Arthur knew there was something very wrong when on the way to where he was pretty sure McKay would have built up his own personal mind safe, as that was where -they- had built it and it was convenient, he saw John running through the corridor. John with neatly cut hair, and less stubble than he had ever seen him, and a uniform on, John whom was obviously not John. Caught between doing his job, and bailing -his- John out, Arthur started humming internally and set off at as quick a clip he could manage. Code first, then he'd make sure John hadn't gotten himself killed, literally.
Arthur had not quite been prepared for the mass of fucking individuals guarding McKay's privacy though, the first bullet wound was relatively easy to run through, he knew intimately how long it would take him to bleed out. It was the second shot that made everything a little harder, including moving and breathing. Chest wounds were never very clean, and coughing blood up onto the safe sort of made it hard to set the charges. By the time he's blown the safe, he can hear the projections beating a mess at the door, wanting him dead, wanting him stopped. He moves to the window, clutching the envelope. His song is ending, and he has only a few minutes to get to John, to secure them and wait out the kick.
He steps out onto the balcony, watches the sand whip the landscape, obscuring all but their little island, all but their casino hotel. He secures his arm around the line, ties it tight to the rail and rappels down like an acrobat, even though it fucking hurts and all he wants to do is curl up in a ball and let the projections rip him apart. He lands hard and without grace, and if Eames was there he would laugh at him. If Cobb was there he'd tell Arthur it was time to take a break. Pushing himself up, he agrees, he had been taking a break, and Eames had wanted him to help, and god but he'd never been able to turn him down. He coughs, blood splattering against the concrete balcony, it's so hard to breathe, his heart feels like it's breaking. Or maybe it's just the bullet that had punctured his lung, but it hurts so much either way.
He rips open the envelope, studies the code intimately, till he knows he'll remember it years from now, and then puts the paper back, lets it rest on the ground as he stands. He'd need to run if he was going to find John in time, he takes one deep breath, all sharp lines and skill, and no he won't let himself feel it, and so he doesn't. He's running to the anticipation of music he's willing not to come too soon.
He finds them not in the dinner, but outside of it, he knows it by the circle of projections that stand confused. So focused they don't even notice the man jostling between them, bleeding the entire way. He stifles copper-tasting coughs against his sleeve and finally can see what has the projections, and McKay enthralled.
John has the projection up against the wall, gun pressed to his temple, and even though Arthur had been shot, he's pretty sure John is feeling more pain at the moment. Heavy lacerations, split knuckles, the man looks a mess. What was more, he looked to be breaking apart, breathing heavy, more anger than Arthur had ever thought John could express in his eyes. He cannot hear what John says, it's a whisper as he leans in to the projection, something soft and vicious. He actually jumps a little when the shot is fired. He isn't expecting McKay to crumple to the ground, sliding down a dark-red mess of a wall. The projection of John laughs, it's a harsh, cruel, angry sound, and then John is screaming, and it's over.
The crowd of projections have left, resuming their not-lives, and McKay is dead on the ground, Arthur knows it before he even bothers to lean down to check his pulse. The projection of John had dropped his gun when he'd been shot. Arthur can hear the strains of his kick beginning over the sound of John dropping his own gun, they have thirty seconds to pick up the pieces and make a plan before he's kicked out of the dream. "I'll go after him." Limbo, and Arthur really didn't want to do this. "No." John's voice sounds more than a little hollow, Arthur is prepared to disarm him immediately after he sees John pick back up his gun. "This is my fault." John flips the gun in his hands slowly. "Besides, Eames needs you. No one needs me." Arthur wants to argue, but he's always been a bit of a selfish prick. "Be careful John." He watches John put the gun in his mouth and point it up. He doesn't flinch when the trigger is pulled. When the kick comes he's ready for it, breathing deeply as the world tips upside down on him.
Coming up out of the dream panting it takes a minute to shake the pain ghosting along his senses. The nurse is partway through re-arranging the room, to make it look like McKay had slept through the exam. He stands, rolling down his sleeves, buttoning them in turn. He could stay, wait for John, but there was no guaranteeing he'd ever wake up, and alarming the nurse now would just cause unnecessary risk. Of course if the time passed past the moment John was supposed to come up, and then McKay, they'd send McKay's guards in. He needed to be far away by then, or he'd be screwed, so there was no use in waiting. He gathered his things, threw John's relaxed form one final look and then made his way out.
The trip to the hospital was cold and bitter, and by the time Arthur got there, he really did feel like he'd been shot in the lung it hurt so much to just breathe. Eames was sitting up in bed when he entered the room, and all Arthur really wanted to do was maybe crawl in with him and just not fucking move till he could remember what being warm felt like. Instead he helped Eames to turn off the monitoring devices, and then helped him to dress, and if his eyes lingered a little too long on the tattoos that riddled Eames' skin, well fuck it, he'd had a horrible day. "So where are we going Darling? Someplace sunny I hope." Eames is obviously in pain, Arthur can tell by his tone, which meant the Brit had been refusing pain medications to make his head clear, to make things easier on Arthur. Arthur hated him so much right now, hated everyone really. "We'll have to stay in the country for a little while longer, I'm sorry." He explains to Eames how the job had gone down as they dodge hospital security cameras.
He'd brought Eames more layers of clothing than a seal had fat, and even though it takes them forever to get to the run-down trashy motel, Eames is probably still warm. Arthur doesn't bother with pride when they get to their single bed room, he crawls under the blankets after stripping down and just tries to feel anything again other than burning pain as his extremities remember what warmth is again. The motel attendant had thought he was a rent-boy anyway, so fuck it, he wasn't going to care right now.
When Eames slides into the bed behind him all stiff movements and -heat- Arthur feels like he can breathe again. Eames throws his good arm around Arthur, pulls him back against his chest, and Arthur goes readily, relaxes until his spine is flush to Eames' skin. Nothing has the right to feel this good either, bare skin hot against his, and they aren't fucking, just touching, and it's enough. Which is the worse part, because Arthur knows he can never let this happen again, can never let Eames touch him again, because it will be too much, finally too much, and he'll just break apart.
He falls asleep so bone tired, even though it felt like all he'd been doing for so long was dreaming. Eames' arm still pressed tight and protective around him.