FIC: Kiss Trick, 7/?

[the_ragnarok]

Some Ariadne/OC in this installment.

Ariadne spends her first ten minutes in their house staring at the ceiling, transfixed. Eames is torn between wanting to ask what's so interesting and fearing he'll get an answer. Ariadne is one of those people convinced that their main area of interest is universally fascinating, and those who are trying to politely edge away from a lengthy conversation on the topic are doing so out of misguided shyness.

"What are you looking at?" Arthur asks, and Eames prepares to make a hasty retreat when Sandra firmly claps a hand across Ariadne's mouth.

"Something structurally fascinating about the ceiling, probably," she says, dust-dry and fond. "You can tell us about it after we've put our bags down, Ari."

Ariadne shakes her off. "Stop oppressing me," she says, but she's smiling. "My generation will not be stifled."

"Your generation will not shut up," Sandra says, "and for some reason they seem to think this is a positive quality. Kids these days," she says to Arthur with a smile.

"Hey," Arthur says, feelingly. He's a little more sensitive than he should be about turning thirty soon; Eames is very much looking forward to mocking him when he actually passes that line.

Sandra is in her early forties, matter-of-fact, completely at ease around Ariadne and slightly wary of Arthur. She greets Eames with impersonal friendliness and a firm handshake. Her hands are rough and strong, fingers stained a permanent yellow.

"Pleased to meet you," Eames says. "If I may show you to your room?"

"Are we sharing?" Sandra says, at the same moment that Ariadne asks, "Is Cobb sleeping here, too?"

"Cobb is in a hotel." Eames says. "Last I heard, he was having paroxysms of joy over the prospect of room service." Arthur scowls, but doesn't refute this, which is just as well since everything Eames just said is completely factually accurate.

"But you're sleeping here, right, Eames?" Ariadne looks at him with expectant eyes, and Eames is caught not knowing what to answer. They should probably have talked about this – are they keeping this quiet? Should Eames deflect the question? No, better to –

This line of thought is brought to a halt by Arthur's snort. "Yeah, only for two months now." He looks at Ariadne, then at Eames, eyebrows rising. "I thought you told her. What the hell were all those phone conversations about?"

"Work," Eames says, in a wounded tone, just as Ariadne completely undoes his efforts by cheerfully saying, "Gossip Girl."

Arthur blinks. "Seriously?"

"It's addictive," Eames says defensively. "They're all utter arseholes in magnificent clothes." He only just restrains himself for adding, Not unlike certain people I know and love.

"So not the subject," Ariadne says. "Wait, hello, you guys are together? Since when?"

"Two months, and minus five points for listening comprehension," Sandra says. Eames likes her, he does, but he'd feel better about this conversation without a complete stranger running commentary.

"Your room," he says again, a little more pointedly. "I'm sure you're tired."

"I'm not – mmf."

Sandra muffles Ariadne again. "Yes, thank you." She uses the leverage to push Ariadne after Eames. Much as he appreciates the sentiment, Eames rather wishes she'd stop doing that. It seems a bit invasive, even if Ariadne doesn't appear to mind.

Once they're safely put away to unpack, Eames rejoins Arthur in the kitchen.

"You haven't been talking about us." Arthur opens the fridge door, stares inside, and closes it again.

Eames shrugs uncomfortably. "Didn't know what to say."

Arthur turns to look at him. The corner of his mouth turns up slightly. "For the record, I have a boyfriend now generally works."

"Didn't occur to me to tell." Idle chit-chat aside, he and Ariadne really have been talking about work, for the most part. Granted, she told him quite a bit about her life – her studies, her friends, her long-distance fights with her parents. "And nobody asked." Although, come to think about it – "Have you told Cobb?"

"No," Arthur says, the tips of his ears turning a delicate pink.

Ah-ha. "And why not?" Eames leans back against the counter. "Embarrassed, are you?"

Arthur spreads his hands. "Why would he care?"

Oh, really. "I believe we are talking about Dom Cobb, yes?" Eames says. "The man who called you when his daughter had the sniffles?"

"Look, he never had to deal with them when they were sick," Arthur says, suddenly defensive to an endearing degree.

