A/N: This is an attempt. It may be pointless.
She sits at her gate and, inexplicably, a stupid smile will spread across her face. Embarrassed, she covers it up with a knotted fist, her index finger curving over her top lip, her arms wound round her middle tightly.
The couple down the row eye her good-naturedly, and she takes a sip of her accidentally purchased fizzy water.
That stupid smile will not go away.
Easily, she slides onto the wooden bench where he sits watching the Seine. The sun's setting. He looks at her and smiles as a greeting. She smiles back.
Behind them, the cobblestones of Paris and the milling Parisians continue to walk past. Other tourists give a moment to snap a shot of the landscape. The pair on the bench intrudes on some screens, nameless, unidentifiable, but the photographer decides the picture is worth keeping. The pair looks happy enough and they seem so natural sitting there together.
From this outsider's perspective, it looks like a normal boy meets girl reunion. The two obviously know each other from their looks, but the small greetings, lacking intimacy or closeness, gives the impression that they're just beginning, whatever they are.
"So," the woman begins, her arms already moving. "Where's Eames?" She faces out towards the orange and yellow sky, the one the photographer just captured.
"Mr. Eames has homework to do," the man replies smoothly. He allows a little chuckle at some untold story, and she can only wonder at what mishap could have fallen on the Englishman. Having only worked with him once, she can already guess. Though, she admits that she would most likely jump at a chance to work with him again. "He'll be busy doing some office work tonight, so he sends his condolences, Ariadne."
She nods and leans onto her elbows. "You know? I'm not surprised," she says thoughtfully. She laughs as well.
"Neither am I really." He lounges back into the bench.
They're comfortable in their own silence. Months of separation would normally encourage conversation, voices need to catch up with the thoughts and memories one needs to share. But instead, they just sit there, watching the boats lazily skim across the river, as only French boats can fashionably do. Calm is something he feels rarely, and that's exactly what he feels sitting next to her.
Pigeons neurotically peck at their ankles at left behind ice cream cone crumbs and baguette sandwiches, and Ariadne holds out her fingers, rubbing them together as if she had something for them. The pigeons smartly avoid her.
"So, Arthur," she starts. She pushes all her loose hair behind her ear and looks over her shoulder to see him watching her intently. He waits for what could possibly come after that introduction. "Hard day at the office?" she asks, and he can't tell if that's what she intended to say at first. He doesn't pry.
"Same old," Arthur replies evasively. The tiny smirk he uses lets her know that he can't or won't speak about it with her. Though, he's curious to see what tactic she chooses.
"Yeah all right," she puffs out. Arthur smiles at her easy way of giving up. She sits up and adjusts her scarf as she speaks. "So how long are you in Paris for?" She has to remove it entirely and re-knot it. She picks up her hair at the back of her neck and the scarf hangs like a bandit's bandana over her throat.
He remembers that particular one. It's lavender. She wore it often during the preparation for the Fischer job. He's pretty sure she wore it the first day they met. "Hard to tell," he replies, checking his watch like it had the answer. "Maybe a week? Two tops really."
Ariadne nods and drops her hair and pulls down her scarf over her t-shirt in the usual fashion. "And am I allowed to ask what brings you to the City of Lights?" she asks teasingly.
They both know the answer to that. Months after the Fischer job, Cobb called Ariadne. He asked her not to go back into the business. He wanted her to finish school. She was gifted, truly, but he understood the risks for her to be so intrigued with a false world. He told the boys not to contact her about any prospective jobs, which infuriated her to no end.
It was Arthur who struck up the compromise that they give her a chance after she finishes school, and Cobb and Ariadne, both thinking that they were right, agreed. Instead, they pretended that what they did didn't exist. They spoke to one another every once and a while, heard and gave news to Miles to relay, but the clock was ticking now. Ariadne is in her last term at the college. She needs to start looking into entry-level jobs, and Miles is giving her contacts in a couple of respectable firms in the city, a few around Europe, one in the states. It doesn't matter though, because she knows what she wants to do, what she could do. She only has a few months left of studies, and Cobb is always good for his word.
