Eames hears the ugly sound before he feels it - his shoulder dislocating again, perfect, that can't be a good thing. Arthur kneels on his chest, leveling the Glock at his forehead. "Arthur, Arthur," Eames chokes out, the weight on top of him making that broken rib scream, "it's me, it's Eames, what the fuck, it's me, Arthur." He keeps talking, shouting really, an endless stream of their names.

Arthur's face clears a tiny bit, just a small twitch, but it's enough. Eames presses the opening, "Arthur, love, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Dreaming," Arthur barks again, the awful sound of his voice all wrong and grating, hurting Eames's ears somehow, "need to wake up."

Eames feels all of the blood drain from his face. "Ah..." he's stuttering now, stuttering like a child, because Arthur scares him. "Ch-check your totem, Arthur, check it, check your totem, check your fucking totem Arthur, do it!" His voice has risen into a terrified cry because Arthur's acting like Mal, fuck, he's Mal all over again, Eames should have seen this coming, he should have noticed, but Arthur's always so private, so restrained, and suddenly Eames can half-breathe again and Arthur's gone.

Eames can't move much, but he angles his neck to look around. Arthur's crouching on the floor, curled tight like a spring, clutching his damn die, rolling it over and over again. Eames knows Arthur's totem, knows it's coming up on one every time, knows it's telling Arthur the truth, that this is reality. Eames can't blink, can't breathe, because Arthur keeps rolling like he doesn't believe it, and finally, finally. Arthur collapses into a puddle on the floor and Eames can hear sobbing.

Through the pain, Eames fights his way over to Arthur, wraps his good arm around the weeping man, pulls him into a half-body embrace.

"I'm sorry, Eames, I'm sorry, I thought-"

"No, darling, shut up for once, all right?"

They sit in silence for the second time that day, Arthur's heaving sobs slowing, his breath getting more and more even.

Eames hates himself for it, but he says it anyway, the pain's making him foggy. "Fuck, Arthur, my shoulder again? Ari just put that back in." He instantly regrets it, cringes, waits for Arthur's reaction. Nothing comes. Arthur breathes heavily, slowly, in and out in a regular rhythm. The man is asleep again, fallen asleep curled in Eames's arm, legs on Eames's lap, head on Eames's shoulder.