UNTITLED INCEPTION FIC
Well, I wrote AN Inception fic. This is an intro part. I just wanted to post something.
Ariadne-centric, PG-13
When they land at LAX Ariadne ends up trailing after Arthur, because no one is here to pick her up. It’s not because she’s some frail little orphan, all alone in the big cold world, she just didn’t want to tell anyone. Actually, she’s meant to be in class right now, listening to Miles talk about flying buttresses and modernity and the unfortunate limitations of the real.
Ariadne would feel lonely, but she’s built hotels and snow fortresses in people’s minds, so tagging along on Arthur’s flawless coattails feels like a justifiable trade-off. He doesn’t seem to mind. When they get to the Four Seasons he books an extra room for her under what must be a false name and shoos her down the hallway.
“I’m going to sleep,” he tells her.
“After ten hours under?”
“Sleep and being under are completely different. Also, Eames’ll be round for drinks later. You’re going to need all your energy for that, trust me.”
Ariadne does, and after she’s done marvelling at the decor she brushes her teeth and washes her face and tries to settle down. The bed has one of those adjustable mattresses and the pillow is practically swallowing her head, but while her muscles liquify, every time Ariadne closes her eyes she sees the whole thing over again: Fischer at his father’s bedside, the sharp cut of Arthur’s jaw, the train, Cobb screaming at them in the first level, Mal’s dark, beautiful eyes.
At some point, though, she must drop off because suddenly Arthur’s rapping at her door. “Meet me downstairs in half an hour,” he says when she finally manages to croak out a “what?”
Her clothes from the flight, somehow, still smell and look fine, so she ditches the cardigan and grabs a pair of dark jeans from her duffel. Her hair’s kind of a mess and it isn’t like she thought to bring makeup, but really, the result isn’t half bad when she meets Arthur in the lobby.
Eames is already there, with a scowling Yusuf. He tells her she looks marvelous and Arthur smiles in agreement and even Yusuf nods.
“Now, then,” Eames announces once they’re on the street, “I plan on drinking that whole cock-up right out of my head.”
Yusuf mutters something Araidne doesn’t catch, but Arthur lets out a surprised bark of laughter.
“It wasn’t a cock-up,” she informs Eames.
“We’ll see, won’t we,” he smirks. For the first time, he looks as mean and dangerous as Arthur had (repeatedly, loudly, possibly overzealously) claimed he was whenever Ariadne said he was a nice man. It makes something dark curl in the pit of her stomach and wind up her throat. Now that she looks, she can see the outline of a gun tucked in to the back of Arthur’s pants. Eames must have one, too, somewhere.
Ariadne’s never used a gun in her life. They never made her during any of the trial runs.
She forgets her fear after the third bar, where Yusuf has started joking with Eames about opium dens while Arthur grins absolutely manically into his scotch and lets Eames poke fun at him. By the fifth and final stop Ariadne is pretty sure they’ll die if any of Fischer’s goons show up, no matter how often Eames says he can get out of anything, or how many times Arthur insists he’s been trained to kill since birth. They’re all sort of holding each other up and Ariadne finds herself accusing Yusuf of drugging them, which sets off a whole chain of laughter that nearly sends them tumbling.
The next morning, she has the hangover to prove it. It takes an hour and a half and a lot of positive thinking just for her to get in the bath. She’s greeted by a note from Arthur telling he he’s gone but has paid for the room, and that, no, Yusuf didn’t drug them. There are two numbers at the bottom, one unlabelled that she assumes is his, for emergencies, and Cobb’s. Wait a week or two, is scribbled beside it.
Ariadne doesn’t have a week or two to waste in LA, though. She has exams and friends and an apartment and the whole, glittering oyster of Paris waiting for her across the world, so she apologizes to her bank account and books a ticket for that night.
-
As it turns out, the apology was unwarranted. Saito’s payments come through on her third day back in France, along with an incredible detailed email from Arthur (CCed to Yusuf and, she suspects in a sarcastic fashion, to Eames) about how to split the money over several shady Swiss accounts that he’d set up for her.
Keep the rest, he writes, and deposit it on a schedule, like normal paychecks.
Buy yourself something nice, Ariadne adds with a snort.
The cash makes her nervous, even though it’s a fraction of how much she now has, so Ariadne splits it up evenly and hides the bundles around her apartment, makes a list that she also hides, and calls Erica.
