Sleep eluded him, and Arthur took himself to the warehouse when the first rays of dawn began to touch the sky. He collected the mail—noting the cheery postcard from Eames and a collection of small padded envelopes from Yusuf—and spend a few hours meticulously cleaning each Dream Synchronizer, working his way through each intravenous line and chemical connection with a tiny set of surgical tools. The work demanded his full attention, and for that he was grateful.
Once it was over, however, Arthur scowled and looked around the warehouse, searching desperately for something else to occupy his penance. He settled on sweeping out debris on the floors, and putting all the supplies in orderly stacks in the steel cabinets.
The events kept re-playing in his head, and Arthur cursed himself each time he mentally watched saw how he'd stepped back from what Ariadne was offering. The most damnable part was knowing full well exactly why he'd done what he'd done. For a man dedicated to action, the inability to go and make things right festered in him; Ariadne couldn't have chosen a better strategy if she'd planned it.
In a foul mood, he finished up the cleaning, found he was hungry, and took off for a little boulangerie a few blocks over. Arthur stepped inside and ordered tersely at the counter, receiving a quick guarded look from the little old lady there. She wrapped the baguette up in paper and took his coins, shaking her head; the sight annoyed him enough that he asked her what was wrong.
"Forgive me, but Monsieur is very . . . frightening today," the baker told him, her eyes wary, but kind.
Arthur gave a quick nod, feeling ashamed of himself for projecting his anger. "Monsieur has been . . . stupid," he told her in his overly-formal French. "And now is paying for that."
"Ahhh," the woman nodded. "Sometimes the price we pay for love comes very dear."
"I didn't say anything about love," Arthur protested, feeling warm under the collar.
The baker shot him a sweetly skeptical look and shrugged, the gesture iconically French. "But this is Paris; what else could it possibly be?" she pointed out, her logic irrefutable.
He laughed; she joined in, and the emotional sunbeam lightened his mood considerably. Arthur tucked the loaf under one arm, smiled at her, and sauntered out, feeling better.
After stopping at the fromagier, Arthur made his way down to the little park that stood framed between one of the older churches and several ancient apartment buildings. The park itself was pre-WWII and held majestic oaks that lined the gravel walkways. He found a bench that faced one of the mossy edges of the reflecting pond and had lunch, musing over matters.
Ariadne mattered to him, Arthur thought without hesitation. She mattered in ways beyond any professional association. The girl had gotten under his skin from the first day, and he hadn't anticipated it at all. Since Tess, he'd been leery of relationships with women; polite and little more with most of them. But Ariadne had simply sauntered into his thoughts and in her blunt, determined way, taken charge.
He smirked to himself, feeling a sense of exasperation mingled with something deeper; Arthur threw a wad of bread out onto the water, absently watching the ducks cluster quickly for it. Taking another bite of bread, he chewed, and remembered the first time he'd seen Ariadne, and how cheerful Cobb had been when introducing her.
Doll-like, and solemn-eyed, that had been Ariadne at first; he'd watched her extend a small hand his way, and his first impression had been that of a sprite stepping out of an ancient forest. It was pure fancy on his part, spurred by her wavy hair and dark eyes, but the imagery stayed with him at times, and he could picture her moving silently through some shaded glade or fern filled glen, a twinkle to her lips.
It was precisely the sort of frivolous thought he never shared with anyone, and kept at arm's length during the day. At night though, in the quiet darkness when sleep eluded him, Arthur played with the gentle whim, expanding it and others in a secret indulgence of imagination that even Eames never suspected. The daydreams mingled with fantasies of a more earthy nature of course; Arthur felt only a twinge of guilt at the admission. Ariadne, for all her petite size was a woman, and he appreciated that factor, if only in his private pleasures.
He tossed another hunk of bread out along the pond in a swift throw.
Private pleasures.
If he'd had stopped there he would have been fine, Arthur thought. Dreaming of making love to Ariadne was a delicious fantasy, but it had a limit, and after even the most intense scenario he knew it was no more real than any Dream. There was a bitterness to that; and Arthur felt he deserved it. Someone like Ariadne merited more than a humorless Extractor. She was younger; she was worthy of a shot at a real future instead of the limits he imposed on himself.
And yet, the thought popped up, as quickly and insidiously as an inception, you love her.
"No." Arthur argued aloud, flinging yet another chunk of bread. "No!"
Yes, his mind argued back. You love her, you idiot.
Somewhere was a chorus of outraged quacking, but Arthur ignored it, wrestling with his own thoughts. "I don't. She's just . . ."
He stopped, because nothing came after that. Ariadne had no boundaries as far as his mind was concerned. Arthur twisted in agitation, mauling bread in his strong hands as he fought the new and aching truth now building inside of him.
You LOVE her, and you're fucking terrified to admit it, his thoughts mocked him. That's right, genius. Somewhere along the line you fell HARD for the travel-size architect, and now you're having an argument in your own damned head with your common sense.
