(no subject)
Title: You Have To Want It [3/?]
Pairing(s): Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG to PG-13.
Summary: Inception AU. Arthur is a student at a college for the arts. Eames is, too. Arthur's not so sure how he feels about this.
Author's Note: Thank you to dragonlet for beta'ing this yet again. Fff sorry this one took so long, folks. I, well, got run over by studio...
Monday morning marked the beginning of Foundations, their first year at college. It was something of a probationary year; Rather than being placed in a studio corresponding to their current preferred major, they all received a first semester course that covered whatever their Foundations teacher considered to be the 'basics'. Sometimes the lessons were practical, sometimes they were mental. Without fail, all of the freshmen were informed - by students and teachers alike - that roughly one third of them would be gone after the semester ended. Their second semester was made up of workshops covering various subjects and majors, so students could begin to specialize, or widen their horizons.
Arthur had not, as he had hoped, been assigned to the one, singular Foundations class that was grounded in digital art and design. Instead, he was in one of the several more 'traditional' classes. Arthur, while not a poor hand-artist, was no Caravaggio. He prepared for a very interesting, and stressful, first semester.
He arrived early to his first studio class, and he wasn't the only one. A petite girl in an oversized scarf was already seated cross-legged on the concrete, nose in a book. There wasn't a chair to be found, which he at least supposed explained her choice of seat.
He hesitated slightly before approaching her. She lifted her head from her book at the sound of his footsteps and stood up with a bounce. She extended her hand to him cheerfully.
“I'm Ariadne.”
He shook her hand. “Arthur.”
She plopped back down on the floor and grinned up at him.
“You can sit down, I swear I don't bite. The floor's mostly clean.”
Mostly clean? Arthur eyed it distrustfully. After a few moments of deliberation, he set his messenger bag down, unfolded the top flap, and sat on that. Ariadne was looking at him oddly.
“Neat freak?” She questioned.
“Expensive pants.” He said, primly.
“Boy, are you in the wrong place.” She shook her head, grinning, and nudged him playfully. “Nobody stays clean in an art school!”
“Sadly, I think my sense of direction is fully functioning.” He grinned wryly at her. “I will simply have to learn to adapt. Like a dinosaur in a tar pit.”
She laughed and grinned back at him. “I'm sure you'll survive.”
He hoped she was right.
At that point, other students had begun to start trickling in. As Arthur had expectd, he didn't recognize many of them. Some he knew by sight - The one strange boy Yusef had made friends with, the one with the truly unfortunate bowl cut; a few girls from Arthur's floor; the boy whose shirt he had borrowed. Among the last of the students wandering in was, to Arthur's horror, Eames.
Eames was wearing a strangely mustard-colored shirt, baggy blue dress slacks, and a pair of truly nightmare-inducing wingtips. It all had the distinct appearance of clothing purchased from Salvation Army or Goodwill. His hair was parted slickly to the side, with (Arthur suspected) far too much gel. He was, in Arthur's keen opinion, a walking disaster.
Arthur could not fathom how he had so irritated whatever god existed so that he had to spend four hours a day around Eames.
He tried to appear casual, listening to Ariadne describe her roommates. He did not want Eames to take notice of them, and most emphatically did not want him to actually come over - like he was doing right now. Eames was approaching with a jaunty look in his eye, smirking. He walked right up to Arthur, thumbs in his terrible second-hand belt loops. Ariadne's enthusiastic storytelling slowed to a halt.
“Hello, darling, how's the elbows?”
Arthur took a moment to be relieved that at least this meeting with Eames had not resulted in Arthur being slammed into or knocked over. Yet.
“Contrary to what you appear to believe, my name is Arthur. Not 'darling'.”
“Arthur, then. My apologies. I'm Eames.” He still had an amused quirk to his lips. Arthur hated that amused quirk.
“I know. They shouted your name after you knocked me onto the ground.”
Ariadne looked between the two of them, back and forth. Her eyebrows were beginning to inch their way up to her hairline, and she looked bemused, though she was at least half smiling.
Eames, however, was practically pouting. He slung one badly-outfitted, beefy arm over Arthur's shoulder. Arthur stiffened sightly, disliking the larger boy's invasion of his personal space. He eyed the offending arm disdainfully, and was fairly sure he saw tattoos scrolling up Eames' arms under his sleeves. Arthur knew that art school certainly had a reputation as a place where tattoos and piercings were the norm, rather than the exception, but he had not expected it to be suddenly presented to him by the likes of Eames-the-Neanderthal (As Arthur was beginning to think of him in his mind.).
