A/N: A longer interlude here. I wanted to show moments in Ana's relationships with Eames, Arthur and Gideon (who will play a bigger role in future chapters). And also… the turning point where Ana begins to change.

Let me know what you think- love hearing from you all! =)

All the King's Men

I.

"You did great today."

Ana looked over at Arthur and gave him a small but pleased smile. They were sitting on the hotel couch, waiting for the hours to pass until their respective flights home. It was too late to go to sleep, too early to go to the airport and Arthur didn't like being seen in public after a job. Their bags were packed and ready at the door but for now, all they could do was sit, watch television and wait.

"Thanks," she said, looking back at the flat screen across the room. "You set everything up though so il mio successo il vostro successor… Or however you say that."

Arthur pretended to wince at Ana's very poor attempt at Italian.

"Guess you can't be good at everything," he said and Ana rolled her eyes, moving closer to swat him on the arm.

"Snob," she said, falling back on the cushion with a hard thump. Arthur could feel the heat from her body seep into his side, from leg to thigh to arm, and fought not to react as she moved closer against him. "Not everyone has a Babel fish in their ear. I'm sorry if my language skills aren't up to your standards."

"French, Ana, at least learn that," he said. His heart began to beat just a little faster when her arm came to rest across his waist and he fought to keep his voice steady. "At the very least learn how to order in a cafe."

"Un chocolat chaud, s'il te plait," Ana said promptly and Arthur had to laugh.

"You won't even try to make that sound right, will you?"

"I'd sound even more ridiculous if I tried to sound like a native," said Ana. She laid her cheek on his shoulder. "You know I'm not good at languages. And besides, I have you."

Even though she meant it jokingly, Arthur had to swallow down a lump that had formed in his throat. Her absolute faith in him was both a gift and a burden. Someday he knew he'd fail her, make a misstep that would shake her confidence in him and make her look at him differently.

He turned his head a little to look down at her, but she was staring at the screen again. "I guess I should feel a little better knowing you can get your hands on a cup of hot chocolate in France."

"Oui," Ana said. Arthur smiled.

This was his favorite part of their jobs. After everything was done and they had another success under their belts, when their money had been wired to their accounts and all that needed to be done was to call a cab to get to the airport, Arthur could rest. He could allow himself to touch and be touched, like a reward at the end of a task, and Ana always seemed happy to comply.

It was intoxicating, knowing that despite the years they'd spent apart, Arthur could still have her.

Not completely… But it's enough. It has to be enough.

Arthur knew, though it had never been explicitly said, that she would willingly offer him even more than she already did: all he had to do was accept it. But he also knew that anything more would put her in danger. She was already associated with him and that made her a target. Ana didn't know how closely Arthur had to monitor the gossip around them, nor did she know how close some people had gotten to tracking her down.

He had to walk a fine line every time they worked together and in his mind, there was no question about his priorities. Her safety was his responsibility.

Ana made a small, snuffling sound that pulled him out of his thoughts and Arthur realized that she had slumped against him, completely relaxed. Her head felt heavy against his arm and she was struggling to keep her eyes open as she looked at the screen.

"Hey, go ahead and take a nap," he said, suddenly feeling tired himself. "I'll wake you up when we need to leave."

He frowned when she tensed and then made to sit up. Without thinking about it, he reached out and pulled her back against him, putting an arm around her shoulders to keep her in place. She looked up at him and sniffed.

"Nah, if you can stay up, so can I," she said but her words were thick and slightly slurred. "And I can sleep on the flight. Just… Just talk to me. Tell me a story or something."

"You want one of Matt's famous fairytales?"

"God, no," Ana said and Arthur could hear the grin in her voice. Her eyes were beginning to close again. "That really will put me to sleep. Tell me about your military days or something. An adventure story… One where you got to be a hero."

Arthur shook his head and then rested his chin against the top of her head. She had curled back around him but this time she'd tangled her legs with his. Arthur felt a familiar sense of protectiveness run through him.

My responsibility.

