UGH MORE INCEPTION
The second part to this . There is still nothing of real value here.
those bearing gifts 2/4?
I.
six months later
Arthur should have warned her, Ariadne thinks, as she crouches behind a display case, that working with Eames in reality is like a having a series of small strokes. Nothing is actually fatal, but you’re often paralysed and unable to speak. Totally oblivious to Ariadne’s quiet attempts not to have an aneurysm, Eames is a few meters in front of her, canvas tucked gingerly under his arm. Her mouth goes dry when she thinks about how it might be damaged by Eames’ sheer bulk. He’s done this before, she has to tell herself, this is how he makes a living. Well, this, and dream crime, but that doesn’t phase her. As much as Ariadne enjoys pretending she isn’t a criminal, she has never worked a job that wasn’t illegal.
They have exactly twelve and a half minutes before the guard comes back round to this part of the d’Orsay. But Eames is taking his own sweet time with this. Georges Seurat’s Model, Back View sits, unassuming, practically unnoticed in a museum full of images more famous and, arguably, Ariadne admits, better. Their client is paying a hefty fee for them (Eames, really, since he brought her on board in secret, and has promised her a slice of his paycheck) to reappropriate it, though, so Ariadne looks harder.
There’s something there, beyond the obvious fascination she has with impressionism. The woman’s back, the plainness of her hair and the little peaks of her ears coming out from her pale neck. There’s a deep love in its simplicity. Ariadne doesn’t know that she’d pay, well, anything much to have it stolen from the Musee d’Orsay, but she can see why someone would.
The forgery that Eames, with ten minutes to spare, is carefully hanging in its perfect frame, is missing something. Ariadne can’t quite pinpoint what it is. Nothing immediate. You have to stare at the image, next to the rest of the Model paintings, to notice it.
When Eames materializes back by her side and hustles her towards a safer part of the museum, she tells him, “I think they’re going to figure out that’s a forgery.”
“Well, of course,” he laughs. “And someone’s going to need to get the original back for them.”
“You’re terrible,” she mutters.
“Not entirely,” Eames protest. Ariadne can hear footsteps and presses herself against the wall. A minute later, a guard rounds their corner, but doesn’t catch sight of them.
They don’t try speaking again until they’re out of the museum and a few blocks away. The spring air in Paris is thick and wet with the afterglow of a shower. They’re set to split, Eames taking a taxi to god knows where, and Ariadne riding the metro back home, so she asks, “What makes you not entirely terrible?”
“I’m wounded you even have to ask.”
“Eames,” she pleads.
“You, must, of course, keep this a complete secret.”
“Oh, of course,” she says, eyes rolling. Eames leans in.
“I think everyone else deserves a change to see the real thing, too. As good as my forgeries might be, and they are excellent, they’re not quite like the old masters do them.”
Ariadne can’t help but grin as she tells him, “I’ll make sure never to let anyone know you’re such an egalitarian. Can’t ruin the image of the obliviously insensitive British upper class, can I?”
“I knew you’d understand,” Eames chuckles, and heads in another direction.
Ariadne stares at his retreating back for a long minute, brow furrowed.
-
Back at her apartment, she’s still staring. This time, though, it’s at the hanging scroll. The thing has to be an original; there’s not a chance that Saito would have sent her, or been fooled by, a forgery, no matter how good. She can’t send it back, though. To refuse a gift like this would be so rude it gives Ariadne goosebumps.
What Eames said is still lodged in her brain, though, so Ariadne thinks about the wall where she’d hung the scroll, very carefully. It’s ink on white paper; nothing actually clashes with the image, but it doesn’t belong in her haphazard apartment, with the ugliest sofa in the world, or a clutter of schoolwork from the past three years.
Ariadne’s tired, but her nerves are still too much to let her sleep, so she tackles to coffee table first. Underneath her scribbled notes from a class she took last fall are several back copies of Architectural Digest (not her idea, but one of her aunt’s). They all go in the trash, which overflows twice with all of her clutter before she calls it a night.
The next morning the sight of her table nearly makes her spill her coffee all over the rich mahogany of it, but when her resting heart rates returns, Ariadne smiles. It’s not, objectively, an attractive table. She thinks it might have come with the apartment, because she can’t find anything like about it subjectively, either.
The idea of buying a new table spooks her; it implies that she’s going to live in this place for a while, that she’s settling here. Ariadne is still young, and in the past year has learned just how much she loves the thrill of a fast-paced, somewhat criminal lifestyle. On the other hand, this is an ugly table.