“Come on now, Arthur, cheer up! It's only the first day.” Eames grinned at him. Arthur scowled.
Before Arthur could retort, Eames squeezed his shoulders companionably and walked away. Ariadne had her hand over her mouth, and was snorting quietly. Arthur glared at her.
“I don't see what's so funny.”
“Your eyes bugged out of your head.” She was still cackling.
He lifted his head, putting on his most dignified airs. “I don't know what you mean.”
She continued to giggle until an older man walked into the room, clearing his throat. He was clearly their awaited professor - if his age didn't distinguish him, the clipboard in his hands and his unamused look would have. After a moment of confusion, conversation died down and everyone was staring at the man.
“Much better. I'm Miles - Just Miles, if you please. I'm your guide for this wonderful semester of adventure into art education. I do prefer being called Miles, and not professor, or sir, or Hey You. I'll call you by whatever you please, when I remember it. If I don't well, I'll just make something up to suit you.”
Arthur hoped that something would be nothing close to darling. He then realized he was possibly obsessing, and resolved to forget the pet name and listen to Miles. (Which was a unsettling element of its own, referring to his teacher so familiarly. Despite it being apparently common in college, he still found it strange.)
Miles was still speaking. “We might as well all start off introducing ourselves!”
Ah. Arthur hated this part.
Nobody seemed to want to start. Arthur was, despite his misgivings, about to step forward and begin himself when Eames, of all people, sauntered forward.
“I'm Eames. Just Eames. I'm from, oh, here and there, and Hyde, mainly. Moved to this lovely country not so long ago, and no, I don't know the Queen.”
One of the girls giggled. Arthur rolled his eyes. The introductions continued, with most students far less verbose than Eames. Arthur kept it simple, as the others did. He listed only his name - With a pointed look at Eames - and his hometown. Seeing that everyone was now introduced, Miles began to outline class expectations. Arthur took notes; Eames looked bored. Arthur carefully noted down every tardy policy and no excuses speech. His pencil stuttered when Miles started to describe the contents of the course. The first few months would focus on charcoal drawing, proportion, and perspective; the second on 3-D hand skills. They were expected to spend at least one hour on homework per hour of class, and that allotted four was already assigned to one large drawing of their own face per night.
Arthur was not happy. Charcoal was messy, and imprecise, and he had no desire to spend four hours staring at himself in a mirror. He looked to his left, and saw a similarly unenthusiastic look on Ariadne's face.
Of course, Arthur planned to follow every requirement to the letter. He was not, however, required to be enthusiastic about it.
Miles ended his lecture and sent the students out onto campus with large pads of newsprint and drawing boards. The students milled around briefly in confusion, wondering where to go to complete their assignment of landscape drawings. They slowly began to group into twos and threes, meandering off to various areas on the grounds. Arthur found himself following Ariadne (With, mercifully, no Eames in sight) as she professed a lack of life drawing skills analogous to Arthur's own. They wandered for a short while, Ariadne resuming her cheerful chattering from before, in the classroom. They eventually settled in a warm, sunlit spot, and proceeded to desperately attempt to draw anything, anything at all. It wasn't an easy task.
They were both quiet workers, offering and taking advice from each other in comfortable earnestness. Ariadne had a better sense of perspective than Arthur; Arthur had a better sense of proportion than Ariadne. They talked quietly as they drew. Arthur learned that Ariadne was rather attached to a strange musical group that sounded like something from the forties. Ariadne listened as Arthur professed his deep fondness for Escher. Neither of their drawing results were turning out to be masterpieces, but the two teenagers were becoming fast friends. They were having a perfectly pleasant time, when they found themselves suddenly and loudly interrupted.
“Arthur! Ariadne!” Eames, appearing from what seemed like nowhere (Arthur was sure he would have noticed the loudly dressed young man approaching.), appeared to throw himself at the ground more than he sat down. After the split second of disappointment and horror Arthur felt at Eames' reappearance, he spared a heartbeat of time to be grateful that he had, at least, remembered Arthur's name.
“Give over, let me see how you're - Dear God, it's like the blind leading the blind.” Eames stared in horror at their papers, apparently shocked beyond comment,.
