Fic: Love Syndrome
Title: Love Syndrome
Pairings: Robert/Ariadne, Arthur/Eames and Yusuf/Ariadne
Rating: PG 13
Word Count: 5.5K
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's. I don't own these characters.
Summary: One man's drive to possess the woman of his dreams.
Warning: Post movie.
He sleeps.
He dreams.
And dreams and dreams.
He lives. He breathes.
And wakes. He wakes and blue eyes flicker open.
Silence, save for his quiet, even breathing, in the darkness of the night.
His lips part, forming the words though no sound escapes.
I remember.
~*~*~*~
I love the sound of the rain. These days though, it's hard to hear much of anything. But sometimes I close my eyes, and it all comes rushing back.
The warmth of your body against mine, thigh to thigh, shoulder pressed to shoulder. Your sweat-slick skin and the undeniable scent of your juniper and evergreen cologne mixed with the heady aroma of your cherry cigarillos. A scent that is yours and yours alone. The sound of your laughter, rumbling from your chest. The open window, drifting lightly in the breeze as the rain falls outside our apartment. Falls and falls and falls.
I never did get over you. Never really tried.
Just...drifted through life in a haze. Half awake, half asleep in a dream.
I don't think I ever told you, but I loved you.
I loved you, right up to the very second you walked out of my life on a rainy Sunday afternoon. I loved your smile and the way your lips would curve up into that familiar grin. The one that always sent a little shiver through my body, settling into a gentle warmth in my belly. Your fashion sense that no one seemed to appreciate except for yourself (though I secretly did as well). Your hands, so large but infinitely gentle when they held me. Your fingers laced through mine. I loved the way you gasped my name as we loved one another, as we made love on a lazy Monday morning. The way you would tighten around me, teeth sinking into your lower lip when you came.
I loved everything about you, even the stupid little things that made me mad. Like the way you never remembered to close the cap on the tube of toothpaste. Or the way you'd read one of my books and leave it on the coffee table when you were done instead of putting it away. I even loved and hated the way your feet were always cold, even under the covers.
I miss you. I probably don't think I do, but you'd be wrong. I miss the way you'd make me that perfect cup of Earl Grey tea when I'm feeling under the weather. The way you'd send me a postcard every single day when we were apart for more than two or three days. I miss the sight of your coats crowding the closet, your shoes next to mine.
You always made this place feel lived in. You were the one who made it worth coming home. You made it more than just a house. A home. Our home.
Shutting his eyes, Arthur sags into the window seat as though his own weight is too much for him. He leans his head back until it gently meets brick and plaster. He snaps his little black book shut and lets it fall into his lap.
He writes, not because he wants to, but because he wants to get all his thoughts out. Wants to get rid of them. As though, by laying them to ink, he's laying them to rest. But the thoughts, the words, they never rest. They just circulate in his mind, growing and growing.
After a few moments, though he's not sure how many, he gets up, setting his book on top of the small stack of books already on his work desk. Dragging his weary body to the bathroom, he strips and, for once, doesn't bother to neatly hang his clothes. Instead, they fall into a haphazard pile on the floor. Arthur just can't bring himself to care.
Under the hot shower, he tries to relax but the thoughts never leave him. He's not the type to let things go. Hell, he still thinks about the Stein job and every little error that eventually ended up having them torn to shreds.
Under the scalding stream of water, it takes the Point Man a few moments to realize his doorbell is ringing.
Shit. He'd forgotten Ariadne would be dropping by to pick up some texts for her class. Arthur has a vast collection of texts on Escher and the Architect, ever the brilliant student, wanted to study them.
Hurriedly, he finishes his shower. Stepping out and dripping water, he gives his hair a quick scrub with a towel before wrapping another around his waist. He shuffles to the his front door and pulls it open, without even bothering to check the peephole.
“Sorry, I forgot the time,” he apologizes, letting her in.
She stifles a chuckle as she enters.
“I'm going to find some clean clothes. I left the books on my work desk by the window,” he explains as he wanders up the stairs of his converted loft, to his open bedroom.
Ariadne doesn't stay too long as she has an early class in the morning, along with another session in the work shop.
~*~*~*~
Arthur reclines in his chair, two seats away from Eames, yet so very aware of his former lover. He hasn't once glanced at the other man but he can feel the sharp blue-grey eyes watching him. He fights back to urge to return the gaze with his eyebrow arched in a what-are-you-finding-so-fascinating-this-time-Mr-Eames sort of fashion.
Eames hasn't paid this much attention to him since they split.
To say Arthur is confused is a vast understatement. It's weird, he thinks to himself. You sound so close but it feels like you're so far.
Before he can ruminate any further though, Cobb calls his name and draws his attention back to the white board.
“Of course it shouldn't be a problem. Two layers may as well be standard these days,” young man comments.
The group breaks for lunch soon after, and though Arthur can tell Eames wants to talk to him, he quickly volunteers Ariadne to grab lunch with him and engages her in a conversation about her latest project in her architecture class, all the while pretending not to see the piercing gaze directed at him from Eames. It's rather cowardly of him, but Arthur doesn't want to speak with Eames. Doesn't want to look at him. Him with his eyes that seem more blue then grey sometimes, and more grey than blue on rainy days.
The two return, arms filled with paper bags of delicate pastries, meaty sandwiches and caffeine from the cafe two blocks over. The one that always smells utterly incredible to any passerby, the one that's always crowded and busy with young professionals, students from the near-by university, and small families.
There isn't much time for talk while they eat and then it's back to hitting the books.
Somehow, though Arthur's not sure exactly how--which is how he always feels around Eames-- uncertain and off-balance--he makes it through the rest of the day without any contact with Eames.
There's an undercurrent flowing through the air, leaving the group charged but restless. It makes for a tense meeting and everyone is eager to adjourn for the day though no one dares to voice it out loud.
Once outside though, Eames grabs his arm, quickly putting a halt to any idea of escape.
“Arthur, what is this?”
The brunet looks at him blankly before scrutinizing the sheaf of parchment in Eames' hand from a few inches away.
“At first, I thought it was a prank. The handwriting is a fairly good imitation of yours but I'm the best in the business; takes more than a shabby forgery to get the best of me. And yet...the details, down to the most minute little thing, are spot on.”
Frowning, he erases the distance between them and takes the piece of paper. Dark brown eyes widen almost imperceptibly but the Forger is nothing, is not perceptive, and he tracks every movement Arthur makes.
Instead of speaking to Eames though, he turns and shoots a glare at Ariadne. She looks back at him with wide eyes, palms up to profess her innocence.
“Well, if it wasn't you, who did it then?”
“I did.”
As one, everyone turns to stare at Yusuf.
“I was at Ariadne's when I found this black book in the stack of texts you lent her. I thought it was part of the collection.”
Arthur's mind flashes back. He remembers setting the book on his work desk...right on top of the pile of Escher texts. It was a simple mistake on his part; the aftermath though, is anything but. The Point Man frowns. “And you didn't think to close the book once you realized it was personal?”
