V.
"Hello, Ariadne," Arthur says, folding a newspaper and standing, and she immediately reaches for her totem.
"Arthur?" She hadn't expected anyone to meet her at the airport, but here he is, sitting right by the baggage carousel.
"Welcome back to Paris," he says, smiling. "How was the job?"
"Awful," she admits before she can think about it. "Not that I'm not glad to see you, but why are you here?"
He shrugs expansively; she smiles, watching his shoulders roll under the familiar black suit. "I figured I might as well save you a cab fare. I'm parked just outside that exit." He gestures.
"I never actually told you what flight I'd be on," she says, although she's grateful for the thought.
"Well, you texted us just as you were leaving, and mentioned it; it wasn't hard to extrapolate from there." He frowns. "Should I not have?"
"No, it's fine," she says, because Arthur is an extrapolator and always will be. "I just didn't expect it."
"Well, I hope it was a pleasant surprise," he says, following as she heads for the indicated parking lot. "What were the problems with the job?"
"They kicked out of the job with almost twelve minutes left on the surface clock," she says, rolling her eyes. "And failed to mention it to me – we separated in the dreamscape."
"Oh, God. Did they have a way to contact you at all?"
"Cell phones on all of us. Apparently they got cornered near the safe with the papers in their hands, panicked, and shot themselves out before they remembered me." Lips twitching, she adds, "I don't think they work with people other than the two of them much."
"They do have a reputation for that," he grants.
"They weren't particularly organized even before that," she adds. "I don't think Georgiana is the best point man."
"Not to sound egotistical, but if you judge all point men by me, you'll be fairly regularly disappointed," he says; they've reached his car by this time, and she slings her bags in the back and collapses into the passenger seat with a sigh of relief for her aching arms.
"Perhaps I'd better just not work with anyone else, then," she jokes, and immediately freezes.
"That might be an excellent idea," Arthur agrees gravely. "It's a horrible way to bring it up, but I've actually been wanting to suggest that the three of us just work as a unit; it's a fairly common arrangement. Just as something to think about."
"That sounds pretty good," she says, because she's tired, and she's very glad to be home, and she didn't realize until right now exactly how fed up she's been with watching the Arynskys communicate in intertwined fingers and sideways glances and smiles with entire rhapsodizing speeches in the corners. Arthur is smiling at her and wearing a suit she's seen him wear at least a hundred times, inside dreams and out, and his car is almost as familiar to her as her own, and she knows that by 'the three of us' he means her and him and Eames, and that's actually pretty perfect because they're an excellent combination.
"It's just something to consider," Arthur says. "Now, do you want to head straight back to your apartment, or are you up for dinner? Eames will want to say hello, of course."
"Dinner sounds great," she says. "That little diner on the corner, Bernadette's?"
"That was the plan," he agrees, turning off in the relevant direction and reaching for his headset.
"Ariadne!" Eames calls the instant they set foot in the dimly-lit little restaurant, waving expansively from a table by the front window. He shoves his chair back, digging in his pocket. "At last, the genuine article, and in excellent health."
"Um, what?" she asks, dropping into one of the other chairs.
"Eames – " Arthur starts, but Eames is already talking.
"I haven't been able to set foot in Arthur's mind for the past six months without running into a projection of you limping about, usually shot or stabbed or otherwise looking dreadful. It's been more than a bit unsettling."
She takes a second to digest. "You mean he was, what, worried about me?"
"On an intellectual level, not at all," Arthur says, looking distinctly put out. "You were working with at least moderately competent people, and you're more than capable of taking care of yourself. Emotionally speaking, however…"
"Worried sick," the forger supplies.
"I'd argue that it's at least an improvement on moping all over the warehouse," Arthur grumbles, picking up his menu, "as some people did."
"Excuse me, I may meet very few of your absurd standards for professionalism, but I am not maudlin enough to mope."
"Is sulking preferable?"
"So you missed me, is that what I'm supposed to be getting here?" Ariadne interrupts, not bothering to hide her smile.
"I suppose you could say that," Eames says, scrutinizing his water glass. "Arthur, how long before your bloody sensibilities will let us raise the question?"
"I brought it up on the way over, actually," he says.
Eames snorts. "Well, so much for not being blatantly manipulative, then."
"Eames, if you've seriously become ethically opposed to manipulation while I was gone, then I'm going to have to conclude you've been brainwashed."
"Perhaps I've just gotten better at it," he says, smiling, and at that point they're interrupted by the waitress. This derails them into a discussion about when, exactly, Ariadne decided to start eating pork chops, which segues rapidly into an exchange of slightly more practical notes on the time apart, and from there the conversation wanders.
It isn't until they're scraping their dessert plates clean that the architect folds her hands over the table and says, "In all seriousness, you guys, the working-together thing? I'd like it."
"What, did he bloody tell you to answer tonight?" Eames asks, frowning.
"No, but refusing just doesn't make any sense. I mean, if I were a real-world architect and I got offered a job as one of the main members of a top-tier firm right off the bat, I wouldn't go signing up with desperate amateurs just in case, right? And I already know that I like you guys, and we work well together."
She is rather amused to note that Arthur and Eames blink in almost perfect synchronization. Then Eames chuckles.
"Well, it looks like we'll need to acquire some champagne tonight, then," he says, smiling.
"I don't think they serve it here," Ariadne points out, "but I definitely like the idea."
"I know a place," Arthur says, signaling for the check. "I assume you're not too tired?"
"Not to celebrate," she says; between the calories and the company, she feels much better than she did when she got off the plane. "Where do you have in mind?"
He smiles. "There's a couple of options, actually –"
"One of which is your kitchen cabinet, correct?" Eames inquires.
"There is a bar that I think might serve decent stuff, but that was the backup option, yes," he says, long-suffering. "But since you bring it up, we may as well skip straight to that. I don't feel like driving halfway across Paris just to find out my information is out of date." He shoves his chair back. "Fine by you two?"
"Sounds good," Ariadne says, standing herself and grabbing for her coat.
They pay for the food (Ariadne doesn't have quite enough cash on her; Eames covers, whispering that she can pay him back tomorrow if she wants) and head on out again. Ariadne grabs shotgun; Eames leans out of the backseat, craning his neck, to negotiate music with Arthur.
Ariadne relaxes back against the leather, glances between the two of them as they argue, and suggests classic rock when Arthur asks her to arbitrate. It's good, she thinks, to be home.