Marcel D'Etoile was a busy man, and finding a way to isolate him for ten minutes was difficult until Arthur unearthed that he was in the habit of taking the service elevator up from the ground floor of his restaurant to his second floor office for an hour's nap in the afternoons. Then it was a matter of bribing a few disgruntled employees who were perfectly happy to provide access, and using Yusuf's aerosol sed to put the chef under for the vital minute it took to pull him into his office and hook up the machine.

Under—

Arthur glanced around at the busy kitchen, assaulted by the clanging of pots, the shouts of orders and a rich variety of smells ranging from sharp mustard to briny fish all mingling around him. He dropped his hands to pick up a tray of something and hoisted it to his shoulder, carrying it out through the swinging doors into the dark and elegant dining room dining room.

Here the ambience shifted, and Arthur got the impression of walls with flocked velvet paper, burgundy tablecloths and elegant diners seated helter-skelter. He paused only a moment, then carried the tray to the nearest customers, efficiently setting the dinners out for the subs before picking up the tray once more and turning back to the kitchen.

At the sous chef station, Eames beamed, clearly in his element, and Arthur stared. At the moment, the Englishman wore a long ponytail neatly draped down his back, diamond stud earrings in each ear, and a goatee framing his mouth. "Arthur! Has table seven been served?"

The affirmative was a quick lift of his eyebrows, and as he sauntered closer, Arthur sighed. "You're getting into this a little too much, Eames."

"And precisely how often are we capable of having fun during an Extraction, darling?" came the amenable reply. "This is a marvelous opportunity and I'm going to indulge myself precisely because I can. Hand me that knife, will you?"

Arthur picked it up, turning the handle towards Eames with practiced ease. "Where's our target?"

"D'Etoile is over at table seven, kissing up to the old crone in the black taffeta," Eames replied, busily slicing a turbot into beautiful fillets. "His mother, apparently, and no one to be trifled with, according to his therapist. In about three minutes I'm going to scream bloody murder and demand help here in the kitchen. That will very probably rile the subs, so I'll need you to fend them off while I get D'Etoile to spill his recipe. Think you can handle a roomful of angry customers?"

"Service with a smile," Arthur assured him, feeling slightly ridiculous. The one aspect of Dreaming that always ruffled him a bit was the sense of the absurd, and he wondered if that was why he chose to dress formally for most parts of the missions. There was no time for further self- analysis though; a pair of demi-chefs were arguing over a dish over at the soup station, and annoyed, Eames threw a paring knife their way.

"Arrêtez-le!" he bellowed, clearly in his element; the two chefs sulkily complied, and Arthur stepped over to pick up the next full tray, waiting for his cue.

For the next few minutes, he served food, refilled glasses, collected fallen silverware and generally circulated through the dining room. The work wasn't hard; Arthur had been in food service before, although never in a four-star restaurant. He slipped back into the kitchen as Eames sent the last dish out and turned to him, a smirk centered in the middle of his goatee. "Almost time. So exactly how long have you and Ariadne been making love, darling?"

It was precisely the sort of blindsiding comment he should have expected, and Arthur cursed himself for his complacency even as he felt the blush sweep over his face. "Eames-"

"Oh give it up, Arthur!" Eames snorted. "She was sporting a hell of a lovebite under her scarf, and don't think I wasn't aware of the scent of your shampoo in her hair. Frankly, it's rather adorable you've gotten together."

"Jesus," Arthur muttered. "Not that it's any of your damned business-"

"Generally no, but given how matters of an emotional nature can affect dreaming-" Eames pointed out sharply, and then gave a roaring bellow. "Merde! J'ai besoin de la recette !"

The disturbance rippled through the kitchen, and Arthur felt the hint of panic rolling out. He pushed his way through the doors and sleekly made his way to D'Etoile's table, gripping the man's elbow. "Monsieur, nous avons besoin de vous. La cuisine-" he managed in an urgent undertone.

Confused, but also slightly flattered, the round little chef rose up, murmuring something soothing to the old crone at the table. She hissed at Arthur, but he smoothly guided D'Etoile through the double doors, and kitchen into the hallway beyond. Eames was there already, throwing his hands in the air and beginning a rapid-fire monolog about the president of Chechopotamia arriving and needing a recipe for him.

