There was something not quite right between him and Arthur. It hadn't bothered Eames so much before but now it was beginning to prey on his mind. Not that it was something he knew much about, this progressive relationship stuff, but he was pretty sure it wasn't meant to go like this. Him and Arthur. God, what an anomaly. Perhaps it was no wonder that things weren't exactly going smoothly.

Befriending him initially had been strange enough, but since then their intimacy had grown gradually. He could make Arthur laugh. But recently, just when it seemed by Eames' reckoning that they should be closer than ever, Arthur had seemed suddenly intent on becoming more distant. And Eames wanted to know why. It was starting to annoy him. He was naturally persistent – normally he would chat to a girl until they were charmed well and truly off their feet, and keep going until they had sex and he could part with her in satisfaction. But Arthur was different. He had been more difficult to charm – though Eames wasn't going to admit that right out – and more intriguing. He was also a guy – not untested waters, but still one with which Eames had relatively little experience. His usual tactic of persistence had halted in its progress. And they still hadn't had sex. Though surprisingly this time around it wasn't the first thing on Eames' mind. The question kept going around and around in his thoughts: Why was Arthur trying to be more distant towards him?

So when he happened to catch Arthur alone lying in his chair connected to the sleep machine, the potential solution occurred to him in an instant, and his resolve followed a moment later. He could have just held back and asked Arthur about it, of course, but he seriously doubted Arthur was the sort to talk about his feelings. Plus, he was desperately curious to explore the man's mind, feeling a mischievous streak light up in him at the thought of what he might find if he were to wander around without Arthur there to guide where he went. The light fell softly on Arthur's sleeping features, and Eames watched him affectionately. He couldn't exactly understand his own feelings for this man, but he could tell Arthur's feelings for him and why Arthur should be deliberately suppressing them was even more unfathomable. He crossed the room quickly, sat down on the chair next to Arthur's, and put himself under.

He opened his eyes in a neat, well-lit corridor in some nondescript building – it reminded him of a bank or something. He waited a moment, but he couldn't see Arthur anywhere. He walked down the corridor, running one hand over the smooth white wall beside him. Occasionally the walls gave way to large glass panels instead, though looking through into scenes Eames couldn't make sense of – some of them appeared to be simple office rooms, others were impossible to see through and appeared to consist of endless large shards of glass intersecting and reflecting each other confusingly. Every now and then there was a door. Opening them, however, merely led to other similar corridors, and the doors in those led to other identical corridors. It was Arthur all over. Paradoxes and impossibilities. There had to be some way to shortcut the system. Breaking the glass panels he soon realised was impossible and it made him nervous to try, fearing he might draw attention to himself. He wondered if Arthur had realised he was there yet, and where he was. There had to be a way to progress further than these damn corridors. The stupid doors were annoying him. Surely the whole point of doors was to have them lead somewhere? He stepped through another one then hesitated for a moment, thinking, his hand still on the door handle. Maybe if… He closed the door slowly, letting it click shut. Then a moment later, instead of turning to walk down the new corridor, he flung the door back open dramatically and stepped back the way he had come. Typical Arthur. So that's how it was done.

The place he had stepped back into had changed completely from the corridor he had just stepped out of. Now he was standing on one edge of a neat bridge with glass sides and a shiny metal railing, branching the gap between two buildings over a busy road below. The bottom of it felt solid beneath his feet, and looked like wood rather than the clinical white of the corridors he had just come through. Good. He was getting somewhere more personal.

As he crossed the bridge he looked back behind him and saw a tall skyscraper, incongruous with the door and bridge leading out from in the middle of it. He was heading towards a less intimidating building now – this one looked more like it could be a museum or gallery. He had to keep going. He had to find wherever it was that Arthur kept his secret, his reason for not letting Eames get any closer to him.

He opened the door at the other end of the bridge and entered onto at a marble landing at the top of a large, circular atrium, with two sleek escalators offering a way down to a spacious ground floor that resembled a huge lobby, though what for he couldn't tell. He took one of the escalators and began to descend. Downwards and inwards – the classic direction for locating more sensitive information. The spacious lobby slowly rose up to meet him, all slick lines and neat edges – a world away from his own dream state. The space didn't even have any plants in it, just a few perfectly formed cream armchairs around a modernist glass coffee table at one end, mirrored on the other side with nothing but stunning white marble flooring in between, impeccably polished.

