Title: Bulletproof
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Word Count: 6317
Rating: T for violence? Language? Possibly?
Summary: Why had he taken a bullet for Eames? Maybe he'd had feelings for him once, but that was a long time ago.
A/N: Let's play 'Spot the Paul Newman quote'! Cookies if you get it. Title from La Roux's "Bulletproof".

He didn't think about it when it happened. He just did it—and that was almost the worst part about it. The mark (awake, awake, far too early, what the fuck) tightened his finger around the trigger of the Glock he'd taken from Arthur's holster and pointed it at a wide-eyed and frozen Eames. Arthur moved. Contrary to what people always said, his life didn't flash before his eyes. There was just a moment of grim realization, that fuck, it was too late to change his mind, he'd actually done this and now he'd have to live (or die) with his choice. Then came the explosion, a deafening crack that reverberated inside his skull, and it was over.

Arthur had been shot enough times in dreams and reality to know what had happened. He didn't feel the pain at first, just the impact, a pressure like somebody had crashed an elephant into his chest. He ignored it, just grit his teeth and forced himself to remain standing so he could ensure everyone else's safety. A split second later, Cobb dove at the mark, tackling him to the ground and wrestling the gun from his hands. That was a relief, at least. The team was safe again. So why was Eames shouting?

"Oh, Arthur. Fuck, Arthur!"

Finally Arthur allowed himself to look down, but he immediately wished he hadn't. As if in reaction, the pain flared up, an unbelievable, nauseating wrench in his chest like somebody'd stuck a knife in him and twisted. Or to be more accurate, like they'd punched a hole through him with a bit of hot metal.

Eames was still yelling. Arthur wanted to shout back at him to shut up, that he wasn't helping anything, but nothing came out. He could feel his mouth moving soundlessly around the words, but he couldn't find the breath to speak them. Then out of nowhere the world started to tilt. What had happened to gravity? Why, when he got his eyes to focus, was he blinking at the ceiling? Other people were talking, and it sounded distant, muted. He thought he heard his name, but he couldn't answer.

"Oh my god," he managed to make out. Something about pressure. A collapsed lung.

"He's going... shock. We need... as soon as possible."

'Oh fuck.'

He was going to die. He hadn't had any time to prepare, no time to say goodbye or put his affairs in order or reconcile with his parents. It was just this—him lying on the floor, hands scrabbling desperately to try and keep his life from seeping out of his body. It seemed so sudden, so thoughtless. Eames' fingers were digging into his shoulders now. He'd screamed himself raw and raspy. Arthur wanted to rage at him, rage at himself over the unfairness of it, but he could feel most of his emotions slipping away. All he really felt was cold and afraid. After a while, he couldn't even feel Eames anymore. And then nothing.

Awareness came in flashes after that.

Pain.

The distant sound of sirens and the vague impression of strange voices shouting above him.

Pain.

"He's lost a... blood. Get ... O negative, no time to type match. You ready?"

Pain.

Fluorescent lights, and a blinding lamp over his head. "Get the anesthesiologist back in here, I think—"

Cold, spiraling numbness, for a long while.

The repetitive whir of machinery. His lungs being forced to work. Pain, like a tidal wave held back by a leaky dam, seeping through the anesthesia.

More darkness.

A steady, comforting beep droning in the background, but otherwise, quiet. Arthur struggled against the sedation and finally managed a sort of half-awareness. He couldn't open his eyes yet, but he was able to glean a bit from what he could hear and feel of his surroundings. He was breathing on his own, which had to be a good sign. The pain was still there, a dull ache in his chest, and the painkillers were light enough that he could feel a hand laced in his. Cobb, maybe? Ariadne? He wanted to know, but he could feel his hold on consciousness slipping even as he was able to twitch his fingers against the mystery person's. Later, then.