Erica, like Ariadne, is American. They actually met while both butchering the French language at a bakery near the university. Erica, as far as Ariadne can tell, is something of a professional wastrel. She hops from run-down studio to run-down studio in picturesque threadbare sweaters and flowery dresses, with birdbone wrists and a nest of copper hair. She thinks Ariadne is “marvelous” and envies her architect’s hand and eye, how dedicated she is. Ariadne loves Erica’s sense of fashion and her inimitable luck.
“Ariadne, darling,” Erica blows in. She reminds Ariadne a little bit of Eames. It’s mostly in the terms of endearment and the ease she has with other people. There’ s no gun hidden under her chiffon, though.
“Erica, hey.”
“It’s been ages, Ari. What on earth have you been doing.”
“Work,” Ariadne shrugs.
“Ooohh, who for?”
“Just freelancing for this weird group of expats,” Ariadne lies. It brings a smile to her face. Erica’s eyes widen.
“What did you do?”
“Sketched.”
“Obviously,” Erica snorts, rolling her eyes. “Sketched what?”
“Oh, god, everything. I did hotels and warehouses and a castle, once. They even had me do a mock-up of Paris.”
“Paris’s already been built, dear.” Erica says Paris like a French woman, the way Ariadne imagines Mal did.
“They were odd folks,” she demures, and they drop the subject.
Erica drags her out to a little bar in Montmartre, filled with Erica’s type of people: thin and bright, failed artists and poets who only talk about poetry. They used to seem dangerous to Ariadne, in a sort of contagious way. Now they make her smile, and she presses into their shoulders without flinching.
Someone buys her a drink and she laughs, drinks it down, and whispers into the ear of the man next to her, “I built Paris, you know.”
“I’m sure you did,” he says. His hand is on her hip. Erica winks from across the room. He’s humoring her.
Ariadne lets him.
-
Almost a month later Ariadne checks the New York Times website and it’s there. Right there. Front and center. Headline news.
Robert Fischer, Heir to Fischer-Morrow Energy Conglomerate, Dissolves Father’s Empire
She’s already sitting, so the only solution is to lie down on the floor. Her hands are clammy, she feels lightheaded.
She spends almost an hour on the carpet, thinking about Fischer’s face three levels down, his sad cheekbones and sadder eyes. She wonders if he’d spent the last month planning the best way to divide things, talking down Browning and the rest of the board, clinging to the dream they made him dream.
She doesn’t make it to class that day, or the next, which she spends reading about Fischer-Morrow and Saito’s company, and wondering whether or not to call Cobb. He’s probably just relieved, not shivering and euphoric like Ariadne. He’s probably with his children, she reasons, so it’d be rude of her to call.
In the end, it’s good that the news renders her practically catatonic, because at about three in the afternoon the day after the news broke, someone rings on her doorbell. Erica only knocks, and the rest of Ariadne’s friends are at school. For a moment she hopes that Eames or Arthur or Cobb is here with a job for her, but it’s just the postman.
She would thank him, but his face is hidden behind three wobbling packages, and as soon as she takes them off his hands he bows and turns tail. Saito, she thinks before the door is even shut.
One of the packages is large and flat, one very small, and the third the same rectangular package seen under Christmas trees around the world. Ariadne goes for that one first. It turns out to be a tea set, the pot and three little cups, all white and perfect and clearly far, far too nice to be in Ariadne’s apartment.
The big one is next, a painting, she can already tell.
It’s actually a scroll, though, discolored a little with age. The image is clear though, the fine ink lines of Japanese art. A beautiful women in bright white robes is meditating on rocks. The whole landscape, as much as there is, unfolds around her: the crashing waves and the crags of the rocks, an overhang of shadow that feeds into her halo. Ariadne has the sickening feel that it’s an original.
The last parcel is heavier than she expects, and when she pulls the wrapping off she nearly drops the bag. Through the fabric she can see the gleam of what must be diamonds.
The necklace Ariadne uncoils into her waiting palms can’t be real. Diamonds and emeralds, a gleaming snake that she hesitantly presses against her neck. It doesn’t look bad, but the whole thing is heavy and regal in a way Ariadne isn’t. She shoves it back into the bag, and places it on the table next to the tea set, totally confused.
-
Over the next week Ariadne manages to put three holes in her wall trying to hang the scroll, though she does eventually wrestle it into place, buys an antique jewelry box for the necklace, and leaves the kettle out on her table.
