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Ariadne isn’t sure what happens after the heist is over.
She’s seen heist movies, sure, but they end with either success or failure, and nothing that shows the confident, cool criminals moving on with their life or how they explain their newfound riches.
The Ocean’s 11 series had them reuniting, which implied some kind of life was lived between jobs, life where maybe some of them were friends. At least in the George Clooney ones, which were the only ones she’s seen, in a classic movie course. Her mother laughed when she told her, recommending the Rat Pack version, something that was already old when she was young. She doesn’t tell her everything, of course, and she still has a degree to finish.
So she goes back Paris a millionaire with no degree, no job, and someone else’s memories in her head. Culture shock to the extreme.
Ariadne decides to move out of her group house, and tells everyone that she had an aunt who was both very rich and not very close and that’s why she can suddenly afford a nice one-bedroom loft with a den in the Xth arrondissement
She doesn’t want to be too opulent, after all, and she doesn’t take up too much space. But it’s nice to have an office to work in, and furniture that isn’t from Craigslist or the curbside of a richer neighborhood.
Her friends are nice about it, don’t ask too many questions, so she throws a giant housewarming party after she finishes furnishing the place. Her old roommates, who she likes even though living with them was atrocious, show up with armfuls of wine.
“I wish I had a dead rich aunt,” says Giancarlo, an Italian in her grad program. He’s pouring liberal glasses of red wine into her new, nice wine glasses. She bought a set for red and a set for white. Most importantly, they’re not mugs.
It feels weirdly deviant.
“Yeah, real sensitive there,” says Rachel, an American ex-pat wholly unaffiliated with their university outside of living with a few students.
Ariadne just shakes her head. “I didn’t know her very well but I was very fond of her.”
"Of course," Giancarlo says, “you’d say that now.”
“I’ve got a boy you need to meet,” says Marie, a fellow PhD student and teaching assistant at the university. She’s sprawled on Ariadne’s very first full-sized couch -- no one else has ever owned it. Marie’s got curly hair and feels bad about spending their first year in Paris hitting on her relentlessly, so whenever she makes friends with a straight boy, she makes sure to tell Ariadne.
“Do you?” Ariadne sinks into an oversized armchair that would look more at home in a professor’s study than her loft. It was too comfortable not to get, though, and she could.
“His name is David and he’s here for art history, okay, and you two could have cute Jewish babies together.”
Ariadne wrinkles her nose and swigs some wine. She’s definitely not drunk enough to have her friends play J-Date with her. “I see.”
“He’s cute!” Marie insists, and Giancarlo pushes her legs off the couch to sit down.
“Ariadne here can do better than cute now that she's got a small fortune." He raises his glass.
"Are you saying I was doomed to cute before?"
It’s a great evening with her friends that just happens to be taking place in her million dollar apartment, and Ariadne feels mundane, unburdened by the secrets she has buried in her brain. It's nice to feel normal again -- she wasn't sure if it was possible.
-
She’s working on her thesis -- it’s on split dream levels, purely theoretical, of course. Dr. Miles is still her advisor, and he’s promised her some PASIV time -- very regulated -- before her defense. She’s not worried. Her masters work was more nerve-wracking and it was certainly more theoretical.
Being in Paris is strange, though, and when she walks by bridges, lightposts, streets that she’s moved with her mind it tugs at her. There’s always that nagging doubt of what if, especially when it storms outside. She dreams, sometimes, of the kitchen in Cobb’s house.
Ariadne has already decided to move out of the city, at the very least, after her PhD is done, because she doesn’t want to question her sanity every time she passes a fruit stand in the street.
“Don’t worry about me, mom,” she says on the phone after buying an orange, "I'm not letting the money go to my head." Her parents think a wealthy professor left her the money and that she’s just acquired a new found appreciation for old movies. She's constantly surprised by how easy it is to lie to them about her life and wonders if it should make her nervous.
"You've been wistful lately is all. Maybe you should take a semester off, travel."
