As a child, Arthur had an asthma attack once. He can remember it vividly.

He felt weak and sweaty, his hands curled in helpless fists at his sides. His neck felt strained, taut, like someone was pulling at the skin with an iron grip. His chest was constricted as well, as though someone was closing an invisible band tighter and tighter around his ribs.

But Arthur wasn't a young child. He wasn't at home.

A typical scene was playing out in front of him. Standard military issue racks, men's gear thrown haphazardly over them after a long patrol. Rhodes and Eckhaus were fighting over the last Nintendo controller again, their voices lost behind Arthur's shallow breathing.

He stood there, trying to act as though nothing was wrong, as though he wasn't being squeezed from the inside out. His vision blurred in front of him.

Gunfire.

It came in deafening blasts, in spots of black and red.

His men were yelling, hazy figures scrambling at the corners of his vision. Arthur couldn't seem to get a grasp on it all, couldn't seem to bring the scene into focus. His legs wouldn't move.

He was suffocating.

Arthur couldn't summon the will to move, but he could still hear. He could hear everything. Namely, the unmistakable sound of people screaming.

A burst of adrenalin shot through him, jarring and bright. He tried to swallow, to do something, but coughed instead, phlegm splattering the ground in front of him. He couldn't get enough air.

But he could still hear.

Arthur could hear the whap-whap-whap of a Chinook's rotors roaring over him, ruffling the back of his collar. Smoke followed, obscuring his already clouded vision.Arthur coughed again, struck by wracking convulsions that forced him to double over, streaking pain shooting out from his stomach. He swore he could hear a rib crack. I need to get out of here.

He tried to latch onto to the wailing once more, tried to distinguish voices. But his sight was nebulous, his stomach in knots, and his knees couldn't support him -

He was burning up, he was so hot sweat stuck in clumps to the hairs on his chest, every inhale burning his throat like vodka on the rocks -

He was being strangled, smothered -

Arthur shot up with a gasp. The pressure was still there, a vice around his midsection. He flailed, rolling forward, free but tangled, his back slamming against something, hands scrambling, desperate -

He had his Glock off the table before his mind caught up, one foot braced slightly behind the other, knees bent -

His heart was racing way too fast, staccato thumps deafening in his ears. A vein jumped at his throat. There were still spots in his vision - black spots - why couldn't he focus - where was he -

I can't breathe.

Arthur's finger twitched, a tiny tremor, an erosion of control.

"Arthur, it's not real. It's not, darling." The voice next to him was heartbreakingly raw. But the sound didn't register with Arthur. He felt tight, trapped -

Rapid machine gun fire roared next to him, static bursts of light and explosions. A sense of hopelessness hit Arthur like a blow to the stomach -

"We're gonna die here."

"No, no, Arthur, we're in a hotel room, yeah? Can you describe to me where we are? Put the gun down. Please, Arthur." Sounds filtered into Arthur's brain unwillingly, spotty reception through a terrible storm. Almost outside of his control, Arthur could feel himself mechanically releasing the magazine of his Glock. There was a dull thud as the clip hit the floor in front of him. The sound wasn't reassuring. Arthur was sweating, beads of perspiration winding their way down his chest - his bare chest - Where is my uniform?

Arthur's breathing began to pick up and he glanced at his Glock, the sight of the absent magazine enough to tip him closer to the edge once more. "Arthur, we're in a hotel room. We're secure. Put. The gun. Down." An authoritative voice pierced through the film that clung to Arthur's mind, his consciousness.

Everything stopped.

He twisted the pistol, sliding back the catch robotically, releasing the last round to the floor.

He still couldn't breathe.

Distantly, he thought he could recognize someone talking to him, strangely encouraging. Eames? "That's brilliant Arthur, yeah, now just - "

Arthur slid to the floor, legs useless. His head was spinning, vision blurring. Hot skin dark sweat too little bullets useless gun NO - Arthur clasped his head in his hands, gun forgotten. The weight of it was taken away from where it had landed on his foot. Numbly, Arthur realized that the absence of his firearm should worry him. He could summon up no appropriate emotion.

Hands empty, Arthur could only concentrate on the mess that was his hair where his fingers tangled. His back felt cool against the wall, a wall that felt too solid, too smooth - I can't breathe -

A pressure became evident at the back of Arthur's neck, warm and insistent. It guided Arthur's head between his legs. Arthur complied to the mysterious influence, closing his eyes.

Stuck between his knees, Arthur's breath hitched arrhythmically.

Gradually, he remembered how to operate his lungs.

It took a lifetime and a millisecond for Arthur to gain a grasp on the current situation. Head still between his legs, Arthur felt the last dregs of his dignity wash out from under him. First a bullet wound, and now this.

