7.

Arthur quickened his pace as he neared the café, eager to meet with Paris's latest tourist. The message had come out of the blue, but it was not unwelcome. Far from it, in fact. It was the best piece of news he had received in a while. It would be good to see a friendly face around town for once.

As he rounded the corner to the café, he caught sight of a familiar crop of dark blonde hair accompanied by a garish red shirt underneath a dark blue suit. He couldn't stop the small smile that crept onto his face as he approached the man sitting alone with a cup of coffee.

'I thought tea would be more to your liking,' Arthur smirked as he took the seat opposite.

'Please,' his friend scoffed. 'Just because your American taste buds can't tell the difference between Earl Grey and a cup of cold piss, doesn't mean we're all as ignorant. You should know by now I only order coffee outside of ol' Blighty.'

'Ah, true British wit.'

'You can't beat it.'

Arthur shook his head and beckoned the waitress over, who frowned as she awaited his order, clearly remembering him from earlier in the day. As though I'm not her most regular customer as it is...

'Un café latté, s'il vous plait,' he said, his French bearing only the smallest trace of an American accent.

The woman nodded and hurried off to sort out his drink as Arthur turned to find Eames watching him over the rim of his cup. He had a look in his eye that Arthur knew well – the one that betrayed his next wisecrack.

'Come on then, out with it,' Arthur prompted.

Eames simply smiled. 'I wasn't going to say anything.' Arthur's scepticism must have shown on his face, for the Forger shrugged. 'Oh okay, so I was. But I won't. I'll keep you guessing instead. It's so much more fun that way.'

Arthur sighed. Some things, it seemed, never changed. Yet for once he was glad of Eames's ridiculous quirks; perhaps it would take his mind off other, even more frustrating issues. Except, of course, that it wouldn't so long as he kept thinking about it...

I'm going around in circles, he thought irritably. Something's got to give sooner or later.

'Spill.'

'What?'

Arthur focused his attention back on Eames, wondering whether he had missed a part of the conversation somewhere along the line. The Forger waited until the waitress had handed Arthur his latté and wandered off to take somebody else's order before replying.

'Something's clearly bothering you,' he said as he drained the last of his coffee. 'I don't need to go into your mind to see that.'

Arthur should have seen it coming. If there was one thing Eames was good at – besides getting on his nerves most days – it was reading people's emotions, gauging their feelings based on the nuances in their body language. It was a gift, or so he liked to say.

'So you won't tell me whatever it was you were going to say, but I've got to spill the beans on my innermost thoughts?' Arthur lifted his cup to his mouth, taking care to sip it slowly as he got his thoughts in order. 'Besides, what makes you think there's something wrong?'

Bad move, he realised as Eames cocked one eyebrow at him, clearly readying a long spiel on just how good a Forger he was and how Arthur should know better than to question his judgements.

'Are you seriously going to take that line with me?' Eames shook his head. 'Do you not remember our conversation so many moons ago in the depths of dreamland on the intricacies of my job?'

How could he forget? It may have seemed like years ago to Eames, but for Arthur it was though it had happened yesterday – their decades-long search through Limbo, praying that Ariadne was not lost to them forever within the bowels of its raw, infinite subconscious. For her, of course, it was all too real. She relived it every night without fail. Had done for the past few weeks...

'Arthur, I think I know you well enough by now to see when something's up, even without being the best bloody Forger in the business. You don't spend half a lifetime with someone and not get that.'

Arthur breathed out a long sigh, knowing that there was no point in delaying the inevitable. After all, was that not why he had been so eager to meet his old friend? He could kid himself that it was to take his mind off his current problems, but deep down inside, was it not so that he could relieve himself of them? A problem shared...

'It's Ariadne, isn't it?' Arthur snapped his eyes up to look at the other man, narrowing them ever so slightly. 'I've never seen anything work you up so much as when it concerns her.'

He hesitated, wondering how far he should go, how much he should reveal. Eames was trustworthy, of that there was no doubt. He was also a good friend to them both. But would Ariadne appreciate such a private problem being discussed over afternoon coffee in the middle of a busy street with someone neither one had seen in nearly four months?

'Don't tell me you're having problems...you know? In that department?'

Arthur spluttered into his cup, nearly choking on the hot liquid as he glared at his friend. 'For God's sake, will you keep your voice down?' he hissed. 'It's bad enough we're discussing this in public without you cracking stupid jokes like that.'

Again the Brit shrugged. 'Hey, I was being serious. It can happen. Not that I would know personally, of course.'

Arthur gripped the handle of his cup far tighter than he had intended, his knuckles turning white with the effort. If he had somehow forgotten the ease with which the Forger could wind him up, he was certainly being reminded of it now.

'No, that's not the problem, thank you very much,' he muttered.

'Good to hear it,' Eames replied with a quick grin. 'I never had any doubt about it, really.' He sat back in his chair, his hands resting behind his head as he studied Arthur for a few moments. 'So, what's really up then? If you don't want me to assume it's that, you'd better tell me quickly.'

This is getting ridiculous. He was beginning to wonder whether it had been a good idea to meet, after all. A problem shared is a problem halved ... but was it really?

'Okay, fine,' he sighed. 'Yes, it is Ariadne. She's ... not been coping too well since ...'

He trailed off, unwilling to voice what he was thinking. It was unnecessary anyway; Eames knew precisely what he meant.

'To be expected,' Eames said, stroking his stubbled chin with his hand. 'It was hardest on her, after all.'

