A/N: Phew! Chapter 50! I never thought this story would get so long. But there, sometimes things happen that we don't expect, eh? Enjoy. :)
50.
Arthur didn't know who to look at. He wasn't surprised that they had finally found Ariadne – that had been their purpose, after all – but the fact that they had felt like a kick in the gut. In a good way.
But seeing Cavendish sitting there, smiling up at her and accepting the mug of coffee and carrot cake that she laid on the table – that he had not been expecting. It knocked him for six; his head was reeling as he tried to make sense of the scene before him.
'Cavendish?' Eames muttered in his ear. 'You mean the guy Denley shot during your last Extraction with him? The Mark he sent to Limbo?'
Well, obviously, Arthur wanted to shoot back, but he didn't. He couldn't. He was too transfixed by the people in front of him. It appeared a routine for them – as though they really were in a café in Paris, enjoying the sunshine and an afternoon snack.
'Can I get something for you, messieurs?'
Arthur stared at her. Her voice was the same as he remembered, yet different, too. It was throatier, husky with age. Her once-dark brown hair was now silver, tied back in a bun at the back of her head, thin tendrils framing her pale face. Her slender fingers were even thinner; her hands were riddled with blue veins, the skin as paper-thin as Denley's had been. Had it not been for her eyes – those wonderful chocolate-brown eyes – and the red scarf he knew so well tied loosely around her neck, he doubted he would have recognised her. He supposed the same could be said about them all – whilst they had not aged quite so much, Eames and he had grown older. Their hair was not completely white yet, but it wasn't far off. His own was no longer slicked-back; his suit was not pristine, but so creased he doubted even a steam roller would get every line out.
'Sir?' she said, peering into his face. 'Would you like something to eat or drink?'
Arthur didn't know what to say. So he simply nodded and took up a seat on the table next to Cavendish. Ariadne hurried back inside as Eames followed his example, frowning at the Point Man as he sat down.
'What are you doing?' he murmured. 'Let's just grab her and get out of here.'
Arthur shook his head. 'It's no use. She doesn't remember us at all. I just ... I need to think.'
The bell tinkled again as Ariadne reappeared. Eames shrugged and took the menu she handed to him.
'Thanks, love,' he said with a smile.
He gazed up at her, as though willing her to do – or see – something. She simply returned the smile and turned to Arthur to hand him the other menu. He nodded his thanks as he scanned the goods on offer.
'I'd recommend the latté,' Cavendish croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. Arthur remembered that he used to be a heavy smoker as well as gambler. 'It's the best around. I've been coming here every day for years,' he added, beaming up at Ariadne, who returned the smile. 'Stumbled across it once and never went back. It's marvellous.'
'He's my best customer,' she grinned. 'Always ordering the same thing! You should be a little more adventurous.'
'Ah, at my age, there's no point. Just gotta enjoy the things you love.'
'Nonsense,' Ariadne chided. 'You're never too old for excitement.'
Arthur listened to their exchange in bewildered silence. How long had they known each other down here, anyway? They acted like old friends; the thought pinched at Arthur's heart. He quickly dismissed it and looked back up at her.
'I'll have a cappuccino, please,' he said, his eyes never leaving hers.
'And I'll – ' Eames began.
'And a latté, thank you,' Arthur interjected, ignoring the Forger's brief glare.
Ariadne hesitated, looking between the two men, before settling her gaze on Arthur again. A small frown creased her wrinkled brow. Come on. You remember, he willed, his hand clenched around the two totems in his pocket.
'Of course, messieurs,' she said. 'Coming right up.'
She trotted back into the café. Arthur heaved a sigh and shook his head.
'What was that about?' Eames muttered. 'I wanted a bloody Americano.'
'It's nothing,' Arthur replied. 'I'm just trying out some things.'
'Fine. But I get the cappuccino. I hate lattés.'
Arthur rolled his eyes and refrained from replying. He had more important things to worry about right then than what drink he got. Like how the hell they were going to get her to remember who she was – who they were.
'What's with the café, anyway?' Eames mused.
'She once told me she'd always wanted to own one right by the Notre Dame. It was her second dream, after being an architect.'
'I guess she got both wishes down here,' Eames said, and Arthur couldn't help but note the hint of sadness in his words.
Ariadne returned within a few minutes, carrying their chosen beverages on a small tray. She set the cappuccino down in front of Arthur, and frowned when Eames took it instead.
'I changed my mind,' Arthur said with a small smile. 'I'd rather have the latté, thanks.' Ariadne nodded and handed him the other mug. 'You know, that's a beautiful song you've got playing in there,' he continued, blowing on the hot drink.
'It's one of my favourites,' she replied. 'We always have it on here.'
'Edith Piaf, if I'm not mistaken? I find it's rather comforting to listen to when I just want to chill out with a coffee. A perfect choice, in other words.' Again her brow furrowed ever so slightly, but she said nothing. 'I used to use it as a timer in my line of work. Couldn't do without it.'
'Is – that so?' she murmured. 'It seems to have many uses, in that case.'
'It's personal to everyone, in different ways,' he agreed. 'Whether for pleasure or work.'
'I think it's ridiculous,' Eames chipped in as he sipped his drink. 'Bloody ancient song. You should get with the times.'
Arthur watched the confusion play out across Ariadne's pale face, studying the uncertainty deep in her eyes. It's working, he thought. It has to be.
'I love it,' she said haughtily, her eyes narrowed at the Forger. 'Excuse me, gentlemen. I have some work to attend to.'