Once her coffee starts to kick in, Ariadne ignores the table situation in favor of bitching at Arthur. She doesn’t expect any comfort or useful advice from him, but it’s funny to hear how his voice gets tight with the effort of not telling her she’s being irrational. Also, he really should have warned her about Eames.
That’s her lead off, when Arthur picks up his phone after three rings.
“What did he do?” he sighs.
“He’s just, it wasn’t any one thing, but,” Ariadne takes a second to breathe, “it’s like having a week-long heart attack.
“That’s probably the best description I’ve heard, actually.”
“That’s all you’ve got to say?” She might be shrieking. It’s pretty funny.
“Art thievery and forgery aren’t my areas of criminal expertise,” Arthur says, and she can practically hear him shrug, “I didn’t realise he’d be so much more insufferable out of the dreamspace.”
“Lies,” she hisses.
“Is that the reason you called?” Arthur laughs.
“Maybe,” Ariadne says, shrugging even though he can’t see it, “maybe I wanted to ask if you’d heard of any jobs. Ones that don’t involve me breaking into the Musee d’Orsay with a mad British man.”
That earns her a chuckle. “It sounds like there might be something in Singapore, and in Lima. I can’t know for sure, yet. Run out of money already?”
“Nothing of the sort. I’m just bored.”
“Don’t you have homework or something you should be doing?”
“I’m graduating at the end of this semester,” she reminds him, “and my thesis project is almost done.”
“Already?”
“Well, once you designed three dream levels, one sustainable office building isn’t too hard.”
“You did remember to follow the law of physics, didn’t you?”
Ariadne actually has to pause to think about that, and it’s as good an indication as any that mindcrime is the career for her. “Yes. I think so. Almost definitely.”
“You should go check on that, then. I’ll let you know about Singapore and Lima.”
“Thanks.”
Ariadne spends the next four hours cleaning and rearranging her apartment. Eames, almost making up for the past week, calls her before she can start thinking about what this all means.
“Are you calling to apologize for nearly getting us arrested?”
“Ariadne, sweet, you can’t be serious.”
“No, of course I’m not. Do you have my money?”
“Mercenary,” Eames chuckles. “I do. I can even deliver it in person, if that suits your delicate nerves.”
“You’re still in Paris? I thought you would be gone by now.”
“I had a few things to attend to. McCormack can wait another day.”
“Alright, do you want to say thirty minutes from now?”
“I know a charming little place near the Rue Mouffetard.”
“I know it too, Eames,” she chuckles, and hangs up.
-
Eames is right on time; it’s Ariadne who blows in two minutes late, her hair caught around her face. Eames tilts his cup at her in greeting as she slides into the seat across from him.
“In a crowded cafe?” Are the first words out of her mouth, and they make Eames’ mouth quirk up.
“Relax, Ariadne. Have a cup of tea.”
“Un cafe,” she tells the waiter when he sweeps by. “What sort of business were you up to?”
“Personal business.”
“Arthur in town?” The brief spasm in Eames’s face is the most gratifying thing Ariadne’s seen in weeks.
“I wouldn’t know.”
She smiles so wide it almost hurts her face, and sips at her coffee. There’s a bag resting next to Eames’ left foot that’s stealing her attention. If she scoots forward in her chair and looks fascinated by Eames - as she assumes she should, since their covers is something like a date- she can almost catch it with her foot.
Just a couple of more inches, and as she catches the far edge with her ankle, Eames fingers are on her wrist.
“You’ll have to wait for your present, dear.” Eames pitches his voice louder than necessary. People stop looking at them out of the corners of their eyes.
“You got me a present?”
“I did,” he admits. “Wait until you’re home to open it.”
“How will I contain myself,” Ariadne deadpans.
“I can’t even dream,” Eames replies.
-
Eames, did, actually get her a present. The bag is mostly very nicely wrapped stacks of money, but there, nestled between thousands, is a carefully swaddled package. Ariadne’s gut instinct says it’s from the d’Orsay and her hands don’t stop shaking until the sketch is sitting on her newly cleaned coffee table.
She doesn’t recognize it at first, but Eames has, quiet thoughtfully, left her a little note.
“Jules Bourdais, Projet de phare monumental pour Paris, élévation. I thought this might look nice in your appartment, I heard you were redecorating.”
Definitely Arthur, is Ariadne’s first thought. Her second is how nice this would look in the light of her kitchen. The soft morning light on the watercolor makes her smile, and she hasn’t even seen it yet.
-
Somehow, in between hanging the sketch over her cutting board and flying to Singapore, the rest of her apartment is cleaned.
those bearing gifts 2/4?
