"I thought I told you to Just! Fucking! PICK ONE!"

Eames flinched and pulled her further behind him, taller than he was but slighter.

"It was just a mistake, Dad! She won't do it again."

"She better not. Or the both of you can get the hell out of this house, so help me God."

"We won't— we promise. We promise. We promise."

Eames jerked awake, sweating and breathing hard, his teeth firmly clenched to keep his face still, the habit of years. Quickly, he checked the man sleeping next to him.

Arthur's slow, even breaths soothed his shattered nerves and he slept on, oblivious. When Eames ran a tentative hand over his skin, it felt clammy, and he pulled the sheets over Arthur as a precaution when he headed for the shower. Might as well get up. There was no going back to sleep after that.

Arthur in his bed was new, and he bloody well liked it, but goddamn it had been a long time since he'd had someone else in his space like this. He scrubbed himself clean and rinsed memories and lactic acid down the drain. He would just have to be more on his game, that's all. If last night was any indication, it was fucking worth it.

When he exited, Arthur was awake and pulling on his clothes, sitting on the side of the bed while the early morning light eked in the window.

"You leaving?" Eames said, rubbing his head with one towel, another tucked around his waist. He was careful to keep the question neutral.

"Yeah, just gonna grab some fresh clothes and a shave." Arthur's voice sounded tired still. His hair stuck up everywhere and Eames longed to run his fingers through it.

He debated offering to let Arthur use his razor, and stopped himself from offering to let him keep a change of clothes in his drawer. He let himself say, "Want some coffee first?"

"Nah, I'll get some at the office," he said, blearily rubbing his eyes as he tugged on his sock.

Eames snorted. "That stuff is rubbish. I'll make you a to-go cup and you can refill it later, but at least don't start your day like that."

Arthur gave him a tired smile. "Yeah, alright."

Eames grabbed a pair of trackies and slid them on, then left Arthur to his own devices while he started a pot. It was quiet. Almost domestic. Almost like a plan.

When Arthur emerged from Eames' bedroom, his hair was scraped back again and his tie was knotted perfectly. Eames handed him his mug and pulled it askew.

Arthur gave him a look but didn't right it, and Eames felt prouder than he should have. He grinned and pecked Arthur on the lips.

"Have a good day at the office, darling."

Then he grabbed Arthur's arse, just because it was there, in his kitchen.

Arthur's eyebrows drew together, but there was no heat in it. "Watch it, Mr. Eames."

Eames chuckled as Arthur grabbed his briefcase holding his woefully unfinished report and held the door open for him. "That's Detective Eames to you, Detective."

Arthur paused on the threshold, a tiny smile twisting his lips. Then, to Eames' surprise, he leaned in and kissed Eames, a short, dry press of lips. "See you there."

"Hmm," Eames hummed because he couldn't think of a damn thing to say.

Eames looked in the mirror, razor in one hand, shaving foam in the other and looked at his face. He studied the lines, debating, but his birthday was in four months. That was soon enough. It was his yearly present to himself. He put the razor down and rubbed his eyes, tired. A good tired, though. A muscle ache-y, no sleep in the best way kind of tired. He practiced a grin at his reflection.

When he got to work, Arthur was already there, settled into the desk across from him and fighting back a yawn while he glared at the report he was typing up. The case they'd just wrapped was going to be labeled unsolvable, and that always put Arthur on edge. Stolen artwork, highly valuable, highly gone without a trace. He knew Arthur wasn't losing sleep over the art, just the fact that he hadn't cracked it. But Eames smirked to himself as he remembered exactly what Arthur was losing sleep over.

He watched Arthur's wrists as they worked the typewriter, his forearms as they flexed, the wiry muscle disappearing under the rolled shirtsleeves. He thought about how to get Arthur into his bed again tonight.

"Eames," Arthur said without looking up, "you finished with your report already?"

"Just done, darling." He unrolled the paper and handed it over. Arthur looked up at him with an eyebrow raised and Eames just smiled. Arthur glanced over it with a sigh and handed it back before bending over the keys again.

"You know your creative spelling isn't actually a point in your favor."