Arthur let Eames tug the man away, down the winding hallways and pantries that Ariadne had cleverly whipped up, and began to barricade it with the accordion metal gate across it. Once it was locked, he settled in front of it as the sous chefs and other station workers uneasily began to return to their prep.

He checked his watch, counting in his head, and precisely fifteen seconds later, the elderly D'Etoile shoved her way through the double doors, screeching. "Ou est mon fils? Vous êtes un serveur très mauvais!"

Arthur tried not to take that personally. He carefully hefted one of the longer knives and judged the distance-

She charged him; he threw. The blade caught her in the throat and cut her off—literally—mid-squawk. Arthur wished Eames had seen it; he would have appreciated the marksmanship. He scooped up another handful of glittering blades and checked the sous-chefs; a few were making some tentative moves. Arthur waited patiently, ready for them.

As he held ground, he considered the conversation with Eames and found it to be . . . hopeful. Clearly the other man wasn't upset about the relationship, and that was more than Arthur had expected. He and Eames hadn't always gotten along, but most of that was a conflict of styles and personalities rather than any genuine animosity, and when push came to shove, Eames was thoroughly-if not flamboyantly-reliable.

Still, he was smart enough to pick up on the little signs, which meant he'd known even before making the dinner invitation. Arthur thought back as he dodged a flung chicken, and considered that perhaps the meal had been Eames' way of fact-checking the situation.

Now the chefs were flinging pots of soup, and Arthur managed to dodge most of it before spinning and elbowing the nearest in the stomach. Roundhouse kicks were out of the question, given the length of his apron, but Arthur managed to make good use of a few cast iron pot lids, and took out the kitchen staff with minor damage on his part.

The mess on the floor couldn't be helped, and when the first rumblings of disgruntled patrons began to build, he eyed the patisserie station thoughtfully.

"Damn it," Arthur muttered sourly to himself, suddenly aware that Eames had probably planned this from the start. He pursed his mouth, mentally registering the time, and began picking up the nearest dessert, feeling supremely annoyed at being tricked into a pie fight against his will.

They weren't . . . dignified, Goddamn it.

00oo00oo00

By the time Eames came back, D'Etoile in tow, the kitchen was liberally redecorated with frosting, pudding, cake crumbs and fruit filling. The few subs who hadn't succumbed to Arthur's deadly aim were staggering about, blinded by blancmange and considerably less interested in attacking. One portly patron looked like an Albino zombie, with the goopy remains of a trifle dripping down his face. Eames shot Arthur a glance of keen admiration before steering D'Etoile off to the side. The faint beginning bars of 'La Marseillaise' were signaling the coming kick, and Arthur could see by Eames' smirk that the recipe Extraction had gone well.

"Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, le désordre !" D'Etoile moaned, looking about in panic.

"J'ai dû tuer votre mere," Arthur informed him politely. D'Etoile shot him a stunned look just as Eames quietly picked up a half-squashed meringue. Arthur growled, but a moment too late—the pie and the kick hit at precisely the same time-

"Shit!" Arthur snapped his eyes open, annoyed as hell. Ariadne recoiled his line, her attention on the sleeping chef. Eames opened his eyes, and laughed softly.

"Oh darling if you could have seen your face!" he rumbled, glancing at Arthur. "It's a damned pity we can't record these dreams!"

"Less than a minute—" Ariadne warned, and the three of them swung into action. Eames set D'Etoile at his desk while Arthur and Ariadne slipped out to the waiting elevator and took it down. They caught up with Eames outside the back door of the restaurant and climbed into the waiting Renault; Arthur drove as in the back seat Eames quietly dictated the recipe into a recorder.

On the passenger seat, Ariadne sat, arms folded, looking curious. "So?"

"So we got it," Arthur murmured. He felt sticky, and although he knew he wasn't, it was difficult not to rub his face.

"So what the hell was Eames laughing about?"

Arthur scowled; at any other time Ariadne's persistence would have pleased him at any other time, but for the moment-

"Because your darling Arthur was covered in the finest lemon mousse meringue," Eames drawled playfully. "Although he gave as good as he got, apparently!"

Arthur felt his cheeks burning; out of the corner of his eye he could see Ariadne starting to grin. "A food fight?"

"More like a food slaughter," Eames corrected cheekily. "Our point man has an amazing capacity for turning main dishes into main events, and if he feels like I do, he's craving a shower as well. Drop me off, loves and we'll catch up after we've all had a scrub."

