Chapter Text
Arthur barely registers the bullet through his knee. It's the second bullet that does it: hits him square in the chest, takes him clean off his feet.
His head hits the floor with a crack that fractures his vision into bright, white flashes. For a moment, Arthur swims with nausea. Acidic bile presses in his throat only to pass when agony floods his body.
He screams once. The sound carries in the museum.
His limbs are suddenly frozen, his fingers bleached white. His body is numb, save for the blistering heat from the bullets. His lungs feel like blocks in his chest—every breath a labored, uneasy, painful feat.
His blood pools against his cheek. He tries to reach out—wants to collect it all in his hands and scoop it back inside him—but he can't will a single atom of his body to move. He whimpers, pathetic, suddenly terrified.
He hopes the other officers are on their way.
He survived three tours of duty in Afghanistan and four years with the LAPD without so much as a paper cut. He doesn't want to die like this—too slow to dodge a badly aimed bullet to the heart by a couple of married architects moonlighting as high-end art thieves.
Dom and Mal Cobb.
Arthur could have left it alone—should be home right now watching reruns of Seinfeld instead of bleeding out on a floor that costs more to polish than his entire annual income.
But he was always a stubborn bastard, knew the Cobbs wouldn't stop unless they were apprehended in the act. He thought he could be the one to do it, just like he thought he'd caught them by surprise.
He knew Mal had a gun—sensed she was about to shoot a handful of seconds before she did. He tried to avoid her aim, but her shot still ripped through his right knee. It was Cobb he never expected—never even dreamed it possible—to draw his gun and aim for the center of Arthur's forehead like the practice sheets at the shooting range.
He missed, but that didn't matter.
Arthur doesn't want to die here.
Cobb's boots suddenly fill his hazy field of vision. He towers over Arthur like a vengeful god, crouches until his masked face is close enough to kiss and cups his gloved hand against Arthur's cheek in a parody of comfort. It's only when Cobb shushes him the way one would a colicky child, does Arthur realize he's whimpering.
Cobb raises his gun—the stench of gunpowder sickening—and presses the still hot muzzle against Arthur's forehead.
This is how he dies.
--
And then he wakes up.