FIC: Thread (1/1)
Title: Thread
Author: lepetitarsenic
Fandom: Inception
Pairing/Characters: Cobb, Ariadne
Rating: PG
Summary: What is Ariadne? Dom wonders.
Spoilers: End of film.
A/N: “Where I End and You Begin” by Radiohead is such a perfect song for this fandom, and my recommended listening for this fic. This is my first weird little Inception bit- I'll try something more traditional later.
-----------------------
Not for the first time, Dom wonders where she came from. If she went home to a modest student apartment when she left him, cluttered with pencils and half-bent cheap compasses, shoved in the bottom of bookbags. The chess piece was a nice touch. Another toy, just like his totem, and Arthur's- like Mal’s-
She had picked it up quickly. Or, rather, she had picked him up quickly. All the in-between of talking, working, of getting-to-know one another was nowhere to be found in his memory. They met, she understood him. He didn’t question it, simply accepted her, and that was the most terrifying fact about the tiniest girl in Paris with the most unreadable eyes.
You didn't question. Not until long after the final kick.
The girl was nothing like Mal: no tremulous voice or soft curves, no grace or force of presence. She slipped, quietly, down streets and back alleys. Once she learned the rules (quick- too quick) his projections rarely noticed her at all. She was small, sharp, muted; like he was in broad strokes and tiny daubs. A familiar flame burned in her eyes.
The name too- Ariadne. The new architect, come conveniently, fitting perfectly to finish a job he’d abandoned but couldn’t get out of his head. She was exactly (too exactly) what he’d been once and couldn’t stomach being anymore, couldn’t control without this wisp of an avatar, with her clever questions and too-knowing looks. She was never afraid, only curious. He was never afraid, and he had been too curious once. She was Dom in reverse- Dom before the fall.
He was not surprised to hear himself say that he needed her with him down below. Ariadne didn’t build the labyrinth, in the story: she loved the man sent down to conquer that half-formed dream of a monster, and unspooled a path of thread so that he could come back to her on the surface. The victory was shallow, not the point. He could send himself infinitely further down. Only she cold talk him back up to whatever level she came from.
Mr. Charles was a trick, a little lie that rarely held up to scrutiny by anyone with any practice. But like all ideas in the dream world, it spiraled out of control, grew quick and inescapable. If you wanted something it would be there, real enough for you to believe in no matter how impossible. The subconscious was clever. It surmounted obstacles to which the mind wouldn’t even admit. The concept of self was impossible for the conscious mind to touch; his subconscious navigated deftly around him, around Dom Cobb, around an impossible I.
It was interesting, to say the least, that no one recognized her for what she was. Eames respected her like Eames respected him, and Arthur loved her, just like he loved him- Miles was fond of her in a fatherly sort of way, as was right and proper, but Mal, well. The shade of Mal loathed her, feared her, stabbed her and shot her and pushed her over high ledges, screaming and cursing with animal fury. The shade knew her for death. Mal knew her for what she was, what he needed, what he couldn’t be as Dom Cobb anymore, not since he’d lost half that whole to his own hubris.
He crawled back along the fragile thread he’d followed in, feeling his way; the strand was thin. If he looked at it wrong she faded back into the walls.
Author: lepetitarsenic
Fandom: Inception
Pairing/Characters: Cobb, Ariadne
Rating: PG
Summary: What is Ariadne? Dom wonders.
Spoilers: End of film.
A/N: “Where I End and You Begin” by Radiohead is such a perfect song for this fandom, and my recommended listening for this fic. This is my first weird little Inception bit- I'll try something more traditional later.
-----------------------
Not for the first time, Dom wonders where she came from. If she went home to a modest student apartment when she left him, cluttered with pencils and half-bent cheap compasses, shoved in the bottom of bookbags. The chess piece was a nice touch. Another toy, just like his totem, and Arthur's- like Mal’s-
She had picked it up quickly. Or, rather, she had picked him up quickly. All the in-between of talking, working, of getting-to-know one another was nowhere to be found in his memory. They met, she understood him. He didn’t question it, simply accepted her, and that was the most terrifying fact about the tiniest girl in Paris with the most unreadable eyes.
You didn't question. Not until long after the final kick.
The girl was nothing like Mal: no tremulous voice or soft curves, no grace or force of presence. She slipped, quietly, down streets and back alleys. Once she learned the rules (quick- too quick) his projections rarely noticed her at all. She was small, sharp, muted; like he was in broad strokes and tiny daubs. A familiar flame burned in her eyes.
The name too- Ariadne. The new architect, come conveniently, fitting perfectly to finish a job he’d abandoned but couldn’t get out of his head. She was exactly (too exactly) what he’d been once and couldn’t stomach being anymore, couldn’t control without this wisp of an avatar, with her clever questions and too-knowing looks. She was never afraid, only curious. He was never afraid, and he had been too curious once. She was Dom in reverse- Dom before the fall.
He was not surprised to hear himself say that he needed her with him down below. Ariadne didn’t build the labyrinth, in the story: she loved the man sent down to conquer that half-formed dream of a monster, and unspooled a path of thread so that he could come back to her on the surface. The victory was shallow, not the point. He could send himself infinitely further down. Only she cold talk him back up to whatever level she came from.
Mr. Charles was a trick, a little lie that rarely held up to scrutiny by anyone with any practice. But like all ideas in the dream world, it spiraled out of control, grew quick and inescapable. If you wanted something it would be there, real enough for you to believe in no matter how impossible. The subconscious was clever. It surmounted obstacles to which the mind wouldn’t even admit. The concept of self was impossible for the conscious mind to touch; his subconscious navigated deftly around him, around Dom Cobb, around an impossible I.
It was interesting, to say the least, that no one recognized her for what she was. Eames respected her like Eames respected him, and Arthur loved her, just like he loved him- Miles was fond of her in a fatherly sort of way, as was right and proper, but Mal, well. The shade of Mal loathed her, feared her, stabbed her and shot her and pushed her over high ledges, screaming and cursing with animal fury. The shade knew her for death. Mal knew her for what she was, what he needed, what he couldn’t be as Dom Cobb anymore, not since he’d lost half that whole to his own hubris.
He crawled back along the fragile thread he’d followed in, feeling his way; the strand was thin. If he looked at it wrong she faded back into the walls.