[ It's ten in the evening in Beijing, early afternoon in France, when Arthur receives an encrypted message from a number he simply has listed as "A" in his phone. He pauses from pouring over old newspaper articles to open it, then consider it, then send a reply. ]
Leave it to you to turn Donne on his head and inside out.
[ The rather quickly cobbled anti-perspective sits in the corner-cradle of a window, Ariadne with her legs folded under her as she stares at it from her perch on the couch arm, trying to decide how she would approach it with another medium. When Arthur's text comes through she blinks, as if breaking out of a trance and reaches over for her phone, smiling at what she sees there. ]
He started it. I thought I would return the favor.
[ Which is to say she still only half-gets what she's reading, and more often than not finds new meanings upon every reread, which she can't quite decide on being more vexing or satisfying. ]
[ Poetry isn't something that Arthur inherently likes per say, though he has cultivated something of an appreciation for it over the years. It's that ambiguity in language that keeps him from fully enjoying it, the way the words manage to mean one thing in a certain slant of light only to reveal themselves to mean something entirely different when read with different pauses or phrasing. But there is something to be said about the way a poem reveals itself, much like the way Cobb taught Arthur the dreamspace can be 'discovered' by an Architect. ]
I know I'll never look at a compass the same way again. How's Paris?
Parisian. It's also cloudy but the sky's so blue it looks fake.
[ She peers out her window now, stepping toward it, the palm of her hand catching on the wooden ledge with a slight press. A glance backward reveals the book on her coffee table amidst scattered notes and half-thought sketches. On the corner of that same table, the note slants across the wood.
Her second text is sent quite on the heels of her first. ]
[ There's a story there, somewhere. But then, there were stories in the things everyone said, most if not all of the time. With Arthur, however, there seemed to linger a sense of things left unsaid. Whether or not this is on purpose or incidental isn't quite clear.
His first text is already on its way to her when he receives her second. ]
Beijing, currently. Working. It seems the only other viable solution to 'in-between things' besides Paris was Eames.
[ Ariadne makes a mental note she won't soon forget, entirely to do with compasses and only a little to do with stories because she gets the feeling there's a reason for people only knowing each other in pieces. ]
[ It's a difficult question to answer. More difficult than Arthur would have suspected otherwise. When precisely had that story ended -- Mal's swandive off the facade of a hotel? The moment her and Cobb slipped into limbo? Or much earlier than that? ]
Several, maybe. As it turns out I make a bad Architect.
[ He considers dropping the subject of Eames, but Arthur knows he mentioned him for a reason. His second reply takes much longer than the first. ]
Work is a solution and where there's Eames, there's work. At least for now. How long that lasts is anybody's guess.
[ And that could be applied to a few things, not just Arthur's actual ability to build a dreamscape, Ariadne wagers but this all being still very much from the outsider's perspective, she sets the weight in the scale and leaves it at that for now. ]
[ Arthur is is own worst critic, he knows this, but so far he's used it to his advantage. It was only through constant self-criticism that he was able to raise his standards to such a height. So he concedes the point. ]
Maybe the next time we're in town together.
[ Ironic, that the complexities of Arthur's relationship with Eames could be boiled down to such a single, universal truth. All that history and all that baggage -- distilled down into something so simple. ]
[ The obvious addendum to that would be: whenever that is and wherever that is, but Ariadne isn't in a rush, so she simply agrees. ]
Next time.
[ Given more...time, to observe without the dynamic of a team the size of the Fischer job, Ariadne would be what would likely border on irritatingly quick to argue that based on her gut and a fresh set of eyes, but that's neither here nor there - Ariadne not being telepathic and the world probably a much safer place for it anyway.
Still, when she gets that second reply, her brow crinkles as if to say: really? ]
Eames and I have known each other for a long time. It's not inherently a bad thing.
[ Once upon a time, any and all comparison to the forger was categorically negative if it came from Arthur. But old egos bruise far less easily than young ones and time has tempered Eames' impulsiveness as much as Arthur's anger. ]
[ She's smiling at the text but the smile is bemused more than amused, feeling like she's definitely missing important in-betweens to actually make such a conclusion, but there it is, for whatever it is or isn't worth at the moment. ]
[ Ariadne watches the second one come in as she's about to send her first, reads the second and erases her first which was something to the tune of 'if you say so' and replaces it with: ]
You're both testaments to that.
