The job was easy, and Oslo was bitterly cold. After a week of warming up to the target, Eames managed to invite the man for a nightcap in a hotel room on another floor and Extracted the key formula ingredients for a popular soft drink while Arthur monitored the Dream Synchronizer.
Later, after waking up, Eames stayed, ribbing the man about the two of them being lightweight drinkers while three floors above, Arthur encrypted the information and sent it off to the business rivals, who promptly returned the favor by releasing a large deposit on hold in a numbered Swiss account.
Both of them stayed on for a few days and then took separate flights out of Gardermoen; Eames to Mombasa to see Yusuf, and Arthur back to Paris.
"I'll see what I can do about restocking; airport security being what it is we may have to resort to innocuous packages with DSL. Priority?" Eames murmured as they stood in line for overpriced bottles of water at one of the duty-free shop.
Arthur nodded. "It wouldn't hurt either if we could talk our mutual friend into a visit sometime soon as well. The more we practice as a team, the better we'll get."
"Right," Eames nodded. "So give our lovely builder a kiss for me, and *try* to take the stick out of your backside once in a while, darling."
Arthur rolled his eyes and walked off as the Englishman's soft laughter faded behind him.
The flight lasted three hours due to rain, and Arthur slept through most of it. He woke half an hour before landing, impressed that he'd managed to sleep at all, and fleetingly, he remembered a vague impression of a dream, but nothing solid came to mind, just a low sense of yearning.
The storm was in full strength by the time he made it out of De Gaulle, and Arthur opted to head to the warehouse first, prowling through the first floor to make sure all the security measures were still in place, then he trudged up to the second floor, shaking off the rain from his coat. He turned on the lights and surveyed the main room carefully.
Before he'd even made it to the center, his cell phone rang.
"You were supposed to call when you got back," came Ariadne's sleepy chide.
"It's after midnight; I thought you'd want to sleep in," Arthur replied, tucking the phone between his shoulder and neck as he locked up the Dream Synchronizer in the safe.
"I want to hear how it went," Ariadne persisted. "I'm coming over."
"No, I'll meet you," Arthur murmured, "I'd rather not have all the lights on here."
"Saint Germain," she told him and hung up before he could reply.
The little bar was in the middle of a lull, and the steady rain kept customers away, but Arthur studied the door carefully before climbing out of the cab and approaching it. Caution was more than a practice; the habit had saved his life more than once, and he wasn't about to take anything for granted, even something as simple as meeting Ariadne.
He turned up his collar and darted across the street, slipping into the doorway to wipe the mist from his face. Peeking inside, Arthur noted a few people at the bar; a group of slightly drunken friends from the look of them. He stepped inside and let his gaze sweep the room, taking in the semi-dark interior, looking carefully.
The Saint Germain had a long, well-lit bar and beyond it, tables and booths done in oxblood leather. A few fat votives sat on the tables, providing pools of light along the interior, and on the other side of one, looking ethereal, Ariadne sat waiting. Her hair glittered with leftover raindrops, and when her gaze met his, she smiled.
An echo washed over Arthur; the dim remains of yearning. He moved quietly through the Saint Germain and sat down opposite her, smiling briefly in return. "This could have waited until morning."
"Probably," Ariadne agreed, but her expression said something else, and Arthur held her gaze a moment longer than usual.
A painfully thin waitress glided over and asked in French what they were drinking.
Ariadne ordered a glass of house wine; Arthur opted for a Gin and tonic. They waited until the waitress left before meeting gazes again.
"Oslo?" Ariadne prompted.
Arthur spoke, covering the case in a few laconic sentences, and finished by fishing in the breast pocket of his coat for a small tissue bag that he handed to her.
Ariadne took it, noting Norwegian lettering embossed on the bag. She opened it and slowly pulled out a long rectangle of heavy silk, patterned in golds and greens, the overlapping colors as brilliant as scales on a Koi.
Arthur held still, waiting for her to look up, bracing himself for her words. Ever since buying the thing on an impulse, he'd thought of every possible response she could make, every potential outcome to this . . . gift.
It was, he admitted to himself, a risk. Much as he knew about this intense, brilliant girl—and it was a lot; he'd done his research thoroughly when Cobb had first brought her on board—he still didn't know precisely what made her tick.
Ariadne stroked the scarf through her fingers, pulling the length of it in a long, sensuous stroke before slipping it around the back of her neck. She looked up, her gaze bold and open. "Thank you."
Arthur nodded, a quick acknowledging bob of his head. Ariadne opened her mouth, thought better of it, and looked away. The waitress came back with their drinks, setting them down and taking the bills Arthur dropped on her tray.
He risked a look at her over the top of his glass as he took his first sip; she looked puzzled, but touched, and instead of sipping her wine, she let her fingers caress the stem of the glass lightly.
They said nothing, and the space between them hummed quietly with a sweet new tension. Arthur resisted the urge to speak, enjoying the sight of her scarf in the glow of the candle. The burn of the gin felt good going down, the heat lingered in the pit of his stomach.
"Why?" came Ariadne's question, so soft that for a moment he wasn't sure if she'd spoken or he'd imagined it.
He was ready for that. "Because you like scarves."
Ariadne's left eyebrow went up, and her skeptical look nearly made him smirk, but it was late and he wasn't in the mood to step back. Arthur finished his drink, and set the glass down, listening to the cubes clink before speaking again. "I'll take you home."
She didn't argue; Paris wasn't a safe city after dark for a lone woman. They slipped out the door of the Saint Germain, briefly brushing bodies in the narrow doorway.
The cabbie was morose but efficient, and soon they were pulling to a stop in front of a block of old apartments near the Sorbonne. Arthur paid him and followed Ariadne out of the taxi, taking in the surroundings even as she confidently made her way towards the wide front stairs. Only a few lights were on, and the shadows lay thick across the wet pavement.
"Thank you," Ariadne murmured, climbing one step and turning. This made her nearly eye level with Arthur, who paused and studied her face in the dim light.
It was a lovely face; a long oval with expressive eyes and straight, elegant brows. Her mouth shifted into a rueful half-smile, and she spoke again. "We both need sleep."
"Yes," he told her, as much to say something as anything else. Arthur felt the tug between them; that unspoken reluctance to end the evening. The feeling was dangerous and warm, even in the chill of the rain-drenched streets.
Arthur wanted to say something more, but everything that came to mind was trite. He moved to turn, and Ariadne reached out, cupping his thin cheek against her palm, stopping him. They stood that way for a moment, neither of them moving. Arthur felt the gentle sear of her touch, and held still, letting it sink in as he gazed at her.
"Aren't you going to say anything?" Ariadne asked him in a slow voice.
All around them time was still passing, but here in this little bubble of intimate space, Arthur felt as if each second was stretching into an hour, and the intensity teetered between pain and pleasure. "I . . . can't," came his rough whisper, but his mouth quirked, and he dropped his head in a silent obeisance to her.
Ariadne withdrew her touch and turned, flitting up the stairs and into the lobby of her building, leaving him standing at the foot watching her go. Arthur stayed there for another long minute, and turned away only when the rain started to fall again.