A/N: So sorry for the gap, really… this poor chapter has been sitting in my documents for like four months untouched. I only just had time to finish it. However, before everyone goes on reading, I have to say a very special thank you to Anna! She made a fanfic trailer for Volatile; you can go watch it on youtube (.com/watch?v=DIXbIFZ_1I0 ). It is truly haunting, and I can't say enough good things about it. Thank you, Anna, you are disturbingly talented!

Anyway, folks… hope you enjoy!

Part XIII

Delta Air, Flight to Mexico City

[ Now ]

"I know you must hate me right now."

"You have no idea what I'm feeling," Arthur knows his words are bitter, and clipped, but it is far beyond his control. Dom sits across from him, rather matter-of-factly. He borders on clinical, the way he regards Arthur in such a quiet, calculating study; as though he is watching the other for signs of a second breakdown. Arthur refuses to give him that. He leans over the table, and rolls his loaded die again, perhaps for the thousandth time today. Dom shifts in his seat, and looks like he wants to say something.

"Arthur, I'm sorry," are the words, but there is nothing of an apology in his tone. "I don't expect you to forgive me anytime soon. I made a call, and it turned out to be the wrong one, and for that I am sorry. Beyond that, I don't know what you expect me to say."

Arthur flicks his eyes over to the other, blankly, and rubs his forefinger across his upper lip. He is still contemplating the gravity of the current situation, still trying to put the events of this day into a context he can process. The truth is, Dom need not apologize. Arthur has trusted him for over a decade now, and that trust has never been broken, not once. It is impossible to hold this against him now, in any form, because after everything—after Mal, after Eames, and every event and tragedy and triumph that has lead them to this very time and place, Arthur knows, deep down, that he would have made the same call. He would have wanted, above everything, to spare Dom the agony, and the regret; and yet he cannot bring himself to admit as much to the other man. He has hardly spoken since they left his San Diego apartment and headed for the airport, not out of anger, or resentment, but because he simply doesn't know what to say. He can't begin to find the right words. Dom seems to sense this, and as the moments pass in silence, he is the one to break it.

"If you would like," he begins slowly, testing each word before fully speaking it. "I can tell you what to expect when we walk into that room."

Arthur keeps his eyes on the window, on the miles and miles of earth and ocean passing beneath them, but does not object. Dom waits a moment before continuing.

"It's not like Chicago," he says, and Arthur rolls his eyes and cannot help a wry half-laugh. As if Dom knew what Chicago was like. "They dug some rounds out of him, but his vital organs weren't hit. The, uh… the shooter… from what I was able to determine," Dom clears his throat, and sits up a little, keeping his eyes steady on Arthur's reactions. "Toyed with him first. Tried to, ah… tried to break him for information on the rest of us."

Arthur closes his eyes, and draws in a deep breath, fighting off a rising nausea in the back of his throat. His hand moves from his lip to cover his eyes, and he ducks his chin. He braces himself for what he does not want to hear, and asks anyway, "What did they do to him?"

"When Eames retaliated he was disarmed. There was a struggle, and when the shooter finally got close enough he overpowered him—"

"What did he do to him?"

"He fired a hollow-point into his thigh, point blank. His femur was shattered. He should've bled out there, but the hit man had the presence of mind to tie off the wound and staunch the bleeding. They wanted him alive, it seems," he pauses long enough to run both hands through his hair, and when Arthur looks at him again he can see the Extractor's eyes have glazed a bit. He has been dreading this conversation from the moment he learned this information. "He was put under, but didn't break. He got away, and they had to remove what little bone was left and replace it with a titanium rod. Chances are he will walk again, but… it will never be the same. He has a long road ahead."

"This is what you couldn't tell me?" Arthur snaps, and snatches his die up in his hand. Dom is silent, and his expression does not falter. Arthur inhales sharply, and leans back in his seat. "There's more, isn't there."

