Prolog—in retrospect

The one truism Arthur understood intimately was that people were vastly more complicated than they ever realized. That included himself of course; there were aspects of his own character that Arthur rarely examined, if ever, and he was comfortable with that. He knew who he was, what he was, and how to keep all that on an even keel.

Consequently, when fate decided to throw two beautifully twisted wrenches into his life, Arthur foundered, reassessed, and did what any good Point Man was supposed to do: he improvised.

Ariadne thought she'd seen it all. 'All' however, hadn't included the tour puzzle that was Dreaming, and the other players of the game, who refused to stay in neat categorizations. She understood strategy and had a competitive streak she wasn't ashamed to show; nevertheless, for a woman who could fold the sixth arrondissment of Paris like a tortilla, the intricate workings of the men in her life remained an ever-changing landscape of fears and wonders.

For all her compact size, Ariadne had never stepped back from the challenge of pursuing what she wanted, much to the surprise of others, and the real question-more often than not-was figuring out the 'what' rather than the how.

Eames was far more than anyone knew. He wore his brassy personality like one of his bright shirts, and under it, his true nature was hidden from casual view but still very much a framework of power. He'd known from an early age precisely what he was and how to fit himself into any selected scenario he might stroll into. He was the consummate chameleon, letting his hide shift while staying true on the inside.

However, some matters were much more than skin-deep, and once Eames became aware of his own vulnerability, he found himself in the odd position of having his choices make him, instead of the usual way around.

Part One

Arthur is quietly indulging himself as he surreptitiously studies Ariadne's ass. Small, yes, but definitely round, and nicely defined in her jeans as she digs around under her drawing table for her fallen pen. It isn't often that the opportunity comes to inspect the architect's structural base, so Arthur makes it a point to scope while the scoping is good. He estimates he has three seconds at best to consider and commit to memory the cheeky details before she straightens up, or anyone notices what he is doing.

Not that he is alone, Arthur acknowledged sourly. The other man in the room might be casting gazes towards that denim-clad derriere too. It is the natural order of things; presenting behavior always invites inspection from those capable of accepting the offer. Not that Ariadne is offering—at least not consciously—but testosterone being what it is, the appeal is there all the same.

Arthur glances over at Eames to find him staring back, a smirk flashing across his cupid mouth. Without a word said, the other man's amusement is clear, and Arthur flushes a little at being caught. He meets Eames' gaze squarely though, making it clear that being busted and being remorseful are not the same thing.

Eames' smirk broadens into a full smile and he arches an eyebrow, which is a silent 'touché' in his own non-verbal vocabulary. Arthur accepts his victory and turns away from Eames only to find Ariadne now staring at him.

It is an uncomfortable sensation, and Arthur fights back the urge to automatically blurt a denial.

She scowls, but not at him; with a resigned sigh, Ariadne stalks over to Eames, and digging into her front jeans pocket, fishes out a crumpled five Euro bill, handing it to him. With Cheshire cat smugness, Eames takes it, smoothes it out and pockets the money.

A quick suspicion dawns in Arthur's mind, and he opens his mouth, but Ariadne swings a glance at him that tries to be stern. It fades a bit, shifting to wry amusement before she tosses her hair back and steps to her drawing table.

Eames returns to his files, Ariadne to her sketch, and Arthur stands there, feeling heat across his face. "Okay—anyone want to tell me what that was all about?"

"Nothing much," Eames murmurs, not glancing up. "Just a small wager between the a-mazing one and myself. Nothing you need worry about."

"Money changed hands," Arthur points out, feeling warm but determined to see the matter through. Ariadne refuses to look up, and hunches her shoulders a bit more.

"That's part of how a wager works," Eames chides softly. "Really, Arthur, you're usually brighter than this."

"Eames bet me that you would stare at my ass if I bent over," Ariadne supplies in a monotone, not bothering to look up from the paper pinned on her board. "I was positive that you wouldn't. Clearly he knows you better than I do."

At a loss, Arthur swings to face Ariadne, hand on his lean hips. "You know he was staring too."

Eames snorts, but Ariadne sighs. "Of course he was, but that wasn't the point. The point was that you wouldn't stare."

"Why shouldn't I?" Arthur mutters. "I wasn't blatant; I wasn't obnoxious or even obvious." He feels an amused sense of defensiveness at how much this point matters. Ariadne blows an errant curl from her eyes and blinks at him.

