He didn't see her again for two days, which was both good and slightly maddening. Arthur used the time to service the three Dream Synchronizers, taking them apart and cleaning them thoroughly in the bright sunshine that came through the glass ceiling of the warehouse. He checked his contacts, wrote quick and light-hearted emails home, filling them with fictitious stories for Charlotte, and signed for packages from Mombasa, Paz, and Sydney. Eames sent him emails with filthy links and coded messages; Saito repeated his weekly offer to hire him and the rest of the team to work exclusively for his company.
Arthur walked Paris. He avoided the tourist spots and spent most of his time moving along the little side streets and hidden delights of the city, polite and quiet with his flat-accented French. He spotted a few familiar faces and thousands of unfamiliar ones, and the entire time, one small portion of his thoughts stayed on the puzzle that was Ariadne.
He knew all three of the reasons to keep things professional between them, and went over them daily, like a mantra.
Getting personal means getting slack about professionalism.
Being involved with someone you work with means creating extra danger in a Dream.
Emotions complicate Extractions.
They made sense; they were sound advice and under them Arthur had the tragic example of Dom and Mal to back up those rules.
Arthur wished matters were simpler. If Ariadne were someone else, someone other than who she was it would be. If she didn't like Dreaming, or wanted out, or had some significant other, there would be no issue. Hell, if HE had a significant other . . . .
But he and Tess had parted bitterly, and even Charlotte knew better than to ask anymore. Sometimes Arthur still rubbed where the ring had been on his finger, even though years had gone by.
So here he was in the now, caught between the logic and the longing; a pretty, private torment he'd never anticipated. It was ludicrous, mooning after a woman as if he was a teenager again. Not that he'd been a typical teenager anyway, Arthur acknowledged to himself, but still—this awkward dance of attraction had him on the verge of tripping over his feet, and if he didn't take care, Eames would catch on.
That would be an added hell he certainly didn't need.
He visited all his favorite galleries along the Left Bank, and put in bids on several paintings before making his way towards the university, moving purposefully now, a quiet figure in his leather jacket and jeans. Arthur slipped into the lecture hall and stood in the back, among the deep shadows, focusing his attention on the slender figure down below.
Ariadne knew her stuff, certainly. She moved around in front of the blackboard, firing off points and turning periodically to illustrate something as she did. Most of her diagrams were about waist-level, but the hall was respectfully quiet, with only an occasional hand going up.
With a pang of delight, Arthur noted she was wearing his scarf; even at this distance, the glittering colors floated in a thin cloud around her neckline. It looked lovely on her; as lovely as he'd known it would.
The hour finished, and while most of the students hurried off, a handful lingered, coming down to the front of the lecture hall to ask questions. Arthur hesitated, and then stepped down two steps. Ariadne looked up, catching his eye, and there was no mistaking the quick, bright smile she gave him before turning her attention back to a student at her left shoulder.
Finally, when the last of the students had left, Arthur slowly made his way down, step by step towards her. Ariadne stood with her arms crossed, watching him approach, and her expression was clearly . . . bemused.
"You lecture well," Arthur told her sincerely.
"Thank you. It's a good seminar group," she replied, moving to the desk to pack up her satchel. He watched her neatly scoop files and a small laptop into it, and reached out to take the bag for her; Ariadne let him, shooting a surprised yet pleased look when he did. "Thank you."
He shrugged, settling the handle into his palm, and waited for her to start walking. They left the lecture hall and crossed the courtyard; Arthur slowed his stride so that she didn't have to hurry. Around them, the thin sunshine was drying up the last of the rain, and hints of frost promised an early winter. Ariadne hummed a little, then looked up at him. "All right. I get that you're not a big talker, but the 'actions speak louder than words' bit doesn't always translate well for me, Arthur. What's going on?"
He didn't hesitate this time. "I like you. This is a problem for me."
It amused Arthur to see her blink at that, caught off-guard by his admission. She took three more steps before finding something to say. "I see."
She didn't, of course. Arthur noted Ariadne's blush and it warmed him to think that he'd surprised her. She must have had some inkling—women were renowned for picking up on the subtleties.
That's what had made Mal such a good architect, in her day.
"I like you," he repeated, not looking at Ariadne. "And this can be a good thing or a bad thing. In the right circumstances, it can be an incredible asset to Dreaming. My subs would tolerate you for much, much longer. We could mesh a world to a deeper degree than the surface design. A powerful teamwork."