Which is why she was a little disappointed that when she got a call from Eames a few days ago, it wasn't to go behind the others' backs to enlist her early. It was to ask her for coffee as he and Arthur were actually in town on some business, business being the evasively teasing word used.
Of course, being Eames, they missed coffee—Ariadne good naturedly waiting at a café for four hours before giving up—and agreed to lunch, only to miss lunch—again waiting for four hours—and agree to dinner. The dinner then turned into dinner the next day—as he had the respectability and survival instincts to call beforehand—then the next, before Ariadne had to order Eames to commit because she had a life of her own.
"Of course I'll be there darling!" Eames had said over the phone, laughing at Ariadne's ire. "I'm so sorry to keep putting you out like this, but you know how working goes." She could hear the easy way in which Eames kept their work vague and felt hurt by the slight.
She does or, rather, she did knew how working went, but one couldn't stay mad at the Englishman for too long. He has a way of worming his way out of anything, her annoyance included.
So here is Arthur, living up to Eames' promise as promised. The opportunity is too good, almost.
So, her question may be unfair. It breaches the unspoken agreement they had all agreed on, but Ariadne was always curious, and Arthur was always there to give her straight answers. Why can't Cobb create the mazes? Who was Mal? What's in limbo? Would he tell her now what he was up to?
"Only if I'm allowed to lie about it," he replies smoothly in a somewhat straight answer. He levels a look at her to tell her not to push her luck.
"Fair enough," she relents, and Arthur watches her carefully, gaging her next move.
Quickly, she perks up. "So let's get the niceties out of the way now, shall we?" She pats her hands on her lap, and he raises an eyebrow as she leans back in preparation. "Ready?" she asks.
Arthur has a bemused smile on his face. "Go for it."
"So what brings you to the city of lights Arthur?" she asks, crossing her legs towards him and leaning her elbow on her knee to prop her chin on. She opens her eyes wide in comic-like interest.
He laughs. "Love," he replies.
Ariadne sits up, her heart stopping for a second. "Excuse me? You mean lights, right?"
He laughs again. "It's the city of love," he corrects. She sags in response, but she's quick to recover.
She looks offended. "You do realize that I've lived here for four years?" She waits for him to nod along. "I'd have more authority I think."
"Doesn't mean that you're right," he replies. "Besides. I've been here plenty of times."
"Yeah, for weeks at a time," she argues like any proud Parisian she scoffs. "Have you ever really lived in one city longer than a lunar cycle?"
It's a fair question. From what he told her during the Fischer job, he traveled with Cobb since Cobb couldn't get back home, roaming the globe for jobs, but it was aimless. Money couldn't solve Cobb's problem, and the more jobs they took, the more Cobb was at risk at being a target. It was a contradictory way of life if Arthur was honest.
But his last time settled? He thinks about this intently. She can see him make the calculations all over his face. "I've been to places you've only ever dreamed of being," he argues right back. She guesses that it's to buy time. "Places you've only ever seen in your course books."
"Well, I've grown moss," she says smartly. "I've explored places in Paris tourists like yourself would never be able to see."
"Of course you have," Arthur says.
"Of course I have," Ariadne affirms. She stands, holding her hand out to him. "So let's go see the real Paris then shall we?"
It's funny this gesture. It's almost childlike, the actual action, but so intimate and so cementing, perhaps in its simplicity. Arthur takes a second to consider it and wonders if Ariadne realizes how out of sync this is.
He takes it and allows her to pull him up. "Fine," he mock grumbles, which makes her laugh.
"So Arthur?" she asks. Their hands drop immediately as they walk along the river. He shoves his own into his trouser pockets. She swings hers from her sides.
The sun dips lower now, past the horizon, past the trees, past the buildings, and slowly the street lamps start to spring on. Their light has yet to have impact, but the orange, rosy afterglow is warm against the fading skies. "What brings you to the city of lights?" she continues cheekily as a few of them begin to pop on.
He notices her pointedly looking at the street lamps and smirks. "Why does anyone ever come to Paris?" he replies. He decides to tease her.
She doesn't reply but looks at him, simply.
"To dream," he replies, still walking.
They kissed on the Fischer job. There really is no playing that one off, but the funny thing is, after that, nothing. They were back to normal. They were Arthur and Ariadne, just as they should be.
