The Ghost Network, 4/13. A/A. NC-17
Title: The Ghost Network
Author: Eustacia Vye
Author's e-mail: eustacia_vye28@hotmail.com
Rating: NC-17.
Pairing: Ariadne/Arthur
Disclaimer: Everyone here belongs to Christopher Nolan and not to me. I like making his toys do naughty, naughty things.
Spoilers/Warnings: Post-movie. For the
inception_kink meme prompt: Serial killer or Assassin Arthur, victim or FBI agent Ariadne, and Stockholm Syndrome. It's an AU fic, folks, but I tried to keep them as IC as possible! Also written for the "wild card" box on my
hc_bingo card.
Summary: Someone has been killing people involved in sleep labs. As part of the Sleep Crimes Unit of the FBI, Ariadne has to help track down the Dream Killer. Things go very wrong very fast, and she's exactly in the last place she wants to be.
Prior chapters:
One - Entering The Dream
Two - Building The Maze
Three - Going Under
Eames stood in the middle of Ariadne's apartment. She had been gone for over a week already, and that couldn't bode well for her. He had no idea why the Dream Killer would have taken Ariadne. It broke the pattern. Cobb admitted after a few days that Ariadne was the chosen victim out of the SCU team; the others looked too strong, and Ariadne still was capable of soft expressions and empathy. It took all of Eames' strength of will to keep from taking a swing at Cobb, especially when the SAC merely sat there with a blank expression as he told Eames that his consultation services would no longer be needed.
"That's a load of shite," Eames had spat, jaw clenched. "I hadn't heard it from my superiors, and I don't work for you."
"Precisely."
Eames had called his supervisor at Scotland Yard, regardless of the time difference. He had the man's personal cell phone number, and despite the fact that he was a subordinate, Eames considered the man a friend. "Superintendent," he had bit out, pacing in the quietest room he could find. It was generally where the agents stood on the other side of a two way mirror to observe questioning. "Have I been recalled?"
"Eames, you idiot," Superintendent Mayhew sighed. "What in the bleeding hell are you talking about?"
"Cobb told me to stuff it today. Are those my official orders?"
"The fuck?" Mayhew said, obviously surprised. "I just had word a few days ago from AD Saito that your input has been invaluable."
"Well, nine days ago my partner was kidnapped. Possibly by the Dream Killer, as there is no evidence. She just vanished."
Mayhew blew out a breath. "How can you be sure it's the killer?"
"No forensic evidence, snatched up on her way in to work. Fits the abduction MO, even if it doesn't fit the profile." Eames paced the room with jerky steps. "I don't know what kind of game Cobb is playing, but he's just hung her out to dry."
"Listen, Eames. There are no orders on my end to recall you. If need be, talk to Saito directly. I don't have to tell you how important it is that you find the Dream Killer. This comes from the bloody Assistant Commissioner, Eames."
"I know," he ground out. He couldn't tell Mayhew about what Yusuf had revealed about the sleep lab deaths; the Assistant Commissioner would never want to believe his nephew was a pedophile and rapist. "Look. There had to be something we saw, and that's why she got snatched. I tried telling Cobb this, but his head's so far up his own arse he can see his tonsils. The others don't get it. They can't see the connections right in front of their faces."
"I don't think," Mayhew began in careful tones, "that our agendas match up exactly."
Eames stopped pacing. He was staring at the mirror, looking into the empty examination room. He didn't see it. He could almost see the expression that had to be on Mayhew's face right then. "What are you saying, Mayhew?"
"I'm saying, Eames," Mayhew continued in those careful tones, "that Saito might be your only backup in this. We know he at least has a similar goal in finding her. Cobb is rather like the ACA, don't you think?"
So now Eames was standing in the middle of Ariadne's empty apartment, looking it over and trying to see it through the Dream Killer's eyes. He had managed to make an appointment to see Saito after the conversation with Mayhew, but there was no point to staying in the bullpen with Cobb glaring at him. He had a job to do, goddammit, and Cobb withholding information wasn't helping matters. There's a reason you're so good at what you do, Mayhew had said a year ago, sliding a folder across his desk at Eames. Read this, and tell me what you think. It had been the file on the Assistant Commissioner's nephew. Eames had been blunt, because he knew he could trust Mayhew and it would go no further. Mayhew had only nodded throughout the assessment. This is why you need to go. You need to find him, and you need to find him fast. This comes from the ACA himself. Find him, and if he can't be brought in, put a bullet between his eyes.
Eames still needed to find him. That was proving to be the hard part.
He had to push away his memories of Ariadne in the apartment. He had visited often in the three months they had worked together, and they had shared pizza and drinks while going over case files. It was a strong friendship, one he counted as close as Max or Mayhew. She was almost like family, and it burned that he hadn't seen this coming. He hadn't been able to prevent it.
Nothing was disturbed in the apartment. An FBI forensic team had swept through it, dusting for prints and looking for any evidence. None was found. Eames hadn't expected there to be, but he knew the killer had to have been in the apartment at some point. He had to have followed Ariadne, moving like a ghost, tracking her until he figured out her schedule. Eames could almost picture it. Ariadne would have her morning run, come back through the apartment. Eames moved toward the bathroom, hesitating at the threshold to Ariadne's bedroom. It was a wreck, and would look nothing like how Ariadne would have left it in the morning. He had glimpsed it in the past, but never invited himself inside. It felt almost wrong to enter it now, but he did so anyway. He needed to see how things might have been for the Dream Killer. He needed to try to understand from his point of view.