Yusuf gives a half shrug. “I think I speak for all of us when I say we were getting tired of the animosity and the tension between you and Eames.”
Arthur casts a quick glance at Cobb and Ariadne, noting the way they carefully avoid his gaze. “Ariadne,” he asks as he resolutely keeps from looking at Eames, “Can I stop by and pick it up right now?”
Shaking her head, she mentions something about having dinner with a friend.
“Hm, can I drop by after? Around nine?”
Ariadne nods her assent and then the group falls into an awkward silence before everyone goes their separate ways.
That night, at nine o'clock, to the second, Arthur is about to rap sharply on her door when a tingly prickles creeps up his spine. His heart drops to the bottom of his stomach and with a heavy hand, he tries the door.
It opens.
At first glance, Ariadne's place seems immaculate. Until Arthur reaches her desk. Her chair is overturned, her mug shattered on the wooden floor. Arthur hurries over and kneels down. From the odd splatter of liquid--coffee, he smells--on the floor, he deduces that she'd probably put a fight, thrown the mug at the intruder-intruders?--before being overpowered. Arthur hopes the coffee was scalding.
He pulls out his cellphone immediately. Begins dialling without a second thought.
“Arthur,” answers Eames, surprise evident in his tone. “I--you--I've been meaning to call you. We need to talk--”
“Ariadne's gone,” he abruptly interrupts.
“What?” Eames sucks in a sharp breath.
“Can you--”
“--call the others. I'm on it,” finishes the British man before hanging up.
It doesn't occur to him to wonder why he'd called Eames first. Though it didn't escape his notice that he didn't even need to ask Eames to call the others.
Within half an hour, Cobb, Yusuf and Eames are there.
“What makes you think--” begins Cobb.
“The door was unlocked, her drink definitely wasn't spilled so much as it was thrown, her chair overturned and--”
“Her totem,” Yusuf softly murmurs, picking up her hollowed bishop. “She'd never leave it behind.”
It doesn't take them long to formulate a plan. Eames gets to work, hacking into the apartment's security system to review the tapes; perhaps they'd luck out and find something on the camera at the front entrance. Cobb calls in a few favours while Arthur and Yusuf determine a list of possible suspects. Fortunately the list is short, as Ariadne only works with them part of the time.
“We can rule out Beckett. Ariadne sat out that one.”
“What about Ralston?”
“I'll get Jacobs to check in on her.”
~*~*~*~
Ariadne awakes to find herself in a windowless room, lying on a thin bed.
Taking a deep breath, the Architect, tries to remain calm, rubbing her wrists unconsciously. She checks herself over, detailing no physical damage, thankfully. Then she rises, and tries the door. Locked, of course. She hasn't expected any less.
She studies her surroundings. The bed is bolted down, its heavy metal frame useless to her. The mattress is bare. The entire room is empty and grey. It's empty, grey and entirely unfamiliar. The door is also metal; even if it were wooden, with her slight frame, Ariadne would have a hard time doing any damage to it.
She remains, for now, a prisoner.
She sits, and begins to think, to plan.
~*~*~*~
“Did you think I wouldn't find out?” Robert Fischer asks softly, blue eyes unreadable.
Ariadne, without playing the innocent, shakes her head. “How?”
“At first...I thought it was merely a bizarre dream. But then I remembered one of the things they covered when they trained me. Mr. Charles; a ploy to deceive me. Tell me I'm dreaming to gain my trust. It was a well-played tactic, and I almost fell for it.”
“What changed?” She questions, genuinely curious.
“You want the truth?” He asks, though it's rhetorical. “You.”
Her brown eyes flash with surprise.
“I keep dreaming. The same dream over and over. It's mere seconds but I remember it so vividly. Your hand on my cheek, your hair flying in the wind, your voice asking if I'm all right. At first, I thought it just that; a dream. But night after night, it's the same thing. And then I realized; you're real. Flesh and bone, not mere imagination.”
“What do you want then? You want us to tell you what we did to you? Reverse it?” she asks as her eyes flicker, for just the barest instant, to the door behind.
“You won't make it. I have guards posted outside this door,” he informs her, ever-so casual.
“You make a habit of this? Kidnapping women for kicks? Those guards know what kind of boss they work for?”
Robert smiles slowly as he draws closer to her, bending his head, lips gently grazing her ear. “With enough money, anyone can be bought.”
~*~*~*~
The next time she wakes up, she's in an entirely different room. Plush red carpet, a canopy bed with satin sheets and lavish pillows, a large mahogany closet in the corner, filled with rich dresses, all satin and silk, she investigates. Two doors; one locked and the other leading to an elegant bathroom of marble counters, a toilet with a heated seat, a bathtub that looks hand-made with its asymmetrical edges and a gilded mirror with a golden frame. Relieving herself in the bathroom, Ariadne can't help but notice that though the door closes, there's no lock.
Back in the bedroom, she pauses. There's a small circular table by the windows but that's not what has her halting. She is drawn to the tray of food; she is certain it hadn't been there when she had initially woken up. Feeling hunger set in at the smell of the food, Ariadne helps herself to it. Although a part of her doesn't want to partake in any food, she knows she needs to keep up her strength, both physical and mental. It's all delicious. Not that she had expected Fischer to dine on anything less than gourmet.
She wonders how long she's been captured. Judging by the level of her hunger, and the sunlight filtering in through the windows, which are are barred, of course, as she immediately discovers, she estimates it's been perhaps half a day.
By now, the others must have figured out she's missing. She wonders if they'll charge in, guns blazing and grenades primed.
She can only hope they deduce that--
~*~*~*~
“It's Fischer,” are the first words out of Eames' mouth when Arthur drags his sleep-deprived body over to the computer.
“What? Are you certain?”
There is no reaction, save for the most minute tightening in his jaw.
“Eames?”
“Even after all this time, you just don't trust me, do you.” He bites out, whirling around in his chair to glare at Arthur.
The question, which isn't a question at all, catches Arthur off guard. He fumbles for a reply.
Shaking his head, Eames shoots to his feet, knocking the computer chair back.
“Eames--”
“You still don't get it. You still don't--” He snaps his mouth shut.
--understand that I left because you don't trust me. The thought finishes itself in Arthur's head, as all the tiles fall into place, like a puzzle fitting together seamlessly.
And just like that, he realizes.
Taking a step towards the other man, Arthur is about to speak, to reach out and grab Eames' arm--
“Have you guys found anything?” Yusuf asks as soon as he enters the room, Cobb right behind him.
The moment is gone. Any chance of repairing what has been lost is gone. From the look in Eames' eyes, Arthur's not sure if there will be another chance again. The realization sends a dull ache through his belly.
“It's Fischer. I was watching the security tape and from the time Ariadne comes home until the time Arthur arrives, only a handful of people are seen. Two are her neighbours down the hall, coming home, arms laden with groceries. A young blond man arrives at half past seven, and leaves with what appears to be his date, a lovely redhead. And these two,” Eames explains, gesturing to the computer.