Everyone went on their separate ways, Eames actually headed for the shuttle stations for a ride to Vegas, Yusuf went to the bathrooms, and Arthur actually ran into Ariadne on his way to his next gate.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, coming upon the petite woman standing in front of the Departures board.
Ariadne turned, clearly not prepared for him to be there. "Arthur!"
"Ariadne," he acknowledged. "What are you doing here?" He repeated.
She gestured towards the board. "I'm trying to find my gate. Apparently there's been a change."
Arthur took the few steps it took to stand next to her. "Where are you going?"
"Atlanta," she replied. "I figured that while I'm in the States, I may as well visit my family. Saito was nice enough to cover this flight for me when he found out I was coming along."
"Oh." That was simple and straightforward enough.
"Where are you going?" she asked politely.
"New York."
"Visiting the family?" She asked. Arthur forgot that he told her where he was from.
"Yeah," he admitted. Only Dom and maybe Eames really knew this bit of information about him. He generally liked to keep everything to himself, especially if it was about himself. "Just for a few days until the next job."
He saw Ariadne perk up at that. "Where—?"
Arthur cut her off. "I'm not sure Dom would like me to tell you, even if I did know where I was going."
Her face darkened. "Dom's not my keeper, Arthur, and neither are you for that matter."
"True," he allowed. "But we're the ones who brought you into this world, and trust me, you're way better off not knowing."
He could see that that comment got a rile out of her, but he could also see her keep it at bay. Her shoulders slumped, not in defeat but in a sneaky sort of defiance, like she was biding her time. She looked at the Departures board again, ready to let it drop for now.
"Are you 4750?" she asked. Her tone was considerably chipper. She looked up at him, and Arthur had to consciously make sure that he wasn't staring at her too intently. He was confused by her, if he was honest.
Arthur looked at the Departures board but not intently studying it. "You're that way," she said, pointing behind her. "I'm over there," she went on, gesturing behind him.
"I guess this is where we part ways then."
"I guess so."
There was a bit of a bustle when Arthur realized that Ariadne had gone in for a hug and Ariadne realized that Arthur had put his hand out to shake. Maybe it was because he was taller or because he has one of those commanding presences, but his gesture won out. She bit her bottom lip to hide her chagrin.
"Sorry," he apologized. "I'm not one for hugging."
She took his hand and shook it. "It's perfectly fine," she said as their hands let go. "It was worth a shot."
It was the only acknowledgement of that moment, and as he continued in the straight line towards his gate, he looked back at her to catch her shooting a sly smirk right at him.
Ariadne lay flat on her back atop her pillow top mattress, the only extravagance, past her tuition, that she allowed herself after the Fischer job. She thought it horrendously appropriate since she did the entire job sleeping.
She stares at the ceiling. The night before her flight to Australia for the Fischer job, she fell back upon her old mattress and studied the cracked ceiling, enjoying the simple, plaster carvings. She didn't understand what she was about to take on, and yet, she also was anticipating being done with it. She knew that the team needed her, though Arthur and Yusuf seemed adamant that a wrench really wasn't the best thing to throw in so last minute. Especially if that wrench was a newbie architect who never performed an extraction, let alone, shot a gun.
It was Eames who stood up for her. He backed Cobb's decision to bring her in, and Saito was just as vocal, even offering to pay for her ticket returning to Paris. In the end, everyone stood by Cobb, erratic and last-minute her addition might have seemed, and they all sat in their seats to Australia silently fuming but professional.
And all she could think about was what would happen when it was all done. She played out the scenarios in her head. If they were successful, she'd be part of something legendary. If they failed…well, her presences may or may not be a factor in that.
She seems to always look past everything, for the next project or the next inspiration. Her mother calls her impatient because of it. She always looks forward to the "post" of anything, from school to that job to that building to even today.
She's graduating today. The silly mortarboard and gown hang on the wooden chair near her door. Sensible black dress shoes prop next to it. She wonders if Rebecca will finally tell Louis about her real feelings at one of the many bars they'll visit. She wonders if her parents will want a tour the next day or if she should let them enjoy Paris as a couple. She wonders what her other classmates plan to do after they graduate, because she's not certain what will do anyway.
