Warning: Heavy T rating mid-chapter for language and sexual situation.

Chapter 6: Dream

Arthur's eyes opened to a fuzzy haze and pale light. Shifting his head on the pillow to get a better look, he figured it must be early dawn with the gray light streaming through a crack in the curtains. Eames must have left it open last night when he got up.

Arthur's eyes drifted closed with a relaxed sigh. The sweet relief from the most recent pain pill still coursed through his body, making him feel loose and peaceful as usual. But now, added to that euphoria, he was clean. It was sheer heaven to be snuggled under the covers, not lying in his dried bloody, scuzzy mess.

His sharp brown eyes opened again, settling to the back of the forger's head as he lay on his side, facing away from Arthur. They'd changed positions and were no longer touching, a stark contrast from mere hours ago. Or had it been longer than that? Arthur couldn't be sure, trying to push his mind to work coherently through the dull warm of the pain pill.

KABOOM.

Arthur's eyes shot open, his body on high alert. He thrashed against the covers, trying to break free whatever bonds contained him. He ignored the pain in his body—he had for days now—it was the only way to vie for freedom.

"Arthur…" A sleepy, distinctly accented voice cut through the panicked haze as Arthur's movements stilled, gentle hands falling to his arms, helping calm his movements. "Arthur…you're alright…it's ok."

"But…but what…" Arthur stuttered over the words, through labored breathing, just fully registering the extent of the pain working through his shoulder, his cracked ribs, the hotel room, the familiar touch of the forger.

"It's just thunder…thundersnow…" Eames' voice was strangely soothing, his hands mildly comforting as he sat half-awake up in bed, hoping to calm Arthur down, hoping even more that Arthur hadn't injured himself further—or worse, torn his stitches (again).

"Thundersnow?" As if on cue the room lit with the faint glow of lightening and filled with the rumble of thunder. "But…," Arthur shook his head clearly frustrated, trying to understand something, "but I've never reacted that way to thunder…"

"You were tortured, darling…it's natural to be jumpy." Eames rubbed his shoulder reassuringly, hoping he was doing something to help. A sharp crack of thunder shook the room, causing Arthur to jump against the mattress, frustration and shame instantly etching on his face. He hated that he was suddenly so skittish. What Eames must really think of him now….

"How's your shoulder? You didn't tear anything, did you?" Eames asked with a yawn as he continued soothing circles on Arthur's shoulder.

"It hurts…I don't think I did." Arthur answered at length, doing his best to control the nervous tone to his words.

"I know what will help…I'll be right back." He gave Arthur's shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he rose from the bed in the faint light, moving about the room. Quickly he paused at the window, feeling the cold emanating off the windowpane as he glanced out to see snow blowing about, lit purple by the instantaneous flash of lightening. If Arthur weren't so jumpy, he would have loved to swing the loveseat around and fling open the curtains, watching the storm blow around him.

A deep sigh, laced with frustration cut his musings short as he dropped the sheer curtain, moving for the dresser with the pill bottles.

"Here we go, nothing like a pain pill to take the edge off…" Eames offered Arthur the little pill, watching the point man take it without question. "Feel better yet?" Eames asked offhand as he moved back around to settle under the covers, feeling Arthur squirm about almost nervously.

"Too soon to tell." Arthur answered uncertainly, the jolt of his startled jump traveling through the mattress. Without thinking or caring, Eames closed the distance between them in bed, pressing the full length of his body against Arthur's, holding him close in a comforting, even protective hold. At first Arthur froze under such a touch, but very quickly relaxed back into it, welcoming the reassurance of Eames' touch, the security it brought and soon after, the fuzzy haze of the medication.

Arthur's eyes languorously closed, not knowing how much time passed before he opened them again. The forger appeared to still be asleep, his side steadily rising and falling in relaxed breaths. Arthur's shoulder was a distant throb, the pain medication of several hours ago still in full effect. The pitter patter of rain now on the window was intoxicatingly lulling. Snuggling deeper against the pillow, a surprisingly content sigh on his lips, he let his eyes close and hazy thoughts turn rather randomly to someone he hadn't thought about in years.