The video is paused shortly after eight p.m. Two men catch the door just as the couple are leaving.
“I ran a search on all five and everyone checks out, except for these two. They don't live in the building. Upon further research, I found out they're working for one Robert Michael Fischer.”
“So that begs the question, did he find out the truth and he's exacting revenge or did something go wrong when we went under?” Cobb murmurs.
“We'll find out when we go get her back,” replies Yusuf.
“If we can find her. Since Ariadne's disappearance, Fischer has virtually dropped off the face of the planet,” Eames interjects.
“What about the men that took her? If we can find them, we can get them to talk,” Arthur suggests.
“That's a good place to start,” Cobb says with a nod. “Yusuf, do you think you could concoct some sort of composition to induce sleep just in case?”
“I've already got--
~*~*~*~
“--something in mind,” Fischer tells Ariadne as he leads her into what appears to be his own library.
Entire walls made of shelves and shelves of books; hundreds upon hundreds of books with a ladder to reach the upper echelons. There's a fireplace at the opposite end of the room with two large easy chairs. It almost looks cozy.
Almost.
She stands in the doorway, a frown slowly furrowing her brow.
Pausing, he turns back. “Is something the matter?”
“You never did answer my question. What do you want from us?”
Silence falls between them, heavy and thick, like a snowstorm.
“I don't want anything from the others. Just you. To stay here. To be with me.”
Her mouth falls open, forming a near-perfect circle.
Fischer closes the distance between them. Reaching his hand out, he gently cups her chin and closes her mouth. His thumb lightly traces her lower lip before he leans in and kisses her. It's warm and gentle, sending a tiny shiver racing down her spine.
Shock leaves her immobilized before sense returns. Her hands fly up, pressing against his chest. Before she can shove him away and break free though, quick as lightning, Fischer grabs her wrists, trapping her.
“What is wrong with you?” she demands, anger lighting her brown eyes. “Do you think you can just--”
--build a prison of memories to lock her in?
Ariadne freezes, sucking in a tiny gasp of air. A small part of her, the part she's been trying to ignore ever since she'd woken up in this strange place, starkly reminds her that she's without her totem.
“What's wrong?” Fischer asks her, wondering why she's stopped struggling.
Is she dreaming? Is she awake? She's not sure anymore.
Shaking her head, she presses her lips together. She's not about to give him even more leverage over her; as far as she knows, he's clueless about totems.
“I just...want to go home,” she finally answers without actually answering him. “Just let me go home.”
“I can't,” he whispers, staring straight into her eyes.
“Why not?”
“I am nothing without you,” he confesses to her. “Look, I know you and the others did something to me. Changed something. Made me different--and I should be angry, I should be exacting revenge but somehow, I just--nothing matters without you here.”
Ariadne swallows hard, feeling queasy as something heavy sinks to the pit of her stomach. A small part of her wants to throw up. She feels panic setting in, her skin breaking out in a cold sweat, her breath coming faster. Biting down hard on her lower lip, she focuses on the pain and holds her breath for a long moment before letting it out, exhaling slowly.
Revenge, she could deal with. But this? This was something else entirely.
~*~*~*~
“Look, you can yell at me and tell me off later but right now, we need to get Ariadne back,” Arthur quietly says to Eames. He speaks up to include the others, “A couple of contacts came through. Pulled in a couple of favours but we have her location.”
“But what if I want to talk now?” Eames murmurs. His voice, his posture, his body language, they all show signs of calm and serene but the glint in his eyes says otherwise.
“Eames,” he says through gritted teeth. “You're angry with me, I get that. But not now.”
“Oh, angry doesn't begin to cover it.”
Arthur shuts his eyes, looking away as he lets out a soft breath. He steels himself before looking straight into Eames' eyes, eyes he once knew so well, knew better than his own. “Please.”
The Forger doesn't react.
A beat. Then two.
Then shaking his head, Eames gives a half chuckle though there's nothing funny at all. “Fine.”
~*~*~*~
A week passes though Ariadne refuses to give Robert even an inch.
He invites her to join him for a picnic, to enjoy the lovely weather but she remains cooped inside her room, her prison.
He spends his evenings with her, listening to classical music and reading by the fire.
He tells her about his childhood, his father, the empire he could have had.
He tells her about his mother. The few precious memories of her that he still retains. The scent of her perfume, like lilacs and roses. The sound of her laughter that always made him feel safe and warm inside. Her favourite lullaby she'd always sing to him after tucking him in. Her death when he was eleven.
Ariadne shakes her head. “I know what you're doing. What you're trying to do.”
“And what would that be?” he asks, voice flat.
“Well, it could be that you're trying to gain my sympathy by telling me of your misfortunes, of your life. Trying to make me relate to you, to make me feel for you. To make yourself more 'real' to me.
“Stockholm Syndrome,” she concludes simply.
“I'm not a bad person!” he bursts out before he gains control of himself, the spark of emotion waning. His next words are much, much softer, leaving him sounding almost lost. “I just...need you.”
She looks away for a moment, uncomfortable. Turning back, she catches his eyes. So very, very blue. Not quite like anything she's ever seen before. “Look, Fischer--”
“Robert.”
“...Robert,” she capitulates after a pause. “I simply cannot be who or what you want me to be.”
~*~*~*~
“Two cars or one?” Cobb asks.
Arthur opens his mouth. “On--”
“Two,” interjects Eames. “I'm riding with Arthur.”
Exchanging glances, Cobb and Yusuf give slight shrugs. “Fine by us,” Cobb agrees.
“Wouldn't want to get in the way of a marital disagreement,” Yusuf mumbles to Cobb with a deliberate cough, looking every which way except at Arthur and Eames.
“Subtle.” Arthur casts a glare at the Chemist.
“Remember. This is just a retrieval. We're not looking to do any damage. A quick in and out,” Cobb reminds as they split up.
Reaching the car, Arthur pulls out the keys. “I think I ought to drive,” he says without looking at Eames.
“Why can't I?” inquires the other man.
“You're upset--”
“So what? You think I can't reign in my emotions while I'm driving? Is that it? You--”
--just don't trust me. You never have and you never will.
“No. That's not what I--” Arthur gasps, words cutting off with a small cry when Eames abruptly slams him against the side of the car, effectively trapping him against metal and glass.
“Just shut up, Arthur. I'm tired. I'm tired of all this. Of you not trusting me. Of this stupid fight. I'm tired of everything I can't say to you because--”
This time, Arthur cuts Eames off. By sliding his hands around the back of Eames' neck and pulling him in for a heated, angry kiss. It's full of raw emotion. All tongue and teeth, fighting to gain control. Biting down fiercely before soothing with gentle nips. It's angry and hurt and pain. It's everything unspoken. All the things they wanted to say but didn't have the words for. All the emotions they'd bottled up and buried since they'd parted.
Eames tastes exactly like he remembers; all cherry cigarettes and slightly sweet like the Earl Grey he favours. It's familiar, so very familiar and yet, it feels so new. Like Arthur is remembering a memory from so long ago.