He had almost reached the bottom when the escalator stopped suddenly. Eames froze, quickly debating all other possible causes.

"Eames? What are you doing here?"

But alas. Eames quickly covered the few steps to reach the ground floor and turned to see Arthur approaching him from the other side of the lobby. He sounded suspicious, but not angry.

"Just…saying hello," Eames answered casually, deliberating.

"Right." Arthur sounded doubtful.

"Yes, hello!" Eames waved pathetically. It fairness, this had been more likely to happen than not. He took a deep breath, shifting from foot to foot. There were now three options as he saw it. He could turn this into a casual conversation and give up his pursuit, wake up with Arthur together in a few minutes and not know any better about Arthur's secret for becoming more distant. Or he could confront Arthur directly now or later and ask about it instead, although Arthur probably wouldn't tell him. Or…

Arthur was still over halfway across the lobby from him.

"…and goodbye," he added. And with a daring smile he turned impulsively and ran.

As soon as he'd started running he figured it was a pretty stupid thing to do. He'd barely thought out this whole enterprise in the first place, and he certainly hadn't now. If Arthur put his mind to it he could easily change any aspect of the dream in order to prevent Eames getting anywhere. Then again, Eames could use his own mind in retaliation. As he burst through a door and entered into yet another corridor, driven by a desperate curiosity coupled with the knowledge he might never have this chance again, it occurred to him that some things could work in his favour. One, the weakest, was that Arthur probably didn't suspect him of having terribly dodgy motives, though if anything could trigger those his running away probably had. Secondly, if Eames could run fast enough to keep out of Arthur's line of sight he would be harder to target…hopefully. And thirdly, Arthur wasn't imaginative. He was more likely to simply chase after him than to create inventive obstacles.

Then again, navigating the paradoxes in Arthur's mind might be obstacle enough.

There was a sudden flood of projections – people dressed in a generic navy blue uniform that might have worked at this imaginary place coupled with ordinary people too, gravitating towards him with serious expressions on their faces. He pushed past them abruptly and ran onwards, glad that the projections didn't seem to be armed although they bumped into him, slowing him down. Doors, doors… he was having the same problem as before with all the corridors.

"Eames!"

He heard Arthur's voice call out behind him and had to suppress the urge to run further and faster, instead acting against all his natural instincts by doing what he had before – closing a door, then opening it and stepping back through. The trick worked. The beige wallpaper and cream carpet had disappeared; now he stood at the top of a spiralling staircase that appeared to descend endlessly downwards. The projections had thankfully disappeared, failing to follow him beyond the door. He sighed, catching his breath. The steps themselves were a painted white wood with no handrail to hold onto. Supporting himself with one hand against the wall instead Eames began his descent. The wall itself was a pastel peachy colour, and hung at sporadic intervals were framed photographs. Some of them contained Arthur as a young child or in adolescence, others were pictures of people Eames guessed were family, and several he didn't recognise at all. Eames gave them all a quick glance as he passed, encouraged that he was getting closer to the end, to the personal space that would tell him what he wanted to know. After every few photos there was a mirror.

Just over a minute had passed when Eames stopped suddenly and slapped his forehead, his panicked mind finally getting enough air to think clearly about the situation. The staircase was a never-ending staircase, linking up with itself, repeating. Of course it was. It had to be – this was Arthur. He resumed walking again, slower this time, observing properly. Seventeen photos, then a mirror. Then the same seventeen photos. He paused by a mirror, frustrated with himself that it had taken him even as long as that to figure it out. It was Arthur's mind, after all – a staircase that looked long and spiralling like this one was never going to be a normal staircase.

He was still cursing his idiocy when he realised that something was wrong about the mirror he was looking at. Quite fundamentally, he wasn't in it. And on closer inspection he realised neither was the spiral staircase. He was actually looking into a room – the walls were the same colour, and like the staircase, had photographs on them, but now he was looking properly he noticed there was also a desk and chair, and he could just about see a line of television screens wrapping around the wall on the left. Slowly he began to reach towards the mirror, wondering if he could pass through it into the room itself. But just as he was about to make contact the door at the far end of the room opened, and Arthur stepped into it. He turned to look at Eames instantly.