The next time Arthur awoke, it was daytime. The light was slanting in through the window, turning the insides of his eyelids red. He mustered a great deal of effort and blinked them open. It was searingly bright at first, and his vision was blurred. Whoever it was earlier was still holding his hand. Arthur waited until his eyes adjusted and focused, and then blinked, as if it might change what he was seeing. He drew in a slow breath. His chest and his throat hurt like a bitch, but he was still able to gasp out a weak and scratchy, "Eames?"

Eames snapped awake. He'd been curled up in the chair by Arthur's bed, and though his hair was sleep-mussed, he was totally alert in an instant.

"Arthur." His voice sounded as terrible as Arthur's did, and presumably he hadn't had a tube down his throat. He gave Arthur's hand a gentle squeeze. Arthur didn't have the energy to shake him off. "Do you remember...?"

Arthur let his eyes drop closed again; the light was giving him a headache. "Shot," he breathed. "In the chest, close range."

"Yeah," came Eames' hoarse response. He seemed almost... reverent. Arthur wasn't quite sure what to make of it. "An couple of inches to the left and it would have been your heart. You'd have died right there. As it was, you only barely made it, seeing as you had a hole through your lung."

Oh.

"But you guys..."

"Yeah, don't talk," Eames chastised him. "I'll explain everything I'm able. Yusuf miscalculated the amount of sedative we needed for the mark, but because it hadn't shown in your research that he was resistant to that particular type."

"Not his fault, then. More mine."

"Shush," Eames hissed a little more forcefully. "Anyway, he was the one who saved your life. Your lung collapsed and you went into shock, and he kept you alive and breathing with a rubber glove and a syringe until the paramedics got to us. He's like bloody MacGyver."

Arthur opened his mouth to ask about their cover, but Eames beat him to it. "Cobb took care of the cleanup. He got Ariadne out of there first, then we moved you in the van to the other end of the city, closer to the hospital. Cobb established us some alibis, and when we called the paramedics we fed them a story about a drug deal gone wrong and you being an innocent bystander.

"Sounds... sounds awfully flimsy," Arthur coughed, then immediately regretted it as his chest was wracked with pain.

Eames made a displeased face. "Whatever Cobb couldn't take care of, Saito will."

Arthur wasn't sure he was satisfied with that answer, but he was too tired to protest further. He glanced down to where Eames was still holding his hand. Eames' eyes were focused on where their fingers were linked, his brow furrowed as if he were in deep thought. "What is it?"

Eames was too distracted to berate him for talking again. "You jumped in front of a bullet for me. You saved my life. Why?"

Well shit. Arthur bit at his lips, because he honestly wasn't sure if he had an answer for that one. Why had he taken a bullet for Eames? Maybe... maybe he'd had feelings for him once, but that was a long time ago. It was probably something that merited a bit more thought than he had brain cells to spare at the moment. Eames glanced at him and seemed to sense just how tired Arthur was.

"...Maybe I'll come back later."

"For... for the best," Arthur sighed, and despite the troubling question, he was asleep even before Eames' hand dropped from his to his side.

The passage of time wasn't easy for Arthur to gauge, but the sun was higher in the sky than it had been the last time he'd opened his eyes, and Eames was wearing different clothes. Save for the sun and the clothes, though, the scene was exactly the same. Eames' fingers were still linked loosely with his. The painkillers had been lowered a bit again. The ache in his chest was dull and constant, but Arthur was secretly glad he could easily feel the pressure of Eames' hand.

"Hey," he said, and his voice came a little easier this time.

Eames dropped the book he was reading and glanced up. "Hey," he answered, full lips curled into a smile. "How are you feeling today?"

"Better," Arthur rasped. "Water?" Eames reached with his free hand for a bottle of water he'd placed on the side table. His own water bottle, likely. He held it tilted so that Arthur could drink from it without it spilling, and he took a few grateful swallows. "Thanks."