“Eames, I'm--”
“--Sorry,” finishes the Forger. “I know. Me too.”
They kiss again. Slower this time. A little more gentle. Arthur buries his fingers in Eames' hair.
“I'm glad you stopped using that atrocious hair gel,” he mutters against Eames' lips. “I hate the feel of it.”
“Darling, you do realize that's a tad hypocritical of you seeing as you slick your hair back everyday,” grins the other man.
“Don't care,” he mumbles. “I'm going to throw your gel out as soon as I can.”
Eames laughs even as he pulls Arthur against him firmly, slipping his arms around the younger man's back, and then they're kissing again--
Until a car screeches to a halt just a few yards away, honking loudly. Yusuf leans out the passenger window, smirking before he calls out, “Get a room!”
The two jerk apart, simultaneously throwing glares at Yusuf and Cobb.
“Let's go get Ariadne and then you two get a room,” Cobb corrects with a laugh before speeding off before Arthur can find something to throw at them.
The car ride is mostly quiet, but not entirely uncomfortable; the both of them know there's still a lot to be said but it's a start. Arthur knows there's probably a lot of anger they still have to deal with, hurt feelings and misconstrued messages, a lot of unresolved issues, but it's a start.
“So about that journal entry--”
“Yusuf is a dead man when we've gotten Ariadne back,” Arthur cuts him off quickly. He refuses, absolutely refuses to blush--because he's cool, collected and unflappable, and he certainly did not spill his guts out in his journal damnit--and resolutely keeps his gaze on the road ahead.
Eames chuckles, the sound low and knowing, and it sends a cool shiver skating over Arthur's skin, a warm pool settling in his belly.
“What's so funny?”
“Kissing someone to put a halt to an argument. You're turning our lives into one giant cliché, Arthur.”
“Oh, shut up.”
~*~*~*~
Ariadne enters what appears to be Fischer's personal office. There's a shelf laden with tomes and texts, a small fireplace and a massive oak desk. Curious, she explores the room, her nimble feet sinking into the deep blue carpet as she quietly studies her surroundings. On the desk, there are a few personal knickknacks. Of its own accord, her hand reaches out and gently picks up a picture frame.
A slender woman is caught unaware by the camera, laughing as the wind almost steals her hat. She wears a sundress, bluer than the sky on a warm Spring day, and her dark chestnut brown hair with hints of red, curls in loose waves, flying in the breeze. She is frozen in time, eternal. She is, laughter and warmth. She is, beauty and grace.
Out of nowhere, Fischer gently tugs the photo from her hand.
“Who is she?” Ariadne asks him, trying to calm her racing heart; he'd startled her, appearing so silently and suddenly.
“She was my mother,” he answers.
Ariadne glances up at him as she tells him, “She's beautiful.”
“Yes, she was,” Fischer agrees, simply, as he sets the photograph down. He pauses for a moment, fighting with himself.
Tilting her head, Ariadne can tell he wants to say something. She waits for him.
“Do you..Would you like to join me for dinner?”
She glances down at his desk, her brown eyes caught by the image of Fischer's mother. “What was her name?”
“Eden.”
Ariadne makes for the door.
Fischer shuts his eyes, steeling himself as she once again rejects him.
She stops, linger in the doorway, her hand coming up to rest on the door-frame, fingers curling around the smooth edges. She glances over her shoulder as she calls back to him, “Dinner sounds lovely...Robert.”
~*~*~*~
Two voices. Both male.
“So what then? We just wait?”
“No, we don't.”
“But we can't--”
“I know.”
“One of us has to stay.”
“Right, but who?”
A third voice pipes in. “I'm going in.”
“But I thought you don't go into the field?”
“For this, I will,” is all he says before, gazing down at the sleepers. His hands slides into his pocket, gently tracing the little golden chess piece.
“I'll stay then.”
“No, I don't want us to get separated. Not after we just got back together.”
The first voice smothers a snicker but it escapes anyway. “Now who's the giant, walking cliché?” the voice is light, teasing.
“Didn't we tell you two to get a room?”
“You know what? I'll stay. Then I won't have to watch two you mushy lovebirds.”
~*~*~*~
Ariadne is sitting beneath a large willow tree, a heavy book on her lap as she leans against Robert.
She glances up momentarily, certain she's hearing things. Her mouth falls open, and then she's leaping to her feet, book forgotten as it tumbles to the grass. Quick as a fox, she throws her arms around Yusuf's neck, burying her face in his chest as she breathes in the familiar scent.
“What took you guys so long?” she mumbles. “It's been days!”
“It's only been one day,” corrects Arthur.
“What do you...” her voice trails off, realization slowly sinking into her eyes as she glances up at them.
Yusuf pulls something from his pocket. “I know you're not supposed to let anyone touch your totem but you left yours behind.”
Her fingers reach out, almost as if she's afraid to touch it. She hesitates for a few seconds before curling her finger around the little chess piece.
It's hers.
“You can make a new one when we get home,” Yusuf reassures her.
She stares at him, torn, wavering between wanting to believe him and uncertain if she can. After all, even if they leave 'dream', if that's what it truly is, how can she be certain she's returned to reality and not another level of dreaming? How can she be certain of anything anymore? She feels a little bit like Alice, lost in Wonderland. Fallen down the rabbithole, with no way out.
"How can I trust this? How can I trust you?" she asks, swallowing hard.
He pulls her aside, staring straight into her eyes. Eyes he knows as well as his own. Eyes he knows better than his own. "Please," he whispers.
Eames and Arthur approach Fischer. Fischer, who is still on the grass, fingers tightly clutching the book, knuckles white, hasn't moved.
“Why?” Arthur demands.
“I needed time. Time to show her,” he softly replies, rising carefully to his feet with his palms up as Eames and Arthur train their guns on him.
“Well, the show's over. You've lost her,” Arthur retorts and shoots Fischer in the face.
~*~*~*~
Five sets of eyes flicker open.
While they had been sleeping, Cobb had taken the opportunity to tie up Fischer, just in case.
“You're just going to leave me here?” Fischer says incredulously, jerking at the rope tethering him to the bed.
“Oh, don't worry. We'll order a dozen pizzas for you. The delivery man should be here in an hour or so,” Yusuf cheerfully says to their former mark as they leave him behind. “Hope you like anchovies.”
~*~*~*~
Cobb rides with Arthur and Eames this time; Ariadne mentions something about wanting to pick up something to modify; a new totem.
“Are you all right?” Yusuf asks her, concern layering his voice. “You're awfully quiet.”
She glances at him and gives him a slight smile. “Yeah. I'm just a little tired.”
Yusuf nods, taking her for her word.
As she stares out the passenger side window, she thinks of eyes so very, very blue. Not quite like anything she's ever seen before.
The End
So this was the fic I was working on for the bigbang_land final challenge. >_> Apparently I only doubled the minimum requirement. But I found that the fic just made more sense as a longer piece of work.
Anyway, this is my first piece of Inception with other pairings along with my usual Arthur/Eames. I hope it came out all right!
