Fic: All of Time and the Space in Between, 1/4 [Inception]
Title: All of Time and the Space in Between, 1/4
Character/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, Ariadne, past Cobb/Mal
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,130
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: Timey-wimeyness, language
Summary: "People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually, from a nonlinear non-subjective viewpoint, it's more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly timey wimey...stuff." -10th Doctor
Author's Notes: Written for a prompt on inception_kink : "Arthur is a time traveler who always sticks by the rules of time travel, mainly the one about not changing the past. On one of his adventures, he meets and falls in love with Eames, then struggles with his dedication to the rules and his feelings.
The first time, it's a mistake.
-----
Paris, April 2005, 2:18 PM
The first words out of Ariadne's mouth are more of a moan than anything else, and probably the last ones any time traveler would want to speak or hear: "Oh, no."
"Ariadne?" Arthur blinks away the residual grey spots from his scope of vision - everyone's visual cortex handles the journey of abrupt displacement through existence somewhat differently; Ariadne once claimed to have seen an entire city folding in upon itself - and catches a glimpse of the green of foliage before a pair of small, slender hands clap a multicolored scarf over his eyes. "What the-" He reaches up with one hand and tries to tug the impromptu blindfold away, the other going to the gun concealed in a shoulder holster under his suit jacket. "What's wrong?"
"Wrong? Oh, nothing!" His friend and fellow traveller says with false brightness and a shaky laugh, the anxious trill of someone who's done something very wrong indeed, moving one hand away from his face but still obscuring his vision with the scarf as she walks around his person to stand in front of him. "Just...don't look, okay?"
"Ariadne," he says calmly, standing still and staring at the colorful threads of the woven scarf. He can't smell gunpowder or hear any screaming so they haven't accidentally touched down in the middle of a battlefield or anything, that's definitely pavement beneath his feet instead of the sands of the ever-merciless Sahara, and he hears the hustle and bustle of a car horn here and pedestrians there and not the hissing of some poisonous Amazonian reptile, so that's all good. Of course, hearing the dulcet murmurs of Commet allez-vous? and Oui, au revoir! in place of the rapid fire Japanese he'd been expecting is a bit problematic, but still. "Tell me what happened."
"Um," Ariadne ventures nervously, "I may have been a bit...off."
"A bit?" Arthur repeats, taking the other's hand away from his eyes. When he looks over Ariadne's head to see the Eiffel Tower looming in the distance, it confirms at least part of his suspicions and he blinks. "...oh."
"I'm sorry!" She squeaks. "I mean...I told you I've always wanted to go to Paris, and I guess it's just what I was thinking about when I put in the destination and...and..." At Arthur's silence, she begins jabbing viciously at what looks like a very expensive wristwatch with her finger, turning a dial here and chewing on her bottom lip, shoulders hunching as she jabbers a mile a minute. "I can fix it. Don't worry; I'll get us in the Eastern Hemisphere and the twentieth century in no time, haha, and-"
"Ariadne," he sighs, and gently takes her hand away from where the watch is emitting a series of strange beeps. "You know the PASIV's fuel cells can't handle traveling to more than one destination within an hour."
"I know." She twists her fingers in the scarf and stares down at the sidewalk like a child expected a scolding, shamefaced. "I'm sorry, Arthur."
Arthur knows he should be angry, or at least impatient with the rookie mistake; the first component of time travel is intense concentration lest one goes spiraling uncontrollably off into the wide expanse of time. But he also knows the Department has a lengthy list of trainees that he has personally scared off or traumatized within an inch of a nervous breakdown (the Hazel girl really couldn't have handled the stress of the job though, and that Priyal kid didn't have two brain cells to rub together, no matter what his IQ might be), and although he is the best point man they have, there aren't many architects or extractors he willingly works with.
Besides, he genuinely likes Ariadne, all five foot two of her wide-eyed eagerness, brilliant mind, and hispter scarves from a bygone era; Miles wasn't lying when he presented her as one of the brightest and the best of her class, a prodigy to rival Cobb (when he'd been in his prime, anyway).
"It's alright," he tells her instead, reassuring. "We could probably use an hour of relaxation." He casts a cursory glance at the passerby, and is immediately glad he and Ariadne look only mildly out of place in their respective 1950s attire: a fitted double-breasted pinstripe suit and fashionable woman's business suit (the scarf is the only eyesore, but Ariadne had insisted on bringing along the good luck charm). "Early twenty-first century?"
"April 5, 2005," Ariadne confirms, and then gives him a slightly unsure sideways glance. "Arthur, I really am sorry; I'll make it up to you."
"Ariadne, the first job I took with Cobb, I landed the both of us in a little ramshackle hut in the Himalayas circa the Stone Age instead of St. Petersburg during the Bolshevik Revolution." He takes his own PASIV from a pocket and examines the small device's circular face, setting their estimated arrival return time in their own year back by an hour. "Trust me, this is nothing in comparison." Snapping the pocket watch shut, he turns and offers his arm. "Shall we?"
With a barely disguised squeal of joy, she takes his arm and begins to drag him off, chattering excitedly about the French Court Gothic style of the Sainte-Chapelle and the amazing smell of authentic croissants, about supermodels in avant-garde outfits and the city of lovers in the spring.