There weren't many things he valued. Almost everything could be replaced after all. He thought nothing of spending hundreds and thousands of dollars on clothing and food, homes and cars. But the things he couldn't buy, like trust and loyalty and friendship… He'd protect those things with his life.

Mine to take care of.

"Yeah, not many of those to be honest," he said. "How about I tell you about the first time I went to Shanghai? We've been there once already but you didn't really get to see much last time, did you? Too much time in that apartment and the hotel."

Ana murmured something under her breath and he realized that she was drifting off. Her face was slack, cheek pressed against his chest, and in a moment, her eyes were completely shut.

After everything I've done, all the things I've had to do…

It gave him a heady rush to know that someone could still feel completely at ease with him.

"Okay, Sleeping Beauty," he said in a softer voice. "How about you pretend to keep listening to me and I pretend I don't know you're completely checked out. That work for you?"

She made another inarticulate noise and then fell silent. For a few minutes, Arthur listened to the deep, steady sound of each breath she took.

When he was sure she'd fallen asleep, Arthur carefully reached for the remote and changed the channel. He could stay up alone for two more hours and keep watch. He ran his cheek absently against her hair and tried to follow along with the talk show he'd landed on.

They were warm and safe; all was right with the world.

II.

"Ryan Ashworth, my freshman year in high school. I was fourteen and he was an older man."

Ana swung her legs back and forth from her perch on the windowsill beside his drafting table and Eames looked up from his plans with a raised eyebrow.

"Mm, an older man you say?" he said, twirling his pencil between two fingers. "And how much older was this Ryan?"

Ana looked at him solemnly and leaned forward, dipping her head down slightly so that the overhead lights in the studio cast shadows on her face. "Oh, much older. He was a very worldly sixteen."

Eames laughed. He stretched, feeling his shirt stretch over his chest and he didn't miss the way Ana's gaze flickered down his body momentarily.

They were working late two days before their latest job. While Ana had Arthur's workaholic tendencies, this time it was Eames who insisted on burning the midnight oil. It was their third job together and it was a tricky one that required two levels. He'd tried to persuade Ana to return to the hotel after their small team had convened for the day, or at the very least take advantage of the fading sunlight to explore Rome, but to his very pleasant surprise she'd stayed with him, even going out and bringing back a late supper for them to share.

Their conversation had wandered into various topics. Sometimes they lapsed into long stretches of silence as Eames modified his plans and Ana added to her case notes.

Eames found it easy to be around her, to work with her. There was no push and pull with Ana, no suspicions about ulterior motives or constant challenges to his authority. She'd offer her opinion and poke holes where she found them but otherwise, she carried on with her work as quietly and diligently as she always had.

Eames knew that what he'd mistaken for naivety at their first encounter was actually a complete and utter confidence in her own skills. She was easygoing and calm but she wasn't afraid of tearing apart flimsy plans with a few sharp observations and undeniable logic. She didn't have to hide anything because no one could hide from her; she had no need to use her claws on anyone because she could spot their weaknesses within seconds of meeting them.

She'd toughened out though. Her time in the business, especially at the end of her tenure with Arthur, had worn her down in many ways. But that bright-eyed, unabashed curiosity remained, making her seem far younger than her years.

But always, always so lovely throughout it all.

And when it came to Eames, Ana simply expected him to perform well, to be the best in everything he did, and that quiet belief drove him to work harder. Yet he didn't feel the need to show off because Ana acknowledged his talent and assumed he'd use his skills for their benefit.

As his point, she was more a researcher than first in the line of fire, but he knew his own tacit expectations of her work – that it be complete and thorough, was enough. She wasn't Arthur, no one could be Arthur, but she had no need to be. She was different in a way that worked better for Eames.

Now though, Eames was almost satisfied with the layout for the second level and he allowed himself the moment's indulgence. They had fallen into a discussion of their childhood crushes and Eames was charmed by the image of Ana as a shy teenager silently pining after boys who were older than her.

"And what was it about this Ryan that made him special?" Eames asked, grinning.

"He was blonde and handsome," Ana said, sounding almost wistful but not at all embarrassed. In fact, she seemed amused. "He had the bluest eyes and dimples – oh, his dimples! He had girls eating out of his hand. I was a little mousy nerd who loved him from afar."

