Fic: Sacred Spaces [Inception]
Title: Sacred Spaces
Character/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, past Dom/Mal, Ariadne, Saito, Yusuf, mentions of Phillipa and James
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4,158
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: none
Summary: They've been on the run, traveled all over the globe, own airlines, sculpt worlds inside the minds of others, and navigate labyrinths of incredible scale - and yet their most private refuges are not what one would expect. Teamfic.
Author's Notes: written for celestineangel per her request. Hope you like it, bb! ♥
I. Cobb
It used to be their bedroom.
But the memory of Mal haunts him there still, because it's just another place where they loved and made love, where they screamed and fought, where they dreamed together, the both of them. After limbo, nothing they'd ever done in the bedroom could ever be enough again for Mal, and after a while, it became the same way for Dom as well.
I want to dream again, Dom.
Will we grow old together? Promise me.
You're waiting for a train...
Even though he's managed to bury his subconscious projection of his late wife, whenever Dom looks around the master bedroom - at the worn wooden floorboards, the pale green curtains, the cream-colored sheets and the left side of the bed that he never slept on - all he can see is Mal echoing back to him from even beyond the grave: beautiful Mal, laughing as she strikes a pose in her lacy negligee, humming softly as she paces back and forth with little James cradled close to her chest, of promises whispered in a lilting French accent as they lie shrouded by the darkness. She's no longer a Shade but still as strong a memory as ever, something that's even more intangible than a ghost, and impossible to kill.
Dom doesn't spend much time in the master bedroom anymore.
Instead, he divides his time between the grocery store, the kitchen, and the interior of his car, acting as chauffeur and gallantly taking up the mantle of single fatherhood. It's an exhaustive job, and Dom really doesn't know how other people who don't have millions of dollars in five separate bank accounts saved up from a lifetime of activity of questionable legality do it, how they manage to keep jobs and still be full-time parents. He works in architecture part-time (for the real world now) and still assists on the occasional odd job, but most of the time, he's got his hands full with James (who's shooting up like a weed, Dom thought that didn't happen until adolescence) and Phillipa, who looks so much like Mal these days that sometimes it hurts.
Arthur visits in between jobs and Dom is always thankful for the reprieve his ever-reliable point man's presence brings, because Arthur, true to form, not only knows how to do everything, but does it exceedingly well - including acting as a parent. Or, at least, a favorite uncle who can actually cook and manage not to burn the entire house down. He's always been the children's Uncle Arthur, and sometimes when Dom watches the younger man sitting on the couch, reading Curious George with James snuggled in close to his side and drooling all over his waistcoat or letting Phillipa paint his nails a hideous bright magenta, he thinks - no, he knows - that Arthur's going to be make a very good father someday.
(When Eames starts coming along with Arthur and, with Phillipa's approval, gains an honorary "Uncle" tacked onto the front of his name as well, Dom merely bites the inside of his cheek to stifle his laughter because both he and Mal saw that one coming a long time ago.)
This, though, this is always the best part of Dom's day: when all the dishes are washed and put away, after the children finish their homework and in the dancing shadows of the small little nightlight, when he reads aloud from a battered old children's book of fairy tales with Phillipa pressed up against his side, hair still damp from the shower and smelling like citrus fruits, and James ensconced comfortably in his lap, nodding off even before Dom gets past the first page.
There's nowhere else in the world he would rather be than here, in neither dreams nor reality, and after he tucks James and Phillipa in and kisses them both goodnight, he stays there just for a little while longer, sitting cross-legged on the carpet, just listening to them breathe, and perhaps nodding off himself as well.
Nowhere else at all.
II. Ariadne
The branches twist on and up above her, stark against the grey sky, stripped bare and almost ugly in a sense. They trap the colorless clouds in a tangle of darkness, all the remnants of its beauty lie scattered on the ground, deep reds and fiery oranges and bright yellows that swirl up in a movement of color when the wind sweeps through the landscape in one broad stroke.
From her position among the branches, Ariadne draws her coat tighter around her frame, and shivers. She tilts her head back against the worn tree trunk, fingers reaching out blindly along the familiar grooves of the bark, tracing and retracing paths only she knows. This is her private place, her sanctuary, her solitary refuge of which no one knows - well okay, she's pretty sure everyone knows about it because it's the only tree in the backyard and not twenty paces away from the back porch - and wisely never dares to approach.
Throughout the years, this has been her hiding place, this old apple tree that's not really fit for climbing and bears no more fruit, its gnarled branches hugged by her arms and legs from the moment she'd first swung up onto the lowermost limb with a shout of triumph, its roots watered many a time by her tears over the years - when she fell due to a misplaced foot at age seven and broke her arm, when Jimmy Vern asked Monica Ires to the winter dance in middle school, the day she got her period in Geometry class when she had been wearing a white skirt, or when her parents told her they didn't love each other (or her) enough to stay together anymore.
