(Sorry this took so RIDICULOUSLY long- i have been putting it off *guilty*)

(Hope you like it, and, as always, please tell me what you think!)

Arthur pressed his ear up against the heavy metal door, eyes closed, listening intently. He swayed ever so slightly up on his feet, and Eames instinctively reached forward to place his hand on the curve of Arthur's hip. Not so much in a gesture that offered physical support, but more for reassurance.

Arthur's lips twitched in the smallest of smiles, eyes still closed, and he pulled back from the door.

"I can't hear anything," he said quietly.

For the moment, Eames added internally- the second they fired a shot, all hell would break lose. The clichéd Armed Thugs would descend like flies, and although Eames knew for certain that in another time, another situation, being outnumbered wouldn't have mattered all that much- they were both trained for combat against idiots- but Arthur was barley managing to stay upright he was so weak, and had more than his fair share of broken bones. Eames was exhausted and dizzy from the blow to the head; the fracture in his left wrist throbbed sporadically.

Arthur met Eames' gaze, and gestured to the door, querying.

Eames nodded, and watched as Arthur raised the gun with practiced ease and blew a neat hole in the door's lock.

The crack of gunfire echoed in the silent building, and Eames winced, knowing that there was no chance Mr. World-Domination could have missed that. They had to move. Now.

Eames shouldered roughly into the door, breaking the remains of the lock with little effort and decided on going left down the empty corridor.

Arthur caught his good wrist at once and yanked him back. Eames turned, frowning,

"What?"

"That's the way they went when they left us," he said simply, and nodded in the opposite direction with a smile that veered on smug.

"Not my fault I don't bloody have an eidetic memory..." Eames muttered darkly, and Arthur rolled his eyes and gave an exasperated sigh and just then-

It was as though nothing had happened at all.

Eames grinned.

Shouts from the corridor behind him made Eames start, and they set off at a run.

Arthur was obviously struggling, breathing laboured, expression fiercely controlled into something neutral, but he navigated the mess of narrow, windowless corridors and staircases as though he knew the layout by heart. Eames guessed they were underground, and although Arthur did tend to be taking stairs going up- sometimes he would choose the flights downwards before taking a new set back up again. It was at times like this that Eames swore that the eidetic memory thing couldn't be a gag.

A series of loud, distant explosions made them stop. Arthur frowned, leaning forward to catch his breath, while Eames strained his ears for something- anything-

"Arthur," he breathed, all of a sudden, "Arthur- I think I can hear traffic."

Arthur straightened up, immediately alert- and yes, there it was, the definite low level hum of vehicles, accompanied by the occasionally car horn, a faint siren.

"This way," Arthur instructed, and they veered off down a wider corridor.

To be quite honest, Eames was a little bit amazed they hadn't met anyone else. No Thugs, no Mr. World Domination. Just a few distance shouts and bangs.

Christ, Eames thought with a smile, it was almost too easy.

But then of course, nothing was ever easy.

They had reached the end of their corridor, the sound of traffic much louder than before, the wail of sirens distinct, a strange crackling also audible, when Arthur turned the corner and froze on the spot.

Eames almost barrelled into him, and opened his mouth to argue but-

Holy fuck.

The whole of the final corridor ahead of them was ablaze. Bright, orange flames filled the dank space, licking greedily up the walls and towards them. The heat hit Eames like a punch to the gut, rolling over him in stifling waves, and he stumbled back. Smoke furled across the ceiling, wispy tendrils reaching out above them, and snaking their way into the empty corridors.

Eames' blood ran cold.

Of course they set the fucking place on fire, he thought, weakly, that would explain the explosions.

Arthur sucked in a sharp breath. This was going to make everything a hell of a lot more complicated, especially as the multiple sirens that now blared through the sounds of traffic were more than definitely for this particular fire. There would paramedics, police, firemen, and they couldn't do anything to avoid the attention-

A flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye made Arthur look round.

Eames had taken one step back, away from the flames.

And suddenly Arthur remembered.