Of course he'd thought about it. Of course he desperately wanted to. But unlike Eames, he preferred to play things close to the vest and strike when the moment was right. It seemed to be working. Or so he liked to think.

He liked to believe her eyes returned the smoldering want, the curiosity to know the other better. Every day there was some innocent graze of fingers, a look that lingered for too long, a private sweep of eyes over the other's body. Her long legs—frequently revealed by skirts, occasionally accented by stockings with eye-catching straight seams—had been a particular source of fantasy for the point man. He itched to feel the smooth glide of his hand up her thigh against the thin, silky material, wondering if he'd find the lace or ribbon of a garter belt. He shifted uncomfortably at his desk, pants starting to tighten. Such thoughts about Kimmy were dangerous. Particularly on the late nights when it was frequently just the two of them about the warehouse.

Tonight was just such a night—the two of them alone, her navy blouse unbuttoned one button lower than it should, the tantalizing seams of her sheer stockings challenging his focus. The soft clack of her stilettos on the bare floor signaled her return and he quickly let his eyes fall to the file before him, hoping she hadn't caught him in his fantasy.

She settled back at her desk and Arthur allowed himself a glance. She stood with her legs straight, back deliciously arched as she leaned over the table, ass perfectly outlined in her gray pencil skirt, face pensive as she read the document in front of her. God, he was so hard now, a flush creeping to his cheeks, wondering if she knew just how tempting she was bent over like that. His eyes fell to the seams of her stockings, tracing them up to where they disappeared beneath her skirt.

Suddenly her head turned, sapphire eyes behind small, rectangular glasses locking to his, a knowing smile curving about her face. The appreciative spark in her eyes as she watched him watch her did nothing to help his current predicament.

"See something you like?" Her voice held a low, alluring tone he'd never heard on her words before, watching helplessly as she gave her ass a slight wiggle in the tight skirt. His eyes darkened, overcome with the desire to touch her, watching as her eyes narrowed, daring him to voice it.

"You dress to compliment your body, and it doesn't go unnoticed or unappreciated." Purposefully, slowly, his eyes fell from hers, drinking in every dip and curve of her lithe body.

"Such a controlled answer," she shook her head, turning from him to stand up straight before kneeling down to a drawer, "so then I have to wonder…what makes you lose control?"

"Now where's the fun in just telling you?" She turned back, her eyes narrowed playfully, mouth a wicked smirk.

"Now that sounds like a challenge, Arthur," she stood back up to the table, setting a bottle of amber liquid and a glass down, "and just so you know, I'm a sore loser." She uncorked the bottle, drawing a deep breath before pouring some liquid in the glass. He couldn't stop an impressed little smirk when he got a look at the label—1792 Ridgemont Reserve Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey. A fatal weakness. The woman was good.

"Impressive label." He nodded to the bottle as she turned, glass in hand.

"I only indulge in the best," she took a sip of the bourbon, relishing the smooth glide down her throat, "I must say I was surprised to learn you were a bourbon man—I had you figured more for scotch."

"Scotch has its place, but little else beats a good Kentucky straight." Her smile widened, tongue darting out to wet her lips before taking another sip, eyes never leaving his.

"Get over here, point man." He debated the wisdom of that move. Getting up would most certainly reveal his physical discomfort that he longed for her to satisfy, but if she was willingly allowing him to get close, he'd be a fool turn her down.

Smoothly he pushed back from his desk, standing and threading his way to stand next to her, close enough to breathe in her faint perfume. Of course he had watched her eyes settle south to the bulge in his pants, heated hunger in their sapphire depths. His hand wrapped around hers that held the glass, bringing it to his lips, draining the small amount of bourbon remaining. It was just as amazing as he remembered. He lowered her hand with the glass, dropping his to his side with a mischievous smirk, awaiting her next move.