No one lives in the house now, and the worn and battered sign in the untidy front yard declares the property to still be FOR SALE, but Ariadne doesn't care - she comes back here anyway, back to the tree in the backyard of her childhood home, comes back to scale its branches (there are natural footholds worn into the bark over the years and now she's as quick and sure-footed as a cat), to wonder and dream, to stare up at the twisted branches and think of nothing and everything at once.
Most girls hide in their bedrooms, hugging stuffed animals to their chests and scribbling furiously in diaries with purple sparkly fuzzy-ended pens, but Ariadne prefers the latticework framing of tree branches against sky, the instability of nature, the impermanence of life itself all around her. She came back here after the inception, thinking about Cobb and his children, of Mal and her words (have you ever been a lover?), wishing poor Robert Fischer all the best. She thought of handsome, straight-laced Arthur (who is a damn good kisser) and Eames, loud and friendly and grinning, of the hurt she'd seen flashing across his features in the hotel lobby after she kissed Arthur.
(And oh, those two so did not get off the hook. Ariadne made sure of that, made sure that all the looks, the flirting, and the unresolved sexual tension that had to have been brimming under the surface for so long amounted to something. Today, she thinks of the two men and smiles.)
"Ari?" Ariadne blinks and looks down into the concerned face, at the dash of freckles across a thin nose and at the ears that are far too big for the corresponding head, at the man who looks like nothing special, but somehow managed to steal her heart all the same.
Brad smiles up hesitantly. The tips of his ears and nose are red from the chill; he's got his hands stuck in his pockets and he's doing that weird scuffing the ground thing with his shoe that he always does when he's nervous. "You okay up there?"
"Yeah. I'm fine."
"Okay." Scuff, scuff, scuff. "Um...I guess I'll go wait in the car, then." He turns to go, shoulders hunched up against the cold.
He's in her space, Ariadne realizes, and gives a start - but not because of the invasion of privacy or out of any urge to protect the security of her sanctuary - rather, because the thought of stay registers and rings out in her mind again, as clear as a bell. Well, that's certainly new. The last time someone tried to barge her way into her private spot, Ariadne had picked an apple right off its stem and hurled it at the intruder's head, purely on instinct.
(Poor Cousin May. She's still terrified of Ariadne even to this day, and just about cried the last time they served apple pie at the last family reunion.)
Ariadne twists the silver band on her fourth finger, touches the diamond, and makes up her mind. "Brad, wait," she calls, and smiles at her fiancee when he turns around. "Wanna come up?"
He grins then, big and goofy and in a way that brightens up his entire countenance, and reaches for the first branch.
When he misses and falls on his ass, Ariadne throws her head back and laughs.
III. Saito
Despite what many think, Saito is a very private man.
He slips off the straw zōri at the door, and steps slowly across the smooth floorboards. The floor is hollow underneath, but he makes no sound in the tradition cotton tabi he wears; his movements are slow and graceful, reverent as they ought to be in such a place of peace.
He's a very powerful man, that much is certainly true, a man who can buy airlines on a whim and hire the best extraction team in the dangerous and illegal world of subconscious security. He rises above the letter of the law, a legend to be feared and admired, spoken of in hushed whispers by his opponents and adorers alike. Now, with Fischer Industries' disbandment and demise, Saito has risen above the level of a mere celebrity; now, he is akin to a god.
The door faces the east, as tradition dictates, and the latticework on the windows cut the soft grey light streaming in through the windows into ribbons, shredded even further by the rice paper screens. The interior of the temple is small and discreet, only one room and with little furniture, modest.
He is a god, yes, but Saito prefers his own temple - and not one for himself. There are no gilt decorations, no slick polished conference table, no high-backed leather chairs or cardboard smiles on mechanical faces of men who are too weak to speak their minds and grovel pathetically at his feet.
In his temple, Saito is the one who kneels down in the presence of his ancestors, humbling himself for his father who was a patient man, for his grandfather who was a shrewd man, for his brother who was a dishonorable drunkard, but whom Saito remembers and prays for all the same. The sleeves of his simple and plain black kimono drape on the ground as he touches his forehead down to the floorboards and inhales the smell of cedar wood.
This is his most private sanctum, a place that none has ever entered, of which he shares with neither wife nor mistress, business partner nor confidant. It is quiet and peaceful, but most of all, it is a haven that, in his mind, is more protected than the safe in which he keeps his business secrets. Even Dominic Cobb, for all his skill, would never enter or even find this place.
(Mr. Davidson though, is a different matter. He had no Shade clouding his consciousness - just putting a bullet in his knee - and Saito is sure that the hawk-eyed, intelligent point man knows of this place hidden away in the business mogul's mind. But Arthur is a private man as well, and Saito trusts him.)
The smell of incense fills his nostrils as he gazes at the bonzi tree, at the small dish upon which sits a pile of salt to ward off evil spirits, at the scroll upon which he meditates.
Chisha wa madowazu, yuusha wa osorezu, jinsha wa ureezu. The wise have no delusions, the brave have no fears, the benevolent have no worries.
