Summary: Funny how in the end, all one can think about is the beginning. While attending Arthur's funeral, Eames remembers the events sixty-two years ago that lead to his unending love for the Point Man. Slow building A/E. Loose prequel/sequel to 'Reunion.' [can be read by itself]

This story has been in development for a while. Just something I couldn't get out of my head with these characters and the 'lives' my earlier story set them up with. You do not have to read 'Reunion' to understand the events of this story. This is my first attempt to do a prequel/sequel to anything I have ever written, so we'll see how it goes (if this experiment fails, I will avoid sequels like the plague.) Most likely there will be gaps between updates, but they will come until this is finished.

I don't claim to have any ownership over anything recognizable, nor any knowledge of the Ukraine government and their police force. This is simply fiction for fiction's sake.

Please enjoy!

Desperado

Chapter 1: Departed

– Present –

The bagpiper played on, the strains of "Amazing Grace" reverberating off the church walls, bringing a tear to Eames' eye. He sniffled quietly, hoping no one would hear. Arthur had been the last one. Ariadne, sadly, no longer counted. Her advanced Alzheimer's had caused her to forget Arthur and Eames years ago, and nearly caused her to make a scene today when her two sons tried to escort her down the church aisle. Eames turned his heavy eyes to her, taking in her blank, confused look as he sat there, trying to keep himself together.

86 years. He supposed it was a life well lived. Hell, he himself was 90, plugged into an oxygen tank and confined to a wheelchair. Up till last year, Arthur had been completely under his own steam, with not a sick day in his life. Eames never would have imagined liver cancer to sweep him away so quickly. But then again, Arthur was fond of his bourbon and maybe that should have been some signal. But after such a life, Eames wasn't sure it really mattered.

The minister stood as the song ended, a somber smile on his face as he began the eulogy. Eames didn't care to listen. It was mostly lies anyway. Even in death, Arthur hadn't wanted the real details of his earlier years revealed. So the mourners were fed some bogus story that Arthur first met Eames at Oxford in London, roommates and remained close as brothers ever since; and Ariadne entered his life one fateful business trip to Paris later. No mention of the real story, or the love shared between the three of them. Eames shook his head with a light sigh, finding it funny how in the end all one can think about is the beginning.

xxx

– Kiev, Ukraine, 62 years ago –

Keep walking. One foot in front of the other. Keep going.

It ran like a mantra through his muddled mind, body struggling to cooperate. Blood was coming faster now, hot and sticky, flowing from his shoulder. Was the bullet even still there? Did it matter? The wound had never really stopped bleeding anyway.

Street lights started to swim before his tired, worn eyes. He didn't recall seeing anyone on the streets, not that he could trust his memory or eyesight at this point. Aside from the pounding in his ears, it was certainly quiet enough to indicate he was alone.

Those fools, those amateurs thought they could contain him, make him talk. Originally he'd given the Kiev police force more credit than that. But they left him an opening and he took it. Never mind what they had already done to him physically. It was their fault for underestimating the power of anger and the sheer force of will. He'd always been able to exert masterful control over his body.

His control was slipping now though. Limbs were moving of their own, feet landing without reason. Every stumble brought him closer to just succumbing to the darkness eating at his mind. It would win eventually, he could do nothing to stop it. But if he could just get back….

A heaving cough racked his body, making him double over, crying in agony at the lightning pain ripping through his chest. His hand darted feebly out to the nearest wall, clinging for support to gain his breath and mental clarity. God, the pain was mind numbing, overloading every nerve ending, threatening his sanity.

Or was that the blood loss talking? Maybe the exhaustion or starvation? He never could be sure, and the blackness clouding his vision would make sure of that.

Dammit, keep going.

He longed to obey, hand slipping from the wall, taking an ill-advised step forward. His eyes dropped shut, the darkness all consuming. He no longer knew pain, or anger…or the cold wet of the surrounding snow.

xxx

Two days. Two long, agonizing, miserable days.