Something he'd read on a background check of a background check- when Eames had taunted him for days with various, mundane personal details, clearly lying about half of it, and Arthur had just had to find out the facts. He'd stumbled across a newspaper article from the summer of 89' with Eames' finger-prints all over it when he'd been looking, but it had never been mentioned before now-

Eames' boarding school dormitory had burned down in an accidental fire when he was 11 years old.

Only 7 boys had made it out alive.

Arthur yanked Eames back into the safeness of the dark corridor they had left behind, pushing him up against the wall, forcing him to meet Arthur's gaze. Eames was white as a sheet, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead that had nothing to do with the heat, his eyes wide and panicked.

"Arthur, I can't-"he croaked, voice utterly wrecked.

"You can and you will," Arthur told him in what would have been a firm tone if the words hadn't shook so much-

"It's the only way out. I understand why you hate this, but this is the only option- I swear to you Eames. If we go now, before it gets any worse, it'll be alright-"Arthur continued, praying that Eames would see sense-

Eames closed his eyes and shook his head, his mouth a hard line of misery. He brought up a shaking hand to cup Arthur's jaw.

"You go," he murmured softly, "I'll find another way, I'll take the gun and go back, I'll-"

Arthur yanked his face away from Eames' hold, furious,

"Like hell, I'm letting you go back there," he hissed, "no fucking way Eames, we're getting out of this now, or we're not getting out at all."

Eames watched in horror as Arthur shrugged his jacket off his shoulders wincing as he did so, and handed it to Eames with a steely glare as though daring him to argue. He then set about un-doing his shirt buttons.

"Arthur-" Eames tried weakly, as more and more of Arthur's bruised pale chest came into view.

"Shut the fuck up," Arthur spat back. Eames wasn't the only one who swore more when he panicked. Arthur obviously realised this, because when he looked up, his expression was a little softer.

"I'm still soaking wet from that tub. This is good quality material Eames, if we hold it over our heads – it should provide some protection."

Yeah, Eames thought dimly, for when we run through a fucking fire.

"But-" Eames tried again, reaching out to skim his fingers over the bare skin of Arthur's waist. Even with the shirt completely wrapped around his arms and shoulders, half of his torso would be exposed to the flames.

"Doesn't matter," Arthur said tersely, and Christ, it bloody pained Eames how little regard Arthur had for his own safety sometimes. Arthur rounded the corner with grim determination, but at the last minute he paused, jaw tightening.

"Fuck Eames, it's getting bigger, we need to go now."

Eames swallowed round the painful lump in his throat, shaking his head again. Arthur didn't know. He couldn't understand why Eames simply couldn't do this. It wasn't Arthur's fault he wasn't aware of the burn scar across Eames' hip, or the fact that half of Eames' nightmares were made up of the choking screams of his childhood friends-

And why did Arthur have to keep looking at him like that?

"Eames," he said, and suddenly Eames zoned out from every other noise, the fire, the sirens, the far off shouts- all he could hear was that quiet serenity in Arthur's voice, and all he could see were those dark, unfathomable eyes.

He held Arthur's gaze.

"I'm not leaving this building without you," he said, softly, "If it collapses and you die, I'm dying with you. If we go back and get shot by those thugs, I'm getting shot with you. If we stay here and do fuck all you'll have to watch me bleed out because that's what's going to happen eventually."

He shifted the shirt ever so slightly off his shoulders, and fuck the bullet wound was worse than Eames had thought- bright red blood running freely now down the hard planes of Arthur's torso.

"I'll die Eames. Unless we go. Now."

"Bloody hell Arthur, that's not fucking fair," Eames managed, voice tight, because he'd already nearly lost Arthur once today, and Christ, he never, never wanted to go through that again, and Arthur knew that-

Arthur said nothing, expression tight. Because although he didn't like it, using Eames' feelings against him, he knew he had his attention.

"Please Eames."

Eames exhaled shakily, met his burning gaze one more time, and nodded.

The next few moments passed in a haze.

Eames was aware that he pulled Arthur's sopping jacket up and over his head, saw Arthur do the same with his shirt, and then,

-then they were running through heat and light and pain and noise and Eames couldn't breathe, the smoke was filling his lungs, clawing its way down his throat, and he couldn't see, but he kept going, kept moving because he couldn't, couldn't let Arthur die.

