AN: I wanted to write this because of reasons. Feel free to skip this italic and scroll to the fic by the way, if you haven't already.

I knew the song before Inception, and I've always thought it was beautiful, music as well as lyrics. Inception's promotion of it showed off the music, and I thought this was the perfect opportunity to finally also show off these beautiful lyrics.

Disclaimer: Full credit to Edith Piaf for the original song 'Non, je ne regrette rien', and I do not own Arthur, Eames, or Inception. Credit also to the subtitles/translation of the lyrics from the film 'La Vie en Rose' (which I did learn the song from), though I only used some of these and the rest as partial inspiration for my own translation, with some help from other translation sources (google, dictionary). I've tried my best to get the optimum combination of poetic flow, meaning, and literal translation. Hope you enjoy!

Arthur lay tense in his bed, trapped in the grip of a nightmare. Nightmares were always especially bad because of their job, and Eames looked over at him, concerned.

They were sharing a twin bed room at a cheap hotel – that's what travelling did to you. Their next job would take place tomorrow and after briefing they had come here to crash here for the night, but Eames wasn't really thinking about it. He'd leave that to Cobb for now. Right now he was concerned with Arthur.

He was currently telling himself that he hadn't deliberately stayed awake so that he could catch a glimpse of Arthur sleeping; it was just that Arthur always fell asleep before he did. If Arthur just happened to look especially adorable asleep and Eames also loved to see him so relaxed and peaceful – well, to hell with what anyone else thought. But now the muscles in Arthur's face were tight, his eyeballs swivelling restlessly in their sockets. Eames should probably wake him up. Watching him sleep wasn't as pleasant when he looked like that. He lingered a moment longer, hoping that the nightmare would pass and Arthur would slip back into a dreamless peace once more. But those eyes continued to move restlessly under their lids, and after a moment Arthur's lips parted in a small gasp. Eames waited. Arthur didn't wake.

"Ah, Darling, where are you?" Eames mused softly over the dark space between their beds. He was awake, Arthur was suffering asleep – he felt a sort of responsibility to wake him. And if he also liked the idea of being a sort of hero that came to save Arthur from the nightmare – well, to hell with what anyone else might think. He reached out with one arm and flicked on the bedside lamp.

One second, two seconds. Arthur still didn't wake.

"Arthur!" Eames hissed. No effect. "Arthur!" A little louder this time. Arthur stirred a little, but remained trapped. Eames slipped out of bed silently and crossed over to where Arthur was sleeping. For a moment he watched with affection the ruffled mess of Arthur's short dark hair against the pale pillow, then he took Arthur by the shoulders and shook gently. "Arthur!"

No response. Arthur was dead weight in his hands. Eames shook him a little harder, watching for a response. "Arthur!"

Arthur was still firmly asleep, locked down deeply wherever he was. His breathing was a little too fast – still troubled, still trapped.

"Arthur!"

When there was still no response Eames gently released his hold on Arthur and sat down on the bed beside him contemplatively. He was about to try a louder sound when another idea occurred to him. Perhaps he could prompt Arthur into remembering it was a dream, and wake himself out of it. He paused for a moment, a little hesitant, and then began.

"Non, rien de rien…Non, je ne regrette rien…" He sang loud enough so that he thought Arthur would hear, but no louder. He didn't sound like Edith Piaf, he knew, but he hoped the familiar tune might trigger a similar effect.

"Ni le bien, qu'on m'a fait, ni le mal, tout ςa m'est bien égal…" He didn't particularly want to follow up with the kick – pushing Arthur off the bed seemed too cruel, even for a nightmare – but he hoped Arthur's expectations would be enough. He paused – ah, what the hell – and ran one hand through Arthur's hair, enjoying the soft feel.

"Non, rien de rien…Non, je ne regrette rien…C'est payé…" At this point Arthur seemed to be coming awake – his head moved a little, his eyelids flickering. Eames decided to finish the verse anyway.

"…balayé, oublié… Je me fous du passé…"

Arthur blinked, gasped a little, half rising off the bed before he registered Eames' presence and did a bit of a double take, swallowing nervously.

"Eames?"

Eames' hand had slipped off his head when he moved – maybe just as well. But Eames put it back on Arthur's head anyway, smiled, and ruffled.

"Yes Darling?"

Arthur swatted him off. "Were you…singing?"

"'Fraid so, pet. Seemed you were having a nightmare."

"So you sang?"

"Worked, didn't it?"

Arthur gave him a disgruntled look. "I was handling it."

"I'm sure," Eames answered placidly. Then he raised his eyebrows slightly. "So how was my singing?"

Arthur narrowed his eyes, and shrugged. "Baritone. Bit rough on the edges. Smoking?"

"That sexy for you?" Eames teased.

"Just shut up. I don't think you even knew what you were singing anyway."

