The rumors had been flying over the entire base all morning. Some green kid, fresh out of basic, had been dropped into the dreamscape for the first time and showed up with wings. Actual bloody wings, like an angel, or a member of the X-Men for fuck's sake.

Eames had hummed an acknowledgment when he'd heard, but his mind spun with the implications. And if he'd had dreams that night about flying, well, those were the most common dream type of all, weren't they?

The next session he reminded the small team under his command about a combat zone being more than 360 degrees, to watch the sky and the ground and not just the air in front of your face. Because make no mistake, this "goodwill" mission for "information sharing" with the Americans stank of cold war posturing, and his team was going to be ready, god damn it.

The American team they met with topside did indeed have a new fresh-faced kid with ears that stuck out like lanterns, but Eames didn't see any wings when they went under. Any other division he'd have chalked it up to bored GIs being bored, but in the dreamshare program, no matter which team, they took, "I thought I saw," and, "This was different for me than anyone else," very seriously.

So he looked it up. Project Somnacin, or Project Dream Sharing as it was known by the Yanks, was being meticulously documented, both by giddy scientists and penny-pinching decision-makers. And it was there in black and white—wings. Extending almost four feet on either side and present at the onset of the dream, subject was unaware of a reason for their appearance or how to control them. Original session goals discarded in lieu of exploring additional anomaly data, see subsequent field reports for further details regarding inconclusive findings.

Eames scanned the field reports enough to know that they questioned the "subject" for the entire session and attempted flight to no avail. He dreamed of flying again that night.

They were on a cycle with the American teams, so three paired dream sessions later Eames could confirm there were no other new faces on their dreamshare crews, and unless wingman had gotten cut, which was unlikely due to the rigorous screening process of eligible candidates, it was Ears. Eames made it his personal mission to find out A) why he had wings at first and B) why he no longer did.

Their skirmishes were never extremely fraught, generally more like laser tag with more violent consequences. But his men were some of the most well-trained dreamsharers in history, racking up thousands of hours of dreaming between them, and most of their breakthroughs were had while they were fucking off during down time. Those breakthroughs had piloted a lot of the paths of study.

"Keep them off me," Eames instructed. "Lay down cover fire and then start a distraction on their east flank. I'm going to draw out the newbie from the rear."

Except Ears wasn't hanging out at the back like Eames had expected. In fact, the whole mission was fucked from the start, and Eames only caught up with Ears and his entire battalion after the action was basically over, and Ears was lying on the ground, bleeding out from where he'd been shot in the thigh.

"Well hello, darling," Eames said, only slightly out of breath. "Do you come here often?"

He was even younger-looking up close, almost adorable as he scrambled for his sidearm, his fingers slick with blood from where he was trying to keep his femoral artery from leaking his life into the dirt. Eames stepped on the weapon and his fingers along with it.

"Shhh, shh, shh," Eames hushed, squatting down. "Couple of questions for you, and then you're free to die."

"Fuck off," he gasped through gritted teeth.

"Yes, darling, of course. But let's talk about wings first."

His head snapped up at that and Eames took in his scared pupil dilation, defensive nostril flare, and panicked shoulder raise. Boy was traumatized and he hadn't even been killed a dozen times yet.

Eames hummed his interest, but apparently, he should have stood on the kid's thigh instead of his gun because he lost consciousness right after that, and Eames sighed and made his way back to his team.

He'd lost his medic to what he suspected was friendly fire, and he had to shoot Jones out of the dream due to his injuries. The rest he told he'd need to go again, and they spent the remainder of the dream session taking potshots at the few remaining Americans where they'd dug in. Eames was going to call it a draw on paper, but in the field, they'd have been fucked and he bloody well knew it.

Eames knew the rotation would mean he'd have to wait potentially weeks before he had another chance to talk to Ears again, and unless there was a paycheck involved, he hated waiting. So he started asking around. It was tipping his hand to let the general populace know he was interested in the wing rumors, but for a refreshing change, the rumor mill was more helpful than the docs he'd uncovered.

"First Sergeant Arthur Levine," Eames said skeptically.

"Aye, if you can believe it," Jones reported. "Looks as if he's fresh out of primary, but in reality he's through university and volunteered specifically for Somnacin. Rumor is he's got political ambitions."

Eames hummed that he'd heard and nodded his thanks.

Right then. Time to rip off the plaster.

He found Levine nee Ears in the mess hall.

"Hello, darling," Eames said, setting down his tray. "Come here often?"

Levine started and tracked him as he sat down, fork halfway to his mouth. "What do you want?"

"I bet you say that to all the boys," Eames smiled. "Same again," he admitted when Levine continued to glare at him, "but I'm willing to wait. Name is Eames." He stuck his hand across the table.

After a moment, Levine took it. "Arthur."

"Pleasure," Eames said, shaking. "Always nice to put a name to the mess we're making."

