rolling dice and tipping bishops
i.
They hadn't meant it to happen. One second they were enjoying each other's company, laughing wholeheartedly in a rather loud Parisian bar; the next, they had locked eyes, barely breathing, just searching each other's faces.
It was Ariadne this time. Breaking the spell, she leaned forward and pressed her lips lightly against Arthur's. Like that first time (quick, give me a kiss), it lasted only seconds, and when she drew back, a blush colored her cheeks. But she bravely met his gaze (his very deep chocolate brown eyes bright, expressing surprise and wonder) and held it, unwavering. He smiled; she smiled.
He kissed her back and this time, it lasted longer than seconds. Noises and smells, colors and sounds, faded around them and all they really were certain of was each other. His hand on her cheek, her hand at the nape of his neck, thigh against thigh, lips locked, heads fuzzy-
He walked her home later that night, hand in hand (which felt weird, but a good weird), then kissed her goodnight.
She would tip her bishop, he would roll his die.
It was real, alright.
ii.
Their first real fight would last for days and they'd avoid each other like the plague.
At the warehouse, Arthur would lock himself in his (dingy) office, while Ariadne would focus all her anger and frustration on building mazes.
Eames would somehow end up smack in the middle of whatever was going on (they wouldn't say) and work as a messenger (he'd be amused, because he'd get to say things like Don't shoot the messenger and he didn't mind that one bit).
Yusuf wouldn't even care.
iii.
A year after the Fischer job, Arthur asked her to move in with him. It happened like this:
They had been under for hours, Ariadne showing Arthur her most recent maze, exploring the layout, the shortcuts, the tricks. He had been paying attention, because it was important to him, but weighing heavily on his mind was the fact that he was going to ask her to move in with him. He was certain she would say no, get out while she could, because as much as he loved this life, he was just waiting for her to realize the inconsistency of it.
If she'd notice something was wrong (which she must have done), she said nothing.
The time on the clock was up and he blinked, looking up at a familiar ceiling, the stifling air enclosing him quickly. He turned his head – she was blinking, staring at the ceiling, trying to adapt to her surroundings (he could tell by the way she was breathing, could tell by the fact that her brow was furrowed) – and he waited for her to acknowledge him.
She looked toward him and something in her expression (something ancient, something wise, something beautiful) made him blurt Will you move in with me?
Her expression was unreadable, her eyes a little wide, but then, like the sun breaking free from behind a set of clouds, she smiled and said Yeah. I'll move in with you.
iv.
One day, Ariadne stopped dreaming altogether.
It didn't really come as a surprise (she'd felt it for weeks, something not quite right, a creeping darkness invading her sleep), but the minute she woke her eyes filled with tears. For some reason, absolute nothingness scared her (the feeling of not feeling, of not knowing just wasn't right; just a penetrating darkness stifling her senses).
Arthur hadn't been home.
She walked to all her favorite places in the city that day. Lingered in parks, sat down at a café with a cold lemonade in hand; ignored everything but the reality she was in – living in the moment.
When she got home – some seven missed calls on their answering machine which she ended up ignoring as well – she took a pregnancy test. (And she had tipped her bishop, and it had landed with a loud thunk every single time).
She had no idea whether to cry or laugh when it showed positive.
When she told a tired Arthur her news, he went from smiling to laughing in less than fifteen seconds and he lifted her off her feet and just like that, the darkness was gone.
Who needed dreams when they had reality?
v.
It was a morning in May; chilly but pleasant, the sun occasionally hiding behind clouds.
Arthur was wide awake, sitting up in bed. Ariadne was curled against him, sound asleep.
He brushed a few strands of hair off her face, fingertips lingering across her cheek. Her face was relaxed; no brow furrowed, no eyes rolling worriedly behind closed eyelids. She hadn't dreamt in years, and neither had he.
But he would still roll his die, would still have to confirm his reality, because they were still doing what they loved doing – illegal or not. They would go under, would explore layers; she would build mazes, he would extract secrets, research marks; dreams were still the scene of the crime.
He would roll his die when he thought she wasn't looking; she would tip her bishop when she thought he wasn't looking.
fin