"Whisky, please." He makes a tap-tap-taptap rhythm on the bar top with his hands, swivelling idly in his stool. The barman looks at him expectantly. He awkwardly smiles back.

"Whisky…?"

"Oh! Neat." The barman then looks at him weirdly. He feels as though he is missing something important.

"…please?" The barman sighs.

"Sir, this is a cocktail bar; we don't serve straight drinks." Eames groans, and thunks his head on the cool, faux marble surface. His arms wrap around his head in aggravation, and insults and profanities are muffled in his sleeves.

His shirt and jacket have ridden up, spurring the rising of many mountain ranges of goose-pimples across his lower back. The air-con is creating a synthetic breeze, and it is fucking freezing, but Eames doesn't care, too busy cursing the country he's in and everything it stands for.

The barman can roughly make out "Urgh! What is wrong with this place?" and "Stupid bloody bar – why can they have a normal pub for normal people?" and finally "Stupid Yanks, ruining everything that is good in the world." The rest, it seems to the barman, is "blurph", "flegg" and the occasional "fuck!"

Eventually, he comes up for air and a drink. At this point in time, he couldn't care less if it came in a glass that is more of a stem than a drinking vessel and has a saccharine, green umbrella in it. He needs poison in his blood now.

"What drinks do you have with whisky in them?" The barman's face lights up, and Eames feels a horrible sense of dread claw its way up his stomach.

"Well, we've got Baseball Pleasure, Thunder king, Sid Vicious, Ebola - which is a strong, more masculine drink - Grovschpol, Irish Cream BTB - which is popular with our female clientele - Damned if you do, Carbom-"

"Okay, okay," Eames cuts him off. He closes his eyes, and puts his fore- and middle fingers against his temples and rubs in a supposedly soothing manner. "I'll have the cheapest drink with whisky in it. Thank you."

The barman looks put out, and Eames gets the tiniest injection prick of guilt in his system but pays it no attention; in any other, perfectly good pub he would be half-way to pissed by now.

After a too sober eternity of waiting in Eames' warped sense of time, the barman finally puts a drink down in front of him. After eons of watching slicing and squeezing, and pouring and shaking, he regards the liquid in front of him suspiciously. It is a rather purple colour.

He picks out the umbrella that's far too cheerful, and flicks it across the bar. The barman glares at him.

As way of appeasement (the barman will later control the flow of alcohol, after all), he raises his glass: "Cheers."

And, after staring into its small depth for ten minutes or so, gulps some down, being fully satisfied that nothing stared back.

It is immediately spat back into the glass. "Christ, that's some crazy stuff." And with that he re-swallows the contents.

It takes a few gaspy breaths to regain a normal composure, but he is considerably happier after finally consuming something alcoholic.

"I'll take another five." The barman nods, but doesn't look all together too pleased. "Preferably one after the other, in quick succession. My drunk-self will be awed by your seemingly telepathic skills."

Eames gets the impression that the barman isn't actually listening, but doesn't care, and so busies himself with focusing on the task the barman is getting on with.

In truth, the drink doesn't taste like whisky; in fact, it doesn't even taste alcoholic. There is no pleasant burn down his throat and he doesn't feel the least bit inebriated. It is the first time he has ever consumed a cocktail (unless you count shandy, which he doesn't) and, after tonight, he can quite honestly see it as his last.

"Here you go, Sir." The barman places the next glass in front of him. This tumbler has a prominent lack of umbrella in it, for which Eames is grateful.

Unfortunately, this drink doesn't taste any better than the first. Nor does he feel anymore drunk. He reverts back to a general air of despair.

His forehead meets the bar top again, and his back is still cold and exposed, but he just drums his fingers on the back of his head, weltering in his misery.

Warm knuckles brush across the small of his back as his shirt and jacket are pulled down.

Eames snaps up, alert, but doesn't turn around, paranoid that if he does, he will be face-to-face with the wrong barrel-end of a gun. If he goes, he doesn't want the last thing he sees to be a bullet his brain is about to be acquainted with. He looks down at the questionable beverage he has been drinking. He doesn't really want it to be that, either.