"Ah, I can't quite imagine you as a mouse," Eames said, poking her bare knee with the blunt end of his pencil. "A puppy, perhaps. Or a tiny teacup kitten. But never a mouse."

Ana ducked her head and smiled deprecatingly. "You'd be surprised. I practically lived in the library my freshman year. My brother tried his best to get me out of there and socialize. He was the popular one, you know? Matt was the best, he just knew how to make people feel good about themselves around him."

She dropped her voice and pretended to grow stern. "He'd say, 'Quit acting like grandma and get some sun.' But I was a bookworm and besides, it's not like I was alone or anything. I always had–"

She cut off suddenly and blinked, as if jerked out of her own story. Eames could see her hands tighten where they gripped the edge of her seat.

Then she shrugged, hands loosening.

"Arthur was always with me," she finished in a small, quiet voice. "I had Arthur."

Eames felt his chest twist unhappily at the sudden change in her mood but he kept his voice light as he spoke next. "My first real crush was the winsome Amanda whose last name, unfortunately, is lost to the misty fog of time and my shoddy memory. I was seven and she was eight and I asked her to marry me after a wonderful afternoon spent playing conkers. She broke my heart when she turned me down. I was devastated."

Ana seemed to perk up and she shook her head, smiling. "A marriage proposal? Advanced for your age, weren't you? Did you drown your sorrows in glasses of milk and cookies?"

"Tea. I drowned my sorrows in cups of tea," Eames said. He was pleased that she seemed to recover quickly enough from the shadow that Arthur's name conjured, though he wasn't entirely fooled by her too-wide grin. "But let's go back to Ryan, shall we? I believe that if he were worth even a fraction of your regard, he'd have gone after you straight off."

Ana snorted. "He was way out of my league," she said, "and we both knew it. Besides, my brother would have killed him if he tried anything. Matty was always a tiny bit overprotective. He was only a few minutes older but he treated me like I was years younger."

"Ah, but he had reason to be," Eames said. "I would bet good money that you were a constant cause of concern for your brother growing up. Having a pretty sister is always trouble. The prettier the sister, the bigger the trouble."

Ana huffed but her cheeks turned a deep pink. "If you'd seen me back then, you wouldn't say that," she said, shaking her head. She gestured to herself. "I was flat as a board and scrawny and too pale. Always had my nose in a book, too. But it wasn't too bad – school, I mean. I had friends and I did well for myself."

"I think you highly underestimate yourself, love. I bet you left a swathe of utterly devastated teenage boys in your wake."

And I'm sure one boy in particular never quite grew out of that.

Not for the first time did Eames feel a twinge of envy. Arthur had secured her loyalty simply by being present for their formative years, by being first.

It wasn't fair but Eames knew he was slowly gaining traction. The other man may have had the early advantage but, with every passing job Eames was adding to a strong foundation for something more than Arthur would have ever considered for himself.

Because he had no imagination when it came to the big picture.

He could imagine the worst scenarios but never the best and he missed out.

Eames was determined not to end up like him. He wanted more and he wasn't afraid to go after it.

"In fact, I'm sure your brother spent most of his time staring down your would-be suitors, pet."

"Well, he didn't," she said. Ana kicked Eames lightly on his thigh and he swatted at her foot playfully. "What about you?"

"What of me?" Eames said. He was daring her to pry into his life, seeing how far she'd go. Ana could have dug into his past by inference or by research, but Eames knew that she found the spoken confession far more valuable. If she asked him about his past then it meant she truly wanted to know what he had to say. "I've no twin, if that's what you're asking."

"Oh, I know," Ana said matter-of-fact. "You have a younger sister and brother, of course."

"Of course," Eames repeated, amused. And it was true, he did.

"I meant that… Well, I imagine you probably have, how did you put it? A swathe of utterly devastated broken hearts behind you, Mr. Eames," Ana said, half-teasing, half-serious. "But I can't say you're the cad you pretend to be either, no matter how much you play that way."