"Whereas you are a font of parental experience," Eames says.

"Shut up. He just needed to talk to someone who wasn't panicking, okay?" Arthur's glare is short-lived and quickly replaced by a faint smile. "Though honestly, you'd think he'd never had a kid throw up on him."

"I never did," Eames says baldly, "and frankly I hope that continues to be true."

Arthur shrugs. "Kids are okay, so long as their parents are there to take them away at the end of the day." He makes a rude noise. "And yeah, when they don't throw up on your shoes, the little buggers."

Eames leans to kiss Arthur's jaw. "That's my slang you're stealing," he says into Arthur's warm skin. "Is that any way to – "

"Ahem," somebody says from the doorway.

Eames turns to see Dom Cobb in all his fatherly glory standing there and squinting at them. Dom looks from Arthur to Eames and back again; although granted, his gaze doesn't have to travel very long at all.

"Is this a new development?" Cobb says. He sounds tired, enough that Eames would think he was jet-lagged if he didn't know better.

"Somewhat," Arthur says.

Cobb draws a breath as if to say something, then deflates. "You're not going to listen to anything I have to say on the subject, are you?"

"Depends. Are you going to say anything worth listening to?" Eames has almost forgotten how Arthur can get when he's like this, all sharp cutting edges, streamlined.

"Why do I even bother," Cobb says, looking upwards. "Look, if you're done making out in the kitchen, can we start the actual work?"

"Sure," Arthur says, easily, "the moment you stop talking about my personal life and start talking about the job."

Cobb squints harder. Arthur shoulders past him to the living room. Eames follows the two of them. Sandra and Ariadne have already claimed the love seat. Arthur sits on the edge of a misplaced kitchen chair. Eames perches on the couch's armrest, and Cobb sits in the middle of it.

Arthur's meticulously organized files are spread on the table, with a small pile of folders that each has a name printed on. Eames takes the one meant for him, and passes Cobb his.

Once everyone has their own copies, Arthur starts. "The client is Alfred Bayliss. " He goes on about the details – all things Eames knows already, information that Eames spent the last weeks immersed in. He listens with half an ear, turning the rest of his attention to the people in the room.

Cobb doesn't just look tired, he looks old. Quite possibly Eames was more right than he thought about him missing the work. Not everyone is cut to be a stay-at-home parent. The man might have missed his children, but that doesn't mean he knows what to actually do with them. Cobb watches Arthur with sharp eyes, but doesn't interrupt. Eames appreciates that. Cobb has the sense – and the professionalism, thank God for that – to know that this is Arthur's show.

Ariadne is frowning thoughtfully as she listens to Arthur. Eames left the notes he made for her on her bed, and she's holding them in her other hand, leafing through them during the parts of Arthur's explanation that are less relevant to her. Good girl.

Sandra is polite enough to try to conceal her boredom, but it's pretty obvious that she wants to whip out her cellphone or something similarly rude. Eames can't really blame her; her part in this job is that of a glorified babysitter. Eames has seen her resume, and this is really below her. He'd say it's a mystery why she came at all, but she's sitting just a little too close to Ariadne, and there's no mystery there whatsoever.

And Arthur. Always Eames' favorite subject, when it comes to people-watching. Always more to learn, looking at him. Eames is still delighted with this, every time anew – the elegant lines of Arthur's fingers, the subtle rippling of his expressions, the utter stillness that Eames knows can flow into deadly fast action with no transition at all. Arthur's voice. The steady look in his eyes.

Arthur is a work of art in and of himself. Eames never had a chance.

When Arthur reaches the end of his briefing, Cobb leans forward. "What about his militarization?"

Arthur hesitates, obviously torn between restating the obvious and admitting possible doubts. In the end, he opts for neither. "I'd like your opinion on that," he says.

"There's probably something more there," Cobb says slowly. "There might not be, but being prepared doesn't hurt."

"Orensen's work," Arthur says, leaving aside an unspoken If that indeed is what he has, "is a standard armament-type subconscious security. The projections will be armed, violent, mistrustful and have some sense of strategy. We're going to need a plan."