[ Her second actual text she only hesitates on sending for a moment before shrugging and hitting enter. She's held off because things have felt somewhat serious and a little ambiguous but now she half can't help herself and half genuinely thinks this is an 'appropriate' usage.
That is, perhaps, highly debatable, depending on who you ask. ]
Leave it to you to turn Donne on his head and inside out.
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He started it. I thought I would return the favor.
[ Which is to say she still only half-gets what she's reading, and more often than not finds new meanings upon every reread, which she can't quite decide on being more vexing or satisfying. ]
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I know I'll never look at a compass the same way again. How's Paris?
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Parisian. It's also cloudy but the sky's so blue it looks fake.
[ She peers out her window now, stepping toward it, the palm of her hand catching on the wooden ledge with a slight press. A glance backward reveals the book on her coffee table amidst scattered notes and half-thought sketches. On the corner of that same table, the note slants across the wood.
Her second text is sent quite on the heels of her first. ]
Where are you? How are things?
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[ There's a story there, somewhere. But then, there were stories in the things everyone said, most if not all of the time. With Arthur, however, there seemed to linger a sense of things left unsaid. Whether or not this is on purpose or incidental isn't quite clear.
His first text is already on its way to her when he receives her second. ]
Beijing, currently. Working. It seems the only other viable solution to 'in-between things' besides Paris was Eames.
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[ Ariadne makes a mental note she won't soon forget, entirely to do with compasses and only a little to do with stories because she gets the feeling there's a reason for people only knowing each other in pieces. ]
Eames is a 'solution'?
[ Color her curious. Also, very. ]
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Several, maybe. As it turns out I make a bad Architect.
[ He considers dropping the subject of Eames, but Arthur knows he mentioned him for a reason. His second reply takes much longer than the first. ]
Work is a solution and where there's Eames, there's work. At least for now. How long that lasts is anybody's guess.
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But I'd be interested in hearing the endings.
[ And that could be applied to a few things, not just Arthur's actual ability to build a dreamscape, Ariadne wagers but this all being still very much from the outsider's perspective, she sets the weight in the scale and leaves it at that for now. ]
Supply and demand, sort of.
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Maybe the next time we're in town together.
[ Ironic, that the complexities of Arthur's relationship with Eames could be boiled down to such a single, universal truth. All that history and all that baggage -- distilled down into something so simple. ]
You sound like him when you say things like that.
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Next time.
[ Given more...time, to observe without the dynamic of a team the size of the Fischer job, Ariadne would be what would likely border on irritatingly quick to argue that based on her gut and a fresh set of eyes, but that's neither here nor there - Ariadne not being telepathic and the world probably a much safer place for it anyway.
Still, when she gets that second reply, her brow crinkles as if to say: really? ]
I'm not sure what I think of that.
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[ Once upon a time, any and all comparison to the forger was categorically negative if it came from Arthur. But old egos bruise far less easily than young ones and time has tempered Eames' impulsiveness as much as Arthur's anger. ]
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[ Possibly Ariadne's raised brow is perceptible even through text, in this case. ]
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He has a frustrating tendency of being right about certain things.
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[ She's smiling at the text but the smile is bemused more than amused, feeling like she's definitely missing important in-betweens to actually make such a conclusion, but there it is, for whatever it is or isn't worth at the moment. ]
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[ Arthur sends that text without further elaboration, but after a moment or two finds himself typing out a second anyway. ]
But he's occasionally brilliant, which is a necessity in a field like ours.
[ Then, after another pause, a third text. ]
Which is something you're not allowed to tell him I said, by the way.
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You're both testaments to that.
[ Her second actual text she only hesitates on sending for a moment before shrugging and hitting enter. She's held off because things have felt somewhat serious and a little ambiguous but now she half can't help herself and half genuinely thinks this is an 'appropriate' usage.
That is, perhaps, highly debatable, depending on who you ask. ]
XD
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