"So this is what early looks like," Ariadne said as Arthur led her to a cab out front. The driver and Arthur packed the trunk as Ariadne looked around the shady morning, a dress bag carrying her maid-of-honor dress draped over her arm and a pastry and coffee in her hands. The small hotel was still asleep, and there weren't many guests leaving at this time. Arthur and the cab driver seemed to make a lot of noise simply scuffling the walk to pack the car.
She took a sip of her coffee and a bit from the Danish she grabbed at the breakfast counter, and she looked over at a sleepy Arthur coming round the car. He walked over to her, and she handed him the cup, which he sipped gratefully. He asked for a bite of pastry too before sipping again.
"You know you can stay later and leave when you're more awake, right? I'm a big girl, I can manage the rail system back to Paris on my own."
Arthur took another bite and nodded. "I know." She chewed the inside of her lips and watched him as he ate. "Ready?" he asked, mouth slightly full.
Ariadne took a bite from the top, right where he just took one. She nodded and followed him into the car.
Sam and Liz's visit seems importune now that Arthur has more work to catch up with—Saito was not very happy with Arthur's impromptu Thanksgiving plans—but Arthur doesn't say anything because what should've been a vacation during Sam's spring break was pushed back to his winter break due to Arthur's misguidance after Ariadne's removal from Paris. He already lost uncle points with hardly being there.
Arthur had thought that he would leave on Saito's job offer sooner than expected and preemptively called it off, much to Sam's disappointment and Liz's disapproval. Instead, Uncle Arthur planned a new trip for the coldest time of the year.
Smooth.
So Arthur has a week before Liz and Sam are over for their visit, and he throws himself into research and back into the dwindling work for Saito.
The break from the businessman was less to be desired for Saito, and Arthur didn't make it any better when he told him that he only had a week before he had to take another break again.
"It seems to me, Arthur," Saito said over the phone, "that you're trying to tell me something."
Arthur didn't reply, actually unsure of what reply would be best at this moment, but Saito didn't wait for him to say anything.
"Does it ever astound you how old your soul is?"
Arthur paused at the question, taken aback by the turn of conversation. Of course, he felt it, almost every day he felt it, but he had forgotten about Saito's experience in the inception job. Saito was lost in limbo for God knows how long. Cobb later told him how aged the businessman was when Cobb found him. Years lost, truly encapsulated in a reality you begin to feel real. It was worst for Saito, who, without the experience, probably lost himself sooner, rather than later.
The experience didn't change him, or so it seemed. Saito took advantage of the division, continued to employ extractors and even Arthur to do a lot of dirty work for his corporation, but Arthur assumed the aggressiveness came as a result of seeing one's life pass for so long.
"I feel old Arthur," Saito went on, and for the first time, Arthur began to pick up on the weariness of the man's voice, a stark contrast to the razor-sharp businessman who hired Cobb and him years ago. "I feel it, but I know I don't look it. I know that I still have this life, but for what?"
Arthur began to see that he wasn't really necessary in this conversation and remained silent.
"You've been at it longer, but you haven't seen where I've been. I wouldn't wish it on anyone, but Cobb knows. Cobb remembers…"
A place where Ariadne, Cobb, Mal, Saito, and even Fischer have been, but not Arthur. He was never part of that club. He couldn't imagine being there as long. He touched his totem in his pocket.
"It may seem odd, but I've looked at this opportunity as a second chance at life," he said almost wistfully. "Not many people get a second chance like this, and while I may not be doing good works or trying to be a better person, I am doing what I wanted. I'm leaving a legacy. I'm making my name known."
Either out of dramatics or reflection, Saito faded off, and Arthur wasn't sure if he should break the silence or embrace it. On tender hooks, he waited.
He lived hundreds of lives before. He carelessly threw away some of those lives, sure in the idea of their fallibility, sure in his own resilience once he woke up.
"So what is it that you're after Arthur?" Saito asked, calling him back. "Cobb had his children to go home to, but what about you?"
Arthur didn't really like the turn of the conversation. It was against his business principles and against his own. Despite working for him for years, Arthur didn't feel like he knew Saito. He felt this uncomfortable notion that Saito had been waiting for him to crack all these years, as if it were just a matter of time. "I'm not so sure yet, sir," Arthur replied dutifully.
Saito laughed. "We can't all expect the same comfort like a family waiting for us when we return, but I think you need to figure that out."
That comment cut Arthur more than he could admit. "I certainly hope I will," he remarked.
"Good. Good." Arthur imagined Saito nodding along as he spoke, probably facing his large window in his office on the top floor. "Keep in touch Arthur. I wish you all the best, truly," he seemed to add for good measure.
And as the words hit the point man, he suddenly was on his feet, his mind reeled. "Wait. Are you firing me, sir?"
"Well," Saito explained like he was debating with himself, "you get severance if I fire you. It is better this way."
Arthur couldn't help but feel offended. "I fail to see how firing me shows that."
Saito laughed, believing that Arthur was kidding. Arthur did his best not to scowl. A scowl could be heard on the phone, he knew. "Look at it this way, you have more time now to figure out what it is you want to be doing."
Arthur grimaced. "You're teaching me a lesson aren't you?"
"I found that you and Cobb best responded to challenges," Saito explained. "I'd call it a challenge if anything."
Arthur sits in front of his computer reading an e-mail and another. He takes out his black Moleskin and adds a few more to-do's on his list before replying back quickly.
He responds better to a challenge, that's true.
"Ready Ariadne?"
Ariadne looks up from her draft table at Sibyl and Paul near the door. She waves them off, telling them she'll be thirty minutes more and meet them down at the pub soon. They scoff and poke fun before leaving her to her own devices.
Almost a year. She's been here for half a year at least, and she can't believe the work she's done.
Rebecca and Louis came to visit on a few weekends, meeting her coworkers, inspecting her apartment, seeing her favorite haunts. The first weekend there, they spent it playing tourist, walking through the National Gallery, taking photos near Buckingham, and visiting the Eye.
Walking to see the famous Van Eyck, Rebecca grabs Ariadne's arm. "You're happier," she told her friend, and Ariadne looked up from her map to smile in return.
"I am."
"Who would've thought that you'd leave Paris? I'm pretty sure I voted you most likely to stay."
"Yeah, well if I married a Frenchman too, then maybe I would have," Ariadne quipped.
"It's not too late. Louis has cousins."
Ariadne rolled her eyes. "Yeah because that's what I need. A long term relationship on top of my work."
Rebecca consulted their museum map before leading down another room. She spoke after a moment, "You're not going to let it consume you, are you?"
