Hi! Moar Eames/Arthur!

Alright, so I'm pretty pleased with this one, I hope you'll like it too. This is set during the movie.

I know the popular theory is that Eames' totem is a poker chip, but I'm gonna go against the flow and say he doesn't have one. Why? Because it makes for an interesting plot point. Read and find out. ;3

THE FORGERY

The Fischer job is starting to wear him down. Eames is a forger, and he can't stay still for very long. His hands itch, he fidgets, he yearns for details to pour over and painstakingly replicate. The dreamspace work is similar, but it doesn't satisfy the same need to make something solid, tangible…

It doesn't take him long to pick a target. There's one object that already intrigues him, that captivates his attention with the lingering need to feel, to touch. But this object is forbidden. It rests in the depths of Arthur's expensive pockets, nothing but a flicker of bright red whenever he chances to see it.

Arthur's totem. The loaded die.

Eames has no totem. He prides himself on a solid grasp of reality – he can feel the dreams tug at him, stretch and form his shape into something completely different or entirely the same. He doesn't need a totem because he sees every detail and the details tell you everything you need to know about the whole. Like Arthur and his eyes. If he could look only at Arthur's eyes, he would know the man just the same. Well, he'd know him better, truly, because Eames does not get to look at Arthur's eyes very much at all.

The other reason is purely practical. Eames is a fidgeter. If he had a totem in his pocket he'd play with it all the bloody time, and that's just unprofessional. He'd look nervous. Nobody wanted to work with a nervous forger. Nobody wanted to work with a nervous anything.

There is also, perhaps, one third reason. Some totems are… flawed, he thinks. Arthur's is one of them. It has a glaring flaw, a flaw he is surprised the point man has not noticed. But today, this is a good thing. Because this is the flaw he will use to his advantage, to play a joke on Arthur that will trump all his earlier teasings. He has no goal, really. He just wants to annoy the man, to frighten or embarrass or simply confuse him. He likes to watch the reactions play out on his face, and he likes the moments when Arthur decides to get back at him, to tease him back or make him stumble. Truth be told, he just likes the attention. It is the most he ever expects to get out of Arthur, which is not so bad considering some people hardly get that at all.

He gets his chance quite soon after he's made up his mind, a sign of good things to come. Arthur and Ariadne are under – he's teaching her about paradoxes. There is a smile on his pale lips. Arthur likes his paradoxes. He leans down to search for the dice, hands slipping into the man's pockets. He knows that he won't wake, but the point man's legs are warm and his fingers tremble anyhow. Sometimes his own emotions embarrass him, and he wonders if it's possible that Arthur hasn't noticed. He wants to linger here, to keep breathing in the cool sting of Arthur's aftershave. But there is work to do. He pulls away with the die between his tanned, solid fingers. It's hot. Arthur's body keeps it that way.

Taking it with him is out of the question. Arthur will reach for it the moment he wakes up. The cue is fast approaching – he has only a minute to hold it, to feel its texture and study the scratches and scuffs. He lets it roll around his palm, feeling its uneven weight. He notes it all down in his mind, he memorizes. This is profoundly immoral, he knows. Arthur trusts this die to show him the way. But he cannot resist, and he knows it is a waste of time to think about it. He puts the die back into the depths of Arthur's pocket just in time, and a second after he pulls away and starts to look disinterested, the point man's eyes flutter open. Ariadne looks excited. Eames lets her expression speak for his emotions and turns to head out. His hands itch worse than ever, but he knows he must wait.

He spends hours in hardware stores, searching for the right red. Plastic shavings cover his tweed pants by the time he's found the right piece, a scrap of brilliant red acrylic. It is the only material he needs. The rest of the tools he always takes with him, and they wait for him back at the warehouse, at the table he has hijacked as his own workspace. But he can't go back yet – Cobb is probably still there, pacing sleeplessly. He drinks at a bar and thinks about Arthur, about the little smile on his face and the time he trapped Eames in a paradox, leaving him on an endless staircase for four hours.

They are all gone by the time he returns. It's nearly four in the morning – he has to get to work. He hunches over to cut the plastic. He has to get the size just right, the surface. He carves out the pips and paints them white. He scuffs it up. It is impossible to get every scratch right, not with only his memory to work off… but he predicts the ones Arthur will remember. The jagged one on the four side, the one that curves around the middle pip on the five. By daybreak a perfect copy sits in his hand. Well – nearly perfect. It looks identical. It feels identical – the weight uneven, unbalanced. But it is an illusion. The die rolls true. Two, six, one, two. It is a normal die, a fair die. The die of Arthur's dreams, rather than his reality.

Eames chuckles alone as he cleans up, making sure not to leave a single red shaving on the floor.

The next two days test his patience. He gets no chance to plant his die, and carries it around in his pocket. He catches himself fidgeting with it a few times, and hopes to hell that Arthur has not noticed. He talks. He jokes. He waits, and waits, and waits.

