Eames didn't see Arthur in the next day's session because his team kept waking up in the middle of a minefield and then inevitably someone would set off a mine and blow everyone to hell. None of them were speaking to each other by the end of the session, and honestly, Eames just wanted to lay down somewhere and forget the feel of his limbs being torn off.

But then Arthur. He caught sight of those ears in the mess hall and his whole body felt lighter.

"Hey," he said as Arthur swung past his table.

"Dream lab," Arthur interrupted, his voice clipped. "1800."

"Alrigh—"

Arthur turned and left, not only the conversation but the mess hall too. Eames frowned. He didn't look angry. Maybe he was just in a hurry.

But Eames' cookie tasted especially stale.

The dream lab at 1750 was dark, and Eames wondered if he'd gotten it wrong. But when he stepped into the lab space, lit by a single desk lamp, he caught sight of a silhouette that could only have been Arthur.

"Hey darling, there you—"

The punch landed squarely on his jaw and knocked him sideways. The blare of pain in his already throbbing head made him stagger, and he threw an arm in front of his face until he could right himself.

"Bloody hell, Arthur, what the fuck?"

He tongued his lip where it had been mashed into his teeth, and felt a trickle of blood.

Arthur whipped something past his face and Eames jerked back, fists ready for a fight. "So help me god, Arthur, you punch me again—"

"The subject did not appear emotionally or physically manipulatable?"

There was a sheaf of papers gripped in his hand, and Eames blanched, dropping his fists.

"Where did you get that?"

Arthur's face was furious. "Who the fuck cares, Eames? You were trying to manipulate me?" His entire body was as taut as a bowstring and he looked like he desperately wanted to deck Eames again.

Eames held his hands up. "No, I can explain—"

"Oh, no, please. No need," Arthur said through a sneer. "Let me read you my favorite part. 'Subject's acceptance of mental stimuli in a dream state resulted in corresponding physical reactions topside, similar in nature to a nocturnal emission.' I particularly love how you managed to exclude your own 'emission' in this report, you. Fucking. Asshole."

Eames tried to appear calming. "That report was the way we got to do what we did, okay? But if you think it's the reason I wanted to, you didn't listen to a word I said while we were down there."

"Oh, because of course none of that was a lie."

"I didn't lie to you Arthur," Eames said fiercely, his hands still held out. "Not once. I could have, but I didn't, and I didn't do anything without your consent."

The look of disgust on Arthur's face almost shattered him. "Yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night."

He threw the report at Eames' chest and stormed out. Eames, sinking back against the nearest wall, let him go.

"Fuck."

Eames wasn't the lonely sort. In fact, he couldn't remember a time when he'd felt particularly lonely for any length of time, and he thrived off of being around others, so he naturally sought them out. But this was different.

On the surface, nothing had changed. He still had his crew, his friends and team members, and they were his brothers. He still had his family, calling his mum and his sister, making them laugh and living for their care packages. And he still had Arthur. Saw him on a rotating basis, regular like clockwork. The only change now was that Arthur seemed to enjoy shooting him directly in the face, and Eames let him.

The first few times, his crew had ragged on Arthur for it, saying he'd always had some kind of stick up his arse and that's why no one liked him. But after a while, they started to notice how Eames would lower his weapon, just a touch. How he never seemed to hit anything when he was aiming at Arthur, and how he wouldn't jeopardize any of the missions they were sent down to run, but he'd peel himself away from the pack, always taking point or rear, and he always got taken out first.

Jones wasn't the type to pry, but the way he looked at Eames every time Eames finally caught sight of those ears in the mess hall said he probably already knew.

Arthur didn't talk to him. Hell, he wouldn't even make eye contact with him. Arthur ate his meals by himself, when he ate, and Eames hated himself a little more every time Arthur walked by as if he didn't exist.

He didn't want this. He didn't ask to have feelings for First Sergeant Arthur bloody Levine, and he sure as hell didn't ask to feel like he'd been kicked in the bollocks every time he couldn't catch his eye during a debrief, or at dinner, or before he got shot in the fucking face.

