What Happens After

New story up! Arthur's POV, post-movie. This isn't a sequel to Possible Possibilities, although it does sort of begin where that story ends. But if you have read Possible Possibilities, I believe you will find there are significant personality differences in this version's Arthur. Warning: He's a bit more dark and twisty here. Anyway, I hope you enjoy nonetheless!

Chapter One: Only Slightly Rearranged

Many of us crucify ourselves between two thieves - regret for the past and fear of the future.

-Fulton Oursler

She is kissing me. I want to jerk her closer, wrap her hair around my hand and go deep. I pull away. But here's where the dream goes awry. Ariadne never does what I expect; instead of backing off, she makes a little growl in her throat and grabs me by the collar of my jacket. I am abruptly yanked back onto her mouth. Our eyes lock, even as lips and tongue are colliding. I don't know why I'm fighting myself and a person only has so much self control. My eyes close and I do exactly what's been dancing in my imagination since I don't know for how long. Something inside of me is ringing - a screaming train whistle. You keep this up and you're not going to want to stop. That seems to put everything into perspective. I disentangle myself from her; her body heat is a sheer veil which slowly falls off me. "This could get complicated."

She is examining me. I've seen her do this before - where she studies an object and the gears and cogs in her brain are grinding while she breaks everything down into its basic components. I don't move under her scrutiny. "The way I see it, the complications just sorted themselves out." The way her eyes are moving, I know she is processing out loud. It becomes apparent the moment everything snaps into place - that's when she's focused on me again. "You mean your own complications." She takes a step back. I hate when she does that. This time, though, she's right to distance herself.

"I wish that weren't the case." It's the truth, however useless that is for her.

"What about before, in the dream?"

As gently as I can, I say, "You looked anxious. I was trying to lighten the mood for you." That is not the full truth but that won't make her feel any better either.

"I see." She doesn't, but I can't elaborate. Her hand raises but it falls away before I can do anything. "We'll just attribute what happened five minutes ago to... what? A way of letting off steam?" She's biting her bottom lip - and I wish it were me doing that.

She is waiting for a response from me but all I can manage is a slow nod of my head.

"I guess this is a good bye then, Arthur."

The thing is, I want to tell her. Because a part of me hopes that I'm wrong, a part of me hopes that maybe I can take the risk. But every time I think about it, I can't. I won't put her life in danger - it sounds melodramatic but she deserves better. She deserves to live her life normally and if I'm involved, it will just continue to be a three ring circus. A circus that is always waiting for me, always lying behind corners. "Good bye, Ariadne." I won't disrespect her with any disingenuous displays of emotion. And I couldn't manage a smile anyway.

She blinks once, twice. Then I see the back of her head and she's disappearing into a taxi. She doesn't turn to look back at me once.

A hand slaps me on the back. "Aren't you the noble."

"It's better this way."

"Sure, sure." Eames is picking up one of my bags - the lighter one - and he gestures for a taxi. "Hence, the bit about being noble. Well, what are you waiting for? Lucy and her pot roast are waiting."

There are times when he is a louse, a prankster, and completely self-involved. But there are also those times when Eames is quite capable of being kind. Lucky for me, those moments are rare. I follow him into the cab and the car takes off, headed towards an L.A. suburb. Southern California lives up to its reputation - it is sunny and warm. It's been years since I have been here for more than transitory reasons of waiting to catch a transfer flight out of LAX. If it were up to me, I would personally press the button to activate the fault lines and watch the ocean swallow the city up.

We pull up in front of a house with a neatly manicured yard complete with a miniature windmill and white window shutters. Before we're even out of the car, a pretty woman is opening the front door. She's wearing an apron that could easily come from the set of a 1950's TV show. Eames gives her an appreciative once-over. "Hello, honey. I'm home." He drops his bags at the sidewalk and walks up to her. I avert my eyes as they kiss.

I pay the driver, and pull the rest of the bags and luggage out. As I walk up to them, still embracing, I hear Lucy murmur, "I knew you'd like the apron."

"And like the perfect little housewife, did you make enough of my pot roast in case I brought home unexpected guests?"

She rolls her eyes as they pull apart and he pats her backside. "The apron's as close as I got to indulging in your Donna Reed fantasy. Hello, Arthur. It's been awhile. You look tired."

Underneath the apron, she's wearing jeans and a t-shirt. We hug. "Hello, Lucy. You look lovely, as usual."

Inside, the house is as cozy as the outside looks. There are brightly patched quilts thrown across overstuffed chairs and couch, richly colored drapery adorning the windows, a kitchen made out of blue and white tiles with a pine-topped island. There are potted plants and framed prints everywhere. At the mantelpiece, I look at the photos she's placed along the shelf. There's one of her and Eames on some tropical island. "I can't believe this is the same house. You've done a great job with it."

"No thanks to me, you mean." Eames settles himself onto a stool at the island. He sniffs at the contents under the pizza box. "My favorite kind of pot roast."

"You're in an exceptionally good mood. I trust that means the job went well?" She bats his hand away and places a slice on a plate before handing it to me.

Eames looks over at me, eyebrow raised. "What'd you say, old chap? Will tonight's dinner be grilled porterhouse or leftover pizza?"

Lucy throws her arms up in the air and then around Eames' neck when she sees the expression on my face. "This isn't any time for you to be resting on your laurels, buddy. Go to the market and pick us up some nice, juicy steaks for tonight." She ignores his useless protestations about his laurels barely having had a break. "Arthur, make yourself comfortable - let me just get the guest room ready. No buts. I insist you stay here tonight."

