When Arthur wakes the sun hasn't even risen, it takes him a few disoriented and slightly panicked moments in the darkness to recognize the arm wrapped around him, to not reach for a gun that wasn't there. Closing his eyes, he presses his face into the pillow, focuses on the way Eames' breath is measured and soft against the back of his neck. He moves, and when he does Eames draws his arm back, which answered the question of whether the man was awake or not. "Did you get a clear look at the man who shot you?" Arthur's voice is low in the darkness. He turns under the warmth of the covers, his eyes accustomed to the low light. He can see the Forger's silhouette against the light filtering past the drawn curtains. He drifts his hand through Eames' hair, brushing it back from the man's face. "Yeah, Mafia type, I may owe the Russians some cash." Eames' words hold levity and shame. Arthur wants to punch him again, but more than that he wants to kiss him. "You owe everyone money Mr. Eames." Arthur is pretty sure Eames owes him a few thousand dollars too, but he just never cared enough to make an actual note of it. He remembers buying Eames out of a few jails, and also at one time he had bought the Brit a car he'd just had to have and hadn't remembered to bring any cash. Fronting Eames money on loan, meant never seeing that money again, Arthur had been pretty clear on that from the get-go, and really, anyone who hadn't figured that out was an idiot who deserved to loose their shirt.
"Arthur-" Eames cuts himself off, and pauses for so long that Arthur thinks maybe he had decided better than to say what he'd been planning. "Darling, are you alright?" Arthur stills his fingers against Eames' cheekbones, feels the warmth of the forger's skin, knows he's alive. "Yes, yes Eames." He is okay, more than okay, Eames is alive, alive enough to joke and make light, and god but that's all Arthur really cares about right now. "How is your shoulder doing?" Arthur asks, already shifting, getting ready to stand and fetch the medical kit he'd filched from the hospital. "Twinges, probably needs to have the dressing changed." By the time Eames has finished his sentence Arthur is making his way to the kit. His eyes adjust eerily fast to the light, while Eames buries his face against a pillow and curses in one of the few languages Arthur doesn't speak too. Arthur waits for Eames to stop, for his eyes to adjust, before helping the Brit to sit up. His hands are gentle, peeling medical tape and gauze away. The stitches are neat, obscure one of Eames' intricate tattoos, Arthur traces the lines with his eyes before he gathers up gauze and alcohol.
He dabs at the raised flesh, padding the acrid scented cloth against the neat suture-work, he ignores the complaints Eames makes, the twitches of tanned skin. When he's done he lays a fresh bandage over the site and deftly tapes it in place. Sitting back he looks at his handy-work, which also includes looking at Eames, whom is looking at him with one of his more cryptic facial expressions. Arthur presses his lips together thinly and stares Eames' down, which was something he found he was good at far too long ago. "Would you like me to get you a drink to take a pain pill with?" He didn't bother to ask if Eames wanted to take one, because Eames never did, so he'd just make him take one, or the Brit would end up complaining in an hour when he tried to pick something up only to remember that he'd been shot and maybe that was a bad idea. "Please love." Eames lays back down rather stiffly while Arthur pulls on his clothing.
The hallways in the motel were painted a disgusting color of green that Arthur had been too numb to pay attention to the first time but were horribly nausea inducing the second time. The look on the motel desk attendant's face when he passed by showed that yes, they still thought he was a rent-boy, and he really didn't care enough to change that opinion. He fights with the soda pop machine till a generic looking bottle of coke spit itself out and then moved back toward their room. When he enters Eames has his gun trained on the door, and Arthur is suddenly hit by how very ridiculous it all was. He manages to get the cola into Eames' hands and the pill, before he slides to the floor. Leaning against the edge of the bed, he presses his cheek to scratchy comforter and closes his eyes tight. "I can't do this anymore Eames." His voice sounds brittle and he hates it. "I have to step back, don't call me for work again, I'm sorry, I just... I can't." Arthur shakes with his conviction, with the pain of admission and weakness. With the guilt of knowing that if Eames needed him, really needed him, he just couldn't be there for him, not like this.