They sat in silence for a while, Eames thumbing through his book as well he could with one hand. Arthur tried not to think about what all the hand-holding meant, and it wasn't so difficult to distract himself with all the medication he was on. Eventually someone came in and brought him some soup, which he needed two hands for, but Eames didn't leave. Afterward Arthur drifted in and out of consciousness, watched as the shadows lengthened and nighttime fell. Eames must have gotten up at some point to eat or use the bathroom, but when Arthur was awake, he was there again.

The doctor came in about the time the street lights flicked on outside.

"Mr. Theriot," she said pleasantly, using one of the fake names Arthur kept handy for times like this. "How are you feeling?" She smiled at Arthur, then raised an eyebrow at Eames. Arthur watched Eames as he simply stared right back. Apparently they'd had the discussion of him staying in the room before. Eventually the doctor gave up, and simply moved to the other side of the bed.

"I feel... okay," Arthur said to break the tension. "Just incredibly sore and tired."

"Well, that's to be expected," she nodded, taking a few notes on his clipboard. "I take it Mr. Eames has filled you in a bit about what happened?"

"Yeah." his voice was scratchy, and in the next moment Eames was offering him another sip of water, which the doctor watched with interest. "How's it looking?"

"Good, so far. You needed several units of blood, but your friends were quick about getting you help and they did everything right. You may take quite a while to heal, and obviously we'll need to keep you here for a few more days, but you've got every chance of a full recovery." Arthur nodded gratefully. "How's the pain?"

"Maybe... maybe a four or a five," he grunted.

"Alright, well, I'll see if I can up the dose on your painkillers a bit." The doctor leaned over the bed to adjust the settings on the drip, and when Arthur turned his head to watch her, he saw Eames looking at him with concern. As soon as their eyes met, Eames looked away. He wasn't sure what that was about, but the doctor was talking to him again.

"This is only temporary, but let me know if the pain gets worse again. A nurse will be here in the morning to check on you again, alright?"

"Yeah," Arthur said, but the painkiller was already kicking in and his eyes grew heavy. "Thanks."

Eames was watching him again as he drifted off into a drug-addled sleep. He wanted to know what it meant, but he'd deal with it later.

Waking up in the hospital was never not unsettling to him, but Arthur was relieved to find that once again, Eames was there. "Morning," he grunted, and he tried to stretch a bit but felt the pull on his wound immediately. "Ow."

"Alright?" Eames asked, for once not holding his hand, and holding a bagel instead.

"Yeah." Arthur eyed the bagel hungrily until Eames got the hint and broke him off a piece.

"They're bringing your food in like five minutes," Eames complained as Arthur chewed. Eames retaliated by stealing Arthur's baked apples when they arrived. They ate in companionable silence as the sun climbed higher in the sky.

"So," Eames prompted after they'd finished and the trays had been taken away. "What we were talking about the other day."

Arthur knew exactly what Eames was getting at, and he felt a thread of fear and irritation run through him. He had hoped Eames would forget all about the question of why Arthur had taken the bullet. But Eames was looking at him seriously, too seriously, and Arthur wasn't quite able to maintain eye contact. How was he supposed to explain himself to Eames? How was he supposed to tell him that he'd been a lovesick puppy inside from the moment they'd met, and had spent years trying to get over it when Eames had never been serious about returning the sentiment? If he told the truth, Eames would at best just laugh at him, and Arthur couldn't handle that right now.

"Are you going to tell me?"

"Fuck off," Arthur bit out. His whole left side was starting to throb, and he so wasn't in the mood for this shit. Eames' brows drew together and he leaned back in his chair.

"Arthur," he pressed, his fingers twitching as if he were holding himself back from something. "Don't be a coward."

If attacking Eames wouldn't have been unbearably painful, Arthur might have lobbed a punch at him. "You listen, you fucking listen—" was all he was able to get out before there was a knock on the closed door. Arthur's anger still simmered, but now he was distracted, at least. "Who...?"

"Weeeeell," Eames dragged out, looking displeased at the forced change of subject. Arthur raised an impatient eyebrow. "We didn't want to tire you out, but I've got a surprise."

