Part 2: Concealing

The pink of her eyelids fluttered faintly- he almost wanted to grab her, shake her awake, but that was illogical and not needed. Only the small breaths, the smallest twitches of her fingers, kept him hoping she would wake up soon.

Sitting as still as possible Arthur unclasped his hands, which had been knotting for hours. His aura of business, of cool and calm, was no more; at hand was a man who was worrying. Letting out a sigh he leaned back farther in the seat he occupied, pulling it closer to the bedside unconsciously. Hours ago his phone had rung.

At the moment he had been enjoying a late lunch at the outdoor café nearest to his Paris apartment. He had been eating salad, noticing the things around him.

How the tiny woman in pink across from him had bought the dress very recently (it probably was her favorite color), how the man who had served him his food was in a thorough argument with a ravishing Latino woman ( a quarrel about a 1989 hybrid that they had shared quite some time ago was in need of repair and she needed the money…he didn't buy her story), or the fact that he was frustratingly alone.

It's not like he wasn't sociable…he just hadn't found anyone who was fit to meet his intelligence. That had sounded pretentious, even to him, but talking with anyone who could understand his hunger for the little things in life was almost physically impossible. Of course, he never expressed his doubts, and always kept his mind 'wide open' for new possibilities. He was reflecting on this very subject when his phone had buzzed.

Having his nerves trained in the art of silence was a blessing-though the sudden sound did startle him it was more logical to stay still, to press the heart to not skip, to force every muscle to move seamlessly despite the small scare. He'd been leaning back in his chair but he quickly came back to earth with a rush of air and the thump of feet. It was the number that flashed across the screen that warned him-that warned him this was something awful. It was Ariadne's.

It had been two or so months since the Inception job. This is all Arthur had ever done, most of his life, was be a Point-Man. There was nothing left to do, no job left to find…and he felt he had to rush back to Paris.

He'd grabbed her shoulder-her red lip-stick lips had parted in evident surprise, but she'd calmly turned around, closing her mouth with a sassy smack that amused him. She always attempted to remain cool; to remain calm…just like him.

"Where are you heading to?" He'd asked politely, dropping his hand dully, like a man who'd been stunned. Her face did that to him-it threw him off balance, made his reaction times slower-it didn't bother him. Rather, it made her a contradiction. And he enjoyed contradictions. Her caramel eyes had brightened at the question, and she smiled coyly up at him. "Where I came from. Paris." She smiled brightly after the answer, causing him to grin back in return.

Her answer had been simple and direct enough; yet it had this bitter metallic taste that, to him, can only be described as disappointment. It was enough of an answer that after she had walked away, he knew where to go. Recalling their last meeting made him yearn to never pick up the phone; what if she had discovered his living in the same city as her? Granted, Paris was a huge city, but he could have lived anywhere else, anywhere. Reaching forward he pressed the answer button, jamming it next to his ear so fast it annoyed him. It wasn't logical to answer that fast, she was only a former co-worker.

"Hello?"

What he heard next threw everything kilter.

"Hey- Arthur-" The gasping is what had alerted him. The sudden tightness in her voice, the clear strain as she breathed in-he could practically see her gritting her teeth. Suddenly everything was bright, every detail thrown into painful relief as he tensed.

The Latino woman had walked away ranting, the woman with the pink dress was writing a check with her left hand, the letters curliquing out a number…

"Ariadne? What's wrong?" His voice may have come out cool and reasonable-but nothing was reasonable at all. He glanced up at the umbrella over his head (its color was one of the 24 shades of moss) and there were three phone numbers written on its rimmed surface (the area codes all leading to somewhere in the city) , and his head was pounding three beats per second; or was that his heart?

It was dizzying as he heard her quick gasps over the line, the slight moan that she allowed to escape-

"Ariadne where-"

He was standing now, in emergency mode, the world seeming to bend around to fit his will. New details emerged as he peered past the umbrella, as he noted the street name, number, and the time the bus would pull up to the curb…

"I've been shot." She breathed, the words bursting through the other end with an explosive force. "I don't know how, I just woke up…" her voice was trailing off, the panic in each word seeping into Arthur's core.

It wasn't helpful-he could feel it building up in his chest, a crushing and imminent pressure that screamed "Emergency". His mind was practically bursting at the seams, ideas and plans unfolding with each millisecond that passed-and yet, he couldn't pick one because this was all going too fast.