I.
six months later
Arthur should have warned her, Ariadne thinks, as she crouches behind a display case, that working with Eames in reality is like a having a series of small strokes. Nothing is actually fatal, but you’re often paralysed and unable to speak. Totally oblivious to Ariadne’s quiet attempts not to have an aneurysm, Eames is a few meters in front of her, canvas tucked gingerly under his arm. Her mouth goes dry when she thinks about how it might be damaged by Eames’ sheer bulk. He’s done this before, she has to tell herself, this is how he makes a living. Well, this, and dream crime, but that doesn’t phase her. As much as Ariadne enjoys pretending she isn’t a criminal, she has never worked a job that wasn’t illegal.
They have exactly twelve and a half minutes before the guard comes back round to this part of the d’Orsay. But Eames is taking his own sweet time with this. Georges Seurat’s Model, Back View sits, unassuming, practically unnoticed in a museum full of images more famous and, arguably, Ariadne admits, better. Their client is paying a hefty fee for them (Eames, really, since he brought her on board in secret, and has promised her a slice of his paycheck) to reappropriate it, though, so Ariadne looks harder.
There’s something there, beyond the obvious fascination she has with impressionism. The woman’s back, the plainness of her hair and the little peaks of her ears coming out from her pale neck. There’s a deep love in its simplicity. Ariadne doesn’t know that she’d pay, well, anything much to have it stolen from the Musee d’Orsay, but she can see why someone would.
The forgery that Eames, with ten minutes to spare, is carefully hanging in its perfect frame, is missing something. Ariadne can’t quite pinpoint what it is. Nothing immediate. You have to stare at the image, next to the rest of the Model paintings, to notice it.
When Eames materializes back by her side and hustles her towards a safer part of the museum, she tells him, “I think they’re going to figure out that’s a forgery.”
“Well, of course,” he laughs. “And someone’s going to need to get the original back for them.”
“You’re terrible,” she mutters.
“Not entirely,” Eames protest. Ariadne can hear footsteps and presses herself against the wall. A minute later, a guard rounds their corner, but doesn’t catch sight of them.
They don’t try speaking again until they’re out of the museum and a few blocks away. The spring air in Paris is thick and wet with the afterglow of a shower. They’re set to split, Eames taking a taxi to god knows where, and Ariadne riding the metro back home, so she asks, “What makes you not entirely terrible?”
“I’m wounded you even have to ask.”
“Eames,” she pleads.
“You, must, of course, keep this a complete secret.”
“Oh, of course,” she says, eyes rolling. Eames leans in.
“I think everyone else deserves a change to see the real thing, too. As good as my forgeries might be, and they are excellent, they’re not quite like the old masters do them.”
Ariadne can’t help but grin as she tells him, “I’ll make sure never to let anyone know you’re such an egalitarian. Can’t ruin the image of the obliviously insensitive British upper class, can I?”
“I knew you’d understand,” Eames chuckles, and heads in another direction.
Ariadne stares at his retreating back for a long minute, brow furrowed.
-
Back at her apartment, she’s still staring. This time, though, it’s at the hanging scroll. The thing has to be an original; there’s not a chance that Saito would have sent her, or been fooled by, a forgery, no matter how good. She can’t send it back, though. To refuse a gift like this would be so rude it gives Ariadne goosebumps.
What Eames said is still lodged in her brain, though, so Ariadne thinks about the wall where she’d hung the scroll, very carefully. It’s ink on white paper; nothing actually clashes with the image, but it doesn’t belong in her haphazard apartment, with the ugliest sofa in the world, or a clutter of schoolwork from the past three years.
Ariadne’s tired, but her nerves are still too much to let her sleep, so she tackles to coffee table first. Underneath her scribbled notes from a class she took last fall are several back copies of Architectural Digest (not her idea, but one of her aunt’s). They all go in the trash, which overflows twice with all of her clutter before she calls it a night.
The next morning the sight of her table nearly makes her spill her coffee all over the rich mahogany of it, but when her resting heart rates returns, Ariadne smiles. It’s not, objectively, an attractive table. She thinks it might have come with the apartment, because she can’t find anything like about it subjectively, either.
The idea of buying a new table spooks her; it implies that she’s going to live in this place for a while, that she’s settling here. Ariadne is still young, and in the past year has learned just how much she loves the thrill of a fast-paced, somewhat criminal lifestyle. On the other hand, this is an ugly table.
