Chapter 7: Just Call Me Bond, James Bond

The day that Arthur was able to make it downstairs (with Eames' help, begrudgingly), Eames sat him down. He then made his way over to sit on the adjacent couch. Eames was palming what looked to be about five different cell phones, and his eyes were serious as he met Arthur's gaze. Here it comes, Arthur thought. The moment where he tells me to leave.

"I'm prepared to stage a major operation on these bastards. Mostly for the sweet, sweet revenge, Arthur, but also because your death would be a major strain on my future point man prospects." Eames shifted forward on the white sofa, causing Arthur to wince when he noticed the dried blood stain on the arm to his side. Must have dripped on the couch on the night of the shooting. Onto the white couch. Ouch. "That being said, darling, I have no clue what I'm getting into. I know you gave me an overview of the situation, but it was marred by the fact that you were slurring like a drunken bloke at some trashy pub in North Hampton."

Arthur let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Eames wasn't kicking his immobile ass out. He was just doing what he did best – getting into character.

"Well," Arthur began, shifting uncomfortably on the loveseat. He was sans IVs now, two days into their 'rest week', but his ribs still ached with every movement. The stitches on his hand felt tight. His face was slowly healing, although Arthur was nervous enough that he had been able to avoid any reflective surfaces. The major annoyance to Arthur was the bullet wound, which kept him from doing, well, anything. He was grounded, stationary. Sighing at the thought, Arthur began his story. The faster he filled in Eames, the faster they could execute their plan.

"After the events of Fischer's inception, I wanted to continue working, stay in a routine," Arthur said.

Eames snorted. "Of course you did, dear Arthur." At Arthur's glare, he mimed zipping his mouth and throwing the key over his shoulder.

Rolling his eyes, Arthur continued. "But I didn't want to expose anyone in the team to unnecessary risks, and I knew everyone was far away and preoccupied -"

"Preoccupied?" Eames sputtered, his voice shooting up an extra octave. "Do I look busy? Bloody hell, far away? I was in the same city as the location of your incident!"

"Can I tell you about the job, Mr. Eames, or would you rather continue to delight in listening to the sound of your own voice?" Arthur deadpanned. Along the return of his mental strength, Arthur's acerbic wit seemed to have resurfaced as well.

Eames made a motion with his hand, as though Arthur was the one who had interrupted him, urging him to go on.

"As I was saying, I was trying to prevent unnecessary risks to the team." At Eames' pouting glance, Arthur added, "Yes, I know, Mr. Eames, it could have gone better.

"An understatement. That being said, the job seemed like an ordinary, routine extraction. We were to extract stock codes for a portfolio from a banker at CurrencyCorp, Eva Jansen. Her son, who we now know to be the slightly psychotic Colin, paid us. The team was made up of myself, Hans, the architect, Ray, the chemist, Emilia, our forger – yes, I know Eames, she wasn't as good as you, stop giving me that look – and Sandy, our extractor, who conveniently omitted the fact that she had, ah, committed serial murders a few years back. One of these murders happened to be Colin's friend."

"But I don't understand," Eames said, when Arthur paused to take a breath. He dumped the pile of cell phones on the plush cushion next to him, and scratched his shoulder, eyebrows drawing together. "What does a serial killer have to do with a hypnotist? And why did this Colin git hire you if he wanted to kill your extractor? A hit isn't that costly nowadays, with the glory of the dark web and such. Why involve other people, especially people that have experience in dealing with violence?"

"Colin Jansen is not in the right state of mind, Eames. He was literally frothing at the mouth while trying to interrogate us, some revenge plot over 'the elitist of the dreamsharing community' or some asinine reasoning like that," Arthur said, picking at the bandages peeking out of the v-neck of his olive green shirt. He was uncomfortable with madness. It was irrational, unpredictable, everything that Arthur hated.

"'Interrogate you'?" Eames questioned, his eyes glinted with something dark and hard, his fist clenching on his thigh.

Arthur made a dismissive gesture, although its effects were slightly dulled upon his gasp of pain at the quick movement. "Jansen messed up my face a bit, nothing compared to the pain of Mal shooting me in the foot or anything like that. He was trying to get the stock codes, along with tormenting the team. In fact, I got off pretty well, considering this was the point that he decided to kill our chemist, Ray and shoot Hans in the leg. He's an amateur, Eames. We were all tied up, but Emilia got out and got my Glock. That's when I ended up head butting Colin Jansen through a glass wall -"

"Where you bruised your ribs?" Eames interrupted.

"No, Mr. Eames, that was a different pane of glass, I'm getting there. As I was saying, a firefight commenced and Hans was killed by Mr. Jansen's backup, which also took him away in the process. They were in pursuit of me when I fashioned a bomb out of Ray's remaining chemicals – don't look at me like that, Mr. Eames, it was a simple mixture, not rocket science. That's when I ran toward the first exit I could think of-"

"- and where you, and I quote, 'jumped out of a five story window, onto a fire escape, with a bullet wound'?" Eames questioned, disbelieving.

"Yes, that's when I was shot, I think. I was high off the adrenaline in my system at that point, so I didn't feel it until later," Arthur said. "I landed on a fire escape, rather abruptly, and shot one of the men, who fell to his death. That body's going to be the biggest problem at the crime scene…"

Eames spread out his arms along the back of the couch, apparently satisfied with Arthur's narrative. "So there's the whole thing. Bankers, hypnotists, bombs, escapes out of five story high windows… you have the plot to a Bond film, here, Arthur," Eames said with a laugh. Arthur watched him intently, noting with satisfaction the absence of a five o'clock shadow on Eames' tan face. At least Eames had gotten some time to himself, away from Arthur.

I hate being a burden, Arthur thought suddenly. I need to leave as soon as possible. Arthur knew Eames would not be happy with his conclusion, and did not voice his thoughts aloud. He instead looked over at Eames, who was still chuckling over the thought of Arthur as a Bond villain.

Arthur opened his palms outward in the universal gesture for Well? Go on - what do you think?

"I still don't understand why you thought working with a completely foreign team was a good idea, but I can't judge. I've made some rash decisions myself, Arthur. At least you were saved by yours truly, so you could Die Another Day," Eames said, grinning from ear to ear.

Arthur didn't answer Eames, slightly horrified at the terrible Bond reference. He shifted to grab the tea off the table next to him. His oversized shirt bunching up in the process, pooling around his battered body. The v-neck hung scandalously low on Arthur's thin frame, his white bandages hiding some of Arthur's skin. Unfortunately, upon placing a few calls, Eames found out that Arthur's hotel room had been ransacked by Colin's associates. So while there was nothing of significance taken from Arthur, he was left to scramble for clothes and other items. The only thing available that wasn't elderly woman's clothes at this house was Eames' stuff – which was woefully large on Arthur's slim stature.

At least I have the PASIV, Arthur thought with a sigh. I have to ask where that is.

Eames began to speak again, no doubt having concocted another dreadful Bond joke. His joking was interrupted by the shrill ringing of a phone on the cushion beside him. Scrambling until he located the right flip phone, Eames said, "'Ello? Mate I think ye got de wrong numba." His voice was transformed into a slow Irish drawl. The brogue was much thicker than Eames' usual tone, and Arthur had to strain to understand him.

The person on the line spoke back, although Arthur couldn't distinguish much more than their deep baritone. They had an accent as well.

Eames didn't speak again for a long time, instead intently listening to the caller. Hanging up with a clipped, "Yes, I will," in his normal tone, Eames flipped the phone shut.

Arthur raised a questioning eyebrow.

"That was Hans," Eames said.

Arthur's eyebrow rose to precarious heights.