Ariadne isn't planning anything that could cause them trouble, she doesn't think. Her moms are both professors, and she sent them on an anniversary cruise through Europe a month ago and they can't stop recommending that she do it too.
-
One thing she insisted on was a secure building. She doesn’t have a lot of enemies yet, but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t show up. Robert Fischer could remember anything at any time, maybe. So the building’s got great security -- bilingual security guards, even, and she's paying enough for that. They know her friends now and who to let up without her picking them up and who to not. But she never approved any key copies.
“Ma’am? A man named Arthur is here to see you.” The guard smiles apologetically. "He had a spare key so we let him up."
She nods. Her initial reaction is to feel creeped out, but she's kind of impressed by the time she gets to her door. A spare fucking key.
Ariadne only lets herself consider being scared for a moment. If he wanted her dead, she'd already be dead, and her doorman certainly wouldn't be a witness.
He’s holding flowers, looking slightly tanned and more relaxed than she remembers him. It’s like seeing a teacher out of school, wearing shorts, except Arthur is wearing chinos and a sweater over a collared button up. He's set a Miles Davis record to play, because of course he studied her vinyl collection. Its mostly beat up jazz albums and brand new indie music that comes with a free digital download.
"Hey?" She says, tossing her bag on the kitchen table and staring at him.
He smiles. "Hey. I hope I'm not intruding on anything."
"No, I often entertain guests who break into my house after being incommunicado for six months." She takes the flowers and goes back to the kitchen - she probably owns a vase now, right? Rich people have that kind of stuff in their cabinets.
"Its only been four months," he says, following her. "I was in town and thought it might be nice to catch up."
"Yeah, it is nice to see you." She gives up on digging through her cabinets and pulls out a bottle of wine instead, leaving the flowers by the sink. "I guess. Unless you’re like, here to murder me or something."
He laughs.
"Hey, that's a valid concern. You are an internationally wanted criminal.
"No, not anymore. Not even a suspected accomplice."
"So you've retired? Because if not, its only a matter of time before you make new deadly enemies." She pauses. “Plus, just because the American government isn’t after you doesn’t mean you’re no longer internationally wanted.”
He laughs again and takes a glass of wine from her, taking a sip and not making a face like her friends normally do.
-
The restaurant only has about seven tables but Arthur speaks some atrocious french to the owner and another table materializes from the back.
"I didn't know you spoke French," Ariadne says, sitting down.
"That might be giving me too much credit," he says, "but I do know the owners."
He tells her a little about it - they met when he studied abroad in college, which was not nearly the sordid tale of espionage she was hoping for. In fact, it sounds a lot like what her study abroad experience in undergrad, only she wasn’t on an NROTC scholarship and could speak French fluently (okay, Quebecois, but she picked up the native tongue fairly fast).
She tells him about classes, her annoying students, and he laughs in the right places, relaxed and casual. Ariadne had a glimpse of this Arthur, the dry press of his lips, in a dream before. It's almost unnerving to see him this off guard in front of her, but she’s charmed.
It’s probably intentional, but that actually makes it more charming -- Arthur is flirting, is getting to know her beyond what she can do when she’s asleep. The night is more promising than she’d ever have hoped it would be.
Arthur pays for dinner and grabs her hand when they walk back to her place.
-
Ariadne can already tell the sex is going to be good. Arthur kisses slowly, like he's savoring the press of their lips. His hands are deft, moving to to her hips and resting there, his callouses catching on her cardigan.
She nips at his bottom lip and wonders if he’ll push her, but he smiles against her mouth and lets her take the lead. She has to lean up to wrap her arms around his shoulders, a nice stretch in her neck and then in her jaw when the kissing gets deeper and deeper. He runs his hands over her shoulder blades and that feels intimate.
It’s moving fast but she’s okay with it -- she’s noticed his lovely fingers before, watching him draw over her blueprints and handle a gun, and now they’re dipping under the waistband of her jeans.
She lets out a little shocked gasp, rests her head against his shoulder.
“Is this okay?” Arthur asks, hands stilling.
