Disclaimer: Inception property of Christopher Nolan; I own nothing. See end for notes.

"A good dinner is of great importance to good talk.

One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well."

~ Virginia Woolf

They're sitting at the corner cafe, with Ariadne and her girlfriend, when Arthur looks Eames directly in the eye and says, "We should go out."

Eames starts, and fumbles with his hands. They no longer feel right, wrapped around his mug full of orange juice, but he's sure he looks a fool with his fingers dancing up and down the slick ceramic. "Um," he mumbles, yearning to itch at his collar, brush his hair behind his ear, do something that wasn't squirm in his seat and blush furious fuchsia.

Ariadne's giving him a look—a 'you look repressed please get laid and do yourself a favor' look—and it's upsetting because he and Arthur had fucked before. In all honesty, Arthur could've materialized in Eames bathroom, floated down through the ceiling into Eames' shower and said "let's fuck", and Eames would've been much less disturbed than he was currently.

But no, Arthur had to say 'let's go out', like this was a romantic comedy and he was the Amy Adams to Eames' Matthew Goode oh Christ. This conniving little bastard, Eames should've known he'd try something like this.

Arthur's still looking at him, eyes sparkling like champagne at a New Year's party, and now Ariadne's girlfriend—Zara? Zahara?—has joined in. She looks like she knows exactly what's going on, even though this is only her third time in the company of both Eames and Arthur, and her gaze is sympathetic if anything.

Eames knows God is present among them when she nudges Ariadne in the ribs. They share a quick dialogue, wordless and comprised mostly of blinks and eyebrow raises, and Ariadne looks miffed but decisive at its completion.

"We'll be back in a second," she announces, glaring pointedly at both of them before rising to her feet and vanishing in a cloud of Folle de Joie and cardigan fluff. Zara (definitely Zara) follows in her footsteps, bangles jingling, and she offers Eames a grimace of solidarity as she goes.

It takes a second for their dust to settle, and Eames resumes his anxious tapping, his feet sweating through premium wool blend socks. "Well," he attempts again, taking a deep, steadying breath. Arthur smiles at him, shaking his head.

"We don't have to, if you don't want," he says kindly, and Eames feels terrible and torn.

"I mean, you could say that we are out. Now, I mean," he jokes, and the words sound awkward and lame. Arthur smiles again, all warm eyes and gentle crows feet, and he looks like teacher accepting a valentine from an awkward third year student.

Eames takes a brief moment to wonder why these types of things always happen to him. 'Let's move in together Eames, let's get married Eames, let's have a few kids Eames'—does he give off an air of commitment, perhaps? Is it the paisley shirts?

Arthur interrupts his internal dialogue, after taking a drink of his cappuccino, "Don't worry about it, Eames, it's fine. But if you ever want to grab dinner sometime, just let me know."

Eames frowns, imagining Arthur sipping wine in a silk shirt, Jobim playing somewhere in the background. He and Arthur had dinner together often; late night takeout runs in Pasadena, early evening meals at Gulberg in Surrey, but the idea of a night out, somewhere good and expensive and organic, and maybe a stroll on the boardwalk afterwards made for a pretty picture.

It is Arthur, Eames reminds himself. For all Eames knew, the man would leave him stranded halfway through dinner because he felt like going to bed early. Arthur is different, and if Eames is honest with himself (he almost never is), he knows he wouldn't particularly mind spending the rest of his life with him.

"Dinner sounds alright," he decides, and Arthur glances over at him with raised brows.

"Dinner it is then," he grins, downing the rest of his coffee and sliding a tip onto the table, "call me."

He's off, slinging his bag over his shoulder and striding down the sidewalk just as Ariadne and Zara rejoin their table. While Zara only looks mildly interested in Arthur's departing figure, Ariadne's face is blanketed with concern, and she skitters over to Eames in a flurry.

"What happened?" she presses, drawing her chair right up to his knees and flicking him sharp in the shoulder, "what did you say?"

Eames grins at her, pulling out his own tip and slapping it down on the tabletop with steady hands. "We're having dinner," he declares, "catch you later."

Notes: Title from the Portuguese verse of "The Girl from Ipanema" - Ah, se ela soubasse (Ah, if she only knew).