"Hell's kitchen," Ariadne chuckled a little. "All right, I have some references I can use, and some pantry layouts for a maze as needed. This must be a heck of a recipe, Julian."

"Oh it is love, it is. Be nice to me and I might even make it just for you," Eames flirted saucily. "A candlelit supper for two in a cozy corner-"

Arthur gritted his teeth, and kept his face averted. Part of him wanted to cut Eames down, quietly and efficiently, but doing so without revealing this new . . . situation with Ariadne would be damned difficult. Eames read people exceedingly well; it was his forte after all.

Ariadne shook her head. "I'm not big on fancy food," she murmured. "I'm more the 'nibble out of the basket of bread' type."

"I'm devastated," Eames snickered back, and shot a look at Arthur. "What about you, darling? Surely you'd be up for a taste of Boeuf Bourguignon Ala Marcel D'Etoile?"

"Can I put catsup on it?" Arthur dryly shot back.

Eames recoiled. "Heathens, the pair of you! Honestly, this city has some of the finest cuisine in the world and you'd settle for 'le Big Mac!'"

Ariadne laughed; Arthur managed a chuckle and Eames rolled his eyes but grinned as the mood lightened around them all.

"What's the time frame?" Arthur asked, and they pulled their chairs into a circle to confer.

oo00oo00oo

Afterwards, Arthur tried to come up with an excuse to walk out with Ariadne; he could see her struggling with the same situation. Eames lingered, settling in with his laptop and pulling up information about their target while the thin cold light of the winter afternoon shone through the skylights.

"Speaking of food," Arthur finally announced. "I could go for something. I didn't get much breakfast."

Ariadne bit her lip and out of the corner of his eye he watched her stifle a smile; clearly she remembered their coffee and croissants.

"Mmmm," Eames replied in a distracted tone. "Pascal's is close by, isn't it? Bring me back one of their Panini sandwiches—jambon et fromage, merci."

"Certainly, your highness," Arthur groused. "Avec mustard? Mayo?"

"No need to get shirty—you DID offer. Mayo, but only if it's the house stuff. Oh, and a side salad. Take little Miss Breadroll with you while I dig into Monsieur D'Etoile's school records. And a Perrier!"

"Get used to taking dinner orders," Ariadne advised, rewinding her scarf. She tucked the ends into her jacket and nodded to show she was ready; they headed out, into a cold and gusty breeze. Most of the snow had hardened, but the sidewalks were wet instead of frozen, so walking was relatively safe.

Once they were outside, Ariadne linked her arm through his in a decidedly possessive manner. Not that Arthur minded; she was warm.

"So . . . how long until he figures things out?" she murmured, her voice slightly resigned.

"Not long," Arthur admitted. "Right now he's on a tear for the job, but once he settles down, he'll be watching. He's already suspicious of me."

"Suspicious?"

"Claims I've gotten laid," Arthur drawled. "Does it show that much?"

Ariadne burst into giggles. "Don't ask me!"

"Why not," he pointed out. "You were there."

She punched his arm lightly, her cheeks pink from more than the cold as they reached the door of Pascal's. A large man was coming out; Arthur pulled Ariadne against himself to make room, and quickly they kissed. The sweet heat of her lips sent a surge of happy lust through him.

From the pleased look on Ariadne's face, the feeling seemed mutual; they kissed again, and when they stepped inside Pascal's an older man winked at them.

"Vive l'amour," he rasped from his table, toasting them with his glass of ruby port.

Ariadne merely smiled and ducked her head.

They ordered; rather, she did while Arthur stood behind her, hands shoved in his pockets, listening to Ariadne's rapid French. Her accent was tinted with British inflections and he wondered if those came from her mother or her nanny.

"And you'd like?" she turned unexpectedly, waiting for his preferences.

Arthur managed a small quirk of a smile. "Gruyere and roast beef I guess. And a cup of soup."

Nodding at this, Ariadne turned back and Arthur enjoyed the sight of her back, remembering what it had looked like and felt like under his palms. Memory nudged desire, and he found himself feeling slightly aroused.

They stood back, waiting for the order to be packed up, and the warm rich scents of the bistro drifted around them. He wasn't one for public displays of affection, the door kiss being the exception, but Ariadne leaned against him, comfortable as a happy cat rubbing against a greyhound.

"I'm nervous," she whispered. Arthur looked down at her, surprised.

"Second thoughts?" A quick sense of panic shot through his frame and Arthur forced himself to keep calm.

Ariadne looked up in her fearless way, and bit her lip for a second. "No. But that doesn't mean I'm settled and smug. We still have a lot to learn about each other."

"I'm a little ahead of you on that one," Arthur pointed out softly. "Although most of what *I* know concerns your credit report and traffic record. Not the stuff I want to know."

"What do you want to know?" she asked, intrigued despite herself.

"Your favorite holiday, and childhood pets, and whether or not we're going to deal with Eames on a united front."

The counterwoman called out and pushed the white bags fill with their order towards them; Arthur scooped them up and let Ariadne lead the way out of the bistro."Halloween, Quoth, and yes," Ariadne replied smoothly, leaving Arthur.

It wasn't until they were strolling back that she clarified, breath puffing in the chill. "Quoth was a raven; we found him when he was a chick and took him in as a pet during one of Mom's digs. He was a damned smart bird even if we couldn't get him to perch on a skull. I taught him to whistle 'Scotland the Brave."

The gentle whimsy of that amused Arthur and he could picture a young Ariadne with a huge black bird on one shoulder as she wandered amid ruins along some Greek coastline.

"Nice."

"Yep. He lived almost eight years, and died very peacefully one night. Mom and I put him in a small olive oil amphora and buried him at sea," Ariadne murmured softly. "The dig students thought we were nuts. What are we going to say to Eames?"

It took Arthur a second to realize she wasn't talking about Quoth anymore.

"Depends on a few things." He murmured thoughtfully, "and I'm not sure how he'll take it."

Her expression looked slightly troubled. "Mal?"

"It's bound to be a consideration," Arthur admitted. "I want to think she and Dom were unique, but Dreaming is tough, emotionally. We have less restraint on our impulses and feelings can run . . . hot."

The very word brought on a blush, and he noted that it was catching; Ariadne was pink too. "Yeah, I thought about that too—I don't know how things will be if we Dream together now."

"Yeah. Probably better that we don't go in together with our Galloping Gourmet forger this first time. I'm not good at . . . sharing."

Ariadne shot him a saucy look. "Me either. Je ne regrette rien, you know."

"Rêveur," he replied affectionately.