“Only as blind as whoever told you you looked good in that shirt.” Arthur snapped back at him, feeling cross at the interruption and the complete and total lack of tact on Eames' part. Two wrongs may not make a right, but it was exceptionally cathartic.
Ariadne was watching them both, the expression on her face a mix between amusement and bafflement.
“So cranky!” Eames looked unimpressed. “Really, Arthur, you two just need a little experienced assistance.”
Arthur had the overwhelming urge to punch him.
“Give me the pad, darling, there's a dear -” Eames plucked Arthur's drawing pad right out of his hands. Arthur stared at him. He was fairly certain he heard Ariadne giggling.
Eames proceeded to mark up Arthur's drawing, his large hands moving with a surprising amount of delicate, fluid precision. He was talking about horizon lines and parallels, but Arthur was transfixed by the astonishing grace in his hands. The charcoal never pressed too hard or too soft, every line made not by the movement of his fingers, but controlled somewhere in his broad shoulders. Arthur watched the movement in those shoulders transfer smoothly to his elbow and his wrist, every gesture sure and confident. Some marks seemed to move Eames' entire body, sweeping marks turning his torso into a tool to convey the grace of them.
“ - about you, Arthur?”
Someone had said his name.
“Arthur!”
Ah. It was Ariadne.
“-What?”
That sounded intelligent.
“I said I think I got it. What about you?” Her eyebrows were raised again, as if she was wondering where his brain had wandered off to. He wasn't so sure himself.
“Yes, yes, I have it. May I please have my drawing back?” Arthur asked, stiffly.
“Fine, fine. I know when I'm not wanted.” Eames grinned and straightened up smoothly. He returned Arthur's drawing pad, Arthur carefully maneuvering so as to not brush against Eames' broad fingertips.
Ariadne looked almost put out as Eames casually wandered away, bent on pestering other students in their class. Arthur focused on hurriedly fixing his drawing, grumpily following Eames' suggestions.
“Why isn't he working on his own drawing?” Arthur wondered out loud.
Ariadne shrugged. “Maybe he's done.”
“I doubt it.” Arthur muttered.
“Don't be so grumpy. He may be kinda loud and obnoxious, but he is totally gorgeous. Though, I guess that wouldn't change your opinion.” She glanced sidelong at Arthur, grinning.
Arthur shook his head, amused. “You need more than a pretty face to succeed, and I don't think he has that. Perhaps he should take some time to evolve past an ape.”
She shook her head, exasperated. “You are such a sourpuss.” But then she grinned at him, and they fell back into their working rhythm.
The class returned to their studio in a scraggly fashion. They were all instructed to hang their drawings along the wall, and then they all settled on the floor in the center of the room. Arthur carefully laid his bag down again before sitting.
They were treated to their first critique, and no one escaped unscathed. Miles strode around the room, from drawing to drawing, pointing out every flaw and mistake in punishing detail. Not even Eames' fluid skill was exempt, and his face was blank as Miles criticized him.
“It's a very pretty drawing, son, it's just wrong.”
Eames' mouth thinned, but his expression betrayed no other signs of disappointment.
Miles continued on, marking errors and incorrectly placed lines in Eames' drawing. Eames nodded minutely to every point, his shoulders squared. Arthur was surprised at the magnanimity in which Eames took the corrections. He expected more brashness and arguing out of the infuriating Brit. Instead, he saw displeased but quiet and understanding acceptance.
Miles moved on, continuing the critique, but Arthur stayed watching Eames for a few moments longer before rejoining the discussion. He wasn't sure just what made Eames tick, now. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to learn more, or if he still wanted the annoying boy to stay as far away from him as possible.
When they were finally released, Ariadne breathed a sigh of relief. She smiled at Arthur, clearly glad to have the critique over with. “Well, at least he's not gonna coddle us...”
Arthur nodded. “I have the feeling we'll be improving in leaps and bounds.”
“Or he'll know why.” She agreed, grinning.
They walked together on their way to lunch, once again talking in a comfortable sort of quiet. Ariadne was short enough she had to take two strides to every one of Arthur's, something he hadn't noticed before. He wasn't used to being significantly taller than others, considering himself of a fairly average height. He was in the process of changing his stride to better match hers when he was once again almost knocked off of his feet. He regained his balance and glared at the brightly colored, quickly vanishing back of Eames.
“Sorry, Darling!”