So he might have been a little out of his head and done something completely out of character. So sue him. He had a few favors still owed to him and you can't take those with you. So he pulled some strings.

When Arthur entered the dream lab, he was right on time. Which was exactly how you responded when your CO ordered you to, as opposed to not showing up at all when asked by someone you dream-fucked once.

"What are you doing here?" Arthur snapped.

Eames had a feeling that Hart, the lab tech behind him, was the only thing keeping Arthur from punching him again.

"Hello, darling."

Arthur crossed his arms. "Don't call me that. What is this?"

"An apology, of sorts. Best I could negotiate anyway."

"I don't want your apology."

Eames nodded and took the IV from Hart, offering it to Arthur. He didn't take it. "I thought you might say that. But you read the report, right? The whole thing?"

Arthur didn't answer, and he didn't move.

"If you did," Eames continued, "you might have noticed there was something missing."

Arthur's eyes flickered to Hart, who was busy doing his best to become invisible, and then back to Eames. He looked hesitant, so Eames knew he understood what he meant. Nowhere in his report, which detailed a two-person dream session using custom mapping and manipulation techniques, did Eames mention wings.

Arthur scowled. "So?"

Eames offered him the IV again. "So 30 minutes topside, solo dream session. No one but you. A report is expected on any concerns or findings you have, but there's no objective list so if you'd like me to fill it out for you, I will."

Hart glanced up at that but after a look from Eames, turned back to his work.

Arthur took the IV line, hesitantly. "Why?"

Eames shrugged easily. "I thought you might like to try them out."

Arthur didn't say anything, but he wasn't scowling anymore, and Eames would take that. He nodded to Hart and left the way Arthur had come in. He paused outside long enough to verify Arthur had stayed, and then headed for his bunk and some shut eye.

He didn't get any, but that was okay. He had chemically induced sleep to look forward to. His stomach was also in knots for days afterwards, but that was okay too. He had stale desserts to look forward to also.

The next time he saw Arthur was in the mess hall, and he didn't talk to Eames, but his face also didn't look quite as pinched, and he frowned at him instead of ignoring him, and Eames would take that too. He watched Arthur walk to the table with his team, his shoulders relaxed in a way that they usually weren't. They were deep in conversation about something, Arthur included, and Eames felt a band around his chest loosen.

"Eames!"

Eames snapped to attention. Jones had been calling his name for a while it seemed because the whole table was looking at him now.

"What?"

Jones looked at him flatly. "You're staring."

He couldn't stop his gaze from flicking over to Arthur, but he dragged it back. "Right." He cleared his throat and stretched his neck, and then he was back. The conversation picked back up and he dove in, determined not to give Jones any more to think about.

The next day's dream run was against Arthur's team again, and Eames found himself nervous. What would it mean if he still shot him in the face? What would it mean if he didn't?

The answer, of course, was that he didn't get a chance to find out, because they woke in a high-rise building during what appeared to be an earthquake, which wasn't in the briefing, and he ended up half-carrying, half-dragging people to the ground floor, hoping this was some kind of a test and not someone's giant fuck-up.

The session was originally set to go for 10 hours dream time, and three members of his crew were injured just getting out of the building. So half of them dug in on the ground floor and the other half tried to push ahead. He stayed with the injured. After approximately 9.5 hours of fuck-all happening, he shot Rossi just to shut him up, put Esposito in charge, and went to look for the rest of his team. With 10 minutes left in the dream, he was picked off by a sniper because he wasn't being careful, and it was a stupid mistake he'd have bawled out anyone else for making.

Topside, he found out that the rest had been taken out early, and if he'd stayed where he was (and not shot Rossi) his performance in the skirmish would have been adequate. As it was, the enemy retraced his footsteps, shot the injured team members he'd left behind, and he had to hear about it from three different people before they finally let him go back to his bunk.

So when he got orders to report to the dream lab that night for extra practice, he assumed he'd get to hear about it again. Honestly, he'd rather run a few klicks in full gear. Still, as prepared as he thought he was for a tongue lashing, he wasn't prepared for Arthur to be the one standing in the middle of the lab.