"What do you have with coffee in it?" A voice behind him asks. This makes him more alert because he knows that voice, and who comes with it, and circumstances like these only occur with them when he's drunk or dreaming.

The clear babbling of the newly enthusiastic barman, and the apparent 0.01% alcohol content of his drink suggests he isn't drunk…

"Damn," he mutters, totem rolling between his fingers perfectly: he isn't dreaming either. This depresses him further- he is actually in a cocktail bar, failing to get drunk. He takes a gulp of his drink.

"Questioning reality, Eames?" the voice asks, after choosing a drink from the long, flamboyant list.

Eames finally swivels 180º in his stool to face him: "I'm a solipsist – the only thing I'm ever sure about is me." Eames gestures for the voice to take a seat. "But you already knew that, didn't you? Always telling me I'm so sure of myself."

The voice turns into a chuckle, and takes the seat to his left. As pleasant as the sound is, Eames is more than a little wary: "Arthur – please tell me you don't frequent this place."

Arthur laughs fully now, throwing his head back. He shakes his head mirthfully.

"Good, because then I'd have to terminate our…whatever we have," Eames says, relieved. He then panics, "I don't either! I-"

"-Just walked into the first bar you came across because you're depressed." Arthur says, straightening his cuff like men in business suits are wont to do. "If you had been in a more or less cheerful mood you would have walked around a bit to see which bar looked most appealing, which, funnily enough, always turns out to be the fifth bar."

He pauses in fiddling with his cuff, seeming to realise how this sounds. Meeting Eames's gaze – and subsequent raised eyebrow – sighs. "I don't stalk you."

"Yet here we are," Eames says, gesturing around with his glass. He then finishes it, making a face. Almost immediately, another full glass is placed in front of him.

Arthur looks at him inquiringly; his drink had only just arrived.

Eames shrugs, "I pre-ordered."

"Yeah, the cheapest drink with whisky in it, I'll bet," Arthur says, then slumps his shoulders in response to Eames' incredulous gaze. "I honestly don't stalk you," he says feebly.

"You just happen to know a scary amount about me. Even if you are required to research people."

"You know a hell of a lot about me, too," Arthur argues.

"Yes, but I'm a forger: I have to know about people and their idiosyncrasies. Plus, I was-"

"-A Psychology student for the better part of two years, and an amateur actor, and so regard psychoanalysis and mimicry as your profession."

Eames laughs aloud now, as Arthur drops his head into his hands. "I don't mean to stalk you," he whines.

There is a silence for a minute or two, filled with Arthur's sulking, and Eames' deliberation over whether or not to take another draught. He does, and ends up spluttering. Arthur takes a quaff of his own drink, and breaks the silence.

"Your drink," he says, carefully, rubbing his wrist with his thumb, "It's an…interesting colour." Eames snorts.

"It's an interesting taste."

"You gonna reveal whatever lead you to fail miserably at drowning your woes in a cocktail bar?" Arthur asks, straight to the point.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Eames replies, not unkindly, "And don't rub it in. Anyway, why didn't you just wait for me to pass out legless and then connect me up to the PASIV? You're one of the best extractors out there."

"Besides the fact that it would probably take you over a week to get drunk on – that, you probably also have an incredibly guarded mind," Arthur says, scratching his sleeve contemplatively. He takes a sip of his drink. "Going against your subconscious is probably like going against the RAF, Navy, Army, SAS and SBS alone. As well as the coast guard." Eames is impressed.

"When did you become an expert on my country's armed forces?"

"Just because you despise my country, Eames, doesn't mean I necessarily hate yours."

Eames feels guilty about his previous whining after this. He doesn't actually have anything against the States; he was just depressed, and sober. He is no longer depressed, due to the surprise appearance of Arthur, but is still infuriatingly sober.