"Yes, but my creative spelling is what sets our reports apart. Otherwise, the chief might think I copied your homework."

Arthur hummed and ignored him, and Eames bit his lip. "You know," he started, prepared to propose dinner, or coffee, or a drink, or just another shag, really, whatever Arthur wanted.

"EAMES! ARTHUR! MY OFFICE!"

Arthur frowned and stood, his eyes skating over Eames to the chief's office where they were being heralded, and he rolled his sleeves down and straightened his already immaculate tie. Eames just tried to calm the rolling in his gut. The chief couldn't have found out about them sleeping together already. It had only been once. Well, it had only been one night. Technically, it had been several times.

"What the hell is this about?" Arthur grumbled as he grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair.

And Eames, who had stared at Arthur across the desk for nine months, wanting and wanting and not taking and wishing he'd chosen a different look, something that would make Arthur want him back, but it was too late now, until miraculously it wasn't, just shrugged and grinned. "Search me."

Arthur's frown didn't disappear, but he waited for Eames to come around the desk so they could walk into Cobb's office together.

"Chief," Arthur greeted him with a nod, but Cobb wasn't alone.

"Mr. Saito, this is Detective Eames and Detective Condon. They'll be assigned to your case."

Eames didn't hear the next part because relief was making his heartbeat drum in his ears. It wasn't over, at least not yet.

"I've sent you the case file, but since Mr. Saito is here, I thought you might want to ask him a few questions."

Arthur took the chair next to the elegant businessman and pulled out the Moleskine notebook he kept in his jacket pocket. "Certainly. What can you tell us, Mr. Saito?" like he hadn't just been made aware of the case ten seconds before.

Mr. Saito, tall, dignified, spoke slowly, with a Japanese accent. "About a month ago, I visited a dream den. After my session, I was contacted via postal mail that if I did not comply with the sender's wishes, the content of my dream would be revealed to a national tabloid."

Arthur was taking notes like that wasn't the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. Eames shifted his weight.

"Which dream den did you visit?"

Saito gave him the address.

"Do you still have the letter?"

Those were important questions, to be sure, but Eames would have started with, "Why, what did you dream about?" but that was why Arthur generally took the lead for this portion.

"The original letter I discarded, but I gave the letters I've received since to Chief Cobb. I don't have proof, but I believe someone was watching the dream, or recording it in some way, and that's how they plan to reveal it."

"Why didn't you report this at the time?" Eames asked.

Saito turned in his seat slightly to frown at Eames. "Apparently you are not aware of why blackmail works."

"Mr. Saito, what exactly are the blackmailer's demands?" Arthur broke in.

Saito scrutinized Eames for another beat before turning to Arthur. "I am speaking at a political convention later this month. The letters suggested that I not attend, that I withdraw my backing of a certain political candidate, and that I donate a large sum of money to agencies whose political leaning I personally disagree with."

"Which agencies?" Eames asked.

The way Saito managed to look down his nose at Eames even though he was seated was unnerving. "Mutant Rights Now, The Alliance of Evil, and the Resistance," he said.

"How very… telling," Eames said, giving him a tight smile.

Cobb cut off Saito's retort with a hurried, "But we are absolutely going to look into this, find out who is behind the blackmail, and bring them to justice to the full extent of the law. Mr. Saito, I have your contact information so we will be in touch. Thank you for your time today."

He hummed and stood, buttoning his coat as he looked disdainfully at Eames. "Good day, gentlemen."

Arthur stood also and re-pocketed his notebook. "Pleasure to meet you," he murmured.

Eames raised an eyebrow.

"Listen," Cobb glowered as soon as Saito was gone, "whatever your political stance, you put it aside for this one, you got it? Forensics is already working on the letters and they're going to send the results directly to me as soon as they're done, so check in for once. You two are going to finish this case, fast, with a successful result this time, and you're not going to fuck up. Is that clear?" He leaned his hands on his desk. "If you fuck this up, you're done."

Eames nodded with an exaggerated frown. "No, I'd say that's very clear. Thanks for the specific-ality."

