A/N: Fuck its late. And I'm tired. So this sort of sucks at the end but I really want to get to the part where they're actually, you know, in the same room hahaha. The editing is shit because there is none, I'll probably fix it when I'm awake, apologies for grammar fuck ups! Thanks for reading :)

Eames sat back in the cold metal chair, panting slightly from the strain on his sore lungs and cracked ribs. Leaning on the frame, he let his head roll back and closed his eyes. 'How the fuck am I getting out of this bleeding mess,' he thought dejectedly. Panic seemed to have settled in the pit of his stomach since the middle of the uh, interview, and refused to leave despite the fact that the ones who had created it were long gone.

They could have at least untied him. If he weren't such a resourceful bloke, not to mention this wasn't the first time he had been tied up and left although the precursor to that event had been much more pleasurable, Eames might've been worried as to how he was going to escape the hotel room, much less the chair. Well, more worried in any matter.

Eames clenched his jaw in the anticipation of pain, 'this is going to hurt like bloody bitch… just breath. In and out. In and out.' He spotted a small night stand next to the bed. Perfect. Eames shifted his weight on to his left side and then hauled himself with all the momentum he could onto his right, making the chair scrape over a couple of inches. 'Blimey, at this rate its going to be next fucking week before I even make to the bed,' Eames thought as he panted at the small exertion, 'well you know what they say about patience…' He had no idea what the fuck anyone said about patience but whatever asshole it was obviously had never been beaten and tied to a chair. Pussy.

Repeating this process, Eames slowly but surely inched his way across the carpet and finally made it to the wooden floor. Every time he moved, the chair made the most unpleasant scratching noise. He could just see the deep grooves that were being permanently etched into wood. Eames couldn't help but smirk as he imagined Arthur's face ridged with barely controlled fury at the marking of any household object. It wasn't a face Eames had to create from scratch either, as an incident had happened on one of the less exciting days of planning.

"Stop."

Eames, who had been absentmindedly rocking back any forth on the heels of his chair with his feet on his desk, looked up to see none other than Arthur glaring at him from his own desk where he had been scribbling furiously.

"Pardon? I didn't quite catch that, love."

Arthur, looking anything but amused at his apparent lack of comprehension, narrowed his eyes even further if that was possible.

"I said stop."

"Stop what darling?" Eames, the picture of pure relaxation, replied languidly, "I'm just sitting here, all by my lonesome self, doing absolutely nothing."

Huffing slightly, Arthur sat up straighter, probably trying to intimidate him or something. Ha, as if he could.

"You know exactly what. We've had this conversation at least four times now. If you keep doing that you'll leave scratches on the floor. It's annoying." Just like you, was left unspoken but nonetheless implied.

Eames lifted his feet off the desk and onto the floor, standing up. "I offer you my deepest and most sincere apologies, your highness," Eames decided to add a mock bow for flourish. At least no one could say he wasn't theatrical. "In my limited, and very much inferior wisdom, I hadn't considered the importance of scratches on a concrete floor. My, how foolish I do feel now…"

Arthur was very, very much aware that he was being teased now, as usual, be figured that this conversation was getting extremely annoy tediously fast, so he just grunted and hunched himself back over whatever papers he had been working on.

'The little bastard is ignoring me. Clever, clever fellow,' Eames lifted his mouth into his typical smirk, 'well if you want to play that way, I would be delighted to oblige.'

Sauntering over to the point man's desk, Eames stood uncomfortably close behind Arthur and bent down so their faces were nearly level, pretending to read what he was writing. Arthur closed his eyes trying to ignore this latest and very close provocation, but continued to write although his scrawl grew more and more messy the longer Eames stood there.

"Darling, no one will be able to read this if you keep trying to murder the paper with your pen… Really now, what did it ever do to you, hm?"

Slamming his pen down onto the desk, ink splattering from the force, Arthur turned his head, mouth open ready to retort but severely underestimated the distance between Eames' face and his own. If Eames hadn't been gunning for this exact reaction from the get go, he would have probably pissed himself laughing rather than a look of polite confusion. Arthur seemed to shoot to the side, his wheeled chair smashing into the desk leg, banging his hand onto the flat surface to steady himself. A light stain seeped onto his cheeks as his scowl grew even larger.

"Mr. Eames, is it really necessary to stand there?"