Cobb tilts his head. "Show me what you have."

Arthur gives him a tiny smile. "It goes like this." He walks up to his whiteboard. "The dream will have two levels." He sketches two circles. "First one is a standard hotel, it's only meant to buy us more time in the second level. We'll have twenty minutes in the real world," he says to Sandra's raised arm, with a pointed Now who's not listening? look. "The second level is mostly Eames'." Arthur gives him an expectant look. Eames gets up and takes the marker from him.

"Right." He draws a quick approximation of the second level's layout. "The second level is an art museum – haven't decided which yet, Ariadne, please do consult the notes I've made for you." Ariadne gives him a thumbs-up. "The basic idea is simple – the mark and I will be stealing a piece from the museum's vaults. Cobb, meanwhile, will be guarding those vaults. Once Bayliss and I have emptied them, we'll lock them up – and when Cobb comes to open them, they should be full of the information we need. Meanwhile, I'll do my best to make Bayliss spill in a more conventional way – is there something wrong, Ariadne?"

"Nothing," she says, trying to disguise her choked laughter as a cough and not succeeding very well. Sandra smacks her once, on the back, hard. "Hey!"

"Please try to keep breathing," Sandra says, eyebrows raised. Ariadne gives her the finger.

"As I was saying," Eames continues with a discreet little cough, "I'll try to get more information out of the mark, and Cobb and I will triangulate our findings once in the real world." He nods to Arthur and sits down.

"Any further questions?" Arthur scans a look across the room, then nods once. "All right. Ariadne, you have the base schemes?"

"Got everything I need," she says.

They spread across the room to work. Arthur and Cobb sit together, engaged in some intense discussion that Eames is entirely happy not to take part in. Ariadne takes control of their dining room table, spreading drafting paper all over it and arranging her pencils along its edge.

Sandra pulls out a netbook, and doesn't look particularly in need of company. Eames retreats into the office. Ariadne will call if she wants his input; in the meanwhile, he has to practice looking alluring and yet capable of quick violence for Bayliss.

~~

Come evening, Cobb is the first to leave, citing fatigue. Eames believes him. From the look of him, this may well be the first night of uninterrupted sleep Cobb had in ages.

Ariadne looks up from her papers as she hears the door closing, and ambles to the living room, where Sandra and Arthur are having an involved discussion about types of sedatives.

"Looks like that's it for me today," she says, looking expectantly at Arthur and Sandra.

"Team bonding time," Sandra says, with grave authority.

Ariadne perks up immediately. "I'll get the beers!"

Arthur is very obviously resigning himself to having company tonight, so Eames nudges his shoulder. "It could be fun," he says. Arthur does not look optimistic.

"If team building is so important, why did we wait until Dom left to do it?" he asks, low enough that only Eames hears, apparently rhetorical.

"Because Cobb isn't a team player," says Ariadne, whose hearing is apparently sharper than Eames thought.

Arthur scowls at this. To avert possible conflict, Eames says, "Weren't you about to go get drinks?"

Ariadne sticks her tongue out at them, but she goes out readily enough and drags Sandra along with her. Arthur, of course, seems to think this means they're in charge of the snacks, and forges out himself for something along these lines.

This leaves Eames to pick up around the place. He's no housekeeper and certainly no Arthur, but if they're having company that's actually company and not a shoddily masked business arrangement the place may as well look inviting. He doesn't do much – just tidies away the bits of paper and pencil stubs, puts Arthur's files in their proper place and order (it took him a while to learn Arthur's system, but it's surprisingly intuitive once one gets used to it) and returns the pillows to their place on the couch (they were on the floor, where Arthur used them to stand for buildings as he demonstrated their entrance tactic).

He's taking bowls out of the cabinet to set on the coffee table when Arthur returns home, bearing crisps and vegetables and dip (Eames would sigh at this, but it seems Arthur genuinely enjoys eating what Eames would refer to as "the food's food") and some more biscuits, the kind Eames likes as well as the butter cookies Arthur keeps for company.

Ariadne comes back while Eames is cutting carrots into sticks. He does it because – well, he enjoys messing around with food, and also Arthur is not allowed near the kitchen knives since that unfortunate time Eames startled him unintentionally.