"Arthur," he said, blinking. "What—"

"One two-person dream session. I will be filing a full report, and Hart will be present in the room while we are under."

Hart gave him an awkward wave, like he'd rather be anywhere but in the middle of whatever this was, but Eames looked back at Arthur.

"Okay…" Eames said slowly.

Arthur nodded firmly and apparently that was the only explanation he was going to get. He let Hart hook up his IV and he watched Arthur settle back in his chair, pretending he wasn't aware of Eames' eyes on him.

It was Paris again, or at least a city that looked very like it. Arthur found him almost immediately and pulled him into an empty nearby building.

"Okay, look, Arthur, I realize I should have told you about—"

"Eames. Shut up."

Eames sighed through his nose and waited, staring at the brick wall over Arthur's shoulder.

"Information technology for stealing secrets."

Eames blinked. His face was intense, like he was telling Eames something very important and he needed him to listen, but Eames felt like he was walking in on a conversation halfway through.

"Sorry, I'm not following you."

"I mean that's what we can use dreamshare for," Arthur said, leaning toward him. "You did it on accident, but we could do it on purpose."

Eames didn't say anything but studied the dark smudges under Arthur's eyes, suddenly wondering how much actual sleep Arthur had gotten recently. "Are you alright, Arthur?"

Arthur sighed. "Look, I know you're looking to be forgiven but that's not why we're here. I needed to talk to you about this."

Eames shifted. "About what, exactly? Slowly. Pretend I have no idea what you're talking about."

Arthur took a deep breath. "Okay, listen. Remember the George's Cross? In the catacombs. You said it was your dad's."

"I remember, Arthur," Eames clipped. "What are you on about?"

"Well, I kept trying to figure out why it was there. You said you hadn't meant for it to show up, which had to be true because it didn't make sense for it to be part of a date or anything you had in your report. So I figured it was an accident. And I started thinking, what if we could get that to happen on purpose?"

Eames raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."

Arthur's eyes fever-lit with excitement and he started to pace. "We build an environment. We create a space, an empty space, that the dreamer would assume is secure, like a vault or a jail or something. And then we just let them," he gestured, "fill in the blanks."

Eames straightened, realizing the implications of what Arthur was saying.

Arthur continued, still pacing. "On paper, you and I are down here working on one-on-one interrogation techniques. I'm going to report that I attempted to seduce a secret out of you, but that it didn't work."

"Okay, but why—"

"I found out," Arthur interrupted, "that tomorrow our teams are going to start a different type of dream session. To explore 'enhanced interrogation techniques.'"

Eames' blood ran cold. "You mean torture."

"I mean we have got to get out of here," Arthur said, grasping Eames' forearm in his fervor. "And we need to shut it down behind us or neither your government or mine will ever stop."

Eames took a half step back, his mind racing. "So you brought me down here, not to tell me that you accepted my apology—"

"You never actually apologized, I'd like to point out—"

"—but to tell me that you are planning on sabotaging the goodwill information project co-hosted by both of our countries' militaries, and to top it off, you're saying...what? That we were using it wrong to begin with?"

Arthur licked his lips. "Okay, it sounds worse than it is."

"You know I could turn you in."

Arthur scowled at him. "Did you not hear a word I just said? They want us to torture each other. Do you really think you could capture me, lock me up, and force information out of me? Even if you knew it was a dream?"

Eames didn't reply.

"I don't think you could," Arthur said. "You think you are so slick, Eames, but I saw you." Then, more gently, he corrected himself. "I see you," he said. "And I don't think you want to do that any more than I do."

Eames rubbed a hand over his face and scratched his neck, trying to get his mask under control before he replied.

"So you're saying we could get the project shut down, and, what? Take the technology on Civvy Street?"

"We could use it to make a living. Yeah." Arthur shrugged. "I figured since we basically discovered it together, it would only be right to let you know my intentions. You know, communicate clearly with you ahead of time."

