Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Inception. Those rights belong to Christopher Nolan.

Author's Note: One-shot! This little plot bunny hitched a ride during my second viewing of Inception. As always, enjoy!

Pairings: one-sided Eames/Ariadne, Arthur/Ariadne

Eames has never considered himself to be a man that's easily infatuated by a pretty skirt; that particular vice has always fallen into Arthur and Cobb's court.

After the team's final mission with Cobb, his impromptu departure sending shockwaves through the system,a sense of unease starts to grow when Ariadne stays on hand. It only intensifies when he's left in close proximity to her, all doe eyes and mussed hair (and pouty, pink lips).

The final blow, however, is when Arthur announces that they're dating (courting is a more appropriate term for that stick in the mud).

There's a chorus of laughter and a flood of smiles in the warehouse, the happy couple beaming from ear to ear. Eames just offers them a shrug, knocking back another finger of bourbon, the smile on his lips nothing more than a wince.

He does that a lot now, actually.

During the times when he's not utterly pissed, which are few and far between (he's keen to keep it that way, too), he puzzles over these newly acquired feelings. No bird has ever been able to keep his eye for long, so what makes her so different?

She's nothing like his preferred company; she's delicate, no tainted edges in sight. Honestly, she probably doesn't even know what to do if anyone properly seduces her; after all, wooden soldiers can't match up to the tongue of a sultry rogue. She is sharp though, he'll give her that; those brown eyes are always searching, always watching, always waiting.

He wonders if that softness will change in the years to come.

No one stays pure in their line of business for long, the price of extraction steep and often covered in blood. At the heart of it, the lot of them are thieves and murderers, even if the bodies vanish when you wake.

He hopes Arthur is wise enough to minimize that aspect of their transactions from her; even so, he does his best to shield her from the worst of it.

After their latest mission, he lingers behind as the others start to trickle out, earning himself a few stares. He waves off any concern, gesturing to the tower of files they've managed to hoard; after all, someone has to sort through the paperwork and who better than he?

Arthur doesn't buy his lie for a second (great prick that he is); he arches a stiff brow but refuses to comment, striding out the door in one fluid motion. She hesitates, before following suit, offering him a timid wave as the doors close.

Truthfully, he can't give an arse if they know he's lying; so long as he doesn't have to see the new happy (solemn) couple exchanging a kiss, everything will be fine.

It's baffling to him that she would willing choose the company of Arthur. The man is all ties and laces; as a marksman, he can be bloody impressive, but as person? Well, there isn't really much left of him for that (he's just a job darling, nothing more and nothing less).

It's just his luck that he set his sights on her; brilliant though he may be, even he can't out snipe the Pointman.

He waits, drumming his fingers along the table impatiently, eyes never straying far from his wristwatch. If he leaves too early, he's sure to catch them in the act; the thought alone makes him wish for the dreamscape, if only so he can crush himself under a ton of concrete (though, the possibility of crushing Arthur is tempting).

When he finally gathers up the nerve to open the door, he's surprised to hear the familiar echo of the machine, its gears churning with quiet precision.

To his knowledge, no one else should be here and it isn't protocol to leave them running; too many nasty accidents, if the stories are to be believed. Which means, they either have a very clever intruder or another member yet remains; his pulse quickens.

Arthur was never one to fancy the dreams - ending a good hundred or so of them with a chest full of lead tends to do that to a person, which means…

She lies fast asleep, reclining peacefully in one of the horrid lawn chairs that litter the warehouse (he's certain Arthur is the one to have picked them, they reek of the practical choice), the line of the machine securely fastened to her arm. He's knows something about the appeal; it's pleasant in a peculiar sort of way, to have the absolute freedom to create a perfect world, if only to witness it expire.

Then, the extra cannula catches his eye, hanging carelessly to the side.

