More than anything, Eames wished to tell him it was a dream. He really did. He wished he could push Arthur backgrounds and send him to the waking world, but they were already in it. No escape from that, except into a dream, as it were, but Eames had never found the solace in dreams that people like Cobb had, or the people in that basement.

He stops the roll of the poker chip, reaching into his pocket and tugging out the special one he always kept on him. A forged one, a perfect forgery except for one, minute little detail that only he could know. He'd tried, numerous times, to smooth that imperfection away - but he couldn't. It remained, always. No dream, this. He flashed it between his fingers.

"It's not a dream, Arthur," he said softly, keeping his voice low, to the outside it would seem they were having an intimate conversation. "I've tried everything I know to check, and it's not a dream." Or at least he didn't think so, and he was well versed enough to be a good judge.