"Necessary? Of course it's necessary, love. How else would I know if you were doing your job other than to check myself? I would think you would be encouraging my taking a more, hm, proactive role in the planning. And you needn't bother with titles anymore Arthur, I thought we were friends now." Eames finished with a small pout, feigning offense, but moved closer still. 'This ought to remind him of our other conversation.' "I've been trying so hard to change your mind."

Arthur seemed to choke as he spluttered for the right words. Instinct told him that Arthur was caught between thinking that Eames was being intentionally perverse or on the very off chance that it was sincerity for his previously expressed desire to become friends. Eames couldn't help but grin at his reaction and Arthur immediately noticed the change in the tone of their conversation.

Arthur let out a long sigh and turned away from him again. "Seriously Eames. If you have nothing else to do than bother me, I would greatly appreciate it if you left me alone until I finish my work."

Eames raised both his hands in a placating gesture, "See, mate?" Eames replied brightly, "I knew you would warm up to me eventually! What can I say, my devil may care attitude combined with my dashing good looks are mighty hard to resist, I knew you would come around."

Arthur glowered at him, "I think you have possibly the most selective hearing of anyone I have ever met. Seriously, you should win a prize or something. Its impressive."

Not wanting to test the point man's patience any longer, Eames began to straighten out but not before giving him a quick peck on the cheek. This was going to be so hilarious. "I can see you're positively swamped, so I'll leave you to it!" And with a wave Eames began to walk away with a small glance to see the other man's reaction.

He had expected Arthur's face to turn a delightful shade of red and possibly die from shock. This was probably his first kiss, the prude. But Arthur's eyes widened slightly, his face falling as his left hand rose slowly to his face. He looked as if he were thinking about something very intensely and this was certainly not what Eames had thought or wanted to happen. Odd. Eames generally considered himself a master at judging and predicting reactions, but this was so completely not how he had anticipated that he couldn't help a small frown to etch on his face as he sat back down at his desk. Maybe he was losing his touch… It had been a while since he had gotten he chance to practice on someone else.

Wait. Eames was never out of practice. Shaking his head he shrugged it off like he did most of the things that bothered him. He was the best and he had damn well earned that title. Arthur was just… peculiar. And that's probably why Eames found him so intriguing, because some of the things he did were just bloody unexpected.

'Well that was nice,' Eames scowled, 'now if you're quite sure you're done talking to yourself. Oh god, I'm talking to myself.' He probably got one too many hits to the head this fine evening. Hauling himself over again and again, Eames inched closer to the nightstand and his freedom. The pain was swelling in his chest, each breath causing a sharp stab. He finally made it to his destination, taking in short, small breaths. He was facing away from nightstand so that the rope that was binding his hands was level with the sharp corner. He rocked from the front to the back legs of the chair, rubbing the rope on the edge. The strings started to fray slowly, but fray nonetheless. Eames continued this until there were only a few of the smaller stands left and used all his strength to pull his hands apart. The snap that signified his freedom was the sweetest sound he had ever heard in his entire life. Ever.

Eames rubbed each of his wrists in turn, trying to ease the throbbing sensation that the angry red welts were causing. This would be one of those times where a normal person would take some time and reflect on their life and possibly a career change. Certainly some nameless desk job would not lead to one being shot at, beaten, and emotional tested constantly, but they were so boring. Eames knew he would never settle for a 'regular' job. He couldn't settle. The thrill of becoming anything, of doing anything was intoxicating. It was better than any drug and much more addictive. The high was so deliciously exciting every time, the taste of absolute freedom was so satisfying that he could never stop. He sincerely doubted if he would ever wanted to.

Eames stood up shakily and immediately regretted it. His knees buckled, an unexpected pain shot up his thigh. He looked down and saw red seeping into the fabric of his pants. Gray dots seemed to fill his vision as the world spun around him. Or maybe he was spinning. Did it even bloody matter? Dragging himself over to the bed he figured he might as well spend the night there, someone had obviously paid for it. His last thought before the darkness took him was that the bill was going to be a lot more expensive because of all the blood that he had trailed over the floor and now onto the bed. Ha. Serves them right the pansy ass bastards.

There was light. Way too much fucking light. Eames groaned as he pushed his face into the pillow. This was a bad idea as most of his face seemed to be bitching quite a lot right now. Every part of his body seemed to be either aching or throbbing. 'What the fuck did I do last night… Either that was really fucking good or absolutely terrible.'

