Inception: Ariadne/Arthur/Fischer [All That We Keep, part VI]
Title: All That We Keep, part VI
Author: namistai8
Rating: R for language, slight smexiness
Pairing: Ariadne/Fischer, Ariadne/Arthur
Word Count: 3,662
Disclaimer/Notes/Whatever: Nolan owns, I just borrow. Fischer comes back, Arthur messes up, and everyone's favorite forger makes a cameo appearance!
All That We Keep, Part I | All That We Keep, Part II | All That We Keep, Part III | All That We Keep, Part IV | All That We Keep, Part V
"But it was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn't I, my dear?
Mumford & Sons "Little Lion Man"
Ariadne can feel all of the blood draining from her face, can feel herself get herself a little lightheaded and the room would have started to spin at the edges of her vision if she was capable of seeing anything but Robert's face. She feels trapped in the blue of his gaze, which reminds her to brilliant summer days when the sun is uncomfortable to look at and you have to squint your eyes or go blind. She closes her eyes so she can breathe, hide herself from the panic that has risen and taken a hold of her entire body. She's not sure that her ramrod posture is better than fainting, and can't help both comforted and alarmed that at least a portion of her brain is still functioning, thinking about the optics of her reaction and how Robert may be interpreting them. She doesn't know if its her survival instinct or professional skills kicking in, but its an equally startling revelation about herself as the bomb that Robert has uttered just mere seconds ago and it makes her want to throw up.
She opens her eyes again, and Robert is no longer looking into her eyes directly and its broken the immediate tension. It still hangs in the air, heavy and sticky and she's not sure what happens next. She's learned a long time that you can't unsay things that have been said, and part of her wishes that she could just make it go away. Because then she could go on pretending. Pretending that Robert and her were friends, pretend there wasn't anything else, pretend he was just a job, pretend that she can just walk away from this.
"I think we need to talk," Robert says softly and Ariadne automatically nods her head, wishing that he was still cold, or angry, or upset. It would have made it easier for her to deal with the entire situation, or even to just flat out walk out of the apartment. Now she wonders what he's going to say, if he's regretting his words. Robert has a reckless streak, which he typically keeps tightly leashed. He usually measures his words carefully, and she can see him do that now, feel him pick and choose his words, feel the weight between his hands and lay down the ones he doesn't feel are right, or are too heavy, or too sharp.
"I like to think we're friends," he starts and he purses his lips. "I don't have many friends." Ariadne can't help but think that he doesn't have any real friends, but stamps out that thought out quickly, like some sort of rogue spark.
"I think we're dating. You would think I would know if we were or were not, but I've got no frame of reference for anything with you," he continues, and there's something in his manner or perhaps its in the tone that makes him seem a little lost, or confused. Trails of empathy start to unfurl somewhere in the pit of her stomach, which is slick with sweat and it seems to paralyze her. "You're not like anyone else I've ever met. And this... isn't like anything else in my life."
Ariadne forces her throat to swallow, forces herself to breathe, forces herself to listen and not think.
"I'm not sure what it is that I want from you," and this time his eyes catch her and Ariadne is again taken aback by the intensity in his eyes. She feels like if he could, he would devour her and spit her bones out and be done with her if that would solve the mystery for him. But it wouldn't.
Which is why he doesn't. And why he doesn't know what to do next. "I wasn't looking for this when I came to Paris, although I sure as hell don't know what it is I was expecting to find."
"Why me?" Ariadne forces herself to ask, and even her voice sounds rusty to her, and she winces mentally. It's such an unfair question, because she knows the answer. Because of the inception job, and they mucked around in his subconscious and it remembers her, even if Robert can't. And because even now, she's got her hooks into him and he's just following the string that she's left for him, deeper and deeper into the laberynth.
"Because I turned around, and you were there, and you were real," he replies, unable to still explain it to himself. "I can't get you out of my mind," he admits, his palms turning upward, in a gesture of helplessness, grasping at invisible straws.
And Ariadne knows that Robert is truly caught in this web that she has spun. And while she's had help with the spinning - and she refuses to think about him, she knows she's the main one. Except it's all real and there's no way to unspin it all. There's no easy way to set Robert free, and as she locks eyes with Robert again, she's not sure he would thank her for cutting him loose.
