A/N: Yes darlings, I am still alive! I have not forgotten about my other fics, but I saw Inception recently and was hooked instantly! I got this little idea after watching it with friends, and I just had to write it. I hope you enjoy! :hearts:

Eames thought it was strange, seeing Arthur wired into the Somnacin machine all by himself. Further inspection revealed that he had set the timer for 2 hours, and it was about thee quarters of the way done. Two hours would give him a full day in a dream. Eames sat down across from the sleeping man, turning his poker chip in his fingers, watching.

"What sort of dream could you want to spend an entire day in, dahling?" he purred, watching the Point Man a bit more.

Finally, his curiosity got the better of him and he reached over to the machine, drawing out another IV and putting himself under.

He was entirely shocked to end up sitting across from Arthur at a little table in a suite that appeared to be from the hotel they used on the Fischer job, and nearly choked on a mouthful of Chardonnay he didn't remember drinking from a glass he didn't remember being in his hand.

Arthur looked as surprised as Eames supposed he did himself. As Eames fought to swallow his wine the proper way, Arthur tried to calmly react to the Forger suddenly physically being in his dream.

"What are you doing here." he asked flatly, hands folded in front of himself on the table.

Eames coughed a bit, then looked at the dishes and glasses before them. "Having dinner with you, apparently. What did I eat? I think I taste... garlic."

"Steak. I mean, why are you here?" Arthur replied.

"Well dahling, I think you're best suited to answer that question, aren't you? This is your dream, after all..." Eames replied, "Really, steak? I'm rather disappointed I didn't come in sooner, then."

"You seemed to enjoy it. Get out of my dream, Eames."

"I do like a good steak," Eames replied, "And I was already here, Arthur. A projection of me, at any rate."

"A projection that is a good amount less annoying than you are." Arthur replied.

"Oh, Arthur, I'm hurt!" Eames replied, taking another sip of the wine. "Lovely wine, did you pick it?"

"Yes. And you, hurt? Well, now I know I'm still dreaming." the Point Man shot back.

"You have a surprisingly good taste for wines," Eames replied, "Now. In all seriousness, Arthur, why am I sitting in a hotel room having dinner with you? If you can't stand me as much as you let on that you can't, it doesn't really make sense does it?"

He smiled in a satisfied way as that little flustered crease popped up between Arthur's eyebrows. Arthur started at him, deadpan, and said, "It's the exact opposite of what you're thinking."

"Really!" Eames crowed, "Arthur, dear! Deception is my trade! You really think you can fool me with a little lie like that?"

"Then tell me, Eames, why do you think you're here, in a hotel, having dinner with me?" Arthur demanded.

"Dahling, do you really want to know what I think?" Eames asked, a sly look floating over his features.

Arthur regretted his question, but being Arthur, would take nothing back. "Yes."

"I think," Eames purred, "that I am here, in hotel suite, having dinner with you, because you fancy me. You fancy me, and you're too much of a stick in the mud to admit you do in reality so instead you orchestrate drEames where we have dinner and wine and conversation. Am I right, Arthur?"

"Y-yes." Arthur muttered. There was no use hiding things from a man who made a living off cheats and lies.

Arthur looked like he was about to say something else, but Eames cut him off. "Tell me Arthur, what else have you dreamt us doing, hm?" he asked, "Is it always just a fancy dinner alone, or some high school kiddie date where I take you to a cinema and our hands touch reaching for the popcorn? Or..."

Eames leaned across the table, voice low and sultry in a way Arthur was sure one could only achieve with a British accent, his eyes glancing over to the beds (to Arthur's credit, the room was a double), "Or, do you dream a higher rating? Perhaps a bit of tonsil tennis... or something involving a great deal less clothing, and a great deal more touch, and taste, and tossing about?"

Arthur gave a bit of a strangled noise, and Eames smirked. "Have you?"

"N-no," Arthur replied, "I've never-"

"Never what? Dreamt I was fucking you? Why ever not?" Eames asked, "The thought seems to get you all sorts of riled up."

"Because... because I thought that... reality might pale... in comparison." Arthur admitted.

"Assuming, though, that I have any interest in you in reality." Eames said.

"You're like a six-year-old boy pulling pigtails, Eames." Arthur retorted, "You're not exactly subtle."

"You with pigtails. Now there's an interesting image." Eames replied. "Do you want me, Arthur? I want to hear you say it."

"What?" Arthur asked.

"Do you want me," Eames repeated, slower this time. "Do you want me to touch you? Kiss you? Throw you down and make you mine? Fuck you so hard you won't walk straight for a week?"

Arthur's face flushed a brilliant shade of pink, but he said nothing.

"Come now, Arthur," he said, standing and walking around the table, stopping behind Arthur's chair. He rested his hands on the Point Man's shoulders, feeling them tense under his fingers. "It's three words. Three little words and you can have everything you've been dreaming about."

His hands slid off Arthur's shoulders, down his back and around to his chest, sliding over the fine fabric of his vest. Eames smiled as he heard Arthur's breath hitch, leaning to whisper in his ear. "Well?"

"Yes," he murmured.

"Yes, what?" Eames asked, one hand sliding further down Arthur's torso.

"Yes, I want you, you stupid British ass." Arthur hissed.

"There we go," Eames replied, smirking. He detached himself from Arthur and moved away, sitting down on the edge of the nearest bed. "Come on, love, keep up."

Arthur stared at him for a minute before getting to his feet and walking over. Eames reached up and grabbed his tie, pulling him down sharply so their lips met. Arthur lost his balance, falling against Eames, knocking them both back to the bed.

Eames smirked up at him. "Well, hello."

"Shut up," Arthur replied, kissing Eames again. Eames' hands slid over his vest, stumbling along the buttons, fumbling to get them undone.

"You and your damnable suits. You couldn't develop a sudden affinity for tshirts?" he muttered, scowling.

Arthur smirked, "I like looking professional. Maybe you should try sometime."

"Ah, but looking roguish is so much more suitable to my needs, dahling." Eames replied, finally managing to get the vest undone and shove it off. "Couldn't you just dream our clothes off?"

"Where's the fun in that?" Arthur asked, opening Eames' shirt and running his hands over his chest.

Eams chuckled. "Fun! Oh, Arthur dear, the fun's just about to start."

It seemed to last forever, but at the same time not long enough. Arthur remembered there was a lot of kissing, and biting, and rolling, and ecstasy, and when it was over, and he was laying beside Eames in the hotel bed, looking into those blue eyes, one thought crept into his mind.

"Eames," he mumbled, looking at the clock that was visible just behind the Forger, "What happens when we wake up?"

"Well, love," Eames replied, "To answer that, I'll tell you a riddle."

"How is a riddle supposed to answer my question?" Arthur asked, confused.

"Just shh, and listen. You're waiting for a train. A train that will take you far away. You know where you hope this train will take you, but you can't know for sure. But that doesn't matter to you. Tell me why."

As Arthur was about to answer, the dream faded away, and he woke up, seated across from Eames, who was watching him intently.

"How can it not matter?" he asked, still confused. "Why wouldn't it matter to you where a train will take you?"

"Because, dahling," Eames mumbled, standing up and walking over, bending down to kiss him lightly, "You'll be together."