Arthur decided he hated him.
Pairing(s): Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG to PG-13.
Summary: Inception AU. Arthur is a student at a college for the arts. Eames is, too. Arthur's not so sure how he feels about this.
Author's Note: Thank you to dragonlet for beta'ing this yet again. Fff sorry this one took so long, folks. I, well, got run over by studio...
Monday morning marked the beginning of Foundations, their first year at college. It was something of a probationary year; Rather than being placed in a studio corresponding to their current preferred major, they all received a first semester course that covered whatever their Foundations teacher considered to be the 'basics'. Sometimes the lessons were practical, sometimes they were mental. Without fail, all of the freshmen were informed - by students and teachers alike - that roughly one third of them would be gone after the semester ended. Their second semester was made up of workshops covering various subjects and majors, so students could begin to specialize, or widen their horizons.
Arthur had not, as he had hoped, been assigned to the one, singular Foundations class that was grounded in digital art and design. Instead, he was in one of the several more 'traditional' classes. Arthur, while not a poor hand-artist, was no Caravaggio. He prepared for a very interesting, and stressful, first semester.
He arrived early to his first studio class, and he wasn't the only one. A petite girl in an oversized scarf was already seated cross-legged on the concrete, nose in a book. There wasn't a chair to be found, which he at least supposed explained her choice of seat.
He hesitated slightly before approaching her. She lifted her head from her book at the sound of his footsteps and stood up with a bounce. She extended her hand to him cheerfully.
“I'm Ariadne.”
He shook her hand. “Arthur.”
She plopped back down on the floor and grinned up at him.
“You can sit down, I swear I don't bite. The floor's mostly clean.”
Mostly clean? Arthur eyed it distrustfully. After a few moments of deliberation, he set his messenger bag down, unfolded the top flap, and sat on that. Ariadne was looking at him oddly.
“Neat freak?” She questioned.
“Expensive pants.” He said, primly.
“Boy, are you in the wrong place.” She shook her head, grinning, and nudged him playfully. “Nobody stays clean in an art school!”
“Sadly, I think my sense of direction is fully functioning.” He grinned wryly at her. “I will simply have to learn to adapt. Like a dinosaur in a tar pit.”
She laughed and grinned back at him. “I'm sure you'll survive.”
He hoped she was right.
At that point, other students had begun to start trickling in. As Arthur had expectd, he didn't recognize many of them. Some he knew by sight - The one strange boy Yusef had made friends with, the one with the truly unfortunate bowl cut; a few girls from Arthur's floor; the boy whose shirt he had borrowed. Among the last of the students wandering in was, to Arthur's horror, Eames.
Eames was wearing a strangely mustard-colored shirt, baggy blue dress slacks, and a pair of truly nightmare-inducing wingtips. It all had the distinct appearance of clothing purchased from Salvation Army or Goodwill. His hair was parted slickly to the side, with (Arthur suspected) far too much gel. He was, in Arthur's keen opinion, a walking disaster.
Arthur could not fathom how he had so irritated whatever god existed so that he had to spend four hours a day around Eames.
He tried to appear casual, listening to Ariadne describe her roommates. He did not want Eames to take notice of them, and most emphatically did not want him to actually come over - like he was doing right now. Eames was approaching with a jaunty look in his eye, smirking. He walked right up to Arthur, thumbs in his terrible second-hand belt loops. Ariadne's enthusiastic storytelling slowed to a halt.
“Hello, darling, how's the elbows?”
Arthur took a moment to be relieved that at least this meeting with Eames had not resulted in Arthur being slammed into or knocked over. Yet.
“Contrary to what you appear to believe, my name is Arthur. Not 'darling'.”
“Arthur, then. My apologies. I'm Eames.” He still had an amused quirk to his lips. Arthur hated that amused quirk.
“I know. They shouted your name after you knocked me onto the ground.”
Ariadne looked between the two of them, back and forth. Her eyebrows were beginning to inch their way up to her hairline, and she looked bemused, though she was at least half smiling.
Eames, however, was practically pouting. He slung one badly-outfitted, beefy arm over Arthur's shoulder. Arthur stiffened sightly, disliking the larger boy's invasion of his personal space. He eyed the offending arm disdainfully, and was fairly sure he saw tattoos scrolling up Eames' arms under his sleeves. Arthur knew that art school certainly had a reputation as a place where tattoos and piercings were the norm, rather than the exception, but he had not expected it to be suddenly presented to him by the likes of Eames-the-Neanderthal (As Arthur was beginning to think of him in his mind.).
