Disclaimer: I own no part of Inception. This is all in good fun.

Eames tried to make a sound as Andre pulled the shredded jacket and shirt out from under him. The table felt like a slab of ice against his shoulder blades. His heart was pounding wildly, thundering in his ears. No matter how hard he tried, he was unable to move.

Andre rested a gloved palm on his chest. Probably inspecting the wound. Someone else picked up his left arm to wrap a thick rubber band around his bicep. Then they gently turned his arm and began palpating a vein. He felt the sting of a needle and heard the clinking of an IV bag being hung.

"Is it bad?" a woman asked. She removed the rubber band and Eames felt blood rush back to his hand.

"He'll live," Andre answered. "But you should tape that IV. It's bleeding too badly to wait for the pain killer to kick in. If he wakes up, he'll be thrashing."

"Should we get someone to hold him down?"

"Yeah. Dude," Andre called. "Get over here and hold his shoulders."

Footsteps approached the table and burly hands pressed down on either side of Eames' collar bone.

"Don't lean into my light, dude."

They eased up a little.

Eames tried to brace himself for the pain he knew was coming. He thought about when he'd been wounded in the military and how the medic had packed his gunshot wound to staunch the bleeding. He thought about the many times he'd died in dreams, sometimes without the mercy of a pistol. But most of all, he thought about Yusuf and everything he planned to do to the bastard when they caught up with him.

Unfortunately, his thoughts weren't enough to distract him from the alcohol washing over his chest.

White fire burned through him, emanating from the wound and radiating down his torso. He heard a sympathetic hiss as the man holding his shoulders blew air through his teeth. Eames tried to tense, tried to move away from them all. Anything to stop the pain. But the only reaction his body allowed was a fresh sheen of sweat on his forehead.

What felt like a towel rubbed at his chest on either side of his wound. He wanted to tell whoever was drying him to let it be. Before he could, a needle pierced the edge of the wound and began stitching him up like a torn rag doll. His only saving grace was that the alcohol had numbed the wound to some extent. Instead of agony, the needle only delivered sharp pain after sharp pain.

The hard part was over.

"That's gotta hurt," said the man holding his shoulders.

"If he was conscious, yeah," Andre replied. "What's up with the other one? Taylor working on him?"

"He flatlined after they got him outta the cab. Trying to get him back now."

Eames' heart gave one ominous thud as a rush of adrenaline flooded his system. His eyes flew open. The fluorescent light above momentarily blinded him, but he didn't slow down. He bolted upright and tried to leap off the metal table.

Andre may have been just a kid, but he was lightning fast. His caught one of Eames' arms and drove him back down far enough for the heavily-muscled man to wrap an arm around his neck.

"We need more muscle in here!" Andre yelled.

Eames could only see a flash of the kid's bloodied gloves before he was staring at the ceiling, wrought with peeling paint and low steam pipes. He grunted with effort. The man behind him had abs like a brick wall, but Eames was desperate to reach Arthur before it was too late. Whoever Taylor was, his medical training had probably been in a back alley somewhere.

His foot lashed out in the struggle, overturning a tray of medical instruments. They clattered against the stone floor.

"Calm down, man," he distantly heard Andre say. "Just calm down."

Like hell. Eames whipped his head back, catching the man holding him in the nose. The arm around his neck fell away. He rolled off the table, scarcely aware of the IV stand crashing to the floor. The needle was ripped from him arm as he ran for the door. Before he could reach the hall, an arm from another man struck him in the chest like an iron bar.

Eames dropped to the floor as the man came through the doorway. His chest may have been on fire, but there was nothing to stop him from getting to his feet and making another break for the hall.

Except the man with the broken nose.

Eames felt a weight crash into his back before the man put him into a Full Nelson hold, forcing his head down so he couldn't whip it back again. Growling in frustration, Eames reached back and tried to gouge out the man's eyes. His stitches ripped when the wound stretched. The pain rendered him still for only a second, but it was enough. Feet pounded as more men came running. They grabbed his legs before he could try to flip the man behind him.

Shaking from adrenaline and pain, Eames kicked out against the men holding him. He was unable to break free as they shuffled to the table and forced him onto it. Light glared into his eyes and he felt rope being wound around his wrists and ankles. Each time he reared up, he caught a glimpse of how badly he was bleeding. But it didn't matter. Arthur surviving this ordeal like the stubborn bastard he was mattered.

"Get the Ativan," Andre snapped over their scuffling. "And get me a new tray. He lost too much blood."

A man threw himself across Eames' waist, effectively pinning him down. His bloody chest heaved with the effort of fighting them all. It was useless, but he had to try. Arthur needed him.

A syringe glistened before it was injected into his arm. A warmth began to spread through him and his struggles became less violent. Andre sighed as the men around him loosened their holds, eventually releasing him. His limbs felt baggy and useless.

"Arthur," he croaked.

"Calm down, dude," Andre gripped his arm and bent down. "I'm gonna stitch you up. It's all good."

If Andre thought Eames was too out of it by then to realize he'd avoided saying anything about Arthur, he was wrong. Even as Eames' eyes slipped closed and the voices around him muddled into nothingness, he felt a pang of dread for the fate of the fallen Point Man.

Arthur jerked, sucking air into his lungs.

"Got him," someone barked. "Steady rhythm."

"Hold it," another voice wearily answered. "Let's make sure it stays that way. Give him a minute."

The only sounds after that were those of Arthur struggling to breathe regularly.

"Come on, kid," a gruff voiced coaxed.

Arthur only focused on breathing. He didn't know where he was, how he came to be there, or who was surrounding him. His brain wasn't registering anything except a conscious thought to keep breathing. In, and out. In. And out.

Finally, the tension in the room seemed to melt away.

"That was close one," someone said. "Too close."

