The job goes bad, it goes bad fast, and honestly Arthur doesn't know why he didn't see it coming from the very beginning.
He was told it was low-risk and generally he wasn't big on working with individuals he'd never heard of, but this time he was willing to take the chance. Set-up wasn't thorough, but it was done fast - within four days - and that was probably when he should have paid closer attention to the sinking feeling in his gut.
He remembers that they completed the extraction, he recalls thinking that maybe he doesn't have to worry quite so much anymore. He's packing up the PASIV and their mark is still sedated, blissfully unaware of what they've done. The sound of the warehouse door being flung open startles him more than it should, almost as much as the shots being fired, whizzing through the dust and the moonlight streaking in past the grimy windows. Someone shouts that they've been found out - he hadn't even known there was a chance of anyone coming after them - and everyone's making themselves scarce.
The warehouse that they've holed up in is mainly used for storage, so there's stacks of boxes and crates that provide both useful cover and create a deadly maze. He's studied the blueprints, though, so he knows there's a back entrance twenty-five, or more, feet to his left. He takes the chance when he thinks he can, his Glock out and loaded and at his side.
Arthur ducks out of the cover, takes three or four shots and hits someone before he's full out sprinting for the back entrance. He doesn't know if the rest of his team has made it out and he can't find himself to care. It's their negligence that's gotten them into this situation and he can't say that he'll miss him.
Everything after the feel of the chilly, midnight air hitting his skin is more blurry than lucid, fuzzy and patchy. He recalls the seeping, uncomfortable warmth of something on his right arm, knows that he didn't notice until he was back at his run-down motel room that he'd been shot.
There hadn't been much time and he's been shot before, so he rolls up the sleeve of his shirt, runs tap water over the blood that's already started to clot and searches the room for something to pull the bullet out with.
There's blood, a lot of it, and the bullet's being stubborn. Red is everywhere, staining his shirt and the motel towels - he's going to leave this place a mess. He has nothing to numb the pain and he bites his lips hard, but his vision's swimming and he knows this is dangerous, whoever ambushed them at the warehouse could very well show up at any minute.
The last thing that comes to mind before the blood loss and the agonizing pain become too much is the tap water running and the blood never stopping and also, the sound of his motel room door being kicked in and someone calling out his name.
Arthur doesn't like hospitals, there's a feeling of helplessness that they instill, and he can only recall a handful of times that he's ever been in one.
Still, when he opens his eyes, bleary and blinking away the black of sleep, the sterile white walls, the beeping of machinery and the crisp, scratchy bedsheets are unmistakable. He groans when the light hits his eyes and when he moves his right arm it yields very little result.
He glances over to it, still sluggish and drowsy from what he thinks might be pain medication, he sees the sling and the bandages encasing the skin from his fingers up to his elbow and frowns.
"You're awake." It's someone he recognizes, not a doctor or a nurse, a low, familiar, accented voice. "I knew one measly bullet wouldn't be the death of you."
Arthur doesn't have to look up to identify the individual, the man currently residing in a chair alongside his bed. Instead, he focuses his patchy vision on the hospital band around his wrist, the one that reads Thomas Colligan. It's an alias he'd used some time ago.
"I wasn't worried." His throat is dry, so he clears it, sitting up in the bed so he doesn't feel quite so... strange about the other being here. Why was he here? "I hadn't thought I'd see you until next week, Mr. Eames. What brings you stateside so early?"
The forger smiles at his inquiry, although it appears a bit strained. It's then Arthur notes how tired he looks, the dark under his eyes that he can't rub away.
He knows in that instant that the voice he hears now and the one he'd heard shouting is name back in the motel room are but one in the same. He's both grateful and a little humiliated.
"Nevermind that." Eames immediately dismisses the matter because even though they banter and tease, sincerity and benevolence and affection have never been things that they were good at.
"Cobb called," He says after a moment, because that's easiest to say. "He said that he might stop by later, thought you might want to wait a bit on the job next week. Ariadne thought to drop by with him. She was worried."
'We all were,' hangs in the silence, but then again, maybe Arthur is just a little hopeful. He and Eames, they're good at dancing around their feelings.