Arthur's lips ticked up and then back down again so fast Eames wasn't sure he'd seen it. "You definitely did that," he agreed.

Eames grinned at him. "Not according to my report. My report says it was a dead draw."

Arthur snorted. "I bet it does." But he was definitely smiling.

They muscled down what passed for food here in companionable silence, and when Arthur stood to take his tray back, Eames kept his seat.

"Good to meet you, Arthur," Eames said easily. "I look forward to our next draw."

Arthur shook his head, but he was grinning, and wouldn't you know it. Dimples.

Eames finagled three more of these meals before the thunk of a tray alerted him to Arthur sitting down next to him at breakfast one morning. He tried not to look surprised, but he was. He wondered if Arthur had any friends on his team.

They didn't talk a lot, as a rule. But Arthur also wasn't a small-minded racist bigot, which was Eames' personal expectation of Americans so that he could be pleasantly surprised if they managed to be better than that.

"Good morning, darling," Eames said over his cup of coffee. "Careful. This oatmeal is criminal."

Arthur grinned at him, and Eames would be lying to himself if he didn't count it a win whenever those dimples came out.

"I went for a breakfast burrito, but I don't know that it's from the right side of the tracks either."

Eames smiled, charmed against his will, and listen, he was no slouch at controlling himself, but maybe it was time to wrap this up.

"So Arthur," he said, passing over his extra sugar packet without being asked. "I fully realize you're probably not supposed to talk to me about it, but my curiosity is strangling me."

Arthur stirred the sugar into his coffee without expression and shoveled a bite into his mouth before he met Eames' eyes.

"Why?" he said when his mouth was finally clear.

Eames scoffed in disbelief. "Why?" he asked. "Do you seriously not know how interesting that is? How rare?"

Arthur licked his teeth. "I've been made aware of both."

"So then they must have told you that it's never been done before. How if you could learn to control it—"

"You said you were curious," Arthur interrupted. "What exactly are you curious about?"

Eames felt like he was on very thin ice but he pushed his tray aside and leaned forward anyway. "What do they do? Why do you have them and no one else does? Why don't you have them anymore? I want to know everything."

Arthur chewed and considered him. "Nothing, I don't know, and none of your business. Satisfied?" He put his fork on his tray and stood. "Now you can stop eating with me."

"Wh—"

Arthur left without a backward glance.

"Arthur, come on now."

Eames pursed his lips and stabbed his oatmeal with his spoon. "Bollocks."

He thought about it that night, alone in his bunk. He'd cocked that right up, but he had charmed his way into more than one pair of pants in his life, and he could do it again. If sweet talking himself into Arthur's good graces was what Arthur required, sweet talking was something he was fully capable of doing. And the job came first. He could keep work separate from everything else. It didn't have to mean anything. Just like it didn't mean anything that he didn't dream of flying that night. Instead, he dreamt of brown eyes and quick fingers and dimples, and well, that was probably a fairly common dream too.

He was with his team next mess call, so when he walked past Arthur, sitting slightly off on his own, Eames didn't say anything or attempt to join him. The glare he caught would have stopped him anyway. But he did slide his brownie onto Arthur's tray with a wink before joining his crew.

They were deep in a retelling of their shared run with the Americans that morning, so a raised eyebrow from Jones was the only indication anyone had noticed, but Eames just shrugged and grinned, and Jonesy rolled his eyes. He watched out of the corner of his eye long enough to see Arthur leave it for last but eventually eat it before dumping his tray.

In truth, Eames should probably have let it go. He didn't have specific orders about Arthur, other than a general longstanding one about finding out as much about dreamshare as possible. And thus far, he'd left Arthur out of his reports, since he'd gained zero usable intel anyway. But he felt in his marrow there was something here. Something big. Something life-changing. Something special. And Arthur was the key.

So he dropped off desserts and gave cheeky waves on the battlefield, and when he was by himself he would drop next to Arthur without being invited and natter on about whatever popped into his head.

Eventually, Arthur stopped glaring at him, and he even chimed in when Eames said something painfully egregious. Eames was in the middle of spinning out a mostly-true story about his childhood when Arthur cut him off with a sigh.

"Why are you doing this?"

Eames grinned and had a witty comeback on his tongue when he saw the tightness around Arthur's mouth, the stiff way he was holding himself, the untouched cookie Eames had slid over. He frowned.

"If you don't want my company, Arthur, I am not the kind of man who forces himself on anyone."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I'm not a reluctant prom date, Eames, I'm a member of a foreign military operation. So how am I supposed to think of this as anything other than an attempt to get intel on the project? Intel which, I might add, my government is not currently sharing with your government. How do I know you're not a spy?"

Eames blinked. "Because I'm...not."

Arthur gave him a look, stood, and thunked the cookie back on Eames' tray. And then he left.

Eames ate the cookie as he watched him walk away and thought, Alright, you bastard. Reluctant date or not, you're about to be swept off your feet.