Kokoro wa hanatan kotowo yousu. The mind must be set free.
He thinks then, of the years - mere minutes in reality, but forever in his mind - spent in limbo, of losing hope, of seeing the face of Dominic Cobb after so long and then remembering.
He doesn't dream much anymore.
Then, in the privacy of the temple he meditates. The mind must be set free.
IV. Yusuf
His name really isn't as exotic as it seems. Once translated, it's actually pretty pedestrian; it means "Joseph".
Joseph. The dream interpreter. Joseph of the multicolored coat, who was his father's darling, who drew the envy of all his brothers, so much so that they sold him into slavery, into the land of Egypt.
Yusuf's never been to Egypt before. He prefers wearing simple colors; the chemist is never supposed to draw attention to himself anyway, and he would really rather not gain the notoriety Cobb and Arthur hold. He has no brothers, only six sisters, and even so... well, his father wanted him to stay and take over the family business. Yusuf grew up wanting to become a rocket scientist. Enough said.
On normal jobs (although he really doesn't have to take anymore, Cobb proved good on his word in giving him his entire share), he always fades into the background, seemingly unimportant and often ignored. That is, until one by one, they all drop off into dreamland, and he's left to watch over all of them - the extractor in all his pomposity as the leader, the smug architect, the anal-retentive point man, and the forger who's really too big for his britches. There are three types of people you really shouldn't piss off - the people who handle your coffee, those who prepare your food, and those who know enough about chemicals to fuck up your dosage of Somnacin if he feels like it.
On the inception job though, it was different. Yusuf genuinely liked those he worked with: Ariadne and her kindness (she would one day make a very great name for herself; of that he's sure), Cobb and his drive to return to his children (Yusuf can appreciate that type of determination in a man), Eames with whom he'd been friends for quite a while before this, and Arthur, the meticulous point man. Any man who would willingly resign himself to being used as a dummy for round after round of drug tests gains Yusuf's respect, hands down.
(Although, personally, Yusuf doesn't really think Arthur is as "bloody gorgeous of a wanker" as Eames' drunken confessions make him out to be.)
During the inception, Yusuf drove the entire team through the first level of a dream, flipped the van over, and backed it into the railing of a bridge and then off the damn bridge itself. Chemists usually never go into the dream, and he was relieved to be out of Robert Fischer's mind when it was all said and done because here, here is where he belongs - among the acids and bases, where the laws of nature and physics still apply, where science still makes sense when nothing else does or can.
Why interpret dreams for Pharaohs or do the work of a supposed God who never shows His face when, in his lab, he can be a God?
V. Eames
"Hey, Mum."
The wind whistles through the small yard and he tugs the peacoat closer, hunching his shoulders up against cutting cold. It's the one Arthur bought for him ages ago, on that job in St. Petersburg when he'd shown up at the rendezvous spot (a posh, upscale hotel with crystal chandeliers and all) soaking wet and nearly hypothermic, thanks to a luggage mixup at the airport. It had been their...sixth job, if he remembers correctly. Arthur had been wearing the three piece Yves St. Laurent ensemble Eames sent him as an apology for ruining the point man's suit on their previous job (stupid coffee; that's why he always sticks to Earl Grey now), and by the end of the job, Eames had to smile at the irony of the fact that the two of them had been wearing each other's clothes - in a vague sense of the words.
"It's been a while, yeah?" He twists the stem of the single trumpet lily in his fingers, nervous. Eames is always nervous around his mother, although he knows it's stupid to be. Perhaps it's because she's the woman who gave birth to him, the only one who has ever had the right to call him darling (and he'd always been William to her), the youngest son who stayed behind when everyone else ran off. Perhaps it's because she's the only woman he's ever loved so much that it hurt. "I missed you."
She doesn't reply. Of course she doesn't. He always comes to visit whenever he travels to England, no matter the job or the weather, and always with a single trumpet lily, her favorite. It'd been the flowers in her bouquet on her wedding day. And whenever he comes to visit he talks and talks, about everything and anything, but she never says anything back.
He almost wishes that she would.
Slowly, he gets to his knees; the dried leaves and crackle under the redistribution of weight and he painstakingly, carefully begins to pull at the patches of weeds surrounding the smooth slate, clearing the patch of ground around the headstone. He lifts a hand slowly; his fingers, now twice broken and twice repaired (they used to be just like hers, delicate and elegant) trace the engraved letters, the gentle curve of the C and the long, broad stroke of the E, the letters that make up a word, a name, a woman who lies six feet under:
Charlotte Evangeline Eames.
"Well, the job went well," he tells her. "The mark gave everything up without much of a fuss. Arthur was a bit disappointed, the poor darling. All his hard work gone to waste."
His lips twitch into a smirk as he remembers the way the very tips of Arthur's ears turned red when the mark practically began salivating the moment he stepped into the room, ignoring Eames' forged tall, buxom blonde and instead making a beeline for the handsome point man, babbling all of his secrets without the slightest hesitation. Ariadne had been falling off the barstool in attempts to hide her laughter and while Eames hadn't found it the least bit funny at the moment, now he can appreciate the hilarity of the situation.
