Her place was closer, and they made their way from the train station along a few blocks until the familiar apartment steps were in sight once again. It was cold enough that Arthur could see his breath, and the sting of his arm had settled into a throb. His unseen assessment was that it wasn't deep, but the point had been dull, and there would be some bruising as well. His sleeve fluttered in the gusting wind, and by the time Ariadne unlocked the door with her key he was glad to be out of the chill.
"This way," she led him down a clean quiet lobby to an elevator, ushering him in. Arthur followed, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to clean up. Tingles of nervousness shot through him and he fought them back, striving for calm, difficult as it was.
Her apartment was on the fifth floor, in the back of the building. As Ariadne opened the door and welcomed him in, Arthur was aware of . . . space. The rooms were done in glossy dark hardwood floors, with glass and green marble bookcases along the white walls. There was a cozy reading nook in the living room; a plush sofa in a brocade pattern of old maps, and white wicker tables and a good floor lamp nearby. A small computer table of glass was tucked in a corner, and a collection of mechanical drawings were framed along one wall. Arthur recognized them as Ferris wheels.
"Okay, come into the kitchen," Ariadne directed as she peeled off her own coat and hung it on a stand in the hall. "I've got disinfectant and some gauze . . . take off your shirt—"
"You like giving orders," he observed, keeping a straight face.
Ariadne spun, ready to defend herself and paused, cocking her head. "If I didn't, you'd probably stand there and drip blood until I suggested something," she told him.
"And your point is?" Arthur followed Ariadne around a corner and found a galley kitchen with silver wire cabinets and scarred black marble countertops.
Ariadne fished under the sink and pulled out a woven basket. "My point is that I'm not crazy about people bleeding. Come on, come on—" she waved at his shirt, and then turned to run some water in the sink.
Arthur slowly took off the damaged London Fog, setting it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, and reluctantly added his suit coat to it.
Ariadne shot him a sidelong glance of amused exasperation. "Overcoat, coat, vest, tie—exactly how many layers do you have ON, Arthur?"
"It's winter," he snapped back, sliding the knot out of his tie. "If there's one thing I DO know, it's how to dress for the weather."
Ariadne held a washcloth under the water and took a moment to wring it out. Arthur painfully peeled off his vest, feeling the renewed sting as he shifted his shoulder. "Okay, maybe this does hurt a little . . ."
He moved to undo the shirt buttons, but Ariadne stepped closer and began to pluck them open, her smaller, quicker fingers making short work of the job. Arthur slid his good arm free, and then slowly began to peel the sleeve down on the wounded one, but Ariadne was staring elsewhere.
"What?" he looked at her, feeling the start of a blush.
"That's . . . an undershirt. You're wearing an undershirt," she pointed out.
"Yes," Arthur agreed patiently. "Some men do."
"I know, but generally you don't see those as part of regular clothing on men outside the Thirties and Forties," Ariadne remarked, biting her lips. "God, you're such an enigma at times, Arthur. You dress like Jimmy Stewart in his heyday, you realize that, don't you?"
"Not all the time," he retorted. He would have argued the point, but she was close again, close enough that her perfume tickled his nose.
"Well I like it," Ariadne murmured approvingly. "Let's see your arm."
In the light of the kitchen, the gash proved to be slightly worse than Arthur's initial assessment, and the blood was oozing sluggishly along a five inch slash. Ariadne wiped it tenderly with the washcloth as Arthur watched, and fought the surge of interest that twitched through his loins.
"You're damned lucky you weren't impaled on that thing," Ariadne reminded him quietly. "I don't think it needs stitches, but it's going to hurt for a while."
"You're not going to put mercurochrome on it are you?" he demanded. "I hate that stuff."
"Um, I hate to tell you this, but that stuff's been off the market since the late Eighties," Ariadne informed him, amused. "Welcome to modern medicine."
Arthur snorted, but the touch of the washcloth felt nice, as did having Ariadne so close. He started to relax.
"Take your undershirt off."
Instantly tense again, Arthur flinched. "Why?"
"There's blood on it. I'll wash and dry it for you," Ariadne replied absently. "That will give you some time to let the painkillers work."
"I can just get a cab," he argued, but half-heartedly. "Really."
"It's not a problem," Ariadne replied. "I've got a sweatshirt you can borrow while the shirts are washing. We can order something and still have dinner—that is, if you'd like."
He caught a hint of uncertainty in her tone, and Arthur realized she was nervous; that Ariadne was as tentative in her own way as he was in his. Looking at her, he gave a quick, curt nod.