"There were burns. Some of them third degree. They covered his legs, his torso. He has some skin grafts, some scars. His shoulder and neck got it pretty bad. His hands," he glances down a moment, as if trying to decide how to continue. "He's not out of the woods, Arthur. He's on anti-biotics, to prevent infection. He's already had to fight off a few. He's going to be in there a while longer. Last I heard they were going to chemically induce a coma, to allow time for his body to heal…"

Arthur can still hear the words Dom is speaking, but his thoughts have drifted elsewhere. He remembers seeing Eames in that bed, in recovery eight years ago, in Chicago. He remembers how Eames, when finally conscious, tried to make Arthur smile despite being laid up and torn apart by gunshot wounds. How Eames succeeded once even, enough to make Arthur laugh. Arthur remembers the guilt, heavy and unrelenting. He remembers lying awake at night, in the chair across from Eames' bed, and how he longed to trade places with the other man.

And yet, Cobb insists this is not Chicago.

CHICAGO, USA

February [ 8 years ago ]

When he hears the knock at the door Arthur closes his book, makes sure he is at the very least presentable, and opens the door. He takes one look at Eames, and at the obvious tremors of effort and pain being masked by the same grin he has presented for years, and comes very close to walking away. However, because Arthur is physically incapable of doing so, he simply says, in the flattest tone he can muster, "What in God's name are you doing?"

"What? They told me I could."

Arthur is not impressed by this, and so he allows his expression to knot into further disapproval. "They told you it was okay."

"Yes, they said I could start moving around a little more. After all, it's been almost two months," Eames' grin widens, and Arthur regards him skeptically.

"Moving around. A little more."

"Yes that my potential for mobility was increasing by the day. Doctor's words, verbatim."

"…Right, well. I'm not a doctor, but I'm fairly certain that meant things like, oh, helping yourself out of your wheelchair, or walking yourself to the bathroom. I don't think he was giving you permission to stroll out the front door, hail a cab, come all the way downtown to the hotel I'm staying in, walk three flights of stairs, and then come knocking on my door."

"Well, you just admitted you're not a doctor, darling, you've thrown all credibility out the window," Eames is leaning heavily against the doorframe now, and trying not to make it apparent he is, at the very least, moderately uncomfortable. "But for your information, the elevators are working again, so I didn't walk three flights of stairs. Besides, sometimes you've got to give your body the credit it deserves, and take it out for a test drive to see where the line is."

"Ahuh," Arthur tilts his head, pointedly. "So where is the line?"

"Apparently I've crossed it, I'm fucking exhausted. Help me in?"

Eames pushes himself off of the doorframe, and gingerly takes a step inside. In the end, Arthur has to loop an arm behind his back to help him support his own weight, and together, with unsteady, carefully coordinated steps, they make it to the chair. Just before trying to lower him into it, Eames' body bends in way his scar tissue, stitches, and unused muscles disagree with, and Arthur has to steer him to the bed. Eames lands with a slight 'oof', and pulls himself onto the queen sized mattress by his elbows, while the Point Man lifts his legs to join his body.

Arthur watches him get settled, but does not settle himself. Instead, he stands over him with his arms crossed. "So. Why are you here?"

"I think the better question is why are you still here?" Eames' face has thinned out a bit, which makes his lips seem even fuller when they pull into a lopsided grin. "Dom took off. Mal followed a few weeks later, and I assumed you would be following them… yet, you're here, a month after everyone else deemed me stable enough to leave alone."

Arthur shrugs, not uncrossing his arms. He is casual, letting the question roll right off of him. "There's not a job right now, I don't have too much going on. I just figured you might as well have someone here when they finally release you," he nods at Eames as the other attempts to sit up a little higher. "You know that just because you can walk around some it doesn't mean you're entirely healed. You're traumatizing muscles you haven't used in two months, and tissue that's been ripped through and sewn back together. These stunts you like to pull aren't going to make it any easier on yourself."

"Well neither is sitting on my hind parts watching Judge Judy," Eames sounds somewhat defensive.

"Well, that's why there's such a thing as physical therapy. You can't go from zero to a hundred; you have to work up to it."