She was quiet but not a loner. He knew her entire FBI file inside and out, everything she had told him and everything that she hadn't. She was dedicated and hardworking, she honestly cared about her job. She was real in a way that many people weren't. Eames knew that because he had gotten to know her. The Dream Killer could know that simply by looking at her living space. It was comfortable, with things in it that she enjoyed to look at or read. It was a lived-in space, a space she truly thought of as home. There were pictures of family and friends, a calendar full of notes and appointments and things to do.
Eames stood in the middle of her bedroom, taking in its chaos. Nothing had been touched. Nothing had been disturbed, nothing to indicate that any violent struggle had occurred. Her building was old enough not to have any security cameras installed in the upper floors. Security only covered the main lobby and entrance. Even the service elevator and entrance wasn't covered by security.
Eames looked around the room one more time. The Dream Killer might have come into her apartment at some point. All the evidence pointed to the fact that he learned about his targets, that he knew just about everything about them before they were taken. That must include seeing what their space was like and knowing their routines. He didn't take anything, however, because Ariadne had never felt as though she was being followed. He took nothing and left no forensic evidence behind. Ariadne's front door had been locked when the FBI team had arrived, and needed the building super to unlock the door. Eames used the key she had given him to get in tonight, and he used it to lock the door behind him after watering her plant.
The stairwell door was near her apartment door. He had passed by it dozens of times, never once looking twice at it. He had always taken the elevator, though Ariadne sometimes teased him that he needed the exercise.
He yanked open the door, though he knew better to expect anything in the landing. He ran down the flights of stairs, finding that it continued down into the basement. Eames frowned as he reached out to try the door. It opened easily under his hand, and he stepped into the building's basement. There was the elevator bank, though only the superintendent had the key to allow it to go down to the basement level. Eames saw storage rooms, the boiler room, various access panels for electricity and water meters. Old discarded furniture and trunks were also stacked in the basement, and he saw the service exit. There was both a door and a garage door. The garage door was clearly locked and bolted.
When he tried it, he found that the service entrance was not.
He whirled around and punched the wall in frustration. Nothing new, nothing that the FBI had missed. They weren't idiots, and neither was the Dream Killer. This was an old residential neighborhood, so there weren't even business security cameras to scroll through to look for clues.
He couldn't give up on her. As long as there was no body, he couldn't give up. She deserved better than that.
***
Exercise helped to pass the time. Ariadne jogged in place until exhausted, did stretches and leg lifts and sit ups, whatever yoga poses she could remember and tried to practice self defense moves she had learned in Quantico. Even so, that didn't take up all of her time. She spaced out the snacks in the fridge, keeping herself on the edge of hunger but still able to function. As much as it disturbed her to think that Arthur had to have been observing her for some time, it was also comforting to have familiar things. She took long showers because she had nothing else to do, keeping her eyes closed as she shampooed her hair or used the body wash. She shaved and used all of the lotions, and considered breaking apart the razor to take out the blades. It wouldn't be much of a weapon against Arthur, but at least it was something.
The couch was old and lumpy in places, and the blanket across the back of it was relatively thin. Ariadne huddled underneath it, curling in on herself to conserve heat. There was a definite cadence to the heat in the house, something that at least helped her to guess at the passage of time. She could hear noises better in this room than the other one, though there wasn't much to listen for. A few times she thought she heard footsteps overhead, but if Arthur was in the house, he didn't come to visit her.
When she did finally hear the rasp of the padlock being pulled, she was ready. She had broken one of the razor blades in a vain attempt to cut or unscrew the lock. Her current plan was to let Arthur come in close and start slicing with the razor blade if he wouldn't let her go.
He carried food, a pack of cards and a mystery novel she might have ordinarily been interested in reading. It was eerie how much he knew about her, how much he was trying to accommodate her. Ariadne couldn't believe that he actually cared about her, that he wasn't planning to kill her or use her in some way.
Arthur closed the door behind him and put everything down on the desk. "Hello, Ariadne," he said evenly, looking at her. "You're looking well."
"I'd feel even better in my own apartment," she replied sweetly. Her hands were behind her, a razor blade held carefully between her fingers. She had only one chance to do this, and she couldn't afford to fuck it up.
Arthur's smile was chilling. "They've ruined it in their searches for evidence, I'm afraid. It would feel violated if you returned there."
Of course they'd look for me. Of course they'd look for clues. Ariadne was sure that there would be nothing to find. "What are you going to do with me?"
"I told you, Ariadne. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm protecting you from yourself."
"I can protect myself. I don't need your help."
As she had hoped, Arthur seemed drawn to her standoffish behavior and stepped closer. "Ariadne, I realize you're a strong woman. Don't get me wrong on that count." His smile was meant to be conciliatory, but Ariadne was seething. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, and she wondered if he could hear it. "But right now, they have things so twisted up. They're not working with your best interest in mind."
"And you are?" she asked, a mocking lilt to her tone.
"It may not look like it, but I am," he agreed, stepping closer. "I understand this is hard for you to take in." His expression slid back into that carefully blank look, and she wondered how long it had taken for him to perfect it. Arthur reached out to her calmly. "I do care about what happens to you."