-----
"-can't believe that the training courses never allowed us the chance to come here; the city layout is absolutely amazing!"
Forty-five minutes later, Arthur's sitting outside a picturesque little Parisian cafe, sipping a latte and listening to Ariadne enthuse over their surroundings. The young woman's eyes are alight in a way that Arthur's only ever seen them go over monstrosities of city blueprints and architectural feats, and inwardly he's glad of that the slight mistake had been made.
"And the Lourve, Arthur, it's everything the history books say and more-"
"You do realize," Arthur interrupts with a cocked eyebrow, "that more than sixty-five percent of what's on display in there are forgeries?"
"Oh, who cares that we've already carted off all the originals?" Ariadne waves her hand dismissively. "Seeing everything packed up in crates in the Department just isn't the same as seeing it in the Lourve."
"Right." Arthur hides a smile behind his cup, taps his fingers on the tabletop once, twice. "Didn't you say you wanted a croissant?"
"Can I?"
At his nod, Ariadne smiles and more or less jumps out of the wrought iron chair and bounds inside the cafe, an immeasurable ball of energy that never seems to snuff out. After a steady count to three, Arthur sets the cup down and stands in one fluid motion, automatically buttoning up his suit before he turns smoothly on his heel, walks to the table two spaces over, and sits down across from the individual seated there. "Can I help you?"
The man raises an eyebrow and chuckles, a low, velvety sound that, for some inexplicable reason, sends a flare of something tumbling through Arthur's stomach. "Think I should be the one asking you that, darling." He sets down the newspaper he'd been pretending to read (he hasn't turned the page in close to fifteen minutes). "Seeing as you're the one who came and sat down at my table apropos of nothing."
Arthur's left eye twitches at the pet name but he raises his chin, a silent challenge. He eyes the paisley shirt and slightly ill-fitting tan suit jacket (too tight in the shoulders and far too roomy at the waist) with carefully concealed horror. The day-old stubble covering the angular jaw suits him though, as do the shade of the blue-grey eyes that give off the impression of seeing far more than they ought. The impish grin reveals a set of slightly crooked bottom teeth framed by a set of absolutely ridiculous lips (that Arthur stares at perhaps for a moment too long). The tanned hands splayed atop the back page of the newspaper partially cover the findings of several meteorologists charting troubling weather patterns; the devastation that will be Hurricane Katrina will descend upon the Gulf Coast in just under five months, but there's nothing Arthur can say about it. "You've been staring at the back of my head for the past twenty minutes. I assume there's a reason behind your scrutiny."
"Perhaps I was just taking in the lovely sights this wonderful spring afternoon."
Were this anyone else, Arthur would've let it slide and left at the obvious flirtation, but something sharp and searching in the man's gaze sets all the alarms blaring in Arthur's mind and sends his trigger finger twitching. It's rare that those working for the Department run into trouble from competition on jobs, rare but not unheard of, and Arthur is a point man who takes his job very seriously - his track record of jobs is nearly perfect, and he's not about to see Ariadne get hurt or let the assignment go awry because of some suave Brit who thinks himself a charmer. "Then I suggest you direct your admiration elsewhere."
Instead of backing down, the man leans forward; Arthur catches a whiff of his cologne - sandalwood and spice. "I've the strangest feeling we met before."
"You're mistaken."
"Hmm." Arthur lets out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding as the man sits back and surveys him thoughtfully. There does seem to be a small hint of disappointment in his ruggedly attractive features, although whether it's because he truly mistook Arthur for someone else or due to Arthur's flat out refusal to engage in the push toward flirtation is hard to discern. "Well then. I do apologize." They stand at the same time to the simultaneous screech of their chairs against pavement, Arthur more out of reaction to the other's movement than anything else, and the man grins at him. "Ta, darling."
Arthur stiffens as the man brushes past him (there's really no need though; he isn't carrying any valuables with him other than his totem and the PASIV, not that the other would know what to do with them other than to perhaps pawn the pocket watch), then turns to watch the tan suit jacket stretched over broad shoulders and sliver of paisley peeking out over the collar disappear into the crowd.
"Arthur!" Ariadne appears at his side, looking up at him curiously. "What this?" He looks away from the crowd and down to where she's pulling something out of his pocket, a slightly crumpled napkin from the cafe, scrawled over with loopy script in black ink - Eames - and a phone number. "Who's Eames?" There's a teasing note in her tone, and the smile she gives him is just this side of dangerous. Arthur knows he's not going to hear the end of this for quite a while.
"No one." She has the buttery flakes of the remains of a croissant at the corner of her lips and he folds the napkin neatly in half, wipes her mouth. "Let's go."
-----
Tokyo, May 1942, 6:37 AM
Several continents over and a couple of decades away, Ariadne dashes out of the drab grey government building on the nimble feet of a dancer and skids to a stop in front of where Arthur stands checking the perimeter, sidearm in hand. "Ready?"
"Yep!" She waves a sheaf of papers at him, then tilts her head like a curious bird and nods at the cafe napkin still sticking slightly out of his breast pocket. "Are you bringing that back?"
He starts and glances down at the offending object. "Don't be ridiculous. You know we aren't allowed to bring unauthorized objects back to the future." Pulling it out of his pocket, he crumbles it and tosses it over his shoulder into the adjoining field. "Let's go."
