Shaking his head, Arthur focuses on keeping himself upright from where Eames had released him, swaying slightly, staring blearily at the captured creature. The Plague presses itself up against the dome, its black essence spreading slightly against the plastic, pushing itself and its prison forward, inch by inch, to get closer to the bed again.

"Don't... know..." he mumbles, trying to concentrate despite his clear fatigue. "But I feel... a lot better now."

It's true - he can actually breathe, the fever is at a much more bearable temperature (still present, but on it's way out, now), and his skin doesn't feel like it's going to disintegrate around him. Clearly the black thing had been causing those troubles while it was infesting him.