“Yeah, no, it’s good. We’re good,” Ariadne says, kissing him. “Let’s move to the bedroom.”
He smiles again, squeezes her in a hug before letting his hands drop so they can walk.
She’s a big fan of her bed, because it’s enormous and probably the most luxurious thing she let herself buy. The mattress is plush and pillow topped and you can jump on the bed while resting a wine glass on it, basically, and she loves it. It doesn’t stop her nightmares but it makes the handful of hours she grabs a night better.
Ariadne tries not to think about how some of those nightmares involve the man she’s kissing, and she sits up on the bed, pulling off her sweater. Arthur does the same, undoes the top buttons of his shirt, and climbs up on the bed to join her. He’s real, here, solid under her hands as she presses them over his chest, runs them over his firm stomach, as she pulls him into her.
“Hey,” he says, finally, smiling at her as breaks their kissing, propped up on his elbows and looking down at her.
She smiles back -- she feels a little giddy, how long has it been since she’d felt wrung out from making out? She unhooks her bra because he seems content to just kiss her without escalating.
“Hey. I’m glad you stopped by.” She presses her palm against his face, the cut of his cheekbone a comfort that the room won’t suddenly flip over and she won’t slide out of her window to an inky expanse and no, he’s here, kiss him again.
His mouth is hot and she runs her tongue over his teeth, less straight than you’d expect from his button-up appearance, and there’s just a hint of the sweet dessert wine they’d had after dinner. Arthur puts his palm over her breast, squeezes hard enough to feel good but not hurt, and she arches her back a little.
“Pants,” she says, pushing at his chest until she can kick them off. She sits up and touches his chest again, running her hand over him and feeling his muscles flex.He settles in between the v of her legs, up on his knees, and he strokes his rough fingers down her sides, rests a palm on her soft belly. Her insides jump and she feels warm, hot all over.
“Yeah,” she urges, hips jerking, and he rubs his thumbs over her hipbones before scooting back.
He kisses her hipbone, and then tugs off her underwear. Arthur kisses her inner thigh, licks the crease of skin by her pussy, and then scrapes his teeth across it. He does the other side and then bites at her thigh, sucks a bruise over the sting.
Her heart sounds loud and she throbs, wet and ready for him to get on with it.
“C’mon,” she says, and he bites her again, pinching the skin.
Arthur moves in, pushing her jumpy thighs down on the bed and mouths at pussy, relishing it. His tongue traces her outer lips, and when his mouth opens it’s like he’s kissing her cunt, sloppy and good, tongue dragging over nerve endings, firm and sure.
Arthur is really good at this. She’s had guys trace the alphabet with their tongue and this is leagues beyond that. He mouths over her clit, tongue pressing it down with strong licks, and he sucks at it, everything concentrated. It’s wonderful.
Ariadne doesn’t really think much more than that, digging her fingers into his hair and gripping, gel harsh against her palms. She pushes his face further against her pussy, grinds her clit against his nose, and he lets her, tongue moving and wet against her, inside her, steady and sure.
She moans, loud, because she can, and she feels him smile against her cunt and she smiles back, letting her head fall back.
He licks into her, from her entrance up to her clit, sucks it teasingly and then licks her outer lips again, traces her inner lips. His mouth is everywhere, all over her cunt and around it and she needs more now. She tugs on his hair again and he moves higher on her pussy, licking around her clit, her slit, only giving it fleeting touches until she groans again and he moves in, tongue a heavy beat against her clit. Ariadne grinds her hips up into his mouth and he seals his mouth over her clit, hot and wet over where she throbs, sucks, tongue swirling and pushing and focused.
His hands are kneading her thighs and he just sucks, waiting for her to move over the edge, giving her steady heavy pressure as her hips jerk more urgently.
“Fuck, I’m gonna,” she says, hand fisted in the back of his head, and he moves faster with his tongue, not a jackhammer but a beat that matches the way her pussy clenches in time with her need, and she’s finally there, cresting into orgasm as he licks and sucks her through it.
