I'm the silent one (1/1)
Title: I'm the silent one
Rating: PG 13ish
Pairing: Arthur/Ariadne
Disclaimer: Nolan owns, I borrow and cross my fingers that he won't sue
Summary: Arthur has always known what she has needed; even if she won't ask
Author's Note: Inspired by a prompt at inception_kink that reads "5 times Arthur holds Ariadne when she's crying and one time Eames held her instead". Hmm, I will warn you that there is no happy ending here and hope that you won't hold that against me. Title borrowed from a book of poetry by Mae Francis Miller Guthrie.
i
Arthur sometimes forgets how fragile she can be.
After all, she is Ariadne. She thinks on her feet - creates entire worlds without so much as a second thought. She is one of the few who have washed up on the shores of limbo and came back in one piece. She may be small but she is not a victim.
However, she cannot be strong all the time. No matter how much she wants to be.
A training exercise ends the way he expects to and he is removing the lead from his arm, running a finger over the raised bump when he hears it - an intake of breathe, followed by a soft sigh. His senses haven’t stabilized or he thinks he would have noticed sooner. He swivels his body so can face her.
Her head is turned away. She has fallen silent but her body shakes slightly, betraying her actions. The sight is like a swift kick to the stomach. He knows that she does not like to be this vulnerable - and she absolutely hates being coddled.
But it is hell to see her like this.
“Ariadne?”
He keeps his voice quiet - barely above a whisper. He can see her body stiffen but she does not look at him. There must be tears. He cannot be still now. He moves forward, his hand falling on her hip. She feels warm and alive - a far cry from how he has left her a layer down.
He begins to move his hand on small circles and he can feel her body slowly relax. He does not resist moving closer, crouching next to the chair. But he will only go as far as she will let him.
Her body is shuddering now again and she no longer tries to hide her sobs. He continues to move his hand slowly, along the length of her hip, the expanse of her back. He will do this as long as she needs him to.
When she finally turns, Arthur leans back. She has unshed tears in her eyes and her face has turned an unsightly shade of red. He tries not to react, to rush forward. He doesn’t want her to push him away. “Ariadne,” he says again. He doesn’t tell her that she is okay. It would be condescending.
Physically she is fine. He knows that she is reliving the last few moments - the way the projections had swarmed her, the way they had ripped at her. He wonders if she is feeling phantom pain throughout her body.
He takes a chance and reaches out to touch the side of her face. She immediately crumbles, the unshed tears falling. She manages to say his name and he takes it as an invitation, moving to sit beside her. He gathers her small form into his and just holds on.
The next day she asks him to run the training exercise again.
ii
All things considering, Arthur thinks he has never been happier.
Eames and Yusuf are drunk and obnoxious. He has received more than a few claps on the back and his drink sloshes in the glass as he lurches forward. Thankfully it never quite comes over the rim and onto his new suit.
It has been a long day but well worth it to see the smile on her face. She is sitting next to him, sticking the plastic fork into what is left of the icing. He has long ago learned that she eats the cake first. She is still smiling even as Eames nearly flops on top of her. She has not been as lucky in the drink department. He can see a spot of wine on her the hem of her dress, a vivid red on stark white. She does not seem to mind.
It is nearly midnight before their witnesses decide to retire. He can see them helping one another to the elevator and briefly considers making sure they make it to their rooms but in the ends he turns back to Ariadne. She is heading through the nearly empty bar toward the terrace and he follows, like a moth entranced by the light.
She turns just in time for his arms to come around her. She lays her ear on his chest and he sets his chin on her head, content to hold her just like that. It takes him awhile to realize that she is crying. He is confused as the hot tears soak into his shirt.
“Ariadne?”
She shifts her body, pulling away from him so he can see the tears glittering in her eyes. “You didn’t have to do this,” she tells him. “I would have been happy to be with you if you hadn’t wanted to…”
This is not the first time he has heard such words. When she had first approached him about the idea she had told him she would love and be with him no matter what. After all it is only a piece of paper - they do not need a piece of paper to prove anything to anyone.
It is perhaps the oddest proposal he has ever heard of.
His hands are resting on the warm skin of her back and he cannot help but smile. She looks confused so he speaks. “Don’t you know I would do anything for you?” He asks quietly. “Anything you asked me to without a second thought.”
His declaration appears enough to stop her tears and he watches as she furrows her brows questioningly. “I wanted to, Ariadne,” he assures her and is happy to accept her back into his arms.