"...We?"

"Arthur!"

Well, that explained it. Eames schooled his features back to careful neutrality, and Arthur felt his anger melt away as Ariadne came rushing into the room and planted herself in the chair next to Eames'. "They wouldn't let her in till today," Eames elaborated, "but I convinced the doctors that you were well enough to see her."

Arthur spared a fleeting thought to wonder what made Eames an exception, and not Ariadne, but then the tiny young woman latched onto his hand, squeezing it in relief.

"God, I was so worried about you," Ariadne breathed. "We all were. You looked so bad off after it happened, we were sure you were going to die. So I'm really glad you didn't."

"Me too," Arthur said truthfully, and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "But honestly, for being shot in the chest, I feel pretty good."

"That's great," Ariadne beamed. Arthur smiled back; she really was adorable.

Eames pushed out of his chair and strolled toward the door. "The nurse will be in here later to check up on you, Arthur, so I'll give you a few now." His expression was inscrutable, and Arthur watched him go with more interest than he felt willing to admit to. This would be the first time he was awake without Eames being in his room.

When he turned back to Ariadne, she was chewing thoughtfully at her lip. She must have been thinking the same things Arthur was, for after a moment she made a noise of suspicion. "I kind of want to know what Eames said to get the doctors to let him in here. Cobb thinks it was a threat, because they wouldn't let him visit you even though he told them he was your best friend and you had no other family."

Arthur wasn't sure what to say to that, so he stayed silent. For some reason, Ariadne took his silence as proof that, obviously, he wanted to keep talking about it.

"He's hardly left your room, the whole time you were here and they allowed him in. Six days," she said, at his uncertain expression. She was looking at him expectantly, as if she was waiting for him to explain this behavior to her. As if he had all the answers. Finally, when he still didn't respond, Ariadne sighed. "Look, Arthur. Far be it from me to pry, but you took a bullet for him, and he threatened people just so he could stay with you. You guys are... you're together, right? You can be honest."

Arthur blinked at her incredulously. "We're... what?"

"Together?" Ariadne prompted, with an obscene hand motion that had the tips of Arthur's ears burning.

"What? No!" he blustered. "Why would you even think that?" Ariadne just looked at him, unimpressed. He glared back. What she'd said had hit far too close to home. "Listen, Ariadne. I know you've probably got fantasies lurking somewhere in that depraved little mind of yours, but I'm going to tell you how it is."

"I'm all ears."

So was Eames. He felt a pang of guilt for eavesdropping, but it wasn't his fault Ariadne's voice carried. He'd gone to the vending machine and gotten himself a Lipton iced tea (bloody Americans) and contented himself with hanging around outside the door until Ariadne was done or they called him back in, but then he'd heard raised voices and couldn't help himself. They were talking about him.

"I don't know what gave you that impression, but you're wrong," Arthur was saying. He sounded indignant. Angry, almost. "There's nothing going on between us, and I'm not sure why you'd think there ever could be. Eames is... He flirts with everyone; he doesn't really care about me. He's only around now because he's guilty, I'm sure. And you know what? Maybe taking that bullet was a mistake, because obviously he wouldn't have done the same for me or anyone else. He only looks out for himself. You might think he's charming, but he's still just a con man."

Eames felt every word hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. Ariadne sounded surprised and dismayed, convinced Arthur hadn't really meant it, but Eames heard the conviction behind all the vitriol. Maybe it had been irrational to start with, thinking Arthur might have felt something for him, but Eames had fucked up worse before. So why did it hurt so much? Why did it feel as if his whole world had crashed down around him? Eames bit at his lip, rubbing at his eyes to keep the moisture away. So Arthur thought he was just a con man. Why not fulfill his expectations and cut his losses? Run away?

Eames was used to making split-second decisions with life altering consequences. Whether this was wrong or right was inconsequential; it would hurt either way. But some band-aids needed to be ripped off. He grit his teeth and strode back into Arthur's room.