Ariadne held in a scoff at that. "What? The hypothetical long-distance relationship? No. You see, it's handy to have because I can ignore it when I want."
Rebecca's face grew serious. "Ariadne."
"Actually, I got kind of lost trying to contrive that joke," she admitted, "what were you talking about?"
"Your work, consuming you," Rebecca prompted.
"It won't."
Rebecca looked skeptical and Ariadne reassured her in broader terms as they made their way towards the small room where the famous wedding painting sat.
"I'm sorry," her friend spoke. "I'm just worried about you."
"You're married, of course, you're worrying about someone."
"No really, Ariadne. I can see you letting work get to you," Rebecca went on. "When I call you're still sketching or making calls, you're always busy. You never really seem to do anything else."
"It's fine."
"What about friends? What about leading a life outside of your draft table?"
"I have friends," she insists.
Rebecca looked at her critically. "What happened to Arthur?"
And Ariadne tried her best to make her face look blank. "I don't know. We just, petered off. When I went to Paris, he wasn't even there. For all I know, he's left." She looked down at her museum guide, an already dead giveaway.
"Do you miss him?"
Ariadne had thought of that tons of times. Had she missed him? She missed him that time she got lost around Leicester Square and that time she went to Hyde Park. She certainly missed him that time she went to Paris and found him gone for an unknown amount of time.
"Of course I miss him," she said, unable to deny that at least. She breeched a look at Rebecca, who had a careful, sympathetic look about her as she reached out for Ariadne, then pulled away.
"What happened during your stint at my wedding?" she asked, and Ariadne, despite herself, replayed snap shots of the evening in her head: their dance, walking back to the hotel, the kiss in the hallway, Arthur telling her he didn't want to try…
Ariadne shrugged. "Nothing. We just went on a hypothetical date and he walked me to my room."
Rebecca rolled her eyes at that. "Yeah because that isn't completely adorable."
"It was what it was," Ariadne said, turning away and trying to focus on the large oil painting in front of them, "and you were right. There's no coming back from it when it happens."
"Do you wish it never did?"
Ariadne studied the tiny mirror in the back of the room between the couple, squinting to make out the artist. "Sometimes, yes."
Sam and Liz have been there for three days with Arthur showing them around the city in the same way Ariadne had shown him. There are the main points like Notre-Dame, the Latin Quarter, the Seine, the Louvre, and now the Père Lachaise Cemetery.
How odd it seems to even think about the time when he hardly knew how to play tourist and here he was showing his family around like an expert. Most of what he knew of being touristy was the trip Ariadne had made for him years ago, and he follows her formula, saving the Eiffel for later, when Sam and Liz have gotten used to the pace.
They're curious, extremely curious, not only for tourists but because of Arthur's lifestyle before. Moving around from place to place, Liz was desperate to see how Arthur comported himself with domesticity, and Sam just wanted to see what sort of place was better to settle in than New York. The food alone, Sam decided was enough to make him want to stay.
As New Yorkers, they had a quick agenda and low patience level for certain things, like waiting for food at cafés, but Arthur idled even more because of them, prolonging his meal or his enjoyment at their destinations. It was funny to see Sam itch to keep going or Liz stifle a look at her watch, before Arthur gave in and allowed them to leave. It was funny to see it from this perspective, and he wondered if this was how everyone felt when he was the one who always itched to leave, always prepared to go on the next job, couldn't stay for the next holiday or weekend.
He wondered if this was how Ariadne felt every time he left her.
Despite the cold, Sam and Liz soldier through the cemetery, over the haphazard cobblestones and even venturing amidst the maze of tombstones. Sam's looking at the Plexiglas now covering Oscar Wilde's monument with confusion, walking around, and Arthur does a quick survey, seeing if that taffy wrapper survived this new addition. "So, when do I meet her?" Liz asks, sidling up to him.
Arthur looks up, eyebrows in the air. He shoves his hands in his pockets to face his sister. "Who?"
Liz doesn't miss a beat. "The girl you've been seeing."
"I haven't really had time to see anyone, Liz," he replies. "And wouldn't you think you've seen her by now if I had?"
"Well what about Ariadne?" she asks, and Arthur tries to remember what exactly he's told his sister about Ariadne, but the impish, patient smile on her face lets him know that he didn't need to in the first place.
It's mute to insist, but he does anyway. "We're just friends."
"Right, because friends decide to live together in Paris."
"We weren't living together," he corrects, turning to the stone itself.
"But you like her?"
Arthur doesn't say anything, but he searches the lips on the stone, trying to discern shapes and shades, heights from the ground to find hers.
A large smile grows on her face. "Arthur, have you told her?"
Arthur's been busy writing with Liz and Sam. He hasn't had time to focus on anything else.
Liz sighs, exasperated. "Arthur, you're an idiot."
Arthur runs his hand over the Plexiglas, looking. "I already know it, Liz."
"How long has this been going on?"
Arthur stops to think about it. "Five years?" He stops to think some more.
"You've been dancing around this girl for five years? And she stayed on for that?"
"To be fair, for a portion of that, she was seeing someone I set her up with," Arthur points out, still studying the tomb.
Liz gives another exasperated exhale, and Arthur looks at her over his shoulder to make sure she hadn't passed out from over dramatics. "When's the last time you talked to her at least?" she asks.
"Friends don't do that to one another Arthur, and it sounds like you really cared for her. You freakin' settled in her city for goodness sake. Where is she now?"
"London."
"Do you think it was your inability to commit?"
"What do you mean? I moved here didn't I?"
"But you did everything in your power to push her away."
"For her benefit," he points out.
"You cut yourself so short, thinking that staying here wouldn't be for her benefit."
"Why Liz," he says, smiling, "that's almost a compliment."
But she's quick to bring him down. "Shut it."
And Arthur laughs at his sibling's dower face. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She doesn't join in and he sobers. "What?"
"Look, Arthur. She sounds amazing. It sucks that you couldn't keep her."
The building jolts slightly, as if thunder had hit nearby, and Ariadne flinched on the couch.
"What's happening?" she asked, moving.
He looked ahead, studying the expression's on the projection's faces as they turned to him. "Cobb's drawing Fischer's attention to the strangeness of the dream, which makes the subconscious look for the dreamer," Arthur explained neatly, "for me."
It was impulsive and his voice didn't change as he said it, his body didn't flicker and almost commanded her to do it. "Quick, give me a kiss."
He'd be lying if he said he was surprised she did it.
He'd be lying if he said that he didn't plan it that way.
Of course, he noted, she leaned in first.