Then, on the third day, he finds Arthur asleep on the couch. He is not hooked up to the machines. He's been working too hard, he's exhausted. Eames creeps forward, knowing full well that the man might wake at any moment, that without any sedative to stall him his dream state is fragile. But he must do this now. He can't wait any longer – the flight is in two days. Him and Arthur will part ways when they land, and with Cobb (hopefully) retired, who knew if Arthur would ever call upon his services as a forger? No, he had to do this now. He slipped his fingers into the point-man's pockets, trembling again.

Arthur shifts, and lets out a murmur. Eames freezes, but all the point man has done is move closer to him, leaning into his hand, almost. He pulls out the die and slides in his forgery, letting the real thing fall into his own pocket as he steps away. He pretends to be interested in the half-constructed model mazes that surround them, but Arthur does not wake. Perhaps he will sleep all night.

It is raining the next morning, but he can't find Arthur in the warehouse. He paces restlessly, mind full of stunts to play on Arthur and his forged die. Cobb is at his desk, but Eames does not ask him where the point man has gone. He has no excuse. It would look suspicious. He goes back to pacing, wandering towards the windows –

That's when he hears it. Laughter. The voice is familiar, but the sound is not. He spies Arthur through one of the fogged windows. Really, the form is nothing but a gray-and-white squiggle through the raindrops and fog, but he knows it is him. A moment later he is walking out into the rain, around the side of the warehouse to where Arthur stands in the middle of the downpour. It's quite a sight. His white shirt is soaked, glued to his skin and showing off the pale skin underneath. His blue vest has been turned darker by the rainwater, and his trousers cling tight to his legs. Eames forgets his plans and fights to keep from staring, watching wondrously as Arthur turns towards him with a relaxed smile. The point man holds a bright red die in his hand, and there's no doubt in his mind as to what has happened here.

Arthur is forever asleep. He walks in reality, but his die rolls true, and he thinks that he is asleep. And that, of course, is his totem's obvious flaw.

"Hello, Darling." He smiles, holding back laughter. "Haven't you got any work to do?"

Arthur rolls his eyes, which is an oddly juvenile gesture. Although, he supposes, the man isn't really that old.

"Work? In a dream?" Arthur laughs again, and Eames is surprised. He was quite certain that that was what Arthur did in his dreams, due to his disappointing lack of imagination. Perhaps he went shopping for three-piece suits instead?

"What do you want to do, then?" There was only one way to find out. Eames takes a step towards the point man and finds himself pinned under the full force of Arthur's gaze. For the first time in his life, Eames looks straight into those eyes, and –

"Well… you know…" Arthur drawls, a different kind of smile creeping up his lips.

"Do I?" Eames raises an eyebrow, fighting back confusion.

"M-hm." Arthur nods, stepping forward. The rain rolls down his slicked-back hair, somehow still in perfect order. Eames feels like he's being hunted. He wavers, not knowing how to respond. Not knowing how Arthur's dream-Eames was supposed to respond. The way Arthur looks at him, it is as if this is a routine in his dreams. He expects something out of the forger, but Eames cannot read the wild look in his eyes. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps he cannot know Arthur through his eyes. His eyes are far more intense than the man they belong to.

Or are they? Arthur closes the distance between them and presses his lips against Eames'.

Eames sputters. He cannot process this. The point man's hands are wrapped around his waist, wet fingers playing with the creases in his quickly-soaking shirt. The kiss is hot against the cold rain, and when the other pulls away for a moment, studying his features… Eames knows what he wants, and the knowledge fills him with something like lightning. This is what they do in Arthur's dreams. And he did not know. He cannot pretend to have known. Arthur had fooled him into thinking he was merely annoyed by the forger. That the games they played were just nothing but childish competition. And now…

"We should head inside, darling." He whispers. "You'll get sick."

"I will not." Arthur smiles. You can't get sick in dreams, he thinks. But this isn't a dream, Eames knows, and he tugs the man back towards the warehouse, Arthur's hands already slipping underneath his belt. He supposes that while he worries about Arthur's health, he should worry about the fact that he's taking advantage of the man, letting him believe that he is asleep this way. Indulging in his private fantasies. This is wrong. It is.

But if Arthur wants him when he is asleep, Arthur will want him when he is awake, he reasons.

Cobb is gone when they step back inside the warehouse, dripping wet. Eames does not know where he went, but he does not care. Arthur has undone the buttons of his shirt, and is running his fingers across his chest. Arthur is cold and wet but beautiful, and Eames tells him this in a husky whisper as they fall onto the couch. The point man laughs again, and the sound washes over the forger like a warm wave at a sunlit beach. They strain at their clothes now, shivering as they peel the layers away from their skin. Eames cannot believe his luck. He cannot believe this is happening. He must be asleep. This must be a dream. For the first time in his life, Eames wishes desperately for a totem of his own.

And then he remembers the die. Arthur's die, in the pocket of his trousers. They're on the floor now, but he reaches down to fumble for them. The point man pulls away to watch, his pale hand pressed deliciously up against Eames' stomach.

His eyes widen as Eames finds his die. His eyes dart from the die in the forger's hand to the one he has left on the floor. The first die faces two – a random number, a dream. Eames rolls the second and it faces three. Arthur reaches down to pick it up, to roll it once again. Three.

Before the cold reality can harden around the point man, Eames grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him in for a kiss.

A little while later the dice lie forgotten on the ground.