They can't stay with Jane much longer. Arthur has come to that rueful realization well-ahead of Eames and Ariadne, and breaking the news to them will be difficult. But given the amount of traffic, both internet and physical that is now beating a path to their doors, it's all too clear to the point man that they need their own secure place that isn't going to attract attention, and isn't going to put the elderly woman in danger.

He also knows he needs to talk to Jane herself first, so on Sunday Arthur goes with her to church, leaving Ariadne and Eames to sleep in and/or do whatever else occurs to them.

St. Pancras is a small little place, with a congregation well up in years, but clearly loved and well-cared for. He and Jane are welcomed in, and settle in one of the dark wooden pews. She bends forward to pray, her arthritic hands folding gracefully, and Arthur feels a rush of affection for her, deep and strong.

He closes his eyes respectfully and lets the sanctuary give him peace.

The service is formal but not unfamiliar; Jane gives him little cues to help him know when to rise and kneel and sit. Arthur is amused when it becomes clear that the topic of the sermon is 'Love your Neighbor As Yourself,' and he sees that Jane is smirking a bit as well. When it's time for Communion, he stays in the pew, letting Jane go up to the altar railing herself.

Arthur sighs. Religion—organized religion—isn't something that's ever been a major part of his life. He's respectful concerning other people's right to believe and practice what they want, but when it comes down to his own soul, he falls into the agnostic camp.

Still, seeing the serenity in Jane's expression makes Arthur smile, and when they leave church, he feels more at peace than he's been in a while. Jane smiles and directs him down a few streets to a little tea shop that overlooks a park.

"Claytons. They do a lovely little tea there, and you look like you need a moment, Arthur," she tells him.

"How do you always know?" he asks, half-jokingly, because he's beginning to think Jane is some sort of psychic.

"I know because I've been on the planet as long as I have," Jane murmurs in complete confidence. "When you're my age, you've generally learned to read people fairly well."

They step into the shop and a girl takes them to a charming booth, where Arthur helps Jane in, then sits opposite her, feeling slightly nervous. Jane settles her napkin into her lap, then looks up and winks at him.

He smirks back, taking up the menu from the table and glancing at it.

"What would you like?"

"Breakfast tea, and a raspberry scone, thank you," Jane replies lightly. When the waitress comes, Arthur relays the order, adding a cup of coffee and a bagel as well. Once they're alone again, he gives Jane a rueful smile.

"Jane, as wonderful as it is staying with you-" he begins, but Jane reaches across the table and takes his hand. Her gnarled fingers are cool but strong, her grip firm.

"—you've got to leave. I suspected as much, and given what you three do for a living it's no surprise," she finishes with a twisted smile of her own. "I'm rather used to it with Julian, but it's never been easy to let him go, and now that I know you two as well . . ."

"I wish like hell we didn't have to," he tells her honestly. "It's been very good for all of us here. Eames is happy, and Ariadne's sleeping better, and I . . . I like the quiet," Arthur trails off.

Jane's eyes are bright. "Home is as much a 'who' as a 'where,' Arthur."

He looks at her, taking in the soft lines on her face, the quiet serenity in her gaze. "You're right. It's something I never knew before, but you're right."

"Of course I am," she chuckles. "Very well then, so where will the three of you go? In your line of work I'm sure travel is a big part of it, so you'll want to be close to an airport most likely. You and Ariadne are rather the ex-patriates, so I don't expect you'll be going back to America just yet either."

"Probably something on the Continent," Arthur agrees. "Paris is one hub for connections of our kind, and so are Morocco and Hong Kong."

Jane makes a face. "Not Morocco, Arthur; much too close to all the political unrest, and the heat would just about *melt* Ari!"

"I hadn't planned on living in the city itself, but you're right," he concedes with a nod. "I'm not much interested in north Africa anyway. I figure we'd find some place north of Paris probably, since we're all pretty fluent."

"True," Jane murmurs. The waitress returns with the breakfast, and for a moment Arthur and Jane settle in to sip and nibble before Jane speaks up quietly. "But that will take some planning, and all sorts of legalities that I know complicate matters. I have an idea that would help, Arthur dear."