"That's bad for the environment," Ariadne comments mildly as she watches him flip open the pocket watch, taking his arm again, fingers grasping tight.
"It's made of biodegradable material," he replies distractedly. "They were all about 'going green' at the beginning of the millennia." With a final twist of the dials, the words read: Department Headquarters, 10 August 2975, 5:30 PM and Arthur depresses the button on the top of the pocket watch. The PASIV whirs, air molecules displace as time bends, and the pair disappear with a whoosh of sound, the sharp lines of a well-cut suit evanescing into nothingness.
The crumpled napkin tumbles slightly on the breeze of the disappearing duo and then lies there, forgotten.
* ~ * ~ *
The second time should be a coincidence. But it's not.
-----
Blakewell, Derbyshire, September 2009, 8:30 PM
The windows of the English manor house twinkle with an intricate interlacing of fairy lights, twining in and out among the tangle of vines scaling the brick walls; voices and the melodious chords of an orchestra playing some Beethoven sonata float out over the well-manicured lawns and into the rose gardens (the perfect meeting place for a forbidden love tryst). The plush-carpeted corridors of the estate look more suited to be the location of some Victorian era romance a la one of Jane Austen's tales of enduring love than some fancy pants gala for those with too much time and money on their hands, but there you go.
In an adjacent hallway just beyond the coat check and where a young woman stands protectively hunched over the fiercely guarded official guest list, air molecules displace and with a minimal whoosh sound that could've been mistaken for a sweep of a stain skirt over a marble floor, two figures appear in the semi-darkness. Both are dressed for the occasion; the taller of the two in a tuxedo that fits him like a second skin, the other teetering slightly in the heels she's clearly unused to wearing.
"How do I look?"
Arthur kneels, checking the backup strapped to his ankle. "Lovely."
Ariadne pouts, crossing her arms - a task made a bit difficult by the clutch she holds, inside of which rests her PASIV. "You didn't even look!"
"You're wearing a tailored to fit, modified, venetian red version of the dress worn by model Heidi Mount in the Versace's Fall 2009 Ready to Wear lineup, originally a satin blue on the runway." Click goes the magazine as nimble fingers slide it back into the gun. "Paired with black Christian Louboutin peep toe pumps." He flicks a look at his PASIV, then slides the silver pocket watch on its chain back into a fold in his waistcoat. "Like I said, you look lovely."
"...you're an ass."
"No. I just read the dossiers you prepared." He finally looks at her and his expression is one of placid neutrality. "Shall we?"
With a grumble, Ariadne slips her hand into the crook of his arm and allow herself to be led toward the nexus of activity, namely, the main hall. "You're still an ass."
Several paces short of the ornately carved and gilded double doors, Arthur stops short and turns to look at her. There's an uncharacteristic scowl darkening Ariadne's features, a sure sign of anxiety; she'd been wearing the same frown when they first met and it took a rather obvious sideways glance from Miles to smooth out the lines in her brow. He knows that she's nervous; their impromptu trip to Paris occurred just two days ago, and on a job as high profile as this one, there's no room for error.
"Relax, Ariadne," he tells her quietly. "Smile." The rictus she gives him would look right at home on the Joker's face, and Arthur chuckles, cheeks dimpling. "It'll be fine," he murmurs, reaching up a hand to brush a tendril of hair behind her ear. "I'm going to be the one getting the heat; I'll have the prettiest girl in the room on my arm."
That gets a smile out of her, tight-lipped though it may be, and Ariadne exhales a great gust of air. "Okay."
"Just like we discussed."
"Sneak past the M.C., skirt along the wall, maybe grab a flute of champagne or over-sweetened punch," Ariadne recites dutifully. "Mingle for fifteen minutes at the most, then when everyone's distracted by...whatever-"
"I'll take care of it."
"By whatever you do - what are you going to do, by the way?"
"Ariadne."
"Right, right - then I slip into the private viewing room and grab the hairpin." Arthur nods his approval and steps forward to open the doors when Ariadne tugs sharply on his arm. "But Arthur," she implores, eyes large in her face, worried. "What if I get caught?"
"I won't let that happen."
"Well- what if some creep asks for my hand? To, you know, dance?"
"Then I'll break both of his, that's what," Arthur mutters underneath his breath as he curves a protective arm around Ariadne's bare shoulders to steady her and, before she can dig her stupidly high heels any deeper into the marble beneath their feet, he steers the both of them inside.
"Oh - Arthur, slow down; I'm gonna - whoa!"
"This way," he murmurs distractedly, eyes already searching the far corners of the room, taking note of all entrances and exits, the scant security detail scattered around the perimeter, all of them looking bored to death and occasionally putting a hand to their obvious white earpieces. Reaching out with one hand, he swipes a flute of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter and presses it into Ariadne's hand. "Sip, don't swig."
Ariadne does as instructed, knees turned in to keep from teetering unsteadily. "Now we...mingle?"
"Now we mingle."
-----
Arthur's trained eye lands on the man not five minutes later: several years older, clean shaven this time and dressed in a sharp tuxedo (that sends Arthur's gaze wandering for a nanosecond to be perfectly honest), but otherwise unmistakable, and Arthur's spine snaps straight, shoulders squaring and feet moving apart several inches in an automatic defensive stance.