"Specificity," Arthur corrected without thinking. Eames nodded seriously.

Cobb glared at them. "Get out of my office and do some police work."

They chorused 'yes, sir's' and Eames grabbed his holster and jacket from his desk. Then he watched Arthur's arse all the way to their car.

"You ever been to a dream den?" Eames asked as he watched Arthur read the map from the glove compartment. He didn't particularly feel like discussing political stances on the Mutant Registration Act.

Arthur snorted. "On our salary? Not likely. You?"

"Never saw the need," Eames said. "My life is already pretty dream-like." He grinned at Arthur and Arthur rolled his eyes like he knew he would. God, Eames wanted to kiss him.

"Does that mean you wouldn't? Even if you could afford it?"

"Nah," Eames shrugged. "What for?"

Arthur looked at him curiously as he signaled and pulled into traffic. "Seriously? You're not even a little bit curious what it would be like to have mutant powers?"

Eames stilled. "Well, I do have a pretty good imagination, as it happens. What about you, Arthur? Ever dream of dreaming of being a mutant?"

Arthur kept his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel as he shrugged. "Sure. I thought everyone wished they were able to fly. Or be invisible."

"Tsk." Eames shook his head. "The most generic imagination imaginable. I'm disappointed, darling. What do you think Saito picked?"

"Nothing saying he had to pick a dream where he got mutant powers."

"Uh huh," Eames said, "sure, but what do you think he picked?"

Arthur grinned. "No idea. Hey, can I ask you something?"

Eames' gut clenched. "Shoot."

"Why us? Saito is a huge name in this town. He's going to want results, and the exposure could be huge. Why didn't he give this to Nash and Tadashi?"

Eames relaxed and rolled his shoulders as he sighed. "Because we're middle of the road, darling. They can afford to lose us, or they can afford to promote us. They can't afford either with the golden boys."

Arthur thought about that, then grumbled, "I'm not middle of the road. You're middle of the road."

Eames laughed. They didn't talk the rest of the way, and he was grateful, watching Arthur navigate gears and traffic.

"Good morning, gentlemen and welcome to Somnacin, Inc. What can we do for you today?"

Arthur reached for his badge and Eames spoke up instead.

"We were thinking about doing a dream session, but we don't know much about it. Do you do tours or anything like that?"

"Of course, we can certainly answer any questions you might have."

The tall, slender woman at the highly polished front desk smiled at him placidly and Eames inclined his head when it became obvious she was finished speaking. "Uh, okay," he chuckled awkwardly, "I'm not exactly sure which questions to ask."

Her smiled appeared painted on. "Of course. Why don't you tell me what you know and I can fill in any gaps."

Eames looked at Arthur, who raised his condescending eyebrows and blinked a "you got yourself into this, you get yourself out," at him.

"Well, it's shared dreaming, yeah? That you get to pick the dream?"

"That is correct, sir. We offer several packages, or for an additional cost, you can customize every detail. This pamphlet covers our most popular adventure packages, and this one our most popular romantic packages." She handed him both and smiled again, and Eames looked at her, as light and airy as the foam on a fancy coffee, and about as useful.

"Right, thanks love. We'll, uh, we'll just look these over."

He tapped them on the counter and turned to Arthur with a helpless shrug. Arthur looked at him balefully and then rolled his eyes before leading the way back to the car.

"I'm sorry, darling, I thought we'd maybe get a peek behind the curtain or something if we looked like prospective customers."

Arthur scowled at him over the hood of the car, then slid behind the driver's seat without a word.

"What?" Eames said, his blood getting a little heated. "How was I supposed to know she'd be the most unhelpful salesperson of all time?"

"Eames," Arthur said with exaggerated patience and Eames had to remind himself what a fantastic lay Arthur was. "Look at your suit. Do you really think she thought we were actually going to have the money to pay for a dream session? We should have just flashed our badges and asked to see the manager."

"And what good would that have done?" Eames countered, genuinely annoyed now. It's not like this was his first rodeo. "Excuse me, sir, we'd like to know if you've been using dreams to blackmail people. Oh, you haven't? Well, thank you for your time!"