Ariadne looks up. "What?"
"I'm actually really surprised that you and Arthur never," Tom starts, gesturing slightly with a sweeping wave of his hands across from her. Her takes a long swig of coffee after he makes this claim.
"Oh," Ariadne says picking it up quickly and looking down at the ceramic handle she runs her thumb against. "We did."
"Disastrous?" Tom asks.
"No," she says after a moment. "We dated for twelve hours and decided it wasn't for us."
"That sounds very certain for hardly trying at all."
Her voices holds warning over her coffee mug. "Tom."
"What? There were times when I questioned if we were the ones dating or if it was you and Arthur." He laughs a little and takes another drink and Ariadne doesn't feel embarrassed or angry at his tone or the lackadaisical way he refers to their relationship. That sense of dread that happened when she was leaving her apartment—she wasn't sure what to expect from Tom, hoping that this coffee wasn't going to be bitter—wasn't there. Tom always had that talkative quality that put everyone at ease. He matched his profession that way, because Ariadne was never sure how you could resist Tom's loquacious charm without feeling at ease and wanting to talk more too.
"Was it that bad?" she asks, a little self-consciously.
Tom shrugs but his voice is heavy with thought, and Ariadne doesn't look at his face. Anywhere but there. "I felt oddly competitive with a guy who was hardly there for you," he explains.
Ariadne thinks of the complete overall truth of this comment. "Yeah, well, I'm starting to realize that that's what he does," she says, hardly hiding the slight bitterness in her voice, and she knows that Toms picked up on it.
"I'd hate to say I told you so, but—" Toms stops himself and leans forward. "Did I tell you that I'm going to start covering some of the music festivals up north?" He asks, apparently thinking the better of that first thought, and Ariadne wants to slug him.
"What were you going to say?"
"North? A few of the festivals up north. I'll get to talk to some of the bands behind stage and get to see their sound checks, which is pretty cool…"
"No. Tom. Stop. You said you'd hate to say you told me so, but what, Tom?"
Tom sighed. "Ariadne, you know your own mind. Like it or not, even when you don't feel sure of yourself, you already know what you want. And while I wasn't the lucky one to fall in that category, I can't help but feel that Arthur is."
She doesn't say anything.
"I'm sure that whatever story you guys have is cute, but you both have a propensity to push people, in what you think is the best place for them, and for you two, it seems to be away from one another."
A few weeks before Thanksgiving, Ariadne headed back to Paris, riding on the two-hour train ride, she curled up into her coat, vaguely aware of the woman reading that fashion magazine near her.
She thought about calling Arthur ahead of time to tell him, but they had fallen out of contact. That last post-card, unanswered, was like a shot in the dark. She was embarrassed at the reverberation, dumb to be holding the smoking gun, but she justified her decision in sending it anyway.
"You have to want to be pushed for me to push you," she points out defensively.
"Yeah, well you guys are self-serving and mistaken."
Ariadne took a taxi from the train station, looking at her city with new eyes and sentimental longing. The bridges, the winding city, the architecture were familiar and brought up memories like a flipbook of photos how familiar everything was. She rested her head back to enjoy everything flying by the window.
She had business in Paris. It was odd to be back, true, but it was doubly so because of her errand. Despite the fact that this move was in all intents and purposes, permanent, Ariadne had no time to sell her place properly, so instead, she sublet it to an American couple, who wanted to stay for a vacation or a mid-life crisis. With the year almost up, and Paris, as it is want to do, having won them over, they wanted to discuss a more permanent solution. Ariadne had plans of her own and the couple's desire not only took her Paris apartment off her hands but also relieved her of any ties that may exist here for her next move.
Everything was settled pretty easily with the building's owner and the couple, and Ariadne walked out of the building, clutching her coat closed, and puling a hat on as she surveyed her next move.
Out of sentimentality, she purchased a ticket for later that evening, and without an apartment to lounge in, she had her old haunts—Rebecca having gone to the States for a proper Thanksgiving with Louis and her family—to turn to or…
Ariadne took the familiar route to his arrondissement, to his building. She buzzed the door for entrance, a few times, checking her watch. She tried calling, but her calls were met with static. Finally, a neighbor, one who knew her by sight, exited and Ariadne took a step back.
He was a rotund man who always carried a paper bag of crime novels around. Ariadne remembered that she helped him once pick them all off the stairs when he had a terrible run in with a dog owner on the landing. He looked at her cheerfully, holding his paper bag against his hip, he greeted her, and Ariadne replied in kind.
When she told him of her predicament, he looked a little lost, before explaining the last time he had seen Arthur: early one morning with a suitcase and a good coat on. He had asked in passing where he was off to, and Arthur waved him off with a quick good-bye and that he would be gone for a while. Ariadne frowned during the entire exchange but thanked him for the information before she headed out.
"He left," she explains to Tom. "He left without telling me," is the constant reminder in her head as she thinks about the hurt that overcame her when she realized, standing before a stranger she realized.
She felt embarrassed and foolish and hurt and cheated, and she plastered a tight smile onto her face before she wished him a good afternoon. She headed off from the stoop, grateful that this blunder could be kept to herself.
"What are you talking about?" Tom asks a little impatiently.
"I had to settle my sublease in Paris last month. He left again."
Tom listens patiently, sipping his coffee with graceless laziness in his hunched shoulders. "Well," he says thoughtfully into his cup. "He didn't know he was supposed to stay."
Her lips left his and she looked around wildly, studying the projections as they faced her, boldly.
"They're still looking at us," she said.
"Yeah. It's worth a shot," she heard him agree flatly, and at that she looked at him through the corner of her eyes, wondering. She met his sly expression.
Arthur didn't hesitate. "We should probably get out of here." And he was already up from the seat, leaving her to watch him for a moment, sneaky bastard.
She feels slightly used and cheated and hardly worth caring about as she sits on her couch in a big cardigan and sweat pants.
He's broken her heart before. She never dared admit it to herself, but she understands now what it meant when he left that first time without saying a word, just finding a note. She realizes now what it was that bit at her patience when she remembered waking up to find everything so neatly piled onto her couch.
It's that same feeling of being left and forgotten, not considered. Only that first time, she had reassurance. She had contact and he would come back. He'd want to be with her. She convinced herself that he did it because she understood this lifestyle and she accepted it because he was Arthur, but now she wonders if that was right anyway.
Complaining of his leaving that time, telling him that she didn't mean to but she loved him seemed a danger to their relationship. So when he settled, when her heart grew at his plans for growing roots near her, she told herself it was because it was Paris and that it won him over, that he wanted to settle there because he felt home in the city, and because she was a good friend, who understood where he came from, no questions asked.