She didn't pause to take in what the comment might mean. She lunged forward with the razor blades, slashing at his forearms and trying to twist away from him toward the door. Without any indication that he felt the pain, he grabbed hold of her. They tussled, and Ariadne had to let go of the blades in order to grasp his arms to try to throw him. She had the advantage of training and surprise, as well as his heavier body weight to use as momentum. He had seized hold of her, however, so they both crashed into the couch. Ariadne struggled, slamming her knee into his groin and digging her fingernails into his forearms. She brought the top of her head into his sternum, striking hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Even so, he hung onto her, face contorted in pain.
"Let go!" she cried, digging her nails in harder.
"Never," he gasped, pushing off of the floor to roll on top of her.
He was heavy, and the breath whooshed out of her lungs. Though she struggled beneath him, he was able to grab her wrists and hold them over her head, pinning her to the floor. They were both panting, and Arthur was clearly injured. He could have done serious damage to her, but as far as she could tell, only her pride was hurt.
"Ariadne," he said softly, his entire body flush against hers. "Don't fight me."
She let out an inarticulate howl as she tried to throw him off of her. He made no move to do more than lie on top of her to subdue her, but there was a small thrill of panic running down her spine. She remembered the weight of Robert Fischer on top of her, and in the manner of a half remembered dream, the weight of a stranger over her ten year old body. Nearly breathless, she struggled beneath Arthur and managed to keep from sobbing.
"We're the same, Ariadne," he said in that same soft, patient tone. It was maddening, how he wasn't reacting to her struggles. "Don't fight me on this."
"We're not the same," she hissed. "Get the fuck off of me!"
"There can be no justice where there is no crime," Arthur murmured. "Isn't that right, Ariadne? Isn't that what they say to justify why they can't prosecute?" She stilled beneath him, her eyes large as they took in his calm expression. She could feel the tension in his body, since it was pressed so tightly against hers. His facial expression was a perfect blank, as if sculpted from marble. It was eerie.
"What are you talking about?" she whispered.
"They say there's no physical evidence. They say there's no crime committed, nothing they can do. So they kick you away and leave you to recover the pieces of your own life, leave you try to figure out how to deal with what's happened. They leave you with no one to blame but yourself, even though you know you aren't the one at fault." His voice was soft and almost hypnotic, almost lulling. Tension still thrummed throughout his body, his hands still tight over her wrists. "You know that's not how it should be. You know that there should be punishment for the crime."
"Not this way," she rasped.
"How else will it happen? I've read every conversation, every article regarding reform and laws. Every time, it dies. No one's interested, no one cares. There's no physical attack. The scene of the crime is your mind. No one's going to do anything about it." His expression took on an almost pleading note. "They get away with awful things while you're asleep, and there's no one out there to stop it."
Ariadne gathered up her strength and attempted to throw him off of her. "I'm not like you!"
Arthur slammed his weight back down into her, pressing her down into the floor, locking her into place. "We are exactly the same!" he said, emotion bleeding through and cracking his perfect facade. "Everyone pretended nothing happened! But it did! You can't erase what happened!" He picked up her wrists and thumped them back down into the floor. "Don't you understand it? We can change things. We can make it better. It doesn't have to stay that way."
She attempted to throw him off of her again, and again Arthur slammed his weight back down into her. His entire body covered hers, and there was an almost violent spark in his brown eyes. She managed not to shiver at the sight of it. Oh dear God, I'm going to die.
"Listen to what I'm saying, Ariadne," Arthur said, an intensity coloring his voice. "This is bigger than either of us."
"You're a murderer." She nearly growled at him, baring her teeth. She was surprised her heart didn't simply leap out of her chest.
"This is about dispensing justice. Those victims never would have been free. There was no trial by jury, no fines, not even a slap on the wrist." His hands tightened around her wrists. "You remember him, don't you? The one that kidnapped you?"
Ariadne felt as though she was a bug under a microscope. She squirmed, trying to pull free. "Get off of me!"
"You remember him," Arthur decided, that intense expression back on his face. "You don't want to think about it, but you remember him. It's hard to forget that kind of thing, isn't it? You can move through your life, you can ignore that it happened most of the time. But something brings it back. Something always brings it back."
"Shut up!" she screeched, truly baring her teeth at him. "Shut up and let me go!"
"Listen!" he hissed, giving her another wicked shake. "Just fucking listen to me!"
Ariadne began to struggle in earnest, grunting with the effort to try to throw him off of her. She managed to wedge a knee between his legs to try to ram it up into his crotch, but he shifted position to lie between her legs. Arthur had to grasp one wrist in each of his hands, and he had to press his chest firmly against hers to keep her still. If anything, Ariadne redoubled her efforts and was nearly screaming in his face to let go of her.
Arthur kissed her. It was more pressing his mouth against hers to swallow her screams than anything else, and Ariadne stilled in shock. There was a low whimpering sound in the back of her throat that she didn't even realize she was making. At the sound of it, Arthur broke the kiss and retreated, a contrite expression on his face. "I'm sorry, Ariadne. I told you I won't hurt you. I won't." He carefully let go of her wrists and pushed himself up to a seated position, kneeling between her legs. He rested his hands on his thighs, keeping eye contact with her. "I know what you're going through, Ariadne," he said softly. "I know what it feels like."