It is only later when he tells her that there is a threshold somewhere that he is supposed to carry her over that he notices the black eyeliner smudge square on his chest.
He finds he does not mind at all.
iii
They have now done this enough for him to see the pattern. Actually, he suspected it last year but did not push it. But now, it is plain as day.
Four years is enough.
After he opens the door and sets the key card down, she tosses her coat. It settles to the floor and he immediately reaches for it, watching as she removes her clothing in haste. She tells him she needs a shower to get rid of the sterile smell her hair. She had said that last year and he almost believed it. But today as they walked the bleach white halls he notices no such smell.
She closes the door to the bathroom and he sits on the edge of the bed. And ponders what he is supposed to do next.
He knows that she needs this - time to digest everything, to remember. But he wonders if that is what she is really doing. There is a subtle line between dealing and wallowing - and he highly suspects that Ariadne has fallen defiantly to one side.
He waits.
Ten minutes go by and the shower is still running. Finally he stands, a hand coming automatically to pull at the tie. Soon his clothes are piled with hers on the floor and he is pushing open the door to the bathroom. He is nearly choked by the steam and he cannot see her yet.
“Ariadne?”
Even over the sound of water, he can hear her intake of breath. He decides to not give her a chance to pull into herself - to hide from him. He opens the shower door to find her shooting up from a seated position.
He steps under the hot spray and stays silent. He does not need to tell her he has figured it all out. There is a hint of shame mixed with her tears. Shame at being caught, perhaps?
“Why are you doing this to yourself?” He asks quietly.
He knows that she does not want to tell him. He can see that she is fighting with herself, no doubt trying to select her words carefully. He reaches out, a hand curling around her arm heated by the water. “He chose to stay.”
“I shouldn’t have let him,” Ariadne finally tells him and even though the water is cascading on her face he sees new tears. “Those children - they have to grow up without a father because I let him stay.”
He wants to tell her that guilt can sometimes be a selfish thing. That a man like Cobb could never be talked into anything and even if she had pointed the gun in his direction and ordered him to go, he would have found a way to stay.
But he does not - because guilt can also be an irrational thing, and it is hard to point out the fallacy of something when someone is so convinced. He just folds her into his arms and holds tight.
He thinks next year, if he can, he will visit Cobb alone.
iv
Arthur has seen many wondrous things in his life.
Anything is possible in his line of work and he has lost track of the amount of times he has had to take a moment to remind himself that none of it is real.
However this time, he finds that he is reminding himself that all of this - the balloons, the flowers, the cards, the pink squalling infant in her arms - is real.
He has a wide smile on his face.
His son has a set of lungs on him. He had come out that way, not wasting a second before ensuring that everyone was well aware of him. Arthur is content to let him wail. After all, life as he has known it changed in the matter of a few hours. He deserves some time to adjust.
Ariadne is moving her arms slightly, and although her hair covers her face Arthur imagines there is a look of concern there. Since they had discovered the pregnancy she has been the one to worry. According to Eames it should be the other way around but Arthur reminds him that not everything in the world is predictable.
The baby clearly has no intention of stopping. Three nurses and two doctors have assured them that he is healthy but Arthur knows that is not enough for Ariadne. She will soon demand a specialist.
Arthur stifles a yawn. It has been a long day. When he stretches his arms and moves to stand he hears a familiar hitch in her breathing.
His son is not the only one crying.
“Ariadne?”
He does not wait for an answer. He maneuvers himself into the bed settling next to the strongest woman he has ever met. She leans into him, his son held firmly in her arms.
“He won’t stop,” she finally says. “Why won’t he stop?”
“Because he obviously doesn’t want to,” Arthur says quietly as he extracts his son from her arms. She rests her head on his shoulder as Arthur peers down at the tiny face twisted in rage. He thinks he sees some of her in it.
“He needs…”
“Time,” Arthur finishes. “And patience. And the realization that just because he is crying it does not mean that we are bad parents.”
A few of her tears have collected on his shoulder. He gently places his son in his lap and wraps and arm around her. “That is going to be a hard one,” he concedes. “But it will happen. There will be scraps, bruises, hurt feelings and slammed doors but I know we will be good parents, Ariadne.”
Ariadne reaches out to let the infant grasp her finger tightly in his. “He’s going to need a backyard to get those scraps and bruises in,” she points out through an undignified sniffle.