"And you can't expect me to go from a hundred to zero, either," Eames is finally confident in his upright position, finally having straightened himself up—his back rests against the headboard, but his fists are curled into the mattress, and there is a barely visible tremor flowing through his arms as he helps keep the weight off of his torso. Arthur cannot help but make a too-casual attempt to avert his eyes. He has visited Eames once or twice in the hospital, but that is about all he can handle at this juncture. The sight of the Forger two months ago, fresh out of surgery and white as the sheets he lay on, hooked up to a ventilator with a machine breathing for his battered body is one Arthur cannot shake. It is the reason Arthur has stayed behind and allowed the others to go: because it should have been him that night, and it should have been him in that bed. It should be him, now, hobbling around the city and losing his mind trying to recover. "And besides, I took this little field trip to let you see firsthand that I am fast on the mend, and you can leave me at any time you choose."

"I know that," is the flat reply, and Arthur's irritation is not lost on Eames, and the other man squints at him, and tilts his head.

"You do."

"Yes."

"Then did you also know that what happened to me was not your fault, and it was my choice to take those rounds, and I don't regret a goddamn moment of that night, and that I would do it again? So there is really no reason for you to keep looking at me like that," his finger flies up between them, and leers accusingly at Arthur's distant stare. "That, right there, that anger-pity-guilt thing you do. And don't bother denying it; it doesn't take a psychologist to see you're harboring plenty of that, along with a hefty dose of resentment towards me for doing the damn thing in the first place."

Arthur feels his shoulders tense up, and his nose and upper lip scrunch like he just tasted bad medicine. "Harboring resentment? Hardly—but yeah, I was pissed. I was pissed that we let our guard down long enough for them to get the drop on us. I was pissed that, even when I was kneeling on the pavement holding your guts in, you found the situation fucking funny. And I'm still pissed because, based on all of that, I know you would do it again—"

"Why don't you just see this for what this is, and let it be, Arthur," Eames cuts him off, and Arthur has to turn his head away again, and ultimately, turns his back on Eames to keep from seeing him struggle to come to his feet. He does, and manages a step or two in the Point Man's direction. "Accept it, and move on."

"Accept what," his neck turns a little, and he can see the other man from the corner of his eye. Even at an optical disadvantage, he can see how Eames' form has shrank from the last two months of recovery, and yet the man still finds it in him to stand with his feet wide apart, and his hands resting on his hips.

"That I took a bullet for you," the words hit Arthur like a cold wave, and sink into him slow and painful. Eames does not let up. "And that I didn't do it to get you into bed, and I didn't do it because of some bizarre need to protect you, I took it—them, in fact—because you are one of only two people on this planet I would take a bullet for. I care about you, if you haven't noticed."

The room is suddenly silent. Distantly, the sound of sirens and traffic float up from three floors down. Arthur clears his throat.

"I did notice, when you were coming on to me not two minutes before it all went down," Not even Arthur knows if he is attempting to make a joke. Luckily, Eames' posture relaxes a little, and he can turn around to face the Forger again.

"Well that's a little below the belt, don't you think?" Eames' wounded expression triggers that stab of guilt again, and Arthur rolls his eyes, running a hand through his hair. Before he can mutter out a half-assed apology, "You think that's all this is, don't you?"

"All what is," exhaustion is seeping through the cracks of his logical exterior. Emotions are exhausting, which is why Arthur seldom gives into them. Eames, however, seems to never tire of them, and is staring him down, narrowed gray eyes searching his face and body language down to the last crease between his eyebrows.

"Well, then—allow me to drop my playful, cool tone, my terms of endearment, and my charm long enough to make this unmistakably clear to you: there is no question of whether or not I'm attracted to you, I am. When I say I care about you, I'm not trying to tell you, yet again, that I am attracted to you. I care about you because you know what I am, and you don't cringe away from it. You accept me, without prejudice, you work beside me, fight beside me, have drinks with me after a job. You've stitched up knife wounds and let me sleep off my binges on your couch. You've watched my back impeccably. And when the time came, I returned the favor. You are my friend, Arthur, my closest if you must know, and that, I should think, trumps the pet names, and the ass-grabbing, and the bloody tries to kiss you every blue moon."

Arthur is silent, dark head inclined and his hands buried in his pockets. He knows Eames is awaiting his response, because Arthur is seldom without one—he can usually snap right back at Eames without hesitation, and that seems to be what Eames is bracing him for. After a moment or two, Arthur's chin ducks a little further, and while his gaze does not move from his wing-tips, he offers a quiet apology.