"You don't think so?" Eames asked, rubbing his mouth. "What if I told you that the reason I'm no longer allowed in the states is because of one very angry woman with an admittedly legitimate grudge to bear?"

Ana looked at him closely with narrowed eyes and then gave him an uncharacteristic yet delightful little smirk. "Family doesn't count," she said and Eames had to laugh.

"I didn't have much time to cultivate romantic ties when I was younger and all of this," he said, waving his hand around them at the studio, "doesn't exactly allow for flowers and chocolates. Relationships, if you'd like to call it that, are mostly transient things. Fun, of course, and I've had some very wonderful experiences but nothing more than fleeting moments. It's difficult to trust career criminals with your life, much less more. There are some who have coupled off in the business but they're an exception, rather than the rule."

An odd, almost sad little expression flitted across her face.

"Mm, I guess you're right," she said. "It gets lonely though. Constantly coming and going and watching people around you do the same. I mean, what we do is exciting and crazy and amazing. But don't you ever just… I don't know, want something a little more?"

Eames put his pencil down on the table and looked at her intently.

"Of course," he said seriously. "But I've come to want more than simply a companion. I want an absolutely equal partnership. Someone who's seen and been through the things I have, who understands this world."

Ana looked bemused but Eames didn't doubt that she understood what he was saying. It was telling she didn't suggest that he do something else beyond dreamshare or the occasional real-world crime.

Because she knows I wouldn't ever consider not dreaming.

"Don't you think it would make things complicated?" she asked. "Sharing this sort of life with someone else? It's… it's dangerous. You'd be a weakness; you'd have a weakness that people could exploit."

Is that what Arthur told you? Eames wondered. Is that how he drove you away?

"Why would I even consider anyone who doesn't know what it feels like to share a dream?" He drew in a breath and looked at the model town beside his table. "I'm a romantic at heart and I won't insult you by pretending this is any sort of revelation but I'm also a realist. Most of the people we work with can't be trusted unless they're within our line of sight. I won't accept anything less than what I want so for now, transience it is."

Ana frowned.

"Well, I guess no one should settle," she said. She looked away and smoothed down the fabric of her skirt. "I never wanted the white picket fence but you know, my parents loved each other until the very end of their lives. And Matty, seeing him with his family… It makes me want it too, sometimes. I mean, I'm happy with what I have but… Sometimes I wish there was someone waiting at home for me. Would be nice, I think, to have what they have."

She sounded pensive, almost melancholy and her longing was a raw, nearly palpable thing. The earlier twist in Eames' heart become more acute as he watched her pick idly at the edge of her dress, deep in thought.

"Perhaps you shouldn't want someone waiting at home for you," he said, staring intently at her. She raised her head and looked back at him. "Perhaps it would be better if you had someone who wouldn't stand for being left behind."

Ana opened her mouth and then closed it, blinking. She tilted her head to the side and studied him; he allowed it for a beat longer before nodding towards the door and holding out his hand.

"Come on then," he said. "I'm done here and if we're to continue this night of maudlin confessions, we should at least do it with alcohol. I believe our hotel bar is open for a few hours yet."

Ana smiled at him. She took his hand.

III.

Gideon Klein paused before opening the door to Ana's private hospital room. He placed his hand on the handle and stared down it for a moment.

It was the first time that he'd gone to see Ana when she wasn't unconscious or drugged beyond reason.

He was rarely given to moments of hesitation or self-doubt and he knew what the other agents thought about him; that he was self-centered and arrogant. That didn't bother him because it was true. He was ambitious but there was nothing wrong with that.

What bothered him was the underlying implication that he would climb his way to the top over the backs of his colleagues or that he would leave his partner, assigned or chosen, to hang in the wind.

Gideon would do anything to win. He would always look to stack the odds in his favor in whatever he did because he was his own first priority. But he knew what being partners meant – namely, that you had each other's back no matter what.

It was a little funny then, Gideon thought before gathering up his resolve and pushing the door in, that in the beginning he'd disliked Ana.