"I expect positive result by the end of two months time. Do not disappoint me Mr. Eames."

Shit.

Shit, shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shiiiiiiit.

'Get a hold of yourself man!' Eames mentally slapped himself several times, 'bleeding fucking hell, what am I going to do? What am I going to do?'

Panic seemed to be a constant companion to him now. And it was very uncomfortable, especially for someone who spent nearly all his time at least portraying the picture of calm. He needed a plan. He needed to make the most brilliant plan of his entire life or this was going to blow up in his face with a massive fucking bang. First though, he needed to assess the damages.

Sitting up and slowly pulling his legs over the side of the bed, the first thing Eames saw was blood crusted on his left pant leg. There was a large cut running down his upper thigh. He gently moved the two hardened pieces of cloth to the side and examined the wound. It was shallow but still stung. Running about five inches down, Eames knew that stitches were definitely in his future. That was a shame because he really fucking hated needles. And doctors. Especially therapists. They all seemed to think he was some sort of compulsive liar, which he supposed could be considered kind of true. If you were an idiot. He was an artist damn it, not some pathetic con man who just tricked people out of their stuff. Granted that was a large part of what happened to go down in the work he was involved in but it took a lot of skill to do his job and a fuck load of talent. So all the damn doctors could piss off with their fancy degrees and their bullshit.

Eames flexed his hands, his fingers seemed to be alright but his wrists were still red and starting to scab in some places. He gently prodded his ribs, wincing every time his found a broken one, about four if he had to take a guess. Bruises ran all along his chest but they were nothing compared to his face. He could feel a large split in his lip and each of side of his face was extremely tender as well as swollen. Some of the toes on his left foot seemed to be broken too. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

He stood up favoring his right leg, which was thankfully injury-free. He limped over to the hotel room door and opened it slowly. There was most likely no one on the other side or even in the hallway but apparently the last time he had been unobservant he had been kidnapped and assaulted so there was no being too careful here. God, he was starting to sound like Arthur. Arthur. He needed to find Arthur. Cobb was involved with children now so he was out. Eames might be a cold bastard sometimes but he knew Cobb had earned time away from all the bullshit of this business even though it seemed that he would get swept up in this soon enough.

Arthur was the only other person they knew about and he couldn't risk them finding out about Ariadne or Yusef. If they didn't know about those two, he sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to involve them in this shit storm. Eames was sure that they would find the point man eventually even if it took them years and Arthur had the to know what was coming for him. Or rather who. Getting to him without them knowing about it was going to be the real problem. It made Eames slightly uncomfortable to know that if he fucked it up, he might as well be signing Arthur's death warrant.

Limping out into the bright hallway, Eames guessed it was roughly noon. He slowly made his way down the stairs and out the back exit. Something told him that the sight of his condition wouldn't be very inconspicuous and someone might force him into a hospital. Good thing Eames made it his business to know every back alley in whatever city he chose to inhabit. Mombasa was as busy as it ever was but once you got out of the tourist areas, the people knew better than to raise alarm at the sight of someone who had been obviously roughed up. Violence in the poorer districts was commonplace, especially near the gambling holes so he wouldn't draw too much attention. They would probably just think he was in a little debt or something. Which would be entirely accurate. He could pay it off of course, but why would he do that when he could just as easily disappear or become someone else entirely whenever he wanted.

The first thing Eames needed to do was go to his contact. That was he could figure where the fuck Arthur was and get out of this country undetected. His contact in Mombasa went simply by Bishop and was one of the few people that Eames trusted to keep their mouth shut with his information. They knew each other back in London when Eames had been part of a special brand of the British military. But while Eames had pursued dream sharing, Bishop had gone the information route. The only thing they had in common were the differences they later developed with the military and had since used each other for business purposes. What had started off as a reluctant acquaintance turned into an unstable friendship and then into mutual respect.