Eames pulled a face of mock offence. "Non, je ne regrette rien, of course. Edith Piaf. Iconic. The song we always have before the kick."

"Yes, genius," Arthur muttered flatly.

"What, do you want the meaning? You want me to translate it for you?"

"I doubt you can even pronounce the French correctly, let alone know the English."

"I'm insulted. Which assumption would you have me prove wrong first?"

Arthur crossed his arms, evidently recovered from his nightmare. "Go on then, impress me. Translate it."

"As you wish." Eames attempted a theatrical bow, which rather failed as he was sitting on the bed. He shot Arthur a smile. "No," he began, "No regrets. No, I regret nothing," he emphasised, giving Arthur a wink and leaning in closer. "Neither the good I've received –" Arthur shoved him back. "…nor the bad, to me its all the same now." He shrugged. "No, no regrets. No, I regret nothing. It's paid, swept away, forgotten…to hell with the past." He grinned, enjoying how Arthur carefully masked the twinge of respect that came into his expression, and the surprise.

"Is that it?" Arthur prompted, cutting.

"I've forgotten how the next bit goes," Eames mumbled, "Hang on."

"Forgotten?" he provoked. "Avec mes souvenirs, j'ai allumé le feu…" he intoned slowly, as if daring Eames to continue. But Eames was just grinning at him. Arthur sounded far too sexy speaking French.

"That's it." He cleared his throat. "And the memories I had, I have thrown in the fire. My pains, my pleasures…I no longer desire." He drew it out as dramatically as he could, enjoying Arthur's both amused and irritated expression. "Swept away past loves, and the heartache they brought…Swept away for good, I'll go back to nought." They really were such beautiful words – even better sounding in French, but Eames wasn't complaining. He'd wished sometimes that he could make his words more poetic, say to Arthur what he wanted to say in a romantic way, in a way that would make it nice to really hear, and not just as a ball of meaning strung together out of various syllables. But he hadn't found the way, or even the words. Not yet. Not that having to resort to copious amounts of sex to express himself was really bothering him. He grinned.

"Well?" Arthur prompted, and Eames realised he hadn't finished the song. This time he looks at Arthur a little more meaningfully. He took his time speaking, even though most of the words were the same now.

"No, no regrets. No, I regret nothing. Neither the good I've received, nor the bad – to me it's all the same now. No, no regrets. No, I regret nothing." He shot Arthur a small smile. "Because my love, and my joys…begin today with you." He finished, inwardly triumphant, and let his smile spread a little wider as he swung his legs up and leaned back against the headboard beside Arthur.

"So how was that for you, Darling?" he teased, looking across at him.

"Accurate enough," Arthur admitted grudgingly. "You know French, then?"

Eames chuckled. "Not at all. But I learnt the lyrics to that song a while ago. I just felt I ought to know them, seeing as we hear it so much, and it's so important. It is the song before the kicks, after all."

Arthur nodded. They sat there for a moment in silence, oddly contented. Eames was smiling. He felt how incredibly lucky he was to have had Arthur ask this of him – finally, he could speak beautiful words to this beautiful person. And if they were borrowed, so what? He could express the meaning in them – that counted, didn't it? Arthur shifted beside him.

"So you really don't know any French at all?"

"None at all. It's just by rote learning that I got those lyrics in the right order." He chuckled again. They fell silent once more, and Eames shifted against Arthur more comfortably, his eyes sometimes glancing over Arthur's face in affection. It felt ridiculously natural. The quiet didn't bother him. It just felt like…this was the way they were meant to be. After a moment Arthur looked at him, his eyes somehow soft, and his lips parted for a moment before he actually spoke.

"Je t'aime," he said at last.

Eames smiled back at him and then shifted, ready to swing his legs off the bed and go back to his own. He stroked a hand across Arthur's cheek, pressing one kiss to his forehead before standing up.

"I love you too," he answered tenderly, moving to head back to his bed.

Arthur flushed scarlet. "You said you didn't know any French!"

Eames turned back towards him, confused. "I don't." He didn't. It took him a good few seconds to work it out, to go backwards and realise what Arthur must have said. Then he smiled, because he couldn't help himself, and it was like the happiness was going to explode him.

"Arthur," he said simply.

Arthur was the most adorable shade of red he'd ever seen.

Eames took less than a second to move back to the bed and take Arthur in his arms, pressing him close and kissing him breathless until he barely knew what he was doing. They'd always known, of course, but they'd never said it. They'd never said it.

Eventually they parted, and Arthur's mouth twitched in a little smile that he was trying to hide by looking down. Eames tilted his chin upwards so that Arthur could see the same smile mirrored on his own face.

"You know I'm not even sure you pronounced that correctly, let alone know how to say that in English," he teased, challenging.

Arthur's smile merely widened. "But I did. And I can."

"Then go ahead." Eames slipped his fingers through Arthur's and Arthur leant in once more and kissed him.

"I love you."