She tosses her arm above her head and looks at the ceiling. "I'm graduating today," she tells her ceiling fan. It waves back lazily, like it did that night, only then she said, "I'm going to Australia today." Her fan hardly gives a range of responses.
That seemed a damn long time ago.
It's not immediate, the phone ring. She's actually watching her fan blades turn for about fifteen minutes before it sounds. "Hallo?" She says with her best accent, expecting it to be Colette with demands as to why she isn't at the auditorium.
There's laughter on the phone. It's the deep bass of a man's laugh rather than the trill of her French friend's.
"Hello?" she asks, adjusting her accent. "Qui est ce?" She looks at her phone screen to answer her own question. "Arthur?" She hadn't seen him since they had dinner a month ago. Her heart immediately went faster, she looked around her apartment in suspicion. Her training kicking in immediately. "Is everything okay?"
"Ariadne?" the voice asks amidst a few dying chuckles. "I'm sorry. Yes, everything's fine. I didn't mean to worry you."
"I'm sorry," she goes on quickly. "I thought that—"
"Your accent—," he starts to say.
"That's not fair Arthur."
"—I just wanted to wish you a happy commencement," he quickly amends, and Ariadne remembers telling him about her soon-to-be graduation during the dessert course. How pleasant Arthur was about it, how positive he was about her prospects, and how he said he would try to see her again before it happened. But that was a month ago, and she gave up on any hope of that a long while ago.
"Thank you." She grips the mobile to her ear tightly. She waits for him to add more. He waits for her to say something. The sudden stillness is only commented on by an odd look of hers towards the receiver and a sideways glance to the floor by him.
"Wow," he says, breaking it. "I really feel like I should say something a little more peppier."
"Oh," she shakes her head. She realizes her grip. "Please do not quote Robert Frost to me. I don't think I can stand another Frost quotation. Even Seuss actually, despite my emotional attachment from youth."
"Well, you do got brains in your head and toes in your shoes—"
"Jokes on you Arthur," she dismisses. "I'm barefoot right now." On her end, she raises her legs to the ceiling, wiggling each piggy from the one that headed to the market to the one who cried all the way home. Her fan waves back.
He holds the receiver as he walks over towards the long window of his hotel room. From this floor, he has a remarkable view of the London Eye. The ever-grey skies dimming into darkness. "Always keeping us guessing."
"I try to keep the spontaneity alive in the relationship," she replies smugly, dropping her legs back onto the mattress. "Forgive my asking, but where are you exactly?"
He tells her.
"More work?" she guesses.
"Same old Arthur," Arthur confirms vaguely.
"Well, if you're free in five hours, there should be some pretty amazing bar hopping tonight, especially by your newly graduated friend. You should make it if you take a train," she takes her face away from her mobile to look at the screen, "now or so."
Arthur turns away from his window. He faces his made bed and his lamp stand. "As tempting as that sounds, I'm going to have to pass." A PASIV case sits on top of the goose down.
Ariadne looks at the clock on her phone again, curses, then apologizes quickly. "As tempting as it is to convince you that you should come, I've got to commence towards my commencement," she says. "My mom and dad would be pretty upset if they notice that I'm not walking." As she speaks, she's already on her feet. She shucks her sweat pants and tank top and haphazardly slips her arms through the straps of her black dress. All the while, she holds the phone with her shoulder, her hand, then the other. She is in constant contact.
"Well don't let me stop you." He hears the rustle of clothing and guesses at what she's doing.
"Never." She smiles. She looks in the mirror at her quickly thrown together presentation then shrugs before walking towards her door to grab her cap and gown. "I'll see you later Stick-in-the-Mud."
"I thought you were leaving?"
She slips on one shoe then the other, hoping on one leg, then switching. "Commencing," she corrects, standing on both feet firmly, before hanging up.
They never talk about it. She doesn't point out that it was a certain point man's fly away suggestion, and he doesn't say that it was a small architect who leaned in first.
Arthur is busy reading the postcard when Eames makes a grab for it.
"And what—," Eames begins, the card secure in his hands, the element of surprise on his side, as he takes the seat at the table with Arthur, "—is this Artie?"
