A.N: This is unedited, barely thought out or outlined, but I don't care. I had this idea several years ago after watching an interview of JGL's where he talked about maybe starring in a movie based off of the Sandman comics.

Eames had Arthur pressed against his side as the warmth and life seeped out of the point man, spreading the bloodstain on Eames's shirt as they made their escape from the mark's men and the client's hired guns; as they had woken from the dream to find themselves in the middle of being double-crossed by their client, the sudden arrival of the mark's armed men had given them the extra couple of seconds they needed to detach their IV lines and reach for their own weapons.

It was a rare and almost beautiful thing, Eames had thought at the time, watching as a man from each group sized each other up, glanced at the two dream criminals they'd found and then nodded in agreement as they then turned to face Arthur and Eames together, as a team. It was so quick and efficient a decision Eames was certain that Arthur would have approved of it in that pragmatic way of his if he hadn't been busy snapping the PASIV shut and raising his gun to fire at their new best friends before they had a chance to shoot first.

That didn't stop them from eventually taking a few shots as Arthur and Eames ran for the door.

Forced to take cover as Arthur shot at them, the dream workers had just enough of a head start to get out the door and on the streets while the others were regrouping. But then they were following...

It didn't take Eames long to notice the blood, or the way that Arthur was lagging- first stumbling, then dropping his gun, and finally needing Eames's support to keep on his feet and remain moving. The forger held the remaining gun while Arthur clutched the PASIV in a white-knuckle grip, leaning heavily on Eames's side as Eames manhandled him with one arm snaked around the point man's waist, Arthur's arm draped over his shoulders.

If one ignored the blood or the way they were desperately shuffling down an alleyway in the middle of the night, at first glance they could be mistaken for a pair of drunks. Well, maybe not Eames...

"I don't-" Arthur bit back a curse, forcing himself to breathe deeper despite the gunshot wound. Eames shot a worried glance at the place Arthur had been hit, noticing that the bleeding hadn't slowed; that Arthur had grown pale, glassy eyed, and weak. "I don't see her."

Eames tore his attention away from Arthur's wound, needing to keep his ears open for the sounds of following footsteps, to get ready to fight back with Arthur quietly slumped against a wall, out of the way and mostly safe.

He needed to keep moving.

So he asked Arthur, half-interested in what he was saying but truly needing to hear his voice- it didn't matter if the man was speaking nonsense so long as he continued to draw breath and live.

"Who don't you see, darling?"

"Sister," Arthur answering shortly, having to take a deeper breath immediately after speaking.

Eames grunted and pulled Arthur behind some trashcans, hiding for now so they could catch their breath. He'd sworn that he could hear someone following a ways off.

"You have a sister," Eames asked, not exactly questioning how Arthur expected to see her in an alley in Brazil in the dead of night.

"Got three..." The point man paused, thinking about what he'd just said before shaking his head.

"Which one did you hope to see?" Eames asked softly, hearing the sounds of footsteps, already getting into position to shoot from behind their improvised shelter. "She nice? Travels a lot?"

Arthur snorted, seeming to find what Eames said to be pretty funny. The forger tried to take heart in that- if Arthur had enough life in him to laugh at Eames's attempts at conversation, he might survive the night.

"She's very nice. Travels a lot for work." That amused him even more, he just barely stopped himself from laughing a little. Then he had to force his free hand against his mouth so he could stifle the coughing fit he'd triggered. Eames pretended not to notice the blood on the point man's palm.

"She's not afraid to tell me when I'm being stupid. Doesn't let me feel sorry for myself."

Eames was sighting down the barrel of his gun, watching as the pursuing group of men came closer. They had yet to see where they were hiding, but would hear them if they continued talking like this.

"She threw bread at me," Arthur pronounced solemnly. "I was being an ass."

Naturally, that was when they were spotted.

"There they are!" one called to the others.

Eames wasn't going to wait for them to get any closer. He took a shot, then another; firing with surgical precision, counting in his head the number of bullets he'd have left in the clip and then number of men who didn't yell, cry out, or beg as they hit the ground. He'd not have enough to finish the lot of them.

He was in the middle of coming up with Plan B when Arthur, still nestled close to Eames, whispered, "I'm sorry."

Eames didn't risk looking over at Arthur. He didn't want to believe that this 'I'm sorry' was something Arthur was saying before dying. He'd never really thought about what Arthur would say before dying. He didn't like to consider those things, but sometimes when the thought crossed his mind, he figured that Arthur's last words would involve some sort of criticism of the person who engineered his death.

"No saying sorry, darling," Eames said, waiting before shooting down another man. "We don't say sorry. Remember what we said before this started, this 'you and me; no Cobb involved, god no' thing?"

"Otherwise known as a relationship."

Eames wasn't going to argue with him. He had two bullets left and was waiting to see which of his remaining buddies would be the lucky winners- and after that there would still two or three more people lurking among the trash and bodies in the alley, ready to take down the forger with the empty clip and the dying point man.

"I'm not arguing with you on that."

"And I'm still telling you that I'm sorry."

Eames chanced it. He looked over at Arthur for a moment, just a moment. He was stunned.

Arthur, still resting against the wall, his skin so very pale and his breathing uneven, was focusing on Eames. His eyes, previously glassy, actually seemed darker than their usual brown- as Eames looked into them, he could have sworn that the point man's eyes were nothing more than the flash of starlight in the darkness of space...

Reaching into his coat's pocket, Arthur pulled a worn pouch from inside and carefully undid the drawstrings. When Arthur next spoke there was a strange resonance to his voice.

"You might not understand what's about to happen, Eames," Arthur began as he opened the pouch and plucked out, of all things, a handful of sand. "I never intended for things to go this far."

He held up the handful of sand and said, "I'll show them terror in a handful of dust. Close your eyes, Mr. Eames."

Eames didn't. He stared at the point man with the glowing eyes and watched as Arthur blew on the handful of sand, watched as the grains, the dust, flew off of his palm and swirled around the point man and out towards their remaining attackers.

This inexplicably powerful storm of sand dissipated rather quickly after flowing around Eames, not getting into his eyes or even getting caught in his clothing.

Then it was gone. And Arthur was gone too.

Unsteady, Eames leaned forwards and looked at the space Arthur once occupied. All signs of his being there were gone. Then he got to his feet and found that the men who had followed after them, the one's who had survived despite the bullets that struck them or the one's who'd gotten lucky and weren't hit at all, were sleeping in the alley.

They fit in well with the bodies of the dead.

Eames looked at the only thing left in the spot where Arthur had sat. He picked up the PASIV, shocked to feel this residual sensation of heat, of warmth from Arthur's hand on the case's handle.

"What the bloody hell was that?" Eames asked himself, not sure if he was ever going to get an answer.