"I'm sorry," it is all he can say. "You're right, I'm sorry."

Eames snorts, and with quite a bit of effort he slowly backs himself onto the bed, and lowers heavily to sit in a position that keeps weight off of his torso. "Another beautifully made point bites the dust."

Arthur half turns toward him, and his stare is a thousand yards past the window now. He has been dreading this moment not only because Eames is here to bear witness, but because he does not enjoy dwelling in the past. He does not often let himself back there, because he knows firsthand how even reality has a limbo.

Finally, "You don't… remember much… after getting shot. Do you?"

Eames frowns, thoughtful. "Not really, no. There are flashes, but," a light chuckle, wry and ironic. "They may've only been dreams." Arthur's expression has darkened, and so Eames offers, "What is it you remember, Arthur?"

"Everything. I remember the blood running into my clothes. I remember how every time you took a breath, you'd lose a little more blood. I remember the heat of your blood, the way it smelled, because I've watched you die so many times in the dreamscape I was used to it. The thing…" he trails off, words sticking in his throat. Eames is only listening, quietly. "…the thing I wasn't used to, the thing that turned out to be such an all-new mind fuck was that this was real. That you were dying. It was a scenario I couldn't come up with a plan for. I realized it was… an impossible scenario, because I plan for every scenario. This one… I couldn't think of anything beyond the ambulance arriving. I'm not telling you what went down that night, the aftermath, your surgery, it's not necessary; but, maybe after admitting this, now you can see how I felt. How I feel."

Arthur does not look at him, even after he is finished speaking, and Eames does not bother him to. They sit in a comfortable silence, because Arthur has said all he really can, and Eames knows as much. Despite outward appearances, the Forger does not always derive pleasure from making the Point Man uncomfortable; and yet, sometimes, he does it for the right reason. Eames leans forward a little, and does not wince.

"Thank you," he says, gentle, and with respect. "Thank you for saving my life."

Arthur's stare breaks, and he is brought back into reality. Without smiling, or changing expression, he simply replies, "And thank you for saving mine."

Challapalca Prison

Peru

[Seven Months before the Diehl Job]

When Arthur had received the first words of the Forger's whereabouts, a chill ran through his entire body and imprinted in his memory. He had not wanted to call Cobb at first, knowing what the Extractor would have to say about the grim situation, and when he did the older man did not disappoint.

"He would've been better off killed in the chair," Cobb had murmured on the other end of the line. "I'll see what I can do, make some calls. You still talk to your old pals?" What he had meant by Arthur's 'old pals' were contacts he had in the Central Intelligence Agency, whom on several occasions pulled strings to get him set up with aliases, or access into embassies. It had been a long shot from the beginning—Eames had been incarcerated in Challapalca for just over two months, and the facility itself made very little effort to change the world's perception of it. High altitudes, harsh conditions inside and out, and a general neglect of human rights were all a common knowledge to the rest of the world, and just before hanging up the phone, Cobb warned him, "He may be dead, Arthur. Prepare yourself."

It took just under a day for Arthur's connection to set him up a badge, papers, and a passport for a one "Mr. James". His cover was extradition of a prisoner as a matter of National Security. This was one favor he was going to owe on until the day he died. Arthur went alone with Cobb's voice shouting in his head not to jump the gun, because he hadn't even arranged an exit strategy; but Arthur, usually patient and a thinker, rather than a doer, politely blew him off. In the days before, Arthur might have waited, might have even trusted Eames to sort this out himself, but things were different now. Job or no job, he should not have left the other alone as long as he had without so much checking in to see if he was dead or alive.

As it happens, Eames is not dead.

He is in one of the old interrogation rooms, eight by ten, on the other side of a cracked two-way mirror. His posture suggests he has been here many times before and that perhaps at first he would lean back easily in the chair with a lop-sided smirk and let them waste their time questioning, guessing, coercing, but now he is tired. Exhausted, even. He only seems healthy in that he has not lost any muscle mass; in fact, it looks like he has gained some. His head has been shaved, and it looks like his hair is only just beginning to come back. Eames doesn't even glance up around the room or even at the mirror as if wondering when what face will come through the door. He coughs, once, twice, and suddenly his body is overtaken in spasms of a horrendous sound—a cough that looks positively agonizing. Arthur keeps himself in check.