"You'd really like him, Mum," he blurts out suddenly, and then he feels the tears welling in his eyes, hot and unrelenting. "You would. He's...he's...he's mine, and you would've loved him too."
She's silent, like always, and Eames shakes his head at his own foolishness, shoulders slumping ever so slightly because, grown man that he is, he had thought for an instant that the words might have been able to elicit some sort of response. Tilting his head back slightly, he stares up at the sky, absent-mindedly rubbing the pad of his thumb over the skin of his fourth finger.
"It's getting closer," he murmurs almost inaudibly, and leans his forehead against the cool stone, shutting his eyes tightly. "Phillipa's going to be our little flower girl. Cobb's giving Arthur away." He pauses. "Arthur wants to save you a seat."
Silence.
Eames sighs. "I love you, Mum."
The words fly into the wind whistling through the small churchyard as he gets to his feet, pressing a kiss to his fingertips and brushing them against the top of the headstone before turning away, carefully picking his way among the grave markers, heading toward the black Bentley idling just outside the wrought iron gate.
Arthur stares straight ahead as the forger gets into the passenger seat, bringing in a gust of the chill November air. His black leather-gloved hands tighten fractionally on the steering wheel but he says nothing, simply puts the car into gear and presses on the accelerator.
He'd already said everything that had to be said earlier, when Eames had been doing his best imitation of a burrito in the bed sheets and coverlet, as he stood in front of the drab slate headstone in the small drizzling mist of the early morning.
"Hello, Ms. Eames. My name is Arthur Davidson, and I'm going to marry your son, William."
Eames's hand is cold when Arthur takes it and winds their fingers together. The interior of the car smells like lilies.
VI. Arthur
He never had a home throughout his childhood; he had many temporary dwelling places. It's what happens when one gets circulated through the foster care system.
Lights. Colors. Sounds. He blinks and tries to make sense of it all, but he can't. A strange feeling shoots through him, not at all unlike an electrical shock, and his hackles rise because he knows where he's standing, as the lines begin to connect and the sensory input whirling all around him solidifies into a concrete setting, a recognizable place that he never wanted to see ever again.
But how can he possibly be here?
Things aren't really all that different now. Now it's hotels and empty warehouses, office building complexes and the paradoxical structures of the human mind, empty spaces that he inhabits for only one night at a time. They're simply places to sleep and nothing more, and most of the times, he doesn't even sleep in rooms anyway.
The landscape blurs around him then, and, frantically, he tries to reach for his totem, for his die, only to find it nowhere on his person. Oh God, no. Not again.
There aren't many places Arthur visits more than once; he's a criminal and that's just the way things are when one's job is illegal in practically every civilized society on God's green Earth. He's always greeted warmly at the Cobb residence, and certainly Phillipa and James have asked him to stay for sleepovers and the like more than once, but Arthur is always careful not to overstay his welcome.
Somewhere up ahead, a tall, broad-shouldered man strides casually down along the street and his heart jumps; he tries to call out but remains mute, tries to walk forward, but his feet are rooted down into the ground. Overcome by frustration, he opens his mouth and hollers out silently, throws back his head and screams at the cloudless red sky.
"Love? What's wrong? Ow!" Someone's shaking him roughly, and his limbs flail outwards, one fist catching the other on the chin as the other hand reaches underneath the pillow, fingers closing around the grip of the gun stashed there. "Bloody - Arthur!"
The bedside lamp clicks on, and Arthur blinks in the sudden light, chest heaving and breath coming in shallow pants. Eames gazes down at him, one hand pinning his right fist to the bed, the other gently plucking the Glock from Arthur's fingers. His eyes are filled with concern as he slowly, slowly releases the point man's wrists because he knows that Arthur never likes to be held down or constrained in any way. "Alright, darling?"
Arthur sucks in a deep breath. "I...I think...I think I was dreaming." His voice is awed, surprised, and tinged with an undercurrent of fear as well.
The confession - if it can be called as such - sound stupid even to his own ears, and he expects Eames to laugh or groan and turn over, because the clock on the nightstand blares 3:24 AM in red digital lights, and the job they'd just completed had been hard on the both of them. He doesn't expect Eames to smile fondly at him, reach out, and pull him close before he can protest.
Lying like this, chest to chest and with his head tucked in the crook of Eames' neck, nose brushing against the forger's collarbone and inhaling sandalwood and spice and something else that is so unmistakably Eames, his eyelids slowly begin to flutter and Arthur's heartbeat slows back to its normal pace. Eames holds him like no one else ever has - lover or otherwise - and Arthur's never before ceded his trust so readily, so easily, allowing himself to be cradled close and allowing Eames to gently card fingers through his hair, to press a kiss to his forehead, to murmur nonsensical things like Alright, love and hush, now and just a dream, I'm here. I'm here.
Arthur has no idea where "here" is or where he's supposed to belong, but so long as Eames is there with him, he's content.