"Get the rest of these clothes off him," the gruff voice commanded. "And get that cooling blanket over here. Kid's so overheated, you could fry an egg on his damn forehead. What's his story anyway? He fight the devil in the flames of hell?"

"You know that's not our concern, Taylor," someone sternly answered. They began to cut away his pants.

"Well, maybe it ought to be," the old man answered. "For how often we're left cleaning up the mess, one can't help but wonder what kind of trouble these kids get into."

They pulled the clothing from under him and Arthur immediately began shivering. He moved his head to the side when they covered him with the cooling blanket.

"I think he's coming around," someone said.

"Get the girl," Taylor ordered. "Sounds like Eames kicked up a fuss in there. The last thing we need is a repeat performance from this kid."

Arthur struggled to remember what happened. If Eames had caused trouble, something had to be wrong. He went back to the last thing he remembered. They were leaving the apartment, fleeing from someone… had they been captured?

Arthur slowly opened his eyes. Oh, no. From the walls and ceiling, he guessed they were in someone's leaky basement. He tried to speak, but all that escaped was a syllable.

"Take it easy." A weathered face came into view. "You were just dead, you know."

Arthur tried to motion for him to take the blanket off.

"Arthur." He heard Ariadne's voice and then she was beside him. There were tears in her eyes, but she was holding it together. She brought her hand to his face, but he couldn't bring himself to lean into it. Whenever he stared at her, he could only remember how he'd treated her in the apartment. Worse than an object. Like an imposter. It was inexcusable.

"The compound," he whispered. "None of this would happened-"

"Arthur, you can't blame yourself."

"I'm sorry-" He was forced to stop talking when his heart hummed in his chest. He coughed once, twice.

"Arthur?" Ariadne sounded alarmed. She looked around for help.

Taylor swiftly stepped forward and moved back the cooling blanket. He brought a stethoscope to Arthur's chest and listened intently. A split second later, he yelled over his shoulder.

"The kid is going down again!"

Ariadne's nails dug into his shoulder as she searched his face for answers. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight, asking him something. But Arthur couldn't speak. He could only watch her through a haze as his heart continued to beat irregularly. It was the strangest feeling…

Running footsteps announced the arrival of several burly men and a nurse. A man grabbed Ariadne by the shoulders and tried to pull her away from Arthur.

She wouldn't let go of his hand.

She yelled something when the man's arm encircled her waist. As she was lifted off her feet, Arthur slid toward the edge of the table.

Another man stepped in and pried their hands apart. Arthur found it odd that he couldn't feel anything, especially when he saw the bloody crescent marks Ariadne's fingernails had left.

He distantly heard her screaming for him as she was carried away.

Men surrounded him. They moved with the efficiency of a team. One of them removed the cooling blanket while another wheeled a defibrillator closer to the table. Another attached new gel pads to his chest, pressing them firmly into place. The nurse was speaking to Taylor somewhere in the background before she appeared with two syringes clutched in her hand.

Her words were a blur as she began barking out orders.

Arthur's eyes slid closed. He was so tired. Hands tilted his head back and fingers pressed against his neck. His heart faltered once. Then twice. There was a high, continuous beep, someone shouting, and a massive jolt that sent him careening into oblivion.

Eames gradually came to. His head felt heavy, like it was sinking through the pillow. When he opened his eyes, he found himself in what Andre had termed the Recovery Room. Though it was really just a line of rickety old beds in a long corridor. At least he had a blanket.

"Welcome back, dude," a soft whisper greeted him.

Eames turned his head to see Andre slouching in a chair beside the bed, his arms crossed. He wore an expression that was simultaneously relieved and irritated. There was a stethoscope draped around his neck, but it looked remarkably out of place against his skateboarder shirt and torn jeans.

It felt like a weight was tied around his wrist as Eames reached up and gingerly felt the bandage taped to his bare chest.

"Don't touch that." Andre scooted closer and knocked his hand away. "It took two tries to sew you up, bro. I know you've been coming here a long time and all, but I'm not about to stitch you up again. You rip 'em, you skip 'em."

Eames blinked, trying to shake off the last of the drug.

"You with me, man?"

He blinked once more and nodded, mustering the courage to ask where Arthur was. If he had died…

"Good, 'cause there's a little spitfire here to see you. Won't stop bothering the guys with questions."

Ariadne came into view as Andre stood and left. Her eyes were red. Eames' heart gave a painful thump. She took a seat in Andre's chair and tried to give a weak smile.

It didn't work.

"Eames," she whispered, swallowing hard. "Arthur flatlined twice. He has a heartbeat now, but it's weak and irregular. They don't know if…" She trailed off and stared at the floor.

Eames took a deep breath. The last of the Ativan was wearing off, allowing him to think clearly.

They needed a new plan.

"Do we still have the PASIV Device, darling?" he asked in a low voice.

It didn't take Ariadne long to realize what he was getting at. "You want to put Arthur under? The compound is what's killing him in the first place."

"The lack of a compound, love," he gently corrected her. He struggled to sit up and she automatically helped him. The room spun when he was upright. He closed his eyes and tried to focus. "We didn't bother to lower the dosage before we cut him off completely."

"Reintroducing it now would cause him to relapse," she said firmly.

"If we don't, he could die."

Ariadne was silent as Eames stood. He steadied himself against the nearby wall.

"Stay here," Ariadne breathed. She disappeared beyond the crumbling archway into the hall.

He waited until she reappeared with the PASIV Device. She looked determined.

"Where is he?" Eames asked.

"Just a couple rooms down."

"Muscle?"

"No match for bullets," she said pointedly. "Arthur needs this. We don't need their approval." She took a pistol from beneath her sweater and checked the chamber.

Eames raised an eyebrow. "Easy there, darling. They did save his life."

"And now it's our turn."