"Taking without asking," she scolded with a quick shake of her head, "that's not going to win you any favors." She brusquely turned her back to him, setting the glass down, shifting her stance slightly to let her ass brush teasingly against his straining want. He bit his lip to fight back a groan, eyes drifting closed as she rocked gently against him, winding him up tighter. He took a sudden step forward, pinning her to the table, grinding hard against her, relishing the hitch in her breathing, the flutter of her eyes.

"No more games, Kimmy," he whispered hotly, lips descending to her neck as he trapped with her with his arms against the table, "you have no idea how bad I want to fuck you."

"No?" Her breath came out a near a moan, a smile teasing her lips as he nibbled her neck, thrusting her hips back to his hard length. "I think I have a pretty good idea." Holding her solidly to the table and tight against him, he lowered a hand to the silky material covering her legs, sliding his long, slender fingers up under the fabric of her skirt. She rocked back against him as his hand inched higher, a growl in his throat as his fingers danced over the clasps and thin ribbon straps of a garter belt before tracing bare skin.

"Fuck Kimmy…." He breathed, jerking against her uncontrollably as his fingers brushed higher, discovering her lack of underwear and teasing her mercilessly. She arched back against him, head falling back to his shoulder, a pleasured moan passing her lips. "Mmm," he purred, voice thick with desire as he watched her writhe under his controlling touch, "it would seem someone planned ahead."

"You have no idea how bad I want to fuck you." She ground out in return through breathy pants, feeling him harden further against her. He slid his fingers up to rhythmically circle and tease, feeling her further squirm against him as he leaned over, bending her over the table. He pulled his free hand back, quickly undoing his belt, freeing himself from the constraining clothing. If the woman was so willing, who was he to deny her further? Suddenly she raised a foot, jamming the heel of her stiletto atop his shoe-covered toes with enough force to jerk him from his lustful haze with a cry, stepping back from her.

"What the fuck?" He growled, staring murderously at her as she stood and turned to face him, closing the distance between them.

"You didn't think I was going to let you fuck me over a table, did you?" Her voice was low, challenging as she continued to step towards him, backing him up to the nearest couch, pushing him down to sit. "I want to watch you," she hiked her skirt up, straddling his waist, enveloping him fully, hearing him bite back a groan, "I want to watch you when I make you lose the precious control you live your life so solidly by."

Arthur's eyes flew open from his half-awake/half-asleep haze to discover he was achingly hard, boxers damp with evidence of his unsatisfied desire. Shit. He hadn't meant to get so lost in memory and fantasy. Especially with Eames not even a foot away from him in the same bed. Somehow that thought wasn't as discomforting as Arthur would have thought. But that wouldn't help him solve his current predicament.

"Must have been some dream over there." Eames' sleepy voice broke the silence causing Arthur's cheeks to instantly flush.

"What," Arthur coughed to find his voice, thick and scratchy from sleep, "what makes you say that?"

"The rhythmic movement of your hips and the occasional brush of a certain hard appendage gave you away." Arthur felt his cheeks flame more, if that was possible, wanting to bury his face in the pillow and hide.

"Yeah…sorry about that." He admitted, voice small, ashamed.

"But it couldn't really be a dream—we both lost the ability to dream naturally years ago, so I have to ask—what were you thinking about?" Arthur sighed, not really seeing a reason to lie.

"Kimmy."

"Ah, thoughts about that woman could reduce any man to your current situation." Eames' voice held an amused tone, a light chuckle finishing his words.

"Current situation?" Eames had to bite back a laugh at the serious tone on Arthur's voice, taking a chance and shifting his hips to let his ass brush back against Arthur's groin. The sharp intake of breath from the point man told him all he needed to know.

"Do you want some help with that?" Arthur froze on Eames' words.

"No."

"But there's so many delectable images of Kimmy to be conjured," Eames drawled on as if he hadn't heard Arthur's answer, his voice a low, sinful, "a personal favorite has her in a sauna—slim body spread out on a towel, skin bathed in a sheen of sweat, long legs stretched on the bench just aching to be kissed and tasted, all the way up…" Arthur drank in Eames' words, the wanton image of Kimmy playing out in his mind, eyes sinking closed as his body wound tighter, suddenly desperate for relief.

