Hey! Recently, I watched Inception, and I loved every second of it. Arthur was my favorite character, naturally, and I logged onto FF once I got home.

Obviously, I read many Arthur/Ariadne fics and wrote one of my own. I might expand this, you know, write a companion about the events following this. I dunno.

Tell me what you think, okay? :D

Robert Fischer wasn't hungry, but he felt restless and tired and was sick of being trapped in his office all day. Of course, it was a very nice office to be trapped in—roughly the size of the Oval Office, with sleek oak furniture and Persian carpeting—but Fischer's feet were starting to hurt from pacing back and forth in the room, and his fingers ached from snatching the phone up whenever it rang with mildly unimportant calls.

"I'm going out to get lunch, Sherry," Fischer informed his timid secretary. Frazzled, she shook her wild red curls from her face and frowned.

"But sir," she began, eyes locked on his expensive Italian shoes, "You have a mini-fridge and private catering service. There's no need to leave the building."

Fischer tapped his temple, where strands of brown were already graying. Merely entering his thirties, the first lock of pale hair he'd found had created shock and revulsion. Stress was speeding up his aging process, and his handsome glow, which usually attracted females wherever he went, was fading rapidly.

"I just want to go down to the bakery, Sherry. Shall I bring you something?"

She shook her head fearfully, coils of hair bouncing. "No, sir. Nothing for me."

With a jerk of his head, he adjusted the collar and cuffs of his freshly ironed white shirt, heading toward the elevator. Fischer slipped in, pressing 'L' for Lobby, and waited as the machine slowly chugged down. Ever since he had gone to and returned from Los Angeles, elevators made him slightly nervous. He didn't know why. He had the strangest paranoia that the cables would snap and he would careen down the shaft, falling and falling and… and…

Fischer swiped at the beads of sweat dotting his brow. He would much rather take the stairs to the lobby, but his office was on the fifteenth floor and the stairs leading down were endlessly long and terrifyingly narrow.

The elevator dinged, and Fischer hurried out, waving to the doorman as he exited the building. He took a moment to breathe in the slightly polluted New York City air—this was where he chose to work. The city that never slept, yet also the city of dreams.

Dreams…

Shaking away his confused and only half-coherent thoughts, Fischer made his way down the front steps and dashed across the street. He pushed the door of his favorite bakery open with a satisfied sigh, the warm smell of pastries of hot coffee greeting him. As usual, he was out of place in his dress shirt and neatly pressed suit, his polished loafers gleaming in the artificial glow of the fluorescent lights above. The other customers were all younger than him, local teenagers and college students from Columbia and NYU.

There was one particular young lady who caught his eye—she was beautiful, yes, with long wavy brown locks and large, innocent eyes, but that wasn't the reason he kept staring. She was eerily familiar, yet Fischer had no idea who she was.

Awkwardly clearing his throat, Fischer ordered a pecan Danish custard—his favorite—and sat down three tables behind the girl. She didn't notice him, playing with the small brass chess piece in her hand. The bishop. He wondered why she had it.

The door opened again, releasing a whoosh of cool air into the shop, and a tall wiry man stepped in. Heads turned, and every female in the room—plus a few males—swiveled in their seats to gawk at him.

He was good-looking, Fischer grudgingly admitted, picking at his custard. But he wasn't that attractive, was he? More attractive than Fischer himself?

The man, lean and graceful, was dressed up the same way Fischer was. His hair was slicked back professionally, his eyebrows raised in a way that made him seem cocky and somewhat surprised at the same time.

Fischer nearly choked on his pastry when the man sat down across from the girl he had found so distinctly familiar and beautiful.

"Ariadne," Fischer heard him murmur softly, as if speaking to a lover. "You're here. I thought you wouldn't show."

Ariadne slowly traced her fingers along his jaw, receiving murderous and jealous glares from the other women in the bakery. "Why would I do that, Arthur? I've missed you."

Fischer looked down at his napkin, embarrassed. These two obviously were a couple, judging by the way they seemed to make each other breathless. Their names meant nothing to him, though he still had the feeling that he'd seen them before.

He almost toppled out of his seat when the memory hit him. They had been in the first-class cabin with him on the flight to Los Angeles! Why hadn't he realized it earlier? They hadn't seemed like lovers back then, though he'd noticed them exchanging shy glances and smiles as the plane landed. What were they doing in Manhattan? Were they young businesspeople like Fischer himself, trying to make it big?

Fischer was already 'big', thanks the position his father had had in the world of business, but he wasn't so sure of the two twenty-somethings a few booths down.