His smile returns at the familiar bone of contention. “That he does,” he concedes.
The tears have stopped now - from both she and his son.
v
Arthur figures she already knows.
He would like to think that he has rubbed off her. But he knows that is not true. She has been incredibly perceptive from the moment he met her. She had seen right through Cobb without so much as a blink. She had seen right through him in much the same fashion.
She must see through him now. No matter how hard he has tried to hide it.
He opens the door to their house - it has taken him more time than her to consider it a home rather than a home base. She is here somewhere - cleaning, attempting to cook, or perhaps sketching. She has been doing that more often now. He suspects that she misses going under more than she has let on.
He moves to the dining room with its expansive view of the backyard. His son is playing, rushing with the kind of energy only five year olds seem to have. He considers calling to him but he does not want to take him away from whatever it is he is doing. The smile on the boy’s face is a testament to his joy.
Arthur knows she is behind him even before she reaches out to touch his shoulder. She may be small but she has never quite mastered the art of being completely silent. He can already feel the tension rolling off her. She has been a bundle of nerves for weeks now and he has had trouble calming them.
“Ariadne.”
He turns and his face must say it all because she immediately dissolves into tears. He thinks she is going to fall so he moves to wrap her in his arms. She cries noisily, clutching at him tightly, so tightly it hurts. He does not complain, instead holding her to him.
She is nearly numb when he speaks; explaining the reality of the situation in the same clinical fashion his doctor had used to explain it to him. She does not ask questions and the tears continue to fall, silently now. They fall down the collar of his shirt and he swears they burn his skin.
“It’s not fair,” she finally says, her voice weak.
“Nothing ever is,” he agrees his hands resting at the small of her back. She tenses under them and pulls back, her eyes searching his face.
“Aren’t you angry?” She asks, her voice rising. Outside, his son plays oblivious to it all.
“Being angry is not going to change anything,” he points out and she settles her head against his chest once again. He wonders if she is listening to his heartbeat, trying to memorize it.
“Sometimes I hate how logical you can be,” she tells him. He rocks her slowly. He knows that sometime down the road, he will not be logical. He will be angry, confused, hurt.
And he will need her just as she has always needed him.
&
Ariadne thinks it should be raining.
In the movies, it always rains on this day. It does so to match the mood. But instead the sun shines and the first hint of summer is evident on the breeze. She knows her son is warm in his jacket and tie but he does not complain. Instead he holds her hand, bows his head when she does and prays.
Thirteen months, two weeks, six days, and ten hours. It is longer than they were told to hope for. rthur had spent much of that time with them. He had crammed in as many moments as he could before he had been confined to a bed. There are photos, videos, letters written to his son, letters written to her. She cannot even begin to think about cleaning away his things.
She realizes she has not being paying attention and tries her best to focus on what it is the minister is saying. Arthur was never a particularly religious man, neither is she, but he had planned this day. Ariadne will honor his wishes, mouthing ‘amen’ at the appropriate moment.
The crowd begins to slowly move in different directions. She pays them no mind, there are so few she truly recognizes. She does, however, wait. Her eyes are focused on him, inside the coffin, a shell of who he truly is. Her son’s hand has slipped from hers but she trusts him not go far. He has always been a smart boy.
Just like his father.
When she is alone, she allows the tears to come. She thinks she can do it - she can stop herself when she needs to. She stands there as they fall. Her hands settle on her arms, searching for the warmth that is not there.
It is then she realizes that stopping is easier said then done.
“Ariadne?”
Her body jerks in surprise but she does not turn. She does raise a hand to try and dam the tears but knows it is a lost cause. She suspects that Eames will envelope her and is instead surprised when he comes to stand beside her instead. She turns her chin so she can look at him, rather subdued in a grey suit. He may have even shaved.
“Thank you for coming,” she finally says. She swears she hears him chuckle and turns toward him, her eyes narrowing.
“He said you would try that,” Eames says to her glare.
“Try what?” Ariadne demands.
“Dismissing me,” He answers as he folds his hands behind his back and stands his ground.
She falls silent, and together they watch the small boy sitting in the grass looking at things with an infinite curiosity that could only come from her. She takes a deep breath before she speaks again. “He told you to take care of me, didn’t he?”
“He did.”
Ariadne’s resolve slips away and she crumbles into waiting arms. He holds her as fresh tears come. Her hands remain at her sides. Her swollen eyes seek out their son.