"Robert, I..." Adriane starts to say, but just falls silent because she doesn't know what to say. Torn between telling him the truth, a lie, and any number of variations, she can't seem to force anything out. She can't even grasp or grope her way through, because she doesn't know where it will end. All she knows is that somewhere along the line, she is going to hurt this lonely, arrogant, intelligent man because he's become real to her, the same way she's become real to him and it's not going to end well.
"Don't, just don't," Robert cuts in, looking away. "Let's just say you mean something to me, and I'd like to think I mean something to you. I'm here in Paris for the rest of the year, trying to figure out what to do with my life and you're finishing your dissertation and you'll be figuring out what you want from your life and maybe we'll figure it out. And it might work out, or it might not in the end. Just don't say something you don't mean, or something you'll wish you could take back later."
Adriane feels the stinging in her eyes, and tears out of the apartment as unexpectedly as she arrived, as quick as a tornado that has just ravaged a countryside.
***
She wakes up with her eyes swollen, her body lethargic and her spirit feeling weighed down by her thoughts and guilt-induced self recriminations. She walks to the bathroom, avoiding the mirror, unable to look at herself. Somewhere from there and here, lines were crossed. She has no idea why she's been going along with this charade within a charade. And more importantly, she lied to herself. And she can't understand why. Oh, she had rationalizations. But at 3 AM in the morning, they didn't seem as clean and crisp as she had thought them to be.
Adriane wishes desperately for a fairy godmother. Someone who will magically appear, wave their wand, and make everything alright. Or at least, point at the direction where she should be going. Hopefully along the lines of 'Follow the Yellow Brick Road', minus the musical number.
She walks into her kitchen, chokes back a scream and decides that the universe has an utterly perverse sense of humor.
Eames is fiddling in her kitchen, pulling croissants from a white paper bag, as the kettle starts steaming. Deftly, he pulls it off the burner and pours piping hot water into two mugs with tea bags, the little red tag in sharp contrast against the white porcelain.
"Your locks are utter crap. I also had to purchase food, and tea. You didn't have a proper blend at all," Eames says breezily, with a cheeky smile on his face as he turns around. Adriane can't contain her smile and just hurtles herself into his arms. Eames grunts and hugs her back.
"Well, if this is thank you a bloke gets for making you tea, I'd love to see what kind of thank you I'd get for breakfast," Eames waggles his eyebrows suggestively at her, dropping a sloppy kiss on her cheek.
"You'd have to actually make breakfast, instead of purchasing it," Adriane retorts tartly and can't help but think of brown worsted wool pants, madelines and the scent of coffee in the air. Eames just deposits a steaming mug in her hands and Adriane reaches for a buttery croissant.
"Never would have figured you for the plain white type myself," Eames comments conversationally.
"I'm not," Adriane says before biting into her pastry. All of her dishes are colorful, patterned, some sporting nicks and chips, a mish-mash of hodge podge of items that she's picked up from flea markets. Robert bought her a plain white Meissen porcelain set for four, scandalized at the lack of uniformity. She had laughed and called it "hotel ware", much to his indignation.
Eames says nothing as he takes a sip from his tea, and Adriane is at a loss on where to begin. It seems almost too convenient for Eames to be here, to serve as her confessor. More importantly, if Adriane is to admit to her sins, will there be atonement or redemption? Would it solve anything to talk to Eames? Would it exorcise the demons or simply serve to placate her own guilty conscience?
"Before you say anything too incriminating darling, I have to remind you that there is no honor among thieves," Eames says easily, and though his smile is still in place, and there is still sympathy in the way he has cocked his head, his eyes are a little too clear and direct for Adriane's peace of mind.
Not that she doesn't appreciate the warning in his tone. If anything, Eames is warning her against herself. And in the world that she has chosen to be a part of, knowing someone's secrets or weaknesses is as good as currency. She can't fault Eames for being who he is. Even when it makes her realize how truly alone she is in this mess.
"Oh Eames," Adriane just sighes, really wishing that her life wasn't this complicated. Here she was, talking to a colleague, and a friend, which she considered Eames to be, in the somewhat liberal interpretation of the word. More importantly, here is someone that just might be able to understand her particular dilemma. Or perhaps not. Eames wasn't exactly known for his moral compass. Anyone who had no compunctions in pretending to be other people probably had a more loose sense of morality than she did. Maybe she was in big trouble if she was having a crisis of conscience and was looking at Eames for guidance.