Character/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, past Dom/Mal, Ariadne, Saito, Yusuf, mentions of Phillipa and James
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4,158
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: none
Summary: They've been on the run, traveled all over the globe, own airlines, sculpt worlds inside the minds of others, and navigate labyrinths of incredible scale - and yet their most private refuges are not what one would expect. Teamfic.
Author's Notes: written for celestineangel per her request. Hope you like it, bb! ♥
I. Cobb
It used to be their bedroom.
But the memory of Mal haunts him there still, because it's just another place where they loved and made love, where they screamed and fought, where they dreamed together, the both of them. After limbo, nothing they'd ever done in the bedroom could ever be enough again for Mal, and after a while, it became the same way for Dom as well.
I want to dream again, Dom.
Will we grow old together? Promise me.
You're waiting for a train...
Even though he's managed to bury his subconscious projection of his late wife, whenever Dom looks around the master bedroom - at the worn wooden floorboards, the pale green curtains, the cream-colored sheets and the left side of the bed that he never slept on - all he can see is Mal echoing back to him from even beyond the grave: beautiful Mal, laughing as she strikes a pose in her lacy negligee, humming softly as she paces back and forth with little James cradled close to her chest, of promises whispered in a lilting French accent as they lie shrouded by the darkness. She's no longer a Shade but still as strong a memory as ever, something that's even more intangible than a ghost, and impossible to kill.
Dom doesn't spend much time in the master bedroom anymore.
Instead, he divides his time between the grocery store, the kitchen, and the interior of his car, acting as chauffeur and gallantly taking up the mantle of single fatherhood. It's an exhaustive job, and Dom really doesn't know how other people who don't have millions of dollars in five separate bank accounts saved up from a lifetime of activity of questionable legality do it, how they manage to keep jobs and still be full-time parents. He works in architecture part-time (for the real world now) and still assists on the occasional odd job, but most of the time, he's got his hands full with James (who's shooting up like a weed, Dom thought that didn't happen until adolescence) and Phillipa, who looks so much like Mal these days that sometimes it hurts.
Arthur visits in between jobs and Dom is always thankful for the reprieve his ever-reliable point man's presence brings, because Arthur, true to form, not only knows how to do everything, but does it exceedingly well - including acting as a parent. Or, at least, a favorite uncle who can actually cook and manage not to burn the entire house down. He's always been the children's Uncle Arthur, and sometimes when Dom watches the younger man sitting on the couch, reading Curious George with James snuggled in close to his side and drooling all over his waistcoat or letting Phillipa paint his nails a hideous bright magenta, he thinks - no, he knows - that Arthur's going to be make a very good father someday.
(When Eames starts coming along with Arthur and, with Phillipa's approval, gains an honorary "Uncle" tacked onto the front of his name as well, Dom merely bites the inside of his cheek to stifle his laughter because both he and Mal saw that one coming a long time ago.)
This, though, this is always the best part of Dom's day: when all the dishes are washed and put away, after the children finish their homework and in the dancing shadows of the small little nightlight, when he reads aloud from a battered old children's book of fairy tales with Phillipa pressed up against his side, hair still damp from the shower and smelling like citrus fruits, and James ensconced comfortably in his lap, nodding off even before Dom gets past the first page.
There's nowhere else in the world he would rather be than here, in neither dreams nor reality, and after he tucks James and Phillipa in and kisses them both goodnight, he stays there just for a little while longer, sitting cross-legged on the carpet, just listening to them breathe, and perhaps nodding off himself as well.
Nowhere else at all.
II. Ariadne
The branches twist on and up above her, stark against the grey sky, stripped bare and almost ugly in a sense. They trap the colorless clouds in a tangle of darkness, all the remnants of its beauty lie scattered on the ground, deep reds and fiery oranges and bright yellows that swirl up in a movement of color when the wind sweeps through the landscape in one broad stroke.
From her position among the branches, Ariadne draws her coat tighter around her frame, and shivers. She tilts her head back against the worn tree trunk, fingers reaching out blindly along the familiar grooves of the bark, tracing and retracing paths only she knows. This is her private place, her sanctuary, her solitary refuge of which no one knows - well okay, she's pretty sure everyone knows about it because it's the only tree in the backyard and not twenty paces away from the back porch - and wisely never dares to approach.
Throughout the years, this has been her hiding place, this old apple tree that's not really fit for climbing and bears no more fruit, its gnarled branches hugged by her arms and legs from the moment she'd first swung up onto the lowermost limb with a shout of triumph, its roots watered many a time by her tears over the years - when she fell due to a misplaced foot at age seven and broke her arm, when Jimmy Vern asked Monica Ires to the winter dance in middle school, the day she got her period in Geometry class when she had been wearing a white skirt, or when her parents told her they didn't love each other (or her) enough to stay together anymore.