And she silently thanks Arthur for all he has done for her.
Rating: PG 13ish
Pairing: Arthur/Ariadne
Disclaimer: Nolan owns, I borrow and cross my fingers that he won't sue
Summary: Arthur has always known what she has needed; even if she won't ask
Author's Note: Inspired by a prompt at inception_kink that reads "5 times Arthur holds Ariadne when she's crying and one time Eames held her instead". Hmm, I will warn you that there is no happy ending here and hope that you won't hold that against me. Title borrowed from a book of poetry by Mae Francis Miller Guthrie.
i
Arthur sometimes forgets how fragile she can be.
After all, she is Ariadne. She thinks on her feet - creates entire worlds without so much as a second thought. She is one of the few who have washed up on the shores of limbo and came back in one piece. She may be small but she is not a victim.
However, she cannot be strong all the time. No matter how much she wants to be.
A training exercise ends the way he expects to and he is removing the lead from his arm, running a finger over the raised bump when he hears it - an intake of breathe, followed by a soft sigh. His senses haven’t stabilized or he thinks he would have noticed sooner. He swivels his body so can face her.
Her head is turned away. She has fallen silent but her body shakes slightly, betraying her actions. The sight is like a swift kick to the stomach. He knows that she does not like to be this vulnerable - and she absolutely hates being coddled.
But it is hell to see her like this.
“Ariadne?”
He keeps his voice quiet - barely above a whisper. He can see her body stiffen but she does not look at him. There must be tears. He cannot be still now. He moves forward, his hand falling on her hip. She feels warm and alive - a far cry from how he has left her a layer down.
He begins to move his hand on small circles and he can feel her body slowly relax. He does not resist moving closer, crouching next to the chair. But he will only go as far as she will let him.
Her body is shuddering now again and she no longer tries to hide her sobs. He continues to move his hand slowly, along the length of her hip, the expanse of her back. He will do this as long as she needs him to.
When she finally turns, Arthur leans back. She has unshed tears in her eyes and her face has turned an unsightly shade of red. He tries not to react, to rush forward. He doesn’t want her to push him away. “Ariadne,” he says again. He doesn’t tell her that she is okay. It would be condescending.
Physically she is fine. He knows that she is reliving the last few moments - the way the projections had swarmed her, the way they had ripped at her. He wonders if she is feeling phantom pain throughout her body.
He takes a chance and reaches out to touch the side of her face. She immediately crumbles, the unshed tears falling. She manages to say his name and he takes it as an invitation, moving to sit beside her. He gathers her small form into his and just holds on.
The next day she asks him to run the training exercise again.
ii
All things considering, Arthur thinks he has never been happier.
Eames and Yusuf are drunk and obnoxious. He has received more than a few claps on the back and his drink sloshes in the glass as he lurches forward. Thankfully it never quite comes over the rim and onto his new suit.
It has been a long day but well worth it to see the smile on her face. She is sitting next to him, sticking the plastic fork into what is left of the icing. He has long ago learned that she eats the cake first. She is still smiling even as Eames nearly flops on top of her. She has not been as lucky in the drink department. He can see a spot of wine on her the hem of her dress, a vivid red on stark white. She does not seem to mind.
It is nearly midnight before their witnesses decide to retire. He can see them helping one another to the elevator and briefly considers making sure they make it to their rooms but in the ends he turns back to Ariadne. She is heading through the nearly empty bar toward the terrace and he follows, like a moth entranced by the light.
She turns just in time for his arms to come around her. She lays her ear on his chest and he sets his chin on her head, content to hold her just like that. It takes him awhile to realize that she is crying. He is confused as the hot tears soak into his shirt.
“Ariadne?”
She shifts her body, pulling away from him so he can see the tears glittering in her eyes. “You didn’t have to do this,” she tells him. “I would have been happy to be with you if you hadn’t wanted to…”
This is not the first time he has heard such words. When she had first approached him about the idea she had told him she would love and be with him no matter what. After all it is only a piece of paper - they do not need a piece of paper to prove anything to anyone.
It is perhaps the oddest proposal he has ever heard of.
His hands are resting on the warm skin of her back and he cannot help but smile. She looks confused so he speaks. “Don’t you know I would do anything for you?” He asks quietly. “Anything you asked me to without a second thought.”
His declaration appears enough to stop her tears and he watches as she furrows her brows questioningly. “I wanted to, Ariadne,” he assures her and is happy to accept her back into his arms.
