.: It Was Worth a Shot :.
Ariadne cursed softly while her chapped hands searched her purse pockets. How incredibly stupid of her. Once again, it was so typical of her that something like this should happen. Now she couldn't sleep because of it, which was all the more embarrassing. She was so used to reading this book before bed that she couldn't fall asleep without it. And here she was, in the middle of the night, right in front of the team's abandoned warehouse, desperately looking for her key. It had been hell to get a taxi at this time, hence her bicycle. She cast a pitying glance over at the piece of scrap she had leaned against one of the cement pillars lining the workshop floors.
The clatter of keys on concrete cut her eardrums. Ariadne groaned and bent down to pick up the splayed pieces of damned metal. She should have put on gloves. She hadn't considered that it would be so cold outside. It was an unusually chilly May in Paris this year. She fumbled to put in the correct key and swooped inside. It was hardly warmer.
Her steps echoed loudly in the empty stairwell. Almost panting, she arrived in front of the bolted door that led to the actual open floor workshop of the dream team. Her hand tightened around the knob when she noticed that the door, which, according to Arthur, was always locked, was not in fact locked. With shoulder pressed against fanned fingers, she leaned forward and peered into the room through the tiny gap. She grasped her key ring, ready to jab any attackers.
A ray of lamp light pooled onto the floor from around the corner. Ariadne swallowed hard and slipped past the heavy door as quietly as possible. The lights on all the desks were off. She turned the corner, and her heart leaped to her throat. The lamp on Arthur's desk was still glowing, casting grotesque shadows all around the walls. And Arthur was sitting at his desk. Or, more accurately, spread over his desk.
Ariadne crept quietly to her own desk so as not to wake him. She wondered if sleeping in such a position for so long would become uncomfortable. His head rested on his many documents and, because of the height of the stack, it seemed to be an passable pillow substitute. His left hand was right next to his face. A pen lay in proximity of his fingers, as if he had fallen asleep while writing.
What drew her eyes most wasn't the fact that he'd apparently fallen asleep after hours, but his hair. Normally, Ariadne would have thought that Arthur used super glue instead of hair gel. Now it stood out in all directions, as if he'd mussed instead of moussed it.
Her purse caught the corner of one of her second-level models, and it shifted the loose foliage of files. Her muscles seized up, and she stole a side glance at his desk. Eames always got a kick out of Arthur's light sleep. Now he seemed so drained that Ariadne wondered if Yusuf recommended him a compound. She let her gaze slide over her utterly chaotic desk and had to push around a few drafts and drawings until she finally found her book.
She wanted to sneak to the door again. She really did. But her legs, for some reason unknown to her, gravitated toward Arthur's desk. Eyebrows quirked, she slid her book onto his desk and bent down so she could look him straight in the face. Although he'd never looked so relaxed, even in sleep her gaze traced that steady crease of concentration on his forehead. His breathing brushed her cheek, and she felt prickles down her back. Followed by unrestrained heat that crept up her neck. She felt a little like a stalker.
Immediately, she straightened up and turned on her heel. She shook her head violently to throttle the drowsiness out of it.
"Ariadne."
Heart back in throat, she pivoted back to Arthur. Had her trampling woken him up after all? Another wave of heat flared to her cheeks. She lowered her eyes and took a few steps back toward his desk. She had already opened her mouth to say something—she didn't know what—when her gaze caught Arthur's unmoved arms. And then wandered back up to his face. Still sleeping.
Ariadne dizzied at all the new thoughts crowding her skull. Before she knew it she was standing as close as she was a few moments before. She couldn't help it. Carefully, she reached out a hand and lightly touched his cheek with her fingertips. Some tension left his lips. Ariadne stared at him, mouth slack. Her fingers hovered at his cheek, irremovable. She counted the seconds. Completely frozen. Until she closed her mouth again. And her hand drew back.
She leaned down to him again, following a daring inspiration. She brought her lips very close to his ear. "Arthur," she whispered, tilted her jaw, and brushed a kiss into his temple. The tension holding his brow smoothed out.
Ariadne's palm flew to her breastbone as she around spun one last time. She dashed past the door and bolted down the flight of steps. Her keys jangled in her hand, and the noise mounted to a cacophony in the stairwell. Ariadne didn't care.
Panting, she rounded the entrance to the warehouse and leaned against the metal door that had slammed shut behind her. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She clutched her keys tighter and touched her lips with the fingers of the other hand. Then she smiled and felt the tension in her shoulders melt away. Her eyes followed the puffs of her breath as each rose and dissipated into the night sky. She shrugged and stumbled on the worn concrete over to her bicycle. Her murmur nearly lost itself in the wind.
"It was worth a shot."
And when Arthur woke up a few hours later, his neck cramping and his head surprisingly clear, he wondered why in the world on his desk was a book on architectural history that he knew belonged to Ariadne.
A/N: Thank you so much for taking the time to read my antics. Ariadne and Arthur are strangely one of my favorite ships I like seeing set sail. This piece was written fairly all in one go, and while I didn't think I'd end up posting it so unpolished, I took fast to the idea and had to get it all out all at once : ) Each time I return to this film, it swallows me whole. Each time I discover a deeper level of dreaming, and each time I turn to the pen. Thank you again for reading.
Reviews are greatly treasured, replied to, and returned with one of my own. Or, if you'd prefer to comment or critique more privately, feel free to shoot me a PM. Cheers, + KVP