That small inkling saying that it was more egged her on to stop herself from giving Tom an answer, it made her walk to several shops to look for the perfect accoutrements for his new home, and it egged her on to kiss him that night in his bed.
She told him to stay in Paris, to enjoy life, finally, rather than move around again because she could tell that that was what he wanted most, stability, reliability, and stasis. Her first clue was the fact that he kept on with Saito, always a food in the game if needed, an escape route visible when he had to jump ship.
He was already talking about taking the job the night she left. Worst off, she realized that he wasn't going to tell her about it anyway.
When he readily agreed to the 12-hour relationship, she knew it was because he didn't want ties elsewhere. She knew that he wanted to try to settle down properly.
But it hurt to realize that he was actually fine with leaving.
He just didn't want to leave with her.
They rode the elevator up to the fifth floor. Arthur looked down at her from the side, not facing her entirely. He wondered if they should talk about what just happened. If he should explain himself, but Ariadne remained silent and straight forward the entire way.
He wanted to say something, but he knew that he shouldn't make a promise he can't keep.
Sam, Liz, and Arthur rifle through the open crates outside the used bookstore. Liz has her head in a bin with thick recipe books with crusty covers and dated women on the covers. Sam's near a general section, flipping through what appears to be a French novel. And Arthur picks up old copies of classics, running his hands over the spines and admiring the aged binding, when Sam comes up to him, a French book held aloft.
"Do you know how to read this?" he asks.
Arthur takes it and flips through, picking up a few phrases here and there. "Are you looking into taking French?" he asks, handing it back to his nephew. Sam shrugs, accepting the book.
"I like it here," Sam says. "I should probably know the language before I move, right?"
Arthur considers his nephew for a moment, his age against the seriousness with which he takes this novel on. Throughout the trip, he's taken more in than a normal kid certainly would. Paris isn't the sort of place Arthur figured a kid would enjoy anyway, but Sam's been gung ho about the museums and the walking, even more enthusiastic about the food. Then again, considering Liz being his mom, Arthur can understand that.
"And what would you do here?" Arthur asks.
Sam shrugs again, somewhat discomforted by the close questioning Arthur can tell. "Well, what are you up to here?"
"Whatever my boss tells me, but many financial boring stuff."
Sam starts to pick at the same bindings that Arthur just was. "But you like it?"
Arthur laughs. "It's work."
"So you don't like it," Sam fixes. He turns to Arthur. "If you don't like it, then why do it?"
Arthur shrugs. "It's a job. I used to like it, but it's turned into something different."
Sam nods along to this, understanding apparently. "Mom had that at one of the restaurants she used to work for. She quit after six months because she said that it made what she loved about work."
"Yeah, well, you're mom's a chef in one of the best restaurants in Brooklyn. It worked out."
"Yeah, but it didn't for a while. I asked her later on why she did it, because she started to worry about money every once and a while—" Sam stops suddenly to look at Arthur, probably realizing that he over spoke. "Mom didn't want you know that," Sam says a little meekly.
Arthur nods, feeling guilty. "I can always help if it does, but I understand," Arthur replies, looking at Liz, who now held five large cookbooks in one arm.
"But she said that she did need to care about me," Sam continues, "and I told her that I just wanted her to be happy. She found work at similar places until she could find a better job, something to make her happier." Sam stops. "She found it now."
"I think it's a rare case when something like that can happen."
"Yeah," Sam agrees. "But mom says that it wasn't just by chance. She said she had to find it." Sam looks at Arthur. "Will you buy this book for me?" he asks, holding the French novel up.
"Are you going to learn French?" Arthur asks a little dubiously.
"I could learn French," Sam offers. He flips through the book, testing words aloud with a broken, obvious accent. At Arthur's amused expression, he stops and holds it up. "I would like to learn French." He pushes the book towards him. "You could help me with my French," he suggests, the persuasion growing by each comment.
Arthur can't help but laugh at the kid as he grabs the book. "Fine, but one day in the future, you're going to read me a chapter in this and translate."
Sam's too preoccupied with the purchase and nods along as Arthur leads him to the register.
The conversation reminds Arthur of one he had with Cobb when he visited.
"What is it you're up to now anyway?" Arthur asked Cobb as he sat at the table, a charted schedule pulled up and a list of books on his open Moleskin before him. When his friend looked up from the stove, Arthur closed everything to give Cobb his undivided attention.
Cobb dried his hands on a dishtowel and turned to face him, leaning against the counter. "Small work here and there. I still have some connections in the legitimate community, but it's mainly just small things to do. Money's certainly not a problem right now."
Arthur nodded at that. "But don't you miss creating? Building? It was your first love before everything happened," he couldn't help but point out and as his words hit the ex-extractor, he can see the definite confidence in Dominic Cobb, who doesn't hesitate when he pushes himself off the counter. He does fiddle with the dishtowel between both hands.
"I miss it, and I still love studying it," he admitted. "But when it comes to all of this, I know that I inevitably want to be here with my children, that helping them build their lives is what I want to do now."
"Who's that man I saw you talking to earlier?" Eames asks looking at the blue print design framed in front of them. They stand in a gallery like setting in front of a wall as people walk along, mingling and with glasses of champagne or cocktails nearby.
Ariadne holds a champagne flute in one hand as her arm curls around her midsection. She slouches slightly in her chiffon cocktail dress. Despite the v-neck, she doesn't think too much about the proper way to stand. "Tom?" she asks, turning in the direction Tom had wandered off to. "He's an old friend from Paris."
Eames continues to look at the blueprint. "American?"
Ariadne's wrist is limp from the champagne flute, and she gives Eames an annoyed look that he misses, before she flicks her wrist as if to wave off his diffidence. "He's an old friend from Paris who came from America," she explains, before taking a sip.
"Ahh, rekindling old flames, are we?" he asks with that genuine sliver of mischief that Eames carries with him. Ariadne makes a sour face.
"It's not like that. Those flames have long gone," she says with more annoyance than intended. She takes another sip.
"Did Arthur like him?" Eames ventures and Ariadne looks over at Tom talking to Sybil near a conceptualized drawing of their plans for the building.
"He was okay with him, but you know Arthur. You have to pry out any emotion other than the expected one sometimes."
Eames' face is passive. "That's true. Have you spoken to him in a while?" And Ariadne's ears pick up on the forced question, the curiosity.
"I am truly surprised as to why people just keep asking me about him."
"Aren't you two bosom buddies or something?"