Abort, is his first, instinctive thought. It's not a coincidence; Arthur's no fool to believe things to happen without certain cause and he doesn't recall seeing the name "Eames" on the guest list so that means the individual halfway across the room chatting up a buxom blonde in a slinky black number is a man of many names and faces, a con man. An unforeseen obstacle that will most probably compromise the job and a hitch in the plan that should not have existed but unfortunately, does. Damn it. He turns his head, looking around for Ariadne, muscles tense and ready to spring into action, to grab her and go, go, go.
Goddamn it. There she is, standing next to the banquet table and giving a cheese platter the same scrutiny she normally reserves for some particularly difficult paradox of architecture, not five paces away from the man who's finished chatting up the blonde and - and is now staring straight at him, a roguish grin stretching his lips. Goddamn it all to hell.
"Darling," is the first word out of Eames' mouth as he draws near and Arthur seriously considers punching the man in his smug face. "Fancy seeing you here...and now."
"Indeed," he replies stiffly, and tries not to notice when the scent of sandalwood and spice assaults his olfactory senses. "I could say the same for you, Mr. Eames." His hand twitches as he resists the urge to reach into his pocket for his totem, the red die and a time traveler's ultimate fail safe.
"Do take that stick out of your arse once in a while, love. Does wonders, or so I'm told." Eames advises sweetly and shoots him a dazzling grin, sticking out his hand with aplomb, palm up (calloused fingers, capable and practiced; he knows how to handle a weapon and played the piano as a child - oh for fuck's sake, shut UP, Arthur tells his brain). "If I may?"
"If you may what?" And then, perhaps too late, Arthur hears the first strains of an arrangement of a slow waltz (Strauss, perhaps?) shivering in the air, takes notice of the partygoers all around him coupling up, and his teeth click together, hard. "Oh, HELL no."
Eames raises an eyebrow. "Wouldn't want to stand out, would you?" He waggles his fingers. "Come now, I won't bite."
It's one of those moments that last a lifetime, one of those decisions that you know you really shouldn't make but regardless of intentions or willful choice, it happens anyway, and before Arthur can come up with an acrid retort or the proper semblance of mind to dredge up a polite dismissal, his fingers are sliding in between the spaces of Eames'; his feet start stepping in time to the music, one-two-three, one-two-three. Eames' hands are large and warm, square palm and shorter, strong fingers, and Arthur growls under his breath when he realizes that Eames is leading. "I hate you," he tells the other man flatly. "I don't even know you and I hate you."
One-two-three, one-two-three, half step, spin. One-two-three, one-two-three.
"Part of my charm, love." Eames smiles then, and Arthur has the very strong urge to trample on his foot. "You are adorable when you scowl; you know this, yeah?"
"Who are you working for?" Arthur waits half a beat too long for the next step than puts his foot on the inner side of Eames' right foot, throws his weight in the opposite direction, and in the following half-twirl, reverses their positions so that he's the one leading now.
Eames' face positively lights up with glee once he realizes what Arthur's done, and he laughs, eyes filled with admiration. "Oh, well done, you. That was very clever."
Now Arthur does accidentally-but-not-really stomp on Eames' left foot, relishing in the slight wince the action elicits. He's aware of the stares they're getting (honestly, the people of the twenty-first century know nothing of tolerance or how to mind their own fucking business) but keeps his gaze firmly trained on Eames' face, eyes hard but mien expressionless otherwise. "Why are you here?"
"To see you, of course."
Shit. A surge of alarm spikes in Arthur's chest but he tamps it down forcefully with only a slight jump of the muscle in his jaw to show for it. They near one of the french doors leading out onto a balcony, and on sudden impulse, he more or less throws his entire weight against Eames' solid frame, hooking an arm around the other man's throat and shoving him up against the wall, hidden from the eyes of those entertaining themselves inside. Surprisingly, Eames doesn't fight back although he clearly has the capabilities to do so, not even as the muzzle of a Glock 17 kisses the underside of his jaw.
"And how," Arthur says very quietly, voice suddenly rough, "could you have possibly known I would be here tonight, Mr. Eames?"
Eames' eyes soften, and his smile this time is not one of immature glee or mockery, but of warmth. He leans forward, mouth right next to Arthur's ear: "I know a lot about you, Arthur. Lawrence. Davidson." Each part of the name is punctuated by a warm puff of air that sends a shiver up Arthur's spine as panic claws its way up his throat, sharp and acidic and burning. This isn't making sense, none of it, and if there's anything Arthur hates, it's being lost. He's only seen this man once before, and that was for all of five minutes outside a little Parisian cafe four years ago (in Eames' timeline at least). Who the fuck is this man who holds his hand like he knows all the lines and grooves in Arthur's palm and smiles at him like he's known him forever?
"How-" he starts, but the next words are cut off by a pair of warm lips claiming his, the flick of a tongue teasing against the seam of his mouth, a kiss both chaste and full of some hidden meaning that Arthur can't even begin to guess at. The gun falters in his suddenly slack grip then falls from his nerveless fingers.
"Sorry, darling," Eames breathes against his mouth when he pulls back - and too late does Arthur register the prick of a needle in the crook of his arm - but what's funny is that Eames really does look contrite at the combination of shock and rage flitting across Arthur's face as the point man's knees give out, and Arthur vaguely registers the feel of a large hand cradling the back of his head carefully as he slumps to the floor.