"And the bad would be like Dom and Mal?" she questioned softly, frowning. "So caught up in going to deeper levels that ultimately one or both of us would end up in limbo?"
"That," Arthur muttered, "was their own tangent. I don't intend on going any deeper than necessary. I'm more worried about other aspects."
"Like . . . getting hurt?" Ariadne shot back. She caught his glance and held it defiantly, waiting for an answer.
Arthur stood still for a moment, pinned by that determined gaze, and he felt his expression soften. "Yes."
Suddenly, irrationally, he wished they were Dreaming; that this conversation was taking place in that shadowy realm where anything could fold or vanish or appear without a need for rationalization.
Where it might not even be remembered by either of them.
"You're not talking about being physically hurt," Ariadne clarified.
"No," Arthur admitted, and said nothing more as a cloud passed overhead, casting a shadow across them both.
She reached out and to take the satchel from him. "I understand."
Her tone was guarded, and Arthur bit back a sigh, keeping his grip on the handle. "Do you? You've Dreamed less than twenty times all told, Ariadne. Care to guess how many times I've been under? How many scenarios I've been through? How Dreaming can alienate you from people who've never done it? And how at the same time it creates an intimacy with your teammates whether you're ready for it or not?"
Arthur hadn't meant to let his voice get bitter, but by the look on her face he knew his tone had gotten cutting. She blinked again, and this time it gratified him to see that she was *trying* to understand.
"Intimacy?" Ariadne echoed.
He sighed. "We'll end up dreaming of each other, eventually. The more you work with the same people, the more likely you are to dream of them when you're not on the machine."
She looked guilty, and Arthur fought a smirk as Ariadne cleared her throat. "I thought that was just . . . familiarity."
"It is," he assured her. "Dom and I were used to it; that was when the tokens came in handy. What I'm saying is that we are working together steadily, and that already gives us a relationship that's . . . unique."
"You work with Eames, and Yusuf too," she pointed out. "Do you dream of them when you're not hooked up?"
"I've worked with Eames five times, and Yusuf twice. You and I have been Dreaming together for nearly twelve sessions, Ariadne."
That brought her up short, and Arthur waited long quiet minutes while she made a show of giving up on regaining the satchel. Finally, Ariadne tossed her hair back and looked up at him, expressionless.
"Do you want me to quit?" the question was quick, low and tinted with pain.
"No," came his reply. "I don't. I just don't want you . . . in the dark. About how things are changing," Arthur muttered. "The . . . attraction."
That brought a smile, and she turned, walking and forcing him to come after her along the gravel path. This was the old Ariadne, confidently striding along, heading for the bridge, her cheeks beginning to redden in the chill. Confused, Arthur followed, catching up easily and slowing his pace once more as they mounted the steps and crossed.
A briny smell from the water below rose up, along with the scent of iron and a hint of smoke. Ariadne paused to lean on one of the rails, looking out over the wrinkled water. "So was that what that kiss was really about?"
He slowly shook his head in embarrassment. "That . . . was impulse. A whim. Sorry if I embarrassed you."
An awkward pause lingered for a moment between them as they both studied the Seine.
"It could have been worse I guess," Ariadne murmured finally. "You could have goosed me or something."
He laughed, caught for a moment in the mental image of her in her prim business suit, jumping and squeaking in the lobby of the fancy hotel, and clearly she must have had a similar picture because Ariadne joined in, the sound relieved and sweet in the breeze over the bridge.
When they both drew breath afterwards, Arthur risked another glance at her, and Ariadne was bright-eyed, her mouth quirking at one corner.
"This attraction . . . it goes both ways, you know," she told him.
Arthur felt his brows go up. "It does?" he managed, startled.
"I want to know more about you every time I'm with you," Ariadne murmured, not looking directly at him, her profile half-hidden by her floating hair. "You're like a maze yourself; full of deflections and dark spaces and unexpected roundabouts, and just when I think I'm making an inroad, you change the route. That drives me crazy, but in a good way."
He waited a beat. "That's not intentional."
She shot him a dry look. "Would you know if it was?"
"Hey now," Arthur began to protest, then paused as her comment caught up to him. "Okay, I can't really say if it is, but I don't think so."
Ariadne gave an exasperated sigh that dissolved into a smile. "Let's go Dream, Arthur."