"Fuck Eames, that is not helping." Arthur ground out the words, fighting to keep his hips from moving.

"On the contrary," Eames countered, voice casual as though they weren't discussing something so personal, "that sounds like just the ticket to get you off."

"I don't want you to get me off." Arthur couldn't believe they were even having this discussion—let alone at some unknown, early hour of the morning, lying mere inches from each other in a hotel in Kiev with Arthur's myriad of injuries.

"But just think how more satisfying it would be than forcing it away with thoughts of your grandmother." Eames heard the soft laugh on Arthur's breath as he fought not to roll over and drink in the point man's bedraggled, aroused form. He was already toeing a fine line and didn't want to completely jump over it. "You're not the first man I've shared a bed with, Arthur." Arthur stilled at the honest, placating, even revealing tone to Eames' words. He just wasn't sure he could return the honesty.

"We're colleagues—it's just too personal." Eames couldn't hold back his laugh, surprisingly melodic, as it filled the room.

"'Too personal?' Darling, to get any more personal we'd both have to take our clothes off. We crossed the professional/personal line days ago." Eames was dying to reach a hand behind him and touch Arthur somewhere, anywhere. The teasing touches of the younger man's hips had been torture, and Eames had long been in a position equally as uncomfortable as Arthur's. Could Arthur put his professional detachment aside and let himself go?

"You crossed it maybe," Arthur forced the words together, "I've just been lying here for the most part."

"But you haven't pushed me away," Arthur stilled at the truth on Eames' voice, "speaks to something, doesn't it?" A sigh escaped the point man, eyes sinking almost ashamedly.

"I just can't, Eames….not now." The timid honesty in Arthur's voice was overwhelming, filling the room with a serious tension, the forger failing to mask a reluctant, maybe even disappointed sigh.

"Very well," his voice belied the sigh, laced with an edge of fun mischief, "Margaret Thatcher…, um, Madeleine Albright….Oh, Joan Rivers." Arthur couldn't help but laugh, tension in the room and elsewhere slowly starting to diffuse. It was a sound Eames found himself suddenly wanting to hear every day.

"God Eames," Arthur laughed with a scoff, rolling over onto his back, "how about Janet Reno?" Eames joined him in laughter, both men clearly enjoying themselves. Eames rolled off his right shoulder, onto his stomach, facing Arthur, drinking in the sight of the younger man's smile as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling in amused disbelief. An ache formed in Eames' chest as he realized he wanted to wake up to this every morning. "Thank you."

"Not near as satisfying, but rewarding in its own way." Eames said nonchalantly, allowing his eyes to close briefly and his head to sink into the pillow. "So was Kimmy your last then?"

"Yes, she was." Eames hadn't been expecting an answer, his eyes opening in surprise at Arthur's words, shaking his head against the pillow.

"You lucky bastard…I would have given damn near anything to have that woman." He didn't miss the slight shake of head as Arthur's smile somewhat fell.

"I was so sure she was going to choose you. The night the team went for drinks, and it ended up just being the three of us—I watched you two when you asked her to dance. I would have sworn you two practiced in advance."

"I've never heard you so verbose about your personal speculations," Eames met Arthur's slightly embarrassed smile, loving the blush on the point man's cheeks, "pain pill side effect?"

"Probably." Arthur's voice was all serious and no question.

"But you surprise me," Eames closed his eyes, afraid of what he'd do if he kept staring into Arthur's, "Kimmy's a consummate tease. A master of her art really. She was sizing us both up, playing the field. She ultimately saw something more in you, and blew me off with that brash, public announcement."

"Mr. Eames," Kimmy's voice was small and timid, not the response Eames was expecting from his morning of teasing and seductive glances. "You're right…," she sidled up to him in plain view of the rest of the team, pressing the full length of her long body tight against him, his eyes dropping to half-lids, forcing a hard swallow, "I'm so into you," her breath tickled his lips, his hands moving for her hips to hold her tight, "but I'm way too smart for you." She pulled back before he could touch her, leaving him windless and speechless for the first time he could remember.

