In Odessa, there’s a black box on the table Arthur’s claimed as his own. It wasn’t there yesterday. Arthur stares at it for a moment. No note. It rests on top of Arthur’s reports on the city’s raions. He lets it sit there through the morning and no one says anything about it.

Dreamshare goes legal, Arthur goes corporate, Eames goes and (against his better judgement) falls in love.

College AU in which Arthur is a cranky senior and Eames is a professor of Dream Psychology.

Arthur usually finds blatant fishing for compliments extremely irritating, but in Eames’ case he is reluctantly charmed. In fact, he writes the phrase “reluctantly charmed” into the Eames notebook the moment the words occur to him because they so perfectly encapsulate his entire situation.

There’s only one team member that the Fischer and Rothchild jobs had in common, which means only one person who could theoretically tie the two cases together.

Whatever the FBI knows, Eames wants to know it, too.

Digital art. A gorgeous, intimate moment.

This is the secret, he thinks. This is what Arthur keeps hidden.

“Call if you need me,” Arthur says, “and I’ll come.”

Her name is Elle. She speaks French with a Russian accent, she smokes Sobranies and cheats at cards.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Mallorie said enviously as she peered at the heavy copper-and-opal collar around Eames’ neck. “It suits you so beautifully.”

Eames puffed out his chest under her admiration. “He has exquisite taste, does he not?” he said proudly, turning to and fro so that the sunlight might catch the opals and set them ablaze like small bursting fires. He knew very well how impressive the effect was against his crimson hide. “He had it made particularly for me; he took one of my scales to the jeweler to make certain the colours were correct.”

821 A.D. Arthur is in the nightmare business. Eames is a thief, a liar, and versatile with a pen.

Song Artist: Civil Twilight
Summary: AU take of their lives before Mal's death and during her spiral into confusion.
Length: 3:16
File Size: 64.37 MB
Links: YOUTUBE, MEDIAFIRE

Getting dragged in by the FBI is not exactly the way Eames had planned on spending the weekend. He's even less amused when it turns out that Arthur's the reason for it. [Set of gorgeous story illustrations.]

A notorious serial killer returns after a three-year hiatus, reminding Detective Arthur Moss of the infamous case he couldn't close. But when the FBI becomes involved, Arthur is forced to work side-by-side once again with Special Agent Daniel Eames, a man who knows Arthur better than Arthur himself will ever admit. Both men must confront their past and heal old wounds in order to bring a psychopath to justice.

The thing about the lists was that Arthur had never meant them. He had never really wanted a life in which he did things that were out-of-control and stupid and self-destructive. What he really wanted was a great job and someone he could go to the gym with and talk to and share good wines and theater tickets with. Someone who looked like he belonged in a suit and had a wry smile and got Arthur's pretentious jokes and was prepared to stay up late drinking wine and watching late night television. Someone classy. It was just that sometimes, when his actual life got too stressful, he liked to pretend that he was stupid, that he wanted – something different.

Line drawing/collage.

That's the thing about Hollywood--everyone has a Hollywood story.

"Actually, do you know what this whole place reminds me of?" Eames says, gesturing around the room with a whirl of his hand. "Arthur. Look at it. It's the Victorian Country Home version of expensive ties and silver suitcases and never getting anything stuck in your teeth."

Arthur and Eames adopt a kid and raise that kid into Neal Caffrey.

When Mal leans into his office and asks Eames what he did to his back, he can't exactly say, "the new graphics intern," so he says, "Oh, just stress, love."

Arthur has been his editor from the beginning. Eames says he won't work with anyone else, and what Arthur will never tell him is that he would cut anyone who tried.

Arthur smiles at Cobb’s jokes. He sits down and writes into a notebook he keeps perched on his knees. Sometimes his shirt gets untucked in the back, which he fails to notice. Occasionally his research will be wrong.

But he’s only wrong because the source material is wrong. He doesn’t jog his leg up and down or otherwise fidget. His hands don’t shake. He rarely blinks, and when he does, there’s something unnerving about it.

“You’re far too bland for an android,” Eames comments.

Arthur won't fuck her inside their dreams.

Eames won't touch her outside of them.

The first thing Eames does when he wakes up on the shore of Limbo is squint a bit at the crumbling city skyline.

It isn't long before his own dreams stop altogether. He does have one straggler, coming a few months after he thought he'd lost the ability for good, and it confuses the hell out of him because it's too damn dreamlike to be the kind of dream he's now used to. Nothing stays the same for very long, and he keeps catching discongruities in the narrative.

"Well," he says aloud. "This architect is bollocks at realism, aren't they?"

And then he wakes up alone in his own bed, with an itching on his wrist at the site where no tube lies in the vein.