It's around when Ray wants to hold Walt's hand like a goddamn teenage girl with stars in her eyes and wet panties that he starts to worry.

"We're not going to talk about this."

Ray doesn't tell his mother, because his mother has had enough disappointment in her life, he's been enough disappointment in her life, and he doesn't want her turning this into another thing he's fucked up. He doesn't think he has, this time.

They start something in Iraq. It isn't anything prolonged, stolen moments and jacks that leave their dicks stripped and sore from the sand and not enough spit, not enough anything, not enough time or privacy or skin.

Eames can't get the taste of Arthur out of his mouth.

Eames doesn’t know what he thought worst-case scenario was, but it was never this.

Some days, Arthur knew he deserved what he got. Other days, he still knew it, but he wrapped himself in self-pity, let it encase him like a security blanket, and didn’t know how to settle without it.

“Oh,” Eames says. “A potential riot. I must be going love, ta!”

“Don’t get shanked!” Arthur yells, but Eames has already hung up.

It starts with a fake ID.