"It's nothing," Arthur replies, allowing Eames to read it. He's read most of it, and only trying to get it back will egg the Englishman further. "It's a postcard from Ariadne."
Eames flips the card to the shiny picture of a Parisian evening. The Eiffel Tower with its champagne lights dominates the landscape. "I didn't realize you two were still in contact," he says, his jocular tone suddenly serious as he reads it over. Arthur doesn't stop him. One could hardly fit anything onto a postcard, and Ariadne, despite her small handwriting, barely got over the fact that one could hardly write anything on a postcard before she found herself two line spaces till the end. It reminded him of her, from the handwriting to the message.
Arthur shrugs, watching Eames carefully. "We've kept in touch."
Eames gives him a condescending inclination of his head. "I've gathered," he says, and there's a note in his voice that irks Arthur.
He brushes this comment off as Eames continues to read. He's not sure why it irks him, though it might be because the Englishman is generally irksome. Or maybe it's because he's not exactly sure why he started it.
He excuses it with the fact that she was one of the only people he knew who stayed in place and who knew of his work enough to understand, and he thought that she would appreciate the traditional sentiment of it. He's not sure what makes him feel better. But he started sending these cards, randomly, not often, though often enough.
They were curt, hardly a message really—the cards didn't allow room for anything else—and they didn't provide room for a return address, though Arthur was sure he wouldn't be in the same place had she tried to reach him. He would just send them out, not knowing if she was getting them or if she was even reading them.
There was something old world romantic about buying stamps and finding a mail box, using your own handwriting to write out a missive, and with all the travel he's done, he's never really had the opportunity to use the tourist gift shops where these postcards were. As annoyingly kitschy they were, he liked looking at the glossy photos on the spinning racks, choosing one just to send out. It was a classic notion he wasn't sure people kept up anymore.
Ariadne actually wasn't his first target. He sent a few to James and Philippa, before it even occurred to him to send one to her. He remembers seeing the photo and automatically thinking of her, bringing her to the forefront of his thoughts as if he should've been reminded all along.
Eames sighs dramatically. "Aw Artie."
"What now?" Arthur has to bite down his animosity, but he sees Eames alight with the small rile.
"I'm a little disappointed that she doesn't sign her name with a little heart," Eames admits, displaying the card right before his face with both hands like a proud five-year-old with hand painted art. The Eiffel Tower faces Arthur.
"Oh grow up Mr. Eames." He makes a snatch at the forger's face, but he's too slow. Eames laughs and frisbees the card over to him. It lands on the desk.
"You probably shouldn't resort to snail mail," he says, getting up from his seat, already back in business. "Makes it easier for people to track you."
"It's actually harder than an e-mail," Arthur retorts, reaching to slide the postcard across the desk. "It's probably safer," he adds, flipping the card between his forefinger and middle as he turns into his desk.
He misses the look Eames gives him as he starts to read the postcard again. "If you say so Arthur," he says, leaving the room.
Ariadne finds an internship at a respectable architecture firm in the city. Her references were enough to get her good work, but she is not at the level to head her own project yet. Her supervisor said that if she kept up the quality of design she has been giving, they could consider her shadowing the leader of one of the smaller restructures in the Fall. She bides her time. She draws in her spare breaks. She dreams at home.
She doesn't hear from Cobb or Eames or Yusuf or Arthur.
It's only when she sits down to think about it does she realize that he never responded to her postcard. She wonders if he got it. Indirectly, she hears from Cobb who told Miles to tell her that he sent the postcard through a small shipment. He said he put it in a PASIV case meant for Arthur. She wonders if she crossed a line somehow in responding.
But it never is a guarantee, those postcards. He clearly doesn't expect anything. They lack a return address or prompts or questions to create conversation. She just didn't know what to make of the first few, thinking that they would stop eventually. They didn't. They come in at random from all over. Dubai. Quebec. Oslo. She wonders why he's traveling so much, but she remembers even recon work could be a day in one area and a hit would be in another.
She purchases an old world map at a used book shop to mark where they've come from, dotting destinations with a black sharpie, seeing his movement from Barcelona to Buenos Aires. She traces her finger across the rough paper from one dot to another, unsure if she got the order right.