Feedback is, as always, much appreciated. :3
Pairings: Robert/Ariadne, Arthur/Eames and Yusuf/Ariadne
Rating: PG 13
Word Count: 5.5K
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's. I don't own these characters.
Summary: One man's drive to possess the woman of his dreams.
Warning: Post movie.
He sleeps.
He dreams.
And dreams and dreams.
He lives. He breathes.
And wakes. He wakes and blue eyes flicker open.
Silence, save for his quiet, even breathing, in the darkness of the night.
His lips part, forming the words though no sound escapes.
I remember.
~*~*~*~
I love the sound of the rain. These days though, it's hard to hear much of anything. But sometimes I close my eyes, and it all comes rushing back.
The warmth of your body against mine, thigh to thigh, shoulder pressed to shoulder. Your sweat-slick skin and the undeniable scent of your juniper and evergreen cologne mixed with the heady aroma of your cherry cigarillos. A scent that is yours and yours alone. The sound of your laughter, rumbling from your chest. The open window, drifting lightly in the breeze as the rain falls outside our apartment. Falls and falls and falls.
I never did get over you. Never really tried.
Just...drifted through life in a haze. Half awake, half asleep in a dream.
I don't think I ever told you, but I loved you.
I loved you, right up to the very second you walked out of my life on a rainy Sunday afternoon. I loved your smile and the way your lips would curve up into that familiar grin. The one that always sent a little shiver through my body, settling into a gentle warmth in my belly. Your fashion sense that no one seemed to appreciate except for yourself (though I secretly did as well). Your hands, so large but infinitely gentle when they held me. Your fingers laced through mine. I loved the way you gasped my name as we loved one another, as we made love on a lazy Monday morning. The way you would tighten around me, teeth sinking into your lower lip when you came.
I loved everything about you, even the stupid little things that made me mad. Like the way you never remembered to close the cap on the tube of toothpaste. Or the way you'd read one of my books and leave it on the coffee table when you were done instead of putting it away. I even loved and hated the way your feet were always cold, even under the covers.
I miss you. I probably don't think I do, but you'd be wrong. I miss the way you'd make me that perfect cup of Earl Grey tea when I'm feeling under the weather. The way you'd send me a postcard every single day when we were apart for more than two or three days. I miss the sight of your coats crowding the closet, your shoes next to mine.
You always made this place feel lived in. You were the one who made it worth coming home. You made it more than just a house. A home. Our home.
Shutting his eyes, Arthur sags into the window seat as though his own weight is too much for him. He leans his head back until it gently meets brick and plaster. He snaps his little black book shut and lets it fall into his lap.
He writes, not because he wants to, but because he wants to get all his thoughts out. Wants to get rid of them. As though, by laying them to ink, he's laying them to rest. But the thoughts, the words, they never rest. They just circulate in his mind, growing and growing.
After a few moments, though he's not sure how many, he gets up, setting his book on top of the small stack of books already on his work desk. Dragging his weary body to the bathroom, he strips and, for once, doesn't bother to neatly hang his clothes. Instead, they fall into a haphazard pile on the floor. Arthur just can't bring himself to care.
Under the hot shower, he tries to relax but the thoughts never leave him. He's not the type to let things go. Hell, he still thinks about the Stein job and every little error that eventually ended up having them torn to shreds.
Under the scalding stream of water, it takes the Point Man a few moments to realize his doorbell is ringing.
Shit. He'd forgotten Ariadne would be dropping by to pick up some texts for her class. Arthur has a vast collection of texts on Escher and the Architect, ever the brilliant student, wanted to study them.
Hurriedly, he finishes his shower. Stepping out and dripping water, he gives his hair a quick scrub with a towel before wrapping another around his waist. He shuffles to the his front door and pulls it open, without even bothering to check the peephole.
“Sorry, I forgot the time,” he apologizes, letting her in.
She stifles a chuckle as she enters.
“I'm going to find some clean clothes. I left the books on my work desk by the window,” he explains as he wanders up the stairs of his converted loft, to his open bedroom.
Ariadne doesn't stay too long as she has an early class in the morning, along with another session in the work shop.
~*~*~*~
Arthur reclines in his chair, two seats away from Eames, yet so very aware of his former lover. He hasn't once glanced at the other man but he can feel the sharp blue-grey eyes watching him. He fights back to urge to return the gaze with his eyebrow arched in a what-are-you-finding-so-fascinating-this-time-Mr-Eames sort of fashion.
Eames hasn't paid this much attention to him since they split.
To say Arthur is confused is a vast understatement. It's weird, he thinks to himself. You sound so close but it feels like you're so far.
Before he can ruminate any further though, Cobb calls his name and draws his attention back to the white board.
“Of course it shouldn't be a problem. Two layers may as well be standard these days,” young man comments.
The group breaks for lunch soon after, and though Arthur can tell Eames wants to talk to him, he quickly volunteers Ariadne to grab lunch with him and engages her in a conversation about her latest project in her architecture class, all the while pretending not to see the piercing gaze directed at him from Eames. It's rather cowardly of him, but Arthur doesn't want to speak with Eames. Doesn't want to look at him. Him with his eyes that seem more blue then grey sometimes, and more grey than blue on rainy days.
The two return, arms filled with paper bags of delicate pastries, meaty sandwiches and caffeine from the cafe two blocks over. The one that always smells utterly incredible to any passerby, the one that's always crowded and busy with young professionals, students from the near-by university, and small families.
There isn't much time for talk while they eat and then it's back to hitting the books.
Somehow, though Arthur's not sure exactly how--which is how he always feels around Eames-- uncertain and off-balance--he makes it through the rest of the day without any contact with Eames.
There's an undercurrent flowing through the air, leaving the group charged but restless. It makes for a tense meeting and everyone is eager to adjourn for the day though no one dares to voice it out loud.
Once outside though, Eames grabs his arm, quickly putting a halt to any idea of escape.
“Arthur, what is this?”
The brunet looks at him blankly before scrutinizing the sheaf of parchment in Eames' hand from a few inches away.
“At first, I thought it was a prank. The handwriting is a fairly good imitation of yours but I'm the best in the business; takes more than a shabby forgery to get the best of me. And yet...the details, down to the most minute little thing, are spot on.”
Frowning, he erases the distance between them and takes the piece of paper. Dark brown eyes widen almost imperceptibly but the Forger is nothing, is not perceptive, and he tracks every movement Arthur makes.
Instead of speaking to Eames though, he turns and shoots a glare at Ariadne. She looks back at him with wide eyes, palms up to profess her innocence.
“Well, if it wasn't you, who did it then?”
“I did.”
As one, everyone turns to stare at Yusuf.
“I was at Ariadne's when I found this black book in the stack of texts you lent her. I thought it was part of the collection.”
Arthur's mind flashes back. He remembers setting the book on his work desk...right on top of the pile of Escher texts. It was a simple mistake on his part; the aftermath though, is anything but. The Point Man frowns. “And you didn't think to close the book once you realized it was personal?”