Quite suddenly, they were out of the building, out of the fire, and Arthur slumped to his knees, desperately raking in lungful of sweet, fresh, clean air and Eames swore once, loudly.

The paramedics were on them in seconds.

2 fucking fire engines, 3 police cars and an ambulance, as well as a whole throng of spectators, hanging around just out of the danger zone. Eames was pretty sure they had never been in a more public situation.

Arthur was swamped by the medics, shouts going up about blood transfusions and immediate surgery. Eames had an oxygen mask forced over his face, and allowed himself to be sat down in the back of the ambulance.

Someone was firing questions at him, or about him- he wasn't sure- and a policeman argued briefly with one of the medics, but there was an odd ringing in Eames' ears and he took no notice of them.

Arthur was being manoeuvred onto a stretcher, expression contorted with pain, a hand going to the bullet wound in his shoulder that he had barely mentioned to Eames all this time. Eames was moved urgently away from the ambulance doors, as they prepared to lift Arthur into it.

Fuck, they were going to have to think of some seriously convincing explanations for all this when they got to the hospital.

Eames watched as Arthur suddenly let the hand over his shoulder fall. The hand dropped to Arthur's right pocket, and groped around inside it for a second. Then Arthur tried the other pocket, his movements suddenly frantic. He tried the first pocket again. And again.

Even under the oxygen mask, Eames could see Arthur's face pale.

He hadn't got his totem.

Arthur met Eames' gaze for the first time since they'd left the building, eyes wide, realising Eames had guessed what was wrong-

knowing that Eames would want to do something about it.

And, as always when it came to these things, Arthur was right.

It was surprisingly easy, Eames thought, since all the attention was focused on Arthur and his shoulder. He yanked off the mask and dropped the blanket someone had draped over his shoulders. A hand found his uninjured arm, voices warned him, offering him the oxygen mask again - and then, quite suddenly-

Eames was sprinting back towards the burning building, because he had to try and find Arthur's totem.

Desperate shouts followed him, screams from the on-looking crowd, and Eames realised at the last second as he wrenched free from a lunging fireman that he didn't have Arthur's wet jacket for protection-

Fuck it, he thought, and barrelled through the smoking door.

Arthur stared in horror as Eames disappeared back into the flames. A fresh-faced nurse next to him started to cry.

It took all of two seconds for the shock to subside, and then Arthur was swinging his legs off the stretcher, yanking his damp, bloodied shirt back on, because, Eames, oh Jesus, it was just a die, what the hell was did he think he was doing?-

"I don't think so sir," said a stern looking paramedic, who pushed Arthur a little too roughly back onto the stretcher. "We'll have enough to deal with when that idiot gets out than you going off burning yourself to a crisp too-"

"You don't know a fucking thing about him," Arthur said, barely masking the sudden, irrepressible surge of anger.

The paramedic looked sceptical but said nothing, and tightened his grip on Arthur's good shoulder, pressing him down into the stretcher.

And then they waited.

Fucking waited.

Arthur could barely stand it. A couple of times he tested the medic's grip on his shoulder, but it remained firmly restraining. Of course Arthur had panicked when he couldn't find the small red cube that lived in his pocket, but he knew other ways of testing reality and no matter whether his sanity survived all this or not, nothing could ever be as important as Eames, oh god, Eames-

There was an eerie stillness in the air as they waited.

The road had been cornered off, so the rush of traffic was distant. The pedestrians who had been taking photos and dialling family and friends on their phones were silent. The fire crackled merrily, the hosepipes having done little to extinguish what was clearly a planned incident, and the heat was phenomenal. Smoke hung in the air, drifting lazily on a barely-there breeze, and it was only when his lungs started to protest that Arthur realised he had been holding his breath.

Suddenly, a couple of firemen burst from the doorway, and Arthur forced the paramedic to let him sit up, because Eames wasn't with them. They started shouting panicked instructions, waving people back, talking frantically into walkie-talkies, and Arthur couldn't hear what they were saying, and he wished this paramedic would let the fuck go, because couldn't he see that Arthur had to do something, had to help-

But then half the warehouse collapsed, falling in on itself, crumpling to the floor.

