I'm rusty. Please forgive any errors.
For exactly one year, three months, and twenty-one days, Ariadne has not experienced true fear. Her life in Paris has been easy. Practically a vacation. After experiencing the possibility of being trapped in limbo for an indefinite amount of time, nothing else inspires fear quite the same way.
That is the only reason Ariadne doesn't start panicking.
In an instant, a flurry of commotion erupts in the library. Out of the corner of an eye, Ariadne sees the two men from earlier who had excused her sneeze. They do not look like innocent grad students anymore—no, they are definitely not grad students, she realizes fearfully. Grad students don't carry handguns in their jackets.
Before she can react, Arthur's once-pleasant grip on her elbow transforms into a vicious yank. He pulls her behind the closest bookshelf just as an encyclopedia explodes where her head has previously been. Ariadne's ears start to ring, turning the screams of the other students in the references section into nothing more than murmurs. This feels too real to be a dream. Even a shared dream.
Arthur's lips move, forming words that she can't seem to hear. Is he asking her a question? Telling her to do something? She isn't sure. She just shakes her head at him, confused. As her hearing gradually comes back, terrifying noises permeate the air, making her wish that her ears would keep on ringing forever.
Unrelenting gunshots erupt from the other side of the room, but Arthur doesn't seem to hear them. His eyes are trained on her, his own pistol primed and ready to be emptied into one of the assailants at a moment's notice, should the need arise. Where had he pulled the gun from? Had he been expecting a fight? Memories of the Fischer job come flooding to the forefront of her mind. Ariadne feels nauseated. Luckily, Arthur's firm grip on her elbow keeps her anchored, helping her to stay focused on standing instead of passing out.
Pass out later. Stay alive right now.
"Ariadne," Arthur urges, his brow furrowing in concern. He has to yell to be heard over the sporadic gunfire and screaming. "Is the fire exit the only way ou-"
"Yes," she interrupts, matching the loudness of his voice to be heard over the deafening noise of the library. That must've been what he had been asking before, she realizes. "It leads out to the south parking lot."
"We've got to get across the aisle," he shouts back. The crease between his eyebrows becomes more pronounced as he thinks of a way out. He seems to come up with an idea, but his grim expression makes her stomach twist. "I've got a plan."
"Am I going to like it?"
"Not really, no. Get down!"
Before she can even process what "get down" could possibly mean, she's already been thrown to the ground by Arthur. The cold tile floor smashes against her face and she feels the skin split open over her cheekbone. Stars cloud her vision. The nauseous feeling from earlier comes back with a vengeance, but she swallows it back down, squeezing her eyes shut to will the stars away. Pass out later, stay alive right now. Her body listens to her.
Ariadne rises to her hands and knees, crawling to the other end of the bookshelf in the direction that Arthur had unceremoniously thrown her. She assumes that what he wants her to do, at least. Palms stinging and knees crying out in pain, she crawls forward until she reaches the end of the literature aisle before turning around to find Arthur. He's still there, standing with his back against the bookshelf, occasionally turning peeking around the corner to return fire. He doesn't even flinch as he squeezes off his shots, his eyes narrowed in familiar determination. Ariadne is bloody, bruised, and terrified, but she also feels at home amongst the chaos, bullets notwithstanding.
The hand appears out of nowhere right as the fire alarm goes off. The timing couldn't be worse. Sprinklers immediately douse the entire library, soaking and plastering her hair against her face. Ariadne is roughly yanked to her feet by a strong masculine arm that wraps itself around her neck. She gasps for air loudly and scrabbles at the man's arm, trying to get her fingers in between them to pry herself loose. The water makes his skin slippery, though, and his grip only seems to tighten. Realizing that her feet are free gives her an idea, though. In a last ditch effort, she kicks wildly and sends a few sopping books of English literature to the floor with a reverberating thud that manages to catch his attention.
He feels the vibration through his feet and turns toward her, eyes widening a fraction of an inch before he schools his expression back to its usual intense focus. She kicks and screams behind the man's hand, even going so far as to bite his palm. The man doesn't release her—he just grunts and presses his fingers harder against her face to keep her quiet. His thumb is pressed against the split skin on her cheek. It doesn't exactly feel pleasant.
Arthur doesn't seem to notice her, though. Only the man holding her. His hair is soaking wet and hanging down in his eyes for once, making him look more unkempt than she has ever seen him before. This relaxed, unusual style of his hair makes him look younger—and much more reckless.
He almost looks bored as he raises his gun and points it at both of them. Instinctively, Ariadne jerks and struggles more in her captor's arms, letting loose a string of muffled curse words that she knows he doesn't understand.