Breaking his gaze away Eames turned and resumed running down the stairs automatically, only remembering once more that the staircase didn't end when he passed the next mirror and saw that Arthur had drawn even closer in this one. Great. How was he supposed to escape this staircase? He look over the edge of the stair he was standing on and down into the endless depths of the spiral. The height of it made him feel giddy and sick. It wasn't real though, was it? It had to be just an optical illusion. Not that that made him feel any better about what he was contemplating. But he had to move – Arthur knew he was here now and he was hardly going to have any trouble navigating his own mind to catch up with Eames. Eames shuffled nervously to the edge of the step he was standing on and curled his toes over the edge, bracing himself. Shortcut the stairs, come on. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. What other way was there? He stepped off.

The fall lasted barely over a second. He landed on something soft and springy, and opened his eyes with a start. He was fine. And he was…on a bed. In a small and very personal looking bedroom that actually seemed rather familiar, though at that moment he couldn't quite place why. He slowly glanced around and a split-second later nearly leapt out of his skin.

"Wha– ?"

Stretched out comfortably on the bed next to him was a projection that looked exactly like himself.

"Hello." The other Eames smiled and waved a hand.

Well, in all fairness, not exactly like himself. The projection was both more dressed up and dressed down than Eames was, wearing a crisp white striped shirt, black trousers and shiny black shoes. The shirt however had four – no, five, buttons undone at the top, exposing a thin 'V' of skin. His hair, playfully mussed, looked about the same – except in the projection's case it was obviously intentional, whereas Eames' had become that way from the running he'd been doing earlier.

"Hello," he answered back, a little disconcerted. He turned his attention away from a moment and stood up from the bed, glancing around the bedroom. It was quite small, definitely a personal space. The presence of…himself…in the room also seemed to indicate this would be a good place to look for a secret relating to why Arthur was becoming more distant. He began to open the drawers, checking behind the television and under the bed. Nothing. Judging from the state of the room he was becoming fairly sure that it was a hotel room, and the little shampoo bottle in the ensuite bathroom quickly confirmed his suspicion. Why was it familiar to him? He must have visited it at some point… He moved back into the bedroom and quickly examined the wardrobe, then under the pillows. Still nothing. But he definitely recognised the room. He must have been there with Arthur, or it wouldn't be in Arthur's subconscious… He paused abruptly, straightening where he stood and frowning as he tried to remember. When had he shared a hotel room with Arthur? As his mind searched for the memory he turned to the last, and most obvious, source of information.

"Do you know anything about why Arthur…what could be…you know, anything?" he asked ineloquently.

The projection shrugged carelessly. The gesture was so…him. Not that that helped right now.

"Is he hiding anything in this room?" Eames rephrased.

The projection spread his arms wide as if that was self-evident. "Me."

It was what Eames' had half expected ever since he'd seen him there. He'd just felt a little awkward about talking to himself, not knowing how Arthur's subconscious construction of him would behave. But it seemed he was acting like, well…himself.

"Why?" he asked.

"Why not? I'm a pretty good looking fellow." The projection grinned.

Eames narrowed his eyes. "I knew that," he joked, finding the conversation easier and easier. "But what are you doing here? You're not…? Are you a, um…" he hesitated incredulously, "…fantasy?"

The projection laughed. "Hoping to get lucky, Eames?"

"Are you?"

"I wish." The projection rolled his eyes. Eames laughed, then paused as he suddenly remembered when he'd seen the room before. That was it; it had been after a job about two weeks back. They'd booked hotel rooms to stay in for the night before they finished their journey back home. Eames and Arthur had shared a twin bed room though, not a double. He frowned. Ah, but that was it – only one bed, Arthur's, had a decent view of the television. The television cable was too short to move it conveniently so that they both could see and Arthur had refused to budge over for Eames to sit on the bed beside him so Eames had pushed the beds together and sat on his own instead. Arthur's subconscious must've simply fused the two beds into one as a forgotten detail. Eames scanned further through the memory. He had gotten fairly drunk beforehand at dinner before they had gone up to their room so he couldn't remember a great deal now, but he was sure it had simply been a nice evening rather than anything more. They hadn't had sex or anything, just chatted. He might have said something inappropriate when he was drunk, but he couldn't remember. Surely whatever it might have been wouldn't warrant this level of subconscious dedication though. He tried to trace back to when Arthur had started acting more distant towards him – did that start happening after that hotel night? But nothing, to his memory, had happened that night. He raised an eyebrow at the projection lying back on the bed, top five buttons undone. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe Arthur had really wanted to have sex with him that night and had been frustrated and disappointed ever since. The thought made him grin. He looked at the projection once more.