"You know nothing about me," she said hoarsely. She slowly pulled herself up to a seated position and kept a wary glance at Arthur. He was facing the door to the room, and she was fractionally closer. She couldn't see where the razor blades had fallen, but that hadn't been as effective as she had hoped.
"I know more than you think." He gave her a crooked smile. "I'm sure I know you better than Mr. Eames does."
She stilled and could only stare at him. "What?"
"He's dangerous, Ariadne," Arthur murmured. "How well do you know him? How well do you think you know him?" he corrected.
"As much as he knows about me," Ariadne said. Then she turned to leap for the doorway.
Arthur sprang after her, tackling her to the floor. Ariadne's breath left her lungs again, and Arthur pulled her to lie solidly beneath him. She struggled, but her arms were tucked beneath her and she had no leverage to throw him off. "He can't help you, Ariadne," Arthur murmured into her ear, his breath warm and moist. "He doesn't know where to look, and he doesn't know why it has to be done. You do, though. You understand. You just don't want to."
"Let me go," Ariadne pleaded, her voice coming out like a tortured wail.
"I can't."
"I won't tell," she promised, knowing she was lying. "I won't tell anyone about you."
Arthur chuckled. "I'm not stupid. You'd turn me in the first chance you got. You don't want to understand why this has to be done."
"You shouldn't have kidnapped me. I have nothing to do with this."
He laughed outright, but it was a bitter and hateful laugh. "The FBI and their silly notions about patterns and rituals and shit." The hand in Ariadne's line of vision tightened into a fist. "This isn't about a ritual. This isn't about a need I can't fill any other way. This isn't about me. Don't you get it? This is isn't for me. This is for everyone else. This is to protect everyone else." His lips were right against her ear, and Ariadne couldn't breathe. "We're the same, you and I. I told you. We know how this works, we know why they do what they do. And because of that knowledge, we have to help the ones that can't help themselves. We need to stop what happened to us from happening to anyone else."
Ariadne nearly sobbed. He was heavy and she could barely breathe from the combination of his weight and her own horror.
Because she did understand. She understood all too well.
"So I can't stop," Arthur said softly, almost crooning into her ear. "It won't ever be finished until they stop. And there's always someone out there that just can't help themselves when given the opportunity."
He got up and left her there, curled in on herself on the floor. She made a halfhearted attempt to grab his ankle when he passed her, but he dodged her grasp. There was an expression of deep sorrow on his face when he saw her tear streaked one, but he still shut the door.
The rasp of the padlock sliding shut sounded so very final.
***
Ariadne was curled on the couch the next time Arthur arrived with food, drinks and the intention to swap out clothes and linens. She had found the broken pieces of razor blades, but they were poor substitutes for a screwdriver and she had cut open the ball of her thumb twice. She felt terrible and cramping, and she knew exactly why. Arthur might have gotten most of her needs met, but she was about to get her period and there was not a single sanitary napkin or tampon in the bathroom. She was going to have to ask him for something, which meant that she couldn't try to slice his throat open with the one remaining razor blade from the broken razor. There were more disposable razors in the bathroom, so she was quite possibly the most smoothly shaven she had ever been in her life. There wasn't much else to do with her day; she couldn't stand solitaire and she had gone through the book in two hours.
"How are you doing?" he asked her in an even tone, depositing everything onto the empty desk. She shrugged and kept her arms wrapped around her middle.
"I'll do your laundry, but you're going to have to put everything into this bag," he said, holding out a cloth laundry bag.
Ariadne stood up slowly and cleared her throat. "I, uh, I need stuff for my period," she said, keeping her eyes trained on a spot along his hairline. "You forgot about that part."
"Ah." He nodded. "I didn't see anything in your bathroom, so I didn't think of it." She was already in the bathroom collecting towels, so he didn't see her cringe at knowing he had been in her apartment. "What brand should I get?"
Her stomach turned as she answered, shoving her used clothing into the laundry bag. She handed it to him, her arm thrust out and her chin stubbornly set. On some level, she knew she shouldn't be ashamed of this. On another, she was angry; she shouldn't have had to ask him for anything. She should've been able to simply run to the store herself if she was out of supplies. He was making her dependent on his goodwill for everything, and she resented it.
Arthur's hand slid along the back of hers as he took the laundry bag, and Ariadne jerked away from his touch. "You're angry with me," he commented.
She glared at him. "Whatever gave you that idea?"
He grinned, appearing genuinely amused. "I'm keeping you safe, Ariadne. Why does that make you so angry?"
"I can keep myself safe just fine, dammit. I don't need you snatching me away from everything I know to do whatever the hell it is you want to do!"
The grin slid right off of his face. "Oh."
"Yes, oh," Ariadne mimicked, bitterness in her voice. "That's all you can say?"
"From your point of view, I'm no better than they are."
Ariadne wanted to hit him. That bland face was irritating. She wanted him to feel something, wanted him to understand how hurt and frustrated and angry and scared she was. But she was also certain that it would ultimately lead to her death, and she hated him for that, too.
"I'm sorry you feel that way," Arthur said, backing up toward the door. She was at least gratified to see that he wasn't taking any chances with her. "I can only hope someday you'll forgive me for all of this."
Ariadne waited until the door was locked again before screaming at it.