She has to yank Arthur’s head away as he licks her through it, immediately too sensitive.
“Fuck,” she says, flopping onto her back, and he wipes his face ineffectively with the back of his hand.
“Yeah,” he says, kissing her stomach, her left nipple, her collarbone. His chin is still damp and she tugs him up to her face by the hair and kisses him, mouth still sticky from her.
“Get your pants off,” she says when she’s done letting his tongue slide into her mouth.
“Romantic,” he says, but he rolls off her and does, yanks off his boxer-briefs and his cock springs up. It’s cut, rosy and hard, and she gives it a few firm pumps.
“Yeah, okay,” she says, still a little fuzzed out from orgasm, “condom. C’mon.”
She fumbles and pulls one out of the nightstand and throws it at him. The package sticks to his pec and she laughs as he peels it off.
“You wanna be on top?” he asks and she shakes her head.
“I want you to do the work here,” she says, and he laughs and hikes up her hips.
“I don’t think so,” he says, “I think you’ll want a part of this.”
He pushes in slowly -- he’s not huge, but Ariadne isn’t a big person and she’s tight, even after orgasming. He groans as he does and it’s sexy, the way his eyes screw tight and his mouth parts.
She bites her lip and rolls her hips, urging him further in until he slides home, as far as he’s going to go. He feels like he fills her body all the way up, heavy and throbbing inside of her.
“Yeah,” she pants out and rolls her hips again, making his eyes open.
“Jesus,” he says and he rolls his hips in answer, pulling out only a little bit and pressing in, his pubic bone angled up against her clit which is already up for round two.
He tries thrusting, a slow pistoning, and she locks her ankles together at the small of his back as he keeps his hands tight around her legs. But he eventually just settles for pushing in deep and grinding against her, hips jerking in circles and pressing deeper and deeper and god, he felt good. Ariadne squeezes around him, milking him and he groans again, surprised.
Arthur drops one hand to thumb at her clit, pressing in time with his hips and the way she meets them and it feels great, the pressure and fullness inside of her and the pressure outside, too, pushing and pushing and pushing until she finally comes again, pussy going tight and tighter around him.
“Oh my god,” he says, pushing into her more urgently as she groans and he pumps one, two, three more times and comes too, spilling into the condom.
He drops her legs and slides out and she waves at him from the bed, and he laughs.
-
Arthur’s making eggs the next morning, because of course he is. She’s not sure what she was expecting, really, but runny eggs and toast in her kitchen wasn’t it.
“You’re a morning person,” she says, dropping heavily into one of her chairs and throwing her elbows on the table. He sets a plate in front of her -- there’s already butter melting on the bread and she actually can’t remember the last time she made herself toast. She’s more of a cereal person.
“Not really,” he says, pushing a mug of coffee over to her and sitting down. “It’s more of a force of habit than any kind of enjoyment.”
“Mmm,” she says, slurping her coffee. It’s even got the right amount of cream in it -- Arthur remembered from their job.
“Besides, you seemed like you had a rough night.”
She laughs and looks at him. “I wouldn’t call what happened a rough night, though I guess I wouldn’t be averse to it.”
He smiles over his mug. “I meant you seemed like you had a hard time sleeping.”
“What, is that not standard for dreamers?” She feels embarrassed but he shakes his head.
“It gets better the more you do it. Otherwise you just keep playing the same dreams over and over. The Fischer job stuck with me, too.”
They sit in companionable silence, eating as the sun gets stronger outside and the room warms up. It’s very picturesque, and Ariadne wonders if they’re going to fuck again when Arthur puts the dishes in her dishwasher (she’d insisted on having it installed; she’s not gonna do dishes by hand with her bank account).
“So there’s a job,” Arthur says, once they’re done with another coffee and Ariadne feels good enough, almost, to put on some pants.
“Um,” she says, because there’s no polite way to way to ask, did we just fuck because you wanted to be co-workers again. She’s less scandalized by the thought than she expected to be, in part because the sex was so good, in part because Arthur is so work-focused this might be his MO to get laid anyway.