"Damn it!" Arthur growled, sending another chunk skipping over the water. More splashing and quacking, and this time a human yell of protest. He looked up to see a gendarme approaching him, and blinked.
"Ne nuisez pas aux canards! Cessez de les frapper avec du pain!" The stern-faced authority was bearing down on him, and immediately Arthur held his hands up in a pacifying manner.
What followed was a quick and stern lecture about respecting the sanctity of the park, the consequences of harming waterfowl, the hazards of littering, wrapping up with a warning not to waste good Parisian bread as ammo. The gendarme pointed a final warning finger and turned away. Red-faced, Arthur gathered up the remains of his lunch and balefully stared out at the paddling of fat, white ducks on the water.
They stared back just as suspiciously, and for one absurd moment, Arthur wondered which one had called for the gendarme. He pictured a small white cell phone, with a wallpaper of Donald or Daffy on it, and the ridiculous thought made him break out in a slow chuckle.
Suddenly he felt lighter.
Okay, Arthur thought. It's true. I am. What now?
His inner voice offered no immediate answers, so Arthur strode away, slowly at first and then with a sense of increasing urgency.
He only had two days-
There were only two trains from Aisne, and Ariadne had not been on the ten o'clock one. Arthur checked his watch again, and then looked down the long line of tracks that fed into the station. The smell of snow was in the air, and low dull fog hung in the sky, obscuring any view of the distance.
He tried to relax, but the action never came easily to him, not even at the best of times, so Arthur contented himself with flexing his fingers as he considered his plans. So much hung on the first few moments, and although Arthur wasn't an expert in the matters of the heart, he did know Ariadne well enough to take a page from her book.
The distant chuff of engines broke into his thoughts, and he gave a small smile forcing himself to wait patiently. In time, the long streamlined shape of the Nord line came sliding into the station, shuddering to a halt, steam and exhaust filling the air. Voices called in rapid French, announcing the arrival over the intercom, and around him, Arthur felt the surge of the waiting crowd, blending in with the general air of anticipation.
The doors began to slide open, and the porters stepped out, followed by the first of the passengers. Alert, Arthur looked right and left, scanning all of the exiting passengers. No one matching Ariadne's size disembarked, and for a moment a twisted sense of panic touched Arthur's features. He kept looking, and when finally, *finally* the small, lithe figure emerged, Arthur moved, gliding up to her with sleek speed, there almost before she'd finished stepping down.
He didn't give her time to react, sweeping Ariadne into his arms and pulling her into a quick, possessive kiss, and then pulling back to study her expression.
It was gratifyingly startled, and made him almost as happy as her kiss had.
"Wow. You're . . . here . . ." she murmured, and her tone told him how uncertain she herself had been.
That sealed it. That small hesitation put the ground under Arthur's feet, and he cupped one hand around her cheek, tilting her face up.
"I'm an idiot, but I'm not a coward," he assured her, his voice slightly unsteady.
"Yes," she agreed, "and no."
"Which part is which?" Here she was, putting him off his stride almost immediately, and Arthur realized with a giddy sense of amusement that he liked it.
"Point Man, if you can't figure out—" Ariadne began, but before she could finish, Arthur pulled her backpack from her shoulder to his, and slid an arm around her waist, herding her away from the train and into the station. Ariadne let him, but her amused look told him she hadn't missed the deliberate deflection at all.
"This is the way I see it," Arthur began. "You need me as much as I need you. Your bullshit detector is fine-tuned and I won't be able to get away with anything. In turn, I'm pretty sure I can keep up with you no matter what you want."
"Oh really?" Ariadne countered. "Got this all figured out, do you?"
"I'm a slow learner, but once I pick up the clues, I retain the information," came his assurance. "Remedial romantic."
Ariadne snorted. They'd reached the parking lot and she glanced around, trying to figure out which rental car was Arthur's. A sleek Limo pulled up, and he opened the door.
Ariadne looked from it to Arthur.
He smirked. "Borrowed it from a friend."
Cautiously, like a cat exploring a new place, Ariadne slid inside. Arthur followed her, and settled in on the bench seat across from her, setting the back pack on the floor. Through the glass partition, the chauffeur began to drive, pulling the long car forward and through the parking lot of the train station.
"Oookay," Ariadne began, but Arthur leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.
"Stop. Listen to me," he told her softly. "I'm serious. Had sort of an epiphany while beaning ducks the other day, and I know that doesn't make any sense to you but hear me out, Ari. I love you. This is a very big and scary deal to me because I take commitments pretty damned seriously. You gave me an ultimatum and I'm here."
Ariadne was biting her lips, her arms crossed, her eyes twinkling. She unfolded them and leaned forward until her jean-covered knees touched his.
"Beaning ducks. Pardon me while I check in with my totem, will you?"
"Be my guest."