Triptych

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The first time it happens, they have known each other for maybe a year. They're running a people-heavy job out of Edinburgh, of all places. Eames has just spent the worse part of two hours more hiding from than trailing the mark's sister, and in the process – don't ask him how, no, seriously, don't – twisted his back into the most ridiculous positions.

All he wants is to get over with the briefing and then soak in a hot tub or die. Arthur, that bastard, has different ideas. The point man takes one look at him and demands in a tone that brooks no argument, "Spar with me."

The thing is, if they were alone, he could say no, maybe. He'd lose face in front of Arthur, sure, but it'd only be Arthur, who can be a right stuck-up prick sometimes but wouldn't in all likelihood really think any less of Eames.

But they're far from alone. Eames is not in any sort of shape for a fight, but he can stand to lose against Arthur if it means their current crew doesn't see him back down from a challenge.

With a weary nod, he drags himself to the training mats. The thugs currently present in the warehouse gather around as Arthur starts in on him.

Eames manages to hold his own for maybe a minute by pure instinct even though his spine feels like it's going to break. Then he finds himself flat on his face and ends up with Arthur's knee on his back right there -

When he gets up, he's a little dazed, but the pain is gone. All that remains is a faint echo.

"Next time, don't insult me by not even trying," Arthur spits, pushing through the small crowd and walking away, and what the hell just happened?

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The third time occurs about a month before the Cobbs' unfortunate descent into Limbo. They're in the aftermath of a getaway gone wrong. Eames doesn't know it yet, but this incident is the reason he'll initially be glad when Arthur takes it up with Cobb.

The extractor is shouting at Arthur, which is so rich it isn't even funny. If not for Arthur – and Eames, if he says so himself – they'd all be dead.

Their architect is dead, but they'd have cared a little more for the little bastard's safety if he hadn't been the one to sell them out in the first place.

The two of them are the only ones hurt. Arthur has other people's blood all over his suit and what looks like a nasty cut on his forehead. Eames' shooting hand hurts like holy hell from where one of their attackers tackled him to concrete floor and ground his boot on it, but at least it's not broken.

His trigger finger is.

Arthur isn't paying any attention to the insults Whitehall is throwing at him. Instead, he scans their surroundings with healthy suspicion while Eames struggles to his feet. After a tense minute, Arthur lets his gun and knife disappear somewhere about his person before he finally lets his eyes rest on Eames.

The way he grabs Eames' injured hand is too unexpected and bloody fast to anticipate, "Nice shooting, Mr Eames," he comments over Eames' bit-off scream of agony and ow oh hell holy fuck doesn't let go.

Something snaps, there is squeezing, and Eames'd soon as not put Arthur on the ground if he could think further than this blinding pain. When Arthur finally releases the hand, Eames can do nothing but stand there stupidly and cradle it. Ow. Ow.

At least that idiot Whitehall has finally shut up. The man is staring at Arthur with wide eyes, looking a little green.

Only when Eames dares to look down does he get an explanation why his instinct is not to plant the fist of his left hand in Arthur's face. They'll need to be splinted, but the bones rest, straightened, between his middle finger and thumb.

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The sixth time, they're back in Paris. It's their third joint endeavour post inception, this time for a client referred to them by Professor Miles.

Eames is suffering from the headache to end all headaches. He doesn't know if it's the noise, the sunlight, or one of Yusuf's compounds gone wrong, but he wants to crawl into his bed and turn the lights off more than anything in the world.

He can't, though. They're supposed to test the third level today, and apart from Ariadne Eames is the only one with experience that far down.

He is only grateful that they've already gone through the details of this plan a million times before. Eames may groan about Arthur's penchant for specificity, but as a result every member of their team knows their moves in their sleep – even more literally than usual.

There is enough of a time buffer in their schedule that if Eames were to ask if they please could call it a day, it wouldn't be a problem. The team would let him live it down, too. This isn't the military, or Cracow, or Edinburgh. But it'd still be a sign of weakness, and even though this team is the safest group of people Eames has worked with, ever, he can't.

Maybe Arthur is not the only stick-in-the-mud.

As it turns out, it doesn't matter much whether Eames can ask for help or not. Arthur slams his hand flat onto the table to illustrate the impact he expects from a trap in Ariadne's maze, and Eames flinches.

Ow.

Arthur doesn't pause in his speech, doesn't even look in Eames' direction. But his left shoulder tightens minutely, and Eames has to breathe against the relief flooding through him.

He doesn't react when Arthur leans forward and refills everyone's coffee mugs, doesn't protest even though there's every chance that the caffeine will increase the headache tenfold.

With half an ear, he listens to Yusuf asking if Arthur wants there to be rainstorms on all levels of the dream. Ariadne flashes him a smile at Arthur's response – "It's likely the next best thing to the unexpected." None of them see the sleight of hand Eames trusts occurs. He knows what he's in for before he tastes the liquid and drinks it down in one go.

His last conscious thought is that he needs to find a way to thank Arthur for his willingness to drug people he cares for.

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