“That’s not the only reason I visited,” he says, not quickly enough to be a lie.
“Okay,” she says.
“I also happened to be in city.”
“Shut up,” she says, and wishes she had something to throw at him.
“But seriously, I’d love to work with you on this. It’ll require a deft hand with the world building. Low risk, too.”
She shakes her head. “I like what I’ve got going on here, so far. It’s a little less high stakes.”
He shrugs, not taking it with quite the good humor she expected.
“I’d really love to have you on this one.” His voice is very solemn.
“Arthur,” she says, grabbing his hand, “I can’t. Not again. I’m purely academic now.”
They don’t kiss when he leaves.
-
Arthur doesn’t call. She’s not surprised but she is disappointed.
Ariadne’s not interested in having international criminal adventures, after all. She's done with that life, thanks, one death-defying feat of magic is enough for her.
But two weeks after his departure, Ariadne isn’t quite sure that’s true, that it’s ever been true. She’s staying up and grading papers and wondering if maybe a life of shadow dreamshare jobs might actually be something she wants. Ariadne doesn’t want more nightmares but maybe that won’t happen. She’s not safe now, won’t ever really be safe like she was before the Fischer job. She’s already crossed the threshold.
She works on her dissertation instead.
-
Eames rings her doorbell the next month, not even bothering to charm her building's security. She wonders if she should get better locks, because while Arthur looked casual and charming, Eames looks rumpled and edgy.
“How did you get this address?” she asks and he shoves a bottle of premium whiskey in her hands.
“Sorry the housewarming gift’s a little late, love,” he says, looking at her mantle. He seems distracted, tugging on his collar when he turns around to face her.
“Look, I’m in a bit of a pinch here. Well, Arthur is, but I'm on the job as well and we're suddenly short one architect. He said you weren't interested but I was in the area and thought I could be a bit more persuasive.”
Her eyebrows raise. “You need me to replace your dead architect?” She puts the whiskey in her liquor cabinet because why else have one, if not to fill with expensive gestures?
“Yes, well. It pays handsomely.” He raises his eyebrows. “It’s not as if you’re doing much here anyway.”
“I have quite a fulfilling social life, thanks,” she says, and she crosses her arms. “Anyway, I’m not really hurting for cash right now, as you can see.”
“You think this is the height of luxury?” Eames’ eyebrows hitch even higher. “Ariadne, this is just the tip of the iceberg. You could buy your own castle if you stuck with us for a few months.”
She matches his incredulity expression-for-expression. “I don’t need a castle; that sounds like an awful lot of work.”
“Fine. A pony, then. Diamonds. Whatever.”
“Not really convincing me here.”
“I’ll owe you, and so will Arthur. Two favors, redeemable whenever you’d like.”
That catches her attention. Miles wasn’t having much luck getting her a PASIV for her defense, but borrowing one would probably be a lot faster anyway. And then she’d have one whole favor left.
“Fine.”
Eames smiles. “You are bored, aren’t you? There’s nothing quite like it, is there?”
“Wait,” Ariadne says as she pushes Eames toward the door, “your architect isn’t dead because of this job, right?”
“Expect details soon!” He waves as he lets himself out.
-
It’s a four-man job, Arthur says in an encrypted email, which was a total pain to actually like, read, but he doesn’t mention that one of the team members is a woman. Normally this wouldn’t have been pertinent, but.
She’s taller than Ariadne by what feels like two feet, taller than Arthur in her four inch heels, and she grates on Ariadne immediately.
“I’m Josephine, but you can call me Jo,” she says, smiling at Ariadne. Her teeth look unnaturally white.
She has a good, firm handshake and Ariadne tries to smile back and be a normal person for once, instead of feeling like an awkward high school freshman meeting the head cheerleader. But Jo is blonde and gorgeous and pretty much looks like a movie star, so it’s hard not to hate her on sight.
“I’m Ariadne.”