"Let the girl go," Arthur says. Simple. Cold. Menacing.
"Or what?" her captor asks, his grating voice right by her ear. "You're going to shoot me? You're out of bullets in that clip, mate."
"Am I?"
Ariadne feels her captor's body tense behind her, suddenly unsure. It is a simple question, really. Or, at least, it sounded simple when he said it. Underneath his relaxed tone, however, was a silent question: are you sure? Ariadne recognizes the tactic from the first lesson she had ever had with Dom and Arthur after being picked for the Fischer Job—how to plant a seed. Sowing doubt in someone' mind always boils down to asking them a question to make them think twice. Once they doubt themselves, you have room to wiggle, find weaknesses, and exploit them. Knowing his plan, Ariadne begins to relax, but her mind is quickly filled with worry. On the bright side, the seed of doubt seems to be taking root, just as Arthur planned. However, reverting to this tactic probably means that the man was right before—Arthur is out of bullets.
Ariadne's captor clears his throat. "Even if you aren't out, you wouldn't risk hitting the girl by accident."
"The girl is of no consequence," he shoots back, still the picture of relaxation. In her own mind, Ariadne begins to doubt the strength of their past relationship. Would he actually risk shooting her?
Ariadne feels her captor hesitate, his grip on her mouth loosening ever-so-slightly. Her hopes of being released are squashed, however, by a sudden renewed vigor in the man's grip. The seed didn't take. The arm around her neck tightens, as does the hand clamped over her mouth. She winces and struggles as his fingers press hard into her cheeks.
"You killed my friend over there," the man remarks coldly, jerking his chin to the other side of the room. "I think I'm going to get even by starting with this girl."
"I wouldn't," Arthur replies, gun not wavering an inch. Ariadne wishes she could scream at him to either shoot the man or come up with another plan, but her vision begins to swim. Can't breathe.
"If you had bullets, you'd have shot us already," the man observes, sounding smug.
Ariadne's eyes begin to drift shut, her breath coming out in shallow wheezes. She knows she won't last much longer. However, before she can slip into unconsciousness, Arthur lowers his gun to his side and drops it in the puddle that's forming at his feet. "You're right. I don't have any shots left."
Ariadne's vision fills with floating spots and she feels lightheaded. I don't think I've ever felt this tired before. Maybe if I just go with it…
"But he does."
A loud gunshot comes from somewhere behind her, but she's too numb to care about anything aside from her darkening vision. Before she can completely slip into unconsciousness, the arm around her neck goes slack and they both fall to the floor like ragdolls. Ariadne clips her head against a bookshelf on the way down and more pain explodes behind her eyes with white-hot intensity. She moans and curls into the fetal position, silently cursing the day she ever met Arthur. Her captor must be somewhere behind her in silence, obviously dead. She keeps her eyes squeezed shut so she can't see his corpse. That's enough trauma for one afternoon, she thinks.
Ariadne feels a pair of strong, familiar arms slip beneath her and lift her up. Normally, she would object to being carried like a damsel in distress, but under the circumstances she allows herself to play the part. Her vision swims as Arthur adjusts her body against his chest and begins to carry her toward the fire exit. Together, they burst through the door and briskly walk down the stairs toward an inconspicuously-parked vehicle across the empty Parisian street. The dry December chill cuts through Ariadne's sopping clothes like they're not there at all. She shivers violently in Arthur's arms and fights back another wave of nausea.
"Where were you?" His chest vibrates against her shoulder, accusation ripe in his voice.
"I was saving your ass. A little gratitude would be nice."Ariadne's head snaps up toward the familiar English voice.
"You're right," she remembers Arthur saying. "I don't have any shots left…but he does."
Eames looks the same as he did the day they got off the plane in Los Angeles, out-of-place casual clothes notwithstanding. The only difference is the stress and worry present in the harsh lines around his eyes, which are deceptively cheery as he looks at her. He's carrying an assault rifle in his hands—it's probably the gun that saved her life, she realizes. He smiles at her as he begins to dismantle the gun.
"Lovely to see you, my dear," Eames says. "We've missed you more than you know."
Finally succumbing to shock and the blistering headache behind her eyes, Ariadne passes out.
The car ride is piercingly silent on the way to the safe house. Eames sits in the passenger seat and Arthur drives, each of them finding other things to do besides talk about the events of the evening. Arthur silently wishes Eames would break the uncomfortable silence first—he's always been better at that. Eames doesn't appear too keen on doing so, however, so Arthur contents himself with checking the backseat every few seconds.
