AN: Okay, it feels much less odd to say this after saying it twenty-five times, but I haven't said it in ages: I didn't actually write this chapter. =) This is a jointfic between me and anime-is-mi-life, so she wrote the first bit. Second chapter will be mine, from Eames POV. Warnings: slash, and eventual M rated content is likely, knowing the way my mind and hers work. You've already read the summary, so... here goes. ^.^ Enjoy the ride.

Disclaimer: I disclaim. ;P

Arthur's POV

I lay back on the black leather couch, my eyes fluttering shut at the sedative from the PAVIS kicked in. Waves of mind numbing sensations coursed through me until all went black.

I awoke in a bar, holding a glass of brandy. Looking around, I saw the bar was classier than the average one; the walls were painted red on top, and black on bottom, a white crown molding separating the two. The upholstery was all black leather, the tables silver stained glass steel. The lighting was dimmed and the flooring was stained mahogany. The bar was the same wood, marble topped and a blonde haired, blue eyed waitress worked the back, wearing a short sleeved button up shirt with the first three buttons undone. Over her short black skirt, she wore a black apron where she kept a pad of paper for writing down orders. She had four inch heels that made her about 5'4".

"Anything else I can get for you, gentlemen?" the blonde asked, batting her ridiculously long fake eyelashes, her eyes trained solely on Eames, sitting to my left.

"No thanks," Eames replied smoothly, his eyes hot and steamy, unconsciously – or perhaps consciously, I thought murderously—giving her his smoldery look. I knew it wasn't Eames' fault, it was my projection of him anyways. It wasn't the projection's fault that I thought of Eames as a man-whore.

"Well, uh… in case you find yourself in need of any extra service," the waitress said seductively as she slid a piece of paper across the counter to Eames who put in his pocket for later. With that the waitress mouthed "call me," before she turned and went to help another customer.

"Looks like someone's going to get some tonight," Eames said with his mischievous smirk. Downing the rest of his drink, Eames got up, saying, "I think I'm going to stop by the loo. Don't wait up, darling." My eyes followed after him, absolutely seething with anger and envy, as Eames started after the waitress. Eames sauntered off, non decrepitly pulling the waitress aside and whispering in her ear before heading off to the loo. A few minutes later, the waitress slipped into the loo, practically squealing with joy.

I stared after them long after they had gone in. It always happened this way; my dream never changed. Eames was always here; I basked in his company, until he was stolen by some ditzy woman. It was sad really, I had originally retreated to the sanctity of dreams to escape this exact scenario. Though I loathed admitting it even to myself, I had an attraction towards the other man. I had retreated to my dream to sort out exactly how I felt about Eames. Only to have the man flirt with women both here and in reality. And of course I kept coming back to my self-induced dreaming with the slight hope that Eames – or my projection of Eames—would show even the slightest sign of returning the feelings I had for him. This, of course, didn't happen, only enforcing the fact that that meant I knew somewhere subconsciously that Eames wasn't interested. No matter how much he fake flirted. Nor how he made my heart flutter. Or how my mind hazed over with lust.

"Well this is amusing," Eames—real Eames—said, snapping me out of my self-pity. My head whipped around to see Eames sitting on the barstool to my right, watching me. He was wearing a well tailored red dress shirt with the first two buttons undone, a form-fitting leather jacket, and a pair of black dress pants. His brown eyes shone with amusement as he stared at me, his lips turned just lightly upwards into a lopsided grin.

"What are you doing here, Eames?"

"I dropped in to see just what type of naughty dreams you were having about me in here and I found out you're sitting here watching me have at it with another. I'm rather disappointed Arthur. Your imagination is lacking. We must work on that, darling," he said, his hand going to rest upon my cheek. Where he touched tingled just the slightest bit as heat flooded into my cheeks. I longed to lean into the touch, but I knew that if I did that it would only spell trouble.

"For your information, Eames," I said, pulling away, "I was getting ready for a job." Getting up, I turned and walked away, trying to ignore when Eames got up and started following me. Stepping out of the bar, I turned left and started walking down the busy street.

"And what would this have to do with a job? Why haven't you told me about it?" he asked, grabbing my arm and turning me around to face him. He stared into my eyes, his searching mine for some semblance of what I'm thinking. I saw the realization sweep through him and I turned away, trying uselessly to keep him from seeing anymore. "You're going after Cobb, aren't you?" he asked me, his fear and anger evident in his voice. "Aren't you!" he demanded. The slight downcast of my eyes and the silence that resulted answered his question and he released me, pulling away and pacing, a hand running through his hair. "Arthur," he sighed finally.

"Don't Eames," I warned, backing away from him, pressing myself against the wall.

"Arthur," he said, turning back to me and closing the gap between us, putting his hands on either side of my face. Blocking my escape. "You need to let it go. He's gone. It's been six months," he said, staring me straight in the eye, holding my gaze. "Even if he did escape Mal, you can't possibly think he's still alive. Think how long he'd be trapped down there. He would have died of old age by now. And if you die in limbo, there's nothing left. You're brain dead," he said, his voice soothing. But his words snapped me out of the trance his eyes had put me in.

"You can't know that!" I exclaimed, my mind amiss with denial and anger. Cobb couldn't be dead. Eames was lying. "No one's tried it before. Perhaps when you die in limbo, you simply rewash on the sea of your subconscious. Maybe you're thrown straight back into limbo, sent to start anew. He could be living life again and again, waiting for someone to save him!"

"Or he could be insane! Living life after life, stuck there with only projections! Perhaps he went mad and even if you bring him back he'll be lost to the world," Eames exclaimed, his anger washing over me, putting out the fire of mine.

I felt numb and could only mutter, "He's my best friend. I have to at least try, Eames." I looked at him, close to tears and met his eyes staring down at me. He searched mine, trying to find a way to talk me out of it and found none.

Sighing he pulled me close and wrapped his arms around me. "Then we do this together. You're going to need all the help you can get." I felt myself let out a sob and he held me tighter, rubbing soothing circles on my back. "We'll find a way, love." And for that moment, I left myself be held in his arms and believe we would actually pull this off.

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