“Come on now, Arthur, cheer up! It's only the first day.” Eames grinned at him. Arthur scowled.
Before Arthur could retort, Eames squeezed his shoulders companionably and walked away. Ariadne had her hand over her mouth, and was snorting quietly. Arthur glared at her.
“I don't see what's so funny.”
“Your eyes bugged out of your head.” She was still cackling.
He lifted his head, putting on his most dignified airs. “I don't know what you mean.”
She continued to giggle until an older man walked into the room, clearing his throat. He was clearly their awaited professor - if his age didn't distinguish him, the clipboard in his hands and his unamused look would have. After a moment of confusion, conversation died down and everyone was staring at the man.
“Much better. I'm Miles - Just Miles, if you please. I'm your guide for this wonderful semester of adventure into art education. I do prefer being called Miles, and not professor, or sir, or Hey You. I'll call you by whatever you please, when I remember it. If I don't well, I'll just make something up to suit you.”
Arthur hoped that something would be nothing close to darling. He then realized he was possibly obsessing, and resolved to forget the pet name and listen to Miles. (Which was a unsettling element of its own, referring to his teacher so familiarly. Despite it being apparently common in college, he still found it strange.)
Miles was still speaking. “We might as well all start off introducing ourselves!”
Ah. Arthur hated this part.
Nobody seemed to want to start. Arthur was, despite his misgivings, about to step forward and begin himself when Eames, of all people, sauntered forward.
“I'm Eames. Just Eames. I'm from, oh, here and there, and Hyde, mainly. Moved to this lovely country not so long ago, and no, I don't know the Queen.”
One of the girls giggled. Arthur rolled his eyes. The introductions continued, with most students far less verbose than Eames. Arthur kept it simple, as the others did. He listed only his name - With a pointed look at Eames - and his hometown. Seeing that everyone was now introduced, Miles began to outline class expectations. Arthur took notes; Eames looked bored. Arthur carefully noted down every tardy policy and no excuses speech. His pencil stuttered when Miles started to describe the contents of the course. The first few months would focus on charcoal drawing, proportion, and perspective; the second on 3-D hand skills. They were expected to spend at least one hour on homework per hour of class, and that allotted four was already assigned to one large drawing of their own face per night.
Arthur was not happy. Charcoal was messy, and imprecise, and he had no desire to spend four hours staring at himself in a mirror. He looked to his left, and saw a similarly unenthusiastic look on Ariadne's face.
Of course, Arthur planned to follow every requirement to the letter. He was not, however, required to be enthusiastic about it.
Miles ended his lecture and sent the students out onto campus with large pads of newsprint and drawing boards. The students milled around briefly in confusion, wondering where to go to complete their assignment of landscape drawings. They slowly began to group into twos and threes, meandering off to various areas on the grounds. Arthur found himself following Ariadne (With, mercifully, no Eames in sight) as she professed a lack of life drawing skills analogous to Arthur's own. They wandered for a short while, Ariadne resuming her cheerful chattering from before, in the classroom. They eventually settled in a warm, sunlit spot, and proceeded to desperately attempt to draw anything, anything at all. It wasn't an easy task.
They were both quiet workers, offering and taking advice from each other in comfortable earnestness. Ariadne had a better sense of perspective than Arthur; Arthur had a better sense of proportion than Ariadne. They talked quietly as they drew. Arthur learned that Ariadne was rather attached to a strange musical group that sounded like something from the forties. Ariadne listened as Arthur professed his deep fondness for Escher. Neither of their drawing results were turning out to be masterpieces, but the two teenagers were becoming fast friends. They were having a perfectly pleasant time, when they found themselves suddenly and loudly interrupted.
“Arthur! Ariadne!” Eames, appearing from what seemed like nowhere (Arthur was sure he would have noticed the loudly dressed young man approaching.), appeared to throw himself at the ground more than he sat down. After the split second of disappointment and horror Arthur felt at Eames' reappearance, he spared a heartbeat of time to be grateful that he had, at least, remembered Arthur's name.
“Give over, let me see how you're - Dear God, it's like the blind leading the blind.” Eames stared in horror at their papers, apparently shocked beyond comment,.
