Chapter Seven; Awkward and Sweet

a/n *teehee* My friend and I were considering Arthur's relationship with coffee.

In the end, it was as awkward as Arthur had speculated.

Ariadne had rushed into the bathroom again, red as a tomato.

And Arthur had stumbled through the Suite, desperately searching for the coffee maker.

Eames always mocked Arthur's addiction, but it couldn't be helped. While preparing for a job, Arthur rarely slept more then two hours a night, his brain was rushing, calculating the different possible ways things could eventually fall out. He always loved his coffee, but throughout every job, he was on a near-constant caffeine high. The week after, trying to come back down, was always hell.

And the way he had been preparing for the reunion was so similar to a job that he needed coffee now, or he was going to drop dead.

It took nearly five minutes, five minutes where Arthur was praying for a major disaster to kill him, until the coffee maker was found. He waited for it to finish brewing, and then triumphantly poured himself a cup and drank deeply. Then he murmured, "Thank you, God, for specifically induced, body chemistry altering, deliciously strong stimulants early in the morning."

Then he headed back to his suitcase and considered what to wear for the day.

Ariadne stared at her frazzled (but well-rested) reflection in the bathroom mirror. She listed all the reasons to dread the day, and knew she should start panicking. "Life. The reunion. McKayla. Harris Rupar, if he shows up. Sierra. The bet." But as she unbraided her hair, Ariadne allowed herself a minute of happy glow. After all, she had woken up this morning in Arthur's arms.

Then she tugged at her curls in dismay. Despite braiding her hair, the locks were tangled together and attempting kink, up into poodle curls.

"Oh no you don't," she growled, pulling out her weapons: a round brush, a heavy-duty straightener, and all the mouse her hands could hold.

By the time she came back out, hair in order, ready for the day, Arthur was similarly ready, with the exception of his face. Ariadne giggled when she took in the scruff on his normally smooth face. If she could get a picture, she knew she could get Eames to pay just about anything for it. (Knowing the forger, he would do some very specific and embarrassing editing, then blow it up and stick it up all over the walls of their next headquarters for a job.)

As if he knew what she was thinking, he held up her cell phone and camera in the hand that wasn't occupied by a cup of coffee. "You don't get to play paparazzi this morning. Sorry." Then he pushed past her and locked the door behind him.

...

"What's on today's agenda, love?" Arthur asked, as they rode the elevator down to the lobby.

Ariadne fought to focus on the helpful timetable for the reunion, and not on the warm fingertips whispering across the nape of her neck, the touch as gentle as a cobweb. And just as infinitely, absurdly distracting.

Then he was dropping his head on her shoulder, eyes scanning the paper she held, willfully ignoring the effect he had on he petite girl. He would tuck the moment away for future reference.

"An auction? That sounds interesting. Any idea what they'll have on display? Or will this be one of those white-elephant auctions that involve bidding on some mystery item, and it ends up being a toaster, or one-way tickets to Portugal?"

The only way she would be able to make an intelligible response would be if he moved to the opposite side of the elevator. So the question was; did she retreat across the tiny space and regain her ability to speak, or stay where she was, the heat of him at her back, and simply give up on communicating for the next few minutes?

It wasn't even a contest. Ariadne sighed, handed the paper to Arthur, and let her body lean back against the pointman's chest.

She felt the inaudible rumble of laughter behind her, making her shiver lightly, as a pair of Armani-clad arms slipped around her shoulders and and Arthur's lips brushed lightly across the side of her jaw.

It was only as the ride came to a stop, the doors sliding open to reveal the lobby, that the architect became aware of the shocked and covetous looks being shot her way by several of the other passengers of the elevator.

With a light heart, and a bubble of pure sunlight and joy fluttering around in her stomach, she prepared to meet what ever came for the day. She knew she still had a bet to win, and needed to convince her ex-classmates that she was more then they remembered. But right now, her overriding goal was to simply enjoy the day with Arthur.

...

Ariadne wandered through another section of items, alone. (Arthur has smiled, kissed her hand quietly, and then told her quite firmly that he was "not going to spend the next two hours gawking at jewelry" when he could be "getting intoxicated enough to actually bid on something".)

There were dozens of beautiful pieces, but nothing that had really caught Ariadne's imagination.

Then she saw something that seemed a little out of place.

It was an antique gold bracelet, heavy and round. Etched into the metal were looping, swirling vines and leaves. And, set in the design, shining and sparkling as tiny, blooming flowers, were ruby chips.

Something about the bracelet reminded her fiercely of the first time she'd used her gift to create a world in her own head. Why?

Then it dawned on her: the Cathedral.

That very first foray into her own mind, changing things, shaping and twisting until it was a paradise. But the pillar of her masterpiece was the Cathedral. She had spent weeks researching the most wonderful architecture from all over the world, and then did her best to combine her favorite bits and pieces, and ideas that came only from her, into one enormous, overwhelming building that radiated peace. It was her sanctuary from the world.

And her favorite part of the entire structure was the glass window, which the sun always shone through, illuminating the chapel in warm golds and brilliant reds. The panels were cut to show something she was sure had never been used in any house of worship prior to that moment: a Dreamer painting and sculpting their Dreams.

She wanted this bracelet.

Which was when a man came in and announced that the bidding for the accessories would begin in five minutes.

Ariadne pulled out the notepad she carried for ideas and copied down the lot number. Then she crossed her fingers and headed into the hall filled with chairs, and took a seat close to the front. She was well aware of her height, and she didn't want to loose that bracelet just because she was too far back.

Her eyes scanned the other people who walked in, taking their own places. All the eyes looked smooth, but she could see the predatory glint in several pairs that suggested they knew what they were doing and were used to winning.

Ariadne was tempted to hunt down and drag in Arthur. He was the type of person who must know how to conquer in a bidding war. But she didn't want to bother him if he was on his way to getting "sufficiently inebriated", especially about a piece of jewelry. Instead, she sat back, crossed her fingers and wished she felt as confident and powerful in the real world as she did in the dream.