. Quickly, Arthur rolled to his side, away from Ariadne's chair and tugged the Velcro wristband off, making sure the micro-fine needles slid free from the skin. He rose and walked towards one of the windows, concentrating on the skyline beyond it, and the thin haze that had begun to cloud the sky.

Behind him, Arthur heard Ariadne groggily begin to get up from her lounge, and the soft hiss of the Synchronizer's recoil as the leads retracted. He bit the inside of his cheek for real and didn't turn around even when he heard her soft footsteps coming closer.

"Arthur?" The worry in Ariadne's voice finally made him half- turn to face her.

"I'm okay," he assured her gruffly. "You?"

Her slow nod and twisted smile made him feel a little better; those along with the hint of pink along her cheekbones.

"Yes," Ariadne replied. "And for the record, I didn't mean to embarrass you."

"It was a Dream," he shrugged one shoulder in an attempt at off-handedness. "Smoke. Mirrors. Paradoxes."

"Yeah," she nodded, not entirely convinced. "To a degree. Do you want the scarf back?"

"What? No! That's a gift—" Arthur protested, startled at the idea. "It's got nothing to do with this."

"Really?" Ariadne murmured, her gaze steady. "Because I couldn't help but notice that I was wearing it all the time in there. That sort of pervasiveness tends to make me think it might have . . . meant something. Symbolism of sorts. Sorry if I got the wrong impression."

It was impossible to look away from her, and Arthur felt his pulse begin to thrum; an odd weightless sensation tickled the inside of his stomach. "I . . . I . . ."

"You like me," Ariadne reminded him, and gave him a quick smile, "but you're not ready for me. I get that. I'm a big girl, Arthur; I can take rejection. What I can't take is side-stepping yes or no for very much longer. When you know which it is, tell me, all right? You know where to find me."

Ariadne reached up, gently hooking a hand around the back of his neck and tugged him down until they were nearly nose to nose. She angled her face, and leaned forward; a second later Arthur felt the soft, warm press of her lips against his, and his instincts surged, hard.

He cupped her face in his hands, holding it as he kissed her back. The rush of sensation was a warm wave shot through with mingled emotions, all of them slightly raw: desire, yearning, desperation and under it, a sense of relief that he didn't dare dwell on.

Delicious. Ariadne's mouth was utterly delicious, soft and yielding under his. He groaned a little, the sound muffled between them, and kept kissing her, his lips sliding over hers. Then Arthur felt the tiniest flick of tongue along the seam of his lips; a tickle sweetly seeking entrance.

With pleasure, he gave it, and what had been an impulsive kiss suddenly became a sensual one full of heat and hunger. They kissed again, surging against each other, and Arthur slid his hands from her face down her neck to Ariadne's small shoulders, pulling her closer, devouring her.

And to his astonishment, she kissed him just as intently, just as frantically, her tongue probing and playing with his in a tangle of flavors and pressure. Ariadne pulled away for a quick breath and dove back into yet another kiss, her delicate frame bumping against his with an eagerness that sent a thrill through him.

Arthur reluctantly pulled away, staring into her eyes, jolted further by the open desire in them. "Yes," he rasped, voice deep. "But—"

"Later," Ariadne murmured, and pulled his mouth to hers once again.

One kiss shifted into another, and Arthur lost his sense of time and place as he let go of his caution for this enchanted moment. It was lust, yes—the press of their bodies didn't deny that, but the tenderness, the sensual slowness of their kissing made him almost dizzy. Ariadne was nothing if not intensely passionate about whatever she wanted—Arthur had seen that in other matters. To have it applied to him however, was nearly more than he could take in, and his body was demanding he replay the compliment as fully as he could.

He ached. In a good way. The best way, really, but it was still an ache."Ariadne—" he grunted softly, "We need to stop. I'm . . . not really prepared to take this where it needs to go right now."

She blushed. It was beautiful on her, the quick pink flush across the top of her cheeks, and he smiled to see it.

Ariadne leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the loosened knot of his tie. "Um, blue, huh?"

"Indigo," Arthur grunted, but he grinned briefly. "And if you know that, then you understand how much that hurts."

"I've been told," she murmured. "Although I'm pretty sure you're not going to die from it."

"Another urban legend bites the dust," he groaned in mock-disappointment. "I'll live—uncomfortably for a while, but I'll live."

"Okay then," Ariadne nodded awkwardly. "I've got work, and this evening is booked, unfortunately, but tomorrow-?"

"Gallery opening on Rue Lascaux," he replied quietly. "Wine and cheese thing I'd penciled in. Want to go?"

Ariadne blinked a little, and he could tell that she was mentally reassessing him; a move that pleased Arthur a bit. Let me be predictable on the surface, he thought, and something else underneath.

"Sounds . . . impulsive," she remarked, still not pulling away from him. Arthur let one palm stroke down her back, savoring the feel of her hair against the back of his hand.

"Yeah. I schedule all my spontaneity."

She burst into giggles at that, and it made the warmth pool again in the pit of his stomach. "Okay. Wine and cheese. I'll meet you there. What's the name of the gallery?"

"Noir Bois. Seventeen oh three, Rue Lascaux," Arthur murmured, brushing his nose against the crown of her head. The scent of Ariadne's hair was sweet, and this short business was starting to work for him.

"Time?"

"Around seven or so."

"All right," Ariadne agreed. She caught Arthur's gaze for a moment, holding it before speaking. "You're . . . you're not going to back out of this, are you? Because it took me a while to work up the courage to just—go for it like that."

"No," Arthur agreed gently. "I . . . appreciate your making a move on me." The minute he said that, he wanted to smack himself; the words sounded so formal and completely unromantic, but Ariadne beamed up at him, and her smile lit up her luminous brown eyes.

"Only you," she laughed softly, "could say it that way and I know you really mean it, Arthur. You're . . . adorable."

"Take that back, right now," he protested dryly, trying not to smile. "it's not an adjective that fits me."

"Yes it is," she argued, and reluctantly pulled away from his gentle embrace. "Although I won't ever say so to anyone but you. I have to get going, but tomorrow, seven, at the gallery."

"We'll do dinner afterwards," Arthur told her as Ariadne picked up her satchel and began to hurry across the warehouse.

"Okay," came her agreement, floating behind her. And then Ariadne was gone, disappearing behind the big rolling door.

Arthur didn't know what to do. He wanted to run, to yell, to find some outlet for the sudden surge of raw energy coursing through his entire body. The joyful tension was still singing along his nerves, and as he paced, he checked his watch, wondering if the three-story rock wall at the mountaineering school was already booked or not.