Part 1: Ariadne plays the piano
Arthur's brows were furrowed so deeply they seemed to merge into one. He carved words savagely into the page, a futile attempt to drown out the excited screams of the children and the highly amused laughter of the childish.
Contrary to popular opinion, Arthur was not immune to human emotion. Under normal circumstances, he would have smiled fondly as Phillipa retold Snow White for the fiftieth time while Ariadne worked on her models, wondering if Cobb would consider this an early induction into their trade. Perhaps with a tinge of grudging admiration at James' squeals of laughter as Eames hoisted him into the air. While it was natural to expect a forger to have a way with people, Arthur could not help but admire the cheery wit that dissolved the awkwardness Arthur occasionally felt with the kids; Arthur prided himself on his dry wit, but even he knew that his style more often than not closed conversations, while Eames' had a way of getting people to open up.
Under those normal circumstances, Eames would give him the look that said "don't be such a stick in the mud and join us, dear", blue eyes bright with a welcoming smile. Arthur would find himself sigh and clear away his work before joining them, a small smile on his face.
But this was not a normal circumstance. Arthur was in the most critical stage of his research, where he needed to crystallize all the disparate elements he had gathered so far into a coherent, targeted structure for each of the other team members. And call him a stick in the mud, but this was careful, important work that required utmost focus and therefore necessitated absolute peace and quiet. Arthur made sure to concentrate all these thoughts into the poisonous glare he was shooting Eames.
They had been through this enough times for Eames to know what the glare meant. True to form, Eames dispelled the silence with a stage whisper directed at the children. Arthur did not catch what he said, but he could hear the kids' squeals of delight as they ran into another wing of the workhouse, and the rhythmic clip-clop of Ariadne's heels as she chased after them, yelling, "I never said yes, Eames!"
Arthur knew a reprieve when he saw it. His right hand scribbled a few additional points for Yusuf, who would arrive the next day, while his left hand clicked furiously from page to page.
"We're back on track," said Arthur, explaining the timeline of events to Cobb. "Yusuf's flight was delayed, but his supplies are coming in on schedule."
"Mmm." Cobb nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "But what about-?" Cobb stopped, raising a quizzical eyebrow as the jubilant cries of "Yay, Ari!" reached them. Arthur shrugged as the rest of them piled in.
"But Eames, I haven't played in ages!" Ariadne was trying for frustrated, but given that this was Eames, Arthur pegged her real mood as semi-resigned.
"Better late than never!" Eames shot back brightly. "The kids will be very disappointed if you break your promise- am I right, Phillipa, James?"
"Yes! Pleeeease, Ari?" chorused the kids, by now totally in Eames' thrall.
"I never made that promise," Ariadne grumbled, sitting down in front of the piano. Arthur leaned back on the hind legs of his chair, an eyebrow raised in interest. The piano had remained untouched ever since they had moved into the warehouse, and he had come to believe that none of the others knew how to play the piano.
Ariadne shifted around on the piano and plunked a few chords experimentally, before clearing her throat awkwardly. "Okay, I guess I still remember this- it was my examination piece from long ago. Vals Poetico- Spanish composer, I suppose- it's a waltz, a sort of dance," she added for the benefit of the kids.
The workhouse was large, but the rich chords Ariadne played filled the space agreeably. The Romantic piece suited her character- it was light, lyrical, yet expressive at the same time- the Spanish harmonics providing a layer of depth to the singing melody in the right hand. While Arthur tended to be a stickler for smudged notes, he found himself ignoring the minor dissonances in this case. A fond smile touched his lips as Eames led Phillipa in an one-handed waltz, while waving at James with the other. He wondered if Eames had ever taken formal music or dance lessons, or if this was simply an extension of his effortless knowledge of people. Eames smirked - a "can't-take-your-eyes-off-me, darling?"- when he caught his eye; Arthur rolled his eyes and looked away, ignoring the slight warmth in the tip of his ears with practised ease.
Gaining confidence from that, Ariadne launched into the ever-popular Rondo Alla Turca by Mozart, the clear melodic line supported by a simple rhythm in the left hand. Arthur liked to think that induced dreams were Mozartian in nature- built out of simple constructs such as Penrose steps and circular mazes, yet allowing for almost infinite possibility. Arthur allowed himself to relax into the music, allowing his long fingers to travel on the side of his chair, as if on an imaginary keyboard.
"You play the piano, " Eames guessed, gesturing at Arthur's fingers.
"I like Mozart," Arthur replied, not keen on being the next performer. He thought it fitting that Ariadne was the one playing the piece, turning the deceptively simple theme into a piece of grandeur by adding broken chords on the left hand, then an octave layering with the right hand.
Eames took the chair next to Arthur. Both of them sipped their coffee in a surprisingly companionable silence as Ariadne played. The smile on Ariadne's face as she struck each key with sparkling clarity reminded Arthur that, at one time, she was a child performing to the applause of her parents. Arthur felt a twinge of guilt at that thought; her parents would hardly like to know that she was mixing around with a bunch of criminals.
"We've ruined her, haven't we?" Eames smirked, guessing Arthur's thoughts. "She's never going to be a regular architect now."
To his surprise, Arthur's heart lifted at the comment. He remembered the first time he'd tried lucid dreaming, the visceral thrill of building a world that was truly one's own. Arthur put the guilt aside as they all sang "Do, A Deer" with the kids, with Eames' deep voice sounding in the bass register. Definitely not classically trained- Arthur could hear a casualness in his tone in place of the full-throated vigour professional singers utilize- but Eames was carrying it off- as he did everything else- with sheer confidence and force of personality.
If you had been in the workhouse late that night, when Arthur was packing up after the rest of the team had left, you would have been forgiven for thinking that the place was haunted. Either that, or it would have to be true that Arthur was humming snatches of half-remembered tunes, a smile on his face.