"Dom?" she says, and finally, he looks at her.
She spins the little top, Mal's top, (because he can never think of it as anything else) and then she takes out her own totem and casually (almost) tips it.
Two motions, one circular, one vertical, diagonal, whatever the hell you want to call it, the gold of the bishop and the sliver of the little top glinting off of each other, slowly, a breath in time, and the sun is in their eyes.
The bishop falls, turns in a perfect little half circle, and even he can tell that isn't normal.
And Mal's little top keeps spinning.
Spinning, spinning, spinning, for the one minute, two minutes, three four five, for the endless minutes that they watch it whirl, and when he can't take it anymore and he slams his hand down on the piece of worn metal and looks up, Aiadne is crying.
He didn't see it.
He just didn't see it.
It stopped spinning. It fell.
He knows it did.
So why can't he bring himself to pick it up and spin it again?
They're having a drink at a little shop down the street from his house, because even if they're illusions, he doesn't want to scare the kids.
"Was it all just a dream?" she asks, and he doesn't know what to say, what to do.
"It can't have been." It's the first thing that comes to mind, because it's the only thought that's been going through his head since they watched the pretty little silver top.
"Then what is it now? Where are we? Whose dream are we in?"
He tucks his hands into his pockets, leans back, and closes his eyes.
I don't know. I don't know.
She sips her tea and can't help wishing that it's something stronger.
"What about the others?"
She's still crying. He wishes that she would stop, because it makes him want to cry too.
"What about Saito? And Yusuf? Eames? Or Fischer?"
He shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair again.
"What about Arthur?" she asks, and her voice cracks.
Philippa is on one arm and James is on the other, and he's happy.
He's happy, for the first time since Mal died, because the two people that kept him from jumping after her are finally back where they belong, by his side, safe, and they haven't forgotten him.
"Daddy," Philippa coos, reaching up and combing her hand clumsily through his hair. She plants a chocolaty, sugar sticky kiss on his cheek, and he returns the favor.
James is already asleep, curled up on the couch with his head pillowed on Dom's leg, his hand fisted in the silk of the expensive jacket.
Dom rests his hand gently on his son's head, the golden curls still warm from the sun, and Philippa has fallen asleep at his side.
He pulls them closer, and prays, prays that this isn't a dream.
Ariadne decides not to go back to Paris for a little while.
Instead she calls for a taxi and pays for a hotel room, and she feels something close to happy as she falls asleep under the soft, comforting warmth of the blankets.
She wakes up to the sun, and she smiles, glowing.
Then she takes out her chess piece and knocks it over.
"How do I know you're not just a part of the dream?"
This time they're at an art museum, and she's staring with a particular kind of intensity at a rendition of the Penrose staircase.
"Because my totem doesn't work either."
She snorts quietly and fiddles with the corner of her scarf.
"But my subconscious could have just projected that."
"And I could be projecting you."
She nods absently.
"Does it matter?" he asks, and she shrugs and turns away.
"Maybe."
She sounds like she's lost.
It was. He knew it was. Too good, much too good to be true.
He keeps thinking about the airport, about how everyone looked, so happy, relieved, satisfied, and so was he.
To be perfectly honest, he thought that he was still dreaming.
Eames was going to Vegas, Ariadne was going back to Paris, Arthur, predictably, hadn't told anyone where he was going, and Fischer was going to a meeting that they had all planned for him.
And him? He was going home.
Ariadne catches him thinking about it.
"Hey," she calls, and kicks the side of his chair.
"It's seems like a perfect dream," she continues, and he wonders curiously, for the first time, what made her so desperate to escape reality.
"Might as well make the most of it," she finishes, and so he stands up and heads back the house that a few hours ago was home.
He invites her to come with him, but she just smiles a little sadly and shakes her head.
"So what do we do now?"
She's looking at a Mona Lisa that definitely shouldn't be there, on that wall, in this building, in this country, and he wonders for the hundredth time whose dream they're in.
"We go back home and take a night to think about everything."
"What's to think about?"
He doesn't answer her.
"And then tomorrow, dear Ariande, we pick a way to die."
"They're sweet kids," she smiles, and he almost smiles back.
Of course, now, he can't.
They watch James chase Philippa around the yard with a frog he found somewhere, and the sun is shining, and it's a beautiful afternoon.
"Can we put it off for another day?"
He blinks at her, and she's quick to explain herself.