Maddeningly, she can't get a hold of him to respond to his adventures. There's no return address, so she's a sitting duck, waiting. She expects them. She anticipates them. She hopes for them, and then is in denial about it all later when one appears in her mailbox. She still waits.
They're all over her apartment, propped up against books, walls, her mirror. She tacks a few up, sometimes with the messages facing outward. She enjoys having them. They make her feel important and grown-up, though she doesn't understand the point of it. Arthur doesn't say much in them, only what he sees in design or culture or a few snippets of thoughts before he runs out of room. He never crams his words. They are precise and efficient like his handwriting. So it's often two sentences before he signs off. Best, Arthur.
She wishes she could get a hold of him, so she writes a quick post card and asks Miles to somehow get it to him. She feels silly that her message is about the lack of space but decides it's probably best. Postcards are immensely public in how they lack envelopes, though she's sure Miles and Cobb will respect her privacy. The request, though, is shocking she knows, and Miles has a small smile when she asks him the favor.
She is a bit embarrassed at how excited she was to have that last letter from Arthur. It's on a small card with a photo of a row of colorfully painted buildings. It discusses the scenery of Buenos Aires and the people. She knows he was careful not to talk about his work, but she catches the vague mention of Eames ("companions always condescendingly calling me 'darling'"). She wishes she could send a postcard back, though unsure of how much she would be allowed to ask, unsure of what she should share. Despite being in Paris, her life seems relatively uneventful than what she is sure he is experiencing. She eats breakfast at the same café and cooks at home. She gets drunk on the weekends. She gets to bed by eleven. She feels too responsible for her own good sometimes.
It's been three weeks since the last postcard, a separation longer than any between the letters. So she tells herself that the correspondence—can she call it that if there was no real exchange of letters?—is over, and she quickly comes to terms with it as she slices a zucchini and drinks a bottle of beer in preparation for dinner. One of the postcards sits propped on the windowsill above the sink.
It's late at night, when she gets a text. She digs under her pillow for her mobile still in a daze. It's an unknown number, but it's blocked anyway. It reads just as brief as one of those letters.
In the city for two weeks. Free? –A
It was during the preparation for the Fischer job that they found the café. It was only a couple of blocks away from the old warehouse they used. Once, when Arthur considered shooting Mr. Eames in the foot and Mr. Eames was only too glad to egg him, Ariadne dragged him out for lunch, where she eased him with baguettes and coffee until he was too full to be angry. They visited a couple of times after that with Yusuf, Dom, and even Eames. It got to the point during their months of prep that they were regulars and the head waiter, whose shift coincided with the times they always came in, knew them by their faces. It was only when Arthur pointed out how playing under the radar did not, in fact, include being regulars that they stopped going, and they dearly missed the croissants and croque monsieurs that really didn't taste the same anywhere else.
They agree to meet there as part of neutral territory and for old time's sake.
She takes the seat across from him before he even realizes that she's there.
"Hey," he greets with a smile.
"Hello," she breathes. She points at his water. "Can I have some?" He gestures, though she doesn't wait for it. "Thank you." She gulps it down. "I've been running around the city all morning," she explains airily, taking more water.
Arthur just watches her. He takes in her jeans and her usual scarf. But there's a pressed quality to her that wasn't there before. Her shoes look relatively new, not as scuffed. Her jacket is buttery leather. Her face looks more relaxed too, despite her complaints. Her hair is pulled back, away from her face.
And yet, she looks different. She seems too put together, almost unlike herself. He says so.
She shrugs. "It's all part of the job," she replies, placing his glass back down.
"You're part of a firm?"
"Internship. Miles arranged it for me," she explains with a nod. "After I graduated, I actually had no certain plans for anything. I thought—" she hesitates, but Arthur's look of expectation assures her. "I thought I'd go back into dreamscapes." The admittance is so frank she feels childlike in saying it. A need to apologize or justify her statement builds up in her mind, but she understands that Arthur knows the whole story. He knows the promise Cobb made. He also knows that Cobb is a damned liar when he thinks he is doing best for those he likes best.
"I'll talk to Dom," Arthur assures her.
"It's not necessary," she stops him. "I've called him already, argued with him already. He won't budge. Says that my talents are better for the real world."