"I'm sure you're well acquainted with this facility's reputation," the warden is a smaller man, with slicked black hair and a large nose with a bump that seems to hold up his glasses. He speaks very good English, and there is a tinge of cruelty lining the edge of every word. He would have to be, to survive here. "But your American has been treated with the utmost hospitality, I assure you."

"He's sick," Arthur says, dispassionately. The warden gives a little shrug, and nods to the guard to unlock the door.

"A touch of pneumonia. Hardly something to worry about behind these walls."

"So I've heard," Arthur takes a step forward, but the warden moves an arm between him and the door. He pauses, expression blank. "Was there something else?"

"Yes. Extraction is not taken lightly by our government. I was told he would be returned to us, once your people get what they need from him."

"And he will be."

"Mr. James," the warden's voice is sheer and light, and veiling a threat. "I have an understanding of how these things usually go about. You say he threatens your National Security, and I'm sure that's true," his tone tells otherwise, and a chill rises on the back of Arthur's neck, and travels the length of his spine. "But we intend to have him pay for his crimes here. Rest assured, if you don't come to us, we will come to you."

"Sir, he will be returned to you when our government no longer sees him as a threat-"

"He killed six people, Mr. James. Including the beloved son of our ambassador. We expect him to serve here, and if the court deems it just, die here."

Arthur feels himself tensing with every long moment that passes. He forces a relaxed smile. "You have the word of the United States. Excuse me."

The door opens to reveal Eames much like he was, and when the bleary eyes roll up to Arthur he is instinctively unresponsive. Not even a flicker of surprise. Arthur puts his briefcase down, and pulls out the chair across from Eames.

"I was wondering when you people would show up," Eames' voice is all gravel, but he is pulling his best American accent. Arthur raises both brows, and snorts.

"We're not here for your body count in Peru, Mr. Eames. These are very specific incidents. You will be briefed on the chopper." He wants so badly to ask how he has been—how he got those deep bone bruises, and how his shoulder was laid open. He can't so much as blink in reaction to the other's appearance, it would shatter his credibility. "Now get up."

Eames gingerly raises from the table, and his worn clothing is practically thread bare. For the climate in these mountains, it is a pure form of torture. His first steps are racked with violent coughs, and it takes every fiber of Arthur's will to stop from reaching out and allowing the other man to lean on him for support. Eames does not bother; he knows their lives depend on it. The buzzer sounds over their heads, and the heavy door is opened with the warden blocking the entrance. Arthur just exhales through his nose, and lets his hand rest halfway into his pocket, patiently awaiting another menacing threat.

"Peru will be very much looking forward to your return, Mr. Eames," he says, gently. "And make no mistake—you will return. That, I can promise you."

Eames, still in cuffs with his battered visage aimed at the floor, manages to roll his eyes up to the warden and give a nasty, split-lipped smile. "Blow me, would you please?"

"Alright, that's enough. Warden," Arthur nods one last time at the other man before taking Eames roughly by the arm and leading him out the interrogation room. It is a quiet walk down through security, and then onto the launch pad. Quiet, but hurried. Arthur cannot risk any second thoughts the warden may have about his identity, and when they reach the empty launch pad he cannot contain himself any longer. He glances at his watch, and then over at Eames, who is trying to keep his bound arms as close to his body as possible, pale and even trembling a little in the cold.

"Eames. What the hell happened over here?"

"Oh—you know the story. One minute you think you're taking on some golden opportunity to make a lot of money, and the next you realize you're actually being tricked into an assassination plot. Trouble was I couldn't get out after I realized I was some wanker's patsy."

"Who hired you?"

"The benefactor behind the magic never came forward. Should've been my first clue. Some Polish bloke."

"He said something about you killing six people."

