It wasn't like he didn't know, and it wasn't like they didn't know that he knew.

Tonight it was just her sly smile, and Eames' unapologetic one- and then they both looked at him and he held his breath, long on the exhale and their smiles grew wider, and later, when they disappeared—he felt their eyes linger on the back of his head, and he brushed his die with his pinky, lightly, just once—no one noticed but him. He finished writing up his report on the last job (for his own personal records, because sometimes Arthur just needs to look back on jobs perfectly accomplished,) and then he got up and rolled his sleeves down, fastened the cuffs, shrugged into his jacket, buttoned it up from the top down.

Cobb looked over at him, nose-deep in a mug of coffee, noticed the empty desk. "Where's Eames?"

Arthur shrugged, meeting his eyes evenly, and Cobb blinked and ran his fingers through his hair, and turned back to his work.

Down the hallway, and now he was thinking about Eames' eyes, about how they were always amused, how he always fucking knew—no matter what Arthur was thinking, Eames always knew. The first time they met a younger Arthur stared him down, face carefully blank, trying to assess this saucy stock of man, and figure out what his totem was, because for Arthur found that knowing what a man's totem was extraordinarily helpful in categorizing him—Eames took one look at him and smiled, twisted his chip out of thin air, flicking it between his fingers, never once looking away from Arthur's eyes. His careless display disarmed Arthur, and Eames soaked up the twitch of his lip, and the minute furrow of his brow, and his measured blink, and Eames laughed at Arthur.

I showed you mine, love; now you show me yours. His wink-and-grin-combo nearly blinded Arthur. Arthur's eyes flashed, and Eames laughed again. Lighten up, darling, he murmured. There's no rush. You'll come around in time.

Turned the corner; and now he was thinking about Ariadne's hair, and the way it framed her face on still nights, and how it whipped around in the wind, and how in his dreams now she always seemed to have a French braid, tight and straight and splitting the back of her head in two perfectly symmetrical halves. He thought about kissing her in that dreamworld, a chaste brush of lips, and her face when she realized what he'd done—that look of dawning delight at his straight-faced playfulness, the smile that reached her sparkling eyes, and her hair, locked away in that bun. He smiled back at her, small and sincere.

He didn't know when it turned into this.

His hand on the doorknob, and he didn't hesitate—it was unlocked, this hadn't happened before, at least not intentionally, but they knew he was coming, they knew him and he had been so careful to hide himself, but something about Eames' eyebrows and his teeth when he smiled, and then Adriadne with the way she moved her hands, and her legs-

He slipped in, and locked the door behind him, and they had already begun.

Eames' wide hands were splayed on her hips, so different from her pale, pale skin, and her breath hitched as she leaned over, nipples grazing his chest as he lifted his chin to her and their lips almost met—they breathed the same breath, and he rolled his hips up sharply and disrupted her rhythm, and she bit his lip for punishment, drawing a chuckle from his lips.

She smiled down at him, all flushed and happy, and it made Arthur's eyes burn. He slipped his hands in his pockets, fingered his die, didn't try to block the way his cock filled up at the sight of her ribs beneath her skin as she arched her back, her breasts riding up, Eames groaning beneath her. Their fingers scrabbled over each other's flesh, Eames leaning up to lick salaciously at her breast, sucking her nipple into his mouth—she whimpered, and Arthur pressed his hands against his sides, still buried in his pockets.

Adriadne grasped Eames' head between her hands and kissed him, whispering something against his lips, and then Arthur could see their tongues sliding against each other as she slowed her movements, making each one count. Eames slid his hand along her spine, made a high pitched noise, muffled by her mouth—Arthur's lips almost curved, but his mouth was too dry and he couldn't think straight anymore, but he made no move to touch himself.

She turned her head, and met Arthur's eyes, and Eames nipped at her jawline and her smile was brilliant—she murmured something to him, tongue moving along her lips, and Eames turned his head to look at Arthur, and the combined force of their gazes hit Arthur like a ton of bricks. He tensed his muscles up to focus, to keep control, to stop himself before this got out of hand, because they were too far gone and he had to save them from doing something they would regret—

Adriadne closed her eyes, mouth opening slowly, arching her back again, lips moving, and Arthur heard her murmur Eames, oh god, and then a breath later Arthur, please, and Eames fucking lost it, tumbling off the edge, gripping Adriadne's hips so hard Arthur knew they would bruise—Eames gasped out Arthur, darling and Adraidne followed with a jerk, harder than ever before, sinking her teeth into her own arm, leaving a circle of bruises to match her tiny teeth.

Arthur looked on, hands still in his pockets.

They panted, catching their breath, and then Eames rolled his hips once, twice, again, finger slipping between them to flick at her clit, and she whined, nerves already fried, and swatted his hand away, and he laughed and she slipped off him. They lay side by side, her brown hair fanned around her, sticking to her neck and her white throat—she was so, so, so fucking beautiful, that's what she was; and Eames too, with his hair wild and slick with sweat, hands thrown behind his head carelessly—he was always so careless, Arthur thought. So careless, but he wouldn't want him any other way—

He cleared his throat quietly, almost silently, and Eames looked at him first, Adriadne limp in her post-coital haze, and then her brown eyes were upon him, and he moved over to them, shoes clacking softly with every step, time slowing down until it was just them in the world, nothing but darkness swirling outside their gaze, and he stood above them, brushed Ariadne's hair off her face and pressed his lips to her damp forehead, and she sighed—he looked over at Eames and Eames looked up at Arthur, expecting his, and Arthur leaned over and did the same, lips lingering on his salty skin, and Eames heaved a contented sigh.