The next two weeks are one of the most indescribable of Arthur's life, and given what he's already lived through, that's saying something. There's something sweetly surreal about waking up to homemade breakfasts with three other people at the table, laughing and chatting, about cats that spend time in one's lap, and gardens full of gnomes out of Sci-fi series.
Definitely surreal.
There's an old roll top desk in the other half of the duplex, and it's the perfect spot to work on the laptop, pulling up data and re-establishing connections to Yusuf and Saito and Dom. Arthur already has files up and running for potential jobs, along with a few contacts for pasivs and travel information. The light is good, and the neighborhood quiet. Although the overcast has lingered, there is sunshine in the afternoons, and the sweet smell of wet trees sometimes on the breeze.
Granny seeks him out for advice. It starts with minor matters about bills, but progresses upwards into investments and management as she reveals her real estate portfolio, which is . . . considerable.
"Property in France, Portugal and Scotland?" Arthur murmurs, impressed. Income from the rentals has been building a nice little nest egg for Granny, and now he understands why Vi and Lil might have a reason to want to be in her good graces.
"I was in the wrong place at the right time in France," she murmurs, "and a lovely gentleman friend helped me purchase the other two. All of them have local agencies keeping them cared-for at the moment. Do you think I should sell?"
Arthur shakes his head briefly. "No, not yet. Let me check a few things and I'll have better advice. Remind me not to play Monopoly with you."
That makes her cackle a bit. "I'm fairly good at acquiring properties, although I'm terrible with utilities. Oh, and there's been a delivery for you, Arthur dear."
He follows Granny through the connecting doorway and into her half of the duplex. On her kitchen table is a cardboard package the size of a briefcase with a Mombassa return address. Carefully Arthur lays a hand on it, feeling by turns pleased and anxious. Yusuf has come through, probably with Dom's help, and now all that remains is waiting until Ariadne and Eames return from shopping.
The first step into getting back to work.
"Arthur," Granny murmurs, and he looks to her, deliberately making his expression bland, but she shakes her head, her gaze sharp. "You three are going to have to tell me what you're up to."
"Jane . . . it's, it's complicated," he offers, feeling a little ashamed. Extractions are just on the other side of legal, and while they're not quite the crime that other procedures are, there's enough grey for him to feel uncomfortable about it in her presence.
She moves to put the kettle on her stove, rolling her eyes. "Yes, I know. The boy's always straddled the line, and he's not about to change now, but you and Ariadne; you're respectable."
"Only on the outside," Arthur sighs.
Granny makes tea and brings two cups to the table. She's not a mug person; her tea is always served in good china cups, and Arthur has gotten fond of the stuff. He and Granny take it the same way; minimum sugar, hot as possible. It's soothing and centering; Arthur relaxes after the first sip.
"It's not drugs," Granny presses gently, her gaze on the package, "Julian's not stupid enough to get involved with that nonsense and not the sort to use them. Neither are you two."
"Not drugs," Arthur agrees carefully. "We can keep going the Twenty Questions route if you want, but maybe it would be better if we were all here and you could just ask Eames."
"Where's the fun in that?" Granny replies with a mild smile. "He's been shielding me for a long time, Arthur, and frankly, whatever your skullduggery is, I'm more than capable of handling it. I've lived through the Blitz, and mad cow disease and more prime ministers than this country deserves, you know."
"You have, and I commend you for all that, but still—it's Eames' call since Ariadne and I are guests," he counters respectfully.
"Loyal," Granny nods over her cup. "I like that. Hope he plans to make an honest man of you."
Arthur's dimples show briefly. "He'd have to start with himself."
Granny chuckles at that, her teacup rattling as she sets it down again.
000ooo000ooo000
Eames is walking with her through the little mall, and Ariadne wishes he would slow his stride a little. Just her luck to fall in love with long-legged men, but the view of his ass makes up for it a bit. They pass various shops that sell everything from clothes to exotic fish, and finally Eames slows down and stops in front of one store and hums a bit.