Eames' hand threads through his hair, just comforting, and Arthur could never thank Eames enough for just being quiet for once, for just letting the moment pass and not making a joke or picking him apart. Soon enough he is put back together, ready to pick up the pieces, to get back to work. After today he'd get Eames someplace safe, and then, then he'd walk away, just walk away. Create another lie, live in yet another skin that was too close to everything he really was, and yet not close enough to burn him. Go to another college, or maybe just buy a house on the ocean somewhere, and not carry a gun everywhere he went, and not worry every second of the day whether or not Eames was alright, if they could pull off one last job, if they hadn't lost their edge yet. He loves the work, loves the challenge, but he cant do it, cant take the stress of every moment, counting the seconds till Eames dies.
He stands, and fixes his clothing, makes himself look presentable, or presentable enough for someone who hadn't changed since the morning before last. He ignores the worried way Eames is watching him. "Rest Mr. Eames, I'll be back after the rendezvous. Then we'll figure out what country you -can- currently inhabit and will not get arrested upon flying in." Arthur fixes his tie last, doesn't bother to do up his top button, it's too early and he just doesn't care enough right now to bother.
John is sitting against the wall in sufficiently paranoid demeanor for anyone working in their business. Arthur slides to sit down next to him, lifting the PASIV's case from the ground and setting it nimbly on his lap. "I'm going into retirement." He states, letting his head rest back against the wall. He can hear the airplanes lifting off in the distance. This part of the airport was never very inhabited, Arthur knew this from the experience one could only gather from years spent in that particular airport at different times of the year. "I thought you -were- in retirement kid?" John asks, and usually the pet-name would grate on Arthur's nerves but for once he lets it slide. "Back into retirement." He sighs, lifting his head up to watch a plane taxi past the window. John has never taken his eyes from the planes, from the sky, and Arthur had long ago come to accept that as normal behavior for someone who used to fly more than they slept. "I think I'll drop out for awhile too." John lacks some of the restless energy Arthur had always seen thrumming under the surface. He wondered what Eames would have had to say, what he would have seen in this sudden change. He wondered how John had gotten them out of Limbo, how long he'd been under.
Arthur knows better than to ask though, just sits and wonders what had happened. "What about Eames, how is he doing?" John asks, and the words send a wave of worry through Arthur. "He's sleeping right now, it doesn't look too bad, but he'll have to go through rehabilitation." Arthur sighs. "Arthur, you know this shit is none of my business, and usually I would keep out of it, but-" John pauses a moment, to look at Arthur, and out of politeness he returns the gaze. He wishes he hadn't though, John's eyes are too calm, too steady, and it unnerves him. "Well, you do know, he fucking loves you, right?" John's words are like ice cold water splashed in his face, and he doesn't know he's not breathing till his lungs burn. He feels hot, and knows he's gone pale, and no. This couldn't be right. "D-don't say things, when you have no idea what you are talking about Sheppard. He's not." And it sounds like a desperate lie even to him. He wants to believe it so badly though, but John isn't going to let him. "He'd give it up for you." But Arthur doesn't want him to, would never want to take that from Eames, because he has no right to, no right to ask, and he should have said no, should have turned Eames down in the very beginning.
Arthur turns, looks out the window to watch the sky, watches the planes fly home, and feels time slipping away. John sits silently beside him, until his flight is called for boarding. Arthur looks up when John stills to stand in front of him. "You're too smart to fuck this shit up like I do Arthur." John sighs, shoulders slouched in typical slacker-defeat, it had been John's default stance since Arthur had met him. "Eames isn't though, he's an idiot, don't let him make any decisions." John turns then, leaves Arthur in the empty hallway. Arthur stays, waits till he sees John's plane taxi by the window too, waits till he really is alone. There was so much left to do that day, so much, and time was ticking past, he couldn't afford to just let it slip him by anymore.