Ariadne brought beer and white wine. Arthur moves next to Eames, standing on tiptoes to reach where they keep the wineglasses. Eames kisses his neck as he stretches up, not really thinking about it; by now it's an automatic response. Arthur is near – kiss him.

When he turns to put the peeler in the sink, Ariadne is staring at them. "Look at you being all domestic," she says with unmasked glee.

"Look at you not minding your own business," Arthur says, but it's easy, lacking any bite. He must have gotten all of that out of his system already, thanks to Cobb.

"Hey, you brought me into the business. Face the consequences." She turns to the living room to set the bottles down on the table. Eames, a little meanly, hopes her arms hurt from standing around holding the things for that long.

Sandra tsks. "That girl," she says, more than a little fond.

"Is a full grown woman," Arthur says, with a hint of sharpness in his voice.

Sandra looks at him for a moment, then sighs. "I thought we talked about this."

"Yes," Arthur says tightly, "and I seem to recall what we agreed on was professionalism. Which, I might point out, precludes fondling our architect."

Our? Sandra mouths, then says, "This is off-hours. Your boyfriend just kissed you, for crying out loud. Stop being a prick, Arthur."

Well – she's right, actually, as far as Eames can tell. He looks at Arthur from the corner of his eye, unsure of how to approach this, whether he should.

"I – " Arthur says, then bites off whatever he was about to say. Instead he says, "Nevermind. This clearly isn't any of my business."

"I suppose it isn't," Sandra says, a little sad for some reason. "I do apologize for earlier, when we just arrived. It won't happen again."

"No, it's fine," Arthur says. "You shouldn't apologize. I overreacted."

"You kind of did." Then Ariadne shouts something unintelligible from the living room, and Sandra goes to see what she wants. Eames leans against the counter with his arms crossed, looking at Arthur.

"This isn't going to be a thing," Arthur says hurriedly. "We just needed to clear the air. That was it, honestly."

"Really," Eames says. "And what, precisely, was in that air to begin with?"

"Things," Arthur says shortly. "Look, I was a dick, she was... less than helpful. I said I was sorry, she said fine, end of story. Except now whenever she shows up on a job we have to have this stupid pissing contest, just to get it out of the way."

"You knew that," Eames says slowly, "and you took her for this job?"

Arthur shrugs. "She's reliable. Decent to work with, overall. This is just a thing."

"A specific thing," Eames says. "With her. Did you two date or something?"

"Something," Arthur says. This is a tone that brooks no further discussion, so Eames gives Arthur a bowl of cherry tomatoes and sends him to put it on the coffee table.

The evening is surprisingly mellow after that, Ariadne's easy laughter and Arthur's wry humor making the course of the conversation run smoothly indeed. Sandra, Eames discovers, has travelled to a degree seen rarely even in their profession, worked and lived in more places than Eames is confident he can name.

"Some of it is just time," she says, to one of Eames' inquiries on the subject. "I'm, what, ten years older than you?" Nine, actually, which Eames is grateful Arthur doesn't point out. "That and inclination. I can't stand staying at one place for too long."

Eames casts a look around, at their warmly lit living room, the old wood of the bookshelves and the books with their bright covers. "I think I could rather get used to it, myself."

"I need to have a home," Ariadne says. "It doesn't matter if I'm there at all, but I need a space that's just mine and that nobody can take from me."

She casts an expectant look at Arthur who eventually, slowly, says, "I don't really need a place. I have a two or three things – wherever I have them, that can be a home if I want it to be."

Eames puzzles over this, for the pleasure of the challenge more than anything else. Arthur's laptop, obviously, and probably his gun. A third thing... It's possible Arthur doesn't even know what his third thing is, just adding an empty slot to cover all eventualities.

"All right," Ariadne says. "Poll time. Um." She looks up at the ceiling and thinks. "The weirdest thing people asked you to do."

"Forging a chair," Eames says. An Eames chair, specifically. He'd picked up the name then and never set it down thereafter; it did something to a man, being one with furniture.

