Chapter 2: Disinfectant
"Oh my god…." Eames had never felt so suddenly lost. Was Arthur even still alive? Surely he hadn't bled out not fifty feet from the warehouse. How long had he been here? Eames forced himself to focus, throwing his cigarette away, sinking a knee in the snow and fumbling cold fingers against the equally cold skin of the point man's neck, searching for a pulse.
He found it, slow and faint, but thankfully still there. Arthur had to get out of the cold and snow. But to where? There was nothing left in the warehouse anymore. Besides, he would only have to be moved again, back to the hotel. Eames cursed himself for sitting in the snow, just thinking, when he knew he needed to move. Quickly he reached for his coat, shrugging out of the heavy black wool, draping it over Arthur's prone form.
He hesitated, unsure just how or where to touch the other man, not knowing the rest of his injuries. The snow was continually reddening around Arthur's left shoulder.
"Fuck it." Arthur was already hurt and picking him up surely wouldn't do anymore damage. Eames placed his hands on either side of Arthur's torso, turning him over on his back to rest against Eames' knee. Tucking his coat tighter around the Arthur's body, he hooked an arm under the point man's knees, wrapping the other around his back, and stood to lift him out of the snow.
The wind was near unbearable as Eames held Arthur close against his chest, moving down the street, thankful their hotel was only a short walk. The next question was what to do now? Sure the hotel would get Arthur warm, but he was in desperate need of a doctor. Cobb had said he had a friend, didn't he? Everyone in this business had friends or someone who owed them a favor. Eames' pace increased at the off chance Cobb might actually know someone who could help that would avoid hospitals. Taking a man in a prison jumpsuit to the hospital would be more excitement than Eames bargained for.
He pushed through the hotel revolving door, relishing the instant flood of heat as he carried Arthur through the lobby, ignoring the stares from those around him. Granted it must have been an odd sight—not everyday does one see a man carrying another man with a beaten face, wrapped tight in a coat and covered in snow.
"Oh my goodness," an elderly lady by the elevator spoke with a heavy French accent as her face twisted with concern, "is he alright? He looks ghastly."
"Oh, just had one too many, I'm afraid," Eames brought a smile to his face, his tone jovial, "got into a little bit of a scrape. Nothing a good night's sleep won't fix." The woman eyed him suspiciously as he swept Arthur into the elevator, stooping to push a button.
"Almost there." Eames said softly, hefting Arthur gently in his arms to get a firmer hold. The elevator dinged on his floor and Eames all but ran down the hallway, fumbling to get the keycard from his pocket while holding Arthur. Eventually he freed it, trying not to jostle the point man farther as he reached for the door lock, kicking it fully open with his foot.
He crossed the room in long strides, laying Arthur on the bed, keeping him wrapped tight in his coat to keep the snow and blood from the comforter. He'd have to take care of that later, but first he needed to call Cobb. His cell phone slid easily from his pocket, Cobb's number easy to find given the work in the past few weeks.
"Cobb—call your doctor friend and get him to the hotel immediately. Arthur's escaped and he's hurt badly." He hung up not a minute later with nothing more to say.
"Alright Arthur, let's have a look…." He moved back to the bed, unwrapping his coat to reveal Arthur's jumpsuit clad form. Eames had never seen the point man so casually dressed and disheveled. He felt a tug at his heart but dismissed it just as quickly. The jumpsuit was surprisingly riddled with rips and tears, revealing bits of pale flesh beneath. It was soaked through with melted snow and Eames knew Arthur had to get out of the offending garment. The doctor could scold him later for further moving the patient around.
The zipper gave easily, baring a long stripe of smooth, prickly-looking skin down Arthur's chest. Eames had always secretly wondered if Arthur was hairy, clean shaven or somewhere in between. He couldn't deny his lingering attraction to the svelte young man that only seemed to grow each job they were together. He'd even gone so far as to wonder in private moments what having Arthur in his bed would be like. Slow and gentle? Rough and demanding? Arthur kept himself so tightly wound and closed up, the possibilities were endless for imaging him in an intimate setting.
Eames shook from his thoughts—damning his wandering mind—working the jumpsuit fabric gingerly off Arthur's left shoulder, and down the arm, studying the bullet wound. There appeared to only be an entry wound causing Eames to scowl. Removing bullets was a messy business that he could only hope the doctor could handle with some finesse. Blood flow was slow, but steady and Eames scrambled to think of something to use as a temporary cover. But first to remove the rest of the soiled, wet jumpsuit.
He shimmied it off the right shoulder, easing it down, revealing more of Arthur's body. Eames couldn't help but take notice of the defined muscles beneath pale, smooth looking skin. The extensive bruising covering his ribs looked so foreign that Eames suddenly longed to kiss Arthur's skin, erasing the offending blemishes. He may have barely known the man, but that wasn't going to stop the forger from admiring the point man's body.
