His eyes snapped open, surveying his surroundings. His memories had failed him on when he had fallen asleep, or landed on a king-sized bed.

The bed was unkempt, its sheets rumpled, and he was only resting on one side, apparently having made room for another person. He rolled over, only to find the person missing. Arthur lay on his back, contemplating his situation.

How the heck did he get here?

This hotel room. This fantastic beach resort. The view. Summer breeze.

No analysis or mind games necessary. His typical dream.

But the bed?

He racked his head. Explanations rooted to silence. Unkempt beds were anomalies to his dreams. He'd wake up, satisfied that the bedsheets were made, close his eyes, dream within a dream a bit, throw on whatever suits his moods, and enjoy whatever his subconscious had left to offer.

Noises in the bathroom. He lifted his eyes, and the sight filled him with a delirious mixture of incredulity and desire.

Ariadne, her only attire his favorite white shirt, her hair disheveled, a cloud of charming absentmindedness adorning her face.

Her again. This was not the first time she had made an unannounced appearance in his dream (and he hoped with some hesitation on his part that it should not be the last). Lest he wasted a moment to make sense of it.

He liked her. Her adeptness at her job, her uncanny sense of design, her habitual patterned and plain scarves and her red sweater, down to her warm brown eyes, her rich voice…

He liked her. He thought he did.

His subconscious was attracted to her. Restless.

He knew he shouldn't. There was the stupid, blurred border between dreams and reality Cobb and Mal had muddled themselves in. And the fact that he had to remind himself not to think of her.

He really wished (had he not busied himself savoring the sight of her, he'd kicked himself out of the dream) what separated them were something else normal, for dreams' sake.

But under their job descriptions there were no 'normal.' Or legal.

He loved his job.

He 'had taken a liking' (in Eames's word. Damn the forger) to his female colleague (not the first time, another reason why he had held on to his denial so grudgingly).

He had locked himself in a maze without an exit.

To indulge himself in either path was to endanger both.

"Woke up already?" she raised an eyebrow.

He cleared his throat, gathering himself back in the present (or what seemed to him as the present at the moment. He chided himself a little on the realistic aspects of the dream.).

"Morning." He gave her a shaky smile, hesitant of her response.

She smiled, approaching him on the bed.

"Morning."

She leaned in closer for a kiss, one of the best he'd had in a dreamlike state.

Engrossed, he forgot to think, his runaway conscience fading.

His lips nuzzled her neck, her hand playing with his hair, his wandering to her shoulders, and he heard himself mumble.

"I love you, Ariadne."

Almost abruptly, too abruptly, she backed away from him, as if repelled by an invisible force.

He stared at her, confused.

She licked her lips, a glint of mischief he swore incompatible, uncharacteristic to her face evident in her eyes. "So you've admitted it."

"Admitted what?" he asked, dazed. What short pleasurable sesion he'd shared with her befuddled his mind.

"That you love me."

He coughed. His senses tingled. This. This was not good. "Uh…I did. Why?"

She laughed, to his bewilderment, and he saw her morph before his eyes into the last person he wanted to meet in his dreams (no, really).

Eames. In his full, formal suit and tie.

The Forger was apparently enjoying himself. Laughing so hard he'd rolled on the bed.

Arthur watched, and he wondered even then why he waited before physically tackling the bastard.

"How—punch—the—punch—hell," he breathed, nearly straddling Eames, "Did you get into my dream?"

Eames grinned from below him, his hands wading off Arthur's aimless punches.

"Few simple tricks you don't need to know about, darling."

Darling! That mention of his nickname again! Since the darn mission call where (Cobb was unavaliable and) the guy had to call on him at his home…and heard his mother (bless her soul) holler for him.

God, the label irritated him. For one, it seemed to yell out in situations that Eames had the upper hand.

Taking advantage of his silence, the devil freed himself from his grip, sitting next to him on the bed.

Now this was not the vacation he dreamed about.

"Wonderful, huh," said Eames. "Liked what I did? Ariadne in your favorite shirt." He clicked his fingers in delight. "Knew you'd devour that."

He wanted to admit that he loved what the Forger had conjured up, but then sickness rose in his throat. And he felt the need to vomit.

He was kissing his old best mate.

"Not funny, Eames," he managed. "You've gone utterly insane with this Forger role of yours."

Eames heaved a mock sigh, further annoying Arthur. "Tut, tut, you're just irked because it's Ariadne, love."

Her name sent electric shock through his body. He turned to Eames.

"You—can't—tell—anyone."

Eames comically blocked his ears, to Arthur's dismay. "Yada yada. Can't hear you." He paused, and jumped a little, excited at a sound Arthur perceived to be from 'upstairs,' in his dream (the outside world, of course, in reality).

"Ha!" Eames exclaimed. "Someone's coming. Time to wake up."

Before he could formulate a proper answer, Arthur was given the kick against his will, Eames's teasing voice still clear in his ears.

His eyes snapped open.

And Ariadne's face hovered before him.

He blinked.

"Is this real?" His other hand grabbing hold of his dice.

Eames's laughter reached his ears again. He felt a hand patting his back, and heard Eames's 'assuring-mode' voice saying, "Bit dazed, Ariadne, he just got back from a dream."

Ariadne nodded with a small smile.

But she would never understand. And he would never wanted to explain.

He remained rigid in his chair, fumbling with his hands. Ariadne stood beside Eames, watching over him.

Eames traced a hand on his shoulder. His hair prickled. "Anything you need to tell her, darling?"

He shook his head. The nickname sounded even more awful in reality.

Ariadne's eyes widened in wonder. "Something to tell me?"

Something he'd rather not tell her, more like.

"No," a mumble was all he could offer.

Ariadne's mouth curved into an 'O.' Eames whistled, clearly disappointed.

"Oh," she said. "All right then," and strolled off from his sight.

He breathed.

It just wasn't time to tell her yet.

He wasn't sure himself if she should tell her. At all.

The Forger grabbed hold of the Architect. She was hard at work (as usual) and he was goofing off (as usual).

He pulled her aside, leading her on a walk down the hallway.

"Tell me, Ariadne," he said, his arm encircling her shoulders.

"Do you still want to hear about Arthur's very interesting dream…the one he refused to tell you about?"

A/N: :P

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