***
***
To chapter 5...
Author: Eustacia Vye
Author's e-mail: eustacia_vye28@hotmail.com
Rating: NC-17.
Pairing: Ariadne/Arthur
Disclaimer: Everyone here belongs to Christopher Nolan and not to me. I like making his toys do naughty, naughty things.
Spoilers/Warnings: Post-movie. For the
inception_kink meme prompt: Serial killer or Assassin Arthur, victim or FBI agent Ariadne, and Stockholm Syndrome. It's an AU fic, folks, but I tried to keep them as IC as possible! Also written for the "wild card" box on my
hc_bingo card.
Summary: Someone has been killing people involved in sleep labs. As part of the Sleep Crimes Unit of the FBI, Ariadne has to help track down the Dream Killer. Things go very wrong very fast, and she's exactly in the last place she wants to be.
Prior chapters:
One - Entering The Dream
Two - Building The Maze
Three - Going Under
Eames stood in the middle of Ariadne's apartment. She had been gone for over a week already, and that couldn't bode well for her. He had no idea why the Dream Killer would have taken Ariadne. It broke the pattern. Cobb admitted after a few days that Ariadne was the chosen victim out of the SCU team; the others looked too strong, and Ariadne still was capable of soft expressions and empathy. It took all of Eames' strength of will to keep from taking a swing at Cobb, especially when the SAC merely sat there with a blank expression as he told Eames that his consultation services would no longer be needed.
"That's a load of shite," Eames had spat, jaw clenched. "I hadn't heard it from my superiors, and I don't work for you."
"Precisely."
Eames had called his supervisor at Scotland Yard, regardless of the time difference. He had the man's personal cell phone number, and despite the fact that he was a subordinate, Eames considered the man a friend. "Superintendent," he had bit out, pacing in the quietest room he could find. It was generally where the agents stood on the other side of a two way mirror to observe questioning. "Have I been recalled?"
"Eames, you idiot," Superintendent Mayhew sighed. "What in the bleeding hell are you talking about?"
"Cobb told me to stuff it today. Are those my official orders?"
"The fuck?" Mayhew said, obviously surprised. "I just had word a few days ago from AD Saito that your input has been invaluable."
"Well, nine days ago my partner was kidnapped. Possibly by the Dream Killer, as there is no evidence. She just vanished."
Mayhew blew out a breath. "How can you be sure it's the killer?"
"No forensic evidence, snatched up on her way in to work. Fits the abduction MO, even if it doesn't fit the profile." Eames paced the room with jerky steps. "I don't know what kind of game Cobb is playing, but he's just hung her out to dry."
"Listen, Eames. There are no orders on my end to recall you. If need be, talk to Saito directly. I don't have to tell you how important it is that you find the Dream Killer. This comes from the bloody Assistant Commissioner, Eames."
"I know," he ground out. He couldn't tell Mayhew about what Yusuf had revealed about the sleep lab deaths; the Assistant Commissioner would never want to believe his nephew was a pedophile and rapist. "Look. There had to be something we saw, and that's why she got snatched. I tried telling Cobb this, but his head's so far up his own arse he can see his tonsils. The others don't get it. They can't see the connections right in front of their faces."
"I don't think," Mayhew began in careful tones, "that our agendas match up exactly."
Eames stopped pacing. He was staring at the mirror, looking into the empty examination room. He didn't see it. He could almost see the expression that had to be on Mayhew's face right then. "What are you saying, Mayhew?"
"I'm saying, Eames," Mayhew continued in those careful tones, "that Saito might be your only backup in this. We know he at least has a similar goal in finding her. Cobb is rather like the ACA, don't you think?"
So now Eames was standing in the middle of Ariadne's empty apartment, looking it over and trying to see it through the Dream Killer's eyes. He had managed to make an appointment to see Saito after the conversation with Mayhew, but there was no point to staying in the bullpen with Cobb glaring at him. He had a job to do, goddammit, and Cobb withholding information wasn't helping matters. There's a reason you're so good at what you do, Mayhew had said a year ago, sliding a folder across his desk at Eames. Read this, and tell me what you think. It had been the file on the Assistant Commissioner's nephew. Eames had been blunt, because he knew he could trust Mayhew and it would go no further. Mayhew had only nodded throughout the assessment. This is why you need to go. You need to find him, and you need to find him fast. This comes from the ACA himself. Find him, and if he can't be brought in, put a bullet between his eyes.
Eames still needed to find him. That was proving to be the hard part.
He had to push away his memories of Ariadne in the apartment. He had visited often in the three months they had worked together, and they had shared pizza and drinks while going over case files. It was a strong friendship, one he counted as close as Max or Mayhew. She was almost like family, and it burned that he hadn't seen this coming. He hadn't been able to prevent it.
Nothing was disturbed in the apartment. An FBI forensic team had swept through it, dusting for prints and looking for any evidence. None was found. Eames hadn't expected there to be, but he knew the killer had to have been in the apartment at some point. He had to have followed Ariadne, moving like a ghost, tracking her until he figured out her schedule. Eames could almost picture it. Ariadne would have her morning run, come back through the apartment. Eames moved toward the bathroom, hesitating at the threshold to Ariadne's bedroom. It was a wreck, and would look nothing like how Ariadne would have left it in the morning. He had glimpsed it in the past, but never invited himself inside. It felt almost wrong to enter it now, but he did so anyway. He needed to see how things might have been for the Dream Killer. He needed to try to understand from his point of view.