For a minute, Adriane wishes she could really talk to Cobb, but that was out of the question. Cobb was out, and knowing full well the price he had paid to exit this life, and there was no way Adriane was dragging back to solve her problem.
"How much do you know?" she asks, curious in spite of everything else.
"Enough," Eames's brevity is telling. She suspects that Eames is here as insurance. Saito is the soul of care, and he's not afraid to go big as long as its the most convenient and hassle -roof solution.
"I see," Ariadne answers. It seems like an inane response in light of everything. She wants to ask Eames if he's spoken to Arthur, but she already knows the answer. What she really wants to know is what Arthur has told Eames, but she doubts that Eames would ever give her a straight answer on that account.
Eames reaches out to Adriane, takes her hand and asks sincerely, "Do you need me to get you out of this?"
Adriane is ridiculously touched, and can't keep from tearing up, just a little. She is torn between YES and NO. Part of the hesitation is that she is not sure what that might mean for her or Robert. Part of her knows that is just running away, and wonders if she looked back at this moment, years from now if she would regret it. Part of her just wants to close her eyes and make it all go away. Part of her knows that all actions have consequences, and that she would just be avoiding what is inevitable. Ariadne teeters in indecision, between the two poles of the possible answers and everything in between.
Before she can answer, Robert walks in through the door, calling her name "Ariadne?". The look of uncertainty fades from his eyes as she can see him register the scene. Here she is, in her jammies, having breakfast with an attractive male that he has never met.
"Robert? Whh.. what are you doing here?" she manages to stutter out. Her mind starts to whirl and spin, trying to come up with a possible explanation as to why Eames is here. The word friend is insufficient, and to say close friend would mean that she has mentioned and/or talked about him before, which she has been sure to avoid.
"I thought we should talk about what happened yesterday," Robert says stiffly, as he makes his way to her side and snaking a propietary arm around her waist. "But perhaps introductions are in order," he lifts a questioning brow at her.
"Ariadne, you naughty kitten. You never mentioned that your beau was SO DIVINE," Eames positively gushes, sending her a look of mock reproof. "Eames, at your service," he adds suggestively with an extended hand while giving Robert a once over. Robert shakes hands and Eames's hand lingers a trifle too long, while he winks flirtatiously at Robert.
Ariadne suppresses a giggle at Eames's mannerisms. His decided interest in Robert, along with all of the subconscious signs, has an instant effect on Robert. His stiffness is gone, and the nature of his wariness has changed. This might be the first time that he's ever gotten hit on by another man. Or at least, quite so blatantly.
"Errr... pleasure to meet you," Robert responds, a little unsure.
"Oh, the pleasure is all mine," Eames purrs, still making eyes at Robert. "Here Ariadne and I were having a nice, perfectly boring, girl's chat when you decided to join us."
"Perfectly boring?" Ariadne asks archly. The irony would surely kill them. It would definitely kill Eames. Although he seemed to thrive on irony at times.
"Well love, it's more exciting meeting your new man, honestly," Eames adds cheekily. "Where did you two ever meet? And can I find another one like him there?"
Robert cracks a smile. "Errr.... I hope not," he adds.
"Well in that case, why don't we all go out for some proper breakfast and you can give me a chance to steal you away from Ariadne?" Eames asks easily, but Ariadne catches a glimpse of something in the twinkle of Eames' eye.
"Why don't we?" Ariadne murmurs to herself. Robert gazes down at her, and she pastes a bright and sunny smile on her face.
***
There is not a chance that morning for Robert to have a private word with her, for which she is thankful to Eames. That's not to say the morning hasn't been taxing in other ways, but at least she hasn't been filled with dread of what she would say. Because she has to respond to Robert --- he's made it impossible for her not to. And he is right --- things that are said cannot be unsaid.
Although Ariadne knows too much about words that have never been said.
At least, Robert will never be suspicious of Eames, who has firmly established himself as Ariadne's gay confidante of choice.
Robert leaves them in the cafe, citing a meeting that he cannot miss and Ariadne is glad to see him go. The facade is starting to crack and she feels exhausted. She knows that this but a temporary reprieve. There will be a reckoning. She can taste on Robert's lips and in the lingering look he gives her before leaving.
Eames deposits back in her apartment and Ariadne walks up the stairs slowly, absorbed in her own thoughts again.