Jo smiles wider and Ariadne can’t tell if she likes her name or thinks it’s funny. She coughs, uncomfortable.
“The boys speak very highly of you -- I wish the circumstances were better but I’m really looking forward to working with you. I’ll be doing the actual data extraction, but it’s always a pleasure working with a skilled architect.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Ariadne says. She doesn’t have any other experience to compare to, and there’s not a lot she could say about her first time in the field.
“Where’s Eames?” she asks as she heads over to the drafting table. It’s been cleared of any personal effects that might have been there -- some drafting tools and a bottle of water are all that adorns it.
Arthur glances at her from his own seat. “He's not here yet. I’ll probably be pulling him in at the end of the job but he’s not going to be too much use at the beginning.”
“Is that why you sent him to pitch the job?
“Eames just happened to be in Paris at the right time. I thought you might need some persuasion.” Arthur smiles at her, eyes more mischievous than she expected.
“You have my phone number, you know,” Ariadne says, rolling her eyes.
Josephine laughs. “Arthur hates phones, dear. He’d rather send you a singing telegram.”
Ariadne doesn’t like that she doesn’t know this. Arthur has called her before, called her all during the Fischer job, always has a phone on his person. How did she miss that he didn’t like talking on the phone?
Arthur shrugs. “I just like secure lines, alright?”
“Sure,” Jo says, and she covers Arthur’s wrist with her hand and nudges his pencil along the map. She has lovely, French-tipped nails.
Ariadne almost gapes -- on the Fischer job, Arthur balked at most casual touching when on the job, especially when he was actively working, but he allows it, even stares thoughtfully at the advice she gave him.
She’s not sure why this detail has her hung up so she resolves to spend the rest of the job not even thinking about him at all.
-
Eames comes in a few days after Ariadne and has an exact mimicry down already, perfect for the job. It’s a tricky extraction only because the target, a mid-level banking official, has been militarized -- hence Ariadne being called in to do a double layer environment.
“But really, the guy he went to isn’t going to give him too much more work after this,” Arthur says while inside the guy’s mind, because the militarized guard presence had been almost single-handedly neutralized in a matter of minutes.
“Showoff,” Jo says fondly, and she drops a second level to find whatever access code their client needs.
-
There are cheek kisses when Jo leaves and Ariadne still can’t decide if Jo and Arthur used to hook up or if they’re still hooking up regularly.
She thinks her last day in the workspace will be pretty mundane -- packing up and erasing any sign that they were there.
What happens instead is that Arthur kisses her on the mouth after Jo leaves. Ariadne jerks back, sputtering with anger but most definitely confusion. She’d dreamt of this during the job, a workplace assignation, but this seems forced.
She scowls. "What do you think you're doing?"
What if he'd dug into her thoughts to find out she still wanted him, to figure out she’d dreamt of him only the night before.
Arthur looks more confused than he ought to. "Just. Something I wanted to do since you got here, but I guess you’re not interested after all...?
“Why do you sound so surprised? You're not very perceptive for a man who walks through people’s brains for a living.”
He smiles wryly. “You're not the first person to tell me that. But I didn't call because I've been busy and assumed you didn’t need any more interference from ‘international dream thieves’ in your life. I’m glad I was wrong.”
Ariadne can believe that his desire to sleep with her is hinged on whether or not she wants to work with him. but she doesn’t like it.
However, Giancarlo once accused Ariadne of being her own worst cockblock. If Arthur wanted to sleep with Jo during a job and her after it wrapped up, maybe that was fine. It’s not like Ariadne was looking for a boyfriend.
She rolls her eyes. “Well. Okay, fine.”
He grins at her, eyes crinkling at the edges and she doesn’t forgive him, really, but she lets him kiss her again.
-
Ariadne calls Marie as soon as she gets back to Paris.
“Okay. Introduce me to your friend David,” she says, dropping her bags in the living room and collapsing on her bed, feet dangling off the end.
“What?” Marie asks. There’s a lot of background noise -- she’s probably in her favorite cafe, studying and grading, things Ariadne should have spent the weekend doing instead of jaunting to Iceland to partake in international mindcrime.