Arthur sighed at him and dropped it, taking a drink from the travel mug he had in the cupholder. Eames' travel mug. Arthur saw him notice it and blushed a little, and it did wonders at improving Eames' mood.

"Well, it's too late now. Let's go back to the office and see if we can get approved to expense an undercover dream session."

"Say, now," Eames said. "There's an idea. And here I was this whole time saying you were a stick in the mud."

Arthur grumbled something that sounded like, "I'll put a stick in your mud," and executed a perfectly legal u-turn, complete with signalling. Eames grinned.

Chief Cobb hit the fucking roof. He ranted for ten minutes about their budget, about prior approval for undercover work, about marching their asses back in there and getting un-undercover, and personally held Eames and Arthur responsible for stopping all the department improvements he had planned for the next ten years. Then when he got done, Arthur told him if he wanted results, this was how they got them, and Cobb signed the expense report for one (1) shared dream session for the two of them. They'd better make it count because it would never happen again, etc, etc.

Arthur added a pair of sunglasses when they stepped back out of the station, and Eames had to look away. "So much for police work for the day. Come on," he said to Eames, heading toward their car. "We've got to buy you a new suit."

Eames didn't mind buying something new and while Arthur groaned and acted put out, left on his own Eames would have been done in ten minutes. Arthur, however, spent three bloody hours making him try things off the rack. He sighed when Eames refused bespoke, knowing he'd be eating beans on toast the way it was, and finally settled on a navy pinstripe with a patterned shirt.

"Are those bunny rabbits, darling?"

Arthur glanced at him, frowning like he was being mocked. "Just wear it, Eames."

"Oh, absolutely. You've captured my soft and cuddly side perfectly."

The clothes got them a different reaction the next day.

Eames, knowing exactly what Miss Coffee Froth expected, poured on the accent. "Good morning, love. I would like to set up an appointment for our consultations." He made no eye contact, just pulled out the billfold he'd borrowed for this occasion, and the fountain pen he wasn't sure actually worked.

Coffee Froth blinked at him and changed her fucking tune. "Certainly. Mr...?"

He gave her a sharp look. "Unless you have an opening right now, otherwise I'm not available for another week. What are your schedules like for mid-May?"

"Of course, sir, we can fit you and your..."

"Partner," Eames clipped.

"...partner in for individual consultations now, and we can schedule the dream for whenever is convenient for you."

"Hmm," Eames grunted, like she hadn't just given him exactly what he'd wanted. "Fine. Consider this a trial run. One shared dream and we'll see if it's anything we're interested in." Then he leaned in conspiratorially. "And just so you are aware, Arthur is notoriously hard to impress."

He refitted the billfold and the pen in his jacket and held out an arm for the besuited man next to him. "Darling?"

He could see the eyeroll Arthur held back and swallowed the smile which threatened to break loose. Then Coffee Froth led the way.

"Mr. Arthur, you can wait here," she said, indicating a small, expertly decorated room with a conference table and two chairs, "And you, sir, can wait here. Your personal consultants will be along shortly to facilitate your request."

"We're doing a shared dream. But we still have separate consultations?"

"Yes, sir. And the results of the blood draw we do today will be shared with you individually as well. This is a very professional office. Somnacin, Inc. prides itself on its customers' safety first of all, satisfaction second, and confidentiality above all."

Eames hesitated. "Blood draw? For what reason?"

Arthur looked at him, a strange blank look on his face and Eames gave them both a nervous smile. "Just not fond of needles is all."

"Well, the PASIV machine which we use to administer the Somnacin is an intravenous device."

"So, no pill form or anything like that?" Eames asked.

"Unfortunately not," she said, not sounding like it was all that unfortunate. "Will that be an issue, sir?"

"No, no," Eames assured her, and hopefully Arthur too. "Not a problem. Cheers." He entered his own consultation room and Coffee Froth closed the door behind him.

He expected the sort of wait you'd have in a doctor's office, but he was mistaken. A petite young woman with a clipboard entered minutes later.

"Hello," she said, friendly and warm. "I'm just here to get your details and make sure you're getting the dream experience you'd like. Can I get your name?"

