Arthur dropped her off just inside the staff parking lot with ten minutes to spare despite the slushy snow; in the car, Ariadne had turned and kissed him, clearly not worried about being seen doing so, which amused him very much. He drove off in good spirits, and when he reached the warehouse, the lack of packages and the footprints in the snow made him slightly wary.
With caution, Arthur opened the door and smelt Eames' aftershave well before he saw the man. Eames had his feet up on one of the worktables and was reading a travel brochure for a cruise line. He flashed an amused grin at him. "There you are; I tried calling, but it seems your phone's not on."
"Been busy," was all Arthur offered, feeling a twinge of amusement himself.
"Hmmmm," Eames replied, and his sharp stare made Arthur slightly apprehensive.
To cover himself, he asked in return, "What brings you into town?"
"A quick job here in the City of Lights, old man. A walk in the park, or la cuisine, in this case. Here—take a look."
Casually Eames dropped his feet to the floor again and handed over a file. Arthur took it and scanned the first page, aware of the other man's eyes on him as he did so. "Chefs?"
"Rivals," Eames corrected, smiling merrily. "Ever see that very old Bugs Bunny cartoon with the two chefs? It amuses me to no end to see that this pair have the same names—Louis and Francois."
"And they both want the recipe ala Antoine?" Arthur murmured, vague memories of Saturday mornings in front of a TV surfacing.
"A dead easy job, and minimum setup," Eames pointed out cheerfully. "One kitchen, a dining room full of hungry projections and the old mentor breathing down our subject's neck—we could do it in our sleep—and shall."
"What's the pay?" Arthur demanded, flipping to the back page and the bottom line. "This recipe must be one hell of a dish if the client's willing to pay for an Extraction."
"Three million," Eames supplied, getting to his feet and sauntering over. "And right before the holidays too. With a cut of that I could take a little cruise and treat myself to the good things in life. After all, what could be better from Father Christmas than a million dollars?"
He said it with such panache that Arthur grinned briefly.
"Yeah, that's a hell of a stocking stuffer. Is this all the prelim?"
"The basics," Eames nodded. "I've gotten some very interesting files on our client from the unsecured computer of his analyst, and access to his datebook so we can plan when best to make an appointment. So—is it a go?"
Arthur looked over the top of the file at the other man and gave him a slow, long look. "Kind of anxious, are we?"
"Well," Eames confessed in a low voice, "I'm actually interested in the recipe myself. Odd I know, but there you have it. The dish is legendary, and although a lot of diners and critics have tried to analyze it, it's never been written down, Arthur. It's like going after the holy grail of food."
Arthur blinked. "The holy grail—do you have any idea what you sound like?"
Eames laughed, his head going back and his teeth flashing. "Yes, in fact, I do. But the job isn't all about money every time, Arthur, darling. Once in a while there are other considerations, you know."
"Let me do some checking, but barring anything hinky, it's a go," Arthur nodded.
Eames blinked and stared at him. "Good God; is that agreement coming from you, and on the first go-round?"
"Consider it my Christmas present to you," Arthur countered, not meeting Eames' surprised gaze.
"You've gotten laid," Eames accused slowly. "And to think I'd live to see the day. This is the season of miracles."
Arthur said nothing; denial would encourage Eames as would any attempt at deflection. Instead, he deliberately checked his watch, and noted to himself that Ariadne would be free in precisely three hours.
"Oh your very silence is damning," Eames needled sweetly. "No witty comebacks, no remarks about getting back to the job. You are relaxed, aren't you?"
Before Arthur could think of any reply, the ring of the doorbell interrupted them, and he gave a shrug before moving to see who was there. The courier, a round little man stamping his boots against the cold, held out three packages and eagerly accepted Arthur's tip in return.
Two of the packages were from Yusuf, Arthur noted, and the third was from one of his bolt-holes in Hong Kong. He carried them in and Eames, ever curious, sauntered over to peek.
"Seds, preservatives for the same, and . . . Hong Kong?"
"Home away from home," Arthur murmured, not willing to say more. Travelling as much as he did, it made sense to have a few carefully chosen accommodations at set points across the globe. Hong Kong gave him easy access to Southeast Asia, and a place to disappear when necessary.
"Ahh," Eames nodded understandingly. "It's good to have a port in many harbors." He said this with such droll solemnity that Arthur shot him a suspicious look.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means we all need a sense of security," Eames pointed out, a rare dash of seriousness in his expression. "Look, Arthur, I know we haven't always gotten along, and that losing Cobb was a bit of a blow to you. But I wouldn't be willing to stay on if I didn't think you had what it took to keep us all employed and out of prison."
Arthur stared for a moment before speaking up. "Where's the real Eames and what have you done with him?"
"God you're a suspicious git," the other man grinned.
"You really want that recipe," Arthur deduced, finally grinning back. Busted, Eames laughed, and ran a hand through his hair.
"Yes, I damned well do," he admitted. "When can we get started?"
"Ariadne," Arthur murmured carefully, "should be free in a few hours. Let's go over the prelims, and get the background checking started on our chefs."
He felt an unreasonable rush of annoyance when Eames enfolded Ariadne in a hug. Utterly foolish, but Arthur felt his hackles rise in possessive protest, and was glad when Ariadne pulled away quickly and stood back, managing a smile.
"Hey! Didn't expect you—what brings you into town?" she asked. Arthur was proud of the way she didn't even look his way as she bluffed along.
"Professional sabotage of a culinary nature," Eames responded, grinning. "I'm hoping we can create a nice little anxiety dream and strip out a renowned recipe along the way. Interested?"
"A recipe?" Ariadne echoed. Arthur loved the way she sounded asking a question that way, like a surprised puppy faced with a cat for the first time. He broke in, working to make his tone light.
"According to Eames, the recipe. Nothing too serious—you up for it?"
They locked gazes for a moment, and Ariadne nodded; Arthur made it a point to look away first because he knew how sharp Eames was.
"Who's going in?" she asked, pragmatically. "Someone's got to keep an eye on the Dreamers and there are only the three of us."
"Well I'm in, so I suppose that leaves you and Arthur to flip a coin," Eames replied, "unless you prefer 'rock, paper scissors.'"
For a second Arthur looked at Ariadne and almost laughed; she was trying to appear totally nonchalant and not quite succeeding. "Up to you," he told her. "I can wait tables, but I'm not going to wear one of those toques."
Ariadne blinked, and smirked. "Okay then-if I can trust you two not to kill each other. What do you need me to build?"
"A kitchen," Eames told her. "Something Miltonian with lots of open fireplaces and flames, darling. I want our subject ready to wee his pants before we're done!"