Eames sighed as he peered at Arthur's sleeping form. He trailed his gaze over the man's pale shoulders, into the dip of his neck, as he tried to remember how he let this happen. Again. Seeing Arthur like this was never a good idea; there was no way Eames could move on after watching Arthur's usually rigid form relaxed in sleep. Soft and pliable after a night of amazing sex.

Eames' mind wandered back to a time when he didn't need to worry about the morning and the repercussions of a night with the man sleeping beside him. Back then he could slip into sleep without the fear of waking up alone in a strange hotel bed, back then he could kiss Arthur's curls as they fucked, back then could whisper "I love you"s into the night, knowing he would hear the words reflected back. Sadly that was years ago.

From the beginning he knew that Arthur was going to break him, but he'd never guessed they'd end up here. He had imagined a future with Arthur from the minute they met, but never one like this. At twenty-one Eames had thought he knew it all. He'd finish his service, Arthur'd finish school, and they'd be off hand in hand. He had planned on waking up next to Arthur's steady breath every day. He'd paint, Arthur would study philosophy, they'd kiss at the pictures, and fuck in their bed.

Eames never guessed that they would end up as top-line criminals, stealing people's sleep. He'd never imagined a life where Arthur was his stuffy colleague by day, and convenience lay by night. If Eames would have heard this back then he would have laughed. It didn't seem so funny now, when the man he'd thought he lost forever, ended up in his bed three weeks in a row to "de-stress".

Arthur shifted, eye lids fluttering and lips pursed as he rolled onto his back and groaned, "'Time's it?"

"Too early, even for you," Eames muttered, closing his eyes to appear as if he'd been asleep. The last thing he needed was Arthur seeing how gone he was.

"Mm, good," he yawned while stretching his arms all the way above his head like he did when he was eighteen. "I'm not sure I can stand just yet."

The blond man grinned, despite his frustration with their current circumstances. "Sorry 'bout that, Love," he said-not meaning it. He felt Arthur shift again, this time moving towards Eames and wrapping his arms around the man's tattooed chest. Eames opened an eye.

Arthur was now laying with his head on Eames shoulder and a leg thrown over his middle. His soft dark hairs were brushing Eames' neck with each deepening breath, as he fell back into sleep. Damn if he wasn't the most gorgeous thing Eames had ever seen.

"'Still love you."

The forger blinked. Had he imagined that? He looked back down at the, now fully sleeping, form. When they had first dated Eames used to tease the younger man about his tendency to confess secrets in his sleep, but now it didn't seems so funny. Not in their line of work anyway. Surely Arthur kept himself guarded enough to prevent slips like this, surely it was just wishful thinking that tricked Eames' ears, but even so, he needed to know for sure. For Arthur's safety. No other reason.

Taking a deep breath, Eames stood and untangled himself from Arthur, praying he wouldn't wake up. Luck was with him, so he rolled out of bed and quickly pulled on some boxers and a T-shirt, trying to figure out his course of action. He paused before grabbing his mobile and stepping onto the attached balcony, and dialling.

Mal picked up on the first ring, an anxious tone colouring her French accent."Charlie, is something wrong?"

"Does Arthur have a sleep talking problem?"

"No, you know we'd never have hired him if that was the case. What's this really about?" She snapped, now annoyed at being woken up to be interrogated.

"Never mind. Sorry for disturbing you, Love," the forger said, finger on the end button.

"Charles Richard Eames, don't you deflect, I'm awake now so tell me why you called or I'll call Margi and tell her you've gotten another tattoo!"

Eames cringed at the use of his full name coupled with the threat of a call to his mother. He shuddered at the thought of her worried face asking how he knew the needles were clean and how . "He just said something strange, that's all, Malorie. I'll tell you the rest when I see you."

"Fine, Charlie. If you promise," Eames could hear her smile through the phone.

"Okay. I promise. Je t'aime, ma cherie. "There was a click, and the line was dead. Eames turned to go back into the hotel room, but being the lucky bugger that he is, found his way blocked by none other than the cause of his inquiry.

"Arthur," Eames began warily, taking in the man's hard glare. He had let his guard down while on the phone, and the point man was known for his stealth, making it possible to surprise the otherwise unshakeable Eames.

Arthur's dark hair was sticking up and curling over his ears, and his mouth was pressed into a thin line. At some point on his way to the door he had slipped on a pair of track suit bottoms and a faded AC/DC T-shirt, and Eames ached at the barrage of memories that flooded in.

Eighteen year-old Arthur, sitting on Eames' bed in nothing but plaid boxers, reading George Orwell for his English class while Eames doodles pictures of pigs holding sickles on Arthur's notebook. Arthur bats his boyfriend's hand away from his notes before leaning over and picking up a T-shirt from the side of the bed and pulling it over his head.

"I'm taking this shirt," he says scrambling off the bed to finish getting dressed.

"You don't even like AC/DC," Eames grumbles back. He grabs the notebook once more and begins another doodle of Arthur with the caption "shirt thief."

"See it as pay back for defacing my homework."

"Fair enough," says the older boy, holding the homework in question up for his thief to grab.

Arthur reaches for it, but Eames pulls it away. "I'll be late Eames, give it!"

The only reply the dark haired boy gets is a raised eyebrow. Arthur rolls his eyes and leans into the Englishman's space. He has one knee on the edge of the bed between the other boy's legs and one foot on the ground. Eames' breath hitches when Arthur brings his face closer and his eyes dilate.

Seeing this Arthur grabs his notebook, pecks Eames on the mouth, and sprints out the door of his boyfriends grubby one room apartment.

"Eames!" As fast the memory invaded Eames' consciousness it vanished. He shook his head, trying to push past the man who now seemed intent on yelling at him.

"Something the matter, daar-ling?" Eames said- though it came out as more of a snarl.

Arthur narrowed his eyes and moved out of the doorway, allowing Eames to pass, before sliding the door shut with a swift swoosh. "I don't know who you think you are, Mr. Eames, but I'm telling you now: I am not your whore," The point man growled.

The blond man smiled bitterly. "You're not my anything, Arthur." If it weren't for years of studying human behaviour Eames wouldn't have caught the flicker of pain on Arthur's face, but as it were the forger saw the hurt in the younger man's eyes before he managed to school his expression into his stoic mask.

"Exactly." Arthur said with a curt nod, turning away.

"Unless you meant what you said earlier," Eames added hurriedly.

"What are you talking about?"

Eames sat down heavily on the hotel double bed, looking and feeling exhausted. "Do you remember what you said when you first woke up this morning?"

Arthur looked confused. "I asked for the time, didn't I?"

"After that."

Eames watched in silence as the point man's eyebrows knit together, before inching up his forehead in alarm. That was all the confirmation Eames needed.