"What do you think of Arthur?"

"Oh, he's hot." The projection nodded and Eames laughed. Arthur knew what Eames thought of him then. Not that he'd ever especially tried to be subtle. But that meant the 'Arthur is sexually frustrated hypothesis' couldn't be right. If he had said anything inappropriate whilst drunk, it would probably have been to hit on Arthur, and not for the first time. In that case, if Arthur knew Eames liked him, they could have just had sex. He turned to the projection thoughtfully.

"I hit on Arthur that night in the hotel, right?"

"Hell yes."

"And then what happened?" asked Eames, both amused and apprehensive.

"Nothing," the projection answered with an exasperated sigh. "He turned me down."

"He turned me down," Eames corrected, then paused. "How badly did I hit on him?"

The projection laughed. "You asked him for sex straight out." He grinned as if in memory, and suddenly Eames remembered too.

They sat side by side on the beds, Eames playing with an empty bottle of beer. He turned to Arthur contentedly, taking in the other man's smooth jawline and slicked back hair, a slim neat figure in far too conservative dress, his intelligent eyes fixed firmly, and somewhat irritably, on the television in front of them. Gorgeous man. Even though they were both leaning back Arthur still had the better posture, his legs crossed tidily whilst Eames slumped, sprawled comfortably across the duvet, half resting against Arthur's shoulder. He had a sudden desire to ruffle Arthur's hair, push him over, anything, just to make them a little more equal. Or rather just to make Arthur look a little less like he'd been left cold and sexless next to a hapless drunk for the evening. He wanted to see Arthur passionate, Arthur happy, Arthur pleasured, and preferably moaning like an animal and forgetting everything but Eames. Hmmm. There seemed one obvious, perfect, and pleasurable solution to all this. It came to Eames in a stroke of genius. He turned to Arthur genially.

"Sex?"

Arthur looked at him slowly, as if amused by his drunken suggestion. "What about it?"

"We should have it."

"Really." His voice was deadpan. It was a humouring-the-drunk tone. Eames looked back at him, admiring his face. God, he was so damn gorgeous, so bloody restrained – he was just asking to be persuaded.

"Why not? I think it's a good idea." He could see Arthur suppress a smile and had the nagging feeling that he was being mocked. He shrugged it off. "You're hot, I'm hot – we should do this," he reasoned.

"Stunning," Arthur replied flatly.

"Yes I am." Eames slung one arm – perhaps a little heavy handedly – around Arthur's shoulder. "How about we just have the sex?"

Arthur looked up at him, narrowing his eyes. "Just the sex?"

"Mmm." Eames leant over him and pressed his lips against Arthur's, gently drawing him in…

Eames blinked, coming out of the memory. Hang on, hang on just one minute. He hadn't kissed Arthur. His memory had been blurring into a fantasy – who could blame him – but that hadn't happened. He knew that Arthur had said 'Just the sex?' but after that the memory slipped infuriatingly away from him once more. What had he said? He had leant forward and he had met some sort of resistance – but it probably wasn't sexual. More likely Arthur had pushed him back – but what had Eames said? Eames sighed. He was probably reading too much into all of this. Maybe Arthur was just embarrassed about how heavily Eames had propositioned him but as far as his memory went Arthur hadn't seemed that offended – he knew Eames was drunk, for crying out loud.

"I don't get it – why is he pushing me away now?" he asked the projection helplessly. The projection shrugged casually, a mirror of how he felt.

"What do you do here?" Eames questioned it.

"I hit on Arthur."

Eames raised an eyebrow. "Arthur keeps you here to hit on him?"

"Why not? I'm good at it."

"This is awfully insulting if you're not a fantasy."

"Tell me about it."

"I can hit on Arthur. I have done that – I do do that. And I'm sure I can do it better than you, for real, and in the real world. What does he need you for?"

"I don't know. I don't ask, I don't leave. It would be kinky if we ever did anything. But we don't." He sighed and shrugged again, in a gloriously nonchalant fashion.

"What are you? Are you some sort of pending kink? As in, you would be if Arthur had the imagination?"

The projection laughed at this, and so did Eames.

"I wonder how Arthur imagines…" Eames pulled the projections top away a little and looked down it. "That's actually rather insulting," he commented after a moment's perusal.

Just then the door to the bedroom swung open and Arthur stepped in.

"Eames, get out. Now."