During that first year as her partner he didn't want to be her partner at all. She was too soft, too accommodating to make him feel at ease around her. Of course he respected her. He respected anyone who showed even an iota of intelligence but she took far too many liberties with her status as a consultant and disappeared too frequently for him to trust her. Gideon would have asked for a new partner sooner but Ana had a high close rate and he knew that being attached to her was one way to gain attention from their superiors.

But then Ana stopped traveling and began to take on more cases with him. Gideon, much to his surprise, began to actually like her. She may have lacked ambition but she wasn't at all bad to have around.

So when strange men who were clearly on the wrong side of the law called him on a Sunday night, telling him they had his partner and that he needed to get on a plane to California because she'd been… Well, Gideon hadn't asked questions before booking a flight.

But now as he entered the room, he wondered, and not for the first time, if he'd arrived too late.

If they'd called me sooner, if I had taken the other flight…

If I had found her first…

He pushed those thoughts out of his mind as he closed the door behind him. Regret was another emotion he wasn't used to feeling.

The first thing he noticed was the cloyingly sweet smell of flowers. Almost every surface was covered with cards from friends and colleagues, and there were several bouquets of flowers surrounding Ana's bed. Gideon made a face as he looked around, everywhere but the bed where she lay.

I'll get rid of those later, he thought eyeing the flowers with distaste. They were garish reminders of the ordeal Ana had just gone through and it disgusted him. She would not want this display.

As if store-bought cards or flowers really mean anything.

As if they can help the damage that's been done.

Then Gideon noticed a brightly colored book on the side table next to her bed. It was so strange and out of place that his frown grew deeper. He walked towards it, picking it up and flipping through the thick pages.

It was a child's book of nursery rhymes and riddles. There were stains in some places and the binding was creased, but it was a book that had been cared for and well-loved.

Of this, he approved. This was a real sacrifice, a symbol of the comfort that a child sought to give through loss. Someone had given up something beloved for Ana.

The book fell naturally on one page and Gideon stared down at it, reading silently.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

"I take it Sandra and the children were here," Gideon said out loud, putting the book back on the table. He stared at the cover for a moment. "Madeline, is that her name? I met her today. She was looking for you."

And then, realizing how it must have sounded, he added, "But she understood you were sick. That you wanted to be there."

He winced inside. After all, no one ever wanted to be at their brother's funeral.

With a deep sigh, Gideon stood to face her, turning his back on the window. His suit jacket felt too tight and he reached up to loosen his tie. The funeral had been a small, brief affair but the grief that pervaded the gathering had been thick, almost suffocating.

Sandra, Matt's widow, had stood stoically at the side of the coffin, clutching the hand of her little girl and holding on to the handle of the carriage that held her other children. He found out later that day, when she greeted him distantly but politely, that they were barely eight months old and they were paternal twins.

A boy and a girl, just like Matt and Ana.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, unsettled by her continued silence. "Can you speak?"

She turned her head slowly, away from the blank wall she'd been staring at, to look at him.

At least now, Gideon thought, he could see her face. But still he flinched.

Of course, he'd been shocked at the sight of her misshapen features initially. Though the staff at the hospital in San Francisco cleaned her up as best they could, Ana had been a broken, bloodied mess. She'd been delirious, too much in pain to know what was happening to her and she screamed and screamed and screamed until the sedation and painkillers finally kicked in. He doubted she'd even been aware of being transferred across the country.

Up until just recently, Ana was kept sedated so that they could repair her face.

The second surgery to fix her fractured cheekbone had taken place only the day before and both her eyes were still a bright scarlet, the broken vessels bleeding into the sclera from the procedure. The skin on her face was mottled and puffy with fading bruises and a large cut on the side of her mouth had begun to scab over. It all worked to give her a shockingly demonic appearance.

Her arm and shoulder were in a cast and he could see the thick layer of bandages around her torso through her thin shirt. He'd been told Ana had been shot but that she'd been lucky: the bullet missed the major arteries and the socket joint. Just half an inch to the left or right would have left her with irreparable damage.

However, lucky was a subjective term. She had months of intensive physical therapy ahead of her. The miracles of modern medicine could only do so much.