Arthur levels a look at her. "He's right."
She twiddles with the napkin on the table. "Yeah?" She's not bashful about it. She doesn't mean for him to agree or build upon it. He can tell that she's hedging for something.
"But?" He prods.
Ariadne smiles a little wanly to herself, looking at her fingers. "But it's just not enough."
"It's pure creation," he finishes, recalling her return to the warehouse.
She only replies with a sly look and signals the waiter.
They go months without speaking. No words are needed. The silence is comfortable rather than worrisome. Arthur travels. Ariadne works.
Arthur wonders, when he has to lie low between jobs, if he should do it in Paris. Ariadne thinks she sees the back of a familiar head. It's the right height and hair color, but it's not him.
No postcards are sent.
They're friends or so she explains when Rebecca comes into her apartment and finds a small wooden turtle on Ariadne's counter. "Mexico" is written on its colorful shell in swift strokes like graffiti. She knocks the spoon-shaped head and it bobs idly.
"Cute," she deems it, watching the small wooden amphibian continue to nod. "Where's it from?"
"Mexico," Ariadne calls out from her room. Her door stays slightly ajar as she changes her t-shirt and finds a clean scarf. She discards clothing with a careless toss in wayward directions. Fabric litters her floor and bed. She goes to bed with those clothes still on her covers.
"Yes," Rebecca says with a huff. "And so his shell says, but who do you know in Mexico?" Rebecca has a wonderful way of phrasing things to sound like ill compliments.
Ariadne walks into the kitchen pulling on a light coat. "Why can't I know people in Mexico?" She lifts her hair out of her collar.
Rebecca flicks the turtle's head again. "It's that kid Arthur isn't it? The one who sends you all those postcards?" She points at one nearby, and Ariadne regrets having them all over her apartment.
Ariadne shuts off the lights around them, purposefully leaving the television set last. "Yeah," she replies, confused, though already understanding where Rebecca's comment will lead. "He was there this past March."
Rebecca doesn't say anything. "It's very nice of him to send you a turtle," she says simply, and Ariadne knows exactly where Rebecca's mind headed.
"You sent me that mask when you vacationed in Venice," Ariadne points out. "There's nothing weird about getting souvenirs for other people."
"I didn't say there was," Rebecca replies primly. She grabs her clutch off the counter and leads the way to the door. "Are you ready to go yet?"
And Ariadne has to roll her eyes at the trap she just walked in.
"Arthur and Ariadne sitting in a tree," Eames sang happily, spinning in his seat. The warehouse windows tinted champagne yellow. It was the end of the day and Dom and Yusuf were already off in a rogue area of the shop, testing out new compounds. They started to do this often, being very secretive about what exactly they were studying, though Ariadne started to have her suspicions.
It was times like these where Eames was at his most obnoxious. Back from his stint in the States following Browning, he was restless and unhelpful. His favorite hobby was watching Yusuf test the compounds on Arthur, and when Arthur started to threaten bodily harm on him, it was Ariadne's job to drag the forger away and distract him with photos and small talk.
She was starting to pull her hair up, curling a pencil into the center to keep it in place. "Oh very mature Eames," Ariadne accused with a laugh. She dropped her arms and gestured towards the worktable. "Do you want to go over your level again?"
He shook his head. Used to this response when it came to work, she leaned her hip against the table, crossing her arms across her chest. "Are we going to do any work today?" she questioned with an arched brow.
"Not likely, no." He spun in his chair once more, before stopping suddenly to face her. "But seriously darling," he began. "Where do you two sneak off to? Every time I turn my back, you pair have vanished."
She laughed. "What are you talking about?"
Eames shrugged and continued spinning.
She thought about the handful of times she headed out with Arthur, either to learn more about mazes, to study architecture, or even to just go out. She liked taking breaks; her mind needed bigger spaces. She needed distance from the worktable sometimes, and her mind was always brimming with questions. Questions she always peppered Arthur with, who was patient to explain everything, even discuss the logistics, the architecture, and her own ideas to experiment with. And it became a habit of hers to simply up and grab the point man, taking him away from his work, and head out to Paris, just to walk. She'd point at certain areas with a story of her own, and he'd listen patiently, amused sometimes, until she finally came out with why they were there in the first place, her mind properly comfortable, the weight coaxed out.
