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Eames can’t move much, since he already has the needle in his vein, but he wants to grab Arthur by the shoulders and shake him until he grows some sense. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling, but he’s never been as desperate as he is in this moment.
“Now’s not the time to be contrary, Arthur,” Eames pleads, watching Arthur’s eyes flick between the needle he’s offering and the gun on the table.
Eames adds, “You don’t stand a chance.”
The sounds outside grow louder, and the door begins to rattle.
Arthur moves to the side and out of Eames’s line of sight, hopefully to lie down next to the PASIV himself. It’s too far for Eames to turn and see, so he does what he’s best at - trust Arthur - and doesn’t bother trying.
There’s a soft sigh, then Arthur brushes his knuckles across Eames’s forehead, eyelids, lips.
Eames chances to look up and meets Arthur’s gaze, dark and pensive. The little furrow in his brow that means he’s thinking. Eames can’t see what he’s holding in his other hand, but he doesn’t check, either - caught in Arthur’s eyes.
Eames falls, falls, falls. He’s not sure if Arthur does.
In Limbo, he opens his eyes to find himself supine on a bed, looking at Arthur’s face, still slack in sleep. Eames’s first instinct is relief; his second, to recall the surface. Arthur had been standing. Had he fallen to the ground in slumber or to the swarm coming in through the door?
He can’t remember. He does remember the feeling of Arthur’s fingers on Eames’s face. A soft, gentle contrast to the slow dread that’s sinking into his bones now.
As time doesn’t pass, Eames tries to predict what Arthur would say, then tries to counter predict what the real Arthur would say despite what Eames thinks, then gives himself a headache with all this predicting. Or maybe that’s his body being torn apart on the surface.
Eames sighs, doesn’t move, and waits for Arthur to wake up.