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Mal is the first one to see Eames jerk and disappear, torn out of the dream. She calls out to Arthur instead of Dom without knowing why, but she feels she’s made the right decision when she sees Arthur glance swiftly at Dom and then take two steps forward to drop himself off the balcony. She does call a warning to Dom then, because while she trusts Arthur to handle anything happening above them, they should still move quickly.
Dom gives confirmation and they both leap together, plummeting into death and waking. The first thing she sees when she wakes is Arthur stripping out of his jacket and shirt, falling to his knees on the floor beside Eames, who is staring with glazed eyes at the ceiling, a red pool of blood spreading outward from his chest.
She can’t see Greeley. She panics for a moment at the thought that whoever has targeted their team has gotten him, too, as he stood watch, but he’s nowhere to be seen and Arthur looks grim. She thinks, then, that she understands.
Mal takes care of the mark first because Arthur is occupied, sedating her again and packing up the PASIV. She doesn’t have enough time to sweep the place as thoroughly as she knows Dom would like, but Arthur’s voice is getting louder and more desperate, so they probably don’t have much time.
She calls the ambulance even though Dom and Arthur are still arguing about where to direct it; Dom worried about Arthur being imprisoned and all four of them getting caught, and Arthur refusing to move Eames in his current condition. She gives the ambulance their address and decides they can call another one later if Dom wins the fight. He won’t, she thinks. Eames is one of the few things that Arthur will fight for.
She turns to look at them and stops with her hand still on the phone.
Arthur is bent over with Eames’ head cradled in his lap, his hands pressing down on Eames’ chest and already stained red. Rising from his back are wings of light, curving to protect Eames beneath their dazzling spread. They are a Pietà, the wounded mortal and the angel, full of grace.
She is cold, suddenly, frozen with the uncertainty of not knowing whether she is still dreaming. Had they gone down two levels instead of one? Is Greeley’s absence because he still waits for them above, watching over their still, sleeping bodies as the minutes tick past?
Eames reaches up and touches Arthur’s wing, his fingers grazing the edge of the light. She sees Arthur’s face then, really looks as if for the first time, and knows that she is not dreaming. In a dream, Arthur would never look so afraid.
Mal shakes her head and pulls Dom away, makes him help her carry the mark downstairs and drives them away, because for Arthur and Eames to be caught is bad enough, but for all four of them to be seen like this together is worse.
They drop off the mark and meet Arthur at the hospital just after Eames has gone into surgery. Dom is already worried that this means Eames will stop working with them, and that he’ll try to take Arthur with him again. He prepares arguments and bribes even before there is a need for them. Mal thinks of Arthur kneeling, of the look on his face and the blood on his hands, and thinks with sudden certainty: He will always choose Eames.
She touches Dom’s arm and draws him away again before he pushes too hard and Arthur snaps. She wants to pull Dom’s head to her breast and hold him there, soothe him with gentle words and the shelter of her arms, but he storms off to find someone who knows something about Eames’ condition, unable to stand still for long. She takes Arthur in her charge instead, because he looks fragile and lost beneath the stoic, blank expression he has put on for this place and for Dom.
Eames always teases Arthur for showing too much of himself, putting his thoughts on display for all to see. Mal privately thinks that Eames is the only one who sees so much; or perhaps it is only that Arthur shows him.
She pulls Arthur into a chair and guides his head down against her shoulder. He twitches awkwardly, trying not to get blood on her clothes until she takes his hands firmly and brings them to her lap, twisting his fingers with hers.
She can feel the tension in him, muscles coiled under the jacket he’s wearing now with nothing beneath it. She runs her hand down his back, soothing, and he holds his breath for a moment before a long exhale. She wonders how she has never known before that he is in love; wonders if he knows as well. His hand tightens on hers and she thinks that he must.
She holds him, murmuring in her native tongue even though he can’t understand, her lips against the crown of his head. He is her angel now, fallen and lost.
When Eames calls her months later and asks about Arthur’s secrets, she laughs and says nothing. They aren’t her secrets to tell.