He sighs. "Look, I don't hate America, it's just – It's just that when I fly over here, it's so similar to bonnie Angleterre, but so glaringly different. It's like – like going under. In the PASIV, it seems real, but when you know you're dreaming, you can see how…unreal it is." He watches Arthur put down his drink and pause while picking off an invisible speck. "That sounded irritatingly inane, coming out. Did you understand what I meant?"

Arthur is looking at him disbelievingly, "You did not just compare the United States to illegal dreamforging, and Britain to reality." Eames looks blankly at him, before pretty much exploding with laughter.

"Heavily sedated state is to America, as cold, hard reality is to – Seriously Arthur, what is wrong with your wrist? You haven't stopped touching it in the last fifteen minutes."

Arthur freezes, hand paused in wringing his wrist, right hand wrapped around his arm. He flushes. "Nothing."

Eames shrugs carefully careless, slyly watching Arthur's reaction.

"Alright, alright," he says soothingly; he'd be a rubbish thief and forger if he couldn't see the agitation bubbling off of Arthur over his wrist. It sparks his curiosity, but he doesn't push it. Arthur would probably unconsciously reveal what was up later. Nevertheless, Eames watches Arthur a bit more attentively.

Another silence falls, and Eames can feel the waves of embarrassment pulsing from Arthur. His drink is staring at him dolefully. He gulps it down, and Arthur follows in his example.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Arthur attempts, pathetically, to restart the conversation.

You're asking me, Eames thinks wryly, and chuckles. "Honestly Arthur, it's fine. Just wallowing in self-pity and the like."

Arthur puts his drink down and his arm strikes out, and Eames doesn't flinch – it's a skill he has had to learn to become a forger. He hadn't done anything wrong, so he isn't surprised when it doesn't turn out to be a blow or punch. A finger stroking his cheek, however – that was surprising.

"Eyelash," Arthur says, holding it out as way of explanation.

"Make a wish," Eames replies, meaning thank you. Arthur looks at him confused, his finger still stuck out with the eyelash on the end of it.

"What?"

"Funny, I had always thought it an American tradition-thing. Supposedly, if you have an eyelash on your fingertip – just like you are so perfectly modelling, thank you Arthur – if you blow it off your finger and make a wish, it will become true et cetera, et cetera."

Arthur gets this strange look on his face, and for a moment, Eames thinks he is going to tell him to sod off, and then wipe the eyelash on the napkin that strangely enough came with his drink.

But then Arthur closes his eye, and blows the eyelash off his finger. It flies up and gets caught in the air-con, flickers and sways with gravity like a feather before drifting out of sight.

Arthur slowly opens his eyes, and smiles. Eames smiles back, pleased Arthur becomes relaxed over something childish. He continues to watch as Arthur reaches for his glass, sleeve drawing back to reveal the inside of his wrist, taking in the blur of red-pink and black that looks oddly like…

His hand whips out, and curls around Arthur's arm, causing Arthur to flinch and drop his glass. Eames catches it absentmindedly, collecting all liquid, but doesn't care: he did see correctly.

"Shit, Arthur," he scolds, noting a flush flow across Arthur's neck and cheeks in shame, "why isn't this still bandaged? Have you at least washed it with antibacterial soap?"

Arthur has a tattoo – a tattoo of his name. He can, quite clearly, make out 'Eames' in the bright fuchsia, inflamed and slightly bloody skin. Arthur couldn't have gotten it more than an hour ago.

Eames schools his expression as he fusses over the inking, and doesn't allow himself to feel smug over this; despite his name being permanently etched onto Arthur's skin, it could just as easily be in the context of, say, a nasty insult along the lines of 'smelly Eames'. Or something more imaginative, and biting.

Arthur shakes his hung head, not meeting Eames' eye like a child being told off.

Carefully, slowly, Eames pulls back the sleeve to expose the whole tattoo. What is revealed is so unexpected that Eames cannot cage the smile escaping.

In black, plain, Times New Roman font is a single phrase:

'You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling' – Eames

Eames is certain the darling is slightly bolder.

"Darling-" he emphasizes gleefully, causing Arthur to look up and glare, "-I'm chuffed. Truly."