The passing streetlamps illuminate the car like a slow heartbeat, allowing Arthur to peer into his rearview mirror at Ariadne's unconscious form in the backseat. Every time a new streetlamp illuminates her battered, sleeping face, he feels a pang of guilt. The night wasn't supposed to go off like it did—Arthur was supposed to pick her up, take her home to pack a few necessities, and get her out of Paris before anyone caught them. In his haste to find her and make sure she was safe, he had missed some important details. Arthur doesn't blame Eames for being mad at him. Arthur's mad at himself.
In the back, Ariadne's brow furrows and she murmurs something unintelligible before turning over on the seat. Unconsciously, Arthur steps on the gas a little more. The sooner she's cleaned up and awake, the sooner he's going to feel better.
Eames decides to have mercy on Arthur. "That could've gone better."
"Understatement."
"She's going to be pissed when she wakes up. I hope you realize that most of the yelling is going to be directed at you."
Arthur's grip on the steering wheel tightens until his scraped knuckled begin to hurt. "Yeah, I had a feeling."
"Not exactly the reunion you'd been hoping for, hmm?"
"Not exactly," Arthur admits, forcing himself to relax his hold on the wheel. His eyes dart to the rearview mirror once more, watching Ariadne's face as she sleeps. The cut on her cheek shouldn't need stiches, he thinks. At least, he hoped it wouldn't. She'd never struck him as vain when they worked together, but he could imagine she'd be a little angry if their encounter that day had scarred her both emotionally and physically. "She'll come around."
Eames snorts, leaning his seat back a few inches as he says, "You hope. I don't think you've been around women in a while, mate. They tend to hold grudges, if you haven't heard."
"She's not exactly a normal woman."
"Oh, and there it is," Eames exclaims, turning to look at Arthur with a grin. He punches his shoulder playfully. "No wonder you wanted to be the one to go in and get her. You've still got feelings for her."
"It's hard to 'still have feelings' for a person you never had feelings for in the first place."
"She was rather fond of you, if I recall."
"Nothing happened. We just work together."
"That's what they all say," Eames says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "I bet you kept tabs on her after the Fischer job."
"Eames, drop it," Arthur snaps. Eames raises both eyebrows and holds up his hands in surrender, leaning back in his seat. Arthur runs a frustrated hand through his already-messy hair and grits his teeth. "She's tough. She won't hold it against me once she knows this was all for her safety. She'll be reasonable."
"Reasonable women don't exist."
"She will be reasonable," Arthur insists. "She won't hate me."
"Oh no?" Eames asks. "If you're so sure, why do you keep looking back there every five seconds with that face?"
"What face?"
"That one," he answers, stabbing a finger in his face. "Right there. I swear, you look like a puppy who's been left out in the rain."
Arthur doesn't say anything, choosing instead to keep his eyes forcibly fixed on the road. He knows Eames is right—he's been looking at Ariadne's unconscious face for the last half hour, terrified that she'll wake up and look at him with the expression she'd had when he first saw her. Shock, confusion, fear, and anger had all crossed her face in a matter of minutes. Worst of all, though, she'd looked at him like he was a complete stranger to her. Maybe I am a stranger at this point, he thinks grimly. Arthur may have been keeping an eye on her activity for the past year, but he had no idea if she had ever attempted to find him.
Eames is watching him, waiting for him to come up with a counterargument. He doesn't have one. Sighing, Arthur quietly admits, "Is it really so wrong for me to feel bad? I didn't mean to drag her through all that."
Eames senses the mood shift and leans back in his seat, crossing his arms. He frowns. "Christ, Arthur, I'm not trying to guilt you. I've rarely ever seen a situation get away from you like that. You're an anal twerp when it comes to planning things out. This was just a freak accident and I'm sure she knows that. When she wakes up, we'll get her cleaned up and then start the apology game. All right?"
"Yeah," Arthur murmurs, stealing a quick glance at Ariadne once again. "All right."
"Arthur," Eames says. He sets a reassuring hand on his shoulder, looking at him with a rare solemn expression. "We got her. She's alive, which is more than we expected to find in the first place. It's all going to work out. Just like old times, right?"
"I hope not," Arthur says. He thinks of the Fischer job and how close they had come to being trapped there. Too close.
"Oh, cheer up, Johnny Raincloud. This is going to be fun."
Fun, he thinks. I think we have very different definitions of the word 'fun'.
I can finish this if you guys want me to. Just let me know. (Remember, my writing skills are rusty. Forgive me.)