Tonight, it's Eames rather than Arthur who's the last to leave the warehouse before her. He lingers around the opposite side of her workbench, aimlessly paging through some dossier or other until by chance she glances up and locks her eyes with his.
(he holds himself loosely, relaxed and at home as a cat in the sun, but that face of his has whole worlds buried in his eyes and not all of them are ones she's keen to visit)
"I'd be careful with Arthur, if I were you," he says, and Ariadne feels her ears heat with the shame of a child caught with her finger in a tub of frosting. Eames spares her the indignity of staring at her, and for that she isn't sure whether to feel slighted or thankful; he wanders off toward the door, all interest in her personal life seemingly lost, as languid and nonchalant as ever.
(it's the same coiled, wild-cat elegance she imagines is what keeps Eames alive in the dreams, as it's doubtful that that easy, devil-may-care attitude of his is useful while being assaulted by projections)
"There are skeletons in that man's closet even he's not prepared to face." He grabs his jacket, slings it over his shoulder. "Watch yourself."
(part of her is still shrinking from embarrassment, but another small and strong-willed little part flares in defiance at being treated like a child-when none of this team would be anywhere without her)
"I appreciate the concern, Eames," her exacto knife cuts the model foam board a bit more violently than necessary, "but I'm a big girl."
(he faces her and there's a sudden hard-edge to his eyes, and a narrow smile Ariadne doesn't quite understand)
"I didn't say it for your benefit, darling." And with that puzzling smile, the Forger strides away.