Cobb couldn't tone down his anger, Eames couldn't stop smoking and the chemist couldn't keep his nerve. The fucking coward had bolted the minute Cobb and Eames returned from the job, sans Arthur. Eames made a note to give the man a swift punch to the face if they ever met again.

Teammates just don't abandon each other if they can help it. And that was exactly the dilemma Cobb and Eames had faced for the last two days since the job went south—could they help Arthur? Capture in the Ukrainian government's Cabinet of Ministers building could only mean one or two very limited things: imprisonment or death.

Cobb and Eames hadn't dared to discuss the second option. Until they had definitive proof, there was no reason to assume Arthur was dead. Most likely just questioned and imprisoned. But would he talk? Would they resort to torture if he refused? The questions were endless, and did nothing to help settle the air between the two men.

Eames stubbed his cigarette out under his toe, drawing a deep breath of cold air before returning inside. Cobb was sitting just as Eames had left him at an empty desk, eyes distant and heavy. Dropping his coat unceremoniously on an empty table, the forger moved to the trash can in the middle of the room, stoking the smoldering embers. There was just one stack of papers left now. Arthur's papers.

"You sure you don't want any of them?" Eames had to ask again. He almost couldn't believe Cobb was alright destroying everything in Arthur's desk. He knew there was a long line of work history between them and just assumed it extended personally as well. Maybe he was wrong.

"No." The single word was quiet and forced.

"You sure?"

"Eames…" The extractor warned, voice low and dangerous.

"Alright then." Slowly, so as to make sure everything burned without leaving a trace, Eames started adding papers, one by one, to the growing flame. The air in the building was thick with tension, most of it seething from the extractor who had yet to unwind since the job's end. Eames cast a casual glance over. "Maybe you should go back to the hotel and rest," he gently suggested, "the last thing we need is for you to have a stroke."

"And what would you recommend? Smoking myself to death?" Eames fought back a bristle at Cobb's words. Cobb's way of coping was to be inconsolably pissy, and Eames' was to seek escape in the welcoming arms of nicotine highs. To each their own, and Cobb should keep his damn mouth shut. But since he knew about Cobb's coping method, he also knew better than to rise to the taunt.

"Cobb you have to let it go," Eames said softly, "it's been two days, and we cannot take on the Ukrainian government or Kiev police. That borders on suicide, and I'm too much of a narcissist for that."

"What would you have me do then? I can't just abandon Arthur."

"He abandoned us. He made the choice."

Silence fell in the wake of Eames' words. To be honest, both men were still in shock over Arthur's capture. Especially because it was Arthur—his job was to know every escape route and have a backup for his backup plans. His job was to guarantee everyone made it out. Eames guessed in some sense, he had done his job. But didn't everyone include himself?

"We won't make it. They're too close."

"Optimism please, Arthur."

"It's called realism, Eames."

"Afraid I'll have to side with Eames on this one, Arthur." Cobb said quickly, pressing an ear to the office door as Arthur snapped the lid shut on the PASIV. "It's too close to call."

Eames followed the extractor quickly out, quietly moving down the hallway, the sound of the mark's snoring fading as Arthur closed the door. He had been on more dangerous jobs than this but never actually caught, and he'd be damned if some government rent-a-cops were going to bust him. Or were they Special Forces? He tried to remember from Arthur's file as they moved down the long government building hallway, and failed. Well so long as the point man knew, Eames would just have to take orders (not that he'd ever admit it).

The silence of the hallway shattered under the bang of a stairwell door behind him, followed by muffled movement.

"Eames," the forger nearly tripped as he turned in surprise at Arthur's voice, numbly reacting to the take the proffered PASIV, "guard this with your life or suffer the consequences."

"From you? Gladly." His voice was smooth, despite the surprised confusion, made worse as he watched Arthur stop beside two metal doors held open against the walls, lighting up a cigarette. Since when did Arthur smoke? The forger slowed to a reluctant stop, torn whether to call out to Cobb or Arthur.

"Arthur, now hardly seems the time for a smoke break." He watched Arthur exhale smoke.

"I couldn't agree more. Take the first staircase you find; they'll have to scatter their forces and you'll able to get away."