"I just want to, I dunno, pretend to be happy for one last day, spend some time with kids again." She tries to bring the smile back, but it doesn't reach her eyes, and her face is dark, shadowed under a tree branch.
"You know that's not healthy."
"I know. I just…"
Damn, she's crying again.
"It's just that, whatever's on the other side, whatever it's like, I want to be able to remember what happy felt like."
Well, how is he supposed to reply to that?
"You're waiting for a train," he says, and chuckles mirthlessly.
"No," she snaps, and rubs her head like it hurts to even think about this.
"No trains," she says, and he shrugs, because honestly, he's pretty sick of trains too.
"Then how to you want to do it?"
She won't look at him. She hasn't been able to meet his gaze since they watched the top spin. And he hasn't been able to smile. Maybe she feels guilty.
He can't bring himself to ask, because if that's the case, he doesn't know if he could forgive her.
"I always have wanted to fly," she mutters darkly to herself, "with the sun rising on my face and the wind rushing by and nothing to think about and nothing to bring me back up again."
Her voice is very hollow.
He watches her, and is sorry for he doesn't know what.
"Goodnight, Daddy," James whispers, because Philippa is already asleep and they have to be very careful not to wake her up.
He hopes they're waiting for him.
"Goodnight, Jamie," Dom whispers back, tucking the Spider-Man blanket around the boy, placing a kiss on his forehead, making sure that the nightlight is turned on before he leaves.
He tries to sleep, he really does, but he knew it was an impossibility the moment he considered it.
He spends the night watching his children sleep, and wondering if they dream.
They meet on a cliff overlooking the beach, and he wonders just how long she's been standing there, staring out over the endless expanse of blue ocean and blue sky.
"How was it? Saying goodbye?" she asks, leaning on a guardrail, her scarf (red and purple and green and gold) whipping forcefully in an updraft as she glares at the view.
He stopped in a restaurant to make sure the tears were gone before he came here.
"It was alright."
Finally, she looks at him, her eyes unspeakably soft.
"I'm sorry."
He looks away.
"I'll be fine."
"Because they're going to be waiting for you?"
He takes in a shaky breath, but he doesn't know what to say after that. He settles for the truth.
"That's what I have to believe."
"Because it is perfect, isn't it?" She sounds like she's going to cry again.
"Yeah. It's perfect."
He takes her hand, and they stare out at the ocean for a long time.
The sun is rising.
They move towards the edge, slowly, carefully, and fall.
He can understand why she would want to die this way.
The sun rising on his face, the wind rushing by.
It's peaceful.
Somehow, it doesn't really feel like dying should.
"Are you even real?" she cries, and Cobb hushes her, because the two children are peeking around the corner at the strange lady in her pajamas, and he can't let them see her.
"Of course! Of course I'm real, Ariadne! Now just calm down."
He leads her into his study and shoos James and Philippa back to bed, promising that it's a good story that he'll have time to tell later, and no, it isn't pajama day, and no, she isn't crazy, the lady just didn't have time to change.
When he gets back, Ariadne is calmer.
In her hands, she's holding a golden bishop and a little silver top.
She wakes up to a white hospital room, and Cobb.
"It's not perfect here, is it?" That's the first thing she says, and he shakes his head.
"No."
She doesn't feel like crying anymore. She just feels empty.
"But it's not that bad."
And then he smiles.
Cheers!
Well, technically I'm not legally allowed to drink, so I'm either clinking glasses of fruit punch or my imaginary beers have arrived.
Anyway, I'm ringing in the new year with an Inception fic, since predictably, I've got no parties to go to, and I wouldn't go to one even if I had one to go to. Which I don't.
So instead, what am I doing?
I'm Watching: Inception aka Best Movie Ever
I'm Reading: Inception FanFiction ^_^
I'm Writing: Inception FanFiction
I'm Listening To: Inception Soundtrack (Hans Zimmer is freaking AMAZING!)
I'm Eating: Inception cake; it's got layers!
I'm Drinking: Not Inception soda. T_T
Possibly, Inception ate my brain. But I'm OK with that!
This idea is, basically, Cobb's little top at the end of the movie kept spinning, and Ariadne realized that they were in a dream. I'm a sucker for Ariadne/Arthur, so I stuck a couple snippets in for my own happiness, though this is a primarily Ariadne and Cobb thing. I view their relationship as platonic, friendly, maybe a little farther daughter love going down, but I've never really thought of them romantically. Take this fic as you will.
I'm very pleased with it. Happy New Year!