She should have been surprised that Arthur is in her apartment, waiting for her, looking out the window by her couch, hands clasped behind him. But she's not. Not really. After all, everyone seems to be coming into her apartment unannounced or without her permission, sometimes both. She drinks in the line of his shoulder, the contrasting satiny inky gray of the back of his woolen vest against the stark white of his shirt.
"I came to apologize. You were not here, so I decided to wait," Arthur says, his voice echoing back to her, since he's still facing away from her.
Adriane drops her purse on the bag, and it lands with a dull thud. She slithers out of her jacket, which makes a softer thud when it hits the floor next to her bag. She doesn't say anything, because she's not sure what to say to Arthur anymore.
"I was out of line. And it was unprofessional of me. I shouldn't have questioned your integrity," Arthur continues, still directing his words to the window.
Ariadne realizes in a flash that Arthur is profoundly uncomfortable with facing her right now - either because he really means what he is saying or because he is not one for apologies. Ordinarily, she would have cut him a break by now, and said something - anything really - to ease the moment. But at the moment, she's too tired from dealing with her own feelings, and her thoughts of Robert, to ease Arthur's guilt.
"I was angry. And I took it out on you, and that's not fair. It wasn't your fault," Arthur adds.
Ariadne stares at his back. She pauses for a moment before lobbing a grenade at him. "I think he loves me," Ariadne says softly, almost to herself.
Arthur whirls around, his face having gone white. A tiny part of Ariadne rejoices in malicious glee at his reaction. His face is haggard, and there's slight bags under his eyes. It softens his face, actually. The tiny imperfections make him look more human. Less put together. More handsome. His eyes are wide on her, and Ariadne swears she can see a frisson of panic in them, and hear the mechanical gears in his whirling maniacally.
"What?" Arthur demands, the first word he has uttered to her. Except Ariadne knows that he's heard her perfectly clearly. And part of her is relieved that she isn't alone to deal with the weight of Robert's words. Now Arthur can deal with them as well. It's what he's good at anyway, she thinks, not without some bitterness. It's now their problem, and maybe she's using Robert's words to bind Arthur closer to her. The same way Robert did with her.
"I said, I think he loves me," Ariadne repeats. And because she has said it - twice no less - it becomes more real. It's not something that she can brush under the carpet. It's real. And the meaning behind Robert's words are real.
"What about you?" Arthur asks, in a tone that Ariadne can't quite identify. His eyes are strangely intense, and Ariadne swallows hard. What does she actually feel for Robert? Honestly?
"I don't know. It's complicated," Ariadne admits to herself, aware of the irony. But somewhere, she knows that if she doesn't love Robert, she could. She's seen enough to know she could. If they had met under other circumstances, she might have or at least, wouldn't be so hesitant. But they haven't. So everything is suspect. And in this funhouse of mirrors that they've created, everything she feels or that Robert feels may be real. Or not. And there's no way to tell the difference at this point.
"You can't," Arthur whispers furiously, advancing toward her.
It makes Ariadne laugh bitterly. What does Arthur know about any of this anyway? What can he possibly understand? He's not the one that has had to live a half-lie or a half-truth as the case be. He's not the one that has had to share parts of himself with someone while trying to keep a mental distance. But maybe Arthur is capable of such detachment. He seems to capable to everything else. And again, Ariadne feels the giant gulf ---- of experience, life, time, whatever the hell it is --- between them. Maybe if she had been less naive, or idealistic, or romantic, it wouldn't have turned out like this. If it only as easy as not wanting to. Except Ariadne isn't sure she doesn't want to.
"You can't," Arthur repeats again vehemently. "Because you have to love me." Before grabbing her for a kiss. Except its more of than a kiss. Arthur's left hand comes up to grip her hip and his right closes around the back of her head, and his lips are furiously - almost savagely - on hers. The heat of his body is stupifying but its nothing like the amount of feeling that is pouring into Ariadne. It's like a tsunami, and she feels helpless against it. There's nothing that has prepared her for this.
He doesn't savor, coax, indulge, seduce. Instead, it's all passion, and lust, and want, and desire, and fire, and flame. His tongue plunges to taste her, and Ariadne shudders in response. It's Arthur. Unleashed. Ariadne cannot come to grips with it, can't get a hold on any of it, and instead lets it swamp her. The only way to survive it is to let herself ride it like a giant wave.
So she does.
Comments and criticisms always welcome.