Three broken ribs, a broken collarbone, permanent scarring, tissue damage, severe dehydration, the threat of infection.

Ana looked like she'd been dragged through hell.

"Marks says that the CIA is grateful for our help," Gideon said, after it became obvious that she wasn't going to respond. "I doubt I'll ever find out the truth about what happened to you, but apparently you were involved in helping them catch a man they've been after for some time now."

He stuck his hands in his pockets and shook his head.

"I don't know if that's true but I know that you have friends in very high places. Or low places, depending on how you see things." He looked around the room. "This has all been paid for. You'll get the best care for as long as you need it. And Marks' keeping his mouth shut about the details. There's been no briefing and I doubt there'll be any reports on this."

He hesitated for just a moment before asking, "Who were those men, Ana? The ones that called me to San Francisco."

To his surprise, Ana sneered and her eyes flashed with some unfamiliar and foreign expression.

He'd gone to San Francisco alone but requested the help of agents on site. Without knowing what he was walking into, he thought it would be prudent to have support in case he needed it. He'd made several calls to the hospital officials as well, ensuring that from that point on no one except for the FBI would be allowed into her room.

What he had walked into was chaos. The waiting room looked as if it had been trashed and there were men in gear that screamed special ops arguing with his agents. And in the middle of it all were two men.

Both had been covered in blood.

"Arthur and Eames," Ana said. The skin around her mouth tightened. "Arthur broke his promise."

He watched her good hand curl into a fist. "He did this. This is his fault. He did all of this."

Gideon suspected they were involved somehow but this was unexpected.

From the way the men… Arthur and Eames had acted Gideon had assumed they were on Ana's side. He'd almost come to blows with one of them over access into her room and only the threat of an arrest could make him back down.

They just disappeared when none of us were looking.

Gideon put his hand on the rail next to her bed and looked down at her broken, mottled face. She'd been pretty before and he'd heard the doctors say that she'd be pretty again after all her wounds had healed. It was all such shallow bullshit. He knew she didn't care about any of that; she wasn't vain. Gideon had always liked that about her, but he doubted that she'd ever be physically or mentally restored. He didn't doubt they could repair her face but there was a strange, manic gleam to her eyes, a bitter cast to the set of her mouth, that couldn't be erased by any superficial fix. Anyone who had gone through what she had, who'd lost someone under those circumstances, would be fundamentally changed.

Her brother was buried today and she was alone in this room when he was put in the ground.

"We can find them," Gideon said in a low tone. "Arthur and Eames. I'll help you."

Ana regarded him for a moment and then said hoarsely, "What if I told you that I could bring Matt back? What if he could be alive again?"

Gideon glanced at the morphine drip next to her bed and wondered if he needed to say something to her doctors. Anger flared up inside him; the last thing she needed was hallucinations caused by her drugs.

"You should get some rest," Gideon said. "It's been a long day–"

"I've been in this fucking room for days," Ana spat out. "Don't tell me to get any more rest."

Gideon jerked back a little, but regained his balance a moment later. He straightened and nodded, narrowing his eyes.

"I felt it," she said, leaning forward. Her red eyes seemed to bore into him. "When they shot him in the head, I felt Matt die. I knew he was gone before he hit the floor. I felt his death inside me and it was like being torn apart, like having someone rip me apart and then there was nothing and he was gone! And now I'm in here and Arthur is–"

An alarm went off beside her bed.

Ana suddenly clutched her chest, gasping for air, and Gideon pitched forward to grab the alert button from her side. Before he could reach it, she knocked it to the floor out of his reach.

"I'm not crazy," she said looking up at his face. She was wheezing a little but growing calmer, getting herself under control again. She lowered her hand and dug her fingers into the blankets. "I know what's happened to me. I know what's real and what isn't. I know I'm awake."

The last part sounded as if Ana was on the verge of tears. They weren't close by any means and he didn't know what to do – if he should leave or comfort her. He wasn't prepared to help anyone in her situation.

But I can't leave her alone.

He watched as she hung her head and began to cry.

"I know I'm awake," she whispered. "I know I'm awake."

Gideon stood by her bedside and said nothing.

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