"Ah, darling, you're back," the projection cooed, advancing towards him.

"He doesn't have abs!" Eames protested, ignoring them both. "Arthur, seriously. Even I have abs, but an imaginary me doesn't? Do you think I'm too lazy to have them or something? You can't even imagine me having them? I can't decide whether to be insulted or to accept that you really are that unimaginative. Well I do, thank you very much, and if you're going to harbour a useless pseudo-me in your subconscious you might as well make him anatomically accurate!"

"He has a point, darling," the projection supported.

"Eames, what are you doing here?" Arthur accused.

"Yes, what am I doing here?" Eames echoed, pointing at the projection.

"Just leave. Now." Arthur's voice was ice.

"God, you're sexy when you're angry," the projection muttered.

"Out."

"Come, won't you spend a moment? I'm not asking for much, just stay." The projection was smiling at Arthur suggestively. Arthur ignored him, looking past to Eames.

"Get out, do you hear me?"

"No," Eames rebelled, returning to the serious. "This room…that night in the hotel, what did I say? What did I do so wrong that put this room here?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter."

"Come on, at least a kiss before you go. Don't be frazzled, darling," the projection murmured comfortingly, stroking Arthur's cheek.

"Off," Eames ordered firmly, though half enjoying the embarrassment this was causing Arthur. "What was it that I said?"

"It's irrelevant. Get out, before I have to drag you."

"Not until I know. I remember… I remember until you said 'Just the sex?' but no further. What did I say?"

"I don't remember. Now please." His voice was getting tired.

Eames remained stubbornly where he was, desperately trying to remember what he'd said. Damn him for having been drunk! But he needn't have worried – he was about to be quoted.

"Come Arthur, I know we don't always get on, but that doesn't matter. Kiss me." The projection leant in and Arthur shoved him back roughly.

"Get off."

"Come on, let's just forget ourselves for once. It doesn't matter – it doesn't have to mean anything. I mean, we're all screwed anyway – you're all logical and critical and you really need to just relax – whereas I like to take it easy, and I think mess is artistic. You just have to look at us – we're mutually incompatible. But that doesn't mean the sex can't be fantastic."

That. That was what he'd said. The piece slotted neatly into place at the end of his memory, filling in his answer to Arthur's question. Hearing the words coming from the projection's mouth gave him one of the strongest senses of déjà vu that he'd ever felt. He waited for the projection to continue, to say whatever it was that had bothered Arthur so deeply. But Arthur already looked somewhat offended, as if he might turn and leave even before Eames did. The projection evidently saw this too.

"Don't look sad," it said. "You're not going to refuse me on something as petty as this, surely? I mean, you knew that I was never going to love you or anything soppy like that, right?"

Eames tensed slightly, feeling uneasy as the sense of déjà vu ceased. He hadn't said that…

"But that doesn't matter, does it?" the projection continued regardless. "Of course I'll never love you. But that doesn't mean we can't have great chemistry…"

"No, wait, I never said…" Eames trailed off, disturbed and confused.

Arthur was stony-faced. "I couldn't care less whether or not you loved me," he replied coldly to the projection.

"Good. Ha, what a thought. No, I won't ever love you," the projection laughed. "God, how messed up would that –"

"Stop, no, stop!" Eames cut in, pulling the projection back in alarm. He'd never said that. He never would have said that. That wasn't him at all – this was Arthur, Arthur's thoughts.

"I never gave you permission to incept that…" He could see the hurt in Arthur's face, even though Arthur was trying to hide it. When had he…? Oh god. 'Just the sex?'… Mutually incompatible…

"Love, what a stupid thing," the projection teased, still chuckling.

"Shut up! I never meant it like that!" Impulsively Eames reached into his jacket for his handgun and withdrew it, raising it abruptly and pointing it at the projection's head. This couldn't go on.

"Eames, leave it," Arthur persuaded.

The projection smiled at Arthur seductively. "Kiss me."

"SHUT UP!" Eames yelled, stung by Arthur's hurt and his own guilt.

The projection pouted. "Just sleep with m–"

BANG.

"EAMES!" Arthur screamed, watching more in shock than horror as the projection of Eames slumped to the floor, a thin line of blood trickling from the fresh hole in his temple. Eames wasn't sure exactly who Arthur had yelled at. He walked slowly over to where Arthur was standing.

"He wasn't real," he said softly, taking Arthur by the shoulders and attempting to steer him away from looking at the corpse. "I'm real."