"Eames is instinct before intellect—" This brings a mildly provoked rumble from the Englishman that Ariadne ignores, "And you are reason before reaction—at least, that was my assumption before putting my ass on the line, literally."

"I'm also opportunistic," Arthur reasons. "A trait useful in my line of work."

"And hormonally driven," Eames adds oh-so-helpfully. "Practically seething with testosterone, our Arthur is."

The glance Ariadne shoots him is withering to say the least, but Eames refuses to wilt and smiles, teeth white against his tanned face.

"I don't actually need the testimonial, particularly from an uninformed source," Arthur mutters, irritated.

"You're both horndogs," Ariadne decides, pointing her pencil from Arthur to Eames in mild accusation. "No pissing contests, please; the bet is done, and I'll just be more cautious about bending over."

"No need to get formal on my account, love," Eames counters, going for an innocent expression. "After all, pencils will drop."

"Fine," she tells him with a dangerous smirk. "Then you can retrieve them and I can ogle your ass."

Eames considers this for a moment, then nods. "Done."

Ariadne turns back to her board, smothering a chuckle as she absently considers the design before her. Her mind, however, is on Eames and Arthur; it often was these days, much to her chagrin.

Two men: diametric opposites, and both intriguing. Ariadne knows a lot of the fascination is simply because they are older, and worldly in a way that her peers at the university are not; Arthur and Eames have life experience far and above anyone she knows.

And beyond that, they are interesting. They each have ferocious intelligence, although Eames does his best to hide his. Arthur absorbs—Ariadne has never seen anyone able to concentrate and retain to the capacity that Arthur does. The man has an eidetic memory and the ability to utilize it in an instant. Eames pulls together brilliant insights on an intuitive scale, reading people constantly on multiple levels.

They don't condescend to her either; both Arthur and Eames treat her with the respect she deserves, and not just for her building skills. Sure, there is some gentle teasing from Eames about her size, and occasionally Arthur goes a bit far in being protective of her, but on the whole, Ariadne knows that neither man loses sight of her own stubbornly keen intellect.

For one thing, she won't let them.

And, Ariadne admits to herself privately, they are both attractive, damn it. She's tried not to let that factor into anything, but it's difficult to push away the appeal of the broad shoulders, the strong hands and the confident swagger they each offer. Ariadne knows her own quick glances are just as hormonally driven as any they might have throw her way, and just as harmless.

She tries to concentrate. Cobb has sent them the particulars of a job that will just about pay off her last student loan with enough left over to visit Greece, so getting the last details of the train station right should be foremost on her mind. It will involve leaving Paris of course, and Ariadne is a little nervous about that. The last trip—to Sydney and then to LA—nearly wiped her out in terms of fatigue. Still, the chance to get ahead financially makes sense, and she bends over her board again, trying to decide if the tiles on the walls should be grey or white.

A simple job; hook up the traveler in the VIP airport lounge, take him to a train station in a Dream, stay under long enough to find his password for the lab security access and send it along to the in-house security for his company. On the surface of it all, it seems fairly straightforward. The company—an obscure pharmaceutical with good connections—is paying well, no questions asked. Arthur has had a few, but none of his suspicions have panned out, and the three of them have agreed to take the mission.

They've been doing that a lot, Ariadne notes—working as a trio, with periodic long-distance support from Yusuf and Dom. It's a comfortable arrangement so far; Ariadne likes the way it works. Any time, day or night, she can wander into the warehouse and settle in to work. Arthur might be there, or Eames, or both, or none—the variations are endless and flowing. They practice Dreaming, and take turns as Dreamers and Watchers; Ariadne has become as proficient at setting up the Pasiv as she is at building Dreamscapes, and the knowledge pleases her.

It's interesting, intimate almost to dream with either man. Jaunts with Eames are adventures in the most physical extremes: mountaineering, hang gliding, and once, memorably, yachting. Eames loves the challenge of doing the physically impossible with gleeful joy. He tries on new faces endlessly, and Ariadne never knows who to expect—a hooker in a pink fright wig, a young marine on leave, a pregnant hot dog vendor. Eames enjoys pushing the limits of what a Dream can do, and gives her a taste of the extremes.

