Work Text:
In October she auditions for The Nutcracker.
It's nothing serious -- a casual dance with a casual director, though for Ariadne nothing about ballet has ever been casual. She nurses her ankle in the warm tub, listening to the sound of Arthur brushing his teeth, his first time back in over a month.
The longest he's been away.
"Eames says hello," he says quietly, coming over and kneeling by the bath. "And Merry Christmas, if he doesn't see you before."
"How's Dom?"
"Sour, as usual. But think kids appreciated the toys."
Ariadne smiles, leans into him as he kisses her. "Good."
It hasn't quite been a year, though Ariadne likes to think of Arthur when it starts to get cold. She thinks about sweaters and dance lessons, and draws him while he sleeps. He hardly ever sleeps.
It's only three days after he comes back that he leaves again. She keeps her cool.
Arthur paces. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Whatever he needs, just do it. Don't dawdle. Come back in one piece, at least. Please. For me."
"I'll come back and more," he murmurs, gathering her in his arms and pressing his mouth against her neck. They don't say I love you, not when he goes. Never when he goes. Ariadne hates to cheapen the sentiment.
The night he goes, she calls her mother.
It was Arthur's idea, not so long ago, to start reaching out again. He didn't say why -- Ariadne has only suspicions about what Arthur's family is like if he has one at all. He never speaks of one. But he'd heard one lonely voicemail from her mother and had said to her that night, Call her more. You only ever have one mother.
Ariadne wanted to say no, then. She'd certainly rolled over and pretended to be asleep. Pretended he was ignorant, that she couldn't hear. Pretended he was wrong.
She called anyway. And she's been calling ever since.
"Is Arthur on a trip again?"
"He is," she says quietly, putting a kettle on the stove.
"He's so busy. But sweet. Your father likes him."
"Daddy likes everyone," Ariadne mutters.
She spends the rest of the night leafing through lesson plans and being rather melancholy, cracking open the wide bay window in her room and watching Gilligan's Island.
In the morning she walks to rehearsal, does warm-ups with her group, and gets coffee, setting up by one of the windows at the front to sketch traffic. The only yoga she knows.
"That's very good," a voice says above her. Ariadne glances up into the eyes of an older, Asian man, shifting a mug of coffee from one hand to another. "Though your shadows are a little exaggerated."
"Excuse me?"
"I apologize. May I sit?" Ariadne raises an eyebrow and nods. The mans takes the empty seat. "I tend to notice artists in small spaces. You give off a certain air."
"I'm not an artist," Ariadne says.
"You carry yourself like an artist."
"I dance."
"Dance is art," the man insist. "It's a pure expression of passion for perfection."
"Hardly," she says quietly. He smiles.
"A passion for perfection does not guarantee the achievement of such a lofty goal. But you are quite talented. Have I seen your work?"
Ariadne laughs, maybe a bit too shrilly. He doesn't notice. "Uh. No. You haven't. It's just a hobby."
"Well." He finishes his tea. "I would like to. Here." He reaches in his pocket and hands her a card. "Maybe put together a portfolio, bring it to my office."
"Thank you...Mr. Saito." He gives her a nod and leaves the cafe.
When Ariadne comes home that Friday from rehearsal, Arthur is asleep on the sofa. She shuts the door as quietly as possible, but it never does any good. He jerks away, looking sleepy and, admittedly, totally adorable. She slips into his lap.
"Hey," he croaks, kissing her chin.
"Hey yourself." Ariadne smoothes his hair. "All in one piece?"
"Well, we had to leave a few fingers behind."
"Oh the humanity." She grins and kisses him. "You need a shower."
"Are you trying to seduce me?"
Ariadne signs and straightens up, taking his hands. "Yes. Always, yes."
"Arthur, close the window?"
"Hmm?" He looks up from his book, glasses slipping off the bridge of his nose.
"Towel, Arthur."
"No one can see."
"It's the principal of the thing," she snaps. He sighs, taking off his classes and setting down the book. Sometimes he fills the space in front of her, when he stands right there, chest pressed to hers. Ariadne clings a bit tighter to the towel. If she shivers, it's because she's wet. Her back. Her back is wet. "Arthur."
"I haven't touched you in ages," he murmurs. She nods.
"Kiss me."