"Shit," Arthur muttered. Ashamed, he cautiously pulled his head out from between his legs.

He almost wished it wasn't.

The hotel room was in complete disarray. White sheets twisted across the carpet, the duvet somehow flung overtop of the hotel's television. A lamp had been knocked off the bedside table - presumably by himself, Arthur realized - and lay on the floor, its lampshade dented by some unknown struggle. Although the clock on the dresser flashed 2:58am, the fallen lamp was on, casting a dented amber glow that shone onto the tips of Arthur's bare feet.

Belatedly, Arthur noticed that the reassuring presence had never vanished from the back of his neck. It was the only part of him that felt warm at the moment.

Arthur shifted, blinking as he turned toward the source of the pressure.

It took him a second to adjust, and another few to realize who he was staring at.

Eames was beside him, his emerald eyes wary and soft under the lowlight. He was crouched, balanced on the balls of his feet. Arthur's eyes trailed up the expanse of Eames' outstretched arm, whose palm was currently cupping the back of Arthur's clammy neck. That's the pressure. Owlishly, Arthur blinked once more. He moved his head forward to dislodge the hold, but Eames' grip stayed resolutely firm. Arthur didn't try to fight it. He was too distracted. Distracted by the angry scarlet marks that tore bloody furrows in the flesh of Eames' forearm.

Arthur traced the outline of the injury trepidatiously, his heart creeping further into his throat. Those are scratch marks. My scratch marks.

Guilt hit Arthur like a smack.

You're such a fucking idiot, Arthur. A disgrace.

"Eames…" Arthur began, and trailed off, not quite sure where he was going to begin with.

"Arthur."

Arthur looked up.

Eames was staring at him, an unidentifiable emotion lining the planes of his face. But Arthur could read the man's current body language, loud and clear. And it was saying, don't you dare fucking apologize.

Arthur looked away on instinct.

"Arthur." Eames said his name once more, his feet whisper-soft against the fabric of the carpet. "Back again, darling?"

"Yeah," Arthur said quietly, patting the space next to him. "Sit. You'll hurt your back, crouching like that." Eames huffed, sliding next to Arthur in a heap. Eames' hand slid easily from Arthur's neck to rest at his shoulder.

Eames was giving him a choice - if Arthur moved out from from beneath Eames' hold, Eames would let him move.

But Arthur, although unwilling to admit it, felt barely grounded, electrified, one loud noise away from systematically clearing every room and killing every threat within a mile radius.

To add to his list of problems, it didn't help that the entire country was currently staging a nationwide manhunt for him.

Eames' arm could stay. But they needed to talk. And Arthur was no stranger to how uncomfortably accurate Eames could be at reading body language. Too accurate.

So Arthur reached out, righting the mangled lamp in front of them. It cast an odd shape across the floor, rays of light straining to penetrate the shadows. Arthur felt for the switch, clicking it decisively.

They were swathed in darkness.

"If you want to make out like teenagers, Arthur, you should've let me known. I would've brought my tracksuit, and stole some of my parent's whiskey for the ambiance." Unconsciously, Arthur felt a smile forming on his lips.

"I just want to talk," Arthur said. "I've had enough judgement for one night."

"I'm not judging you, Arthur," Eames said, reaching for something. "Although this wouldn't have been my first choice for you." Arthur felt something hit his stomach. He touched the strip, feeling the rough fabric bend in his fist. He felt his lip twitch once more.

"Suspenders weren't high up on the list of disguises for me either," Arthur said. "It wasn't a good plan. I was improvising."

"That's the best kind of plan, darling. But I know how you love your specificity."

"I do," Arthur acknowledged, flexing his fingers. "I don't like uncertainty." And then, before he could lose his nerve - "And that's what all of it is, Eames. Uncertainty. These dreams, it's like - "

" - it doesn't make any sense?" Arthur could feel Eames' contemplative stare through the darkness. Eames was silent a moment. "Do you remember when we finally met up? On that joint mission?"

"Yes," Arthur replied cautiously. He didn't understand Eames' circular reasoning - bringing back their conversation to the exact thing he was having nightmares about. Combat.

"And they made us go on those 'battalion runs'." Arthur could feel Eames' arm shake as the man vibrated with silent laughter. "For 'team spirit'. God, Arthur, I felt like I'd signed up for the bloody secondary school rugby team again."

"With more explosives. And less showering."

"You showered in secondary school?"

"Yes, Eames," Arthur huffed, pushing against Eames' bicep in the dark. "I showered in high school. I value a semblance of cleanliness."

"Why'd you join the military, then, darling?" Eames leaned close, his lips tickling a wayward strand of Arthur's hair. "For the view?" Arthur scowled at Eames' meaning.