'But it's only started recently. The nightmares – waking up in the night screaming, crying – and she won't ... she won't tell me ... '

Again Arthur's voice died in his throat. He hadn't meant to say all of that; the words had tumbled out of his mouth before he had a chance to stop them. And yet he didn't feel any better for it. So much for that age-old piece of advice.

'What do the nightmares involve?'

'I don't know!' Arthur exclaimed, as quietly as he could so as not to draw attention to himself. 'She just tells me everything's fine, that she'll work it out. She won't let me help her.'

But I promised ... all those months ago. How can I keep her safe from her own dreams? Unless ...

'Has she tried a psychiatrist?' Arthur shot him a withering look. 'Okay, bad idea. She wouldn't exactly be able to tell them everything they'd need to know. Something more discrete, then.'

If Arthur had not been so caught up with his own frustrating thoughts, he might have wondered at the ease with which they were now conversing. It was as though not a single day had passed since their time together in Limbo. There was no need to fill in all the details; they could read between each others' lines easily enough. A skill that came with the job, no doubt, but also with a bond of friendship built up over years. Even if they were not real years. It still counted.

'You know, there is one way we could find out what's going on,' Eames said, his voice barely above a whisper as he leant closer to Arthur across the table. 'But I'm not sure you'll like it.'

'Just tell me.'

At this point Arthur was desperate enough to try whatever methods presented themselves to him. If it would help Ariadne overcome whatever trouble she was having, he would give it a go. He watched as Eames reached down under the table and pulled an all-too-familiar silver briefcase onto the table. Arthur felt his heart skip a beat as he realised his friend's plan. He shook his head, silently disagreeing, unable to voice his disapproval.

'I told you I had a surprise,' Eames said, tapping the side of the PASIV case. 'I thought you might be missing it. Besides, I already have my own. This one's been gathering dust since I last offered it to you.'

'My answer's the same,' Arthur said gruffly. 'We promised ... no more Dreaming. Not after last time. It just ... isn't worth the risk.'

'Are you sure about that? Looks to me like your life has become pretty dull. Even the waitress was surprised to find you here for a second time in one day.'

Again Arthur shook his head as he rubbed his forehead with one hand. He couldn't, no matter how badly he wanted to. He would eventually stop missing it, would be able to get over the withdrawal effects he was clearly suffering from. Whether from the Somnacin or the Dreaming itself, he would combat them. For her sake.

'Do you have a better plan right now?' Eames asked, hitting Arthur right where he knew it would hurt the most; Arthur said nothing, only fixed his stare on the silver case between them. 'No, I didn't think so.'

'I can't. Not only because I promised myself I wouldn't, but ... it would be betraying her trust. She'll tell me what's up when she's ready. What right have I got to barge into her dreams?'

'What right did any of us have? And when has that ever stopped us?'

'It's completely different,' Arthur snapped. 'I won't risk my relationship just to satisfy my own curiosity.'

But it was so much more than that, and they both knew it. The fear that something terrible would happen sooner or later, that she would be forced to relive whatever horrors she was going through again and again never left him. It dwelt side-by-side with his daily tedium, reminding him every day of what they had to put up with. Ariadne might be able to forget about it whilst at college, but he had nothing – nothing to distract him.

'It's too dangerous,' he reasoned, though whether it was to himself or Eames, he was not quite sure. 'It's not something we're used to. Extractions, even Inception, sure. But fixing somebody's subconscious problems? A dream psychiatrist? It's absurd.

'Perhaps not,' Eames muttered, looking around to make sure nobody was listening in before continuing. 'I might know someone who can help. She's brilliant, a proper, legitimate psychiatrist who was hired by the army to help war vets get over their mental trauma and reintegrate into normal life. They trained her in Dreaming so she could get to the heart of their problems. Worked wonders, so they say.' He paused to allow Arthur to take in everything he was saying, if it was even possible. 'I could get her here in two days tops. She doesn't come cheap, but then that's never been a problem. And she's very discrete. Wouldn't breathe a word of it to anyone, I promise.'

Arthur frowned as he considered the Forger's words. 'And how exactly do you know this woman?'

The last thing he was expecting was the sad smile that passed over his friend's lips.

'Let's just say, I spent a good deal of time with her a few years back.'

And that was it, not a word more in explanation. Arthur felt it was rather odd – not to mention hypocritical – for Eames not to divulge more, but was respectful enough not to pry. Whatever it had been, it had clearly not ended happily.

'So, what do you say? Are you willing to give it a go, for Ariadne's sake?'

Arthur drained the rest of his coffee and placed the cup back onto the table. He looked around him, at the old lady cycling past on her even older bicycle; at the two students laughing at a nearby table as they sipped their own drinks and conversed in rapid French; and lastly at the silver case still resting between them, the proverbial elephant in the room that he had so far refused to acknowledge. The irony of the last thought was not lost on him.

'I'll think about it,' he muttered.

Eames smiled and nodded his head, sweeping the briefcase off the table as he pulled out a handful of Euros. 'That's all I wanted to hear.'

A/N: Hello all! So I felt like writing again tonight and ended up with the next chapter. I haven't got time to proofread it, so sorry if there are any errors in it, or if it just plain sucks! It's a little longer than the others - perhaps a little too long - but there. I hope it's passable anyway!

The idea might not be entirely novel, but it was something that occurred to me from the beginning when I was considering writing a sequel. It'll be almost completely different to 'Fallout' (which is what I wanted anyway) and could flop spectacularly, but here's to hoping otherwise! I'll get the next chapter up when I get some time away from essay writing and lesson planning. :)