She was quiet but not a loner. He knew her entire FBI file inside and out, everything she had told him and everything that she hadn't. She was dedicated and hardworking, she honestly cared about her job. She was real in a way that many people weren't. Eames knew that because he had gotten to know her. The Dream Killer could know that simply by looking at her living space. It was comfortable, with things in it that she enjoyed to look at or read. It was a lived-in space, a space she truly thought of as home. There were pictures of family and friends, a calendar full of notes and appointments and things to do.
Eames stood in the middle of her bedroom, taking in its chaos. Nothing had been touched. Nothing had been disturbed, nothing to indicate that any violent struggle had occurred. Her building was old enough not to have any security cameras installed in the upper floors. Security only covered the main lobby and entrance. Even the service elevator and entrance wasn't covered by security.
Eames looked around the room one more time. The Dream Killer might have come into her apartment at some point. All the evidence pointed to the fact that he learned about his targets, that he knew just about everything about them before they were taken. That must include seeing what their space was like and knowing their routines. He didn't take anything, however, because Ariadne had never felt as though she was being followed. He took nothing and left no forensic evidence behind. Ariadne's front door had been locked when the FBI team had arrived, and needed the building super to unlock the door. Eames used the key she had given him to get in tonight, and he used it to lock the door behind him after watering her plant.
The stairwell door was near her apartment door. He had passed by it dozens of times, never once looking twice at it. He had always taken the elevator, though Ariadne sometimes teased him that he needed the exercise.
He yanked open the door, though he knew better to expect anything in the landing. He ran down the flights of stairs, finding that it continued down into the basement. Eames frowned as he reached out to try the door. It opened easily under his hand, and he stepped into the building's basement. There was the elevator bank, though only the superintendent had the key to allow it to go down to the basement level. Eames saw storage rooms, the boiler room, various access panels for electricity and water meters. Old discarded furniture and trunks were also stacked in the basement, and he saw the service exit. There was both a door and a garage door. The garage door was clearly locked and bolted.
When he tried it, he found that the service entrance was not.
He whirled around and punched the wall in frustration. Nothing new, nothing that the FBI had missed. They weren't idiots, and neither was the Dream Killer. This was an old residential neighborhood, so there weren't even business security cameras to scroll through to look for clues.
He couldn't give up on her. As long as there was no body, he couldn't give up. She deserved better than that.
***
Exercise helped to pass the time. Ariadne jogged in place until exhausted, did stretches and leg lifts and sit ups, whatever yoga poses she could remember and tried to practice self defense moves she had learned in Quantico. Even so, that didn't take up all of her time. She spaced out the snacks in the fridge, keeping herself on the edge of hunger but still able to function. As much as it disturbed her to think that Arthur had to have been observing her for some time, it was also comforting to have familiar things. She took long showers because she had nothing else to do, keeping her eyes closed as she shampooed her hair or used the body wash. She shaved and used all of the lotions, and considered breaking apart the razor to take out the blades. It wouldn't be much of a weapon against Arthur, but at least it was something.
The couch was old and lumpy in places, and the blanket across the back of it was relatively thin. Ariadne huddled underneath it, curling in on herself to conserve heat. There was a definite cadence to the heat in the house, something that at least helped her to guess at the passage of time. She could hear noises better in this room than the other one, though there wasn't much to listen for. A few times she thought she heard footsteps overhead, but if Arthur was in the house, he didn't come to visit her.
When she did finally hear the rasp of the padlock being pulled, she was ready. She had broken one of the razor blades in a vain attempt to cut or unscrew the lock. Her current plan was to let Arthur come in close and start slicing with the razor blade if he wouldn't let her go.
He carried food, a pack of cards and a mystery novel she might have ordinarily been interested in reading. It was eerie how much he knew about her, how much he was trying to accommodate her. Ariadne couldn't believe that he actually cared about her, that he wasn't planning to kill her or use her in some way.
Arthur closed the door behind him and put everything down on the desk. "Hello, Ariadne," he said evenly, looking at her. "You're looking well."
"I'd feel even better in my own apartment," she replied sweetly. Her hands were behind her, a razor blade held carefully between her fingers. She had only one chance to do this, and she couldn't afford to fuck it up.
Arthur's smile was chilling. "They've ruined it in their searches for evidence, I'm afraid. It would feel violated if you returned there."
Of course they'd look for me. Of course they'd look for clues. Ariadne was sure that there would be nothing to find. "What are you going to do with me?"
"I told you, Ariadne. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm protecting you from yourself."
"I can protect myself. I don't need your help."
As she had hoped, Arthur seemed drawn to her standoffish behavior and stepped closer. "Ariadne, I realize you're a strong woman. Don't get me wrong on that count." His smile was meant to be conciliatory, but Ariadne was seething. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, and she wondered if he could hear it. "But right now, they have things so twisted up. They're not working with your best interest in mind."
"And you are?" she asked, a mocking lilt to her tone.
"It may not look like it, but I am," he agreed, stepping closer. "I understand this is hard for you to take in." His expression slid back into that carefully blank look, and she wondered how long it had taken for him to perfect it. Arthur reached out to her calmly. "I do care about what happens to you."
