Big thank you to cinematherapy, Iris Pont, and xahhax. :)

Chapter 12: The Motion

Ariadne and Eames were like brother and sister...maybe niece and uncle…best friends even. So it was plausible that she would tell him "I love you" as she hung up. The "secret" he'd spent half the night and the better part of the morning brainstorming about was nothing. He'd woken up halfway through that part of the conversation and had no context to put it in. "He's asleep" and "I just needed to hear your voice" was explainable. She thought Arthur was asleep and didn't want to disturb him but needed someone to talk to. It was innocent. Arthur was simply paranoid.

xxxxxx

Home from work and Arthur's nostrils were greeted with the promising smell of her cooking. He walked into the kitchen, hung his suit jacket on the back of the chair and dipped his finger into the butternut squash sauce she'd had cooling on the counter. To die for. Jauntily, he strutted to the couch and leaned over the back, expecting to see her asleep again. Ready to engage in playful friskiness with her again. He was let down when her figure was absent from the white leather cushions and decided to go exploring for her. Arthur made his way up the stairs, a few creaked along his way. He was near the top of the stairs when—

"Oh shit—I think Arthur's home, I've got to go." Her panicked voice rushed out a goodbye and flung the phone on the bed as Arthur opened the door. All too eager for his taste (and standing in the middle of the room like that's all she was doing before he'd entered) she pulled him downstairs to the dinner table.

Again…he hadn't heard her conversation. She'd probably heard him and hadn't realized how much time had passed. Ariadne was just adamant about getting as much time with Arthur as possible: He was home, it was Arthur time, she was getting off the phone in a rush because she'd missed him. It was innocent. Arthur was simply paranoid. Yeah, that's it.

xxxxxx

It'd been a particularly stressful day. The architect had gone for coffee that morning and left the designs for their level at the café. When he'd gone back? Of course, no designs. Ariadne would never have been so careless. Obviously, it would be a risk to use them anyway and thankfully neither his name nor any of the team's plans/information were in that sketchbook. (Or Arthur would've strangled him.) The day was filled with thinking up a new level complete with a whole new game plan, new paradoxes, new concepts, new feelings and a shitload of research for Arthur. If She were the architect, She would have no problem dreaming up something new on the spot.

Needless to say, he was more than elated (or relieved) to leave the job behind and come home to Her. The moment Arthur opened the door, the smell of her Ratatouille simmering on the stove magically lifted his mood. Ariadne was leaning against the counter, back to him. He loved when she wore her hair in messy buns on top of her head (At least he thought they were called messy buns), especially on the days she was too lazy to put on one of her scarves. He could see her porcelain neck from her hairline down and all the patches of skin that her unruly tresses and ornate scarves normally covered. The Architect was in her red polka dot pajama shorts and red tank set that showed off just how petite she really was. Her slim waist, her built legs…

"Eames, stop!" She giggled.

What? The Point Man let the door swing close to announce his presence. Ariadne's shoulder tensed and un-tensed in a fraction of a second, something only the most trained of eyes would catch. "Arthur's home." When she turned around, her face was bright and cheerful for him. "Yeah, I should go, I haven't seen him all day." Arthur winked (covering suspicion) at her while he routinely hung his trench coat up and shed his suit jacket. "Ok, Clari, je vous appellerai demain." Wait. Clari? Either his ears were deceiving him or she hadn't been speaking to her a second ago. She was giggling with the forger. "Vous aime trop, au revoir."

"Who was that, Ari?" his voice sounded genuinely curious, devoid of skepticism.

Ariadne kissed him on the cheek, "Oh, just Clarisse." She then got to work pulling sprigs of oregano from the fridge and sprinkling it on top of her finished meal.

He nodded and helped her set the table. Again, she was probably speaking French and a word that sounded or rhymed with Eames popped out as he walked in. And the different dialects were normal because she always went back and forth between French and English when speaking with her friends. It was innocent. Arthur was simply paranoid. That's it. He needed to quit looking for something that wasn't there.

xxxxxx

The Point Man unlocked their door and opened it, hearing, "Arthurisherethankyoubye!" in a vomit of whispers. When his eyes fell on her, she was lounging on the couch reading a magazine. His trained eye noticed her cell phone on the floor and the latest edition of the National Geographic. That was Arthur's magazine of choice. Ariadne never read that magazine. She would rather delve into the structures of the new edition of the Architecture magazines she subscribed to or read the edition of Time on the internet. Once and a while, she would flip through the pictures but only for a fleeting few moments and then her imaginative mind would get too bored and go hungry for something creative.

Nonsense. She could've gotten bored and read it on last resort.

If she'd been reading it so long, Arthur, she wouldn't still be on the first page, would she? And she would never read through the magazine word for word. She flipped through the pictures to get inspired and then tossed it.