"More like acquaintances now." She sips her champagne. "I haven't spoken to him since I left France."
"You see, it's funny," he begins, facing his feet fully on her. "There are these really nifty gadgets where everyone's assigned a series of numbers, and when one calls those series of numbers, you can reach a specific person over large distances."
Ariadne rolls her eyes. "Shut up Eames. We just lost that connection. It's what happens."
"Now, that is where I'd have to disagree my dear Ariadne. Things don't just happen. They happen because we make them, or in your case, we let them happen."
"I resent the fact that this has to be all my fault."
"Well, Arthur's not here for me to talk to, you are," Eames says patiently, tucking his hands into the pockets of his trousers.
"Why do you care anyway Eames?"
Eames looks off for a moment before retuning to face her. "Because, like it or not, Cobb, Miles, Arthur, they're sort of like my family, maybe not the most traditional family—we don't spend holidays together—but we have been through a lot together. And despite his condescension and rigidity, I don't want him to end up like Cobb."
"Cobb's happy," Ariadne points out.
"He's happy now," Eames corrects. He takes a moment. "You never asked why I took on the inception job." Ariadne doesn't rebut, so Eames continues, "Sure it was the thrill, the fact that I knew Cobb could do it, and the money, but I also knew that Cobb possibly found a ticket home. And I was damned if I wasn't going to help him."
Ariadne doesn't know what to say. She sips her champagne to buy her some time. Eames was always the lackadaisical one, the careless, free one, who was just in it for the adventure, she supposed. She hardly knew him, she realized. She hardly even broached the surface of his loyalty to Cobb or Arthur. Arthur, she knew, had known the Cobbs for a while. He even regrettably mentioned his history with Eames, but Eames was always aloof. Aloof and happy that way. She never saw to push further.
"You showed up in Arthur's dream once," he says, cutting into her thoughts.
She starts at this.
"We were subjecting a rookie to the ways of dream extraction, and our target was Arthur. He didn't know, of course, and to my surprise there was a projection of you. You carried this worn out gold key, which for some reason, Arthur didn't very much like us knowing about."
Ariadne stares at the forger, and before her, she sees Eames bottle up back into the Eames she knew best. He grins good naturedly.
"Do what you want Ariadne, but Arthur puts those he loves best before him. If he isn't saying anything, then it is for good reason."
"You've got your work cut out for you," Eames said, walking around her corner of the warehouse and looking at the photos and snippets of blue print ideas she posted under his name.
"Not as much as you," she replied from the model she was working on. "When do you leave for your new job?" she asked, looking up.
Eames turned around, hands in his pockets. "Tomorrow, and I'll have a bunch to do anyway with keeping up as a lawyer."
"Law? How will you fake that?"
Eames smiled to himself. "Confidence, my dear Ariadne, is key when taking on anything new. Take a look at yourself. No idea who any of us are, no idea what dream con can do, and yet, here you are, planning mazes and entering dreams as if you've done it all your life."
"I like to call it a leap of faith," she said, holding her exacto-knife up as she spoke.
"At least you tried," Eames said. "At least you let your curiosity get the better of you, which is more to say than—" Eames scowled in what she assumed was supposed to be Arthur.
"Why do you guys not get along?"
"Oh we get along. We just make it bumpier than necessary."
"Eames."
"I'm not sure. Arthur's condescending and rude, but I know I can work with him. I know I can count on him. He's saved my life too many times to count."
"And I'm sure you've saved his."
"Well, I wouldn't have a running total on hand, but I'd hate to watch him die. That is," he said with a smile, "if it suits me."
Sam was asleep on Arthur's bed, when Liz pulls up onto the couch next to Arthur. She has a glass of wine held between her two hands, her knees pulled up. "So why don't we go there?"
Arthur looks up from his laptop. His hands hover over the keys, trying to remember what he was saying. "What?"
His sister avoids his eyes as she drinks her wine, looking ahead at the glowing living room. She pulls her knee closer and sits back against the cushions, clearly satisfied.
He bought this couch with Ariadne from a shop only a few blocks away from her home. They spent the entire day scouring Paris for furniture stores, sitting on cushions, looking at chairs as if they were modern forms of art, tilting their heads this way and that, finding small judgments like the color, material, squashiness. They found this one on a whim. Arthur liked the deep brown color, but Ariadne disliked the comfort of leather.
He sat on it first, and she looked skeptical as he lounged, until he convinced her to try it, luring her with the promise of lunch. And she sat down, propping her legs up on the table before her, and she sank back into the cushions. He watched her through the edges of his eyes as she sighed, clearly satisfied.
"London," Liz says, taking a long sip from her glass. "She's over there, isn't she? Sam and I would love to see London."
Arthur turns back to laptop and closed it shut to replay that comment in his mind. London. Sam and I would love to see London. His sister appears serious over this suggestion, and Arthur grows slightly nervous at that. "Yeah," he replies that façade covering his features and voice, years of practice helping him. "Because bringing your sister to your declaration of love is exactly what I should do," he finishes sarcastically.
And Arthur knew that he made a misstep because of the glint in his sister's eyes, the slight tightening at the corner of her lips. Liz smiles knowingly.
He can't help it. "What?" he asks.
Liz takes her time, swishing her wine in her glass before turning to her brother. "So you love her?"
Arthur doesn't hesitate, propping his feet onto the coffee table, he brings his arms on top of his chest. "I've always loved her."
It's reminiscent of the old days, the days when she started at the idea of seeing him again, before she knew that her excitement and eagerness to talk to him meant more than she acted. Right now, standing in the waning light of the morning, a coffee in her hand as she reads the text.
And assesses her options. She doesn't have to. She's decided that she's over it. She's numb to the idea of him really. She's been this way for a while now and has come to terms with not knowing him anymore. If she saw him again it wouldn't matter, she decided.
But this tests her more than she thought she'd have to be tested. It's quintessential Arthur. The same way that he has to be buttoned up and his hair has to be slicked back. The same way he used to when he was still traveling and they were still friends.
And she can't deny that it's the same way for her in just reading the name of the sender. The same way that quintessential Ariadne is her scarf, her curiosity, her reply. It's almost against her better judgment really.
Sure. Let's meet.
She meets them at the train station, arms folded over one another as she stands and waits around King's Cross, amidst the busy travelers. She sees them immediately once the train's pulled in and she sees a slight easy difference about Arthur as he walks with his sister and nephew.
Despite the text request telling her in brief terms that he'll be in London for the afternoon and the fact that he's showing his family around, Ariadne cannot really fathom what exactly she was expecting when she saw him. Mentally, she prepares for playing cheery hostess of the city she's come to understand, but she wonders at what will actually come out.
