"So liking me is a sign of bad taste?" He tried to make it a joke though his hands pushed harder against Eames' shoulders. His fingers curled in, digging in against those broad shoulders.

"You think I hate you," he asked, browing arching but there was a cold fissure that ran up his spine. "And you accused me of not knowing you? Eames, if you leave, you've already lost me, haven't you? You'll never lose her, and she will always adore you." That was the word she'd used and he'd seen the light in her eyes, and the pain when he'd told her about his feelings. "And if none of that makes it clear, I never hated you. Ever. I was just..." And he realized he hadn't asked. "Why were you terrified of me? Of me hating you and losing me?" But that fear made him realize Mal had been right. So had Ariadne.