It's a furniture store. Ariadne looks at the loveseats in the window and then back at him. "Julian . . ."
"Yes. We deserve a bigger one," he insists. "I've got the money, and I consider it an investment, my pixie. I'll cover the bed if you do the linens. Girls are supposed to have the inside track on all that sort of thing I hear."
"We can't," Ariadne protests even as Eames tugs her wrist, dragging her into the shop. "For one thing, we're guests!"
"Granny won't mind," Eames shoots back confidently, flashing that killer smile of his that melts part of Ariadne's brain. It isn't fair that even with the shaggy hair and half-grown beard he still manages to look like angel and devil combined. She reluctantly allows herself to be pulled inside, wondering if she should call Arthur and get help in stopping this madness.
A bed. Ariadne hasn't owned a new bed in . . . she thinks back and realizes the answer is 'her whole life.' Living like a nomad at various digs, and boarding with relatives or at university has meant that her own possessions are fairly meager, and furniture isn't something she's bothered with much. Even now, her things—what few there are—are stored with some company thanks to Dom and Saito's intervention at the start of their disappearance.
"May I help you?" A round and kind-looking young man comes bounding over, his face a study in earnest helpfulness. Ariadne watches Eames beam at him.
"Oh yes you may, Mr. Smythe, you may indeed."
The kid's a goner, a sucker for that smile, and Ariadne shakes her head, mostly to hide her own grin. Four months in Siberia, and Eames can still charm damned near anyone. She allows him to weave his fingers with hers and pull her closer as he speaks. "We need a bed, you see. A very sturdy, very large bed. Something that can hold up under a lot of . . . sleeping."
Ariadne feels her blush radiating off her face; she squeezes Eames' hand warningly, but he continues in that seductive purr of his. "We're heavy sleepers."
Mr. Smythe seems to be blushing too, but gamely he leads the way towards the back of the store to the fancy display of show beds and mattresses there. "Well, we have the Puff top Princess over here, sir."
"Sleeping on a Princess; sounds familiar," Eames whispers to her, and Ariadne tries to yank her hand away from his, although she's snickering as well.
"Behave," she hisses, and Eames is unfazed by her command until she adds, "Or I'll tell Granny exactly how gooseberry jam stains got on her sheets."
"Ooooh, now that's just dirty pool, Miss Westwood," Eames clucks under his breath with a grin and turns his attention back to Mr. Smythe in a show of interest as the salesman begins to extol the virtues of the bed before them.
Ariadne realizes that Eames is serious, so she lets him do the questioning and haggling as she looks around the store a bit and spots the linens wall. The variety of colors and patterns there pull her in, and she spends a lovely twenty minutes finding just the right sheets among the bounty there, settling for a sand-colored ones with a border trim of Greek keys in black and green. The matching duvet is a mix of all three shades in a watercolor stipple, also trimmed by the Greek keys edging, and when Ariadne looks up, Eames whistles to her, urging her back to his side.
"This one, I think. Almost ninety eight percent certain. Hop up and let's see."
"Hop up? You're kidding, right?" Ariadne blurts, but Eames scoops her up and easily tosses her onto the mattress. She lands, growling and intending harm, but Eames launches himself after her, and manages to pin her lightly as he grins.
"Hallo, puff-top princess!" he whispers.
Ariadne plasters her palm on his face and pushes lightly. "You're pissing me off, Julian."
"Well then, you'll just have to spank me," he informs her, and rolls to his back, stretching out. "Roomy, anyway. What do you think?"
She considers the mattress and stretches out herself. "Okay, it's pretty nice."
"One of our top of the line numbers, with a layer of memory foam eight inches thick," Mr. Smythe oh-so-helpfully calls from the foot of the bed.
Eames folds his hands behind his head and makes an exaggerated snore before asking Ariadne, "So, do I sound like Arthur?"
She can't help but giggle, because actually? He does.