Arthur meets her in a few strides, and she doesn't reach out for a hug like she would normally with anyone, even Arthur. Their greetings are quick and precise, and she studies Liz and Sam with curiosity, finding hints of Arthur in Liz's smirk, Sam's lifted eyebrows.
Liz takes Ariadne's hand cordially. "I'm sorry we just threw this on you," Liz says, and Ariadne appreciates her easy way of talking, how expressive her face is. "We wanted to stop by London on an afternoon while Arthur was working, but when he mentioned that he knew someone here, I coaxed him into coming. I hope we didn't ruin any of your plans?"
Ariadne smiles. "Not at all. I've been needing an excuse to step back from the drafting table for a while."
Liz's eyes light up. "You're an architect! A lot of Arthur's friends are architects, like Dominic? Have you met him?"
Ariadne looks at Arthur before replying she had, and Arthur suavely brings everyone to attention over their lack of plans. Either overwhelmed or completely disregarded, they name off a few places of interest without making a decision by the time they're out of the train station. So they attack London with less of a plan than Ariadne had shown Arthur Paris.
"How very un-Arthurlike," she can't help but point out, and she doesn't miss the look Liz sends towards her brother.
"This was a bit of a last minute decision," she admits as Ariadne notices the daggers coming from Arthur.
They decide on Platform 9 ¾ for Sam's benefit, and decide on walking to see Buckingham and Big Ben. The day's pretty sunny for it, the weather's still cold but bearable, and the walk seems appealing if only to see more along the way. Ariadne and Arthur start off, talking disjointedly about Liz's trip and what has he taken them to.
"Did you know that they put a plexiglass over the Oscar Wilde tomb?" he asks, describing their visit to the famous cemetery.
Ariadne gasps at that. "No!"
"Yeah, so you're lucky you lived to tell the tale."
"And you advised against it," she chides smugly.
"You did have a nasty cold that winter."
"Mm," she murmurs, unsure if she did or not. The conversation's light, breezy, cool as the weather they're braving, and Ariadne knows she can keep this up if she wants. She can let this opportunity go this way all day, but she also knows that she doesn't want to do that. They walk a bit in silence before Ariadne opens it up again. "Arthur, why did you guys come here so last minute?"
Arthur starts at that and sinks back down. For a moment, she wonders if he'll even say anything, but then he goes on, "Liz coaxed me into it. She wanted to see you actually."
She's genuinely surprised. "Me?"
"Yeah," he admits. "I've spoken about you enough that I think she wanted a picture to go with the stories."
"What sort of stories?" she asks, clinging to these words despite her better judgment.
"She wanted to see who abused me while I lived in Paris," he says turning to her with that same tight, jocular smile he always had. His eyes squint as he does so.
"That was your decision."
"To be abused?"
"To live in Paris."
Arthur faces forward. "Yeah, and it was your choice to live here," he goes on. "There's no harm in that." She's not certain what that means, but his choice of words bothers her.
After that, she doesn't press any further and conversation becomes more self-conscious. It should feel strained, and it does, yet Ariadne attempts to keep everything afloat while simultaneously avoiding anything more. They fall into quick silences, which take hard work to fight off. Even then, suggestions or new topics of discussion fall off after a few words as if they're living their e-mails, then somehow Ariadne falling in step with Liz as Sam marches forward eagerly.
Ariadne decides that she likes Liz. She's easy to talk to and has a matter-of-fact way of saying everything that Ariadne appreciates. She makes decisions without looking back and scolds Sam and jokes with him easily, handling the nine-year-old with apparent laissez faire care but keeping an eye on him at all times.
Ariadne falls into talking about New York with her, asking where she lives and what it's like. Liz asks about how long Ariadne's been living in Europe and where she's from and what she does. Ariadne takes an interest in Liz's cooking, asking about the restaurant she works at.
It's easy talk. Niceties anyone would ask, but Ariadne enjoys it, actually listening when Liz relates a funny store about the first time she made duck confit and how she always wanted to study in Paris.
"Which is why we've been trying to come over here for a vacation," Liz explained. "Arthur knew I've been dying to come here, but never really gave my self an excuse to come."
"So Arthur took you to Paris?" Ariadne asks.
"No, we're visiting him," Liz explains, perplexed.
"Oh I forget that he has an apartment there still," Ariadne works out.
Liz still seems confused. "No, he's been living there. I thought you helped him move in?"
Ariadne fumbles for an explanation. "That's right. I'm sorry. I thought Arthur had left after I had. He talked about it before, and well, we just haven't really kept in touch with each other since." She fumbles over her explanation before giving up on it completely.
Liz's face turns from confusion into pure understanding at this, and she nods as she speaks, watching Sam and Arthur lead the way out of the park. "He has a tendency to leave doesn't he?"
"It's all part of his job," Ariadne excuses with habitual weariness.
"A job that he doesn't really like to talk about."
Ariadne remains quiet, and Liz doesn't press it, though Ariadne can feel her eyes on her. "Look," Liz starts. "I know I've hated my brother for leaving us and ignoring us, but I don't think he does it to intentionally hurt us or that he really forgets us." Liz chews the words carefully before going on. "I think he does it because he thinks it's best for us. Do you know what I mean?"
Ariadne doesn't say anything.
"He's actually a pretty good guy," Liz continues. "When he cares for something, or is passionate about something, he's all there."
"I know," Ariadne says, watching Arthur and Sam run ahead to look at some of the birds hopping along the walk.
"I'm not sure that you get me Ariadne. I think that—"
And Ariadne turns to her quickly. "Look, this is really sweet of you to play wingman to him," Ariadne interrupts. "It's nice that he still has family he can turn to, and I'm happy for him if he finds that thing to make him feel settled but this is really unnecessary."
Liz doesn't say anything, and Ariadne worries over her hurt feelings then—
"Why?"
That's just a question of the decade isn't it? Ariadne's not sure why. She's not sure why she blurts it all out, only that it's been on her mind for the last few weeks. "I've had my feelings broken by him more times than I'd like to admit, and as much as people keep telling me that it's my fault for letting him go, I'm done."
Liz politely or awkwardly remains tight-lipped after that and leaves the subject alone, instead, talking about Paris and the food, what they've seen and where Arthur's taken them. She walks with Sam or Arthur for a good bit of the way, and Ariadne doesn't mind or feel self-conscious around her. She takes picture of all of them, posing in some herself near the gate at Buckingham Palace, and she wonders at these memories she'll be in when they look over these photos later. She would see a photo of a smiling version of her, facing the camera, standing in front of the landmark, but none of the worry or over-thought. She's tense around Liz for a while, but when nothing more is said, she relaxes. The subject's dropped for good it seems.
