Disclaimer; I don't own Inception.
Thanks to Haley for contributing, and thanks to Desmond for the Beta.
Companion piece to "Runaway."
Sleepwalker
Eames dreamt of Arthur.
It wasn't anything dirty – at least, sometimes it wasn't. Most of the time it was. Most of the time his dreams were composed of hands and knees and elbows and bare skin and tongues and fire and oh dear God just fuck me and –
Anyway, it wasn't all like that.
Though he would never admit it, Eames' favorite dreams weren't sexual. His favourite dreams were of arguing over takeout, of running through the rain because no one had thought to bring an umbrella. His favourite dreams were when he woke up and saw Arthur bent over a computer or newspaper or even a book, compiling a dossier on their mark, or arguing with Ariadne over the merits of columns and arches.
His favourite dreams were the memories.
Sometimes he considered telling Yusuf, or Cobb, or even Arthur himself, but he never did.
It was a secret he took to his grave.
On their last job together, Ariadne asked him and Arthur about dreams.
"I mean, I know what Cobb dreams about," she said when they stared at her, "but what about you two?"
Eames grinned. "Unicorns and bunny rabbits," he told her, and the sarcasm was thick in his voice. She glared at him.
"Hey, I was just curious," she snapped, the color rising to her cheeks.
"Curiosity killed the nosy architect," Eames replied lazily, glancing at her reflection in the mirror.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Eames has a point, Ariadne," Arthur cut Eames off as he went to speak again. "Not all of us are as forthcoming as Cobb."
Ariadne shut her mouth, appearing to mull this over, but Eames had the distinct impression she was actually reviewing plans on how to weasel the truth out of them. Eames pushed himself out of his chair and glanced out the door.
"Ariadne, be a dear and go make sure our mark doesn't leave before I get to him," he said, placing his hands on her shoulders and steering her out the door. "It doesn't look like Cobb is keeping him very entertained."
The architect glared at him again, but then she smiled and made her way toward the table. Eames watched as she crossed the room with a grace that most women would kill for – a grace that he himself had taught her. He wondered what that said about him, then dismissed the thought.
Instead he returned to his seat and examined his reflection in the mirror. "What do you dream about, Arthur?" he asked conversationally, half expecting to be ignored and half-expecting to be told off for doing exactly what Ariadne had done. But Arthur just glanced at his watch and grinned.
"Running," he said, so quietly Eames could have misheard him. The forger glanced at him in the mirror. For once, Arthur wasn't competing for the wallpaper's job; he had a strange half-smile on his lips and a light in his eyes that Eames couldn't remember seeing there before.
"I can think of better ways to spend a night, darling," he said, because he had to say something. He let his eyes wander to Arthur's reflection, just barely catching the beginnings of what might have been a blush before Arthur blinked, quite decisively, and glared at him.
"Get to work, Mr Eames," he snapped, and Eames considered kissing him, just to see that blush come back. But then he laughed, shoving the thought aside and shifting out of his skin and into the blonde. Still, he made a point of blowing Arthur a kiss on his way out the door.
The first time Eames broke into Arthur's dreams, he expected to be shot. Or scolded, at the very least. What he did not expect was to find himself on a muddy track in the middle of nowhere at midnight. Nor did he really expect to see Arthur.
At least, not Arthur as he was. However good the point man looked in his suits, Eames highly doubted he would ever find them as sexy as the way Arthur's track suit hugged his body, exposing nothing but revealing everything. He watched him for a moment, and for a moment he considered doing nothing else. He could live with watching how completely relaxed the point man was here.
Then he approached the place Eames was hiding, and he decided that observation could fuck itself, and he pushed himself up and over the tiny fence that circled the track.
"Would you like some company?" he asked, but he was already falling into step with him. He never heard Arthur's reply, assuming he'd given one, but Eames took it as a positive sign that he hadn't yet been shot, strangled, or maimed in some irreversible way.
They run in silence, but the steady thud of footsteps and their harsh breathing rang in his ears like a siren, warning him not to say anything incredibly stupid.
Of course, his mind and mouth had never quite agreed, so he decided, rather firmly, to not say anything at all.
The last time he saw Arthur, they were running.
His side ached, and his chest felt like it was on fire, but he couldn't let Arthur realize something was wrong. He forced himself to run, and he listened to Arthur's feet pounding against the dirt like a heartbeat, steady and strong. And Eames made himself run, until his legs gave out and he collapsed against the fence.
At first, Arthur didn't notice, and that was good. Eames watched him run a few more meters, and it struck him, not for the first time, how much he would hate to never see the point man again. He wondered if Arthur had any idea what had happened. He doubted it. He doubted it would matter at this point, anyway.
Arthur stopped and turned, and even from a distance Eames could make out his confusion, his concern. "You okay?" he called back, and Eames forced a smile.
"I'm okay," he tried to call back, but his mouth wasn't working quite right, and it sounded more like a groan of pain – one that he doubted Arthur could hear.
"Eames?" Arthur called again, and Eames saw him take a step forward. And then he saw nothing at all.