"Tom Jones."

Her fingers hesitated over her form and she looked up at Eames. "Sir," she said carefully, "I should tell you that your information is completely confidential at Somnacin, Inc, and is one of our top priorities."

"You should tell me, or you're required to tell me?" Eames said, trying to get a handle on the unease roiling in his stomach. All this talk of blood work and personal details was starting to put his back up.

The young woman hesitated and then smiled, a genuine smile. "I'm going to run a credit check to make sure you're good for the payment and start a portfolio of your dream requests for future visits. That's all I'm doing with the information."

"A credit check? I thought the payment was due up-front."

She gaped and said, "Well, yes, I suppose it is..."

"And what exactly is the blood work for?"

"Oh, that," she said, looking a little more confident. "That's just to make sure you're not carrying any communicable diseases that could be passed on to fellow dreamers, and to get genetic markers for your mutation."

Panic clutched at Eames' chest.

"... my what?" he breathed.

"Your mutation," she repeated. "Everyone's a little bit different, but your mutant powers will definitely be affected once you're in the dream state, and—"

She kept talking, but Eames couldn't breathe and stars started to dance around the edges of his field of vision. He forced himself to take a breath, which only served to make his head throb and adrenaline dump into his veins. His hands started to shake and he broke out in a sweat. He licked his lips and tried to slow his breathing, gulping air where before he couldn't make his lungs work.

"Sir? Sir? Mr... Jones?"

She was next to him suddenly, pressing his head down until he was folded in half, head between his knees.

"Oh, Christ," he gasped, "I think I'm having a heart attack."

"Just stay right there," she said, and Eames squeezed his eyes shut and tried to will himself to not have a heart attack.

Then she was gone and Eames had to get out of there, had to put distance between himself and this. Had to get away. Had to hide.

Then the door opened again and she was back, draping a cool towel over the back of his neck.

"Okay, Mr. Jones, you're going to be alright. Just breathe with me. I want you to take a deep breath and hold it for four counts. Can you do that?"

Eames nodded and followed her instructions. In. Out for four counts. In. Out.

Slowly, his vision cleared and his breathing slowed. He felt wrung out and shaky, but he was able to sit up and blink at the woman who had saved his life.

"How... how did you do that?" he asked. "Are you a mutant? With some kind of heart attack stopping power?"

She laughed, a bright, happy sound. "No. Just a regular, boring old human. But you weren't having a heart attack."

He blinked at her.

"Panic attack," she said with a wry smile. "I get them too sometimes. You okay?"

Eames took the towel off his neck and kept his eyes on it, watching him run his fingers over the material. "Yeah, I guess I am at that." He cleared his throat. "Thank you, love."

"Ariadne," she said. "But you can call me Ari."

"Ariadne," he said, trying it out, and he studied her warm brown eyes, a few shades lighter than Arthur's. "What made you think I was a mutant?"

Her eyes widened. "Ohmygosh, was I wrong? I'm so sorry, sir, I didn't mean to—"

"No," Eames stopped her. "No, you... you weren't wrong. It's just," he huffed an almost laugh. "I haven't told anyone that in several decades. How did you know?"

She looked at him helplessly. "I don't know. I've just been doing this a while, and I sort of get a feeling?"

Eames folded and re-folded the towel in his hands. He hummed and pressed his lips together.

"Are... are you really okay?"

Eames flashed her his own coffee froth smile. "Right as rain, Ari. Thank you again. What did you need from me again?"

"Uh," she looked down at her paper again. "Your... name?"

Eames let himself laugh and felt his skin shift, a stretching shiver as his appearance re-arranged itself. There was a relief there too, like when your neck finally popped.

"Tom Jones," he said again. He hadn't seen a picture of the man recently, so it probably wasn't perfect, but she might not even be old enough to know who Tom Jones was, so he wasn't fussed. "But you can call me Eames."

Ari laughed again, the warm sound washing over him. "That's amazing! Can you do anyone?"

"I don't, usually," he admitted quietly. "Just myself."

"What do you normally look like?" she asked, curious. But it was a spear in Eames' heart.

