i.
She wonders if they notice.
She doesn't tell them yet. (She may never tell them at all and spare herself the pain of their reactions.)
She doesn't pull away and she doesn't draw close; she stays right where she is. She draws her blueprints and asks for their input and throws pens at Eames when he makes the obligatory snide remark, and everything is okay.
Those are the moments when she lives forever.
Two months in and she distracts herself by perfecting structures that can exist only in the limitless plane of dreams.
She feigns a lack of inspiration as an excuse for going under so frequently, and they (astonishingly) believe her.
(It's a white lie, they'll be grateful for this later —)
She is in the middle of what is likely the beginning of a suburban neighborhood, where the grass is an impossibly vivid emerald and the clear sky stretches out as far as she can see. She slowly walks along the street that links this vast emptiness to the rest of the (fake, meticulously designed) world.
"You weren't lying about the lack of inspiration, I see."
She had a feeling that this was coming.
She turns around and he's there with his hands in his pockets, eyes searching for a sign of something other than green and blue.
"Don't sneak up on me like that," she tells him, sighing and folding her arms across her chest. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
He doesn't answer and walks until he's by her side. They walk in silence for an eternity or two before he stops and looks her straight in the eye.
"What's going on, Ariadne?"
She tenses under his intense, icy gaze, and she knows that she can't tell him — she can't rip his heart to shreds after she had spent so much time and effort in helping to rebuild it.
"First? Tell me why you're here. Wanted to get a look at the deep, dark secrets I don't have?"
He scratches the back of his neck.
"Not exactly," he admits, as if he's breaking the law. "I decided to be an architect again. On the side, that is."
Her eyebrows knit together as she considers his words. "That still doesn't explain why you're in my dream."
"Two is better than one," he says nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders and resuming his stride. "Maybe I can learn something from the best."
She stands there, (almost) mystified, before allowing herself the smallest of smiles.
"In that case, I'm just honored to have a worthy partner." When he raises his eyebrows, she quickly adds, "No sarcasm. Honest."
She catches the satisfied smirk that lingers on his lips for just a moment too long.
They build together, and she finds herself surprised by the innate talent he has for creation (although he is vastly more conservative, whereas she constructs never-ending stairs merely for her own amusement). She forgets about time — forgets about reality itself.
When the once-bare fields are sufficiently populated with seemingly normal houses (leave it to him to design disturbingly average exteriors and have the interiors blow her away), she takes a deep breath and turns to him.
"I need to tell you something."
"I figured as much."
They're at the end of the road.
"I'm sick, Cobb. And I'm not going to get better."
"I'll tell them when I'm ready."
Silence.
"You're never going to be ready, Ariadne."
"Thank you for speaking on my behalf, but promise me you won't tell them before I do."
"Fine, but you can't hide this much longer." His voice is breaking and her throat feels tight.
They don't look at each other.
(They're scared of what they might see.)