"Eames," Ariadne squeaked, and Arthur jerked his angry gaze toward the forger as he entered. Arthur was not in the mood to deal with Eames right now, but something in the forger's expression gave him pause. Eames was smiling, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. Arthur was wary and Ariadne looked almost guilty as Eames strode over and snagged his book off Arthur's bedside table. Arthur was about to ask him what the hell his problem was, when there was another knock on the door.

"Mr. Theriot," a nurse called softly. "I'm here to check on you." She smiled politely at Eames and Ariadne as she came in, but very purposefully left a gap between them and the door. "If I can ask you guys to leave, just for the meantime? Mr. Theriot's doing well, but he does need his rest."

Ariadne opened her mouth to protest, but Eames cut in. "Quite alright. I was just leaving."

"Leaving?"

"Yes, love," Eames grinned, patting Ariadne on the head. "Got a phone call for a job in Siberia. Urgent business. Contracting," he added for the benefit of the puzzled nurse. "Arthur," he nodded, and left the way he'd come. And if Arthur hadn't been looking for it, he might not have seen the tightness around Eames' eyes as he ducked through the door. Suddenly, it clicked. Eames had heard.

There was a moment of strained silence as the nurse checked Arthur's heart monitor and blood pressure, but even she soon sensed that something was up.

"I'll come back in a minute if you need a little more time to visit," she said, and bustled from the room.

As soon as the nurse was gone, Ariadne rounded on him. "Arthur," she spat, like his name was a profanity. "Did you see his face? The way he looked at you?"

Arthur's immediate reaction was to want to turn defensive and deny it, but even he wasn't a liar. "What about it?"

Ariadne shook her head. "I can't believe you. He loves you, Arthur. You might not think it's possible to hurt somebody like Eames, but it is. You can be a real bastard sometimes, you know that?"

Arthur was stunned into silence. It didn't take much imagination to reconcile the petite, normally mild-mannered woman in front of him with the one who had browbeaten Cobb into submission during the Fischer job. Frankly, she was intimidating, and for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, Arthur felt helpless. What was he supposed to do? Ariadne continued to stare at him, and so Arthur closed his eyes. If he concentrated, he could feel Eames' fingers laced with his, the gentle reassuring pressure the only constant besides the pain. He couldn't remember much from immediately after he was shot, but he remembered Eames screaming himself hoarse over his body. He couldn't forget it, and some part of him had remembered it even in the middle of his tirade to Ariadne. Examining his feelings was the problem. He wasn't supposed to like Eames, because Eames couldn't love him. Could he? But now, in light of what happened, all his excuses seemed feeble.

"I wanted it to be real," he said quietly, and Ariadne's features softened a bit.

"What do you mean?"

"The things he did. Staying by my side, holding my hand, and even before what happened. The flirting. I–I wanted it to mean something, but I was afraid it didn't. I didn't know how to handle Eames. I couldn't tell when he was serious... but I wanted him to be."

Ariadne leaned forward in her chair and took Arthur's hand in hers. She looked him in the eyes again, but this time she wasn't angry, just searching. "Do you care about him?"

Arthur let out a tired sigh. "...Yes."

"Then you know what you have to do, right?"

"I've got to apologize," Arthur swallowed. Fuck, this wasn't going to be fun. "But how am I supposed to do that? I don't exactly have the means to go chasing him down."

Ariadne let out an exasperated sigh. "Men. Alright, hold on!" And before Arthur could ask her what she thought she was doing, she launched herself out of her chair and after Eames.

There was no sign of him in the hallways leading from Arthur's room, so Ariadne sprinted past stern-looking orderlies to the waiting area. Cobb and Yusuf were lounged across one of the couches playing pinochle. "Hey," she panted, bracing her hands on her knees. "Have you seen Eames go past here?"

Cobb blinked at her out-of-breath state. "Yeah, he just left, actually. He stopped to tell us he'd gotten a call from somebody in Belize about a job. Seemed kind of in a hurry."