She turned on her heel and hurried back into the café before either man could protest. Arthur rounded on Eames and glowered at him.
'Way to go,' he snapped. 'Now she won't talk to us again.'
'Relax, darling,' the Forger said, leaning back in his chair. 'She'll be back. Right now she's wondering why we seem so familiar. Every little thing helps. So start thinking about other things you can say or do. We need to convince her that this isn't her reality before we can take her back, otherwise it won't work.'
Arthur glanced over at Cavendish, who had been watching their exchange with some interest. The gambler quickly returned his gaze to his own mug, but Arthur knew he was still listening. What do we do about him? he wondered. We can't just leave him here alone. He decided he would puzzle over that later. All that mattered then was getting Ariadne back. Everything else could wait.
Eames had been right – she did come back out, minutes after rushing inside. She took a seat at Cavendish's table and struck up a conversation with him. Arthur noted her brief looks over at her other two customers, and tried his best not to intimidate her by staring at her the whole time. His hand was still in his pocket, fingering the red die and bronze bishop there. There had to be something he could do.
Without really thinking about it, he took his own totem from his pocket and rolled it on the table. 4. He tried again. 2. And again. 5. In reality it would always land on a 6, his lucky number. He watched it for a while, rolling it over and over on the table, until he noticed Cavendish doing the same.
'That's a nice little object you got there,' the gambler said, nodding at the die. 'A lucky charm or something?'
'Or something,' Arthur muttered as it landed on a one. 'I'm sorry, I never caught your name, Mr. ... ?'
'Jones,' Cavendish replied. 'Peter Jones.'
Yeah, sure. Arthur refrained from shaking his head.
'Oh, okay then,' he said. 'It's just that you remind me so much of someone I used to know.'
'Is that so?'
Arthur nodded. 'A man in Las Vegas. He was a professional gambler by the name of George Cavendish. My mistake.'
This time both Cavendish and Ariadne stared at him, then at the red die he was teasing through his fingers.
'Yes ... a mistake,' Cavendish muttered. 'Can't possibly be ... '
'It's funny. He used to wear a cowboy hat just like the one you have there.' Cavendish glanced down at his hat. 'And his eyes were just like yours. But there, they say we all have a doppelganger somewhere in the world. Perhaps Mr. Cavendish is yours.'
Cavendish nodded slowly. 'Yes, perhaps.'
Arthur looked at Ariadne, who was still watching his fingers as they played with the red die. 'And your name, mademoiselle?'
She jumped, apparently startled by the direct question. 'Oh, er – Olivia Darling.'
Arthur felt his heart thump once in his chest. She hasn't forgotten everything, even if she doesn't realise it. He forced himself to smile at her.
'A pleasure to meet you. I'm Arthur, and this is my good friend Robert Eames.'
'Enchanté, darling,' Eames said with a nod at her.
Arthur watched as she began to play with the tablecloth, absent-mindedly twisting it into a knot. This time his lips curved into a genuine smile. They could to this. They had to.
'You don't read Agatha Christie, by any chance?' he asked.
Her eyes slid over to his, her hands still fretting with the cloth. 'Yes, as a matter of fact. She's my favourite author. I think Ariadne Oliver is a wonderful creation.'
'I prefer Poirot myself,' Arthur smirked. 'And his 'little grey cells'.'
Ariadne jumped up suddenly, staring down at the two men with a mixture of uncertainty and ... suspicion mingling in her expression. Arthur stood up, too, his eyes boring into hers – trying to calm her down? Willing her to remember? He didn't know. But he was sure – no, he knew – they were close to blowing it. He had gone too far, pushed it too much. They were losing her ...
'I'm sorry, messieurs,' she said, her voice trembling slightly. 'The café is now closed. Please, come back tomorrow.'
Cavendish began to grumble, glaring up at the two men as he picked up his hat. Eames got to his feet and placed his hand on Arthur's shoulder. To console him? Encourage him? What the hell should I do?
Ariadne turned to walk back into the café. Arthur stumbled away from the table, knocking the chairs over in his haste to reach her. He grasped her wrist, forcing her to look at him.
'No, please,' he urged, ignoring the frightened look in her dark eyes. 'Don't leave. I need you to come back with me.'
This time the déjà vu hit him. That same desperation – an image of a coffee bar, crowds of people, an airport – all flashed through his mind.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered the tinkling of a bell. It wasn't until he saw the familiar three-piece suit, the slicked-back hair; until he felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed to his temple, that he realised what was going on.
His eyes were still locked on hers. He could feel her trembling beneath his touch. His heart sank with the realisation. She's scared of me. She doesn't trust me.
'There's no-one I feel safer with, Arthur. I trust you with my life.'
He had one thought before the inevitable happened. I can't die here. I've got to bring her back.
And so he did the only thing he could think of. His lips curved into a sad smile as he looked down at her aged face and uttered the only words that came to mind.
'Quick, give me a kiss.'
A/N: For those worried that this will descend into cheesiness - don't! It won't do, I promise. :P At least not yet.
I did say a few chapters ago that there would be one or two more cliffhangers - so this should be the last one you have to put up with! As far as I have it planned in my mind. Again, no promises etc., and I know this is a mean one (aren't they all?), but I had to end the chapter somewhere. Besides, work beckons, so I shall love and leave you and hopefully see you some time in the next few days for the next chapter. Until then - adieu! Or should I say, au revoir?