Eames watched Arthur's laugh dissolve to a small, smug smile. "Subtly gets a woman's attention over arrogant cockiness any day, Eames."

"Not just women, love." Eames mumbled his words into the pillow, knowing Arthur could hear them anyway. But did it really matter anymore? A comfortable silence settled between the two men as they lay in bed, bodies just barely touching.

"Eames?" Never had the forger heard such hesitance in the ever calm, ever collected point man's voice, watching those sharp brown eyes turn to face him. "Why did you stay with me? You barely know me, have no obligation to me—or Cobb. I would have expected it from him, but I never had you figured for such altruistic actions."

"Well you barely know me in return, Arthur," Eames couldn't tear his soft gray eyes from Arthur's, "Cobb had his wife and infant to return home to. I don't have anyone—neither do you—and you need someone right now." God, what Eames wouldn't give to just kiss the other man. "At the very least we can say we didn't spend the holidays alone this year—a rarity in our profession." Eames watched Arthur's brow knit as he considered Eames' words, something of a sad half smile coming to his face.

"There's an alarming amount of truth on that," his eyes shifted from Eames', seeking out the forger's hand under the sheets, holding it tight in his, "thank you for staying with me, Eames." Eames turned his hand in Arthur's grasp, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"Anytime Arthur." A smile flitted about Eames' lips, quickly falling as he realized he truly meant it, but knew he'd never get to fulfill it. "If you don't mind my asking," he started quietly, forcing a casual note to his voice, "how did you and Kimmy end?"

"I do mind, but I don't care," Eames knew that was the pain pill talking. The normal Arthur was too private to reveal details of such an intimate nature. "She retired to the island of Capraia off the Italian coast, begged me to come with her, but I didn't. The last time we were together, we—," Arthur couldn't believe he was actually telling anyone—especially Eames—all this, but given the last few weeks, nothing surprised him, "it was right after the Rio job, when Greg died." Eames forced a hard swallow. Greg Calamy, a true chemistry genius, was gunned down on their escape. Yet another sobering example of how fast reality descended in their line of work.

"I remember," Eames voice was soft, reverent, "shook us all up." Eames shifted his hand that still held Arthur's, slowly threading his fingers through long, slender fingers.

"I've never seen a woman so strong fall so hard," the soft tone now on Arthur's voice mirrored Eames', "we returned to the hotel, and she just looked so lost. She begged me not to leave her alone. Claimed I was her cue for 'Desperado', she knew it was time to quit. 'Before we both die,' she said, 'before we both die without knowing real love.' She stayed with me all night and just let me see her fall apart, see her tears, feel her clinging hold." He shook his head against the pillow, trying to understand. "The nature of our work makes us intrinsically wary and for her to trust me like that after such a short time…I don't know if I could ever trust someone that much to let them see me like that." Eames gave Arthur's hand a light squeeze, stroking his thumb against the warm skin, debating whether to mention the parallel to their current situation.

"Sounds like she loved you, Arthur."

"I don't know why." Eames fought back a sigh, letting his eyes fall closed for a minute.

"Does it matter? Love doesn't have to have a reason, darling," a smile came to Eames' face as he looked at the younger man, "it's just something you feel." Arthur let his eyes meet Eames', registering their conjoined hands, intertwined fingers and the gentle caress of Eames' thumb. "You should probably try to get a bit more sleep," Eames said suddenly, raising his head off the pillow, grimacing to see the bedside clock read 8:08 am. "I'm going for a shower, and then we'll see about getting you some food."

"Thanks Eames," Arthur let his eyes close, trying to ignore the pang that shot through him as the forger let go his hand and rose from the bed, "and Eames?" The forger froze at the bathroom door with a curious look, turning to glance at the point man who lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. "I want to know your first name before we leave here."

"Yeah, good luck with that." He watched the corners of Arthur's mouth lift in a near silent laugh, closing the bathroom door behind him and leaning heavily against it. He rested his head to the cool wood with a deep sigh, his heart already aching.

Arthur was the wrong man to fall in love with.