"Belize?" Ariadne rolled her eyes. Eames couldn't even keep his lies straight. "Be right back!"

"Wait, what's this about?" Cobb called after her, but she had already rounded the corner in a flurry of long brown hair and Converse. Cobb raised his eyebrows at Yusuf, who just shrugged.

"Don't ask me."

Eames heard Ariadne calling his name as he stepped inside the elevator, but he didn't acknowledge her. He liked her, he really did, but frankly he didn't care what she had to say to him right now.

"Eames, wait!" she called again as he turned to press the elevator button for the first floor. "Wait, please!" Finally they locked eyes, and she looked so earnest that Eames stuck a foot in the doors with a sigh. They slid back open and Ariadne skidded to a halt just outside. Eames didn't say anything, just looked at her.

"It's Arthur," she said awkwardly. "He wants to talk to you." Eames must have looked unconvinced, because she added, "I really think you should go."

Arthur had gotten one thing right—Eames never did forget to look out for himself. He liked to spare himself pain, if he could help it. It's what made running away so damn easy to do. But something in Ariadne's expression was significant enough that Eames found himself thinking twice about it. Eames wasn't stupid; he knew better than to hope for anything good. But after all, it couldn't get much worse. And he might have died a long time ago if he didn't believe that when you were at rock bottom, the only place to go was up. If Ariadne noticed his hands were shaking, she didn't say anything.

"Alright."

Arthur prided himself on being a pretty level-headed guy. He'd come out to his parents at sixteen—they hadn't taken it well. Neither had they been too thrilled when he'd told them he was joining the Army. He'd been the first to know when Mal died, had been waiting with a mug of coffee and a silent hug the next time he'd seen Cobb. He'd killed and died in dreams, killed and nearly died in reality. And yet none of it had shaken his perceptions, none of it left him so unsure and unbalanced as having to look Eames in the face now.

Eames was silent, passive as he moved to stand near the foot of Arthur's bed. Arthur tried reading into his expression and his body language this time instead of jumping to conclusions. At first glance Eames seemed relaxed, but the curl of his fingers into fists and the subtle way his feet were pointed toward the door belied the fact that he was probably as anxious now as Arthur was.

"So," he said, when Eames' placid facade began to unnerve him.

"So."

Arthur let out a little self-deprecating chuckle. "Ariadne told me I can be a bastard sometimes. I think she may have been right." Eames just snorted. It was disheartening, but Arthur continued. "You heard everything I said."

It wasn't a question, but Eames answered with a strained, "Yeah."

Arthur scrounged together all his remaining willpower to meet Eames' slate gray eyes. "I was lying."

"Bullshit," Eames spat, the first real emotion he'd shown. He moved in closer to Arthur's bed, whether unconsciously or no. "Every word out of your mouth, Arthur, and not one of them was a lie. You always were a shit liar."

"Listen, Eames," Arthur pleaded. "There's only one person I can lie effectively to, and that's me. And when I've convinced myself of something, it's easy to convince somebody else."

"So, what?" Eames' sneer was frightening. "You get shot, you just spontaneously have this epiphany and realize you have feelings for me? This isn't a romance novel, Arthur."

"No," Arthur said quietly, and it was his tone of voice that finally made Eames pause and sink into one of the chairs. He could feel the anger running out of both of them. Now they were just tired. "I've always known," he said. "I've always known I liked you, but I didn't want to at first, and I pretended I didn't. It was a nuisance. I couldn't read you, I had no way of knowing if you felt the same way about me or not, so I tried ignoring it. But denial didn't work—it just made me angry. I resigned myself to it, hoping it would go away, convinced that you didn't mean anything with all the flirting, that nothing would ever come of it, since you never made a move." Eames' eyes clouded over at that, and he bit at his lip. "I thought I was over it," said Arthur. "I was, in my mind. And then, well, I jumped in front of a bullet."