"Oh, twist my arm, madam." He dips his head and kisses her, full, for the first time in so long. Ariadne lets the towel drop without thought, sliding her hands under his shirt and scraping her nails down his sides. She can never get out the words, never say exactly what she's thinking -- I want you inside me, I want you to fuck me until I scream, until I'm senseless and lost. He seems to know anyway, unearthing a condom from her bedside drawer and stripping out of his shirt and sweats.
"Arthur. The window."
"I know." He turns her around, backing her up until her bare skin hits cold, cold glass and she groans.
"Fuck--"
"Easy, easy." She hears the sound of the foil tearing open, the ripple of latex and then his cock, right there, right in the wet, dripping space between her legs. Her cunt feels so empty, now, waiting like she's waited for weeks. It's been weeks. How has she lasted without him for so long? "Ariadne--" He pushes in, fills her and presses her against the window. She curls her leg around his waist, bring him in further and further, until he bottoms out, goes for broke all over again and she's moaning with him, nonsense words spilling out of her mouth.
God she waits for him. She used to be so impatient. She used to never wait. Her mother used to scream at her, to wait, Ariadne, wait, patience for the love of God -- and now here she is. Waiting.
"I love you," she says. "God I love you. So much."
"I--" Arthur groans, pressing one hand to the glass to hold them up. He comes, buried deep and she can feel it, she feels everything. "Come for me. Please, please you have to--" He pushes his fingers against her clit, rolling his hips a little and she lets go, clenching around him and half-screaming her release into his shoulder.
He stumbles back, pulling out and tossing the condom somewhere in the room. Ariadne groans.
"I just showered."
"Sleep. Jesus, woman. Sleep." He kisses her shoulder, her arms, down over her belly and stays there. "I love you. I missed you."
"I know," she answers, sliding her fingers into his hair. "I know."
Christmas comes and goes. Ariadne dances. Arthur leaves and comes home. Doesn't miss her show. She's grateful, for that.
"Hey, what's this?" Arthur's looking for cinnamon, for no good reason, apparently. He unearths Saito's card. "Are you picking up strange dudes in bars while I'm gone? Again?"
"I have a soft spot for Sons of Anarchy." She takes the card, flushing. "It's just some weirdo who sat with me at the coffee shop a few months back. I was drawing and he came over. I hate it when people do that."
"It's flattering."
"It's annoying." She tosses the card back into the drawer.
"What did he want?"
"For me to bring him a portfolio. I don't know he's probably a dealer or something. I'm not an artist, Arthur."
"Yes, you are." She rolls her eyes. They play this game a lot. "You have a lot of talent. So much talent," he says, grinning like a teenager.
"Stop hitting on me, we're already dating."
Arthur grunts. "Fine."
Ariadne thinks the conversation is over, but she comes home from work one evening to something long and flat wrapped in paper on the coffee table. "What's this?"
"Late Christmas gift. Open it." Arthur hands her a cup of tea and she sips from it, pulling off the paper.
"It's a portfolio."
"It is."
"Arthur."
"Hey." He sets his own mug down. "I don't...I don't want to make you do something. But you're talented. And it makes you happy. Why not show it off? Why not let people see you?"
She sips her tea.
"Ariadne."
"I'm tired. I need to sleep."
Arthur leaves town the week of Valentine's day. The next morning, Ariadne brings her portfolio to Saito's office.
"I, uh...I have a portfolio," she says the girl at the desk. "Mr. Saito--"
"He's in his study. Go on through, I'll page him." Ariadne nods and heads down the hall toward the only open door.
"So you came." Saito takes the portfolio from her hands. "I thought I might have lost you for good."
"I had some help."
"Indeed." He looks through her drawing. "These are quite good, though I'll be honest. There won't be many buyers for them--"
"I don't need money."
He smiles. "I think there will be admirers. People always admire beautiful art."
"Like dancing," she says quietly.
Saito nods. "And now, you understand."
And now, she understands.
"Look at you. All official." Arthur extends his arm and Ariadne takes it. "Happy Spring time."
"First day of Spring. Art shows." Ariadne leans against him. "Are we having a beatnik moment?"
"Something like that. How's your ankle?"
"Fine, today. Mother says hi."
"Tell her we'll be there in the summer."
"Oh, she knows." Ariadne presses in close. "Let's have iced tea, tonight. On the balcony."
"Only if you'll kiss me in front of everyone," he murmurs, pulling her flush against his chest.
Ariadne smiles. "Are you trying to seduce me?" She kisses him, gathering up his jacket in her hands and pushing herself up onto her toes.
"Yes," he murmurs. "Always, yes."