It is only later when he tells her that there is a threshold somewhere that he is supposed to carry her over that he notices the black eyeliner smudge square on his chest.
He finds he does not mind at all.
iii
They have now done this enough for him to see the pattern. Actually, he suspected it last year but did not push it. But now, it is plain as day.
Four years is enough.
After he opens the door and sets the key card down, she tosses her coat. It settles to the floor and he immediately reaches for it, watching as she removes her clothing in haste. She tells him she needs a shower to get rid of the sterile smell her hair. She had said that last year and he almost believed it. But today as they walked the bleach white halls he notices no such smell.
She closes the door to the bathroom and he sits on the edge of the bed. And ponders what he is supposed to do next.
He knows that she needs this - time to digest everything, to remember. But he wonders if that is what she is really doing. There is a subtle line between dealing and wallowing - and he highly suspects that Ariadne has fallen defiantly to one side.
He waits.
Ten minutes go by and the shower is still running. Finally he stands, a hand coming automatically to pull at the tie. Soon his clothes are piled with hers on the floor and he is pushing open the door to the bathroom. He is nearly choked by the steam and he cannot see her yet.
“Ariadne?”
Even over the sound of water, he can hear her intake of breath. He decides to not give her a chance to pull into herself - to hide from him. He opens the shower door to find her shooting up from a seated position.
He steps under the hot spray and stays silent. He does not need to tell her he has figured it all out. There is a hint of shame mixed with her tears. Shame at being caught, perhaps?
“Why are you doing this to yourself?” He asks quietly.
He knows that she does not want to tell him. He can see that she is fighting with herself, no doubt trying to select her words carefully. He reaches out, a hand curling around her arm heated by the water. “He chose to stay.”
“I shouldn’t have let him,” Ariadne finally tells him and even though the water is cascading on her face he sees new tears. “Those children - they have to grow up without a father because I let him stay.”
He wants to tell her that guilt can sometimes be a selfish thing. That a man like Cobb could never be talked into anything and even if she had pointed the gun in his direction and ordered him to go, he would have found a way to stay.
But he does not - because guilt can also be an irrational thing, and it is hard to point out the fallacy of something when someone is so convinced. He just folds her into his arms and holds tight.
He thinks next year, if he can, he will visit Cobb alone.
iv
Arthur has seen many wondrous things in his life.
Anything is possible in his line of work and he has lost track of the amount of times he has had to take a moment to remind himself that none of it is real.
However this time, he finds that he is reminding himself that all of this - the balloons, the flowers, the cards, the pink squalling infant in her arms - is real.
He has a wide smile on his face.
His son has a set of lungs on him. He had come out that way, not wasting a second before ensuring that everyone was well aware of him. Arthur is content to let him wail. After all, life as he has known it changed in the matter of a few hours. He deserves some time to adjust.
Ariadne is moving her arms slightly, and although her hair covers her face Arthur imagines there is a look of concern there. Since they had discovered the pregnancy she has been the one to worry. According to Eames it should be the other way around but Arthur reminds him that not everything in the world is predictable.
The baby clearly has no intention of stopping. Three nurses and two doctors have assured them that he is healthy but Arthur knows that is not enough for Ariadne. She will soon demand a specialist.
Arthur stifles a yawn. It has been a long day. When he stretches his arms and moves to stand he hears a familiar hitch in her breathing.
His son is not the only one crying.
“Ariadne?”
He does not wait for an answer. He maneuvers himself into the bed settling next to the strongest woman he has ever met. She leans into him, his son held firmly in her arms.
“He won’t stop,” she finally says. “Why won’t he stop?”
“Because he obviously doesn’t want to,” Arthur says quietly as he extracts his son from her arms. She rests her head on his shoulder as Arthur peers down at the tiny face twisted in rage. He thinks he sees some of her in it.
“He needs…”
“Time,” Arthur finishes. “And patience. And the realization that just because he is crying it does not mean that we are bad parents.”
A few of her tears have collected on his shoulder. He gently places his son in his lap and wraps and arm around her. “That is going to be a hard one,” he concedes. “But it will happen. There will be scraps, bruises, hurt feelings and slammed doors but I know we will be good parents, Ariadne.”
Ariadne reaches out to let the infant grasp her finger tightly in his. “He’s going to need a backyard to get those scraps and bruises in,” she points out through an undignified sniffle.
His smile returns at the familiar bone of contention. “That he does,” he concedes.