No one lives in the house now, and the worn and battered sign in the untidy front yard declares the property to still be FOR SALE, but Ariadne doesn't care - she comes back here anyway, back to the tree in the backyard of her childhood home, comes back to scale its branches (there are natural footholds worn into the bark over the years and now she's as quick and sure-footed as a cat), to wonder and dream, to stare up at the twisted branches and think of nothing and everything at once.
Most girls hide in their bedrooms, hugging stuffed animals to their chests and scribbling furiously in diaries with purple sparkly fuzzy-ended pens, but Ariadne prefers the latticework framing of tree branches against sky, the instability of nature, the impermanence of life itself all around her. She came back here after the inception, thinking about Cobb and his children, of Mal and her words (have you ever been a lover?), wishing poor Robert Fischer all the best. She thought of handsome, straight-laced Arthur (who is a damn good kisser) and Eames, loud and friendly and grinning, of the hurt she'd seen flashing across his features in the hotel lobby after she kissed Arthur.
(And oh, those two so did not get off the hook. Ariadne made sure of that, made sure that all the looks, the flirting, and the unresolved sexual tension that had to have been brimming under the surface for so long amounted to something. Today, she thinks of the two men and smiles.)
"Ari?" Ariadne blinks and looks down into the concerned face, at the dash of freckles across a thin nose and at the ears that are far too big for the corresponding head, at the man who looks like nothing special, but somehow managed to steal her heart all the same.
Brad smiles up hesitantly. The tips of his ears and nose are red from the chill; he's got his hands stuck in his pockets and he's doing that weird scuffing the ground thing with his shoe that he always does when he's nervous. "You okay up there?"
"Yeah. I'm fine."
"Okay." Scuff, scuff, scuff. "Um...I guess I'll go wait in the car, then." He turns to go, shoulders hunched up against the cold.
He's in her space, Ariadne realizes, and gives a start - but not because of the invasion of privacy or out of any urge to protect the security of her sanctuary - rather, because the thought of stay registers and rings out in her mind again, as clear as a bell. Well, that's certainly new. The last time someone tried to barge her way into her private spot, Ariadne had picked an apple right off its stem and hurled it at the intruder's head, purely on instinct.
(Poor Cousin May. She's still terrified of Ariadne even to this day, and just about cried the last time they served apple pie at the last family reunion.)
Ariadne twists the silver band on her fourth finger, touches the diamond, and makes up her mind. "Brad, wait," she calls, and smiles at her fiancee when he turns around. "Wanna come up?"
He grins then, big and goofy and in a way that brightens up his entire countenance, and reaches for the first branch.
When he misses and falls on his ass, Ariadne throws her head back and laughs.
III. Saito
Despite what many think, Saito is a very private man.
He slips off the straw zōri at the door, and steps slowly across the smooth floorboards. The floor is hollow underneath, but he makes no sound in the tradition cotton tabi he wears; his movements are slow and graceful, reverent as they ought to be in such a place of peace.
He's a very powerful man, that much is certainly true, a man who can buy airlines on a whim and hire the best extraction team in the dangerous and illegal world of subconscious security. He rises above the letter of the law, a legend to be feared and admired, spoken of in hushed whispers by his opponents and adorers alike. Now, with Fischer Industries' disbandment and demise, Saito has risen above the level of a mere celebrity; now, he is akin to a god.
The door faces the east, as tradition dictates, and the latticework on the windows cut the soft grey light streaming in through the windows into ribbons, shredded even further by the rice paper screens. The interior of the temple is small and discreet, only one room and with little furniture, modest.
He is a god, yes, but Saito prefers his own temple - and not one for himself. There are no gilt decorations, no slick polished conference table, no high-backed leather chairs or cardboard smiles on mechanical faces of men who are too weak to speak their minds and grovel pathetically at his feet.
In his temple, Saito is the one who kneels down in the presence of his ancestors, humbling himself for his father who was a patient man, for his grandfather who was a shrewd man, for his brother who was a dishonorable drunkard, but whom Saito remembers and prays for all the same. The sleeves of his simple and plain black kimono drape on the ground as he touches his forehead down to the floorboards and inhales the smell of cedar wood.
This is his most private sanctum, a place that none has ever entered, of which he shares with neither wife nor mistress, business partner nor confidant. It is quiet and peaceful, but most of all, it is a haven that, in his mind, is more protected than the safe in which he keeps his business secrets. Even Dominic Cobb, for all his skill, would never enter or even find this place.
(Mr. Davidson though, is a different matter. He had no Shade clouding his consciousness - just putting a bullet in his knee - and Saito is sure that the hawk-eyed, intelligent point man knows of this place hidden away in the business mogul's mind. But Arthur is a private man as well, and Saito trusts him.)
The smell of incense fills his nostrils as he gazes at the bonzi tree, at the small dish upon which sits a pile of salt to ward off evil spirits, at the scroll upon which he meditates.
Chisha wa madowazu, yuusha wa osorezu, jinsha wa ureezu. The wise have no delusions, the brave have no fears, the benevolent have no worries.
Kokoro wa hanatan kotowo yousu. The mind must be set free.
