, had accepted the position as on call doctor, provided he gave her some advance warning to take off from the hospital in case he needed her. Then she had become a real surgeon, and didn't need his money to pay the rent. Of course by then, Eames had made sure she knew it was strictly a business arrangement, and Ariadne didn't push despite the few times she had slept over for a few days when he had been shot or otherwise seriously injured. She had stayed, once, even though she had to take emergency leave, and her coworkers hated it, and Yusuf definitely hated it, and Eames hated being shot, and took it out on her. She had been a saint, and got him through it. That had been over a year and a half ago.

Part of Eames had started to wonder when she would be leaving him. When being a doctor for an assassin would lose its excitement or when Yusuf would propose and she'd want kids and normal and everything Eames would never get close to. The ache in his chest burned.

"Help me strip him, Eames. I need to check for any type of puncture wounds," she had pulled off his shoes and had started undoing the man's trousers.

"Easy love, buy the bloke a damn drink first," Eames joked.

"Shut up, and get his clothes off before he bleeds to death on your guest bed," she sounded annoyed despite the curl of a smile on her lips. She handed him a pair of surgical scissors as she cut up the man's right trouser leg.

Eames did the same with his shirt as he opened it, he recoiled a bit. There were large dark bruises covering most of his ribcage area, but it wasn't the worst, there, low and towards his back, was a puncture wound.

"Ariadne," Eames says in a low voice. He glances at her as she looks up from studying a large gash on his leg.

She follows his gesture to the wound and promptly swears.

"Help me get him on his side," she says, grabbing pillows to help prop him up. It takes a moment, but as soon as the man is lifted up, they both can see the blood on the bed.

"Shit, shit, shit," Ariadne swears. She directs Eames to get her the lamp, the one missing the shade, and she digs around in her bag for her surgical kit.

Eames is then sent for the supply of rubbing alcohol she has there and a large bowl. It takes a few minutes to get everything she needs. And he shouldn't be surprised to see her pulling on a face mask, and making him don one, but Eames suddenly realizes how calm she is, and how many times she must do this. Both with proper equipment and here making do with what she has not gotten stored here.

After she starts, she lets out a sigh of relief as she says, "It's not that bad. Smaller puncture than I thought. He's lucky."

Eames looks up at the man's swollen broken face and wonders how close he was to being unlucky.