She doesn’t mention the gifts out loud to anyone until two Fridays later, when an anonymous number texts her, celebretory dinner??, followed by an address and a time. Google confirms that the place is way too swanky for her usual nice jeans and shirt combo, so Ariadne drags out her Family Dinner Dress and heels, the straightener and a year’s worth of makeup borrowed from Erica.
Before leaving she ghosts her hands over the necklace, but the night in L.A comes flooding back and she leaves it in its box.
-
Ariadne tumbles out of the overcrowded metro and nearly concusses herself on the way to the restaurant, and she isn’t even the last one there. Yusuf, Cobb, and Eames are all seated at a table in the back, wearing sophisticated suits and drinking sophisticated wine and doing a thoroughly unsophisticated number on the bread.
Eames waves her over to the seat next to Cobb, who stands up and pulls her chair out without a pause. She wonders if that’s what he used to do for Mal, back before. Then Yusuf pours her a glass of wine and Ariadne asks, “Where’s Arthur? Do you think something happened? I can’t imagine him being late.”
“Oh, he’s not late,” Eames chortles, “or at least he thinks he isn’t.”
“You didn’t,” Ariadne manages before she starts laughing. Even Cobb has a smile twisting onto his lips when Arthur appears before them. He’s impeccably dressed, as always, and clearly wasn’t expecting them because when he catches sight of them his face does an incredible series of acrobatics. He settles on rage, eventually, which telegraphs itself through a tightness in his jaw that Ariadne is surprised she recognizes, and the fact that he calls Eames a “total fucking asshole.”
“Glad you could join us, Arthur,” Yusuf says, and makes a sweeping gesture towards the one free chair. Ariadne can’t help it, she chuckles. Cobb rolls his eyes but looks clearly amused, and all the fight drains out of Arthur.
He’s still sometimes glaring at Eames over the rim of his wineglass while he thinks no one’s paying attention when the salads come. They’ve managed to keep their conversation light, mostly talking about James and Philippa, Yusuf’s fiance and Ariadne’s coursework.
She’s chewing on a clump of arugula leaves, thinking about how much she hates arugula, when Arthur asks, “Did Saito send everyone gifts?”
“I thought we were just going to talk around it all night,” Eames says.
“Yes,” Ariadne answers as she swallows, turning away from Eames. “What’d he send you?”
“Three things.” Ariadne nods, so he goes on, “A painting--
“Not that terrible post-war thing you projected on his job?” Cobb butts in.
“Shut up,” Arthur snips, and adds, “a coat, and a piece of information.”
“What sort of information?” Yusuf pries. Arthur’s lips quirk but he doesn’t give anything else by way of an answer.
“He sent me an absurd number of poppies, a pair of cufflinks and apparently has paid for my honeymoon.”
“Where to?” Ariadne asks, leaning forward across the table.
“That remains to be revealed.”
“Of course,” Eames murmurs. “And what delightful gifts did our benefactor send you, Ariadne?”
“Oh no, you first,” she teases. Ariadne doesn’t know why the gifts make her feel uncomfortable, like her skin isn’t sitting quite right, but they do. Arthur and Yusuf talk about theirs like nothing, like an old friend did them a favor. Like they understand.
“Let’s see,” Eames counts them out on his fingers, “I’m no longer banned from the Vatican, he sent me a very nice end table,” he pauses like he has to think, while Ariadne’s still reeling over the fact that he was banned from the Vatican, “and a piece of information.”
Arthur raises his eyebrows. Eames very obviously doesn’t look. “I believe it’s your turn, Ariadne.”
“Cobb?” She pleads.
“Oh no,” he shakes his head. Ariadne considers hitting him, but she settles for draining her glass.
“Fine,” she sighs, “ Saito sent me a hanging scroll, a tea set, and an absurdly nice necklace.
“Absurdly nice?” Arthur repeats, and she blushes.
“Yeah. It’s, I don’t know.”
She lets the rest of that sentence get swept away with their salad plates and after that the conversation turns to Saito and jobs and Robert Fischer. Cobb insists very loudly that he’s out of the business for good, and Eames offers to take bets on when he’ll crack. Arthur puts his on three months.
“Oh ye of little faith,” Ariadne says, shaking her head, and bets on five and a half.
-
Cobb has to leave after dinner but the rest of them decide to go barhopping. Yusuf and Eames call him an old man and even Arthur raises his eyebrows. Ariadne just hugs him, and before she can let go, he whispers in her ear,
“Don’t worry. Saito wouldn’t give you anything you can’t handle.”