"I know." Arthur shrugged his hands off. "Eames…"

"Arthur, you mustn't listen to what he said." He wasn't completely sure of his own feelings, but he knew he cared for Arthur and he didn't want to see him hurt – and certainly not at the hands of a virtual Eames in his subconscious. He understood. He understood now why Arthur had become more distant, and the thought revealed more about Arthur and himself than he had ever expected. He turned to Arthur tenderly.

"It wasn't…you can't…"

Arthur sighed. "Eames, what does it matter? Let's just leave."

"No, I'm not saying that…I mean…" Eames ran a hand through his hair. He hadn't expected to have to confront his own feelings like this, certainly not in a situation where he'd expected everything to be about how Arthur felt. This had to be the most awkward confession situation ever. "It's not…I'm not saying…exactly, that, well, that I do…but I…I could…I guess… Or at least, I'm not just…argh." He turned back to the dead body of himself, still lying slumped on the carpet, disturbingly realistic. Looking back at Arthur he pointed at it. "That…is dead."

"Amazing observation Eames." Arthur's tone was dry but there was the slightest upward tilt at the corner of his lips, and it gave Eames hope.

"I meant that you mustn't think like…that…anymore," he explained gently. "It's not…It doesn't have to be true. I never meant for you to take it that way." He took a deep breath, trying to shrug it off although it was far too late for that. He raised his gun once more, this time letting it hang loosely between them, his decision and emotions slipping into place. "It's time to wake up, Arthur."

Arthur looked up at him cryptically and then slowly raised the barrel of the gun so that it was level with his chest. "Go ahead."

"Arthur…" He pulled the trigger, tenderly slipping one arm around Arthur to support him as he gasped and then slumped against him, immobile.

Moments later Eames had shot himself awake, blinking quickly to orientate himself. Almost in a panic he glanced across to check on Arthur. He was there of course, perfectly unharmed in reality and looking back at Eames with an expression full of mixed emotions. They watched each other for a long moment, neither knowing quite what to say.

"Why?" Arthur said at length. "Why invade my sleep like that?"

"You seemed distant, darling. I wanted to know why." Eames shrugged, ashamed.

Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Eames…"

Eames smiled at him ruefully. "Hush. Just…give me a chance?" He stood from his chair and went over to Arthur, offering a hand to help him up. Arthur, who had become distant because he feared that Eames would never love him. The knowledge sat deep inside of him, warming and warning. Arthur took his hand and Eames pulled him to his feet. Then he let his hand drop, lightly entwining their fingers together.

"I don't just think you're hot. Though you are."

Arthur shook his head humorously, smiling despite himself. Eames smiled back at him, waiting until he held his gaze once more.

"I like you."

Arthur looked down for a moment, then in a sudden, simple movement, leant towards him and kissed him lightly on the lips. Eames froze in surprise. Arthur pulled back an instant later, looking a little flustered.

"Um…" He blushed slightly, adorably.

Eames stared at him. "Arthur, what the hell?" Hadn't he just said it wasn't all about sex? But perhaps that was the entire point. Arthur could relax now – it was okay. He watched as Arthur made to leave and grabbed his arm hurriedly, preventing his hasty exit.

"No, wait."

Before Arthur could object Eames pulled him back into an embrace, kissing him again, more passionately this time. Arthur tensed for a moment but then gave in, folding into Eames' arms. After a few moments Eames pulled away with a smile.

"Wait. I have to show you something."

Arthur gave him a look that was something on the lines of what, are you five? which quickly changed into another expression entirely as Eames began to unbutton the front of his shirt.

"See? Abs." Eames grabbed one of Arthur's hands and placed it on his chest to prove a point, loving how Arthur both avoided looking and looked, decidedly. "So next time make your imagination more accurate," he murmured, leaning in to kiss Arthur once more.

It was just starting to get more heated when the door opened and Ariadne walked in. It couldn't have taken much – one glance, two men, one open-shirted, both kissing passionately… A second later, the door had closed again. Arthur had pulled away from Eames in a hurry, but naturally far too late to prevent Ariadne from seeing. He glared – semi-affectionately – at Eames.

"Well done," he muttered sarcastically, neither of them in any doubts of what she would now be thinking, even though they had only just begun it themselves. Eames grinned at him.

"It's a good start."

Author's note: I might post a little sequel to this...we'll see. Please review!