* ~ * ~ *
To be continued...
Character/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, Ariadne, past Cobb/Mal
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,130
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: Timey-wimeyness, language
Summary: "People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually, from a nonlinear non-subjective viewpoint, it's more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly timey wimey...stuff." -10th Doctor
Author's Notes: Written for a prompt on inception_kink : "Arthur is a time traveler who always sticks by the rules of time travel, mainly the one about not changing the past. On one of his adventures, he meets and falls in love with Eames, then struggles with his dedication to the rules and his feelings.
The first time, it's a mistake.
-----
Paris, April 2005, 2:18 PM
The first words out of Ariadne's mouth are more of a moan than anything else, and probably the last ones any time traveler would want to speak or hear: "Oh, no."
"Ariadne?" Arthur blinks away the residual grey spots from his scope of vision - everyone's visual cortex handles the journey of abrupt displacement through existence somewhat differently; Ariadne once claimed to have seen an entire city folding in upon itself - and catches a glimpse of the green of foliage before a pair of small, slender hands clap a multicolored scarf over his eyes. "What the-" He reaches up with one hand and tries to tug the impromptu blindfold away, the other going to the gun concealed in a shoulder holster under his suit jacket. "What's wrong?"
"Wrong? Oh, nothing!" His friend and fellow traveller says with false brightness and a shaky laugh, the anxious trill of someone who's done something very wrong indeed, moving one hand away from his face but still obscuring his vision with the scarf as she walks around his person to stand in front of him. "Just...don't look, okay?"
"Ariadne," he says calmly, standing still and staring at the colorful threads of the woven scarf. He can't smell gunpowder or hear any screaming so they haven't accidentally touched down in the middle of a battlefield or anything, that's definitely pavement beneath his feet instead of the sands of the ever-merciless Sahara, and he hears the hustle and bustle of a car horn here and pedestrians there and not the hissing of some poisonous Amazonian reptile, so that's all good. Of course, hearing the dulcet murmurs of Commet allez-vous? and Oui, au revoir! in place of the rapid fire Japanese he'd been expecting is a bit problematic, but still. "Tell me what happened."
"Um," Ariadne ventures nervously, "I may have been a bit...off."
"A bit?" Arthur repeats, taking the other's hand away from his eyes. When he looks over Ariadne's head to see the Eiffel Tower looming in the distance, it confirms at least part of his suspicions and he blinks. "...oh."
"I'm sorry!" She squeaks. "I mean...I told you I've always wanted to go to Paris, and I guess it's just what I was thinking about when I put in the destination and...and..." At Arthur's silence, she begins jabbing viciously at what looks like a very expensive wristwatch with her finger, turning a dial here and chewing on her bottom lip, shoulders hunching as she jabbers a mile a minute. "I can fix it. Don't worry; I'll get us in the Eastern Hemisphere and the twentieth century in no time, haha, and-"
"Ariadne," he sighs, and gently takes her hand away from where the watch is emitting a series of strange beeps. "You know the PASIV's fuel cells can't handle traveling to more than one destination within an hour."
"I know." She twists her fingers in the scarf and stares down at the sidewalk like a child expected a scolding, shamefaced. "I'm sorry, Arthur."
Arthur knows he should be angry, or at least impatient with the rookie mistake; the first component of time travel is intense concentration lest one goes spiraling uncontrollably off into the wide expanse of time. But he also knows the Department has a lengthy list of trainees that he has personally scared off or traumatized within an inch of a nervous breakdown (the Hazel girl really couldn't have handled the stress of the job though, and that Priyal kid didn't have two brain cells to rub together, no matter what his IQ might be), and although he is the best point man they have, there aren't many architects or extractors he willingly works with.
Besides, he genuinely likes Ariadne, all five foot two of her wide-eyed eagerness, brilliant mind, and hispter scarves from a bygone era; Miles wasn't lying when he presented her as one of the brightest and the best of her class, a prodigy to rival Cobb (when he'd been in his prime, anyway).
"It's alright," he tells her instead, reassuring. "We could probably use an hour of relaxation." He casts a cursory glance at the passerby, and is immediately glad he and Ariadne look only mildly out of place in their respective 1950s attire: a fitted double-breasted pinstripe suit and fashionable woman's business suit (the scarf is the only eyesore, but Ariadne had insisted on bringing along the good luck charm). "Early twenty-first century?"
"April 5, 2005," Ariadne confirms, and then gives him a slightly unsure sideways glance. "Arthur, I really am sorry; I'll make it up to you."
"Ariadne, the first job I took with Cobb, I landed the both of us in a little ramshackle hut in the Himalayas circa the Stone Age instead of St. Petersburg during the Bolshevik Revolution." He takes his own PASIV from a pocket and examines the small device's circular face, setting their estimated arrival return time in their own year back by an hour. "Trust me, this is nothing in comparison." Snapping the pocket watch shut, he turns and offers his arm. "Shall we?"
With a barely disguised squeal of joy, she takes his arm and begins to drag him off, chattering excitedly about the French Court Gothic style of the Sainte-Chapelle and the amazing smell of authentic croissants, about supermodels in avant-garde outfits and the city of lovers in the spring.
-----
"-can't believe that the training courses never allowed us the chance to come here; the city layout is absolutely amazing!"