Eames cracks a pained smile, and a wheezing laugh followed. "The target wasn't one of them. His son was killed in the crossfire, but not by me. It seemed like the only way out at the time."

"And in hindsight?"

"In hindsight it was a blunder that cost me the lives of two team members and nearly my own. Faulty research on my Point's part."

"Won't be working with him again, then."

"Well, no, Arthur, he's dead. Paid for his mistake," Eames shrugs, and just for a moment there is a ghost of regret behind his eyes. "Wasn't his fault. Just green was all."

"I'm sorry," Arthur says, and narrows his eyes against the wind chill, searching the skies for any sign of his arranged transportation. It should've been here by now, but then again, Dom told him not to rush in. When he hears the familiar sounds of the blades of the chopper spitting through the air he can barely hold back an audible sound of relief, and steps back a few paces as it comes into position. "This isn't going to pretty. If Peru's government is as Hell bent as they sounded on bringing you back here—" Eames begins to chuckle, and the hideous sound of laughter in his raw throat cuts Arthur off. "I'm really not seeing where laughter is appropriate here, at all, really."

"That's because you're not standing where I am," Eames' voice is almost drowned out by the helicopter, and when he ducks his head to board it Arthur follows, keeping a hand on the small of his back and guiding him into his seat. His pale lips crack into a wide smile as he settles in, and Arthur just frowns, buckling himself in. "I'm in a helicopter, sitting beside you in a lovely controlled climate, warm. There are so many reasons to laugh, Arthur."

"It's Mr. James until we land," Arthur says, almost coldly, but he is not the one to break eye contact. He forces his own rigid upright position, even as Eames begins to sink a little. "Try not to act too enthusiastic."

"Of course not," Eames croaks through that smile, and his gaze drops off into his laugh, and his laughter is strained; a chortled wheeze from a bloodied grin. "An hour ago, I…" the chortles turn into short, rattling coughs, and the smile bleeds off his face. "An hour ago…" the Forger's words are cut off by merciless coughing, and he brings a shaking hand to cover his mouth as his body is racked with them, and he closes his eyes tight, folding within himself, hunching over and bringing his knees together so his elbows my rest on them. Arthur sits stiffly beside him, only giving him sidelong glances until he quiets down. The coughing subsides, and Eames is reduced to quick, wheezing gasps, and his trembling hand travels up to cover his eyes, while his other runs over the stubble of his shaved scalp.

It takes Arthur a moment to realize that Eames is not stifling coughs; he is stifling sobs, uncontrollable, soft, and broken, so quiet they are barely audible. It is startling, because Arthur has never seen this before. In the darkest of their days, he has never seen Eames break, not like this. He wonders what could have possibly happened here, after everything they have seen and done together, to force this release.

And yet he doesn't want to ask. Eames has spent time in the military, time in prison, has been tortured before, physically, and mentally, and managed to come out the other side Teflon. He does not want to find out what could crack him.

"Eames," Arthur says, his voice firm and even. The Forger does not seem to hear him, and so he leans in a little. He can feel the heat of the other—the clammy heat of a fever breaking, and he wraps a hand around the other's bicep. His skin is still cold. "Eames. An hour ago you knew I was coming to get you. You just didn't know it would be today."

Eames nods, and lifts his head, catching his breath and swiping a dirty hand passed his eyes, despite not having actually shed a tear. "I know."

"When we get to the states we'll be in El Paso. From there we have to get to the hospital, get you checked out," Arthur feels a twinge of shame when Eames only nods silently, and turns to look out the window at the distant ground passing below them. It had taken everything in him to not break down in joy and relief to see Arthur, and all the Point Man can do is stick to cold protocol, and chastise him at the first hint of emotion. He takes a deep breath, and unbuckles his seat belt, giving the pilot one last glance around the barrier of the seat to make sure they are not being watched before he moves closer to Eames. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you sooner."

Eames' eyes shift over his shoulder to Arthur; bloodshot, and fatigued, from the inside out. "Arthur," he says just as quietly, and blinks slow, and bleary, as if he is about to succumb to the exhaustion. "Don't start getting soft on me."