"Okay. Thanks. I was going to take you to Lascalles," he confessed. "Ragout du Norde, the whole nine yards."
Her eyes widened, and a faintest quirk at one corner of her mouth warmed him. "I'm . . . impressed."
"Yeah, well I don't think we're going to make it—at least, not tonight," he sighed. "Damn ice."
Ariadne gave a shrug. "It could have been worse," she pointed out quietly. "Let me go get the sweatshirt."
When she'd stepped out of the room, Arthur cautiously peeled off his undershirt, hissing in pain as he flexed his damaged arm. Blood had stained the armhole, and although it wasn't a lot, it was wet and sticky enough to make for an unpleasant patch. Arthur dabbed the washcloth along his bare ribs, cleaning what he could, unprepared for Ariadne's little gasp of surprise.
He turned, looking at her, and could feel a blush beginning along his face. "What?"
"Nothing. Just . . ." she trailed off, eyes big. "Let's get a bandage on it."
00oo00oo00
"This . . . is a little . . ." Arthur said, trying to tug the bottom edge of the Sorbonne sweatshirt down.
"—short," Ariadne replied with a very Gallic shrug. "It was a gift from a friend of mine who was pretty clueless about sizes, so I usually wear it as a nightshirt on really cold nights."
The image flashed in Arthur's head and he savored it for a moment: doll-like Ariadne in nothing but her baggy sweatshirt, legs bare and tantalizing . . .
He coughed to clear the vision, and tried to look anywhere but at her. "Yeah, I've got some flannel pajamas myself. Really hideous plaid, but they've gotten me through some rough Maine winters."
"Maine," Ariadne echoed, looking interested. "I thought you sounded a little like an East coast man. What part of Maine?"
And they were off. Arthur found himself in the odd position of offering up information he hadn't thought about in years; generally he kept close-mouthed about his past, but Ariadne kept nodding, asking questions and drawing him out.
She heard about Charlotte and Alden and Hannah in due course, and the years at Brewster Bay where Arthur had passed the majority of his childhood outdoors.
That, apparently they had in common. Ariadne offered up her own story as they waited for the dinner order to show up; years in Greece and Italy, being raised at every major European archeological dig of the last twenty years by a famous mother, a dedicated Canadian nanny and several dogs.
Some of it Arthur knew already from the background check he'd done with Dom first brought her onboard, but he kept silent, enjoying the stories.
"I had languages down pretty well, and the humanities," Ariadne murmured. "Had to push for the sciences though—Mom didn't think much of them. Still doesn't."
The doorbell rang, and Arthur snagged his wallet, moving smoothly to the door before Ariadne had even managed to get uncurled from her position on the sofa. On the other side of the door, the thin, dark-eyed delivery girl shivered, wet but smiling.
Arthur took the two bags and handed her several Euros more than the tab, waving off her offer to make change. She beamed, and he felt good about it as he watched her head back down the apartment hallway.
Then Ariadne slipped behind him and reached around for the bags and the warm sweet press of her along his spine felt amazing. Arthur froze, unsure whether to turn or not.
"Let go," Ariadne murmured with a laugh in her voice. "I'm hungry, and I'm in a good position to tickle you."
"That would be . . . regrettable," Arthur found his voice. "Very, very regrettable."
"Be-cause you're ticklish?" She asked from somewhere behind his wounded arm.
"Because I'm a firm believer in retaliation, Ari," he warned her, and in that warm moment, he felt something shift within him.
Ariadne laughed, and snagged a bag from his grip, her swift move worthy of a purse-snatcher. "*You're* the one with your ribs exposed, Artie."
"No," he turned his expression grave. "Never, never call me Artie. That's even more regrettable than tickling."
"More regrettable," she challenged, looking up into his face with an expression just as serious, despite her twinkling eyes. "Yes, I'm terrified now. But you can't get away with it. You can't just call me Ari and expect me to let that go."
He carried the heavier back to the coffee table and let her unpack it, thinking silently for a moment. "Okay then."
"Okay what?" Ariadne asked, suspicious despite the hint of a smile on her lips.
"Okay, you can find something to call me. Within reason," Arthur amended quickly. "I'm not going to answer to anything I deem stupid."
Ariadne pulled out the Styrofoam bowl of soup and peeled back the lid, taking a deep sniff before cocking her head. "Okay. When I figure it out, I'll let you know."
"Thanks," he shot back, wandering over and helping her pull out the neat white cartons of grilled salmon and foil tubes of French bread. "Glad you understand these things."