Crossposted in arthur_ariadne, inceptionfic, fischer_fic
Author: namistai8
Rating: R for language, slight smexiness
Pairing: Ariadne/Fischer, Ariadne/Arthur
Word Count: 3,662
Disclaimer/Notes/Whatever: Nolan owns, I just borrow. Fischer comes back, Arthur messes up, and everyone's favorite forger makes a cameo appearance!
All That We Keep, Part I | All That We Keep, Part II | All That We Keep, Part III | All That We Keep, Part IV | All That We Keep, Part V
"But it was not your fault but mine
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn't I, my dear?
Mumford & Sons "Little Lion Man"
Ariadne can feel all of the blood draining from her face, can feel herself get herself a little lightheaded and the room would have started to spin at the edges of her vision if she was capable of seeing anything but Robert's face. She feels trapped in the blue of his gaze, which reminds her to brilliant summer days when the sun is uncomfortable to look at and you have to squint your eyes or go blind. She closes her eyes so she can breathe, hide herself from the panic that has risen and taken a hold of her entire body. She's not sure that her ramrod posture is better than fainting, and can't help both comforted and alarmed that at least a portion of her brain is still functioning, thinking about the optics of her reaction and how Robert may be interpreting them. She doesn't know if its her survival instinct or professional skills kicking in, but its an equally startling revelation about herself as the bomb that Robert has uttered just mere seconds ago and it makes her want to throw up.
She opens her eyes again, and Robert is no longer looking into her eyes directly and its broken the immediate tension. It still hangs in the air, heavy and sticky and she's not sure what happens next. She's learned a long time that you can't unsay things that have been said, and part of her wishes that she could just make it go away. Because then she could go on pretending. Pretending that Robert and her were friends, pretend there wasn't anything else, pretend he was just a job, pretend that she can just walk away from this.
"I think we need to talk," Robert says softly and Ariadne automatically nods her head, wishing that he was still cold, or angry, or upset. It would have made it easier for her to deal with the entire situation, or even to just flat out walk out of the apartment. Now she wonders what he's going to say, if he's regretting his words. Robert has a reckless streak, which he typically keeps tightly leashed. He usually measures his words carefully, and she can see him do that now, feel him pick and choose his words, feel the weight between his hands and lay down the ones he doesn't feel are right, or are too heavy, or too sharp.
"I like to think we're friends," he starts and he purses his lips. "I don't have many friends." Ariadne can't help but think that he doesn't have any real friends, but stamps out that thought out quickly, like some sort of rogue spark.
"I think we're dating. You would think I would know if we were or were not, but I've got no frame of reference for anything with you," he continues, and there's something in his manner or perhaps its in the tone that makes him seem a little lost, or confused. Trails of empathy start to unfurl somewhere in the pit of her stomach, which is slick with sweat and it seems to paralyze her. "You're not like anyone else I've ever met. And this... isn't like anything else in my life."
Ariadne forces her throat to swallow, forces herself to breathe, forces herself to listen and not think.
"I'm not sure what it is that I want from you," and this time his eyes catch her and Ariadne is again taken aback by the intensity in his eyes. She feels like if he could, he would devour her and spit her bones out and be done with her if that would solve the mystery for him. But it wouldn't.
Which is why he doesn't. And why he doesn't know what to do next. "I wasn't looking for this when I came to Paris, although I sure as hell don't know what it is I was expecting to find."
"Why me?" Ariadne forces herself to ask, and even her voice sounds rusty to her, and she winces mentally. It's such an unfair question, because she knows the answer. Because of the inception job, and they mucked around in his subconscious and it remembers her, even if Robert can't. And because even now, she's got her hooks into him and he's just following the string that she's left for him, deeper and deeper into the laberynth.
"Because I turned around, and you were there, and you were real," he replies, unable to still explain it to himself. "I can't get you out of my mind," he admits, his palms turning upward, in a gesture of helplessness, grasping at invisible straws.
And Ariadne knows that Robert is truly caught in this web that she has spun. And while she's had help with the spinning - and she refuses to think about him, she knows she's the main one. Except it's all real and there's no way to unspin it all. There's no easy way to set Robert free, and as she locks eyes with Robert again, she's not sure he would thank her for cutting him loose.