000ooo000ooo000
He's stuck carrying the packages, but Eames doesn't mind. Ariadne's in a lovely mood now, and that bodes well for the household. She leads the way through the garden gate, reminding him to keep quiet about Arthur's birthday presents, and Eames manages to follow and not drop anything.
It's quite a load—new sheets for the bed that will be delivered Saturday, new clothes, an incredible amount of art and drawing supplies, Arthur's presents, some edible treats for everyone, and flowers for Granny. Eames feels downright domestic and it's such an odd sensation that for a moment he has a rebellious urge to drop it all on the table inside and duck out to the local pub.
He might later, and take the other two with him if they're interested.
Eames walks in and realizes that everyone's over in Granny's half, so he scoops up the flowers and heads there himself, moving for the natural gathering place—the kitchen. As he steps in, Eames senses the sudden silence, and he takes in the sight of Ariadne, Arthur and Granny sitting at the table, and on it, a large, rectangular package.
He blinks, feeling a hit to the gut at the sight of it as instinct clues him into what it is. Eames tries for a smile, but it's a little wobbly. "For you," he tells Granny and hands her the bouquet.
"Oh thank you, boy. Asters, how lovely," she tells him, and rises to fetch a vase. At the table, Arthur is silent, and Ariadne has her arms wrapped protectively around herself. The tension is thick, and Eames stands, rubbing the back of his head, unable to take his eyes from the package.
Finally Arthur speaks. "Julian . . . Jane wants to know."
"I see," he manages, not certain that he does. Shifting, Eames gives a sigh and looks from Arthur to Ariadne. "So. Are we . . . agreed on it?"
Arthur nods in his calm way; Ariadne gives a visible shiver, but she nods too, her happy mood gone. Eames reaches over and strokes her cheek, then turns to his Granny, squaring his shoulders.
"All right then. Arthur, Ari and I are a team, Granny. We work for hire, collecting information for clients about their competitors and enemies. The thing is, the information we extract isn't from their day-to-day lives; it's from their dreams."
There. It's said, and although he knows she'll need more of an explanation than that, it's the truth out in the open for the first time.
No one speaks for a long moment as Granny finishes putting the flowers in water. She sets them on the counter and turns, looking from one face to the other.
"You're corporate spies, then?"
Arthur shrugs. "Yes."
"And you work for businesses? Not the military or the criminals or the terrorists?" Granny asks in that quiet, quiet voice that Eames knows so well. This her most serious tone; the one she uses for praying.
Eames speaks up. "We choose our clients. No military, no criminals or terrorists. Simple corporate espionage."
Granny comes over to the table and sits down. She looks at Ariadne. "You went missing for a third of a year, Julian, and this girl's shaking like a leaf. Simple my backside! What sort of business is it that kidnaps people and leaves them starved and shell-shocked?"
"In this business, there are the good and the bad," Arthur tells her slowly. "There are risks, and among them is running into competitors who don't play by our rules, Jane. We were ambushed by those sort."
Granny reaches over to stroke Ariadne's shoulder. "Then they're right bastards, pardon my language."
"That they are," Eames growls in agreement. "And for all we know they're still out there."
"That's the problem," Ariadne finally speaks, her voice slightly shaky. "I'm scared. Scared to go under. I don't know if I can, anymore."
"Go under?" Granny asks.
"Dreaming," Eames explains. "Going into a shared Dream. Ari here builds whole worlds in there. Fantastic places, Gran, amazing things. Best architect I've ever worked with."
Granny nods. "And you, boy?"
Eames colors a bit. "Well . . . I'm sort of anyone in a Dream. I can make myself into key figures or important people, to help manipulate the target. And Arthur here, he's a bloody mastermind. Does the planning, does the interrogating—useful man, he is."
"And you do this how, exactly?" Granny looks at the package, "with this?" and Arthur nods.
"In this box is the machine that hooks us all up together so we share the same dream."
They all stare at the package for a long moment, and then Granny speaks, firmly.
"Show me."