"Like a mutant," he said. "Look, I know this probably isn't part of your confidentiality protocol, but," he glanced at the door behind him, "the man I came in with doesn't know, and I'd really like to keep it that way. Is that a possibility?"

Ari waffled. "Well," she said, "as I said, mutations look different in dreamspace. More than likely you just won't have powers, but occasionally they become stronger, or manifest in a watered down, slightly different way. Not sure what yours would look like though."

Eames hummed again. "And I can't request a different mutation?"

She grimaced. "Sorry," and she sounded like she meant it. "You can't. Humans can, but mutants generally come here to see what it's like to live without a mutation for a while."

"Will I be able to control it if it does show up?"

She shrugged. "Unfortunately there's no way to know for sure. It's possible. But when you first wake up in the dream, you won't have any powers engaged. You'll just have to try it and see."

"Is there any way to do a trial run first?"

Ari blinked, her eyebrows drawn together, and checked her screen. "I thought this was your trial run."

Eames sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Right. Okay. Uh... is there anyone else in the dream?"

In a flash, Ari went from friendly and warm to closed off. She fidgeted, she didn't look him in the eye. "What do you mean?" she said. She might have been the worst liar he'd ever seen.

Eames raised an eyebrow. "I mean like a guide or something. My being a mutant isn't exactly public knowledge, and I'm not exactly sure how that would go over in several areas."

"Mutant profiling is highly illegal and—"

"Ari," Eames chided, and she wilted under his knowing tone. "I need to know. It could mean my job, my partner..." he trailed off and put on his best woe-is-me face.

Ari licked her lips. "Your information is completely confidential at Somancin, Inc, and it is one of our top priorities."

"So. There will be others?"

Ari shifted. "Look, we don't advertise this, but sometimes we combine dream sessions if multiple people select the same standard package. But don't worry!" she insisted. "Dream space is infinite, and the chances of you meeting another dreamer are infinitesimal. And if you're really concerned, you can request something custom and you'll have your own dream."

Eames tucked that piece of information away. "Okay, but what about the guide?"

Ari folded her hands under the table, fidgeting. "Nope, nope. There's not a guide—"

"But what if we get in trouble or there's a medical emergency? What if I have another attack? You don't send anyone down with the dreamers?"

Ari shook her head slowly. "People topside will be monitoring your vitals, and worst case scenario, if you die in a dream you wake up. Nothing to worry about."

Just as she said the word, 'worry', Eames felt a nudge at his knee, then a piece of paper brush his hand. He looked down in surprise, but Ariadne cleared her throat and looked deliberately at the upper corner of the room.

They were being recorded. Of course they were. Eames closed his eyes at his own stupidity and folded his fingers over the piece of paper, making it disappear with an old sleight-of-hand trick. Ari gave him a tight smile.

"But I should get your current contact information on file. Sound good?"

"Sure, yeah," Eames said, and he gave her his actual phone number. Maybe she'd call him and he could finish questioning her without giving himself away or getting her fired.

When they were done with the preliminary demographics, which Eames made up on the spot, Ari took his blood, labeling it carefully, and then removed her gloves. "Have you and your partner discussed the package you'd like?"

Eames opened his mouth to make up another answer and then paused. "No, actually, we haven't. If he's already picked something, I think that's probably fine? But we didn't actually talk about it."

Ari smiled encouragingly. "That's okay. No rush. Do you know if he's thinking a package or a custom dream? We only need a few hours heads up for a package dream, but custom dreams can take anywhere from a few days to a few weeks to set up, depending on the complexity."

Again, he opened his mouth to answer before wondering if maybe Arthur did care. He shrugged. "Sorry, love. I'm guessing a package, but I didn't clear it with him."

"Well, I'm sure he appreciates being with someone who cares about what he wants so much." Ari smiled.

Eames raised an eyebrow at her knowing tone. "Hmm. Yes, I'm sure," he said noncommittally.

When he finally escaped the small room, Eames felt fatigued in a way he didn't even after a long workout. His whole body ached and even his eyeballs felt tired. Arthur, in the waiting room flipping through a magazine which he tossed on the table as soon as he caught sight of Eames, looked fresh as a daisy.