He begins to sink again, as if his body cannot seem to hold itself up any longer, and his chin begins to droop to his chest, eyes still fighting to stay open. Arthur gently takes him by the arm, and reaches around to his shoulder, guiding his body downward to lie on his side, and allows the Forger's head to rest on his thigh. "Now what did I just say," Eames mumbles into the material of Arthur's pants, sleepily, as if he has already drifted off. Arthur just snorts, and runs his palm over the soft stubble of Eames' shorn hair, running his thumb softly over the temple.

"Go to sleep, Mr. Eames," he says, and Eames does. He sleeps like he has not slept in months.

Ensenada, Mexico

[ Now ]

"What were you before me?"

"I was a dreamer."

"A dreamer," his soft chuckle. The crinkle in his eyes just before he rolls them to the side, to let Eames know how silly he is being. "A dreamer, not a Forger, or Extractor. A Dreamer?"

"A dreamer," Eames murmurs, flat on his back with his head on a soft pillow, and the Arthur beside him, stifling a laugh. "A dreamer. I dreamt the world in fantasies. I dreamt a world of beauty, and solace, and time that slowed down or rushed by as I wished."

"You dreamt of an impossible happiness," Arthur interrupts, and yet Eames is still happy. "You dreamt of the impossible when you met me."

"Only of the improbable, darling," he lets the words roll off his tongue, and Arthur only smiles. It is warm, and safe. "With you, impossible simply does not exist."

The smile melts from Arthur's face. His voice begins to grow harsh. "Jonathan. Wake up," he says, low at first, before he leans in and gives Eames a shake. "Jonathan… Jonathan!"

"What—why are you calling me that?"

"Wake up, wake up!" Arthur growls, panicked, and almost disembodied. "Wake up, Jonathan, now-"

Maria is across the room, and when she turns around, and his focus begins to return he can see that her face has been struck, and her eyes are beginning to darken, and swell. He cannot seem to force his mouth to open, and before he can even think to speak she asks him, evenly, "Can you walk?"

There is a burning in his right arm, somewhere, in the fog that is his perception, and he swallows—his throat is dry, and feels like it has almost swollen shut, sticking to itself. Maria's eyes pan over him once more; as if she is not convinced he can hear her. She steps closer.

"Jonathan," she reaches down to touch his forehead, and pulls the skin of his eyelids up, letting the painful bright light flood in. Eames hisses, and twists away from her grip, screwing his eyes shut. The burning in his arm is becoming more intense. "Jonathan, can you walk?" She speaks in a whispered hush, an alien tone.

"Not," he does not hear the word escape his lips right away, and so he swallows again, and clears his throat. "Not well…"

"But can you?"

He does not understand why she is asking him this, but he shakes his head, and flutters his eyelids, attempting to adapt to the light. "I don't think so."

"You'll have to. Get up," she doesn't wait for a response before throwing back his blankets, and a rush of cold air replaces the warmth. He groans, and pulls at his arm. It is handcuffed to the bed rail.

"My arm," he mumbles, and looks over to see her pulling out an IV. "Why does my arm hurt?"

"It is to counteract the pain medication. They wanted to keep you sedated," Maria slides the needle out, and ignores the little trickle of blood that follows. She produces a pick with her other hand, and in a moment he is free of the cuff. She takes his hand and grips him hard, pulling him gently but firmly toward her in a sitting position. He feels weightless, and heavy, and when he first comes to sit he begins to feel sick and dizzy. The pain crawls back to his senses, all over his body, and he starts to cry out but Maria shushes him harshly. "Quiet! We are going to get you up, and it is going to hurt, but you must stay quiet, do you understand? Jonathan, get up-!"

He clenches his teeth, and bites back against the waves of pain that try to bring him down, unsteadily, moving his leg over the side, first one and then the other. The tightness of his healing skin and the sharp, debilitating pain in his thigh burns through him, and forces him to clarity.

"Get up, get up," she goads him, and the urgency in her tone releases a prickle of fear in the back of his mind. Something is wrong. It finally begins to dawn on him. Something is terribly, terribly wrong. "Come on, get up!"

She manages to pull him to his feet, and he almost falls forward at first, but is able to steady himself with a hand on the bed rail. His legs shake, his body shakes, and the pain is near unbearable. The pain is consuming, and sickening, and it takes his breath away.