“Art history. Jewish. You said he was cute.”
“That was like, a month ago -- he might not even still be single.”
“Marie,” Ariadne says, kicking off her boots. “This is an emergency.”
“Ooh, hun, did you run into an ex while you were home? The Ex, even?”
Everyone has at least one ex that deserves capital letters, and it’s a good excuse if there was one.
“Yeah, he was with some hot blonde in CVS. I had to hide behind a tower of chapstick.” This lie is rooted in an unpleasant encounter from two Decembers ago, so Ariadne doesn’t feel too bad.
Marie laughs. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Keep your Saturday open and don't wuss out on us."
"Promise."
-
David is cute and doesn’t dress like he works in the financial district, which is kind of a nice shift in aesthetics for Ariadne. They go out for pizza and then dancing with Marie, Giancarlo, and a couple of his friends. Ariadne even wears a push-up bra and some heels and gets drunk enough to feel flush in the face and loose in the hips when dancing.
“Hey,” David yells in her ear, “I’m glad Marie introduced us tonight.”
Ariadne grins at him. He’s got a sharp face and light curly hair, broad shoulders and hands that are twice the size of hers, which she grabs as they dance together. They’re not calloused -- smooth when she’s used to rough, but it’s alright.
She takes him home that night.
-
Life goes on, even without any more dream heists to work on. Eames doesn’t push, though he does sometimes leave cryptic leads in her inbox. She’s still not sure -- the last job was good, easy money and she got laid in the process, but what if the next job is the one that leaves her dead? It’s just as possible.
So she focuses on her teaching, her dissertation, and maintaining her friendships with other busy twenty-somethings in the city.
Her thing with David is easy but maybe too uncomplicated. He doesn't mind her aversion to commitment and only ask for a key to her place because his roommates won't give him enough quiet to study.
“I’m really sorry to impose,” he said, coming back with a spare key and a soaking wet jacket, and it was cute enough that she kissed him in the lobby of her building.
Really, the only downside is that he skateboards around the city and wants to take them "to the next level."
And Ariadne just keeps thinking of Arthur.
Not when she's with David, not really. But when she's trying to create a 3D model of folded dreamspace or when she’s drafting something for class, she thinks of him writing.
Or when she wakes up after fighting her way out of an elevator shaft in a dream, sweaty and out of breath, and David sleeps on beside her in bed. She thinks of Arthur, wonders if he has dreams like this, if he ever thinks of Mal at night.
Arthur continues to not call, though, maintaining slightly angry silence that persists from their last meeting. She doesn’t want to care, but she really really does. David is fun, nice even, and her moms would love him.
But he’s not exciting. Arthur’s exciting in a way that dating a biker or a bad boy isn’t -- she’s been through it with him, wrapped her hands around a gun in dreamshare, secretly relishes whenever the impossible is made real. It’s under her skin now, daydreams and nightmares and the models in her office -- impossible geometric shapes twisted into stairwells. Her biggest is a mobius strip, a hotel lobby on one side and a snowy mountain on the other, looping around without gravity to constrain it.
David takes her to a movie and complains later it’s too unrealistic.
-
The silence lasts a month and breaks at, of course, the least convenient time. Ariadne’s coming back from her weekend office hours and Arthur is sitting at her kitchen table with David, who’s wearing a bathrobe and Ariadne’s house slippers and god, it felt like a shitty romantic comedy except she already knew she’s been sleeping with the wrong guy.
She just didn’t expect the right (well, more right? less wrong?) guy to show up while the wrong guy was sleeping over.
David seems oblivious. “Hey, your old coworker Arthur is pretty cool,” he says, kissing her as she drops her stuff on the couch.
“Hi,” she says, hoping to convey to him that it’s not what it looks like, unless what it looks like is a totally casual relationship with no strings.
“I thought I’d stop by since I was in the neighborhood,” Arthur says, and nope, she failed.