"Hey." The Architect must have noticed his expectant look to the kitchen and flicker of despondency when he found it empty. "I burned dinner." She's never burned a meal in her life and when she had she'd been more embarrassed than that. In her family of gourmet French cooks, to burn dinner was a travesty and each generation was taught so well that it never happened. Ariadne was always careful and precise when cooking, she treated it with the same seriousness and devotion as she did sketching. To burn dinner was not the Bourgeois way and certainly not a capability Ariadne had… He doesn't even smell the char or sense a trace of smoke. "Sorry, I guess we'll have to make sandwiches tonight or something…"

It was plausible he was hearing things. She was bored to death. Sometimes Ariadne would spend all day cooking. She could've burnt it early this morning and the smoke and smell had been chased out. It was innocent. Arthur was simply paranoid. He could handle eating simple sandwiches for dinner, it wasn't a big deal. But when he opened the door, she w—No. He was hearing things. He needed to stop this. Arthur smiled and offered to pick them up some sandwiches from the deli across the street and Ariadne got up and set to work in the kitchen again, saying she'd make some lemonade and prepare a fruit salad by the time he got back.

xxxxxx

"No. Arthur and I haven't—since…I don't know, the week of the incident?"

What on earth was she talking about? They haven't what? They'd definitely spoken…they'd definitely gone out together, they'd definitely done a lot of things. Except, well maybe-Why on earth would she be talking about that and to who? Who was he kidding…he knew who and he could confirm it from the phone history once she hung up.

"I don't know…we just don't. I haven't felt the need to, really."

They must be talking about something else. There was no way she was discussing their intimacy with Eames. What did she mean by haven't felt the need to? Had she not felt attracted to him like that lately? Sure they hadn't been very passionate lately but they still loved each other…they still stole kisses and cuddled. He silently closed the door back while she said her goodbyes and reentered. "Hey Arthur." She halfheartedly greeted him and then asked him to help her finish their spaghetti dinner.

He heard her in the bathroom that night. Panting, "I'm—I—", a whimper in between, "Purple. Purple track shorts. And—a—my t-shirt, my T-Shirt from our trip to Canada." Another whimper, "Mm…mhm. They're cream—tile. My bathroom. I'm lying on my bathroom floor." Silence…her breath was slowing down, "He's asleep….I know…no, he wouldn't understand."

Understand what? How could he understand if she doesn't tell him anything? They have halfhearted conversations about how Miles is doing, and the events on his job, and who was on the morning talk show and 'look how pretty the sky is today.' Arthur felt her twitch in her sleep, he heard her cry and whimper when the nightmares woke her each night. Arthur knew when Ariadne excused herself to their bathroom or his office or their bedroom or anywhere and heard her coaxing herself to be ok…he knew she was still having problems but she wouldn't come to him. No matter how bad it got, Ariadne never curled up against him and asked him to rock her sleep, to whisper sweet things and tell her it would all be ok. She never described the dreams beyond the screams he heard at night, she never asked him for help and when he brought it up, she'd either get mad at him for doing so or come up with a mumbled answer and flee the room or change the subject. How could he understand is she doesn't tell him anything? All he wants is to understand. To help.

"Ok. Thank you, Eames, for doing this," she muttered under her breath, "Bye."

There was no explaining what that could've been. It certainly sounded like—but he didn't know the context. Yes, she was describing what she was wearing, yes, she was describing her surroundings, yes, she was panting and stuttering but…no. It was coincidence that she was talking about her and Arthur's lack of intimacy earlier. That's what was triggering this parallel in his mind. That's why he was unrightfully incriminating her without any concrete evidence. But at the end when she thanked Eames, did Arthur detect a hint of shame? Was there guilt there? Maybe this wasn't so innocent. Maybe Arthur wasn't simply paranoid…But then again…she always panted and stuttered when the hallucinations grabbed hold of her. She always described things to help her mind understand what was there and what wasn't…but did she need Eames for that? Would there be any need for her to feel guilty and shameful for that?

xxxxxx

He wasn't proud of himself. He wasn't proud of questioning her fidelity. After all, he should believe with every cell in his body that she was his as she'd promised and would never betray him. Yet, he sat in his corner of the hotel ballroom (where the rest of his team was going through last minute preparations before the execution of the job the next day) and listened in to their home phone line. He'd wired it this morning while she was still sleeping. He'd rigged it so that when their line was active, it would pop up on his laptop screen and he could slide his earphones in and eavesd—observe. It'd popped up once but it had only been dear Miles checking up on her. He was just waking from a run through, when he saw his laptop flashing across the room. When he tied in, they were already halfway through their conversation.

The Architect sounded frazzled, "It's not working. It's taking too long! Eames!" She shrieked.

"Have patience, Ari, just listen to my voice, ok?" A strong British accent smoothed and drawled to her.

"I have to see you. Please."

Eames sputtered, "Are you daft? If you don't want to tell Arthur that we talk, I don't think you'll want him showing up and finding me there."

She swallowed, "I'll come to you."

"Aria—"

"I'm leaving now."

When Arthur pulled up at the end of the day, Ariadne was just disappearing behind their door with takeout bags. And when he'd come in after her, she'd pretended like she'd been there all day. That she'd cooked that food herself, that she watched the morning talk show and her afternoon cooking show and that she'd sketched and waited for him and missed him. And she pretended and she pretended and she pretended. It was like she was playing house with him for his benefit. She was plastering smiles on her face and kissing him like she should. Like a good little fiancée. And he'd begun to count her lies. And he'd begun to count her pauses and her actions to fill that space. And he'd begun to count her kisses as lies and actions to fill space. Because she was innocent, right Arthur? Because you're simply paranoid?

Suspicion laid its filthy eggs inside his head.
And with every count of her lies one would hatch.

As Bewilderment.

As Curiosity.

As Jealousy.

As FEAR.

He slept with his ears open.