"This isn't going to stop me." The point man gestures to the arm closest to his chest, the one that's gone a bit stiff and is starting to ache. "Make sure he's aware that I still plan on continuing on with the assignment."
Eames' smile, real this time, does not go unnoticed, "Of course, darling."
They both fall silent when there's a knock on the door, a young nurse beaming as she enters, only to administer more painkillers into the IV at his side and to check how he's feeling. He lies through his teeth, only because his injury isn't fatal, not because he's stupid.
When she leaves, Eames is glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. Arthur shifts awkwardly in the hospital bed, feeling uncomfortable and vulnerable.
"It's good, though." The forger begins, eliciting a raised eyebrow. "That you're well, I mean. I'd known you long enough, so I knew it couldn't be that easy."
"Eames," He stresses, "I was shot in the arm."
"It could've been worse." He's right, though. If Eames hadn't gotten there, if the bullet had hit elsewhere... "So, I'm just glad."
Arthur only nods, because his throat has inconveniently locked up on him. This time, when the forger grins, it's anxious and unsettled.
Arthur doesn't know when it happened or why he hadn't noticed the hand resting on his good arm, curled around his wrist and careful not to disturb the IV needle. When their eyes meet briefly, Eames' lips twitch into a smile before his gaze darts away.
"Thank you," The point man whispers, since it feels right. Except when it's out there, it's more embarrassing than fulfilling and now he can't take it back. Eames still looks him in the eye, his hand and its warmth lingering there several seconds longer before he pulls away.
"I shall tell Cobb that you'll be in tip-top shape for the Kleiner job next week, shall I?" He stands; Arthur blinks up at him, but the distraction isn't unwelcome. "I'm sure he's in shambles worrying about his go-to point man."
Arthur allows the other to leave without so much as another word, feels a little more at ease and a little more alone when it's just him in the room.
When Eames comes back into the room a few minutes later, they start to talk about the job because it's what they're most comfortable with.
Arthur's happy to know he'll be released the very next day.
"It's difficult for me to get anything done when you guys are so insistent on using my arm as an art canvas." Arthur's frowning at the pair of grinning faces directly across from him, his injured arm in plaster and currently being supported by Eames. He and Ariadne are completely immersed in ensuring that every inch of his cast is covered in ridiculous doodles.
"Might I point out, love," Eames' gaze flickers up briefly to meet the point man's, amused and a bit mischievous. "That it's hard for you to get anything done as it is with your arm tied up like this."
He hates to admit that the forger's got a point, he can't even write while he's like this. He's been mostly useless to the purpose of their job, if not for the help of a strangely compliant Eames, who offered his assistance where he could.
It's not that Arthur isn't appreciative, but he does so despise being reliant on others and he's still a bit moody about this morning, when he had quite the difficult time showering and getting dressed.
"There," Ariadne beams and scoots back in her chair, as though she's admiring their collective handiwork on his cast. He doesn't know what's so impressive about hearts and swirls, their names in cursive and the outline of a frowning monkey that Eames has been so diligently working on. "Now it's not so bad."
She calls out to Cobb, inquiring as to if he'd like to sign it or perhaps commend their gorgeous artwork, but the extractor just shakes his head and says that they might want to continue doing their job if they aren't so distracted anymore, thank you. Arthur doesn't blame him, he's been enough of a distraction that day and they're even more crunched for time.
Ariadne leaves first, heading back to her models and blueprints with a sigh, and Eames stands to his feet a minute later. The point man turns back to the dossiers of information on his desk, assuming that the other would just head back to his work without another word.
When the older man silently lays a hand on his own and forces him to look up, he's more than a little surprised at the pair of lips gently grazing his cheek before Eames is stepping away entirely.
The forger flashes him a wink before returning to his desk, either unaware or else pretending not to notice the way Arthur watches him, expression confused and cheeks flushed pink.
There's no evidence connecting that very event with the fact that he is far, far more tolerant than he's ever been of Eames in the two weeks that follow.
It's mostly because he's managed to convince himself that they are, in fact, completely unrelated.