Eames was lounging around his motel room when he received the unexpected call, and it was mostly the shared history that made him answer it, though a small part of him said he was answering because he wanted to hear that voice again.

"Eames. I need your help."

"My help?" The Englishman enquired politely, reclining on the bed with a smirk. "What mischief have you been getting up to this time?"

"I've been shot." He said shortly.

"Shit." Eames sat straight up. "Where are you? Do you need me to take you to the hospital?"

"No hospitals, they ask too many questions. I'll come to you. What's the address of the motel you're staying at?"

"How'd you know I was staying at a motel?"

"Eames, I'm a point-man, do you really think I wouldn't know when you're visiting the same town as me? Now give me the address."

Eames did as he was told and paced up and down the room anxiously until he heard the knock. Arthur was in a pretty bad state, his usually neat hair stuck to the beads of sweat standing on his forehead, wearing his jacket that was badly disguising how bloody his shirt was. He'd got a rag clutched to his arm but judging by how pale he was, he'd lost a bit of blood. He walked in and sat in a chair as soon as the door was open.

"I didn't know who else to call." Arthur said as Eames carefully slid him out of his jacket, and after a moment's hesitation, his shirt as well, so he could take a look at the wound. It wasn't bleeding anymore, but it looked pretty bad. Arthur had been extremely lucky and not taken a direct hit- the bullet had just grazed his arm, but it had taken flesh with it and made a real mess.

"I'll clean it, but you need stitches." Eames diagnosed.

"Can you do it?"

"Yes, but you'll probably swear at me." He went and raided his suitcase for a small box kept for emergencies such as these, a necessary part of the job. He threw Arthur a few small bottles of liquor from the minibar as he flicked on his lighter and passed the needle through the flame to sterilise it. Arthur bravely gulped down three of them and gripped the arms of the chair. Eames approached with a clean cloth and some antiseptic solution.

"This will sting. On three," Eames warned, "One..." he immediately tipped the solution over the wound and Arthur hissed and swore through gritted teeth.

"You said on three."

"I lied. Hold still, darling, whilst I sew you up."

Eames was efficient and surprisingly gentle with the needle, giving Arthur a neat row of stitches tied off neatly at the end. Then he bandaged up the arm to stop the stitches being ripped.

"Thankyou, Eames." Arthur smiled sadly, "I knew you'd help me." Eames tucked one of his own jumpers around him and zipped it up firmly.

"We'll have to get you a shot tomorrow so that doesn't get infected." He paused at the top of the zip, wanting more than anything to hug the vulnerable-looking Arthur and tell him everything was going to be fine, but instead he retreated to the end of the bed and sat down. He didn't believe for a minute that he was the best person Arthur could have called for help.

"You're going tell me who shot you, and we'll see if I can help there as well." Eames instructed.

"It's complicated." Arthur's face crinkled.

"I've got plenty of time, and you're not going anywhere until you've told me."

"Fine. I was on a job. I haven't touched the dream stuff since Cobb's inception job. Something about it gave me a wake-up call."

"Pun intentional?" Eames asked, amused. He was interested to hear though that Arthur had stayed away from the dreams, since Eames had been doing something surprisingly similar.

"Pun not intentional. Anyway, I've got another... freelancing job." He chose his words carefully, and Eames raised an eyebrow.

"Have you fallen in with the wrong people, Arthur?"

"It's not like that..." Arthur stuttered evasively.

"So what, a disgruntled client? Pardon me for saying so, but you don't tend to catch bullets unless they're aimed in your direction."

"Don't act like you care," Arthur retorted. There was an awkward silence where Eames tried to decide if Arthur wanted to genuinely hurt him or if those minibar drinks were kicking in.

"Right, enough of that alcohol for you I think," He said smoothly, snatching back one of the gin bottles and draining what was left himself. "I do care, Arthur, and I think you wouldn't be here if you didn't know that."

"I was set up." He pouted. "I was lured somewhere thinking they had another job for me, but they tried to kill me instead."

"They? Arthur, who have you been working for?"

"They have... criminal connections. They pay me for information."

"Bloody hell Arthur, are you telling me the mob wanted you dead and you escaped alive? You sure haven't lost your touch!"

Arthur said nothing, and Eames blew out a long breath, an incredulous look on his face. Arthur was in deep shit, no wonder he'd called. He needed someone he could trust.

"So you were doing some work for a gang involved in organised crime. Things went sour, or you found out too much, and they tried to bump you off to neutralise you as a threat," Eames thought aloud. Arthur nodded miserably.

"It won't be long before they find me. They want me dead and they won't stop until they get it."

Eames scratched his head and a small smile spread across his lips as the beginnings of a brilliant idea formed in his mind. "Oh Arthur, darling," his eyes glittered, "it sounds like you need a forger."