Eames gets up and leaves, grumbling but willing. As soon as we hear the car start, and Lucy finishes preparing the guest room, she offers me a can of soda from the refrigerator. I take a sip. "Why weren't you in Mombasa?"

"Because I'm a grown-up with a regular job. I can't run away to Kenya on a moment's notice." She says this as she begins chopping carrots.

I sit back. "You're taking it in stride. Him disappearing for months."

She smiles. "Am I? Perhaps you might not have said so had you heard me when he called to tell me he'd landed safely. And then me again, when he told me he was headed to Paris, then Australia. 'On a gig, love.'" She says this last sentence with her hands making quotation signs. She mimics his accent perfectly.

"How frequently does he do this? And why do you put up with it?"

"He's not doing anything he didn't warn me about. No need to get on your white horse for this cause, Arthur." I choke a little and she casually tosses me a kitchen towel.

"I... I wasn't..."

"What's going on? You're usually not so inquisitive about my personal life." She tilts her head; there is a gleam in her eyes. "Did something happen on the job?"

I'm looking at my plate of pizza. The weight of her stare is drilling itself on my crown. I take a bite, chew the pieces carefully and swallow before I lift my head again. "What normally happens on a job? Complications."

"Girly complications?" She claps her hands together and laughs at my silence. "He may be gone for months at a time, but he calls. He calls all the time. So tell me about this new architect."

I grimace and push away. "I'd rather not. And it's apparent you know all about her anyway." Her eyes follow me as I make my way into the guest bedroom.

"Arthur." I turn around. She fits in neatly in with her tiled kitchen, the copper cookware, the ferns and herbs springing out of terra cotta pots. "Are you going to go see her?"

It's funny; I've just spent ten hours sleeping but exhaustion is setting in. I'm tired of fighting and running and keeping my head above water. I want to crash, and, I want Ariadne. But both are impossibilities. "You know the answer to that too. Yes, of course, I'll go. I always do, don't I?" She doesn't try to stop me any further from getting to the guest room; it takes me a long time to unloosen my tie, take off my shirt and strip down to my boxer shorts. When I finally lie down on the bed and pull the covers over me, my eyes refuse to shutter.

I jerk awake, and I'm surrounded by darkness. My totem is on the nightstand, but I ignore it. It takes me a moment but eventually, my heart stops racing when I hear the electronic buzz of music spilling out from speakers outside and then another moment to realize that it's P.M. and not A.M. It's still the same day. I'm groggy and my head hurts - not a good combination to face Eames in. As soon as I'm dressed, I follow my nose out to the scent of coal and marinated steak in the backyard. "Arthur, my boy, you're up just in time. I hope you like your steak rare." He is standing over the barbecue grill, wearing the ridiculous apron from earlier and holding a pair of metal tongs in one hand.

"I'm sorry. I won't be able to stay for dinner."

Both of them pause in their activities. Lucy is in the middle of scooping salad onto a third bowl. She swings her gaze to Eames before they focus back on me. "Sudden decision, isn't it, mate. You sure?"

I nod, as I shrug into my suit jacket. "I've got some errands to run. May I borrow your car?" There's a jingle and a spark of light in the air; the car keys are suddenly in my hand. "Thanks. I may be awhile."

Eames calls out as I leave, "Do you know how to get there? From here?"

I almost want to laugh, but I don't. I know every car route to get to my destination from every major city across the country. I've studied them until they are mentally tattooed across my brain. And here is easy - the curve of roads are immeasurably familiar, etched in my memory in a way that staring at an atlas can never accomplish. That's the problem. "Yeah. I'll be fine. See you later."

I'm on the Pacific Coast Highway and though I can't see much, the salt air is strong. It brings back memories of building sandcastles, which then brings further memories of my first fumbling attempts at surfing, and late bonfire parties, where the ocean scent is tinged with alcohol and burning marshmallows. The radio comes on with a quick push of the button; some tinny, electronic music propels outward and mingles with the smell. I hate everything about it - it's every bad song ever written, sung in the same chords only slightly rearranged. It's perfect for the mood I'm in and I spend the remainder of the twenty minutes of my drive, thinking about how much I hate pop music.

The building I pull up in front of is brick with wheelchair access next to the stairs. There's a sign in etched gold leaf above the door: Thousand Oaks Center. It takes me nearly fifteen minutes after parking before I actually leave the car. Visiting hours are over, but I walk up to the man sitting behind the reception desk anyway. I give him my name, and, sure enough, I'm allowed upstairs, to one of the rooms. Nothing about this place has changed - it still has the same antiseptic smell, the same dulling of noise - my footsteps become muted as they slap against the linoleum floor, the same empty echo that manages to be vast and cramped all at once. The light to the room is still on and so is the TV. She's curled on the small couch, a blanket thrown over the lower half of her body. There's a half-full bowl of popcorn on the coffee table in front of her. Nothing's changed - she's beautiful with her hair curling over her terrycloth bathrobe and her eyes are wide and focused on the TV screen; they are a shade I'll never forget. It takes a moment before she notices me and the smile she gives me makes my heart constrict.

She tosses the blanket aside, sits up. "Arthur." Her voice is at clear as it ever was. Does she still sing?

I'm at her side before she has a chance to do anything else. I place her hand in mine. "Paige." I bury my nose in her hair; it smells sweet like candy at a street festival, but what assaults me are marshmallows and alcohol and the smell of burning wood.

And just like that, reality sinks in.