AN: Just some pre-work unrelated but completely intertwined drabbles. I'm in love with these two right now.

. . .

She loved to watch him sleep. Always a deep, dreamless sleep. She could not help but run her fingers along his relaxed jaw, his smooth forehead, the sharp lines of his cheeks. The normally taut features of his face, which remained even while he was dreaming, faded, and she could imagine his eyes; soft and smiling. She watched the deep, even rise and fall of his chest, his slow, steady pulse beat in his neck, felt his warm breath against her hand. He reached an arm out, searching, and she watched it wander until it found her ribs. He pulled himself closer, entangling their legs, a content sigh escaping him, and she could not help but smile, her fingers brushing through the edge of his hair. She lifted her head from her pillow, bent over, kissed his forehead. She rolled over and he unconsciously pulled her against his chest, burying his nose in her hair, his hand finding hers and intertwining their fingers. A few mumbled half words slipped between his lips, lost in her hair, but still he slept.

. . .

Arthur sat on the worn couch, legs stretched in front of him, his eyes darting back and forth as he read a thick novel that smelled faintly of moss. Ariadne sat next to him, their sides pressed together, and listened to the breeze laden with mumbled French half heard. She played with the fingers of his hand, captured in both of hers. She traced over his knuckles, drew invisible lines over his viens, pulled his long fingers taut and then curled them, watching the skin pull and flex.

He watched her, an amused glint in his eyes and a ghost of a smile on his lips. He wrapped his hand in hers, intertwining their fingers, and brought her hand to his cheek, kissed it, let their hands drop back into her lap. She traced invisible lines on his arm, meaningless, pointless, but this moment did not need to have a point. Just to be and to be here, with him, was enough.

. . .

She loved to watch him work; standing over his desk, hands gripping the edges. She could always tell when he was lost within his own thoughts; his eyes turned dark, unfocused. When he sat it was never hunched over his desk, instead he stretched his legs out in front of him, all long lines and sharp angles. He was an artist, if in a different way than her, he loved his research, loved the discovery. But he always followed the rules. Rules, rules, rules. And he knew all of them, believed in them, had seen what happens when they are broken.

They had spent countless hours in this warehouse, alone together. Spent countless hours dreaming together. Creating together. Arthur loved paradoxes and puzzles, loved spending hours trying to solve her latest labyrinth. Ariadne loved how her architecture mixed with his subconscious. For every one of her questions he had an answer, full and detailed. They had become friends, were standing on the precipice of something more.

. . .

Love. She had always thought that it would be more intense than this. Shakespearean. Tragic. Heart aching, heartbreaking . ". . .Half of a whole." Romeo and Juliet, Dom and Mal. Loving Arthur was peaceful. Slow. Silent. Simple. It was perhaps the easiest thing that she had ever done. They were not two parts of a whole, not yet, but she knew that if they wanted to be someday they would be. Arthur adored her, and how could she not adore him?

"Quick, give me a kiss." His eyes twinkling, a ghost of a smile on his lips. Every time he said it she could not help the smile that sneaked onto her lips, the light blush that graced her cheeks. She leans over and brushes her lips against his. Its rarely just one kiss anymore, as his hands disappear into her hair.

They lay on a couch, her atop of him, her head on his chest, and she can hear his heartbeat. A black and white film flickers on the tiny tube television, the only light in the room. He brushes her hair absentmindedly. And then he says it, and she can feel his heart skip a beat as he takes a deep breath, pauses, "I love you."

"I love you." Nothing changes; the film continues, his hand brushes her hair, his heart beats. But neither can remember ever feeling this deep happiness.