Ariadne-centric, PG-13
When they land at LAX Ariadne ends up trailing after Arthur, because no one is here to pick her up. It’s not because she’s some frail little orphan, all alone in the big cold world, she just didn’t want to tell anyone. Actually, she’s meant to be in class right now, listening to Miles talk about flying buttresses and modernity and the unfortunate limitations of the real.
Ariadne would feel lonely, but she’s built hotels and snow fortresses in people’s minds, so tagging along on Arthur’s flawless coattails feels like a justifiable trade-off. He doesn’t seem to mind. When they get to the Four Seasons he books an extra room for her under what must be a false name and shoos her down the hallway.
“I’m going to sleep,” he tells her.
“After ten hours under?”
“Sleep and being under are completely different. Also, Eames’ll be round for drinks later. You’re going to need all your energy for that, trust me.”
Ariadne does, and after she’s done marvelling at the decor she brushes her teeth and washes her face and tries to settle down. The bed has one of those adjustable mattresses and the pillow is practically swallowing her head, but while her muscles liquify, every time Ariadne closes her eyes she sees the whole thing over again: Fischer at his father’s bedside, the sharp cut of Arthur’s jaw, the train, Cobb screaming at them in the first level, Mal’s dark, beautiful eyes.
At some point, though, she must drop off because suddenly Arthur’s rapping at her door. “Meet me downstairs in half an hour,” he says when she finally manages to croak out a “what?”
Her clothes from the flight, somehow, still smell and look fine, so she ditches the cardigan and grabs a pair of dark jeans from her duffel. Her hair’s kind of a mess and it isn’t like she thought to bring makeup, but really, the result isn’t half bad when she meets Arthur in the lobby.
Eames is already there, with a scowling Yusuf. He tells her she looks marvelous and Arthur smiles in agreement and even Yusuf nods.
“Now, then,” Eames announces once they’re on the street, “I plan on drinking that whole cock-up right out of my head.”
Yusuf mutters something Araidne doesn’t catch, but Arthur lets out a surprised bark of laughter.
“It wasn’t a cock-up,” she informs Eames.
“We’ll see, won’t we,” he smirks. For the first time, he looks as mean and dangerous as Arthur had (repeatedly, loudly, possibly overzealously) claimed he was whenever Ariadne said he was a nice man. It makes something dark curl in the pit of her stomach and wind up her throat. Now that she looks, she can see the outline of a gun tucked in to the back of Arthur’s pants. Eames must have one, too, somewhere.
Ariadne’s never used a gun in her life. They never made her during any of the trial runs.
She forgets her fear after the third bar, where Yusuf has started joking with Eames about opium dens while Arthur grins absolutely manically into his scotch and lets Eames poke fun at him. By the fifth and final stop Ariadne is pretty sure they’ll die if any of Fischer’s goons show up, no matter how often Eames says he can get out of anything, or how many times Arthur insists he’s been trained to kill since birth. They’re all sort of holding each other up and Ariadne finds herself accusing Yusuf of drugging them, which sets off a whole chain of laughter that nearly sends them tumbling.
The next morning, she has the hangover to prove it. It takes an hour and a half and a lot of positive thinking just for her to get in the bath. She’s greeted by a note from Arthur telling he he’s gone but has paid for the room, and that, no, Yusuf didn’t drug them. There are two numbers at the bottom, one unlabelled that she assumes is his, for emergencies, and Cobb’s. Wait a week or two, is scribbled beside it.
Ariadne doesn’t have a week or two to waste in LA, though. She has exams and friends and an apartment and the whole, glittering oyster of Paris waiting for her across the world, so she apologizes to her bank account and books a ticket for that night.
-
As it turns out, the apology was unwarranted. Saito’s payments come through on her third day back in France, along with an incredible detailed email from Arthur (CCed to Yusuf and, she suspects in a sarcastic fashion, to Eames) about how to split the money over several shady Swiss accounts that he’d set up for her.
Keep the rest, he writes, and deposit it on a schedule, like normal paychecks.
Buy yourself something nice, Ariadne adds with a snort.
The cash makes her nervous, even though it’s a fraction of how much she now has, so Ariadne splits it up evenly and hides the bundles around her apartment, makes a list that she also hides, and calls Erica.