"But you're clean!" Ariadne protested, still trying not to laugh.

"Psychological," Eames reminded her. "Besides, it will give you a good excuse to scrub Arthur's bony bum. Again."

"Shit—Eames!" Arthur snapped, but Ariadne was leaning over her seat, staring at the Englishmen, her cheeks red, but her smile dangerous.

"I think you're jealous," she smirked.

To his credit, Eames laughed, eyes bright. "Oh it's quite possible darling, but the question is—of you, or of him?"

"Don't want to know," Arthur called out tersely. "We're dropping this conversation right now." It was a useless directive and he knew it; from his position he had a great sidelong view of Ariadne's shoulder shaking with laughter.

"All right, all right, no need to get your BVDs in knots," Eames sighed comically. "Just trying to show my support for your illicit affair you know."

"It's not illicit," Ariadne protested. "We're two single consenting adults here, and it's nobody's business but ours."

"Ah but it is love, it is. See, when I'm putting my adorable self into dreams that you construct and that Arthur manages, it becomes very MUCH my business to make sure I don't get say, flattened by a train," Eames sharply responded. "Now I'm all for romance, don't get me wrong. I just want some assurance that I can work around the two of you without risking life and limb."

Arthur cleared his throat. "If you're looking for guarantees, Eames, you're in the wrong damned line of work. Risk is intrinsic to everything in life, including relationships, and if it comes down to choosing between you and Ariadne, there's no contest."

The car was suddenly quiet, and Arthur felt the stillness burn through him as they drew closer to the hotel. Finally Eames gave a slow, deep sigh. "God, that was positively romantic, Arthur! I didn't know you had it in you to be so passionate!"

Ariadne was watching him, a small, secret smile on her lips, and Arthur gave a small shrug. "Paradox."

Eames laughed, and when they all climbed out of the car, he lightly cuffed Arthur on the cheek. "You are a point man of many talents. All right then—I'll get the goods typed up—half the recipe upfront, and after the money is deposited, the other half released to our client. We'll have to hold off any celebrating though—yours truly is off on a well-deserved cruise, and I'm sure the pair of you can find plenty to do in the meantime."

They strode out of the parking garage and into the thin sunlight along the sidewalk of the hotel, breath frosty.

"You're going to be insufferable," Ariadne predicted; verbalizing precisely what Arthur had been thinking. It was a lovely bit of synchronicity, and he almost grinned as Eames cocked an eyebrow.

"And you're just figuring that out now, are you?" came the mild reply. "Listen to me, Ariadne: you're both damned good at what you do, and as long as that's the case, I'm more than happy to be party to whatever schemes come our way. But should this relationship of yours go south, I'd rather be in the middle of the Med, brushing up my baccarat and consuming vast amounts of vodka. Forger I am; relationship counselor I'm not. Got it?" It was said gently, but with a core of steel.

Arthur stopped, and turned to look the Englishman full on, his mouth curving into a gentle, slightly ruthless smile. "Eames," he murmured quietly, "go chase cruise bunnies and get a tan. We'll see you after the holidays."

Eames paused, glanced from Arthur to Ariadne, and smiled back, his expression lighter. He nodded once, bent forward to scoop Ariadne up in a high hug, then gave Arthur's gloved hand a quick pump before stepping past them and heading into the Four Seasons.

They watched him go, and Ariadne slipped her arm through the crook of Arthur's, her hand gliding into his pocket for warmth. He didn't look down, but a flicker of a dimple graced his cheek.

"So—we seem to have a free afternoon . . ." She observed, not looking up at Arthur. "And two hotel rooms to play in."

"Let's head back," he told her in his low, flat voice. "I have a trick to show you that you might like."

"Oh yeah?" Ariadne blinked, and he caught his breath at the sharp gleam of desire in her eyes. Beautiful eyes; full of intelligence and hope and trust.

Suddenly December in Paris seemed very nearly perfect.

"Yeah. It involves a scarf," Arthur murmured, finally letting his grin flash at her as she drew in a gasp of delighted surprise.

End

(Thanks for reading. I'd love to do a sequel, since I have several ideas for the future of Arthur and Ariadne's relationship and I hope readers might like those too. And for anyone interested in Eames' cruise, go read my story The Tutor-that's all about his adventures!)