Chapter 6: The Plan

"Yes, my mum's house, Arthur," Eames replied to Arthur's shocked statement, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Did you think I would own a carpet and drapes like these?" He asked. "I might not have the same fashion sense as you, love, but I don't recall ever painting tiny yellow flowers on every available surface while in your presence."

Arthur looked around at the room they were currently occupying, and took his surroundings in for the first time in daylight. The pale blue walls Arthur had noticed before had tiny blades of grass hand painted above the base molding, little yellow daises sprinkled about cheerfully. The drapes that (damn it) weren't their supposed job of blocking out the sun billowed about, white fluffy clouds in the light breeze.

"It's good to switch things up, Mr. Eames," Arthur said belatedly, trying to hide his displeasure at again failing to adequately notice his surroundings.

Eames raised an incredulous eyebrow, his uneven collar scrunching up even further as he tilted his head to one side. "Hold on one second, I need to write that down. Arthur telling me to 'switch things up' – I think it's time for me to dial down the morphine."

Arthur sighed, inwardly cringing at the idea of experiencing any more pain. He didn't even have his clothes on anymore, just his underwear. Great, Eames undressed me while I was sleeping.A man was not very intimidating to another after being seen in only his boxer briefs, mortal wounds aside.

"Eames?" Arthur said, ready to change the subject. Something had occurred to him that he couldn't ignore, something that had been lost in flashes of pain and blood and exhaustion. "Do you have my totem?" Arthur queried. He knew Eames wouldn't ignore the request, and Arthur really wanted a second to think. Alone. Eames swept his gaze around the room, his face turning down into a half frown. Arthur offhandedly noticed the stubble darkening Eames' jaw, a forgotten remnant of the past few nights sleeping by Arthur's side.

"I need to find your suit jacket, darling." Here Eames rose swiftly from the chair, only pausing to fix Arthur with a fierce warning stare. "No. Moving. I will beright back." Arthur nodded meekly, sure that a ten year old Girl Scout could beat him in a fight at the moment, although he would never admit it.

Eames disappeared out of the cheerful bedroom, his footsteps quick across the squeaky wooden floorboards. Closing his eyes, Arthur took this brief moment alone to think – not that thinking was unusual for him. But after being out four, maybe even five days, he was feeling pretty discombobulated, disconnected. The last few days seemed like oil poured on water – muddling and distorting the already murky events of the past month.

The trials of the past month flashed through Arthur's head disjointedly in a rapid succession of color and memories. The slip of the needle into Arthur's veins, rickety lawn chairs, Ray's smiling face, Hans telling Ray jokes in German, their teeth bright in the dim light of a seedy bar, the limp handshake of Sandy, Arthur's first day casing the bank, the receptionist lighting up in his presence, Arthur's work spread out across a cheap hotel coffee table, lit up by the glow of a late night British talk show, Emilia's face scrunched up in front of a dirty mirror, practicing the pinched expression of Colin Jansen… late night tea gone cold, an insightful talk with Hans at 4am, cold pizza, warm beer, sketches, plans, exhaustion, more sketches…

Arthur's thoughts took a turn… The uneasy feeling Arthur felt upon entering the dreamscape, the imposing bank that held Eva's secrets, the projections that eventually turned on them, Hans' pleading face down the hallway, and then now in the hotel, helpless on the ground, the headshot in the dream world, the head shot in real life, blood everywhere, congealing, changing the scent in the air – Hans morphed into Ray, fragments of his beautiful mind staining cheap glass walls… Rope burns chaffing at Arthur's wrists, his Glock out of reach, Emilia's pleading stare, Sandy's despondent gaze, the way her eyes never seemed to look you dead on, Eva Jansen's terror stricken face in the dreamscape, the way the Glock felt hot after firing, the masked men barging out of the stairwell, Colin dragged away, the running, running, heart beating, palpitating, tubes thrown, bomb going off, rug burns, not gonna make it, not gonna make it, glass breaking! Fire erupting from his left side, the impact of cold metal in open air… where was the shooter,so much pain!- he's gonna kill me, Oh God, Oh God Eames…

"Arthur?" Arthur's eyes shot open, fists clenched, hair sticking to his scalp in the presence of a cold sweat. "Darling…" Eames was leaning over Arthur's bedside, crouching down by his left side. Once again, in a sudden instance of déjà vu, Arthur felt Eames take his left palm, carefully unclenching his white-knuckled hold with his steady grip.

Eames kept Arthur's hand spread out, palm open, even with the shaking Arthur's hand was doing. Careful to avoid the stitches, Arthur's left hand was guided by Eames' large, steady grasp. "I'm sorry, Arthur, I was so bloody dumb, I forgot, in the heat of the moment a couple days ago…" Eames' sure grip led Arthur to his discarded pants, held tight in Eames' other head. Guided down into one of the slim pockets, Arthur's trembling fingers closed around his dice, rolling them clumsily on top of the lumpy covers.

Arthur's breathing slowed at the six dots facing up at him. Feeling the indentations brush his stitches, Arthur's side twinged in protest as he placed the totem on the bedside table across from him.

Eames was eyeing him worriedly, hovering, not yet sitting back in his armchair. "We can do the story another time, Arthur. It would be better if you rested."

But Arthur knew that just because his world had momentarily stopped, the world outside of this house hadn't. Arthur had to get things going his way before the job got even more messed up – well, than it was before, Arthur thought bitterly.