"Robert, I..." Adriane starts to say, but just falls silent because she doesn't know what to say. Torn between telling him the truth, a lie, and any number of variations, she can't seem to force anything out. She can't even grasp or grope her way through, because she doesn't know where it will end. All she knows is that somewhere along the line, she is going to hurt this lonely, arrogant, intelligent man because he's become real to her, the same way she's become real to him and it's not going to end well.
"Don't, just don't," Robert cuts in, looking away. "Let's just say you mean something to me, and I'd like to think I mean something to you. I'm here in Paris for the rest of the year, trying to figure out what to do with my life and you're finishing your dissertation and you'll be figuring out what you want from your life and maybe we'll figure it out. And it might work out, or it might not in the end. Just don't say something you don't mean, or something you'll wish you could take back later."
Adriane feels the stinging in her eyes, and tears out of the apartment as unexpectedly as she arrived, as quick as a tornado that has just ravaged a countryside.
***
She wakes up with her eyes swollen, her body lethargic and her spirit feeling weighed down by her thoughts and guilt-induced self recriminations. She walks to the bathroom, avoiding the mirror, unable to look at herself. Somewhere from there and here, lines were crossed. She has no idea why she's been going along with this charade within a charade. And more importantly, she lied to herself. And she can't understand why. Oh, she had rationalizations. But at 3 AM in the morning, they didn't seem as clean and crisp as she had thought them to be.
Adriane wishes desperately for a fairy godmother. Someone who will magically appear, wave their wand, and make everything alright. Or at least, point at the direction where she should be going. Hopefully along the lines of 'Follow the Yellow Brick Road', minus the musical number.
She walks into her kitchen, chokes back a scream and decides that the universe has an utterly perverse sense of humor.
Eames is fiddling in her kitchen, pulling croissants from a white paper bag, as the kettle starts steaming. Deftly, he pulls it off the burner and pours piping hot water into two mugs with tea bags, the little red tag in sharp contrast against the white porcelain.
"Your locks are utter crap. I also had to purchase food, and tea. You didn't have a proper blend at all," Eames says breezily, with a cheeky smile on his face as he turns around. Adriane can't contain her smile and just hurtles herself into his arms. Eames grunts and hugs her back.
"Well, if this is thank you a bloke gets for making you tea, I'd love to see what kind of thank you I'd get for breakfast," Eames waggles his eyebrows suggestively at her, dropping a sloppy kiss on her cheek.
"You'd have to actually make breakfast, instead of purchasing it," Adriane retorts tartly and can't help but think of brown worsted wool pants, madelines and the scent of coffee in the air. Eames just deposits a steaming mug in her hands and Adriane reaches for a buttery croissant.
"Never would have figured you for the plain white type myself," Eames comments conversationally.
"I'm not," Adriane says before biting into her pastry. All of her dishes are colorful, patterned, some sporting nicks and chips, a mish-mash of hodge podge of items that she's picked up from flea markets. Robert bought her a plain white Meissen porcelain set for four, scandalized at the lack of uniformity. She had laughed and called it "hotel ware", much to his indignation.
Eames says nothing as he takes a sip from his tea, and Adriane is at a loss on where to begin. It seems almost too convenient for Eames to be here, to serve as her confessor. More importantly, if Adriane is to admit to her sins, will there be atonement or redemption? Would it solve anything to talk to Eames? Would it exorcise the demons or simply serve to placate her own guilty conscience?
"Before you say anything too incriminating darling, I have to remind you that there is no honor among thieves," Eames says easily, and though his smile is still in place, and there is still sympathy in the way he has cocked his head, his eyes are a little too clear and direct for Adriane's peace of mind.
Not that she doesn't appreciate the warning in his tone. If anything, Eames is warning her against herself. And in the world that she has chosen to be a part of, knowing someone's secrets or weaknesses is as good as currency. She can't fault Eames for being who he is. Even when it makes her realize how truly alone she is in this mess.
"Oh Eames," Adriane just sighes, really wishing that her life wasn't this complicated. Here she was, talking to a colleague, and a friend, which she considered Eames to be, in the somewhat liberal interpretation of the word. More importantly, here is someone that just might be able to understand her particular dilemma. Or perhaps not. Eames wasn't exactly known for his moral compass. Anyone who had no compunctions in pretending to be other people probably had a more loose sense of morality than she did. Maybe she was in big trouble if she was having a crisis of conscience and was looking at Eames for guidance.