Yusuf gives a half shrug. “I think I speak for all of us when I say we were getting tired of the animosity and the tension between you and Eames.”
Arthur casts a quick glance at Cobb and Ariadne, noting the way they carefully avoid his gaze. “Ariadne,” he asks as he resolutely keeps from looking at Eames, “Can I stop by and pick it up right now?”
Shaking her head, she mentions something about having dinner with a friend.
“Hm, can I drop by after? Around nine?”
Ariadne nods her assent and then the group falls into an awkward silence before everyone goes their separate ways.
That night, at nine o'clock, to the second, Arthur is about to rap sharply on her door when a tingly prickles creeps up his spine. His heart drops to the bottom of his stomach and with a heavy hand, he tries the door.
It opens.
At first glance, Ariadne's place seems immaculate. Until Arthur reaches her desk. Her chair is overturned, her mug shattered on the wooden floor. Arthur hurries over and kneels down. From the odd splatter of liquid--coffee, he smells--on the floor, he deduces that she'd probably put a fight, thrown the mug at the intruder-intruders?--before being overpowered. Arthur hopes the coffee was scalding.
He pulls out his cellphone immediately. Begins dialling without a second thought.
“Arthur,” answers Eames, surprise evident in his tone. “I--you--I've been meaning to call you. We need to talk--”
“Ariadne's gone,” he abruptly interrupts.
“What?” Eames sucks in a sharp breath.
“Can you--”
“--call the others. I'm on it,” finishes the British man before hanging up.
It doesn't occur to him to wonder why he'd called Eames first. Though it didn't escape his notice that he didn't even need to ask Eames to call the others.
Within half an hour, Cobb, Yusuf and Eames are there.
“What makes you think--” begins Cobb.
“The door was unlocked, her drink definitely wasn't spilled so much as it was thrown, her chair overturned and--”
“Her totem,” Yusuf softly murmurs, picking up her hollowed bishop. “She'd never leave it behind.”
It doesn't take them long to formulate a plan. Eames gets to work, hacking into the apartment's security system to review the tapes; perhaps they'd luck out and find something on the camera at the front entrance. Cobb calls in a few favours while Arthur and Yusuf determine a list of possible suspects. Fortunately the list is short, as Ariadne only works with them part of the time.
“We can rule out Beckett. Ariadne sat out that one.”
“What about Ralston?”
“I'll get Jacobs to check in on her.”
~*~*~*~
Ariadne awakes to find herself in a windowless room, lying on a thin bed.
Taking a deep breath, the Architect, tries to remain calm, rubbing her wrists unconsciously. She checks herself over, detailing no physical damage, thankfully. Then she rises, and tries the door. Locked, of course. She hasn't expected any less.
She studies her surroundings. The bed is bolted down, its heavy metal frame useless to her. The mattress is bare. The entire room is empty and grey. It's empty, grey and entirely unfamiliar. The door is also metal; even if it were wooden, with her slight frame, Ariadne would have a hard time doing any damage to it.
She remains, for now, a prisoner.
She sits, and begins to think, to plan.
~*~*~*~
“Did you think I wouldn't find out?” Robert Fischer asks softly, blue eyes unreadable.
Ariadne, without playing the innocent, shakes her head. “How?”
“At first...I thought it was merely a bizarre dream. But then I remembered one of the things they covered when they trained me. Mr. Charles; a ploy to deceive me. Tell me I'm dreaming to gain my trust. It was a well-played tactic, and I almost fell for it.”
“What changed?” She questions, genuinely curious.
“You want the truth?” He asks, though it's rhetorical. “You.”
Her brown eyes flash with surprise.
“I keep dreaming. The same dream over and over. It's mere seconds but I remember it so vividly. Your hand on my cheek, your hair flying in the wind, your voice asking if I'm all right. At first, I thought it just that; a dream. But night after night, it's the same thing. And then I realized; you're real. Flesh and bone, not mere imagination.”
“What do you want then? You want us to tell you what we did to you? Reverse it?” she asks as her eyes flicker, for just the barest instant, to the door behind.
“You won't make it. I have guards posted outside this door,” he informs her, ever-so casual.
“You make a habit of this? Kidnapping women for kicks? Those guards know what kind of boss they work for?”
Robert smiles slowly as he draws closer to her, bending his head, lips gently grazing her ear. “With enough money, anyone can be bought.”
~*~*~*~
The next time she wakes up, she's in an entirely different room. Plush red carpet, a canopy bed with satin sheets and lavish pillows, a large mahogany closet in the corner, filled with rich dresses, all satin and silk, she investigates. Two doors; one locked and the other leading to an elegant bathroom of marble counters, a toilet with a heated seat, a bathtub that looks hand-made with its asymmetrical edges and a gilded mirror with a golden frame. Relieving herself in the bathroom, Ariadne can't help but notice that though the door closes, there's no lock.
Back in the bedroom, she pauses. There's a small circular table by the windows but that's not what has her halting. She is drawn to the tray of food; she is certain it hadn't been there when she had initially woken up. Feeling hunger set in at the smell of the food, Ariadne helps herself to it. Although a part of her doesn't want to partake in any food, she knows she needs to keep up her strength, both physical and mental. It's all delicious. Not that she had expected Fischer to dine on anything less than gourmet.
She wonders how long she's been captured. Judging by the level of her hunger, and the sunlight filtering in through the windows, which are are barred, of course, as she immediately discovers, she estimates it's been perhaps half a day.
By now, the others must have figured out she's missing. She wonders if they'll charge in, guns blazing and grenades primed.
She can only hope they deduce that--
~*~*~*~
“It's Fischer,” are the first words out of Eames' mouth when Arthur drags his sleep-deprived body over to the computer.
“What? Are you certain?”
There is no reaction, save for the most minute tightening in his jaw.
“Eames?”
“Even after all this time, you just don't trust me, do you.” He bites out, whirling around in his chair to glare at Arthur.
The question, which isn't a question at all, catches Arthur off guard. He fumbles for a reply.
Shaking his head, Eames shoots to his feet, knocking the computer chair back.
“Eames--”
“You still don't get it. You still don't--” He snaps his mouth shut.
--understand that I left because you don't trust me. The thought finishes itself in Arthur's head, as all the tiles fall into place, like a puzzle fitting together seamlessly.
And just like that, he realizes.
Taking a step towards the other man, Arthur is about to speak, to reach out and grab Eames' arm--
“Have you guys found anything?” Yusuf asks as soon as he enters the room, Cobb right behind him.
The moment is gone. Any chance of repairing what has been lost is gone. From the look in Eames' eyes, Arthur's not sure if there will be another chance again. The realization sends a dull ache through his belly.
“It's Fischer. I was watching the security tape and from the time Ariadne comes home until the time Arthur arrives, only a handful of people are seen. Two are her neighbours down the hall, coming home, arms laden with groceries. A young blond man arrives at half past seven, and leaves with what appears to be his date, a lovely redhead. And these two,” Eames explains, gesturing to the computer.
The video is paused shortly after eight p.m. Two men catch the door just as the couple are leaving.