"No," Arthur said, stifling a yawn. "At least I can explain to you the overview." And then he did. Between bouts of sipping from the glass (which Eames refilled twice) under the strict direction of Eames to drink slowly, darling, to swallowing complaints as Eames periodically fumbled with one IV line or the other, or to check on Arthur's bandages ("I'm fine, Eames"), Arthur managed to retell the whole tale. He talked about Emilia, and her less-than-perfect forgery (to which Eames snorted and made a comment befitting of his extremely large ego), about Ray, and his inability (or, most likely, refusal) to speak English, to Hans and his scary projections, yet teddy bear demeanor, and finally to Sandy.

"You're telling me you worked with a serial killer? A real life, Jack the Ripper, killer?" Eames stopped Arthur mid-sentence, unwilling to believe him.

"We didn't know at the time," Arthur replied, feeling defensive. "Everyone has gotten rumors levied at them at some point in their career, Eames, as you recall by that time most of continental Australia believed you were a British agent masquerading as a stripper."

Eames flushed, looking suddenly unbalanced. "I didn't know you had heard about that story, Arthur."

Arthur smirked. "I was the one who made that story, Mr. Eames," at Eames' betrayed expression, "I did it just to save your ass," Arthur continued innocently. He winced at the strain that smiling put on his healing face, but continued, "So, to sum it up, the team is dead, except for the extractor, Sandy. Well, and Emilia may have survived. I'm not dismissing any chance after seeing her break out of her bonds like that. Bad to underestimate. Colin Jansen is mentally unstable and very much alive, and will probably be after me sometime soon, if he hasn't already begun his search. I assume he captured Sandy, but I can't be sure." Arthur motioned for the glass of water, and after taking a sip (aided by Eames, although Arthur would like to forget that part), said, "And now I need to get back to the crime scene, because my fingerprints are all over and I really don't need one of my few identities in the U.K. compromised."

"Woah, woah, woah, darling," Eames said, shaking his head. "You aren't even standing at the moment, and you're telling me you want to go back to a crime scene? In which you are implicated in, don't forget?"

"But," Arthur began, affronted, "my condition aside, there's too much to be left unattended, I need to figure out who Colin is working with, and-"

"I wasn't done darling," Eames cut in. "You're not going anywhere, but I'm fine travelling and helping you out. Besides," Eames said, flashing Arthur his trademark smirk, "I've already invested too much time being your nursemaid to let you die at the hands of some second-rate hypnotist."

Arthur stared at Eames in shock, lost for words. Eames had no obligation to help Arthur, no obligation to let Arthur stay at his house in the first place, really. Eames had been nothing but helpful to Arthur, even donating some of his blood, not to mention the probable difficult-to-obtain illegal morphine making its way through Arthur's body at the moment…

Yet here Eames was, looking as though he hadn't slept in the entirety that Arthur had been occupying his mother's home, looking as though his only priority had been to look after Arthur in his pitiful state.

"But – but what about your mother?" Arthur found himself asking, too stunned to voice any of his musings.

"What about her?" Eames questioned back, clearly thrown for a loop.

"Seeing as how this is her property, where is she?" Arthur was suddenly struck with a sobering thought. "Is she alive Mr. Eames?"

"Of course she's alive, Arthur, my darling mother refuses to release her grip on life, in order to continually stay a pain in my arse. She's just on holiday at the moment, in Italy, I believe." Eames looked at Arthur, once again giving him an once-over. "You won't have to worry about her while I'm gone; she's not due back to England until next month. My mum is trying to savor as much warmth as Italy's beaches can offer, so she won't die only knowing the weak rays of England. I tried to get her to visit Mombasa with me, but she said it was too 'lawless' for her tastes, it's like she forgets who her bloody son is…

"But, I digress, that's not the main problem, right now," Eames continued, once again making uncomfortably intense eye-contact with Arthur. "The problem, dear Arthur, is the fact that I wouldn't be content leaving you alone for an hour, much less the several days, even weeks, it's going to take for me to untangle the mess that is your botched-up job."

"Mr. Eames, I'm flattered by your concern, but I'm perfectly capable-"

"Under normal circumstances to take care of yourself, I know, darling." Eames finished preemptively, ignoring Arthur's glare. "But I doubt you could stand up, Arthur, much less function as a human being." Eames put a hand up, effectively stopping Arthur from interjecting. "Which is nothing to be ashamed of, you got bloody shot. Most people wouldn't be conscious at the moment, much less holding intelligent conversation.

"So I'll make you a deal. I'll stick around for a few more days, make some calls, stop some of Britain's finest in their searches for a day or two, just to give us both some slack. And if you're fine after those few days, I'll leave you the full run of the things, while I'm off looking for your remaining team members and tying off loose ends." Eames leaned back in the lounger once again, apparently satisfied.

Arthur, for his part, had sunk even farther into the pillows during the course of Eames' spiel, unsure of how the debate between him going back into London ended with the plan of Eames going a few days in his stead. "Well," Arthur began, silently cursing the fact that Eames' plan was so logical, so smart, that he really couldn't debate it reasonably. "Fine." Arthur finished, and, like a skulking child, avoided eye contact, pouting towards the ceiling. "But I want to be kept in the loop during the whole thing. Phone calls, diagrams, visits, the whole thing."

"Always have to be point man, don't you love?" Eames said good-naturedly, although there was an undertone of something deeper in his voice. Unsure how to respond to that statement, Arthur nodded once, stiffly, flinching at the way the movement pulled at the bandages surrounding his bullet wound.

"Of course, love, whatever you want." Eames said eventually with a wink, and a plan was set into action.