Erica, like Ariadne, is American. They actually met while both butchering the French language at a bakery near the university. Erica, as far as Ariadne can tell, is something of a professional wastrel. She hops from run-down studio to run-down studio in picturesque threadbare sweaters and flowery dresses, with birdbone wrists and a nest of copper hair. She thinks Ariadne is “marvelous” and envies her architect’s hand and eye, how dedicated she is. Ariadne loves Erica’s sense of fashion and her inimitable luck.
“Ariadne, darling,” Erica blows in. She reminds Ariadne a little bit of Eames. It’s mostly in the terms of endearment and the ease she has with other people. There’ s no gun hidden under her chiffon, though.
“Erica, hey.”
“It’s been ages, Ari. What on earth have you been doing.”
“Work,” Ariadne shrugs.
“Ooohh, who for?”
“Just freelancing for this weird group of expats,” Ariadne lies. It brings a smile to her face. Erica’s eyes widen.
“What did you do?”
“Sketched.”
“Obviously,” Erica snorts, rolling her eyes. “Sketched what?”
“Oh, god, everything. I did hotels and warehouses and a castle, once. They even had me do a mock-up of Paris.”
“Paris’s already been built, dear.” Erica says Paris like a French woman, the way Ariadne imagines Mal did.
“They were odd folks,” she demures, and they drop the subject.
Erica drags her out to a little bar in Montmartre, filled with Erica’s type of people: thin and bright, failed artists and poets who only talk about poetry. They used to seem dangerous to Ariadne, in a sort of contagious way. Now they make her smile, and she presses into their shoulders without flinching.
Someone buys her a drink and she laughs, drinks it down, and whispers into the ear of the man next to her, “I built Paris, you know.”
“I’m sure you did,” he says. His hand is on her hip. Erica winks from across the room. He’s humoring her.
Ariadne lets him.
-
Almost a month later Ariadne checks the New York Times website and it’s there. Right there. Front and center. Headline news.
Robert Fischer, Heir to Fischer-Morrow Energy Conglomerate, Dissolves Father’s Empire
She’s already sitting, so the only solution is to lie down on the floor. Her hands are clammy, she feels lightheaded.
She spends almost an hour on the carpet, thinking about Fischer’s face three levels down, his sad cheekbones and sadder eyes. She wonders if he’d spent the last month planning the best way to divide things, talking down Browning and the rest of the board, clinging to the dream they made him dream.
She doesn’t make it to class that day, or the next, which she spends reading about Fischer-Morrow and Saito’s company, and wondering whether or not to call Cobb. He’s probably just relieved, not shivering and euphoric like Ariadne. He’s probably with his children, she reasons, so it’d be rude of her to call.
In the end, it’s good that the news renders her practically catatonic, because at about three in the afternoon the day after the news broke, someone rings on her doorbell. Erica only knocks, and the rest of Ariadne’s friends are at school. For a moment she hopes that Eames or Arthur or Cobb is here with a job for her, but it’s just the postman.
She would thank him, but his face is hidden behind three wobbling packages, and as soon as she takes them off his hands he bows and turns tail. Saito, she thinks before the door is even shut.
One of the packages is large and flat, one very small, and the third the same rectangular package seen under Christmas trees around the world. Ariadne goes for that one first. It turns out to be a tea set, the pot and three little cups, all white and perfect and clearly far, far too nice to be in Ariadne’s apartment.
The big one is next, a painting, she can already tell.
It’s actually a scroll, though, discolored a little with age. The image is clear though, the fine ink lines of Japanese art. A beautiful women in bright white robes is meditating on rocks. The whole landscape, as much as there is, unfolds around her: the crashing waves and the crags of the rocks, an overhang of shadow that feeds into her halo. Ariadne has the sickening feel that it’s an original.
The last parcel is heavier than she expects, and when she pulls the wrapping off she nearly drops the bag. Through the fabric she can see the gleam of what must be diamonds.
The necklace Ariadne uncoils into her waiting palms can’t be real. Diamonds and emeralds, a gleaming snake that she hesitantly presses against her neck. It doesn’t look bad, but the whole thing is heavy and regal in a way Ariadne isn’t. She shoves it back into the bag, and places it on the table next to the tea set, totally confused.
-
Over the next week Ariadne manages to put three holes in her wall trying to hang the scroll, though she does eventually wrestle it into place, buys an antique jewelry box for the necklace, and leaves the kettle out on her table.