“Only as blind as whoever told you you looked good in that shirt.” Arthur snapped back at him, feeling cross at the interruption and the complete and total lack of tact on Eames' part. Two wrongs may not make a right, but it was exceptionally cathartic.
Ariadne was watching them both, the expression on her face a mix between amusement and bafflement.
“So cranky!” Eames looked unimpressed. “Really, Arthur, you two just need a little experienced assistance.”
Arthur had the overwhelming urge to punch him.
“Give me the pad, darling, there's a dear -” Eames plucked Arthur's drawing pad right out of his hands. Arthur stared at him. He was fairly certain he heard Ariadne giggling.
Eames proceeded to mark up Arthur's drawing, his large hands moving with a surprising amount of delicate, fluid precision. He was talking about horizon lines and parallels, but Arthur was transfixed by the astonishing grace in his hands. The charcoal never pressed too hard or too soft, every line made not by the movement of his fingers, but controlled somewhere in his broad shoulders. Arthur watched the movement in those shoulders transfer smoothly to his elbow and his wrist, every gesture sure and confident. Some marks seemed to move Eames' entire body, sweeping marks turning his torso into a tool to convey the grace of them.
“ - about you, Arthur?”
Someone had said his name.
“Arthur!”
Ah. It was Ariadne.
“-What?”
That sounded intelligent.
“I said I think I got it. What about you?” Her eyebrows were raised again, as if she was wondering where his brain had wandered off to. He wasn't so sure himself.
“Yes, yes, I have it. May I please have my drawing back?” Arthur asked, stiffly.
“Fine, fine. I know when I'm not wanted.” Eames grinned and straightened up smoothly. He returned Arthur's drawing pad, Arthur carefully maneuvering so as to not brush against Eames' broad fingertips.
Ariadne looked almost put out as Eames casually wandered away, bent on pestering other students in their class. Arthur focused on hurriedly fixing his drawing, grumpily following Eames' suggestions.
“Why isn't he working on his own drawing?” Arthur wondered out loud.
Ariadne shrugged. “Maybe he's done.”
“I doubt it.” Arthur muttered.
“Don't be so grumpy. He may be kinda loud and obnoxious, but he is totally gorgeous. Though, I guess that wouldn't change your opinion.” She glanced sidelong at Arthur, grinning.
Arthur shook his head, amused. “You need more than a pretty face to succeed, and I don't think he has that. Perhaps he should take some time to evolve past an ape.”
She shook her head, exasperated. “You are such a sourpuss.” But then she grinned at him, and they fell back into their working rhythm.
The class returned to their studio in a scraggly fashion. They were all instructed to hang their drawings along the wall, and then they all settled on the floor in the center of the room. Arthur carefully laid his bag down again before sitting.
They were treated to their first critique, and no one escaped unscathed. Miles strode around the room, from drawing to drawing, pointing out every flaw and mistake in punishing detail. Not even Eames' fluid skill was exempt, and his face was blank as Miles criticized him.
“It's a very pretty drawing, son, it's just wrong.”
Eames' mouth thinned, but his expression betrayed no other signs of disappointment.
Miles continued on, marking errors and incorrectly placed lines in Eames' drawing. Eames nodded minutely to every point, his shoulders squared. Arthur was surprised at the magnanimity in which Eames took the corrections. He expected more brashness and arguing out of the infuriating Brit. Instead, he saw displeased but quiet and understanding acceptance.
Miles moved on, continuing the critique, but Arthur stayed watching Eames for a few moments longer before rejoining the discussion. He wasn't sure just what made Eames tick, now. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to learn more, or if he still wanted the annoying boy to stay as far away from him as possible.
When they were finally released, Ariadne breathed a sigh of relief. She smiled at Arthur, clearly glad to have the critique over with. “Well, at least he's not gonna coddle us...”
Arthur nodded. “I have the feeling we'll be improving in leaps and bounds.”
“Or he'll know why.” She agreed, grinning.
They walked together on their way to lunch, once again talking in a comfortable sort of quiet. Ariadne was short enough she had to take two strides to every one of Arthur's, something he hadn't noticed before. He wasn't used to being significantly taller than others, considering himself of a fairly average height. He was in the process of changing his stride to better match hers when he was once again almost knocked off of his feet. He regained his balance and glared at the brightly colored, quickly vanishing back of Eames.
“Sorry, Darling!”
Arthur decided he hated him.