Disclaimer: I do not own Inception. I do not own Mighty Aphrodite. I do not own Greek Mythology. But I do own a copy of a DVD set of "My So Called Life" which somehow planted this idea.
He genuinely believes that I do not notice him when he gazes at me. He believes that I can't feel the stares burning into my back when I'm bent over the drawing table. He thinks I don't notice when he swallows gulps so thick and hard because I've overwhelmed him. I'm shocked that I can overwhelm and sure since I like him so much, there could be the faintest possibility that this is all in my head. Even so, he's a complete idiot for thinking I don't see him.
Ariadne sits in the corner of their current stakeout, holding a pen and pad in her hands. She watches Arthur with a feral like curiosity, daring to wonder what it is that he likes so much about her. She looks back down at her sketchpad and sees Arthur staring back at her. This Arthur is smiling, this Arthur is warm, and this Arthur isn't a complete pussy who won't confess his infatuation.
The click clack of his keyboard echoes through the empty space and Ariadne wishes she went on the lunch run instead of Eames. She's convinced that Arthur possesses the unique ability to make situations as comfortable as sleeping very, very awkward. She rises to her feet, placing the sketchpad and pen down on the floor. Even though as she does this, she's looking down, preparing to pull on her jacket, she can feel his eyes on her. They're virtually penetrating every fiber of her being.
"I'm going to check out the air outside," she says, not even bothering to shudder over the sentence.
Just as she's stepping over the threshold, he hears Arthur quietly:
"Please sit in the chair," his voice is harder than usual. He's bothered. "It could screw up her shoulders sitting in the corner like that. The chair is way more comfortable and there's a nice desk to go along with it-"
"Okay, I will," she shuts the door.
He also thinks that I don't notice that the chair he picked out specifically for me is a lot more comfortable than the other two chairs. Asshole.
When she's outside, leaning against the cold bricks, she sees the red Porsche pull up next to her. She sighs and pushes herself away from the wall. Every time there's even the slightest chance that she will receive a moment of solitude, a moment to embrace clarity, there seems to be some sort of disruption. Be it Arthur's insistence on insisting that he doesn't find her at the most sexy and at the very least cute or the fact that Eames' constant jests grow on her less every day. The amusing Eames is constantly changing into the annoying Eames.
She still enjoys the latter's presence more than the former.
"You said you wanted a tuna avocado salad, yeah?" Eames says as he's getting out of the exceedingly expensive and impressively noticeable vehicle.
"Yes," she says warily. "Why? Did they not have it?" She was really hoping for some kind of meal to revel in.
"No worries, love, I got exactly what you wanted." He reaches in the back and pulls out the remainder of bags. "Arthur, however…"
"He wanted a turkey and cheese sandwich on wheat with a sliced tomato and pita chips." She recites his lunch almost as easily as she recites 'This Is Halloween'.
"Do you think he'd just as easily enjoy a hamburger and extra greasy fries?"
"I don't know. Ask him," she knows he'll hate it.
The two walk inside, Ariadne carrying her lunch and Eames lugging a bag of fast food, and Ariadne mutters a thank you.
"Don't get to excited now; you might pop a blood vessel."
"Tomorrow when I'm feeling better, I'll consider redelivering that thank you."
When the two are inside, Arthur looks at the bag in Eames' hand with wariness and suspicion. "What the hell is that?"
"It's food," Eames says. "It's nutritious. And, more importantly, it's delicious."
Arthur frowns.
Ariadne digs into the salad and chomps down on it so ferociously that she may as well be full of flaming fury. Arthur is on the phone and, of all the languages to speak in, he's speaking Italian. She once dated an Italian guy during her vacation in Rome when she was 18. His name was Roberto and he was one of the tour guides for the mass group of tourists she traveled with every couple of days. His hair was curly, his eyes were green, his lips were soft, and he was very, very good with his hands. It was only a two week long affair but it was memorable enough that she often thought about it.
Hearing Arthur speaking Italian right across from her, however, has erased Roberto's figure and shaded in his.
She watches as Arthur rises from his seat and continues the phone call outside. Her eyes follow him until the door is shut and then she lingers on that.
"What are you doing?"
Ariadne jolts awake and pulls herself up straighter. She turns toward Eames who's sitting in a swivel chair not far from hers, mulling at the burger in his hand. His eyes are studying her like as if she were a foreign virus knocking out thousands. She shrugs.
"What?" She mutters. "I'm eating."
Eames' eyes trail toward the shut door and Ariadne rolls her eyes.
"I didn't really think he was your type," he is amused.
"Oh what, you're my type?"
"No, I thought big sweaters, wire rimmed glasses, old shoes, and Etta James records was what you were privy to."
"I am," Ariadne replied bitterly. It's not fair that he can read people's minds.
"I can't read minds, I can just read people," he smiles. "Why are mad at him?"
An uncomfortable expressions settles on his face and he swallows before saying: "You two aren't…having sweaty pillow talk, are you?"
"Jesus! No, we're not."
"So back to my original question: why are you staring at him like you want to take that fork of yours and stab him in the neck?"
"He…" She trails off and stares at Eames. "Why would I tell you?"
"Because I'm cheaper than a therapist?"
She probably shouldn't tell Eames all of this but the truth is that she's not getting very far with her video diaries.
She opens her mouth to speak when Arthur reenters the building.
"Tonight," she whispers.
She completely misses Arthur's crestfallen expression.