Fever Dream (Inception; Arthur/Ariadne)
Ariadne hates the heat.
It sticks to her bones and slides down her skin; her jacket lays crumbled and discarded at her bare feet. The world around her blurs, melts into an oil painting - her chess piece sits quietly beside her, without comment, refusing to tip over into the warm, gritty sand.
Ariadne? Can you hear me?
No city lies behind her. She doesn’t have the energy to build, to create, to be a god today.
She’s not waki-
-ospital here’s dirty as a sewer -
Before her is an ocean that boils without her permission. The sun swells in the sky and laps at her bare arms, making her feel sick. Ariadne wonders why everything seems so transparent, why it flickers in and out and faces she once knew outline the clouds.
A spot on the inside of her wrist begins to itch.
-stupid idea, Arthur, all you’ll end up doing-
-uck you, Eames. Just be quiet-
The world finally brings itself into focus, lines sharpening and defining themselves in her vision. Ariadne watches the sea calm, watches Arthur gasp out hot water and drag himself on the beach.
“I’m dreaming you,” she says. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of pants and his shirt sleeves, his hair curling in a way she’s never seen in reality. “Guess it’d be nice to have some company.”
He sits in front of her, doesn’t hesitate in cupping her entire face with his hands (and she would be happy, but she’s just so tired). His eyes search out hers and blink the salt away. “You have to wake up, Ariadne.” He falters for a moment, swallows thickly and forces himself to cough the words back up. “I need to see you wake up.”
She wants to oblige him. He looks a little desperate, and it’s a rare day when he wears that expression; she feels a little proud for being the reason. She puts a hand over his, and he feels cool to the touch; a relief. “Stay.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not staying, and you’re not either.”
Abruptly, the world around them shifts; the ocean rises up on itself and roars. It fills with frost and ice, snow and everything she can think of that’s cold. Arthur moves to sit beside her on the beach and takes her hand. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“This won’t be the most pleasant way to wake up.”
It isn’t.
Ariadne gasps and chokes on ice cold water that slides down her throat. She thrashes around because everything is just so cold cold cold -
“Ariadne!”
It’s Arthur, pulling the cords from his wrist and from hers. She can see Eames and Yusuf in the background of her sight, and Eames’ hands are dripping wet. She shivers uncontrollably and realizes she’s in a bathtub full of ice with nothing but her thin pajamas to cover her. The porcelain walls shine too brightly and the stink of their hotel (cheap and hidden, cornered away in the slums) strikes her in the face.
She seeks out Arthur’s eyes and catches them fast. Something in them breaks, and she thinks it might be the fear.
“I’m sorry. It was the only way to get your fever down. You’ve been out for days.” He says it again, just for good measure: I’m sorry.
Ariadne doesn’t want him to be.
Arthur lifts her out of the tub when he’s convinced the fever’s gone down enough (and she can’t really process the idea of days, not when it feels like minutes) and she doesn’t feel remorse for soaking his shirt straight through. Besides warmth, besides not feeling like her whole body was revolting against her, she wants her totem so she can convince herself this really isn’t a dream.
She fades away again, but this time it’s dreamless and it feels as if she just closed her eyes. When she wakes up a second time, the world doesn’t seem quite so hazy, and Arthur sits at her bedside wearing a fresh suit and chewing on ice chips. The city around them practically crawls.
Arthur smiles when he sees her awake - not just any smile, but practically a grin, as content and genuinely happy as she’s ever seen him.
He wears it well, she thinks.