"Now," she breathes. "Take a step toward me."

"What are you not telling me?" he tries to ask, gingerly sliding a foot forward, and the other follows, following heavily. This time he does cry out, and almost loses his balance. After a moment, "Maria, tell me what is happening!"

"Twenty agents of the Mexican government are here to extradite you. They wish to take you back to Peru, where you will stand trial," she turns away, and is leaning over a black duffle bag perched on the visitor's chair. "We're going to get you out of here before they do. I will cut your hair, and dress you in scrubs, and you will exit this hospital as subtly and artfully as you have always done, I have brought you scrubs. You will be a shadow, and by the time they realize you are gone, you will already be in the next city."

Eames' heart has dropped into the pit of his belly. His blood runs cold. "How did they find me?"

"Come here," she says, guiding him to the chair and plugging a battery into the shears. "Diehl told them, before his untimely death, that you were still alive—that you and you alone were responsible for the Peru boy's death, and now they have come to collect you. You have to leave."

The pain is stifling, and constant, and he cannot rid himself of it, so he ignores it. Maria is working quickly, and he can feel her hand trembling around the clippers as she takes off his first stripe off already too-long hair. He knows that tremor, the quick speech patterns: she is nervous, because of his situation—and because she is still holding back.

"Maria," he begins, slowly, and uncertain as how to word what is going through his mind. "…How exactly did Anthony Diehl know about my involvement in Peru?" She does not answer immediately, and only continues to shear off his hair. It falls to his shoulders, and then into his lap. He does not turn to look at her, but he closes his eyes, and inhales deeply; he already knows the answer. "Maria. How?"

"The man who funded your Peru extraction," Maria's voice wavers, only slightly, but he can feel the pressure from the clippers begin to bear down on his scalp. "The one who would not come forward with his identity was Anthony Diehl. I did not think you would ever see or hear from him again. It was only after you called me on your way to Tijuana that I realized you had just performed an extraction on him… and by then it was too late. His people knew exactly where to follow you."

"The hit was never about killing me," Eames fills in the blanks. His head begins to hurt, and he reaches up to bring a hand over his eyes. "It was to deliver me back to Peru. To be his scapegoat."

"They wanted to know who else had knowledge of the assassination. To track them down as well, so all of the heat would be taken off Diehl, and his political ambitions would be brought to fruition. Your ally, Mr. Saito tracked down Diehl and his associates, and took them out—when they killed Diehl, the evidence to exonerate you died with him."

"You knew who he was all this time," Eames tries to keep his tone even, but his words only darken. "You could have stopped this months ago, Maria—"

"Jonathan, please," she continues to work quickly, but he can hear her begin to break down. "I did not know. I thought you would never cross paths with him again, even in our line of work—"

"You've signed my death warrant," Eames cuts her off, coldly. When the last piece of his long hair falls to the floor he jerks away from her, and braces his palms onto the arms of the chair, shakily rising to his feet. "Help me dress, will you?"

His words hang in the room, and echo in the silence. Maria's face is stricken, and she can say nothing. Perhaps, by now, Eames expected to be out of this place. Perhaps he had expected Peru to have forgotten him, and for Arthur to come walking through that door any time, and take him home, and his current condition—which is most likely his permanent condition—to be forgotten.

Yet, as he unsteadily sheds his hospital down, and steps into the pair of scrub pants, hardly able to balance long enough to get his weaker leg in, it begins to dawn on him that perhaps these expectations are only the diseased illusions of the dreamer that he was, and the harsh reality follows suit: that Arthur had not found him, because the Point Man accepted his death. That even after the phone call, Arthur still has not called, or come, because he has accepted the reality so entirely that he has moved passed it. He has already grieved for his lover, and the world has already mourned Jonathan Eames, the brilliant Forger and Extractor.

There is only a moment that hangs between them, and then Eames gestures to her for scrub top. He slides into it, robotically, and runs his hands over his newly-shorn hair as he begins to adopt the presence and mannerisms of a room aid. He will leave this place, alive, no matter the price.