"All the flirting," said Eames. "I meant it. I wasn't trying to be cruel to you."

"I know. Now I know."

He met Eames' eyes again, and because they were men, because Arthur in particular was shit at emotions and proud and stubborn as fuck, he couldn't say what he knew he needed to. 'I'm sorry.' 'I love you.' But Eames understood anyway when Arthur pushed himself forward, tugging at his stitches to capture Eames' lips in a soft kiss.

"Ow," he said when they broke apart.

Eames jerked back the covers to reveal where spots of blood had begun to seep through the bandages around his side. "Well I hope it was worth it, you idiot, because now you're going to bleed out and I'll never get to consummate all those wet dreams I've had about you."

Arthur fell back against the pillows, exhausted, but he grinned—he knew he'd been forgiven.

"What the hell are you doing?" screeched the horrified nurse from the doorway, and Eames' head swiveled around like a two-year-old's that had just been caught coloring on the walls. "Out, Mr. Eames!" Eames gave the nurse a sheepish grin, then planted a kiss on Arthur's cheek before dashing out the door to a happily bouncing Ariadne.

God, Arthur would never hear the end of this. But that was okay.

Things had been rocky at first. Two days after Arthur's confession, the exit wound in his side had become infected and there was a stretch where he'd very nearly succumbed to it. He'd been in pain and delirious, and there were days that Eames wasn't allowed into his room, but as soon as he was, Eames was back at his side again. Arthur had heard the "reason to live" spiel before, but he hadn't believed it until then. Having somebody there to hold his hand and care for him made getting better worth it. It had been close, but he'd pulled through. Nearly a month after being admitted, he was released, though full recovery took a lot longer. Eames set up an apartment in the city they were in, and he stayed with Arthur as he gradually regained his mobility. Every day Arthur could do more, could go a little farther before he got short of breath. Life was almost back to normal as Arthur stood on the apartment balcony in sweatpants and an unbuttoned shirt, fingers casually running over the pink entry scar between his ribs.

"Brooding, are we?" asked Eames, embracing him from behind and drawing Arthur's hand away from the scar.

Arthur glanced up at the sky, an impossible cloudless blue. "This is hardly a day for brooding, Mr. Eames. I'm just thinking."

"Fair enough," Eames conceded, breathing into the juncture of Arthur's neck and shoulder. "What about?"

"Just things. Like how if one thing had gone wrong over the course of all this, I might have died. I might never have known how you felt about me, or ended up here, with you."

"See? Brooding," Eames chuckled.

"I guess I'm just thinking about how lucky I am. I've never really believed in fate or a higher power. It's always been about probability to me, thus the loaded die. But looking back, all the odds were against me."

"Mm." Arthur felt Eames fishing around behind him, then the weight of something being dropped into his shirt pocket beside the die. He followed Eames' fingers and removed the item, turning it over in his hand. It was a familiar poker chip, with words emblazoned in gold on one side. Eames' totem. The significance of holding something so precious in his hand didn't escape him, and he smiled as he examined it. 'Mamlaka ya Mombassa Gambling,' it read.

"You got the Swahili right and misspelled Mombasa?" Arthur asked incredulously.

Eames closed his hand around Arthur's and laughed. "That's entirely beside the point. What I'm trying to say is that I believe less in statistics and more in people. Learning people and their tells is my job. Now, I'm perfectly capable of getting things wrong," here Arthur laughed back, "but I know you, and I believe in you." He squeezed Arthur's hand tighter. "In us. Maybe you should spend more time focusing on that."

Arthur turned in Eames' arms to plant slow-burning kisses along his jaw. "Thank you," he whispered.

Bullet casings pinged off the floor like chimes as the mark's security forces opened fire at them. The wall right next to Eames' head exploded into hunks of chewed-up wainscoting, sending him tripping backwards into Arthur. Arthur shrugged him out of the way, cool as you please, and stuck his non-dominant arm around the corner to fire a few shots. Two of the six guards hit the floor like sacks of so many potatoes, writhing and screaming.