She didn't pause to take in what the comment might mean. She lunged forward with the razor blades, slashing at his forearms and trying to twist away from him toward the door. Without any indication that he felt the pain, he grabbed hold of her. They tussled, and Ariadne had to let go of the blades in order to grasp his arms to try to throw him. She had the advantage of training and surprise, as well as his heavier body weight to use as momentum. He had seized hold of her, however, so they both crashed into the couch. Ariadne struggled, slamming her knee into his groin and digging her fingernails into his forearms. She brought the top of her head into his sternum, striking hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Even so, he hung onto her, face contorted in pain.
"Let go!" she cried, digging her nails in harder.
"Never," he gasped, pushing off of the floor to roll on top of her.
He was heavy, and the breath whooshed out of her lungs. Though she struggled beneath him, he was able to grab her wrists and hold them over her head, pinning her to the floor. They were both panting, and Arthur was clearly injured. He could have done serious damage to her, but as far as she could tell, only her pride was hurt.
"Ariadne," he said softly, his entire body flush against hers. "Don't fight me."
She let out an inarticulate howl as she tried to throw him off of her. He made no move to do more than lie on top of her to subdue her, but there was a small thrill of panic running down her spine. She remembered the weight of Robert Fischer on top of her, and in the manner of a half remembered dream, the weight of a stranger over her ten year old body. Nearly breathless, she struggled beneath Arthur and managed to keep from sobbing.
"We're the same, Ariadne," he said in that same soft, patient tone. It was maddening, how he wasn't reacting to her struggles. "Don't fight me on this."
"We're not the same," she hissed. "Get the fuck off of me!"
"There can be no justice where there is no crime," Arthur murmured. "Isn't that right, Ariadne? Isn't that what they say to justify why they can't prosecute?" She stilled beneath him, her eyes large as they took in his calm expression. She could feel the tension in his body, since it was pressed so tightly against hers. His facial expression was a perfect blank, as if sculpted from marble. It was eerie.
"What are you talking about?" she whispered.
"They say there's no physical evidence. They say there's no crime committed, nothing they can do. So they kick you away and leave you to recover the pieces of your own life, leave you try to figure out how to deal with what's happened. They leave you with no one to blame but yourself, even though you know you aren't the one at fault." His voice was soft and almost hypnotic, almost lulling. Tension still thrummed throughout his body, his hands still tight over her wrists. "You know that's not how it should be. You know that there should be punishment for the crime."
"Not this way," she rasped.
"How else will it happen? I've read every conversation, every article regarding reform and laws. Every time, it dies. No one's interested, no one cares. There's no physical attack. The scene of the crime is your mind. No one's going to do anything about it." His expression took on an almost pleading note. "They get away with awful things while you're asleep, and there's no one out there to stop it."
Ariadne gathered up her strength and attempted to throw him off of her. "I'm not like you!"
Arthur slammed his weight back down into her, pressing her down into the floor, locking her into place. "We are exactly the same!" he said, emotion bleeding through and cracking his perfect facade. "Everyone pretended nothing happened! But it did! You can't erase what happened!" He picked up her wrists and thumped them back down into the floor. "Don't you understand it? We can change things. We can make it better. It doesn't have to stay that way."
She attempted to throw him off of her again, and again Arthur slammed his weight back down into her. His entire body covered hers, and there was an almost violent spark in his brown eyes. She managed not to shiver at the sight of it. Oh dear God, I'm going to die.
"Listen to what I'm saying, Ariadne," Arthur said, an intensity coloring his voice. "This is bigger than either of us."
"You're a murderer." She nearly growled at him, baring her teeth. She was surprised her heart didn't simply leap out of her chest.
"This is about dispensing justice. Those victims never would have been free. There was no trial by jury, no fines, not even a slap on the wrist." His hands tightened around her wrists. "You remember him, don't you? The one that kidnapped you?"
Ariadne felt as though she was a bug under a microscope. She squirmed, trying to pull free. "Get off of me!"
"You remember him," Arthur decided, that intense expression back on his face. "You don't want to think about it, but you remember him. It's hard to forget that kind of thing, isn't it? You can move through your life, you can ignore that it happened most of the time. But something brings it back. Something always brings it back."
"Shut up!" she screeched, truly baring her teeth at him. "Shut up and let me go!"
"Listen!" he hissed, giving her another wicked shake. "Just fucking listen to me!"
Ariadne began to struggle in earnest, grunting with the effort to try to throw him off of her. She managed to wedge a knee between his legs to try to ram it up into his crotch, but he shifted position to lie between her legs. Arthur had to grasp one wrist in each of his hands, and he had to press his chest firmly against hers to keep her still. If anything, Ariadne redoubled her efforts and was nearly screaming in his face to let go of her.
Arthur kissed her. It was more pressing his mouth against hers to swallow her screams than anything else, and Ariadne stilled in shock. There was a low whimpering sound in the back of her throat that she didn't even realize she was making. At the sound of it, Arthur broke the kiss and retreated, a contrite expression on his face. "I'm sorry, Ariadne. I told you I won't hurt you. I won't." He carefully let go of her wrists and pushed himself up to a seated position, kneeling between her legs. He rested his hands on his thighs, keeping eye contact with her. "I know what you're going through, Ariadne," he said softly. "I know what it feels like."