Arthur looked Eames over with concern, then informed Coffee Froth that they'd be in touch after they consulted their assistants to schedule the appointment. He paid the deposit and led Eames out the door with a hand on his elbow. Eames tried not to read into it.

When he sank into the passenger seat, he grabbed the folded piece of paper where he'd snuck it into his jacket pocket. It just said, 'Yes.'

Eames sighed as Arthur started the car.

"You look like shit."

"Ta, darling."

"What happened in there?"

"Well," Eames started, his body feeling even heavier, "they run multiple groups of dreamers in the same dream, but they didn't think it was very likely an unrelated dreamer could have followed Saito. They do, however, have employees who sneak into dreams off the books."

The car swerved as Arthur jerked to look at Eames. "How the hell did you find all that out?"

"The girl who was assigned to me. I faked a panic attack. We bonded."

Arthur looked at him, even more concerned. "You… faked a panic attack? Wow. Faking emotional needs, that's… pretty, um, dedicated."

"You know, I actually am not feeling well, would you mind dropping me round my flat? I will type everything up, I promise."

Arthur glanced at Eames, frowning. "Okay, sure."

He signaled his lane change and checked his blind spot. "I guess I'll just see you tomorrow."

"Brilliant, thanks."

Fuck. Eames laid his head back on the seat and avoided Arthur's questioning glances.

In the relative safety of his flat, he paced out his nervous energy and tried to figure a way out of sharing a dream with Arthur. Arthur could technically do the dream by himself. But Arthur was his partner. It was his job, and his privilege to watch his back. Plus, there was no good way to explain why he couldn't. He couldn't pretend to be sick forever.

He paced until he gave in and went to stare at his reflection. When he finally sat down to write up his report, he had no idea if it was coherent and shoved it in his briefcase before he could re-read it. Then he went to bed.

Eames showed up early the next day, a bit sheepish, and with coffee. Arthur didn't say anything about the cup on his desk, but he drank it. He didn't give Eames back his travel mug and he didn't ask how he was feeling.

"So," Eames said, "here's my report. What did you find out?"

"Nothing, my person was new. I tried, but they couldn't have told me if they had dental coverage, let alone if someone is using the den as their own personal nest egg."

"Personal nest egg? But the blackmail money was supposed to be donated to causes. You think it's a scam and they're going to profit off this somehow?"

"No idea. That's what I'm going to find out today."

Eames threw his head back dramatically and slumped in his chair. "Ah Christ, not this already. Come on, darling, it's day two of this thing. Surely we can do at least some field work before you bury your head in a ledger."

"Follow—

" — the money, yes, I know. You say it every bloody time."

Arthur shrugged, unperturbed. "Works just as often as you pounding the pavement and/or people's faces, and doesn't require me to scuff my shoes or get suspended."

"That happened once, Arthur, and that prick deserved it."

Arthur didn't argue, just sipped his latte and clacked at his keyboard some more. Eames sighed. "Alright, talk me through it at least. What are you thinking?"

"Well," Arthur said, leaning back from his desk, "we don't know if this is an isolated event or if they're gathering information on all their customers. Now that we're undercover," he gave Eames a look, "we can try to find out."

Eames gave him a look right back. "Well, now you get to live out your lifelong dream of being able to fly. You're welcome. So, we go into the dream, and then what? Do something scandalous? See if anyone comes knocking? I've got to believe that Saito isn't the only one to do something scandalous in a dream."

Arthur frowned, thinking, and Eames felt a tug he tried to ignore. That face was the one which made him want things.

"True. Maybe it's more common than we thought. If they're running this scam at more than just one den, maybe it's corporate-wide."

"What if you chase your money and I start asking questions at some of the other Somnacin locations?"

"It's 'follow', don't make me sound like a skeezy lawyer. And fine. Do we need to ask Cobb to shell out some more for another dream?"

"God, no, I don't want to hear another one of those speeches if I can help it. I'll play it by ear. I've still got a suit I won't be able to wear to anything else."