"I had to synthesize an antidote once," Sandra says. "It turned out my assistant had a natural resistance, and we used her blood for it. Only our equipment was so bad I'd be laughing just thinking about it normally. That or screaming at someone. The lab ended up looking like we slaughtered something in it, and my assistant lying in the middle of everything like a fucking virgin sacrifice, going 'Take my lifeblood! Take it!'" She snorts. "Last fucking time I employed a former drama major. Honestly."

"Pass," Arthur says, and Ariadne pounces on him.

"Oh, come on!" she implores. "I'll tell you mine."

He hesitates. "It's a professional secret." Then he gets that decisive look Eames loves. "Tell you what. If I don't get around to using it during the Bayliss job, I'll tell you about it later. Okay?"

"All right," Ariadne says, reluctantly. "But in that case I'm not telling mine, either."

"New poll," Sandra says. "The job that made you want to quit dreaming. Everybody has one."

Ariadne gives her an apprehensive look. "You start."

Sandra nods at her. "I used to be an architect, you know."

"Everybody used to be an architect," Ariadne mutters. "Why doesn't anyone stay an architect, that's what I want to know."

"This is part of it, actually." Sandra takes Ariadne's hand for a moment, then lets go. "Come to think of it – Arthur, weren't you on that job?"

"I think so," Arthur says. "With Chen, right?" Chen is an extractor Arthur speaks highly of. She's a little too by-the-book for Eames' own preferences, but he'll grant that she's not bad.

"That one, yes. Chen really did quit the job after that. Went to farm sheep somewhere. All right, all right, I'm getting to it." Sandra fends off Ariadne's poking finger. "So there we were, in an accurate representation of a medieval village. It was the second level, and the first was an archaeological dig – the idea was to get the subject to hide the idea in the past – that is, the second level – and unearth it in the present, i.e., the first level."

"Okay, I think I know where this is going," Ariadne says, making a face.

"Yeah," Arthur says. "Guess who did the mark's militarization?"

"Althea," Eames realizes with a dawning horror. "You've been through one of her death-traps, haven't you? I have no idea how you abide her."

"I admire her professional abilities," Arthur says, cool as you please. Eames huffs.

"So yeah, since you're all determined to undermine my punchline," Sandra says wryly. "The village got the plague. All the village, at once. Dying people everywhere. I kept having to remind myself it wasn't real."

It's fitting, Eames supposes. Althea specializes in, to call it one name, non-military militarizations – the kind where the entire dream world turned on you in the worst possible way.

"The worst of it was," Sandra says, "we couldn't abort. Our chemist upped the dosage too much, and dying in the dream meant risking limbo. So we just went on trying to dodge plague carriers, shooting goddamned rats and fleeing for our lives. And throughout that entire thing, the only thought that kept me sane was, When I get out of here, I'm shooting Richard in the ass."

"I assume Richard was the chemist," Eames says. He never heard of the guy, which he supposes is self-explanatory.

"That's right," Sandra says with dark satisfaction. "Was. That's exactly the right word. Oh, I didn't kill him," she says to Ariadne's horrified look. "Our mark ended up doing that – long story. Anyway, after that I swore I won't go under with anyone that incompetent holding the controls."

"So you learned how to do it yourself," Arthur says, and nobody but Eames can hear the admiring undertone in his voice.

"Pretty much," Sandra says, leaning back. "Okay, that was me. You?"

"When Cobb's ex-wife stabbed me in the guts," Ariadne says, glumly. Eames winces – yeah, that's an unpleasant start to your professional life. He's even happier than before Cobb isn't actually present for this.

"Arthur?" Eames says, trying to turn the conversation.

Arthur winces. "Do I have to?"

"You don't have to do anything," Eames says, even as Ariadne pouts. Sandra raises one eyebrow at Arthur.

"Oh, fine," Arthur says. "Just don't... make it into anything, okay? It happened, it was weird, done. No commentary."

"I swear," Eames says immediately. Ariadne raises her fingers in a boyscout salute. Sandra just nods.

"Okay." He lets a breath out. "This is about a bad chemist as well. Though in this case, not incompetent so much as clinically insane. You guys worked with Bonita?"