The tears have stopped now - from both she and his son.
v
Arthur figures she already knows.
He would like to think that he has rubbed off her. But he knows that is not true. She has been incredibly perceptive from the moment he met her. She had seen right through Cobb without so much as a blink. She had seen right through him in much the same fashion.
She must see through him now. No matter how hard he has tried to hide it.
He opens the door to their house - it has taken him more time than her to consider it a home rather than a home base. She is here somewhere - cleaning, attempting to cook, or perhaps sketching. She has been doing that more often now. He suspects that she misses going under more than she has let on.
He moves to the dining room with its expansive view of the backyard. His son is playing, rushing with the kind of energy only five year olds seem to have. He considers calling to him but he does not want to take him away from whatever it is he is doing. The smile on the boy’s face is a testament to his joy.
Arthur knows she is behind him even before she reaches out to touch his shoulder. She may be small but she has never quite mastered the art of being completely silent. He can already feel the tension rolling off her. She has been a bundle of nerves for weeks now and he has had trouble calming them.
“Ariadne.”
He turns and his face must say it all because she immediately dissolves into tears. He thinks she is going to fall so he moves to wrap her in his arms. She cries noisily, clutching at him tightly, so tightly it hurts. He does not complain, instead holding her to him.
She is nearly numb when he speaks; explaining the reality of the situation in the same clinical fashion his doctor had used to explain it to him. She does not ask questions and the tears continue to fall, silently now. They fall down the collar of his shirt and he swears they burn his skin.
“It’s not fair,” she finally says, her voice weak.
“Nothing ever is,” he agrees his hands resting at the small of her back. She tenses under them and pulls back, her eyes searching his face.
“Aren’t you angry?” She asks, her voice rising. Outside, his son plays oblivious to it all.
“Being angry is not going to change anything,” he points out and she settles her head against his chest once again. He wonders if she is listening to his heartbeat, trying to memorize it.
“Sometimes I hate how logical you can be,” she tells him. He rocks her slowly. He knows that sometime down the road, he will not be logical. He will be angry, confused, hurt.
And he will need her just as she has always needed him.
&
Ariadne thinks it should be raining.
In the movies, it always rains on this day. It does so to match the mood. But instead the sun shines and the first hint of summer is evident on the breeze. She knows her son is warm in his jacket and tie but he does not complain. Instead he holds her hand, bows his head when she does and prays.
Thirteen months, two weeks, six days, and ten hours. It is longer than they were told to hope for. rthur had spent much of that time with them. He had crammed in as many moments as he could before he had been confined to a bed. There are photos, videos, letters written to his son, letters written to her. She cannot even begin to think about cleaning away his things.
She realizes she has not being paying attention and tries her best to focus on what it is the minister is saying. Arthur was never a particularly religious man, neither is she, but he had planned this day. Ariadne will honor his wishes, mouthing ‘amen’ at the appropriate moment.
The crowd begins to slowly move in different directions. She pays them no mind, there are so few she truly recognizes. She does, however, wait. Her eyes are focused on him, inside the coffin, a shell of who he truly is. Her son’s hand has slipped from hers but she trusts him not go far. He has always been a smart boy.
Just like his father.
When she is alone, she allows the tears to come. She thinks she can do it - she can stop herself when she needs to. She stands there as they fall. Her hands settle on her arms, searching for the warmth that is not there.
It is then she realizes that stopping is easier said then done.
“Ariadne?”
Her body jerks in surprise but she does not turn. She does raise a hand to try and dam the tears but knows it is a lost cause. She suspects that Eames will envelope her and is instead surprised when he comes to stand beside her instead. She turns her chin so she can look at him, rather subdued in a grey suit. He may have even shaved.
“Thank you for coming,” she finally says. She swears she hears him chuckle and turns toward him, her eyes narrowing.
“He said you would try that,” Eames says to her glare.
“Try what?” Ariadne demands.
“Dismissing me,” He answers as he folds his hands behind his back and stands his ground.
She falls silent, and together they watch the small boy sitting in the grass looking at things with an infinite curiosity that could only come from her. She takes a deep breath before she speaks again. “He told you to take care of me, didn’t he?”
“He did.”
Ariadne’s resolve slips away and she crumbles into waiting arms. He holds her as fresh tears come. Her hands remain at her sides. Her swollen eyes seek out their son.
And she silently thanks Arthur for all he has done for her.