Forty-five minutes later, Arthur's sitting outside a picturesque little Parisian cafe, sipping a latte and listening to Ariadne enthuse over their surroundings. The young woman's eyes are alight in a way that Arthur's only ever seen them go over monstrosities of city blueprints and architectural feats, and inwardly he's glad of that the slight mistake had been made.
"And the Lourve, Arthur, it's everything the history books say and more-"
"You do realize," Arthur interrupts with a cocked eyebrow, "that more than sixty-five percent of what's on display in there are forgeries?"
"Oh, who cares that we've already carted off all the originals?" Ariadne waves her hand dismissively. "Seeing everything packed up in crates in the Department just isn't the same as seeing it in the Lourve."
"Right." Arthur hides a smile behind his cup, taps his fingers on the tabletop once, twice. "Didn't you say you wanted a croissant?"
"Can I?"
At his nod, Ariadne smiles and more or less jumps out of the wrought iron chair and bounds inside the cafe, an immeasurable ball of energy that never seems to snuff out. After a steady count to three, Arthur sets the cup down and stands in one fluid motion, automatically buttoning up his suit before he turns smoothly on his heel, walks to the table two spaces over, and sits down across from the individual seated there. "Can I help you?"
The man raises an eyebrow and chuckles, a low, velvety sound that, for some inexplicable reason, sends a flare of something tumbling through Arthur's stomach. "Think I should be the one asking you that, darling." He sets down the newspaper he'd been pretending to read (he hasn't turned the page in close to fifteen minutes). "Seeing as you're the one who came and sat down at my table apropos of nothing."
Arthur's left eye twitches at the pet name but he raises his chin, a silent challenge. He eyes the paisley shirt and slightly ill-fitting tan suit jacket (too tight in the shoulders and far too roomy at the waist) with carefully concealed horror. The day-old stubble covering the angular jaw suits him though, as do the shade of the blue-grey eyes that give off the impression of seeing far more than they ought. The impish grin reveals a set of slightly crooked bottom teeth framed by a set of absolutely ridiculous lips (that Arthur stares at perhaps for a moment too long). The tanned hands splayed atop the back page of the newspaper partially cover the findings of several meteorologists charting troubling weather patterns; the devastation that will be Hurricane Katrina will descend upon the Gulf Coast in just under five months, but there's nothing Arthur can say about it. "You've been staring at the back of my head for the past twenty minutes. I assume there's a reason behind your scrutiny."
"Perhaps I was just taking in the lovely sights this wonderful spring afternoon."
Were this anyone else, Arthur would've let it slide and left at the obvious flirtation, but something sharp and searching in the man's gaze sets all the alarms blaring in Arthur's mind and sends his trigger finger twitching. It's rare that those working for the Department run into trouble from competition on jobs, rare but not unheard of, and Arthur is a point man who takes his job very seriously - his track record of jobs is nearly perfect, and he's not about to see Ariadne get hurt or let the assignment go awry because of some suave Brit who thinks himself a charmer. "Then I suggest you direct your admiration elsewhere."
Instead of backing down, the man leans forward; Arthur catches a whiff of his cologne - sandalwood and spice. "I've the strangest feeling we met before."
"You're mistaken."
"Hmm." Arthur lets out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding as the man sits back and surveys him thoughtfully. There does seem to be a small hint of disappointment in his ruggedly attractive features, although whether it's because he truly mistook Arthur for someone else or due to Arthur's flat out refusal to engage in the push toward flirtation is hard to discern. "Well then. I do apologize." They stand at the same time to the simultaneous screech of their chairs against pavement, Arthur more out of reaction to the other's movement than anything else, and the man grins at him. "Ta, darling."
Arthur stiffens as the man brushes past him (there's really no need though; he isn't carrying any valuables with him other than his totem and the PASIV, not that the other would know what to do with them other than to perhaps pawn the pocket watch), then turns to watch the tan suit jacket stretched over broad shoulders and sliver of paisley peeking out over the collar disappear into the crowd.
"Arthur!" Ariadne appears at his side, looking up at him curiously. "What this?" He looks away from the crowd and down to where she's pulling something out of his pocket, a slightly crumpled napkin from the cafe, scrawled over with loopy script in black ink - Eames - and a phone number. "Who's Eames?" There's a teasing note in her tone, and the smile she gives him is just this side of dangerous. Arthur knows he's not going to hear the end of this for quite a while.
"No one." She has the buttery flakes of the remains of a croissant at the corner of her lips and he folds the napkin neatly in half, wipes her mouth. "Let's go."
-----
Tokyo, May 1942, 6:37 AM
Several continents over and a couple of decades away, Ariadne dashes out of the drab grey government building on the nimble feet of a dancer and skids to a stop in front of where Arthur stands checking the perimeter, sidearm in hand. "Ready?"
"Yep!" She waves a sheaf of papers at him, then tilts her head like a curious bird and nods at the cafe napkin still sticking slightly out of his breast pocket. "Are you bringing that back?"
He starts and glances down at the offending object. "Don't be ridiculous. You know we aren't allowed to bring unauthorized objects back to the future." Pulling it out of his pocket, he crumbles it and tosses it over his shoulder into the adjoining field. "Let's go."
"That's bad for the environment," Ariadne comments mildly as she watches him flip open the pocket watch, taking his arm again, fingers grasping tight.