She doesn’t mention the gifts out loud to anyone until two Fridays later, when an anonymous number texts her, celebretory dinner??, followed by an address and a time. Google confirms that the place is way too swanky for her usual nice jeans and shirt combo, so Ariadne drags out her Family Dinner Dress and heels, the straightener and a year’s worth of makeup borrowed from Erica.
Before leaving she ghosts her hands over the necklace, but the night in L.A comes flooding back and she leaves it in its box.
-
Ariadne tumbles out of the overcrowded metro and nearly concusses herself on the way to the restaurant, and she isn’t even the last one there. Yusuf, Cobb, and Eames are all seated at a table in the back, wearing sophisticated suits and drinking sophisticated wine and doing a thoroughly unsophisticated number on the bread.
Eames waves her over to the seat next to Cobb, who stands up and pulls her chair out without a pause. She wonders if that’s what he used to do for Mal, back before. Then Yusuf pours her a glass of wine and Ariadne asks, “Where’s Arthur? Do you think something happened? I can’t imagine him being late.”
“Oh, he’s not late,” Eames chortles, “or at least he thinks he isn’t.”
“You didn’t,” Ariadne manages before she starts laughing. Even Cobb has a smile twisting onto his lips when Arthur appears before them. He’s impeccably dressed, as always, and clearly wasn’t expecting them because when he catches sight of them his face does an incredible series of acrobatics. He settles on rage, eventually, which telegraphs itself through a tightness in his jaw that Ariadne is surprised she recognizes, and the fact that he calls Eames a “total fucking asshole.”
“Glad you could join us, Arthur,” Yusuf says, and makes a sweeping gesture towards the one free chair. Ariadne can’t help it, she chuckles. Cobb rolls his eyes but looks clearly amused, and all the fight drains out of Arthur.
He’s still sometimes glaring at Eames over the rim of his wineglass while he thinks no one’s paying attention when the salads come. They’ve managed to keep their conversation light, mostly talking about James and Philippa, Yusuf’s fiance and Ariadne’s coursework.
She’s chewing on a clump of arugula leaves, thinking about how much she hates arugula, when Arthur asks, “Did Saito send everyone gifts?”
“I thought we were just going to talk around it all night,” Eames says.
“Yes,” Ariadne answers as she swallows, turning away from Eames. “What’d he send you?”
“Three things.” Ariadne nods, so he goes on, “A painting--
“Not that terrible post-war thing you projected on his job?” Cobb butts in.
“Shut up,” Arthur snips, and adds, “a coat, and a piece of information.”
“What sort of information?” Yusuf pries. Arthur’s lips quirk but he doesn’t give anything else by way of an answer.
“He sent me an absurd number of poppies, a pair of cufflinks and apparently has paid for my honeymoon.”
“Where to?” Ariadne asks, leaning forward across the table.
“That remains to be revealed.”
“Of course,” Eames murmurs. “And what delightful gifts did our benefactor send you, Ariadne?”
“Oh no, you first,” she teases. Ariadne doesn’t know why the gifts make her feel uncomfortable, like her skin isn’t sitting quite right, but they do. Arthur and Yusuf talk about theirs like nothing, like an old friend did them a favor. Like they understand.
“Let’s see,” Eames counts them out on his fingers, “I’m no longer banned from the Vatican, he sent me a very nice end table,” he pauses like he has to think, while Ariadne’s still reeling over the fact that he was banned from the Vatican, “and a piece of information.”
Arthur raises his eyebrows. Eames very obviously doesn’t look. “I believe it’s your turn, Ariadne.”
“Cobb?” She pleads.
“Oh no,” he shakes his head. Ariadne considers hitting him, but she settles for draining her glass.
“Fine,” she sighs, “ Saito sent me a hanging scroll, a tea set, and an absurdly nice necklace.
“Absurdly nice?” Arthur repeats, and she blushes.
“Yeah. It’s, I don’t know.”
She lets the rest of that sentence get swept away with their salad plates and after that the conversation turns to Saito and jobs and Robert Fischer. Cobb insists very loudly that he’s out of the business for good, and Eames offers to take bets on when he’ll crack. Arthur puts his on three months.
“Oh ye of little faith,” Ariadne says, shaking her head, and bets on five and a half.
-
Cobb has to leave after dinner but the rest of them decide to go barhopping. Yusuf and Eames call him an old man and even Arthur raises his eyebrows. Ariadne just hugs him, and before she can let go, he whispers in her ear,
“Don’t worry. Saito wouldn’t give you anything you can’t handle.”