"You know nothing about me," she said hoarsely. She slowly pulled herself up to a seated position and kept a wary glance at Arthur. He was facing the door to the room, and she was fractionally closer. She couldn't see where the razor blades had fallen, but that hadn't been as effective as she had hoped.
"I know more than you think." He gave her a crooked smile. "I'm sure I know you better than Mr. Eames does."
She stilled and could only stare at him. "What?"
"He's dangerous, Ariadne," Arthur murmured. "How well do you know him? How well do you think you know him?" he corrected.
"As much as he knows about me," Ariadne said. Then she turned to leap for the doorway.
Arthur sprang after her, tackling her to the floor. Ariadne's breath left her lungs again, and Arthur pulled her to lie solidly beneath him. She struggled, but her arms were tucked beneath her and she had no leverage to throw him off. "He can't help you, Ariadne," Arthur murmured into her ear, his breath warm and moist. "He doesn't know where to look, and he doesn't know why it has to be done. You do, though. You understand. You just don't want to."
"Let me go," Ariadne pleaded, her voice coming out like a tortured wail.
"I can't."
"I won't tell," she promised, knowing she was lying. "I won't tell anyone about you."
Arthur chuckled. "I'm not stupid. You'd turn me in the first chance you got. You don't want to understand why this has to be done."
"You shouldn't have kidnapped me. I have nothing to do with this."
He laughed outright, but it was a bitter and hateful laugh. "The FBI and their silly notions about patterns and rituals and shit." The hand in Ariadne's line of vision tightened into a fist. "This isn't about a ritual. This isn't about a need I can't fill any other way. This isn't about me. Don't you get it? This is isn't for me. This is for everyone else. This is to protect everyone else." His lips were right against her ear, and Ariadne couldn't breathe. "We're the same, you and I. I told you. We know how this works, we know why they do what they do. And because of that knowledge, we have to help the ones that can't help themselves. We need to stop what happened to us from happening to anyone else."
Ariadne nearly sobbed. He was heavy and she could barely breathe from the combination of his weight and her own horror.
Because she did understand. She understood all too well.
"So I can't stop," Arthur said softly, almost crooning into her ear. "It won't ever be finished until they stop. And there's always someone out there that just can't help themselves when given the opportunity."
He got up and left her there, curled in on herself on the floor. She made a halfhearted attempt to grab his ankle when he passed her, but he dodged her grasp. There was an expression of deep sorrow on his face when he saw her tear streaked one, but he still shut the door.
The rasp of the padlock sliding shut sounded so very final.
***
Ariadne was curled on the couch the next time Arthur arrived with food, drinks and the intention to swap out clothes and linens. She had found the broken pieces of razor blades, but they were poor substitutes for a screwdriver and she had cut open the ball of her thumb twice. She felt terrible and cramping, and she knew exactly why. Arthur might have gotten most of her needs met, but she was about to get her period and there was not a single sanitary napkin or tampon in the bathroom. She was going to have to ask him for something, which meant that she couldn't try to slice his throat open with the one remaining razor blade from the broken razor. There were more disposable razors in the bathroom, so she was quite possibly the most smoothly shaven she had ever been in her life. There wasn't much else to do with her day; she couldn't stand solitaire and she had gone through the book in two hours.
"How are you doing?" he asked her in an even tone, depositing everything onto the empty desk. She shrugged and kept her arms wrapped around her middle.
"I'll do your laundry, but you're going to have to put everything into this bag," he said, holding out a cloth laundry bag.
Ariadne stood up slowly and cleared her throat. "I, uh, I need stuff for my period," she said, keeping her eyes trained on a spot along his hairline. "You forgot about that part."
"Ah." He nodded. "I didn't see anything in your bathroom, so I didn't think of it." She was already in the bathroom collecting towels, so he didn't see her cringe at knowing he had been in her apartment. "What brand should I get?"
Her stomach turned as she answered, shoving her used clothing into the laundry bag. She handed it to him, her arm thrust out and her chin stubbornly set. On some level, she knew she shouldn't be ashamed of this. On another, she was angry; she shouldn't have had to ask him for anything. She should've been able to simply run to the store herself if she was out of supplies. He was making her dependent on his goodwill for everything, and she resented it.
Arthur's hand slid along the back of hers as he took the laundry bag, and Ariadne jerked away from his touch. "You're angry with me," he commented.
She glared at him. "Whatever gave you that idea?"
He grinned, appearing genuinely amused. "I'm keeping you safe, Ariadne. Why does that make you so angry?"
"I can keep myself safe just fine, dammit. I don't need you snatching me away from everything I know to do whatever the hell it is you want to do!"
The grin slid right off of his face. "Oh."
"Yes, oh," Ariadne mimicked, bitterness in her voice. "That's all you can say?"
"From your point of view, I'm no better than they are."
Ariadne wanted to hit him. That bland face was irritating. She wanted him to feel something, wanted him to understand how hurt and frustrated and angry and scared she was. But she was also certain that it would ultimately lead to her death, and she hated him for that, too.
"I'm sorry you feel that way," Arthur said, backing up toward the door. She was at least gratified to see that he wasn't taking any chances with her. "I can only hope someday you'll forgive me for all of this."
Ariadne waited until the door was locked again before screaming at it.
***
***
To chapter 5...