He thinks then, of the years - mere minutes in reality, but forever in his mind - spent in limbo, of losing hope, of seeing the face of Dominic Cobb after so long and then remembering.
He doesn't dream much anymore.
Then, in the privacy of the temple he meditates. The mind must be set free.
IV. Yusuf
His name really isn't as exotic as it seems. Once translated, it's actually pretty pedestrian; it means "Joseph".
Joseph. The dream interpreter. Joseph of the multicolored coat, who was his father's darling, who drew the envy of all his brothers, so much so that they sold him into slavery, into the land of Egypt.
Yusuf's never been to Egypt before. He prefers wearing simple colors; the chemist is never supposed to draw attention to himself anyway, and he would really rather not gain the notoriety Cobb and Arthur hold. He has no brothers, only six sisters, and even so... well, his father wanted him to stay and take over the family business. Yusuf grew up wanting to become a rocket scientist. Enough said.
On normal jobs (although he really doesn't have to take anymore, Cobb proved good on his word in giving him his entire share), he always fades into the background, seemingly unimportant and often ignored. That is, until one by one, they all drop off into dreamland, and he's left to watch over all of them - the extractor in all his pomposity as the leader, the smug architect, the anal-retentive point man, and the forger who's really too big for his britches. There are three types of people you really shouldn't piss off - the people who handle your coffee, those who prepare your food, and those who know enough about chemicals to fuck up your dosage of Somnacin if he feels like it.
On the inception job though, it was different. Yusuf genuinely liked those he worked with: Ariadne and her kindness (she would one day make a very great name for herself; of that he's sure), Cobb and his drive to return to his children (Yusuf can appreciate that type of determination in a man), Eames with whom he'd been friends for quite a while before this, and Arthur, the meticulous point man. Any man who would willingly resign himself to being used as a dummy for round after round of drug tests gains Yusuf's respect, hands down.
(Although, personally, Yusuf doesn't really think Arthur is as "bloody gorgeous of a wanker" as Eames' drunken confessions make him out to be.)
During the inception, Yusuf drove the entire team through the first level of a dream, flipped the van over, and backed it into the railing of a bridge and then off the damn bridge itself. Chemists usually never go into the dream, and he was relieved to be out of Robert Fischer's mind when it was all said and done because here, here is where he belongs - among the acids and bases, where the laws of nature and physics still apply, where science still makes sense when nothing else does or can.
Why interpret dreams for Pharaohs or do the work of a supposed God who never shows His face when, in his lab, he can be a God?
V. Eames
"Hey, Mum."
The wind whistles through the small yard and he tugs the peacoat closer, hunching his shoulders up against cutting cold. It's the one Arthur bought for him ages ago, on that job in St. Petersburg when he'd shown up at the rendezvous spot (a posh, upscale hotel with crystal chandeliers and all) soaking wet and nearly hypothermic, thanks to a luggage mixup at the airport. It had been their...sixth job, if he remembers correctly. Arthur had been wearing the three piece Yves St. Laurent ensemble Eames sent him as an apology for ruining the point man's suit on their previous job (stupid coffee; that's why he always sticks to Earl Grey now), and by the end of the job, Eames had to smile at the irony of the fact that the two of them had been wearing each other's clothes - in a vague sense of the words.
"It's been a while, yeah?" He twists the stem of the single trumpet lily in his fingers, nervous. Eames is always nervous around his mother, although he knows it's stupid to be. Perhaps it's because she's the woman who gave birth to him, the only one who has ever had the right to call him darling (and he'd always been William to her), the youngest son who stayed behind when everyone else ran off. Perhaps it's because she's the only woman he's ever loved so much that it hurt. "I missed you."
She doesn't reply. Of course she doesn't. He always comes to visit whenever he travels to England, no matter the job or the weather, and always with a single trumpet lily, her favorite. It'd been the flowers in her bouquet on her wedding day. And whenever he comes to visit he talks and talks, about everything and anything, but she never says anything back.
He almost wishes that she would.
Slowly, he gets to his knees; the dried leaves and crackle under the redistribution of weight and he painstakingly, carefully begins to pull at the patches of weeds surrounding the smooth slate, clearing the patch of ground around the headstone. He lifts a hand slowly; his fingers, now twice broken and twice repaired (they used to be just like hers, delicate and elegant) trace the engraved letters, the gentle curve of the C and the long, broad stroke of the E, the letters that make up a word, a name, a woman who lies six feet under:
Charlotte Evangeline Eames.
"Well, the job went well," he tells her. "The mark gave everything up without much of a fuss. Arthur was a bit disappointed, the poor darling. All his hard work gone to waste."
His lips twitch into a smirk as he remembers the way the very tips of Arthur's ears turned red when the mark practically began salivating the moment he stepped into the room, ignoring Eames' forged tall, buxom blonde and instead making a beeline for the handsome point man, babbling all of his secrets without the slightest hesitation. Ariadne had been falling off the barstool in attempts to hide her laughter and while Eames hadn't found it the least bit funny at the moment, now he can appreciate the hilarity of the situation.
