Author's Note: This will be continued in several parts. Not always in a chronological order, it's mostly a series of memories defining a relationship spanning almost a decade. I hope you all enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not Eames, not Arthur, nor any of the characters represented in this work. I DO own my Cavalier, but winning that in a lawsuit would be an incredibly unfunny joke.

Volatile

They are coming, because he failed.

Eames stews in this darkness, and his body contours almost unnaturally to the ugly sienna chair in the middle of the motel room. His surroundings stink of smoke, and vomit, and the scent of whiskey hangs heavy in the air around him, but he does nothing for it. He stews, and stares at the dented blue door, fingering his totem in one hand—a reminder, gentle, and harsh all at once, that this is his reality—and his weapon resting perfectly still against his thigh. So many times he has been here, waiting to challenge death, and so many times he has overcome. He does not feel the prickle of fear crawling up with legs and down from his shoulders this time, because now there is only him, and the ghost of a wry smile traces his colorless lips. In the end, he always knew it would be only him. Perhaps he shouldn't have run. Perhaps he ran, because he knew he would be the one followed. Arthur and Cobb seemed to have strength in their number, even if it was almost always only two.

Anthony Diehl—one of a hundred Marks over nearly a decade—carried a particularly troubled subconscious, and they had anticipated violence. What they had not anticipated was Diehl's learned ability to bury his secrets deep, deep into his mind, so deep that it meant risking limbo to take a third dive into the mind of a psychotically deranged genius. Cobb insisted Arthur go with him, and Arthur had mutely agreed. Eames' protest had come out of him before he even heard himself utter the words, and the Point Man had never been so quick to shoot him down. Eames had shouted, and when Arthur only glared and snapped open the silver brief case he snarled, and for the first time since his very first mission, Eames began to lose control of his own dream. The walls around them began to crumble, the floor beneath their feet groaned and cracked, and the voices of angry, violent projections echoed off the shifting structure. In seconds the three men were torn apart from one another, and struggled to stay alive for the next four minutes of the dream.

Eames remembers screaming, primal and raw with emotion when Arthur's loyalty to Cobb earned him a poorly-aimed, jagged end of a broomstick between his ribs. The Point Man had almost immediately spat a mouthful of blood, and Eames stopped fighting long enough to be overcome by the swarm of projections separating them.

When he had awoke he had almost no voice left, and could only gasp raggedly at the air, painful scraping breaths deep into his lungs as he clumsily tipped the other chairs over. Arthur awoke in a fury.

Now the doorknob slowly twists, back and forth, testing, and locking it seems to have bought Eames mere moments. He does not use these moments to formulate any semblance of a plan, but instead he pockets his totem, and awaits the inevitable. Only when the first shot rings out, and the locked door is a long since forgotten joke, does he remember he has not yet disengaged the safety on his weapon.

Arthur is in the shower when he gets the call.

He faces the water and lets the searing heat and steam wash over him, eyes closed and hands stabbing long fingers into short dark hair over and over, as if he is trying still trying to claw matted blood from an injury he dreamed up not two weeks ago. He is not remembering that particular moment of desperate violence however, he is forming an explanation in his mind. An apology of sorts. He is envisioning a scenario he often avoids when it comes to this, and though he is attempting to steer it in the direction of an explanation the words he puts together come to be an apology.

The idea stings less and less when he thinks about how Eames apologizes. Eames uses even fewer words than he does, and when he is truly sorry he speaks with the language of his body. By the end of his shower, Arthur has a quirk in the corner of his mouth that he cannot seem to drop, and as he dresses the quirk only indents deeper into his cheek. He passes by the coffee table and sees the screen of his phone is blinking: 4 missed calls, 2 new voicemails. All from Cobb. Arthur rolls his eyes and slides into a clean undershirt, unable to even imagine that in another four minutes he will be on the floor of his rented, pre-furnished flat, on his knees with his hands on his face, heaving dry, silent sobs. Two minutes after that he will be numbly vomiting coffee and bile onto the tiled floor.

First message: "Arthur, pick up the phone. I don't want to leave this in a message but I don't have time, I booked us a flight to Mexico-"

Second message: "Yusuf… Yusuf found him. He's… in a motel in Tijuana. He's dead, Arthur. Yusuf thinks Diehl's people must have gotten to him late in the night, after he'd been drinki—" Static cut out something in the middle—Cobb was probably flying through a tunnel on his way to the airport. "—burned most of the body, but if the police can identify him-traced back to us. Arthur, I need—" More static. "—to call me as soon as you get this."

Another ten minutes, and Arthur is back on his feet. When he calls Cobb back his voice is a chilling calm, and when he hangs up he immediately starts gathering up his few possessions, robotic, and unemotional.

Eames died alone, in a cheap Mexican motel two days ago, and Arthur knows that time will eventually heal him of that grief. Arthur knows that tomorrow, and the next day, and the one after that he will go on performing his duties to the best of his ability.

And yet he can feel that the fire that once burned deep within him has been extinguished, and it will not return again.