The scene was perfect.
Or it had been perfect. Crystal goblets, glittering chandeliers, creamy linen on the tables, soft music coming from a hidden alcove where a determined eye might spot a string quartet. Velvet drapes. It was all a bit much, really, she'd thought as she designed the layout. But that was apparently what they needed.
Now, of course, Arthur was running over the tables and firing at the projections behind him, the impeccable lines of his suit not even bunching as he'd unholstered his gun. Eames was behind him, tripping over a plate and going down hard. Ariadne ducked down behind an overturned table, skirts crumpling, and pushed outward with her mind, like nudging gently at the skin of a bubble to make it shy off and change, and Eames was back on his feet and every bullet was finding a home in a projection's forehead.
"Could you stop playing silly buggers with physics, petal?" Eames shouted over the din. Arthur vaulted over the table and crouched down next to Ariadne, giving her the look she'd long come to think of as translating to you are brilliant but also a royal pain in the ass.
"Did you get it?" she asked, and he nodded. "Then I'll see you upstairs," she said, and pressed a kiss to his lips at the same time as he pressed the barrel to her temple.
Someday they'll actually get to go to a party, in reality or in dreams, without it all going straight to hell.