"You'd really like him, Mum," he blurts out suddenly, and then he feels the tears welling in his eyes, hot and unrelenting. "You would. He's...he's...he's mine, and you would've loved him too."
She's silent, like always, and Eames shakes his head at his own foolishness, shoulders slumping ever so slightly because, grown man that he is, he had thought for an instant that the words might have been able to elicit some sort of response. Tilting his head back slightly, he stares up at the sky, absent-mindedly rubbing the pad of his thumb over the skin of his fourth finger.
"It's getting closer," he murmurs almost inaudibly, and leans his forehead against the cool stone, shutting his eyes tightly. "Phillipa's going to be our little flower girl. Cobb's giving Arthur away." He pauses. "Arthur wants to save you a seat."
Silence.
Eames sighs. "I love you, Mum."
The words fly into the wind whistling through the small churchyard as he gets to his feet, pressing a kiss to his fingertips and brushing them against the top of the headstone before turning away, carefully picking his way among the grave markers, heading toward the black Bentley idling just outside the wrought iron gate.
Arthur stares straight ahead as the forger gets into the passenger seat, bringing in a gust of the chill November air. His black leather-gloved hands tighten fractionally on the steering wheel but he says nothing, simply puts the car into gear and presses on the accelerator.
He'd already said everything that had to be said earlier, when Eames had been doing his best imitation of a burrito in the bed sheets and coverlet, as he stood in front of the drab slate headstone in the small drizzling mist of the early morning.
"Hello, Ms. Eames. My name is Arthur Davidson, and I'm going to marry your son, William."
Eames's hand is cold when Arthur takes it and winds their fingers together. The interior of the car smells like lilies.
VI. Arthur
He never had a home throughout his childhood; he had many temporary dwelling places. It's what happens when one gets circulated through the foster care system.
Lights. Colors. Sounds. He blinks and tries to make sense of it all, but he can't. A strange feeling shoots through him, not at all unlike an electrical shock, and his hackles rise because he knows where he's standing, as the lines begin to connect and the sensory input whirling all around him solidifies into a concrete setting, a recognizable place that he never wanted to see ever again.
But how can he possibly be here?
Things aren't really all that different now. Now it's hotels and empty warehouses, office building complexes and the paradoxical structures of the human mind, empty spaces that he inhabits for only one night at a time. They're simply places to sleep and nothing more, and most of the times, he doesn't even sleep in rooms anyway.
The landscape blurs around him then, and, frantically, he tries to reach for his totem, for his die, only to find it nowhere on his person. Oh God, no. Not again.
There aren't many places Arthur visits more than once; he's a criminal and that's just the way things are when one's job is illegal in practically every civilized society on God's green Earth. He's always greeted warmly at the Cobb residence, and certainly Phillipa and James have asked him to stay for sleepovers and the like more than once, but Arthur is always careful not to overstay his welcome.
Somewhere up ahead, a tall, broad-shouldered man strides casually down along the street and his heart jumps; he tries to call out but remains mute, tries to walk forward, but his feet are rooted down into the ground. Overcome by frustration, he opens his mouth and hollers out silently, throws back his head and screams at the cloudless red sky.
"Love? What's wrong? Ow!" Someone's shaking him roughly, and his limbs flail outwards, one fist catching the other on the chin as the other hand reaches underneath the pillow, fingers closing around the grip of the gun stashed there. "Bloody - Arthur!"
The bedside lamp clicks on, and Arthur blinks in the sudden light, chest heaving and breath coming in shallow pants. Eames gazes down at him, one hand pinning his right fist to the bed, the other gently plucking the Glock from Arthur's fingers. His eyes are filled with concern as he slowly, slowly releases the point man's wrists because he knows that Arthur never likes to be held down or constrained in any way. "Alright, darling?"
Arthur sucks in a deep breath. "I...I think...I think I was dreaming." His voice is awed, surprised, and tinged with an undercurrent of fear as well.
The confession - if it can be called as such - sound stupid even to his own ears, and he expects Eames to laugh or groan and turn over, because the clock on the nightstand blares 3:24 AM in red digital lights, and the job they'd just completed had been hard on the both of them. He doesn't expect Eames to smile fondly at him, reach out, and pull him close before he can protest.
Lying like this, chest to chest and with his head tucked in the crook of Eames' neck, nose brushing against the forger's collarbone and inhaling sandalwood and spice and something else that is so unmistakably Eames, his eyelids slowly begin to flutter and Arthur's heartbeat slows back to its normal pace. Eames holds him like no one else ever has - lover or otherwise - and Arthur's never before ceded his trust so readily, so easily, allowing himself to be cradled close and allowing Eames to gently card fingers through his hair, to press a kiss to his forehead, to murmur nonsensical things like Alright, love and hush, now and just a dream, I'm here. I'm here.
Arthur has no idea where "here" is or where he's supposed to belong, but so long as Eames is there with him, he's content.