"It's made of biodegradable material," he replies distractedly. "They were all about 'going green' at the beginning of the millennia." With a final twist of the dials, the words read: Department Headquarters, 10 August 2975, 5:30 PM and Arthur depresses the button on the top of the pocket watch. The PASIV whirs, air molecules displace as time bends, and the pair disappear with a whoosh of sound, the sharp lines of a well-cut suit evanescing into nothingness.
The crumpled napkin tumbles slightly on the breeze of the disappearing duo and then lies there, forgotten.
* ~ * ~ *
The second time should be a coincidence. But it's not.
-----
Blakewell, Derbyshire, September 2009, 8:30 PM
The windows of the English manor house twinkle with an intricate interlacing of fairy lights, twining in and out among the tangle of vines scaling the brick walls; voices and the melodious chords of an orchestra playing some Beethoven sonata float out over the well-manicured lawns and into the rose gardens (the perfect meeting place for a forbidden love tryst). The plush-carpeted corridors of the estate look more suited to be the location of some Victorian era romance a la one of Jane Austen's tales of enduring love than some fancy pants gala for those with too much time and money on their hands, but there you go.
In an adjacent hallway just beyond the coat check and where a young woman stands protectively hunched over the fiercely guarded official guest list, air molecules displace and with a minimal whoosh sound that could've been mistaken for a sweep of a stain skirt over a marble floor, two figures appear in the semi-darkness. Both are dressed for the occasion; the taller of the two in a tuxedo that fits him like a second skin, the other teetering slightly in the heels she's clearly unused to wearing.
"How do I look?"
Arthur kneels, checking the backup strapped to his ankle. "Lovely."
Ariadne pouts, crossing her arms - a task made a bit difficult by the clutch she holds, inside of which rests her PASIV. "You didn't even look!"
"You're wearing a tailored to fit, modified, venetian red version of the dress worn by model Heidi Mount in the Versace's Fall 2009 Ready to Wear lineup, originally a satin blue on the runway." Click goes the magazine as nimble fingers slide it back into the gun. "Paired with black Christian Louboutin peep toe pumps." He flicks a look at his PASIV, then slides the silver pocket watch on its chain back into a fold in his waistcoat. "Like I said, you look lovely."
"...you're an ass."
"No. I just read the dossiers you prepared." He finally looks at her and his expression is one of placid neutrality. "Shall we?"
With a grumble, Ariadne slips her hand into the crook of his arm and allow herself to be led toward the nexus of activity, namely, the main hall. "You're still an ass."
Several paces short of the ornately carved and gilded double doors, Arthur stops short and turns to look at her. There's an uncharacteristic scowl darkening Ariadne's features, a sure sign of anxiety; she'd been wearing the same frown when they first met and it took a rather obvious sideways glance from Miles to smooth out the lines in her brow. He knows that she's nervous; their impromptu trip to Paris occurred just two days ago, and on a job as high profile as this one, there's no room for error.
"Relax, Ariadne," he tells her quietly. "Smile." The rictus she gives him would look right at home on the Joker's face, and Arthur chuckles, cheeks dimpling. "It'll be fine," he murmurs, reaching up a hand to brush a tendril of hair behind her ear. "I'm going to be the one getting the heat; I'll have the prettiest girl in the room on my arm."
That gets a smile out of her, tight-lipped though it may be, and Ariadne exhales a great gust of air. "Okay."
"Just like we discussed."
"Sneak past the M.C., skirt along the wall, maybe grab a flute of champagne or over-sweetened punch," Ariadne recites dutifully. "Mingle for fifteen minutes at the most, then when everyone's distracted by...whatever-"
"I'll take care of it."
"By whatever you do - what are you going to do, by the way?"
"Ariadne."
"Right, right - then I slip into the private viewing room and grab the hairpin." Arthur nods his approval and steps forward to open the doors when Ariadne tugs sharply on his arm. "But Arthur," she implores, eyes large in her face, worried. "What if I get caught?"
"I won't let that happen."
"Well- what if some creep asks for my hand? To, you know, dance?"
"Then I'll break both of his, that's what," Arthur mutters underneath his breath as he curves a protective arm around Ariadne's bare shoulders to steady her and, before she can dig her stupidly high heels any deeper into the marble beneath their feet, he steers the both of them inside.
"Oh - Arthur, slow down; I'm gonna - whoa!"
"This way," he murmurs distractedly, eyes already searching the far corners of the room, taking note of all entrances and exits, the scant security detail scattered around the perimeter, all of them looking bored to death and occasionally putting a hand to their obvious white earpieces. Reaching out with one hand, he swipes a flute of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter and presses it into Ariadne's hand. "Sip, don't swig."
Ariadne does as instructed, knees turned in to keep from teetering unsteadily. "Now we...mingle?"
"Now we mingle."
-----
Arthur's trained eye lands on the man not five minutes later: several years older, clean shaven this time and dressed in a sharp tuxedo (that sends Arthur's gaze wandering for a nanosecond to be perfectly honest), but otherwise unmistakable, and Arthur's spine snaps straight, shoulders squaring and feet moving apart several inches in an automatic defensive stance.