"Heard of her," Eames says, cautious. Ariadne looks perplexed, and Sandra looks pained.

"Did you hear about the Glasgow incident?" Arthur's voice is clipped, precise and detached. This is not a good sign.

Eames hadn't, but Sandra gasps. "Wait. That was you?"

Arthur nods, mouth drawn into a tight line.

"Oh. Shit." Sandra actually turns pale. "Oh, man, I'm sorry."

"Wasn't your fault," Arthur says.

"No, just, that it happened to you. Or at all." She reaches out in an abortive gesture, clasping Ariadne's hand instead of whatever touch she meant to offer Arthur. Eames is glad she didn't; Arthur doesn't look like he would welcome the attempt just now.

"Speaking for those of us who weren't working fifteen years ago," Ariadne says loudly, "can we get an explanation?"

Arthur's face is blank. His voice is nearly monotonous when he says, "Twelve years ago, Ari, a chemist named Bonita came up with a compound that reversed sensations. It could make pleasure be perceived as pain, and vice versa."

Ariadne looks at him, but when Arthur says no more, she opens her mouth then shuts it slowly, eyes widening as she stands the implications of what Arthur said. "And. Wait. She used it on – "

"I shot her," Arthur says flatly. "In the neck." Arthur doesn't kill lightly in the real world, Eames knows, tries not to do it at all. "People who worked with her knew. Everyone who was in the business then knew. Nobody ever said a word to me about it."

Sandra says, faintly, "Well, that explains a lot."

All right, the subject needs to change. Now. "Shall I tell my story, then?" Eames says with a lightness he doesn't feel.

Arthur looks at him, and Eames reads relief in the set of his shoulders. He wants to take Arthur's hand, telegraph a You're welcome by touch, but he thinks Arthur is perhaps best left alone just now. Instead, Eames opens his mouth and recounts the tale. "So I've mentioned I'll not go near anyone who had Althea work on them, yes?"

"Repeatedly." Arthur rolls his eyes, and Eames is wary of punching him in the shoulder right now, even lightly, so he rolls his eyes back at him instead.

"Well, this is why," Eames says. "So we were working on this bloke, yeah? Honest-to-God railroad tycoon, richer than Croesus. Needed to find out – " Eames waves a hand, " – can't even be bothered to remember now. We never did get it. I forged the man's dear old mother, sweetest little thing you could imagine, him visiting her in her hospital bed – completely charming, I assure you. I had him in my hand," Eames clenches it for effect, "I tell you, in my very hand, when he turns to speak to me and suddenly I can't hear a word he says."

Arthur, the bastard, has the audacity to look intrigued by this. Ariadne, at least, looks waiting to be delightfully horrified, like a kid listening to a ghost story. Sandra looks like she has hankies and sympathy prepared in case they're needed.

Eames continues. "At first I thought – and I was forging the mother, I remind you, so I was thinking rather like a daffy old woman – it was my hearing going. But the next thing you know, the color started draining out of everything."

He doesn't tell them the rest of it, not exactly, how everything slowly faded away until he was left by himself, in a grey void that held absolutely nothing else, not even the sound of his own breath, not even the feeling of his own beating pulse. He'd checked it, before waking up. He couldn't so much as feel the warmth of his own skin.

But it's an easy enough story to make light of, to turn into a joke – poor old Eamsie, stuck in an old woman's mind, her terror a laughing matter rather than the immediate, visceral thing it was then. Ariadne laughs, but Sandra just looks thoughtful, and Arthur's look is cutting deeper than it should.

After Eames finishes, with a hastily tacked-on, "And that's why I'll never work with that horrible harridan," they grow quiet, until Arthur stands up and unsubtly announces bed time.

They make sure that Ariadne and Sandra have everything – blankets, pillows, towels, check – and go off to bed. Eames is pleasantly surprised that Arthur doesn't turn away from him, doesn't use the pretext of sleep to push Eames away. Instead, Arthur moves his leg so their ankles are just touching, presses two fingers to Eames' wrist.

"Good night," Arthur says, and Eames says, "Good night, darling," with more relief than he would care to admit.