Eames sighed. "Look, Arthur—"

"I'm still mad."

"Oh, you don't say."

"But that doesn't mean I can't work with you."

Arthur turned on his heel and walked out of the empty building, and Eames had mere seconds to process all of this in order to make up his mind. Oh, who was he kidding. He'd follow Arthur just about anywhere.

"Arthur," he called after him, jogging slightly to catch up. "Arthur," he repeated, catching his elbow and stopping him. "Listen. I'm not opposed…"

"But?" Arthur prompted, refusing to acknowledge his phrasing.

"But you don't trust me. So how do I know I can trust you? How do I know this isn't a bluff, and you're going to turn me in?"

Arthur regarded him through narrowed eyes, and then turned, indicating Eames should follow with a tilt of his head.

"I broke in my first night here and figured out how to turn them off," he finally said as they walked.

"Turn them—"

"When they caught me," he continued like Eames hadn't said anything, "I said I just wanted some extra practice, trying to keep up with the best of the best."

Behind him, between one breath and the next, his wings unfolded. Eames craned his neck to watch them stretch, and then settle, folded casually against his back.

"And they bought that?" he said, once he was done marvelling at them. He wondered if he'd ever get used to seeing them.

Arthur shrugged. "Doesn't matter. What matters is I can do it and they can't figure out how."

Eames stopped him again with a hand on his arm, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Show me."

Arthur led him down the street until they reached a dress shop, then headed to the back. He wanted to ask where they were going, but Arthur started following the signs for the changing rooms and Eames held his tongue.

Arthur slid aside a thick velvet curtain and revealed a full-length mirror. He met Eames' eye in the reflection and said, "Pick a body part, like your shoulders or something. Look at the shape, the lines. And then picture what you want to see instead. Then change it."

Eames frowned, stepping closer to his own image.

"But not the mirror," Arthur continued. "And not the reflection. And not yourself."

Eames watched his eyebrows furrow. "What exactly am I changing, then?"

Arthur slipped his hands into his pockets and his gaze turned inward. "It's not about affecting the physics of the world. It's about the feeling."

Eames stared at Arthur's profile. "The feeling of…"

"Your body," Arthur said easily. "Not the muscles and bones, but the way your body makes you feel. It's all mental. You don't think about your bones. You just feel strong. Or hell, maybe you feel bloated, or sexy, or a million other little feelings that your physical body influences. So you're changing the way your body makes you feel, and that, in turn, changes your body."

Eames raised a sarcastic eyebrow. "Oh, is that all? Just adjust the way I see myself."

Arthur shrugged with one shoulder. "Philosophers and therapists rejoice."

Eames concentrated. Mentally, he tried to sort through his feelings about his own body before narrowing it down on something to change.

"So," he said, wondering exactly how honest he had to be with himself for this to work, "your solo-session. Did you need me to file a report?"

He focused on the line of his shoulders, since Arthur had brought them up. He generally liked them—their breadth and slope made him look good, so he thought that might be an easy one to dig into for his first time.

Arthur snorted. "I can file my own reports, thanks."

Eames looked at him in the mirror, meeting his eyes and waiting. "You're welcome," he said sincerely.

Arthur rolled his eyes, but he didn't disagree, and Eames would definitely take that. He closed his eyes and crossed his arms across his chest, pressing his fingers into the muscles of his shoulders. One slow breath in and as he exhaled, he felt them reshape under his fingertips.

They were definitely slimmer, sloped, almost feminine.

He pulled the wide collar of his shirt to the side, displaying defined collarbones. Eames grinned.

"Not bad," Arthur said next to him.

"Not bad?!" Eames squawked. "I just changed what I look like with my bloody thoughts!" He turned to Arthur. "Just think of what we can do with the whole world, darling."

Arthur's smirk said he had secrets and Eames' entire body zinged. "Oh, ho, you played a lot in your solo-session, didn't you? Think I can get you to tell me about it?"

Arthur shrugged casually. "You can try."

Eames grinned at him. "How was it? The flying?"

And wouldn't you know it. Dimples.