Arthur prefers structure. Not surprising, but some of his choices are—deep labyrinths with walls of gold and emerald. Towers that spiraled skyward in great science fiction beauty. In dreams, Arthur plays Hide and Seek with ruthless intensity, timing himself, daring Ariadne to find him as quickly as possible, or seeking her out just as fast. He keeps his intensity, but adds a reckless, sometimes cheeky streak to matters, and that makes her laugh.

When Ariadne takes the reins, she prefers to build cities that blurred the line of dream and reality. It's almost dangerous how good she'd gotten at making entire worlds, and the comfort of her chess piece keeps her from taking matters too far.

Eames had once asked her to recreate limbo, but she'd refused. "Never," Ariadne had told him flatly. "That way if I ever see it again, I'll know it's legit."

00oo00oo00

Eames can't fight the tiny prickle of apprehension at the back of his neck. It isn't a solid feeling, just a twinge now and then; a warning that he knows he shouldn't rationalize away, but can't fully express either. Arthur's research into the job hasn't uncovered anything remotely suspect, and yet the sensation persists. He rolls his head, and a moment later, warm hands are rubbing his shoulders.

He damned near purrs. "Oh mon ange, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

Ariadne snorts. "It's pretty clear you're tense, Julian, and you're distracting me. Try and relax."

Eames sighs as her warm, small fingers squeeze his muscles, alleviating part of the tension. Ariadne is surprisingly strong for such a small thing, and he savors the attention as much as the massage, feeling better by the moment.

He likes Ariadne; she is smart and pretty and not intimidated by him in the least. She showed her genius during the inception job, and since then, Eames has discovered much more to like about her. She is witty, and makes an adorable drunk, and she most definitely DOES have a cute ass—on that point, he is in full accord with Arthur.

Too, despite her size, Ariadne is decidedly a woman, not a girl, and Eames has fantasized what having her would be like. Not that it will ever happen, of course. Sleeping with your co-workers is still a risky and dangerous idea—one look at Dom and Mal proves that—but the idea is delicious enough, and he's mapped out a long, leisurely fantasy involving a shower stall, steaming water and lots of soap . . .

"You're groaning—does this hurt?" Ariadne asks, and Eames opens his eyes, aware that he is sporting the start of an erection.

"No, no, love—it's wonderful. I think you've got a second career in those hands," he tells her lightly, pushing the daydream away. "Architect by day, masseuse by night."

"Dream on," she chides, "my shoulder rubs are purely amateur, Mr. Eames. What's bothering you?"

He hesitates, then speaks up, his tone serious. "Something about this latest mission bothers me, pet. And worse than that, I can't put my finger on precisely what. It's rather like having a spectre breathing down my spine. Nebulous and persistent."

"Have you mentioned this to Arthur?" Ariadne asks him in a practical tone. Her fingers keep kneading into his knots, and Eames sighs blissfully for a moment before replying.

"Arthur prefers specifics," Eames grumbles. "Tangible points. I have none, just a gut feeling."

Ariadne says nothing, and Eames gives another sigh, luxuriating in the massage, then after a moment longer, pulls away and looks over his shoulder at her. "Thank you love—for rubbing and listening."

"You have good instincts," Ariadne replies gently. "I'll keep my eyes open as well."

He nods, touched that she takes his unease seriously, and watches her walk back to her modeling table, lean little hips swinging slightly.

Women. Eames likes them.

And men.

In a world generally geared to 'either/or' Eames falls firmly into the camp of 'all' and is perfectly happy with that. His libido isn't restricted to any particular gender, a realization that Eames had accepted back at age thirteen, and has lived comfortably with since then. Men and women are different, yes, but both of them taste nice, and cuddle comfortably, and have the capacity to make him quite happy in many circumstances. He considers himself a connoisseur of sensuality, and having both lanes of the highway open for his travels suits Julian Eames very well.

Consequently, it's marvelous fun to realize that both of his current associates are not only professionally excellent, but also damned attractive. Eames appreciates the bonus of that, definitely. It's an added extra, an additional benefit to make long days of planning that much easier to bear. Whether it's imagining nuzzling Ariadne's throat, or nibbling one of Arthur's earlobes, either fantasy worked just as well.

With a sigh, he looks back at the dossier on the subject and searches through it again, looking to see if he can find something to justify his discomfort.