"Yes?" Arthur replies curiously.

Jane smiles, and lays out her plan.

-00oo00-

Ariadne steps through the doors and looks around, searching for a familiar face, but before she's even started, a woman comes charging over, arms held out, smile wide. "Angel!"

"Mom," Ariadne sighs, and relaxes as her mother enfolds her in a deep long hug. She pulls back and studies the woman just as her mother does the same thing, the two of them mirroring each other.

She hasn't changed, Ariadne notes, feeling a rush of relief. Same silver hair cropped boyishly short, same soft lines and wrinkles, same slightly pre-occupied expression behind half moon glasses. Doctor Terpsichore Westwood, renowned archeologist, leading authority on Greek antiquities and worried mother stares at her daughter, and immediately presses a hand to Ariadne's forehead. "You look tired. Are you tired, darling?"

"A little," Ariadne agrees, knowing any denial will prolong the probing. "Let's get a table."

"Let's," comes the easy agreement. "Coffee would be good, and maybe some cookies while you tell me what on earth's been going on with you for the last half a year. Honestly, Ariadne, I call Paris, I call your father; nobody seems to know where you've been."

Ariadne fights the urge to roll her eyes; instead she follows her mother to a little booth set in an alcove, where their conversation can stay private. She settles in and looks across at her mother, who is staring at her cautiously.

"I can't get over how long you've let your hair grow," Terpsichore murmurs. "I thought you didn't like it long."

"Honestly mom, I haven't thought about it much," Ariadne replies tersely.

They stare at each other a moment longer, then Terpsichore reaches across the table and takes her daughter's small hands into her own, gripping them tightly. Ariadne blinks back the tears that threaten to fall.

"All right, my little Minos princess, spill. Where have you been? The last time I spoke to you, you were all excited about some off-site project for that professor of topology. I don't hear from you for two months, but I figure you're busy, whatever. And then when I DO call, the number's been disconnected! So naturally I try to reach your school and your father, but nobody seems to have any information. I'm at my wit's end, which isn't that long a trip, but by the time I decide to speak to the authorities in Paris, I'm told that the investigation into your disappearance is being handled by a private security out of Saito Corporation!"

This is familiar, and Ariadne grins at the sight of her mother, puffed up and indignant, her chin stubbornly set. It's the look that bureaucrats fear and curators pale before, and never has it seemed more wonderful.

"Mom, I was kidnapped by corporate spies, held in the northern part of Russia for several months, escaped and holed up near Finland for the winter, and escaped with the help of mercenaries. Oh, and I'm in deeply in love with two men who also love each other," Ariadne rolls out quickly. "You still like espresso, right?"

Her mother blinks. "Yeesss," comes her slightly dazed drawl.

Ariadne waves to the passing waitress, delivers the order, and looks back at her mother, who seems to have recovered somewhat, and is playing with her napkin.

"Finland?" comes the question. "At this time of year? Sweetheart, we both know you don't like the cold! What were you thinking?"

"It was the closest country!" Ariadne splutters. "We didn't have much of a choice, mom!"

"Yes, well if those two really loved you, they would have arranged getting to say, Belize, or St. Tropez," Terpsichore sniffs. "Unless of course, they're Finnish themselves."

"They're not. Arthur's American and Julian's British," Ariadne mutters. "And did you miss the parts about being kidnapped and escaping?"

Her mother nods. "No I did not; give me a moment to process all this, please."

Ariadne takes a deep breath. It's always been like this with her mother. This woman is amazing, and to the rest of the world, a renowned expert and scholar, but to Ariadne, Terpsichore Westwood is stubborn, infuriating, loving and strong. In short; a mother—HER mother through and through.

"So. My lovely, clean-cut graduate student of architecture has gone from a final thesis project in Paris to being kidnapped to Russia, escaping, and now is in an international ménage a trois? I think I may need something slightly stronger than espresso to get through this tale, sweetheart."

"Mom," Ariadne grins, "Did I mention there's a dog, too?"

-00oo00-

The one thing Eames hates about himself is that he's sentimental. He's tried for years to deny it; to cover it over with his own brand of cynical wit and cold-blooded practicality. Most of the time the subterfuge works, and Eames has the scars to prove it.