“I ran a search on all five and everyone checks out, except for these two. They don't live in the building. Upon further research, I found out they're working for one Robert Michael Fischer.”
“So that begs the question, did he find out the truth and he's exacting revenge or did something go wrong when we went under?” Cobb murmurs.
“We'll find out when we go get her back,” replies Yusuf.
“If we can find her. Since Ariadne's disappearance, Fischer has virtually dropped off the face of the planet,” Eames interjects.
“What about the men that took her? If we can find them, we can get them to talk,” Arthur suggests.
“That's a good place to start,” Cobb says with a nod. “Yusuf, do you think you could concoct some sort of composition to induce sleep just in case?”
“I've already got--
~*~*~*~
“--something in mind,” Fischer tells Ariadne as he leads her into what appears to be his own library.
Entire walls made of shelves and shelves of books; hundreds upon hundreds of books with a ladder to reach the upper echelons. There's a fireplace at the opposite end of the room with two large easy chairs. It almost looks cozy.
Almost.
She stands in the doorway, a frown slowly furrowing her brow.
Pausing, he turns back. “Is something the matter?”
“You never did answer my question. What do you want from us?”
Silence falls between them, heavy and thick, like a snowstorm.
“I don't want anything from the others. Just you. To stay here. To be with me.”
Her mouth falls open, forming a near-perfect circle.
Fischer closes the distance between them. Reaching his hand out, he gently cups her chin and closes her mouth. His thumb lightly traces her lower lip before he leans in and kisses her. It's warm and gentle, sending a tiny shiver racing down her spine.
Shock leaves her immobilized before sense returns. Her hands fly up, pressing against his chest. Before she can shove him away and break free though, quick as lightning, Fischer grabs her wrists, trapping her.
“What is wrong with you?” she demands, anger lighting her brown eyes. “Do you think you can just--”
--build a prison of memories to lock her in?
Ariadne freezes, sucking in a tiny gasp of air. A small part of her, the part she's been trying to ignore ever since she'd woken up in this strange place, starkly reminds her that she's without her totem.
“What's wrong?” Fischer asks her, wondering why she's stopped struggling.
Is she dreaming? Is she awake? She's not sure anymore.
Shaking her head, she presses her lips together. She's not about to give him even more leverage over her; as far as she knows, he's clueless about totems.
“I just...want to go home,” she finally answers without actually answering him. “Just let me go home.”
“I can't,” he whispers, staring straight into her eyes.
“Why not?”
“I am nothing without you,” he confesses to her. “Look, I know you and the others did something to me. Changed something. Made me different--and I should be angry, I should be exacting revenge but somehow, I just--nothing matters without you here.”
Ariadne swallows hard, feeling queasy as something heavy sinks to the pit of her stomach. A small part of her wants to throw up. She feels panic setting in, her skin breaking out in a cold sweat, her breath coming faster. Biting down hard on her lower lip, she focuses on the pain and holds her breath for a long moment before letting it out, exhaling slowly.
Revenge, she could deal with. But this? This was something else entirely.
~*~*~*~
“Look, you can yell at me and tell me off later but right now, we need to get Ariadne back,” Arthur quietly says to Eames. He speaks up to include the others, “A couple of contacts came through. Pulled in a couple of favours but we have her location.”
“But what if I want to talk now?” Eames murmurs. His voice, his posture, his body language, they all show signs of calm and serene but the glint in his eyes says otherwise.
“Eames,” he says through gritted teeth. “You're angry with me, I get that. But not now.”
“Oh, angry doesn't begin to cover it.”
Arthur shuts his eyes, looking away as he lets out a soft breath. He steels himself before looking straight into Eames' eyes, eyes he once knew so well, knew better than his own. “Please.”
The Forger doesn't react.
A beat. Then two.
Then shaking his head, Eames gives a half chuckle though there's nothing funny at all. “Fine.”
~*~*~*~
A week passes though Ariadne refuses to give Robert even an inch.
He invites her to join him for a picnic, to enjoy the lovely weather but she remains cooped inside her room, her prison.
He spends his evenings with her, listening to classical music and reading by the fire.
He tells her about his childhood, his father, the empire he could have had.
He tells her about his mother. The few precious memories of her that he still retains. The scent of her perfume, like lilacs and roses. The sound of her laughter that always made him feel safe and warm inside. Her favourite lullaby she'd always sing to him after tucking him in. Her death when he was eleven.
Ariadne shakes her head. “I know what you're doing. What you're trying to do.”
“And what would that be?” he asks, voice flat.
“Well, it could be that you're trying to gain my sympathy by telling me of your misfortunes, of your life. Trying to make me relate to you, to make me feel for you. To make yourself more 'real' to me.
“Stockholm Syndrome,” she concludes simply.
“I'm not a bad person!” he bursts out before he gains control of himself, the spark of emotion waning. His next words are much, much softer, leaving him sounding almost lost. “I just...need you.”
She looks away for a moment, uncomfortable. Turning back, she catches his eyes. So very, very blue. Not quite like anything she's ever seen before. “Look, Fischer--”
“Robert.”
“...Robert,” she capitulates after a pause. “I simply cannot be who or what you want me to be.”
~*~*~*~
“Two cars or one?” Cobb asks.
Arthur opens his mouth. “On--”
“Two,” interjects Eames. “I'm riding with Arthur.”
Exchanging glances, Cobb and Yusuf give slight shrugs. “Fine by us,” Cobb agrees.
“Wouldn't want to get in the way of a marital disagreement,” Yusuf mumbles to Cobb with a deliberate cough, looking every which way except at Arthur and Eames.
“Subtle.” Arthur casts a glare at the Chemist.
“Remember. This is just a retrieval. We're not looking to do any damage. A quick in and out,” Cobb reminds as they split up.
Reaching the car, Arthur pulls out the keys. “I think I ought to drive,” he says without looking at Eames.
“Why can't I?” inquires the other man.
“You're upset--”
“So what? You think I can't reign in my emotions while I'm driving? Is that it? You--”
--just don't trust me. You never have and you never will.
“No. That's not what I--” Arthur gasps, words cutting off with a small cry when Eames abruptly slams him against the side of the car, effectively trapping him against metal and glass.
“Just shut up, Arthur. I'm tired. I'm tired of all this. Of you not trusting me. Of this stupid fight. I'm tired of everything I can't say to you because--”
This time, Arthur cuts Eames off. By sliding his hands around the back of Eames' neck and pulling him in for a heated, angry kiss. It's full of raw emotion. All tongue and teeth, fighting to gain control. Biting down fiercely before soothing with gentle nips. It's angry and hurt and pain. It's everything unspoken. All the things they wanted to say but didn't have the words for. All the emotions they'd bottled up and buried since they'd parted.
Eames tastes exactly like he remembers; all cherry cigarettes and slightly sweet like the Earl Grey he favours. It's familiar, so very familiar and yet, it feels so new. Like Arthur is remembering a memory from so long ago.
“Eames, I'm--”
“--Sorry,” finishes the Forger. “I know. Me too.”