Eames made his way through the back alleys and streets to the hovel where Bishop resided. He finally made it to the rusted door. The sun couldn't even shine in this area because of the close crowded buildings and the stained clothes that draped over the space where the street lay. A dirty man was passed out against the wall. It was funny, thought Eames, that the places he felt most at home were the places where people often had none. There was something base and instinctual about the slums that appealed to him. People had no option but to act on their most animalistic instincts, the will to survive often overruled any flimsy sense of morality. And really, what was the point of such feeble human excuses when the people you spared would just as quickly throw you to the sharks as soon as you turned your back. There was no room for falsity in the slums in the sense that there was no pretense of compassion. Eames didn't have to do any work there because he already knew the worst that each and everyone of them had done, mainly because they never put any effort into hiding it.

Knocking four times in rapid succession with a slight pause between the first and second strike, Eames waited for an answer.

"Who the fuck is it?" came a cold voice with a familiar lilt to it.

"It's me you prat," Emaes replied waspishly, his patience dwindling as his pain grew, "Eames, now let me inside."

"Eames? Eames? Seriously?" The door opened slightly and a hazel eye came into view, "bloody hell it is you! Jesus, mate, I thought you were off in fucking Paris or something."

The door swung open to reveal a man in his thirties, brown hair sticking up haphazardly, thin frame, and thick rimmed black glasses. His white oxford shit had its sleeves rolled up and the top three buttons undone. Bishop stood back to let him in. Eames limped up the several stairs it took to get inside and moved past him into the room. The outside of the building would lead one to believe that the inside would be just as much of a dump but the information trafficking business had clearly done Bishop well. There was the flair of the local culture in the color and design choices of the furniture but they were obviously well made and expensive. One corner of the room was dedicated to several large computer screens that had so many windows pulled up on them that Eames couldn't even begin to fathom how Bishop managed to not throw a punch through a monitor or two.

"Eames, you look bloody terrible! What the fuck happened to you?" Bishop had moved up beside him and was now examining the extent of the damage. As he took in the battered visage, Bishop's mouth slowly opened, "If you led anyone here, so help me god I will-"

"I wasn't followed, now calm the fuck down," Eames shot out quickly. "I need help."

"Obviously you need help, I think you're still bleeding for christ's sake. Here let me at least get you some bandages. Sit down over there." Bishop quickly made his way into a different part of the apartment.

Limping over to the couch, Eames sat down gingerly and rested his head against the back. Closing his eyes, Eames took a deep breath and considered his options. And by options he meant option. He needed to get the fuck out of Mombasa where Browning obviously knew where he was. 'Browning doesn't know where Arthur is, which means where ever Arthur is, is safe too.'

As long as Eames got there without Browning and his crew of goonies knowing, he would be safe, at least for a time. There was just a slight problem in that Browning was filthy fucking rich and therefore had the means necessary for tracking him. Fuck. Eames' thoughts were interrupted by Bishop's arrival in the main room again.

Bishop tossed a roll of bandages and ointment onto his lap. "There you go, it's not much but there aren't usually people showing up on my doorstep half dead. So no complaining. Now, what did you need? You generally don't come for social visits…"

Eames took the ointment as placed it gently on his visible cuts. He took off his shirt to wrap his black and blue chest with the gauze. Wincing as he passed over the broken ribs, Eames explained as much of his predicament as he could without mentioning the specifics of the Inception job or about who his assailants were.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Bishop let out a low whistle, "you have a talent for finding the worst possible shit out there, mate."

"Helpful as always, Bishop. I need you to find Arthur for me and then I need to get out of this shit hold without anyone knowing. Can you do it or is this a little out of your ability range?"

"Ha," Bishop snorted in derisive laughter, "I can get you anything you need but it's going to cost you. Friends or not, I have fees and there are a lot of them."

"Yeah, yeah," Eames rolled his eyes, "I got your money, I've got a piss load of it in fact, just get it done."

Bishop chuckled as he made his way over to the mountains of technology and sat down on the lone chair, his back hunched in preparation for work. Eames took the opportunity to finish wrapping his wounds and to rest. He closed his eyes and hadn't realized he had nodded off until he felt a hand shaking his shoulder.

"Hey mate, wake up. I've got you an identity, your plane leaves in two hours."

Eames blinked several times. "What?" Not very eloquent but whoever expected him to be so after no sleep and several punches to the head could fuck right off.

"I found Arthur, he's in Los Angeles at this address," Eames felt a piece of paper being shoved into his hand. "I've booked you a flight to LA, leaving soon. Get up; we need to go if you want to make it anytime soon. I got you a new identity and I'm putting out a false lead on you heading to London. That should throw who's ever following you off for a bit."