"And you'll be right behind us," Cobb added, annoyed to find the two of them stopped, "come on!" Eames watched the point man and extractor's eyes lock, Cobb's eyes suddenly widening to near panic.

"No I won't."

"Arthur, don't do it—sacrificing yourself won't help." Cobb reasoned.

"You need a distraction." Arthur brought the cigarette to his lips, drawing a deep breath.

"Arthur, goddammit!" Cobb swore under hissed breath, the muffled sounds drawing closer. "Eames, stop him!" Eames took off in Arthur's direction, watching helplessly as Arthur stepped up to one of the metal doors, exhaling a lungful of smoke. Without warning, the metal doors sprung free of their holds, slamming shut with a bang, allowing Eames one last look into those sharp, resolved brown eyes, before effectively sealing Arthur off.

"Arthur!" Cob's pleading, angered voice bounced off the empty walls as Eames turned back towards Cobb, trying to understand just why and what Arthur had done, the wail of the fire alarm ringing in his ears.

Cobb, in his saddened rage, had torn Arthur's desk to pieces upon their return to the warehouse, searching for anything to help him understand his point man's disappearance. About the only thing they had found useful (comforting?) were notes about the fire doors in the building. Each hallway was longer than code allowed without a fire barrier, resulting in a set of doors installed on every floor, activated by individual smoke detectors with lock mechanisms that released upon receipt of signal from the detector.

Arthur truly did think of everything. And when Eames went to retrieve a cigarette from the spare pack he kept in his desk, having run out, he noticed one cigarette missing along with his spare lighter.

His heart had surprisingly clenched at the sight. He had only worked with Arthur on three other jobs over the last two years before this one, and didn't even really know the man. Why should he care so much? He sighed as he watched the fine, precise handwriting of the point man curl and disappear into the fire, forever gone.

"You have to go back to Mal and Phillipa. I won't let you stay or do something stupid." Eames broke the silence, again turning heavy eyes to Cobb, wishing the man would move or do something to work off his stress.

"What about you?"

"I'm staying here through the holidays. Airports are a bitch this time of year." Eames could see the gears spinning in Cobb's head as he talked. The extractor wasn't really listening, too deep in his mind to let go of Arthur or look to the future. Eames turned with a dismissive shake of his head, dropping the last of Arthur's papers into the fire, wishing he didn't care so much.

Unable to stand it, Eames moved back to the empty table with his coat, shrugging it over his broad shoulders.

''Again?" Cobb's voice sounded in the empty space.

"Piss off Cobb," Eames shot back, "you're allowed your shitty mood and I'm allowed my ciggies."

Once outside, he drew a deep breath of the welcome smoke. The nicotine brought a familiar peace to his limbs in spite the frigid Ukrainian winter night air. The more he thought about, it was just the reality of the whole situation that made him care—the realization that on any job, no one was guaranteed to go home alive. It was part of the thrill, part of the rush. But then something like this happens—and to someone Eames had believed to be near perfect and untouchable—and it affected everyone. He wasn't sure just how close Arthur and Cobb had been, but this loss was already proving just how much of a hell it would be working with Dominic Cobb on future jobs.

Eames' eyes landed on some shadowy figure in the snow, just out of the glow from the nearest street lamp. Probably just another drunk. They hung around the downtown street corners, lurking behind buildings. Bored, with little else to occupy his mind, he walked over, almost hoping said person was coherent enough to have a conversation with. Hell, maybe Eames'd even have to get a drink with the man.

The man in question was slender, lying face down in the snow, dressed in the grayest, drabbest jumpsuit Eames had ever seen. Why the hell would anyone wear that in public? That's when Eames eyes settled to the rapidly-growing blood red snow at the man's shoulder, the various tears in the jumpsuit, the bloody, scabbed right hand fingers. Eames' heart pounded in his chest, eyes wide as he dropped to the man's side, brushing back snow and matted, oily hair, confirming his worst fear.

For beneath the myriad of swollen bruises, cuts and other wounds, were the defined, handsome features of the point man.