For a minute, Adriane wishes she could really talk to Cobb, but that was out of the question. Cobb was out, and knowing full well the price he had paid to exit this life, and there was no way Adriane was dragging back to solve her problem.
"How much do you know?" she asks, curious in spite of everything else.
"Enough," Eames's brevity is telling. She suspects that Eames is here as insurance. Saito is the soul of care, and he's not afraid to go big as long as its the most convenient and hassle -roof solution.
"I see," Ariadne answers. It seems like an inane response in light of everything. She wants to ask Eames if he's spoken to Arthur, but she already knows the answer. What she really wants to know is what Arthur has told Eames, but she doubts that Eames would ever give her a straight answer on that account.
Eames reaches out to Adriane, takes her hand and asks sincerely, "Do you need me to get you out of this?"
Adriane is ridiculously touched, and can't keep from tearing up, just a little. She is torn between YES and NO. Part of the hesitation is that she is not sure what that might mean for her or Robert. Part of her knows that is just running away, and wonders if she looked back at this moment, years from now if she would regret it. Part of her just wants to close her eyes and make it all go away. Part of her knows that all actions have consequences, and that she would just be avoiding what is inevitable. Ariadne teeters in indecision, between the two poles of the possible answers and everything in between.
Before she can answer, Robert walks in through the door, calling her name "Ariadne?". The look of uncertainty fades from his eyes as she can see him register the scene. Here she is, in her jammies, having breakfast with an attractive male that he has never met.
"Robert? Whh.. what are you doing here?" she manages to stutter out. Her mind starts to whirl and spin, trying to come up with a possible explanation as to why Eames is here. The word friend is insufficient, and to say close friend would mean that she has mentioned and/or talked about him before, which she has been sure to avoid.
"I thought we should talk about what happened yesterday," Robert says stiffly, as he makes his way to her side and snaking a propietary arm around her waist. "But perhaps introductions are in order," he lifts a questioning brow at her.
"Ariadne, you naughty kitten. You never mentioned that your beau was SO DIVINE," Eames positively gushes, sending her a look of mock reproof. "Eames, at your service," he adds suggestively with an extended hand while giving Robert a once over. Robert shakes hands and Eames's hand lingers a trifle too long, while he winks flirtatiously at Robert.
Ariadne suppresses a giggle at Eames's mannerisms. His decided interest in Robert, along with all of the subconscious signs, has an instant effect on Robert. His stiffness is gone, and the nature of his wariness has changed. This might be the first time that he's ever gotten hit on by another man. Or at least, quite so blatantly.
"Errr... pleasure to meet you," Robert responds, a little unsure.
"Oh, the pleasure is all mine," Eames purrs, still making eyes at Robert. "Here Ariadne and I were having a nice, perfectly boring, girl's chat when you decided to join us."
"Perfectly boring?" Ariadne asks archly. The irony would surely kill them. It would definitely kill Eames. Although he seemed to thrive on irony at times.
"Well love, it's more exciting meeting your new man, honestly," Eames adds cheekily. "Where did you two ever meet? And can I find another one like him there?"
Robert cracks a smile. "Errr.... I hope not," he adds.
"Well in that case, why don't we all go out for some proper breakfast and you can give me a chance to steal you away from Ariadne?" Eames asks easily, but Ariadne catches a glimpse of something in the twinkle of Eames' eye.
"Why don't we?" Ariadne murmurs to herself. Robert gazes down at her, and she pastes a bright and sunny smile on her face.
***
There is not a chance that morning for Robert to have a private word with her, for which she is thankful to Eames. That's not to say the morning hasn't been taxing in other ways, but at least she hasn't been filled with dread of what she would say. Because she has to respond to Robert --- he's made it impossible for her not to. And he is right --- things that are said cannot be unsaid.
Although Ariadne knows too much about words that have never been said.
At least, Robert will never be suspicious of Eames, who has firmly established himself as Ariadne's gay confidante of choice.
Robert leaves them in the cafe, citing a meeting that he cannot miss and Ariadne is glad to see him go. The facade is starting to crack and she feels exhausted. She knows that this but a temporary reprieve. There will be a reckoning. She can taste on Robert's lips and in the lingering look he gives her before leaving.
Eames deposits back in her apartment and Ariadne walks up the stairs slowly, absorbed in her own thoughts again.