Ariadne didn't realize that she was doing that so often, though clearly the forger noticed. She wondered if anyone else suspected similar nefarious actions between her and the point man. She wondered how disappointed they'd be if they knew she was boring him with stories and badgering him with questions. "You've caught us Eames," she said with a sigh, slumping her shoulders. Eames didn't even honor her with stopping his rotation. "We do the quick and nasty in the broom closet."
Eames was looking towards the ceiling now. "Thought so. Though—" here he stopped to look at her. "I can't imagine dear Arthur ever doing anything involving the word nasty in a broom cupboard."
"That's the best place!" Ariadne said, quickly dissolving into laughter, which Eames picked it up.
Arthur came up to the pair. He stopped right in front of Ariadne. "Ready to go?" he asked sharply with a look at Eames. Their laughter faded out quickly.
"I just need to grab my coat," she said, coughing. She reached over the forger to grab the garment, and Eames made a lewd gesture with his hands. Ariadne scowled and made certain the sleeve of her jacket smacked him in the face.
She looked back at him to see the cocky expression replaced with incredulity.
"So who's leading this time?" Ariadne asked. It was a question that usually opened their walks, like a sort of tradition. Arthur replied he didn't care either way.
Ariadne nodded, starting to walk off, aware of the forger still listening. "Sounds good," she said, before adding, "the safe word's 'foliage' though," as if it were an afterthought.
Eames could hear Arthur stop in his tracks, as he demanded, "What?" before the forger promptly burst into laughter.
"You kept these?"
Ariadne feels herself blush as Arthur walks around her apartment, looking from tacked postcards to tacked postcards. He makes his way towards her bookshelf, where she propped a few up. Now he's looking at the kitchen where some sit on her windowsill above the sink.
Months of disappearance and he shows up on her doorstep bearing take out and assumption.
"I could've been headed out," she points out as she let him in, still dressed in sweats and an old, baggy shirt. He saunters in knowingly smug, a bag of delicious smells perched on his forearm.
"You also could've been already out," he replies easily, making his way towards her kitchen counter. He's only been there once before, during the Fischer job. The night before they headed to Australia. He was trying to talk her out of it.
"Presumptive ass," she mutters, heading to her room.
"I heard that."
"You were meant to!" She storms, walking down the hall to put on a bra. She gives herself a once over in the mirror, before realizing what she's doing. "Did it ever occur to you that most people would call or maybe message or send a pigeon if one were to call?" She asks, pulling her hair out of its messy pony tail before she stops herself. She doesn't care. She doesn't.
"I'm sorry, I left my manners back in another time zone," he answers loudly back. She hears him walk around, opening drawers and rattling silverware, before— "you kept these?"
The postcards. They're everywhere, she realizes, and she starts to mentally picture her apartment, figuring out where postcards are, where she carelessly, purposefully placed them in a pique of sentimentality.
She looks at herself in the mirror before heading out. "Yeah," she forces herself to say casually. "Why not?"
Arthur stands at the fridge where a group of four shares the Shakespeare magnet, each hanging by a corner. Hearing her enter, he turns to her, a spoon in his hand. Apparently he found her flatware. "I'm glad you got them."
"I'm glad you sent them."
"Good."
"Good."
She walks over to the kitchenette and pulls out a few plates from a cabinet. "So what did you get?" She asks, handing him a plate.
She has to learn patience. The team doing the renovations to the old pre-war building come upon mold, dead foundation, unrecorded renovations, and so much more that at times Ariadne gets fed up with the project. She's spent so much time working on the structure, that she wants to see it. She wants to see the finished product and touch it and claim it.
It's nothing like dreams. In dreams, she acts like a child, stacking her blocks, before knocking them down until she's happy with the outcome, over and over again.
Here, one false move, and there's a leak that can stop production for two weeks until it's resolved.
It's nothing like dreams. Here she doesn't have that dread of waking up.
A/N: More to come soon. Again, I just wanted to say that this is really experimental, and we'll just see what happens. Anyway, thanks for reading!