Of course, that's until they meander past the gates and towards the park, walking without plans. Liz stops suddenly. "Sam wants to go see the London Eye," she admits, holding her son in front of her, her chin on his head. He's a physical shield from the optical lasers Ariadne's beaming at her. "And I know it's a really long line, so I can take him, if you guys want to go off somewhere."
Arthur looks at Ariadne. "That works for me. I wanted to go see St. Paul's actually." He pauses slightly before turning towards Ariadne. "Do you want to go with me?"
Ariadne didn't. "Sure."
Arthur didn't understand what Liz and Ariadne had said to one another, but he did notice how Ariadne would look at him warily every once and while as they took photos near Buckingham Palace.
"Did you say something to Ariadne?" he asked Liz as Liz focused the camera on Sam near the gate.
Liz didn't reply right away, ordering Sam to pose in a certain way.
"Liz." Arthur's voice held warning, and he spotted Ariadne further off, looking at the statue of Victoria nearby.
"Great job kid!" she cheered, and she turned back to Arthur, "I did, okay?"
Arthur grimaced. "What happened?"
Liz physically looked tight lipped as she turned to look for Ariadne. "I'm not sure that you should talk to her."
"What do you mean? This was your idea."
"I know, but—Arthur what are you planning?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, that, whatever your plans for the future are, I think they can affect whatever Ariadne may think of you," she says uncertainly.
Arthur shakes his head as he replays the conversation over and holds the bar above Ariadne's head as the tube takes a sudden stop. The doors nearby swoosh open and people around them begin to disembark.
His plans for the future. He wonders again how or what his sister and Ariadne spoke of for Liz to back out. Liz, his champion in anything. He wonders if it's a sign that he should too.
"This is our stop," she reminds him, and Arthur nods, following the petite woman off the train.
"Mind the gap," a voice overhead advises.
He decides that he won't.
They make their way up the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral, up the winding stone staircase near the altar, past signs asking those with heart conditions to turn back, and up, up, up, towards the whispering gallery.
He wonders if she's remembering her own version of this, years ago, when they dreamed together, how she pieced the cathedral and the stones with flicks of her hands and turns of thought. Real life wasn't enough for her then, he remembers. Dom saw it in her that first time they dreamed together.
She orders him to one side of the oval and she sits on the other end far across from him along the bench lining the walls. She's a maroon and denim speck on the diameter line, and he waves. She responds, before turning to face the wall next to her.
He hears it clearly from the small hole that punctuates the stone near his right ear, he hears it as clear as day. "Hello! How are you?" she asks, cheerfully unaware.
He doesn't hesitate as he turns to it, freed to tell this and anyone listening. "I miss you," he tells her.
He watches from across the diameter as she sits down and faces him. He can't discern her expression, but from here, he sees her astonishment in her body language, her stiffness, her posture. She doesn't say anything after that.
"It was never a question of if, but of when wasn't it?" Dom asked once while Arthur busily typed on his laptop during his stay.
Arthur looked up from where he sat at the kitchen table. "What do you mean?"
Cobb shrugged, stirring a pot slowly, he tossed a kitchen cloth onto his shoulder. "You never had any scruples over her safety, over our jobs, or anything when you kissed her in that dream."
Arthur didn't say anything.
"I was too wrapped up to see it at the time," Dom said, more to himself than to Arthur. He looked up at Arthur's constant, flat expression. "Eames saw you."
Arthur looked back down at his laptop, his ears burning.
"Don't feel ashamed. You've seen worst with me and Mal."
"Dom, let's not talk about this please," Arthur said through gritted teeth. "I particularly don't want to reminisce on the time with you and Mal."
"It was sort of funny," Dom went on, and Arthur hated how comfortable Dom was with bringing up his dead wife despite it showing how comfortable he was with her absence. "But really Arthur, for you, it was never a question of it, but of when."
And Arthur kept typing, avoiding his friend, and blocking him out.
"And, in my experience," Dom continued. "When? It never just happens."
They sit on the steps of St. Paul's, pigeons and tourists mingling around them. The day is gray, gray, gray as typical as English days can get, despite the earlier sun. Promised rain has forced umbrellas in hands and galoshes on feet. Ariadne arranges her own umbrella in her hands, looping her wrist under the wooden handle and touching the end point onto the stair in front of her. She pokes the ground glumly.
"Arthur," Ariadne begins, turning her knees to face him. "I'm sorry—"
He stops her with a rueful smile. "It's fine, Ariadne. I didn't expect—"
"No. It's not that." He waits patiently as she struggles to find the words. "I need to tell you something." And for a minute, she can see Arthur's face hearten, but true to Arthur form, he keeps it bay, waiting for her to finish. She quickly adds. "We're friends. There's little in my life I find stable, and we're actually one of them, despite our yo-yoing back to one another. You've always been there for me, and I value that beyond anything else. I don't want to ruin that."
His whisper hit her like a ton of bricks, and at his request—"I think we should be together"—She felt immobilized by it. She just stared across the way, at the small speck with the slicked back hair. A small part of her told her to turn to the wall, to whisper right back that she'd go back one day, to appease him. Then another part, this small hidden part, she thought she was done with, won over and made her turn to the wall, the words ready on her lips before she could stop them. "Arthur, I'm sorry-"
And she heard it so clearly, the response so straightforward and matter-of-fact that she wasn't sure if this was properly Arthur or not. "We need to be together."
They walked outside in a daze, neither of them saying anything to one another until she took a seat on the steps a few feet away from other straggling tourists. "Do you remember when you stayed with me for two months?" she asks. Arthur nods slightly. "Saito had some jobs for you and you agreed to stay with me for a while." She doesn't wait for a reply from Arthur, already knowing that with his memory, he already knows. "I think I realized that I loved you then, but I never said because you left so suddenly, and all I had of you was a note." She exhales sharply.
"You left again Arthur," she explains. "At least I thought you left, around Thanksgiving, I went back. I had to settle the apartment, and when I went to visit you, I thought you left." The story's a jumble, but half of her is too self-conscious to even go back and fix it.
His voice is very strong but perplexed. "I went to visit Cobb."
And she's quick to correct herself. "I know. Liz said something that cleared it up."
She doesn't say anything more, but as the silence begins to come upon them, he clears his throat. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," she interjects. "It really is, because I also realized that I really could've ruined something so great as what we have right now." She clasps his hand in hers.