A relieved sigh is exhaled, and Arthur manages a shaky smile as Eames carefully covers the tattoo with the napkin.

"I know it's stupid-"

"-It's not stupid, those words were inspired." Eames interrupts, still grinning; Arthur is abashed, even now as he pulls down his sleeve. "What is stupid, is that you've not kept the bandage on for long enough, and now it'll probably get infected and ruin the overall effect of the quote."

"Sorry, Mother," Arthur retorts, and shakes his head. "Honestly."

Yet another silence falls, but this one is significantly cheerier. Eames still has the smile on his face, even when he swallows some of his drink. Arthur turns to push away his own glass, and glances over back at Eames.

"Oh shut up," he mumbles.

"I haven't said anything."

"You're smiling ridiculously." At this, Eames grins wider, though it hurts.

Arthur sighs. "I just, just after you said that, I kept thinking that perhaps I, I should dream bigger." He stops, and breathes in deeply. He then continues on, less rambly and rushed than before. "You know what the first thing I said after Saito inquired about inception was?" He asks Eames.

Eames shrugs yet again that night; he did know – Cobb had told him – but felt that Arthur had gotten into the flow of things, and he didn't want to distract him from this revelation.

"'It's impossible' – and then you came traipsing –" Eames scowls: he has never traipsed in his life, "-in, logically explaining about the evolution of thoughts and suddenly BAM –" Eames jumps " – suddenly, it's possible. Suddenly, we're planting an idea in some guy's head and letting it…blossom."

Arthur trails off, and Eames can't think of anything important to say, and so settles for nodding sagely. Eames' spidey senses tingle: Arthur has more to say.

He's right: "So I thought, you know, that a tattoo would be a lasting reminder to be…imaginative. To remember I'm not limited in dreamsharing. To remember I can dream like you. Be imaginative. Like you."

Eames then sees Arthur with utter clarity, and something like pity wells up inside him, just to be breathed out.

"Oh Arthur," he whispers, "Oh Arthur, you are imaginative. You're one of the most imaginative people I've ever met." Arthur snorts in disbelief.

"You are. What did you do the first we met, hmm?" Arthur mutters something Eames doesn't hear, but knows word for word.

"Sorry, what was that?" Arthur glares at him without any fire, and speaks, louder.

"I said I punched you."

"That's right. You broke my nose the first time we met." Eames ducks his head to look into Arthur's eyes, and his mouth does a funny little jiggle in what Eames assumes is Arthur's attempt at keeping a straight face.

"You were running from some company you nicked a PASIV from, and in your panic to blend into the crowd, threw a fist in my face and started screaming about what a dirty, cheating bastard I was, and how I was not fit to so much as look at your boots. You then threw the PASIV at my feet, stating that I and my clothes were no longer welcome in the apartment."

The barman, who had been walking past them at this point to serve another customer, looks over, shocked.

Eames grins, "True story." The barman pours him another drink. "Cheers." He looks over at Arthur, whose colouring resembles that of a pillar box, which delights Eames no end.

"I apologised profusely that day-"

"And was thoroughly embarrassed that night when Cobb introduced us."

Arthur shakes his head, "You were insufferable during that job."

"Nah, you just felt guilty every time you saw my gauze."

"Let me rephrase that: you've been insufferable ever since."

"Better, better. Anyway, my point is, that little stunt you pulled has gotten me out of a few dire straits. Well, the altered version, obviously. I can't be going around punching people, can I?"

Arthur punches his arm.

"How violent of you. In any case, if you had never broken my nose, I would never have thought of involving random people in a getaway as a distraction, let alone approaching the baddie himself."

A sigh is emitted from Arthur, and Eames thinks he is almost getting the message through. He automatically drinks for luck, forgets what he is drinking and ends up having to scrape his teeth along his tongue to combat the taste.

"Bah. Ahem." Arthur smiles a little at the reaction, and while that is nice and that, it is not Eames' present objective. "You have to understand that when I tell you to be more imaginative, it's in the same way an English tutor tells his public school snobs to speak properly, even though their grammar is pretty much golden. It's not that you don't have any imagination, it's that you've got so much that I'm constantly trying to push you to develop it."