Abort, is his first, instinctive thought. It's not a coincidence; Arthur's no fool to believe things to happen without certain cause and he doesn't recall seeing the name "Eames" on the guest list so that means the individual halfway across the room chatting up a buxom blonde in a slinky black number is a man of many names and faces, a con man. An unforeseen obstacle that will most probably compromise the job and a hitch in the plan that should not have existed but unfortunately, does. Damn it. He turns his head, looking around for Ariadne, muscles tense and ready to spring into action, to grab her and go, go, go.
Goddamn it. There she is, standing next to the banquet table and giving a cheese platter the same scrutiny she normally reserves for some particularly difficult paradox of architecture, not five paces away from the man who's finished chatting up the blonde and - and is now staring straight at him, a roguish grin stretching his lips. Goddamn it all to hell.
"Darling," is the first word out of Eames' mouth as he draws near and Arthur seriously considers punching the man in his smug face. "Fancy seeing you here...and now."
"Indeed," he replies stiffly, and tries not to notice when the scent of sandalwood and spice assaults his olfactory senses. "I could say the same for you, Mr. Eames." His hand twitches as he resists the urge to reach into his pocket for his totem, the red die and a time traveler's ultimate fail safe.
"Do take that stick out of your arse once in a while, love. Does wonders, or so I'm told." Eames advises sweetly and shoots him a dazzling grin, sticking out his hand with aplomb, palm up (calloused fingers, capable and practiced; he knows how to handle a weapon and played the piano as a child - oh for fuck's sake, shut UP, Arthur tells his brain). "If I may?"
"If you may what?" And then, perhaps too late, Arthur hears the first strains of an arrangement of a slow waltz (Strauss, perhaps?) shivering in the air, takes notice of the partygoers all around him coupling up, and his teeth click together, hard. "Oh, HELL no."
Eames raises an eyebrow. "Wouldn't want to stand out, would you?" He waggles his fingers. "Come now, I won't bite."
It's one of those moments that last a lifetime, one of those decisions that you know you really shouldn't make but regardless of intentions or willful choice, it happens anyway, and before Arthur can come up with an acrid retort or the proper semblance of mind to dredge up a polite dismissal, his fingers are sliding in between the spaces of Eames'; his feet start stepping in time to the music, one-two-three, one-two-three. Eames' hands are large and warm, square palm and shorter, strong fingers, and Arthur growls under his breath when he realizes that Eames is leading. "I hate you," he tells the other man flatly. "I don't even know you and I hate you."
One-two-three, one-two-three, half step, spin. One-two-three, one-two-three.
"Part of my charm, love." Eames smiles then, and Arthur has the very strong urge to trample on his foot. "You are adorable when you scowl; you know this, yeah?"
"Who are you working for?" Arthur waits half a beat too long for the next step than puts his foot on the inner side of Eames' right foot, throws his weight in the opposite direction, and in the following half-twirl, reverses their positions so that he's the one leading now.
Eames' face positively lights up with glee once he realizes what Arthur's done, and he laughs, eyes filled with admiration. "Oh, well done, you. That was very clever."
Now Arthur does accidentally-but-not-really stomp on Eames' left foot, relishing in the slight wince the action elicits. He's aware of the stares they're getting (honestly, the people of the twenty-first century know nothing of tolerance or how to mind their own fucking business) but keeps his gaze firmly trained on Eames' face, eyes hard but mien expressionless otherwise. "Why are you here?"
"To see you, of course."
Shit. A surge of alarm spikes in Arthur's chest but he tamps it down forcefully with only a slight jump of the muscle in his jaw to show for it. They near one of the french doors leading out onto a balcony, and on sudden impulse, he more or less throws his entire weight against Eames' solid frame, hooking an arm around the other man's throat and shoving him up against the wall, hidden from the eyes of those entertaining themselves inside. Surprisingly, Eames doesn't fight back although he clearly has the capabilities to do so, not even as the muzzle of a Glock 17 kisses the underside of his jaw.
"And how," Arthur says very quietly, voice suddenly rough, "could you have possibly known I would be here tonight, Mr. Eames?"
Eames' eyes soften, and his smile this time is not one of immature glee or mockery, but of warmth. He leans forward, mouth right next to Arthur's ear: "I know a lot about you, Arthur. Lawrence. Davidson." Each part of the name is punctuated by a warm puff of air that sends a shiver up Arthur's spine as panic claws its way up his throat, sharp and acidic and burning. This isn't making sense, none of it, and if there's anything Arthur hates, it's being lost. He's only seen this man once before, and that was for all of five minutes outside a little Parisian cafe four years ago (in Eames' timeline at least). Who the fuck is this man who holds his hand like he knows all the lines and grooves in Arthur's palm and smiles at him like he's known him forever?
"How-" he starts, but the next words are cut off by a pair of warm lips claiming his, the flick of a tongue teasing against the seam of his mouth, a kiss both chaste and full of some hidden meaning that Arthur can't even begin to guess at. The gun falters in his suddenly slack grip then falls from his nerveless fingers.
"Sorry, darling," Eames breathes against his mouth when he pulls back - and too late does Arthur register the prick of a needle in the crook of his arm - but what's funny is that Eames really does look contrite at the combination of shock and rage flitting across Arthur's face as the point man's knees give out, and Arthur vaguely registers the feel of a large hand cradling the back of his head carefully as he slumps to the floor.
* ~ * ~ *
To be continued...