"Wait…" Eames' brain felt like it was moving at a sluggish pace, "if you found Arthur so easily, why the fuck haven't they?"

Bishop snorted again, "it was anything but easy, mate. He's the best I've seen at covering his tracks, other than myself of course. If I hadn't written the algorithm he used to override the systems, I would never have found him. You're in luck for once Eames, if anyone can help you out, it would be Arthur. Now we need to go."

"Alight, alright," Eames muttered as he hauled himself up, "half my fucking body has gone to the piss so excuse me if I'm a little slow."

They went out the back to a rusty old car. "You're practically rolling in cash," Eames remarked sarcastically, "why the hell don't you have a car from this bloody century?"

"Have you seen this neighborhood? Anything nicer and its jacked in five minutes flat. Trust me, I tried." Bishop climbed into the drivers seat as Eames awkwardly trying not to put weight on his left leg, clambered into the passengers. They drove in silence and Eames was thankful for it. His pounding head made thinking extremely precarious.

They pulled up to the airport and exited the car. Eames wasn't one for good byes, they were always messy and Bishop was thankfully the same way. They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries but quickly separated. The less they were seen together the better. Eames made his way through customs quickly and onto the plane. He drew some stares with his ragged clothing, but at least he had gotten most of the bloodstains out. He just ignored them as he limped past as fast as he could. He got settled in his seat and gazed out the window.

This would be the first time he was going to see any of the team since they had parted ways at the airport. Eames couldn't help but imagine Arthur's face of shock at his arrival. Would he help him? Would he even let him in the door? 'Of course he will,' Eames thought determinedly, 'Arthur is if anything, too compassionate.' There was no way he would turn him away. 'It's not like he'll have any choice either. Once I'm there, there's a good chance they'll track me. We'll be effectively tying our own bloody nooses together.'

Eames would've felt bad, but seeing as how Browning already had Arthur as a prime suspect, it would only be a matter of time until Arthur was found, with or without him. They had a better chance of figuring this fucking mess out together anyway. At least that's what Eames told himself as the flight dragged on a pulled him into a fitful sleep.

We'll be landing in twenty minutes at the Los Angeles airport. Immigration forms will be passed out.

Eames woke slowly. His chest and toes was aching. His leg felt like it was going to be infected soon. He hoped Arthur knew how to stitch and clean shit up, or else he was majorly fucked. Then again, Arthur was good at like, everything, so he wouldn't be surprised if a MD in medicine was part of his arsenal of random skills. The flight landed and he skipped baggage seeing as how he had absolutely nothing with him aside from the clothes on his back. And even those were frayed and stained. He limped out to where the taxi's lined up and signaled one, giving the man Arthur's address.

Night had fallen, but air was still pleasantly warm. It had been years since Eames had visited the United States, let alone Los Angeles. Eames preferred the areas of the world where the law was a little less stringently imposed. It gave him more freedom to do what he wanted when he wanted. Especially since his types of gambling entertainment happened to be on the more, well, illegal side.

It seemed Arthur's place wasn't that far from the airport. All of the buildings in the area seemed to be shoved together, but the neighborhood still seemed to be fashionable. They were plain but modern. Typical Arthur, he snorted. They pulled up to an apartment complex with a brown exterior and he paid the cab driver. Eames pulled out the piece of paper and checked the apartment number.

Floor 12, room 14, was written in Bishops clean scrawl. Eames made his way slowly into the building, thanking some higher power that he didn't need to be buzzed in. He entered the elevator and punched the number 12. As the doors slid open again, Eames limped out and made his way down the row of doors.

12… 13... 14.'Well, this is it…'

Eames pressed his ear against the door, listening. There was water running. Was he awake? What the bloody hell was Arthur doing up this late? Ah well, the sooner he knows, the soon Eames figured he could finally get a proper sleep. Raising his hand, Eames knocked on the door several times. There was the sound of a glass being placed against the counter. There was several seconds of silence and then the door opened a fraction of an inch.

The face Arthur made was so ridiculous that Eames couldn't help but break into the first genuine smile he had had in a long time. The absurdity of the situation was so perfectly summed up in the gaping shock of Arthur's expression that he almost laughed. The silence threatened to overtake him, so Eames fell back on familiar territory.

"Hello, darling."