Arthur's face is lightly contorted with confusion and gratitude as he asks, dazed, "Public school?"

"You'd call it a private schoo-not important. What I've been trying to tell you is that you have an imagination and shouldn't afraid to use it. And this sounds far too much like a psychiatry session, so if you don't understand it by now, it's a lost cause."

Arthur places a hand on Eames' arm, and his eyes gleam with so much appreciation that Eames takes a large gulp of his drink to stop himself from doing something stupid, like crying. This pushes him closer to crying, but for different reasons entirely.

"Thanks, Eames. It…means a lot."

"Anytime," he sincerely replies.

They smile at each other clumsily, looking away to sip their drinks. Eames realises that Arthur has had one drink in the time it has taken him to have three, and probably feels more drunk than he does, even if Eames had a drink before Arthur had even started. This must have been what his mother talked about when she told him life wasn't fair.

"So…" Arthur starts, and Eames twists in his stool to look at him, finding him looking shy, self-conscious and – hopeful? "You wanna, you know, come over to my mine for a coffee?"

"Blimey, Arthur – how much caffeine do you need?" he exclaims, glancing at Arthur's cocktail.

"Besides," he continues, peeking at his watch, "Coffee would be a bad idea if I'm gonna have any hopes of falling asleep without jetlag-"

"Eames," Arthur exasperatedly cuts in, "You can't – you aren't – you can't possibly be that naïve." He runs a hand roughly through his hair. "When someone asks you in for coffee they aren't asking you in for coffee. And if you do actually get a cup of coffee anyway, the general intention is not sleeping."

Arthur groans, and his forehead is introduced to the bar top in a position oddly parallel to Eames' earlier that evening.

"Oh," is Eames's articulate reply. And then, in sudden burning comprehension, "Oh."

"Yeah-" says the dejected lump on the counter that is Arthur. He slumps up, looking in the direction of Eames, but not precisely at him, "-Oh."

In the act of considering the offer – even though there was never really any doubt – Eames pushes his tongue into cheek while he peruses Arthur.

He takes in Arthur's sudden miserable aura, his lowered eyes and his tightly grasped wrist. Really, the choice was so easy.

"Mhmm. Righto." He stands up, drains his glass (with a squint of his entire face) and pays for the drinks. He rotates on the spot and walks two steps before turning around, "Well, coming?"

Arthur up looks at him, jaw slack. Befuddled, he carefully looks down at his half-full glass, and then slowly back at Eames. Eames watches on, charmed.

"Any day now, Arthur." Eames offers up his hand. Arthur stares back, dumbly mouthing what?

"Dream a little bigger," Eames whispers.

Astonished, Arthur distractedly pays the barman and gets up, cautiously settling his hand in Eames' outstretched one.

When Eames clasps them together, although shocked, Arthur manages a blinding smile and can even walk the two steps without stumbling. Eames replies with a smile of his own.

Turning around to walk out of the bar and into something very new, a voice cries out: "Sir, you paid for six drinks."

Eames turns back around to see the barman waving his change in notes like a patriot waves his flag.

"But I ordered six drinks," he tells the barman, puzzled.

"Yes, but you only drank four."

He takes a minute to count on his hand – still attached to Arthur – the beverages consumed. He then feels an overwhelming sense of appreciation for this honest barman who he has, quite frankly, been a bit of an arse to.

A genuine smile is given to the barman, along with a "Keep it – consider it a tip. Or at least have the last drinks on me."

The barman gives an incredulous head shake. "A man he doesn't live by rock 'n' roll and brew alone," he mutters.

Eames looks fondly at Arthur, who is still a little out of it: "Tonight he might."

As they walk towards the exit, his and Arthur's eyes lock, luminous due to alcohol, low lighting and unadulterated joy. Arthur playfully nudges his shoulder against Eames', hands held on tight, and Eames' intestines take on the consistency of toothpaste.

He finally feels a little drunk. Or maybe that's just Arthur's smiles.