"WHE-"

"My apartment." The answer was barely out, merely a hiss into the receiver; before the connection cut off completely. Arthur didn't pause, didn't wait for the resounding, final click of the connection to quit hitting the insides of his skull; he reacted instantaneously. Jamming the phone into his pants pocket he threw a handful of cash onto the café table (3 fives…two ones, would help the waiter pay off the damages to that '89 Hybrid) before assessing the street. Right next to the outdoor seating of the café was a street-across from the street was a busy sidewalk next to a series of shops. With one more calculated scan of the area he picked up on three, sure things. One, that the afternoon traffic was stifling, allowing him a perfect amount of time to find a vehicle. Two, in the third line, at the end, was an recently rebuilt, 1974 Laverda SF2 gleaming in the high sun. Three, the light would turn green in about less than 30 seconds, if his math was correct. With an inward sigh he ran over what he was about to do-so far so good. And then he plunged into the sea of traffic. Winding his way through the maze of cars and vehicles he began running. Weaving in and out, past taxi-drivers and various bikers and buses, he counted down the seconds. (15,16…) The piercing honk was aimed at him, he knew, but he kept on running, intent on his purpose. A woman leaned out her window, ranting at him in French, her chanel #59 smothering him as he ran past the window. (10, 9…) He slid across the hood of an orange taxi without any thought-for what was there to lose but caramel eyes and sassy smiles?-ignoring the drivers vain attempts to swear at him as he fell off the hood and stumbled into row three. There she was-the motorcycle gleamed, quivering beneath its owner like an anxious panther. Arthur approached calmly, quieting his breathing in order to appear reassuring. "Good aftertoon, Monsier!" He called out-the driver turned his head to face Arthur, his surprise at the unexpected greeting hidden underneath his tinted helmet. Arthur got within three feet of him, his lips tightening suddenly as his fingers curled- (4, 3..) The man, had he noticed Arthur's rapid change of expression, might have been alarmed. But as it was, he thought Arthur was harmless. And that's when Arthur punched him in the neck. The rider gasped in pain, his grip loosening on the handle bars- and with a shove Arthur knocked him off and onto the pavement. One. The light flickered green, just as predicted. Throwing one leg around the black monstrosity Arthur straddled it, pushing off and following the other cars in front of him as the rider recovered. Arthur raced off, the former owner's crumpled figure a convenient distraction for the drivers Arthur left in his wake. Ariadne hadn't needed to tell Arthur her address-as soon as she'd entered Paris, he'd made it his business to know…and it wasn't long before he was at her door, pounding on the white oak mercilessly. To his surprise and horror it swung open underneath his furious movements easily, silence the only thing that greeted him. His stomach took a suicide dive as he moved into the room, swinging the door shut behind him. He noted the fine wooden flooring, glossed to perfection. The arched ceilings, elegant furniture, and assorted architectural paintings screamed her name all too well…but what really got his attention was the door on the other side of the room, left wide open. He pushed past everything, running into the room without hesitation. Unlike the rest of the interior of the rest of the apartment it was frighteningly bare, save for the plain white bed that lay in its center. And, upon that bed, was Ariadne. The only thing he could was aware of, at this point, at the point where his stomach plunged and his breath caught-was the red. Like he had noticed, the room was full of whites and pale grays, little else. Even her clothing, (a white button-up blouse and tan jeans) were still shades and shades away from the shockingly bright crimson that pooled across her stomach, seeped onto the bedspread in rivulets… As if to emphasize the alarming color her pale hands lay in it, limp though they were, attempting to cover the wound. Somehow, just standing there, his eyes found her face. It lay upon the pillows, her head tossed to the side as if it was too heavy to hold upright. Careless waves of brown framed the oval shape- the darker color bringing out the little pink her cheeks had left in them. Her eyes were shut, the purple eyelids still. Her lips were even open a little bit-and for one, long, long moment, he couldn't help but wonder if this Snow White was meant to sleep forever. And it hurt, surprisingly so. Desperate he reached into his pocket, pulling out a square object. Coming to his knees he unfurled his hand, tossing the object across the floor…it skittered to a halt by her bedside, the loaded die's numbers staring up at him mockingly. With something on the edge of despair he reached her bedside, picked it up, put it back in his pocket, and knelt. He wasn't dreaming. The bedspread was white, the blood was red, and she was too pale too be alive. And all he could think of was how he hated the facts. Hated every little detail that made this a reality… And then, without warning, she breathed.