Once her coffee starts to kick in, Ariadne ignores the table situation in favor of bitching at Arthur. She doesn’t expect any comfort or useful advice from him, but it’s funny to hear how his voice gets tight with the effort of not telling her she’s being irrational. Also, he really should have warned her about Eames.
That’s her lead off, when Arthur picks up his phone after three rings.
“What did he do?” he sighs.
“He’s just, it wasn’t any one thing, but,” Ariadne takes a second to breathe, “it’s like having a week-long heart attack.
“That’s probably the best description I’ve heard, actually.”
“That’s all you’ve got to say?” She might be shrieking. It’s pretty funny.
“Art thievery and forgery aren’t my areas of criminal expertise,” Arthur says, and she can practically hear him shrug, “I didn’t realise he’d be so much more insufferable out of the dreamspace.”
“Lies,” she hisses.
“Is that the reason you called?” Arthur laughs.
“Maybe,” Ariadne says, shrugging even though he can’t see it, “maybe I wanted to ask if you’d heard of any jobs. Ones that don’t involve me breaking into the Musee d’Orsay with a mad British man.”
That earns her a chuckle. “It sounds like there might be something in Singapore, and in Lima. I can’t know for sure, yet. Run out of money already?”
“Nothing of the sort. I’m just bored.”
“Don’t you have homework or something you should be doing?”
“I’m graduating at the end of this semester,” she reminds him, “and my thesis project is almost done.”
“Already?”
“Well, once you designed three dream levels, one sustainable office building isn’t too hard.”
“You did remember to follow the law of physics, didn’t you?”
Ariadne actually has to pause to think about that, and it’s as good an indication as any that mindcrime is the career for her. “Yes. I think so. Almost definitely.”
“You should go check on that, then. I’ll let you know about Singapore and Lima.”
“Thanks.”
Ariadne spends the next four hours cleaning and rearranging her apartment. Eames, almost making up for the past week, calls her before she can start thinking about what this all means.
“Are you calling to apologize for nearly getting us arrested?”
“Ariadne, sweet, you can’t be serious.”
“No, of course I’m not. Do you have my money?”
“Mercenary,” Eames chuckles. “I do. I can even deliver it in person, if that suits your delicate nerves.”
“You’re still in Paris? I thought you would be gone by now.”
“I had a few things to attend to. McCormack can wait another day.”
“Alright, do you want to say thirty minutes from now?”
“I know a charming little place near the Rue Mouffetard.”
“I know it too, Eames,” she chuckles, and hangs up.
-
Eames is right on time; it’s Ariadne who blows in two minutes late, her hair caught around her face. Eames tilts his cup at her in greeting as she slides into the seat across from him.
“In a crowded cafe?” Are the first words out of her mouth, and they make Eames’ mouth quirk up.
“Relax, Ariadne. Have a cup of tea.”
“Un cafe,” she tells the waiter when he sweeps by. “What sort of business were you up to?”
“Personal business.”
“Arthur in town?” The brief spasm in Eames’s face is the most gratifying thing Ariadne’s seen in weeks.
“I wouldn’t know.”
She smiles so wide it almost hurts her face, and sips at her coffee. There’s a bag resting next to Eames’ left foot that’s stealing her attention. If she scoots forward in her chair and looks fascinated by Eames - as she assumes she should, since their covers is something like a date- she can almost catch it with her foot.
Just a couple of more inches, and as she catches the far edge with her ankle, Eames fingers are on her wrist.
“You’ll have to wait for your present, dear.” Eames pitches his voice louder than necessary. People stop looking at them out of the corners of their eyes.
“You got me a present?”
“I did,” he admits. “Wait until you’re home to open it.”
“How will I contain myself,” Ariadne deadpans.
“I can’t even dream,” Eames replies.
-
Eames, did, actually get her a present. The bag is mostly very nicely wrapped stacks of money, but there, nestled between thousands, is a carefully swaddled package. Ariadne’s gut instinct says it’s from the d’Orsay and her hands don’t stop shaking until the sketch is sitting on her newly cleaned coffee table.
She doesn’t recognize it at first, but Eames has, quiet thoughtfully, left her a little note.
“Jules Bourdais, Projet de phare monumental pour Paris, élévation. I thought this might look nice in your appartment, I heard you were redecorating.”
Definitely Arthur, is Ariadne’s first thought. Her second is how nice this would look in the light of her kitchen. The soft morning light on the watercolor makes her smile, and she hasn’t even seen it yet.
-
Somehow, in between hanging the sketch over her cutting board and flying to Singapore, the rest of her apartment is cleaned.