Some job, some client, one level deep on the floor of the museum, and it's the. Fucking. Mona. Lisa.
It's not even that big, Arthur thinks. It's...postcard-sized. Eames grins at him.
“You know what they say about this one, love?”
Arthur looks at him. He raises an eyebrow, silent question.
“Ol' Da Vinci painted it of himself. Made himself a female Da Vinci.”
“How is that relevant?”
Eames laughs. “Original forger, he was.”
It can't mean what Arthur thinks it means. Da Vinci can't be Eames idol. Before he can ask, the job calls them away.
It's later, another job, another time, Arthur's forgotton the conversation. Eames takes advantage:
They're two levels deep, Arthur's waiting outside the target's dream-constructed brownstone, lounging really. He's there long enough, waiting for the target to emerge. The passersby start looking at him. He's got to act fast.
Around the corner steps a beautiful blonde. Exactly Arthur's type. But she can't be a projection. Projections don't look at them like they're made of steak.
She saunters up to Arthur and slides her beautifully-manicured hand into his waistband. He almost chokes, eyes widening, but.
The projections have all looked away.
When his eyes turn back to the blonde, she's inches from his face. They kiss, Arthur running his hands over her curves, sliding up to tangle in her hair. She bites into his mouth and presses him against the building.
Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur sees the target leave the building. He pulls away from the woman.
“Bit better than Da Vinci, wouldn't you say?” She purrs. In the time it takes for Arthur's brain to catch up with his ears, she's suddenly Eames, and he's running after the target.
They wake up, subway this time. Arthur glances across the aisle, catches Eames eye. Eames, damn him, winks. Arthur has a flash, a momentary recollection, of a woman too beautiful to be real, with Eames' eyes.
It's not unfair, is what it is.
Arthur's lying on a couch. Reclining. Relaxing. His coat's tossed over the arm of the couch, his shirt unbuttoned, tie loose.
There's a woman on the chair next to him, wearing close to nothing.
She is familiar, just enough to not trigger alarm bells in Arthur's head, not enough that he knows who she is. She leans over, close to him, and he sits up. He reaches in his pocket, fingers closing around his totem. She presses a lush kiss to his lips, fingers reaching up and tugging at the tie around his neck.
He pulls away, withdraws the die from his palm. Tries to remember how he got here. What came before. He's about to cast the die, but a warm soft hand closes around his fist. He startles, looks up into familiar eyes.
“Put that away, darling, you wouldn't want to hurt yourself on it,” her voice tugs at his subconscious. She lurches forward, pushing him back against the couch, the line of her body hot against his. He feels himself giving in to it. Who cares if he's dreaming? It's a dream.
She growls, licks open his mouth until he can't help but open up to her. Her warm hands slide between the buttons of his shirt, coast against his skin. She tweaks his nipple and he gasps into her mouth.
She bites his lip, pulls back a bit, smiles evilly. “There you go, love, let me in,” she leans down and presses her open mouth on his collarbone, breathes hotly over his skin. His hands reach up and slide the straps of her negligee from her shoulders. The garment falls in a slide of silk, and Arthur drags his palms to cup her breasts. She makes a small sound and archs into his hands. He lets a thumb pass over her nipple, and feels an answering pleasure when she bites, gently, into the join of neck and shoulder.
Used to fighting, power and playing, Arthur twists so that she's the one under him on the couch, squirming under him. She wraps one glorious thigh around his waist and shimmies. Arthur's hips jerk forward, and he lowers his head and sucks on her breast.
She sighs, fantastically pornographic, and her whole body shudders underneath him.
And like that, the details change.
Like any good dream, easily accepted as reality while in it, Arthur's no longer on the couch, and the body underneath him is no longer female.
He presses his hips into the warmth below him, and an answering hardness presses back. The nipple between his lips isn't lush anymore so much as firm muscle.
“God, darling, you're fantastic,” the voice is less silky, deeper, gravelly, incredibly turned on, and horribly familiar.
Arthur looks up. Eames looks back at him. There's a moment where everything pauses, freezes, they're floating in anti-gravity, everything could change. Arthur could stop, could pull away, could get angry and disturbed and guilty and quite possibly shoot Eames in the face.
And then Eames grinds his hips up into Arthur, and instead of shooting him, Arthur reaches between them and unzips Eames' pants.
Eames makes a sound, low and dirty, and Arthur makes up his mind right then and there to forgive him for this breach in privacy. They'll talk, oh yes they will, they'll talk about how this is wrong and Eames is fucked up and really perverted...but right now all Arthur wants is Eames' dick in his mouth and a gravelly voice moaning his name.