Arthur looked appalled. "That suit is a classic style, you could wear—"

"Alright, alright, keep your pants on. I was only taking the piss."

Arthur went back to his files, his customary farewell, and Eames stood to collect his things. "Just out of curiosity," he asked, slipping into his holster, "what mutant power are you going to pick?"

Arthur looked up at him. "Ice powers. Why? What did you pick?"

Eames gave him a crooked smile and faltered. "Well, I guess you'll have to wait and see."

When Eames drug himself back to the station, the lights were mostly off and only one person was still working.

"Arthur, darling, did you wait up for me?"

He looked up from a stack of papers taller than he was and blinked owlishly. "No, asshole, I'm working."

"Awww, that means yes. You are too sweet."

To Eames' surprise, Arthur ducked his head, his face reddening. "Shut it. How'd it go?"

Eames collapsed into his chair and picked up the poker chip he liked to roll over his knuckles when he was thinking, reveling in the man in front of him.

"Not sure, actually. I was able to get a few names of former clients, but they're pretty closed-mouthed overall."

Arthur raised an eyebrow and sat back, crossing his arms. "Former clients?"

"Don't bother, I already checked." Eames rubbed his forehead. "They're on record as being either a formal spokesperson or publicly speaking positively about dreaming. No chance of blackmail there, I don't think." He stretched. "Bloody hell. I talked all day and the only thing helpful I've got is a bit of the basics of dreaming. What have you got?"

Arthur sat back in his chair and Eames wondered when Arthur had eaten last. "I made carbon copies for you about some of the mutant rights organizations where Saito was supposed to send the money. Basic history, known associates, that kind of thing. Nothing tied to Saito, of course, but nobody's that stupid."

Eames snorted and watched the curve of Arthur's neck.

"I've done some preliminary investigation on the owner/manager of the den Saito frequented," he continued, unaware, "and from what I can tell, he's, at most, a mutant ally. Nothing fanatical that I can find, no criminal record beyond some weed when he was a teenager, and no connections to the organizations in question."

He hesitated and Eames pulled his mind out of the gutter enough to raise an eyebrow.

"But you know who does have a connection to the organizations in question?"

Eames' other eyebrow joined the first.

"Robert Fischer."

Eames looked at Arthur blankly. "Who the fuck is Robert Fischer?"

"He's the son of the man who owns Fischer-Morrow, and Fischer-Morrow owns…"

"... Somnacin, Inc?" Eames guessed.

"Bingo."

Eames sat back in his chair. "Huh." He let that spin in his head for a bit, then saw Arthur's jaw-cracking yawn.

"One case at a time, Detective Condon," Eames said, rising. He came around to perch on the edge of Arthur's desk and lean into the other man's space. "Now, your money chasing scheme was very clever and I commend you for your work here today, but," he lowered his voice, his lips inches from Arthur's ear, "it is very late, and we are going to get the hell out of here. First, I am going to feed you. And then I'm going to take you back to mine, and I'm going to rub this suit over every inch of your gorgeous skin. Then I am going to strip down and do filthy, unspeakable things to you— things which are going to make you moan. And shiver. And beg. I am going to bring you right to the edge, over and over again, until you can't—"

"Hey, guys! Burning the midnight oil?"

Eames looked up at the cheery intrusion of one of the shift cops coming off duty and put on his brightest smile. "Say, oil! There's an idea!"

The other cop laughed at the joke he didn't quite understand, got his files, and fucked off. Eames wished, and not for the first time, he had some sort of berserker rage mutation.

Arthur, facing straight ahead, licked his lips and cleared his throat. "Uh, you said something about getting something to eat. That, um. That sounds good."

Eames lowered his voice again and leaned even closer, lips brushing Arthur's neck. "Hmmm. Darling. I can think of something I'd like to eat."

And Arthur, tie loosened, sleeves rolled back, a little bit un-done, looked away. "Fuck," he whispered.

Eames smirked. "Did you want to take care of that right now?" he asked, nodding at Arthur's lap.

Arthur turned to glare at him. "Get your fucking coat."

Eames grinned. "Yes, sir."