She should have been surprised that Arthur is in her apartment, waiting for her, looking out the window by her couch, hands clasped behind him. But she's not. Not really. After all, everyone seems to be coming into her apartment unannounced or without her permission, sometimes both. She drinks in the line of his shoulder, the contrasting satiny inky gray of the back of his woolen vest against the stark white of his shirt.
"I came to apologize. You were not here, so I decided to wait," Arthur says, his voice echoing back to her, since he's still facing away from her.
Adriane drops her purse on the bag, and it lands with a dull thud. She slithers out of her jacket, which makes a softer thud when it hits the floor next to her bag. She doesn't say anything, because she's not sure what to say to Arthur anymore.
"I was out of line. And it was unprofessional of me. I shouldn't have questioned your integrity," Arthur continues, still directing his words to the window.
Ariadne realizes in a flash that Arthur is profoundly uncomfortable with facing her right now - either because he really means what he is saying or because he is not one for apologies. Ordinarily, she would have cut him a break by now, and said something - anything really - to ease the moment. But at the moment, she's too tired from dealing with her own feelings, and her thoughts of Robert, to ease Arthur's guilt.
"I was angry. And I took it out on you, and that's not fair. It wasn't your fault," Arthur adds.
Ariadne stares at his back. She pauses for a moment before lobbing a grenade at him. "I think he loves me," Ariadne says softly, almost to herself.
Arthur whirls around, his face having gone white. A tiny part of Ariadne rejoices in malicious glee at his reaction. His face is haggard, and there's slight bags under his eyes. It softens his face, actually. The tiny imperfections make him look more human. Less put together. More handsome. His eyes are wide on her, and Ariadne swears she can see a frisson of panic in them, and hear the mechanical gears in his whirling maniacally.
"What?" Arthur demands, the first word he has uttered to her. Except Ariadne knows that he's heard her perfectly clearly. And part of her is relieved that she isn't alone to deal with the weight of Robert's words. Now Arthur can deal with them as well. It's what he's good at anyway, she thinks, not without some bitterness. It's now their problem, and maybe she's using Robert's words to bind Arthur closer to her. The same way Robert did with her.
"I said, I think he loves me," Ariadne repeats. And because she has said it - twice no less - it becomes more real. It's not something that she can brush under the carpet. It's real. And the meaning behind Robert's words are real.
"What about you?" Arthur asks, in a tone that Ariadne can't quite identify. His eyes are strangely intense, and Ariadne swallows hard. What does she actually feel for Robert? Honestly?
"I don't know. It's complicated," Ariadne admits to herself, aware of the irony. But somewhere, she knows that if she doesn't love Robert, she could. She's seen enough to know she could. If they had met under other circumstances, she might have or at least, wouldn't be so hesitant. But they haven't. So everything is suspect. And in this funhouse of mirrors that they've created, everything she feels or that Robert feels may be real. Or not. And there's no way to tell the difference at this point.
"You can't," Arthur whispers furiously, advancing toward her.
It makes Ariadne laugh bitterly. What does Arthur know about any of this anyway? What can he possibly understand? He's not the one that has had to live a half-lie or a half-truth as the case be. He's not the one that has had to share parts of himself with someone while trying to keep a mental distance. But maybe Arthur is capable of such detachment. He seems to capable to everything else. And again, Ariadne feels the giant gulf ---- of experience, life, time, whatever the hell it is --- between them. Maybe if she had been less naive, or idealistic, or romantic, it wouldn't have turned out like this. If it only as easy as not wanting to. Except Ariadne isn't sure she doesn't want to.
"You can't," Arthur repeats again vehemently. "Because you have to love me." Before grabbing her for a kiss. Except its more of than a kiss. Arthur's left hand comes up to grip her hip and his right closes around the back of her head, and his lips are furiously - almost savagely - on hers. The heat of his body is stupifying but its nothing like the amount of feeling that is pouring into Ariadne. It's like a tsunami, and she feels helpless against it. There's nothing that has prepared her for this.
He doesn't savor, coax, indulge, seduce. Instead, it's all passion, and lust, and want, and desire, and fire, and flame. His tongue plunges to taste her, and Ariadne shudders in response. It's Arthur. Unleashed. Ariadne cannot come to grips with it, can't get a hold on any of it, and instead lets it swamp her. The only way to survive it is to let herself ride it like a giant wave.
So she does.
Comments and criticisms always welcome.
Crossposted in arthur_ariadne, inceptionfic, fischer_fic