He tucked the jumpsuit down Arthur's hips, bunching it up on Arthur's legs, letting his eyes wander up all the bruises and cuts. The doctor was sure to have his work cut out for him. His eyes fell to Arthur's right hand, forgotten till now. Every fingertip was reduced to a bloodied scab, each one looking angry and inflamed. Eames recognized those wounds—the telltale signs of ripped off fingernails. God, whoever questioned Arthur had meant business. He shuddered to think what state he would be in if all three of them had been caught.
With a final yank, he pulled the jumpsuit free from Arthur's feet, dropping it to a heap on the floor. His eyes settled to shallow rise and fall of Arthur's chest, the small pool of blood growing by Arthur's shoulders. Quickly he darted to the bathroom, grabbing a towel and using the only medical knowledge he possessed—cover the wound and apply pressure.
Pressing both hands to Arthur's shoulder, feeling the warm blood seep through the towel, Eames could only hope Cobb and the doctor arrived before it was too late.
XXX
Dr. Regina Vanden—British, maybe older than Cobb, and downright bossy—was something else. She quickly and efficiently swept over Arthur's body, fixing him up while demanding an endless stream of information from the extractor. Eames had never seen anyone subjugate Cobb as such, nor heard him willingly answer so many questions—and about Arthur of all people.
"How old is he?"
"24."
"Daily alcohol consumption?"
"Moderate, rarely to excess."
"Well clearly none of that. Exercise level?"
"Daily—swimming, running, occasional kickboxing."
"That's surely helped him stay alive this long. He'll have to tone that down for the next month at least. Allergies?"
"Shitake or Portobello mushrooms…I never can remember." Eames had laughed at this one.
"Drug allergies, Dominic, please."
"Not allergy exactly, but amoxicillin doesn't work for him."
Arthur would probably shoot Cobb upon waking for revealing all this information about him. How had Cobb come to know all this about Arthur? Clearly their relationship was more personal than Eames had originally given it credit. A surprising pang of jealously tore at the forger. He couldn't claim he knew anyone half as well.
At least two painstaking hours passed, mostly in silence once the tirade of questions ended. Cobb paced the floor ceaselessly, unable to sit still, unlike Eames who sat, thumbing the poker chip in his pocket, running his nail over the distinctive notches. He longed for some kind of a running narrative or explanation as he watched Dr. Vanden move over Arthur's prone form, moved now so that he reclined against a stack of pillows, keeping his shoulder elevated at her request.
The forger watched as her time was first spent lingering over Arthur's left shoulder, cleaning, stitching, and wrapping his left arm in a sling. Then up to the various cuts on his face, torso, legs; poking and prodding ribs and limbs; inserting an IV to his right arm and managing to makeshift-hang a fluid bag from the headboard. Eames was sure if the point man were awake, the pain would be too much for his usual stoic front.
"What happened to him?" Her voice lost its commanding edge, replaced with a sad, pitying tone as she gingerly handled Arthur's right hand. "Dominic? This is downright savage." Cobb looked uneasy, as if unsure what to really say. "Dominic…," the sharp edge returned, upset with the lack of response from the extractor, "he's missing every fingernail from this hand. The pain must have been unspeakably excruciating. This wasn't just any beating and shooting…."
"No," Cobb answered at length, his voice small, "he was caught after our last job—imprisoned—obviously tortured and interrogated for information."
"Oh, the poor boy," Regina cooed, reaching into her bag, "for this kind of pain, he must have been more stubborn than they were expecting." Eames chuckled quietly.
"That's a good word for Arthur." The forger said softly, not quieting his chuckle under Cobb's glare.
"Sadly, there's not much to be done for them," she said, smothering each fingertip in antibacterial gel, before wrapping it in a tight bandage, "his nails should grow back in time. Just keep them dry and wrapped for at least forty-eight hours."
"Which one of us is that directed to?" Eames suddenly asked, unable to stop himself, again catching Cobb's glare.
"Whichever one of you will stay with him." She looked between the two of them. "He can't be left alone." Eames caught the silent sigh from the extractor, as though resigning himself to something.
"I'll stay with him," Eames suddenly said, meeting the surprised look in Cobb's eyes. "You have Mal and Phillipa to get home to. Christmas is only two days away after all."
"What about you?"
"I was planning to stay here anyway."
"So you then, Mr. Eames?" Dr. Vanden fished in her bag, pulling out two orange bottles and a small medical kit. "Do you have any medical experience? First aid even?"
"Um…not really, no." She looked up at him in disbelief.
"Arthur has a working knowledge of field medicine." Cobb said quietly, ignoring the questioning, even surprised look on Eames' face.
"Well that will certainly help." She turned back to Eames, handing him the bottles and small kit, his eyes spotting gauze, alcohol swab pads, surgical thread, sterile wrapped needles. "If he wakes up, he should be able to talk you through anything he might need. And if he knows as much as Cobb says, he should be able to remove the IV when the bag is drained—he's lost a lot of blood. And get him to take an antibiotic as he's able to eat—infection's his worst enemy now. The pain pill, as needed, also preferably after eating."