She feels his hands wrap around hers tightly. "Losing touch and finding one another again? We're not even talking to each other anymore," he says, and Ariadne flinches slightly at the bitterness in his voice. "What about stability?"
"We're not like that Arthur."
"We could be," he poses.
"We tried it before."
"A fake relationship doesn't really constitute as a try, Ariadne."
"Well, it's made us worst," she argues lightly. "We're not even speaking anymore." Arthur looks stoic, and Ariadne sighs. A breeze comes by and sweeps her hair to the side and she pulls a few strands out of her face. "Fine. How?"
She knows it before he even says it, "I'd come with you."
She scoffs quickly, "You know I wouldn't want that for you."
"Why do you think I chose Paris?" he asks a little angrily and she knows that he's done it without thinking.
Ariadne doesn't say anything, her heart feeling heavier despite her conscience being free. He loves her, she repeats over and over in her mind. She's dazed with this harbored emotion she desperately buried years ago. She's surprised and confused but extremely careful.
A part of her takes notes of everything for later.
That same part wants to know what later her would be doing. If she would be in her apartment alone or with Arthur, still talking.
His words bear down on her, bringing her back. His clasp on her hand is so tight, she can feel him will her to understand, but she understands it better than he does. She already had to bear it. "I really do love you," he says without strain on the words, allowing their meaning to rest on her.
"I know," she placates. "But, I've been hurt before, unintentionally, but it's still there."
"It was there because we didn't know about this before."
"Arthur, it was there because I was never sure of you," she goes on. "Why do you think I ended up with Tom and not you? Or why we had a twelve-hour relationship that didn't work out?" she asks, unintentionally allowing her bitterness to let herself get the better of her. She's already handled this before. She's already been better from it, and she realizes that it's incredibly unfair to even voice it like a punishment. She just can't hide the fact that she feels better about saying these words aloud.
"So I'm just supposed to give up because I failed some test I didn't know about?" Arthur shakes his head. "We never even talked about it Ariadne."
"Arthur, you were coming to my apartment when you were off of work, you had a key to my place. What else did that mean to you?"
"You invited me. You gave me that key. I never asked for any of that."
Ariadne can't hide the disappointment from her face at this and she sees Arthur retract. "What about the postcards?" she asks a little regrettably.
Arthur doesn't look at her at first. "I sent those—I sent them because I didn't know who else to write."
Ariadne's face fell further.
He reacts "This isn't going how I want it to go."
"No, I understand."
"You really don't."
"I'm sorry Arthur, but you stopped talking to me first," she points out. It's odd hearing the words you never really expected to but always wanted. It's odd rejecting them too. But she feels safe doing it. "You're the one who moved on first, and I just took the hint. I'm just not waiting around anymore." She can't hide the defense in her voice, that raw, unguided hurt that takes over in retaliation to all of this. Now. Of course, now he says these things.
Arthur's face blanks, and she can see that familiar calculation in his face, like the quiet before a crack of thunder. "It's not like that," he says without any sort of rise to his voice, just a simple statement of fact. It makes her curl up inside at her prods of anger. "We're supposed to be together," he decides, and Ariadne can't tell if he means to speak these words aloud or not.
She licks her lips before she speaks. "Arthur," she begins, reigning herself in somewhat, "if we were supposed to be together, we'd be together."
Arthur doesn't say anything to that, and Ariadne starts to retract her hands back. She holds back the apology that she feels necessary, but knowing it isn't quite needed. "I'm just there to be some sort of proof that you're actually settling down. I'm just there to show you that you can do something outside of this faux-life you've been living. I'm not going to fix anything for you." She takes her time explaining these words, choosing them and saying them with a heavier purpose than she normally would with conversation. She's at the end of her hand now, and Arthur's clasp begins to feel light on her fingers.
"I don't expect you to!" They stop because of his out burst, and she finishes dragging her hand out of his. The coin's entirely switched now, she thinks, dwelling on her regard towards economy and his turn towards frankness.
"Look," she says with a weary sigh. She can't hide the exasperation in her voice, because she's not used to talking to him in this way. She says things she never wanted to fault him for. She's learned to accept it of him. She's learned to love him despite it even. But she's also learned that she can't rely on him because of it. "You stopped calling me. You stopped keeping contact, not me. I shouldn't be feeling like I did something wrong here," she finishes, turning to gage a reaction from him.
Arthur doesn't say anything. He doesn't look at her anymore.
"But," she starts again. "I feel guilty, like I'm waiting, when I know that I've finally found a place that makes me happy. I feel like I'm stuck because of you, and I love you, you know that, but it's better that I just love you as a friend, than anything else." Ariadne pauses, looking at the steps before her. "I'm sorry that I'm not stuck waiting for you anymore, Arthur," she says, looking up at him, "but I'm done."
"Have you ever thought about coming back?" he asked, and Ariadne looked up from his shoulder sleepily.
They were on the train back to Paris coming back from Rebecca's wedding and the waning sunrise began to chase them down the tracks. Ariadne had done her best to stay awake until finally Arthur granted her permission to fall asleep on his shoulder, his music player shared between them. It was a pretty junky, old one he always used on jobs when they needed outside help, and one of the top songs on it was Edith Piaf's.
It played often, probably due to the amount of times it played for jobs and practices, it became a popular one on his player, only compounding on the amount of times it played, so the cycle remained perpetual. And usually Arthur skipped it, already tired of the opening and the words and message. It was too bad really, because it was a beautiful song, but this time, when it came on, an earbud in his and one connected to Ariadne, he allowed it to go, giving into the sentimentality and the moment all at once.
He felt Ariadne shift next to him, saw her eyes dully slit open as her hand found his near her lap. She dragged it across onto her own, and Arthur watched this action as if he wasn't inside his own body, as if it weren't his hand at all.
"Have you ever thought about coming back?" he asked, and she looked up at him sleepily.
"I'd like to," she replied, a yawn mixed into her words. "Maybe with this under my belt, Parisian firms will be barking at my door."
Arthur watched her closed eyelids. "I'm sure."
"We'll have to see where I am in six months at least," she said, eyes shut. "Or maybe a year."
"Six months is doable," he reassured her. "A lot can happen in a year." He reached down and kissed her on her temple. "You should probably sleep more."
And he adjusted how he sat for her to find a place on his shoulder to nestle into.
A/N: Thank you to FudgeFanatic, Laura-x, SGundy, and A. Pevensie for their reviews and support and to anyone who has favorited or followed this. As always, thanks for reading!