They kiss again. Slower this time. A little more gentle. Arthur buries his fingers in Eames' hair.
“I'm glad you stopped using that atrocious hair gel,” he mutters against Eames' lips. “I hate the feel of it.”
“Darling, you do realize that's a tad hypocritical of you seeing as you slick your hair back everyday,” grins the other man.
“Don't care,” he mumbles. “I'm going to throw your gel out as soon as I can.”
Eames laughs even as he pulls Arthur against him firmly, slipping his arms around the younger man's back, and then they're kissing again--
Until a car screeches to a halt just a few yards away, honking loudly. Yusuf leans out the passenger window, smirking before he calls out, “Get a room!”
The two jerk apart, simultaneously throwing glares at Yusuf and Cobb.
“Let's go get Ariadne and then you two get a room,” Cobb corrects with a laugh before speeding off before Arthur can find something to throw at them.
The car ride is mostly quiet, but not entirely uncomfortable; the both of them know there's still a lot to be said but it's a start. Arthur knows there's probably a lot of anger they still have to deal with, hurt feelings and misconstrued messages, a lot of unresolved issues, but it's a start.
“So about that journal entry--”
“Yusuf is a dead man when we've gotten Ariadne back,” Arthur cuts him off quickly. He refuses, absolutely refuses to blush--because he's cool, collected and unflappable, and he certainly did not spill his guts out in his journal damnit--and resolutely keeps his gaze on the road ahead.
Eames chuckles, the sound low and knowing, and it sends a cool shiver skating over Arthur's skin, a warm pool settling in his belly.
“What's so funny?”
“Kissing someone to put a halt to an argument. You're turning our lives into one giant cliché, Arthur.”
“Oh, shut up.”
~*~*~*~
Ariadne enters what appears to be Fischer's personal office. There's a shelf laden with tomes and texts, a small fireplace and a massive oak desk. Curious, she explores the room, her nimble feet sinking into the deep blue carpet as she quietly studies her surroundings. On the desk, there are a few personal knickknacks. Of its own accord, her hand reaches out and gently picks up a picture frame.
A slender woman is caught unaware by the camera, laughing as the wind almost steals her hat. She wears a sundress, bluer than the sky on a warm Spring day, and her dark chestnut brown hair with hints of red, curls in loose waves, flying in the breeze. She is frozen in time, eternal. She is, laughter and warmth. She is, beauty and grace.
Out of nowhere, Fischer gently tugs the photo from her hand.
“Who is she?” Ariadne asks him, trying to calm her racing heart; he'd startled her, appearing so silently and suddenly.
“She was my mother,” he answers.
Ariadne glances up at him as she tells him, “She's beautiful.”
“Yes, she was,” Fischer agrees, simply, as he sets the photograph down. He pauses for a moment, fighting with himself.
Tilting her head, Ariadne can tell he wants to say something. She waits for him.
“Do you..Would you like to join me for dinner?”
She glances down at his desk, her brown eyes caught by the image of Fischer's mother. “What was her name?”
“Eden.”
Ariadne makes for the door.
Fischer shuts his eyes, steeling himself as she once again rejects him.
She stops, linger in the doorway, her hand coming up to rest on the door-frame, fingers curling around the smooth edges. She glances over her shoulder as she calls back to him, “Dinner sounds lovely...Robert.”
~*~*~*~
Two voices. Both male.
“So what then? We just wait?”
“No, we don't.”
“But we can't--”
“I know.”
“One of us has to stay.”
“Right, but who?”
A third voice pipes in. “I'm going in.”
“But I thought you don't go into the field?”
“For this, I will,” is all he says before, gazing down at the sleepers. His hands slides into his pocket, gently tracing the little golden chess piece.
“I'll stay then.”
“No, I don't want us to get separated. Not after we just got back together.”
The first voice smothers a snicker but it escapes anyway. “Now who's the giant, walking cliché?” the voice is light, teasing.
“Didn't we tell you two to get a room?”
“You know what? I'll stay. Then I won't have to watch two you mushy lovebirds.”
~*~*~*~
Ariadne is sitting beneath a large willow tree, a heavy book on her lap as she leans against Robert.
She glances up momentarily, certain she's hearing things. Her mouth falls open, and then she's leaping to her feet, book forgotten as it tumbles to the grass. Quick as a fox, she throws her arms around Yusuf's neck, burying her face in his chest as she breathes in the familiar scent.
“What took you guys so long?” she mumbles. “It's been days!”
“It's only been one day,” corrects Arthur.
“What do you...” her voice trails off, realization slowly sinking into her eyes as she glances up at them.
Yusuf pulls something from his pocket. “I know you're not supposed to let anyone touch your totem but you left yours behind.”
Her fingers reach out, almost as if she's afraid to touch it. She hesitates for a few seconds before curling her finger around the little chess piece.
It's hers.
“You can make a new one when we get home,” Yusuf reassures her.
She stares at him, torn, wavering between wanting to believe him and uncertain if she can. After all, even if they leave 'dream', if that's what it truly is, how can she be certain she's returned to reality and not another level of dreaming? How can she be certain of anything anymore? She feels a little bit like Alice, lost in Wonderland. Fallen down the rabbithole, with no way out.
"How can I trust this? How can I trust you?" she asks, swallowing hard.
He pulls her aside, staring straight into her eyes. Eyes he knows as well as his own. Eyes he knows better than his own. "Please," he whispers.
Eames and Arthur approach Fischer. Fischer, who is still on the grass, fingers tightly clutching the book, knuckles white, hasn't moved.
“Why?” Arthur demands.
“I needed time. Time to show her,” he softly replies, rising carefully to his feet with his palms up as Eames and Arthur train their guns on him.
“Well, the show's over. You've lost her,” Arthur retorts and shoots Fischer in the face.
~*~*~*~
Five sets of eyes flicker open.
While they had been sleeping, Cobb had taken the opportunity to tie up Fischer, just in case.
“You're just going to leave me here?” Fischer says incredulously, jerking at the rope tethering him to the bed.
“Oh, don't worry. We'll order a dozen pizzas for you. The delivery man should be here in an hour or so,” Yusuf cheerfully says to their former mark as they leave him behind. “Hope you like anchovies.”
~*~*~*~
Cobb rides with Arthur and Eames this time; Ariadne mentions something about wanting to pick up something to modify; a new totem.
“Are you all right?” Yusuf asks her, concern layering his voice. “You're awfully quiet.”
She glances at him and gives him a slight smile. “Yeah. I'm just a little tired.”
Yusuf nods, taking her for her word.
As she stares out the passenger side window, she thinks of eyes so very, very blue. Not quite like anything she's ever seen before.
The End
So this was the fic I was working on for the bigbang_land final challenge. >_> Apparently I only doubled the minimum requirement. But I found that the fic just made more sense as a longer piece of work.
Anyway, this is my first piece of Inception with other pairings along with my usual Arthur/Eames. I hope it came out all right!
Feedback is, as always, much appreciated. :3