"…The Fischer project is done, that's good…"

"…I still feel like I'm dreaming sometimes…"

"You're not going to end up like Mal, trust me…"

"…What makes you so sure?"

"…I'll protect you better than Cobb ever protected his wife."

Fischer's blue eyes widened when his name was mentioned. Why was there a project named after him? Who was Mal and Cobb? Why was Ariadne talking about dreaming?

Arthur suspiciously glanced up over Ariadne's shoulder, and Fischer quickly ducked his head down, chewing a mouthful of custard into mush. He waited until the handsome man shifted his gaze elsewhere before straining his ears in an effort to hear more of their conversation.

"I want to go back," Ariadne said, in a barely audible whisper. Fischer practically killed himself trying to hear her words.

Arthur's lips curved into a smile. "You will. We've got a new mission. All five of us—no Cobb. We've been appointed by Keith Richards to go back into Fischer's subconscious."

Fischer blinked. Keith Richards was an associate of his. Recently, he'd been employed by Fischer's company and asked for a promotion. Fischer denied him the promotion, because Richards wasn't nearly as qualified as he thought he was, and Richards had thrown a fit.

And why were the mysterious couple talking about Fischer's subconscious?

"Poor guy," Ariadne said, referring to Fischer. "Everyone wants a piece of his subconscious."

Arthur laughed. "So, are you in?"

She grinned. "Of course."

There was silence then, and Fischer curiously stretched his neck further, wondering why and trying to catch a glimpse of the two. The answer was blatantly presented to him: Arthur and Ariadne were lip-locked, leaning across the table between them as they kissed, his hands cupping her face and her fingers ruffling his gelled hair out of its perfect form.

Blushing like a preteen who'd caught his older sibling making out with a boy/girlfriend, Fischer stuffed the rest of the custard into his mouth and flicked the crumbs from his lap.

Eventually, Ariadne and Arthur broke apart, both wearing wide grins. He took her hand and led her out of the bakery, the woman manning the cash register—a senior citizen with hair as white as snow—cooing 'awwww' as she watched the young couple leave.

Evasive and hoping he hadn't been seen, Fischer stood up and slowly followed them, tossing his napkin into the small wastebasket beside the door.

Who were these people? Russian spies? Mercenaries? Or just an ordinary couple who chose to speak about strange subjects?

"So, instead of another abandoned warehouse, we're going to use one of my apartments in Queens," he heard Arthur tell Ariadne as he trailed them.

Ariadne laughed softly. "How many homes do you own in New York?" She asked.

"In the city? Twelve. In the state? Thirty-six, not including the apartments here."

A rich man. He had been on first-class, after all. Fischer narrowed his eyes. Who were these people?

"Wow. You're loaded."

Arthur chuckled. "Pretty much. But you knew that already, didn't you?"

"Yep."

They came to a stop at the end of the block, and Arthur spun Ariadne around, grasping her hand in his. Fischer quickly hid behind a group of tourists who were waiting to cross the street, whistling a nonchalant tune under his breath.

"Look, Ari. I need to tell you something."

Bystanders craned their necks to get a better look, as if Arthur was about to get on one knee and propose his undying love to Ariadne. Fischer really hoped so. That would be a sign of normality, wouldn't it?

"I…" He exhaled softly. "On this job, I can't be with you. Romantically, I mean."

Her eyes widened, and she yanked fingers from his grip. "What?"

"It'll distract us. We won't be able to concentrate and do our jobs. Even if you don't join me, I can't..."

Ariadne gazed at him, unblinking, and then did something very strange and uncharacteristic. She took his face in her hands and crushed her lips to his in some kind of wistful, silent surrender. The onlookers (excluding Fischer) cheered.

"Are you sure?" She whispered as she leaned back, gloomy.

Arthur nodded, apparently struck speechless by her passionate kiss.

"Fine." She pulled away, her fingers lingering on his jaw before they parted from him forever. "Six months without touching you. I hate to do this."

"I hate it too. But it'll help us do the job better. I promise."

They stared into each other's eyes miserably, before turning the corner and walking down that street. Their shoulders bumped and their pinkies brushed, but they did nothing else to indicate that they were together.

Fischer watched them go, shocked by what he had seen. They hadn't noticed him at all, yet Fischer hadn't used that to his advantage. He hadn't discovered anything that would enable him to figure out why they seemed more familiar to him than simple airplane buddies.

He'd only followed them, stood there, and speculated.

A little short. Sorry.

Review?