It had been four months now since Arthur had been shot. Eames might have expected him to take a bit longer before deciding to go back on the job, and even longer before he took a dangerous job like this one, but there were always new things about Arthur to learn. Like the way he'd suddenly kissed Eames in front of the rest of the team yesterday. That had been nice. But now they were cornered, separated from the others, and things weren't looking so good.

"Is there," Eames panted, "some sort of higher power who," wheeze, "has it in for us?" He braced his hands on his knees to catch his breath. "How do we even get into these situations?"

Arthur calmly loaded another magazine into his Glock. "If you think about it, the odds of ending up in a situation like this in our line of work are pretty high. But I've also never doubted that it's human nature to feel like a total badass when you're shooting the shit out of something. It's fun." As if to underscore what he'd said, he leaned around the corner and fired off three quick shots. One hit the wall; the other two killed one of the wounded guards and injured another.

"Cheeky arsehole," Eames grinned. Breath finally caught, he joined Arthur in firing several shots, though only two of them connected.

All the guards but one were out of commission now, and Eames heard the crackle as the remaining man activated his walkie. "I need some backup here! It's just me left. These guys are fucking insane!"

"Great, one guy," Eames breathed. "Easy out. We just have to think about how we're going to do this for a second and–"

Before he'd finished his sentence, Arthur had whipped around the corner, Glock aimed squarely at the chest of Walkie-Guard. "Drop the walkie."

"Arthur! What the fuck are you doing?"

Arthur ignored him and continued to stare the guard down. Finally the man dropped the walkie and his Beretta, but then a multitude of footsteps burst through a door in the distance, growing louder every second. "Fuck," Arthur cursed under his breath, and ducked back around the corner with Eames. "Too late." This wasn't going well at all.

Eames peeked around the corner to see a fair battalion of eight new guards, each dressed in Kevlar vests and helmets. "Shiiiit," he breathed. Arthur followed suit, inching around the corner and taking full stock of the situation in a matter of seconds. As soon as his head disappeared, the guards started opening fire. Their footsteps were growing closer, the gunshots steadily chewing holes in the wall nearer and nearer to where they were hidden. The bullets were too thick to try anything, meant to herd them and discourage return fire.

"Well, Arthur. I told you it was too soon to go back on the job. Any last words?"

"Actually, yeah." And why Arthur was smiling at him was beyond Eames, but he returned it anyway. Arthur reached out and patted Eames' breast pocket, where the shape of his poker chip pressed against him reassuringly. "Just wanted to tell you that I believe in us. You convinced me."

"I did?" Eames beamed.

"Yeah." Arthur's expression grew soft, fond, and for a moment it was like there weren't even eight guys moving in toward their position to kill them. He leaned forward, stroking Eames' jaw and the sensitive spot behind his ear, then pressed their lips together in a chaste kiss. "I love you," he grinned into Eames' mouth.

Eames felt his heart catch in his throat. "What?" But before he could start interrogating his boyfriend, Arthur was on his feet and checking his Glock. Eames watched incredulously. "Is now really the best time to be telling me things like this?"

"The only time," Arthur smirked. Eames cursed and pushed himself up with a bit less grace, wincing as his knees popped. Arthur risked sticking his hand around the corner, fired a few rounds and from the sound of it, sent the guards on the retreat. They didn't stop shooting, though. "I took down one of them, I think." Arthur blithely ignored the way Eames was still sort of agog. "On the count of three?"

"Jumping out into a knot of guards, guns blazing? You are fucking insane," Eames deadpanned, but he checked his gun anyway. "Oh, and I love you too."

"Certifiable, both of us." Arthur's body went taut with anticipation, but he never lost the grin. From somewhere in his jacket he pulled a grenade, squeezed the striker lever and jerked out the pin with his teeth. "One... two..."

Eames shook his head. "For a moment there I thought we were in trouble."