"Mr. Eames, you know we had Don't Ask Don't Tell, and - " Arthur shook his head in annoyance. Eames had completely succeeded in derailing his train of thought. Absolutely his goal, Arthur thought. Well, I'm not that dumb. "What's your point, Mr. Eames? Do you even have one?"

A metallic click sounded to Arthur's left. Even though the dark was complete, he'd recognize the sound anywhere. "Give me the Glock back, Mr. Eames. Now." No one messed with Arthur's gun.

Eames relinquished the empty firearm without a struggle, dropping it into Arthur's waiting hand. Arthur checked the empty chamber compulsively. Distracted, it took him a second to realize he had forgotten about his own question. "Eames!"

The forger stayed relaxed next to Arthur, arms draped casually even at the irate hiss. "What, darling?"

"You're not answering my question." Arthur turned towards Eames. He reached out, meaning to poke Eames' arm. He missed, his palm hitting another part of the man's flesh.

His hand stayed pressed against Eames' breastbone. Heat radiated off the skin steadily. Arthur traced his hand down and could feel Eames' heartbeat, a percussion of fast thumps.

"Well, I was going to remind you of my fantastic abs, but then I remembered they're still here, Arthur. You don't need a reminder." The excuse rolled uncharacteristically flat off of Eames' lips.

Arthur waited, hand falling to rest on Eames' thigh.

Eames fidgeted, his muscles moving under Arthur's hand. Arthur could hear a whisper of breath escape from Eames' lips, a promise of a secret yet to unravel.

"I was ranked higher than you," Eames said, and for once Arthur refrained from reminding him of the 'minor technicality'. Something in Eames' voice stopped him.

"It didn't matter much. But a lieutenant is different from a captain, like it or not. Controlling eighty men is different from twenty. Especially when they hate you."

"No one hated you, Eames. The men adored you. You brought in the alcohol, the cigarettes, the porn magazines… But you still managed to keep them in line."

Arthur could feel Eames' thigh muscle tense under his palm. "It didn't - it wasn't always like that." Eames shifted restlessly. "You saw the highlight reel, the top team. Before we met, I had men committing suicide left and right, threatening to garrott me with my bloody dental floss, going fucking mental in the middle of the night after waking up from the combat - " Eames cut off. Arthur's hand tightened a fraction on Eames' bare thigh, but he refused to be put off.

"Yeah?" Arthur challenged, swallowing. "We weren't exactly Boy Scouts either, Eames."

"I just - fuck, darling - " Arthur's hand was dislodged from it's position on Eames' leg, and suddenly the lamp was back on, its bright light a stark difference from the total darkness of a moment ago -

Eames sat facing Arthur, his eyes containing just as much unrest as Arthur supposed his had minutes ago, a man ready to snap -

Eames left out a deep breath, his lungs swelling under the dark ink of his tattoos. His eyes settled into their normal enigma, a pool of contradictions. "We were on that run, and you were wearing that fucking belt, the one with the bloody reflective tape, in the middle of a desert - " Eames reached out and grasped Arthur's wrist gently, as though he were a lifeline, as though they were a balancing act, ready to topple -

"All I could look at was you. I barely knew you. None of the Americans were people to me, yet. I thought about it, while you were joking with that other bloke - "

"Bradley." Arthur cut in quietly, a pang of distress racing through him.

"Bradley. I knew both of us, my men and yours, had no idea what we were getting into. No path, no 'plan', no higher purpose. Arthur, I had more than eighty men relying on me for direction, and I had no idea why I had been recruited for the program. I asked myself the same thing the unlucky bastards who lose both legs to an IED ask themselves, the blokes who do everything right and still get nothing in return - "

"Why me?"

Eames was facing Arthur, his face all sharp angles and dark shadows. His expression was hard, but his eyes were crystalline, piercing, and Arthur knew he had to still be hallucinating, because Eames the forger never looked as though he was about to cry.

"There's no plan," Eames said softly, his hands running over Arthur's forearms, over his pink, burned skin. Arthur felt more exposed than if he was naked, than if Eames had just announced they were about to have sex. His line of vision felt unobstructed and raw, like an open nerve.

"There's always a plan," Arthur protested. "We always figure something out." His empty Glock felt hot in his hand, predatory. He wasn't sure who he was trying to reassure. "We'll figure it out."

Eames' breath ghosted hot as he leaned closer, intense and intimate. "Everyone has demons in their closet, Arthur. We'll understand the reason yours surfaced, later. But now - " Eames was practically chest-to-chest with Arthur, his blistering presence banishing any other thought - "Now we find Jansen's demons, we find his secrets. We damn the bloody plan. And we rip him to pieces."