White hot panic shot through Arthur like a bullet from a gun, he jolted away from the paramedic, and then was fighting, twisting to get away, tumbling off the stretcher, struggling to his feet-

Eames, Eames, Eames, Eames oh fuck, what have you done-

A sharp prick in his arm caught him off-guard, Arthur spun round to face the stern-faced paramedic, who didn't look in the least bit apologetic. He held up the sedative which he had just injected into Arthur's system,

"It's for your own good," he said firmly, but then was kind enough to catch Arthur when he slumped to the floor.

As the world faded into a blur of blackness with alarming speed Arthur was vaguely aware of his last coherent trains of thought-

Eames. If you die, I swear to God I will fucking cut you.

Too crisp sheets, the disgusting taste of anaesthetic in his mouth, and a horrible numbness around the area of his collar bone-

Hospital, Arthur deduced at once, pleased his brain seemed to be in working order. British hospital, he added as an after-thought, taking into account the narrow bed and rock hard pillow.

He forced his eyes open, but thankfully, it appeared to be late at night. There was a faint, artificial glow from the corridor, but aside that, the ward was wonderfully dark.

Until his bedside light was switched on.

"Ow, fuck, turn it off-"Arthur grouched, his voice like sandpaper, raising his good arm to block out the harsh glare.

"Sorry pet," the voice sounded genuinely apologetic.

Wait.

Pet?

Arthur lowered his arm just enough to confirm that yes, the figure in the chair by his bed was Eames, a living, breathing Eames even if his eyes were puffy and his wrist was in a cast, and then flung himself at him.

"Jesus Arthur," Eames murmured, taken aback but such a violent show of affection, but allowed himself to be hugged a little too tightly, gingerly returning it after a few moments, because, okay, maybe he needed it too.

"Sorry for putting you through that," Eames said quietly into Arthur's shoulder, "I heard they had to sedate you."

Arthur pulled back, scowling furiously.

"You know you're a complete ass, don't you? That no-one in their right mind would enter a fucking burning building out of choice, especially when they've got issues with fire in the first place?"

Eames eyed Arthur impassively, as though this was exactly the lecture he'd been expecting.

"Seriously? What the hell were you thinking Eames? You-you scared me shitless Eames, you could've died," Arthur was aiming for angry, but somehow ended up verging on sounding upset.

"I would hardly consider that much of a big deal, seeing as you practically drowned in front of me," Eames shot back at once, eyebrows furrowing-

"You're never going to let me live that down are you?"

"It's death Arthur! There's nothing to 'live down' about it!"

"Oh for fuck's sake, why must-"

"Excuse me gentlemen," a nurse said crisply from the doorway of the ward, "As it's actually past visiting hours already" she frowned in Eames' direction at this, "could you please keep the noise down?"

Eames turned pointedly to Arthur, who looked pointedly at Eames.

The nurse gave a somewhat exasperated sigh, and walked away.

Arthur felt frustrated, painfully relieved and somehow, ridiculously tired, even though he'd only been awake for five minutes. He leant back against the pillow, flinching when his shoulder protested.

"You alright? I could get that nurse to bring some more painkillers...the doc said the operation to dig out that bullet was a tricky one," Eames' voice was soft again.

Arthur looked murderous, "Don't you think I should be asking you the same question?"

Eames chuckled, and smiled at Arthur fondly, "Oh, me? I'm fine, got a bit of a burn on the calf, but other than that-"

"Let me see," Arthur demanded at once, but was cut off when he gave a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Maybe you should get some sleep," Eames whispered, and Christ, why did his voice have to be so goddamn comforting?

"Maybe you should stop being a jerk," Arthur mumbled, closing his eyes, "then maybe I'd like you more."

Eames huffed a laugh, and Arthur felt large, warm fingers twine with his.

"I think you like me plenty already," he said, knowingly, and Arthur was suddenly aware of a something, small and hard being pressed into his palm.

His totem.

Eames was unbelievable.

"Fucker," Arthur muttered sleepily, unable to stop his grin. He let his totem fall to the bed, and reached out until he was holding Eames' hand again.

(Okay, so, I'M SORRY FOR THE ANGST, it appears I have a thing- but look, Happy Ending right? :)