“I’m gonna take Arthur out to lunch. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay,” she says, and David nods, accepts the brush-off in stride and kisses her cheek as she picks up her purse again.
“You could have told me you were seeing someone,” Arthur says in the elevator. “I wouldn’t have stopped by.”
“I haven’t been seeing him for very long. Besides, I don’t owe you life updates. You never call, email, anything.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” and that’s true, only why is he here.
The walk to the bistro is tense.
“You’re only here to hire me, aren’t you?”
“What?” Arthur doesn’t look startled or offended so Ariadne continues.
“You know. A job?”
“How long have you been seeing that guy.”
“I’m not ‘seeing him,’ we’re just hanging out, and maybe a month. It’s not a big thing.”
Arthur looks confused. “He has a house key.”
“He’s got loud roommates. I felt bad.”
“He’s wearing your bathrobe.” That sounds the most accusatory.
“I don’t control what he wears!” Ariadne thinks this conversation is just going to get more frustrating and more stupid before it gets better. But Arthur is there. That’s something, she hopes.
-
“It’s not serious,” she says again over a salad frisee. Arthur only ordered an iced tea and then frowned when it came out all wrong.
“Sure. You seem like you’re really into just handing out house keys.” This again.
“Fuck off,” she says, not with any real malice but seriously, Arthur’s a creep with no room to talk. “I know you’re more of a hit-it-and-quit-it kind of guy, but some of us like regular fuck buddies, okay?”
His forehead creases as he frowns, staring at his tea. “I’m not like that.”
“You only call when it’s convenient for a job, which, by the way, is probably not a very professional way to hire people, even if it gets you lookers like Jo.”
“Jo?” Now he sounds confused and that pisses her off even more.
“Jo. Beautiful, blonde, stacked? Incredibly nice extractor even though I desperately wanted to hate her?”
Arthur blinks. “I’m not sleeping with Jo. I wouldn’t sleep with her to get her to work with me.”
“Obviously. That would require some kind of on-going intimacy. But you slept with her, right?”
He shrugs. “I mean, about six years ago. We had a thing. Dreamshare isn’t that conducive to long-term relationships unless you have a dedicated team.” He stresses the last words and Ariadne wants to ignore it but she can’t, not really.
“So that’s why we only see each other when there’s a job. What’s the gig this time?”
“I...there’s not a job this time.”
“So why are you here?”
“I mean. I didn’t know how else to see you,” he says, and it’s earnest. “This time I figured, maybe you’d be happy to just see me.”
“You could have just called. ‘Hey Ariadne, I’d like to come visit.’” She mimes a holding a phone to her face.
“I don’t like phones.”
“E-mail. Singing telegram. Fax. Ravens.”
“I just. We work well together and you seem to like it. It was a good excuse to try to see you, even if you didn’t take the job.”
It seems too plausible. “I guess.”
“You could have called,” he snaps, and that’s almost true.
“Maybe, if I had your number. I have an encrypted burner email, dude. I’m not you, I can’t just boot up my GPS tracker and find you.”
He looks at her as though this is the first time he’s considered that she might not be as adroit as he is with digging up personal details. That she wasn’t just sitting around, resolutely ignoring him.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m here now. There’s no job.”
“There’s no job.” Arthur came to see her without a job to cajole her into. That was a first, even if he’d sent Eames in his stead that one time. She didn’t think he was sleeping with her to lure her into working with him, but she did think he thought it was a bonus. It turns out it was an excuse.
“I mean, not right now,” he says, quick. “There could be if you wanted to.”
Ariadne laughs. “No, it’s fine, I just. I didn’t think this through.”
His fingers trace patterns in the condensation on his cup.
“Yeah, well, you’re not alone in there.”
“Like I said,” Ariadne says carefully, “that guy, it’s not serious. I mean, I had to make him a house key myself. You already knew to let yourself in.”
He mulls that over for a while.
Ariadne wonders how to break the news to David. He’ll have to study in the library.
-
Arthur grabs her hand as they walk back to her place.