Cool, raffish, and charming; that's all Eames wants to present to the world, and generally he does. He's been shot at, wined and dined, cursed, seduced, betrayed and through it all, Julian Eames has landed on his feet time after time, accountable only to himself.

Until now. Until that damned sentimentality within comes out with every kiss shared with Ariadne, or every careless caress by Arthur's long, elegant hands. Eames can't fight the easy way his lovers call forth his inner soft devotion, and it makes him laugh at himself in the mirror every day. Two lovers, each amazing, each wonderful.

Eames hopes it's no dream. He found himself a new totem as soon as he could, and even then Eames can't be sure he's awake at any given moment. The weight of the poker chip is a definable amount, a precise measurement yes, but it's no true gauge of reality, and until proven otherwise, Julian Eames chooses on faith to believe that he's awake.

Reality is tricky, and changing it requires much more effort than changing things in a dream. Knowing this, Eames finds himself standing outside Rothmann and Sons, squinting into the window at the glittering bands wedged into black velvet holders.

Sapphires and amethysts and pearls, he remembers promising. Three stones associated with dreaming. One for each of them, Eames considers, and the idea—which had been a grand whimsy before—now seems plausible.

He pushes open the shop door and takes a breath, drinking in the scents of polished wood and old money. The shop is empty, quiet in the way a temple is, or a library; a hush that reminds Eames to keep his voice low.

An elderly man glides out from some back room, hawk-beaked and elegant in a dark suit. He looks up at Eames and brightens. "Yes sir, may I be of assistance?"

"I'm . . . I'm looking for rings," Eames tells him.

"Very good, sir," comes the warm reply. "I'm Seaton, and I'd be happy to help you make your selections. A matching set, I suppose?"

"Not quite a set," Eames mutters, feeling an urge to backpedal to the door, "More of a . . . triad, really."

To his credit, Seaton doesn't even blink an eye. "Congratulations, sir. Did you have any particular stones or settings in mind?"

"Sapphires, amethysts and pearls."

"Let me see what we have," Seton says, and disappears into the back again, leaving Eames to himself once more. He considers slipping out, but some stubborn part—that sentimental core of his—won't let him.

When Seaton returns, he's carrying a small velvet-covered tray filled with sparkling stones. "If I may, sir—we offer a variety of cuts for sapphires and amethysts, with baguette and cabochon among the most popular for gentlemen. Pearls are either cultured to buttons or drop-shaped in rings, however, Rothmann and Sons are up to the challenge of any preference you may have."

Eames looks more closely at Seaton, and he smiles at the man, feeling a rush of amusement. "I bet you are."

An hour later, Eames basks in the unexpected thrill of choosing rings, and although none of the selections were easy, they're all perfect.

Platinum, all of them. Sapphire for Arthur, amethyst for himself, and for Ariadne, a pearl, flanked by sapphires and amethysts.

"This is it," Eames announces. "All three. I'll take them now."

"Sir," Seaton murmurs quietly, "They'll need to be fitted . . . unless you know the sizes already?"

Eames squints, looking down at his own big hands, thinking hard. It's only a second before he pulls up the exact memory and grins. "Arthur's easy—his ring size is one smaller than my own. And Ariadne . . . her ring finger is just about the size of the first joint of my pinkie."

"Just so," Seaton murmurs, slipping a sizer on Eames' pinkie. "Which is to say a size four. We can have them ready in two hours if speed is essential, sir."

Eames nods, "Yes, thanks. You've been a great help, Seaton. A man who knows his stones."

"Thank you sir; it's nice to be appreciated," Seaton murmurs, smiling gently.

After settling up, which clears out a considerable chunk of his savings, Eames makes arrangements to pick up the rings in a few hours and saunters down the street, looking for a bar, and wondering if he and Arthur should pool a stag night, or simply get Ariadne to jump out of a cake.

He feels giddy; it's a big fucking commitment he's just stepped into here, a serious one, none of this weekend fatherhood single dad business.

This definitely calls for a celebratory pint to settle his nerves.