He can't say the thought doesn't cross his mind; it would be all too simple, interrupting her dreams under the guise of the Pointman. He could puff himself up and play the part, putting on a magnificent show, delighting in the excitement sure to be bubbling within her; he's spent enough time in Arthur's company to know the script through and through.

But that's the kicker, isn't it?

It isn't him she would be seeing; every smile, every laugh, (every kiss) would all be meant for Arthur. Cons like that never work out in the scheme of things; it's one thing to lie to a mark, it's an entirely different matter to lie to yourself.

She deserves better than that; he does as well, for that matter.

With one final glance, he departs, eager to be away from damning machines and the petite brunettes intertwined with them. He doesn't stop until he's miles away from her, safely secured in the confines of his flat, falling in a slump on the nearest chair.

In sleep, his dreams offer him little shelter, the once blissful reprieves now haunted by phantoms of her.

Tonight's plays out in a similar fashion to all of the others: he's back in England, walking into his favorite pub, a little hole in the wall he hasn't seen in some odd years. Everything is familiar, from the scuffed mahogany counters to the dim, flickering lights; he settles into his usual spot, the last barstool on the right, discreetly tucked in beside the wall.

He draws all eyes on him for a living; is it any wonder then, that he prefers some peace when he's away from the stage?

Not to say he doesn't enjoy a good spot of mischief when he gets a chance, but it's far more lucrative to let others take the heat. There's safety, in being a member of the audience; if things don't go according to plan, you simply slip out and no one is any wiser.

When he makes his usual order, a glass of scotch on the rocks, the barkeep stops him just short of paying. With a friendly smile and a sly wink, he informs him that his drink has already been paid for, by the pretty bird at the back table.

When he turns, she raises her glass up at him, smiling coyly.

He winds between the other tables, paying little heed to the disgruntled patrons as he makes his way towards her, her teasing eyes never leaving his own. When he finally reaches her, she tells him how good it is to see him again before pressing a finger to her lips, lashes fluttering as she asks for a kiss.

As his lips come crashing against hers, he wakes with a start, a cold sweat blossoming against his skin.

Without giving himself pause to think, he strides over to the liquor cabinet and pops open the first bottle he finds, draining a third of it in one go. He continues on like this for some time, refusing to stop once he drains the bottle, instead uncapping the next.

Nothing is ever strong enough though; even now, he swears he can catch glimpse of her, always lurking just out of his periphery.

He fumbles with the pocket of his robe, desperately searching for his totem, just to prove to that he isn't still dreaming. When he withdraws the battered poker chip, it remains singular and motionless in his palm, never multiplying as he fears.

So, that's it then; he's not trapped, he's just pissed.

He crashes onto the couch, flipping the token over the backs of his knuckles, the plastic skirting against his skin a welcome distraction. It doesn't quite quell the ghost of her touch, but it's enough, at least for tonight.

The first rays of sunlight are beginning to peak through the shade as he staggers to his feet, intent on brewing himself a proper cup of coffee. Somehow, he doesn't think instant will cut it today.

When he enters the kitchen, he can already feel the pounding tempo of his pulse reverberating inside his skull, a sure sign of the migraine to come. Mornings have become a bit of routine; wake up, drink coffee, pop a few aspirin, and try to make it throughout the day without collapsing.

It's not ideal by any means, but he's grown accustomed to it; there are more important things to contend with, rather than dwelling on the sorry state of his affairs.

The kettle whistles and he pours himself a cup, his eyes lingering on the amber contents, unwilling to mar its gentle grace with his usual cream and sugar. She's like a cup of coffee after a hangover; strong enough to put you back together but casual enough to brush off as a daily ritual and not the necessity that it, in fact, is.

There's something poetic about it, something indefinable and raw, a poignant throb that radiates out from his chest.

He quickly downs the contents of the cup, eyes watering as the scalding liquid drags down the back of his throat, unwilling to endure any more of the torture of his own design. There's nothing he loved better than a dramatic or melancholy ending to a dream, but the reality isn't quite as inspiring as he once envisioned.