"'If he wakes up?'" Dom's voice barely broke above a concerned whisper, locking his eyes to hers. "Reg…if he wakes up?"
"Dominic, this young man needs a hospital and even then, they couldn't guarantee Arthur'd open his eyes again. I can tell you though, the longer he stays here, the greater chance he stands of never waking up."
"I understand Reg, but he can't—we can't," the strain in Dom's voice was near heart wrenching, "they'll only take him back to prison, us too, and we'll all die."
"Such is what you reap when you choose a life of crime, Dominic." Her voice was cold, eyes judging as she turned back to Eames. "Keep a close watch on him. A fever could develop without warning or if he's been through as stressful an order as his injuries suggest, he could wake in a fit. I've immobilized his left arm as best as I can, but the stitches are easy to tear, and most likely will if he moves around too soon." She closed up her bag, starting to move for the door. "Arthur's knowledge of field medicine should get him through, and if hospitals are out of the question altogether, then that's the best he can hope for."
"So…you don't know when he could wake up?" Eames repeated uncertainly.
"Sadly, no," Regina turned towards Eames, pressing an ace bandage roll into the forger's hand, "his right ankle is severely swollen. Without an x-ray, I can't tell if it's just sprained or truly broken. Either way, don't let him walk on it without some kind of bandage." God, this was almost too much. Eames was no nurse. Silence fell as she packed up her bag and Cobb looked between her and Eames uncertainly.
"Thank you Reggie," Cobb said at length as she walked towards them, "truly, thank you. Arthur means a lot to Mal and myself."
"What Mal sees in you I'll never know, but please give her my best."
"I will. I wish I could have seen you under better circumstances."
"This is the last time I help you, Dominic," her voice was firm, eyes locked to Cobb's, "I'm trying to do good work here and I can't keep using my limited supplies for your criminal associates. And Mr. Eames—I wish you luck. I hope he wakes up, the sooner the better." She forced a small smile to her face as she turned to Eames, the forger offering a small smile in return.
"I hope so too."
"Arthur's a friend of yours?" She asked curiously.
"More a casual acquaintance," Eames admitted, "I've only worked with him on a handful of jobs, and don't know him near as well as Cobb here."
"So long as he wakes to a familiar face, hearing a familiar voice, that should help keep him calm."
"Familiar voice?"
"Yes, Mr. Eames," she said, her tone softening, a smile coming to her face, "I would encourage you to talk to him. He can most certainly hear you." She turned from Eames, nodding at Cobb with her little smile before moving for the door, leaving the quiet click of the latch in her wake. The two men stood in silence, staring at their injured colleague on the bed, seemingly at a loss for words.
"What are you going to do about the Melbourne job?" Eames asked quietly. "I was rather looking forward to that one—big payout. But we can't really run it without someone on point."
"I'll check on Kimmy's availability."
"Ah, Kimmy—she always was something of a jack-of-all-trades."
"Eames, you call me that again and you'll be shy one less part of your anatomy that defines you as a man."
Of all the women Eames had met in this business, his money was on Kimmy to actually follow through on her threats.
"I only hope she's available," Cobb continued, "she's the only one who comes close to measuring up to Arthur's caliber." The extractor's eyes settled longingly to his still friend on the bed. "Call me when he wakes up—day or night, I want to know."
"You mean if."
"No Eames, I mean 'when'. I have to believe he'll get better."
"This isn't your fault Cobb." Eames said softly, turning to briefly glance at the extractor.
"I know he made the choice, but I feel like I could have done more to stop him."
"You couldn't have stopped him once he set his mind to it. Your doctor friend said it best—he's stubborn."
"That he is," a seldom heard fondness laced Cobb's voice, "when he wakes up, keep a close eye on him. He's hell to deal with when he's injured—he just wants to go and push himself. He's never been hurt this badly before, so please…just take care of him."
"Sounds like you don't trust me." Eames accused, a light tone to his voice.
"I'm surprised you volunteered. You two don't seem to exactly get along or agree on much."
"Well then what a better chance for us to become friends." Eames shot the extractor a playful smirk, meeting the incredulous look in those blue eyes. Cobb turned towards the door with a quick shake of his head.
"Just be nice to him; we don't really know what he's been through," Cobb admonished, before turning back to Eames again, "Arthur's registered here under the last name of Gordon. See to it you move his stuff from his room, and lay low yourself. I have a 6 am flight back to Paris tomorrow, but let me know how he's doing. And Merry Christmas, Eames." The forger and extractor locked gazes, sharing a small smile.
"Happy Christmas to you too." The forger watched Cobb's eyes turn to settle to Arthur with a heavy sigh before turning to the door, plunging the forger into silence.
