AN: Canon pairings. I don't own Inception (disclaimer for all chapters) or anything else that you recognize. No beta, apologies in advance for any mistakes. I have no real medical knowledge. I'm also prone to shameless fluff and pointless angst/h/c. I'm making up ages and last/first names where they apply.
The first time she sees him he's coming in to sit in the third row, just off of centre, of her father's lecture theatre, ten minutes early and yet still looking kind of frazzled. He's of average height, slim, bordering on thin, dressed neatly, but not expensively, khakis, shirt and vest, and he keeps his head ducked down the entire way to his seat. She glances quickly at the timetable taped down at the top right corner of the desk and, after a quick glance at the clock to confirm, finds that he must be here for History of Architecture from the Fifteenth Century. It's a second year history course, judging by the course code. She looks at him again. He's shuffling papers around, pulling out a notebook. His dark hair hides his eyes as he reaches down to grab something out of his bag. A pen, which he then places on top of his notebook.
She's twenty-seven, and has been working with her father for over six years now, since before she completed her degree. She knows research, she knows extraction, she can unflinchingly slip a needle into her wrist, and she even knows the basics of the different sedatives commonly used in her field. She technically has a degree in philosophy, but she hasn't really used it since she graduated. Her father had a job ready and waiting for her, and while her acquired analytical skills were useful, the specifics were never really needed.
She tears her eyes away, not wanting to be caught staring, and she sees her father coming back down to the podium, a small stack of folders in his hands. He puts a hand on her shoulder after he hands them to her, and murmurs that he'll talk to her later with more instructions. The rest of the class is filtering in by that point, so she takes that as her cue to leave.
She lives on her own, in an apartment very close to the university, which she'd attended several years ago. She'd moved in at the start of her third year, determined to start living her own life and find her own way in the city she'd grown up in, and knew and loved. A voice in the back of her head had reminded her of this desire when she'd agreed to work with her father not long after, but she loved the work, and she loved the challenge, so she'd accepted and never looked back.
She loves living on her own, but the apartment is spacious and sometimes feels empty. Most of her close friends from school have already moved on with their lives, and many are even married with children. Coworkers come and go in her line of work, and living with one of them could hardly be considered safe, dream-sharing being the field that it is. So, she figures that until she finds the right person, she will enjoy the freedom of living alone.
Her second glimpse of him is short. It's just over two weeks later and she's come to visit her father again, this time waiting respectfully outside the door since she knows a class is in session. When the class is over, he's the first one out, and he hurries past her, apologizing softly as he dodges people, apparently in quite the hurry as he leaves the building. She watches the doors behind him for just a second longer, other students and faculty crossing her line of sight before turning back to the door to her father's classroom, slipping in when there is a break in the stream of students leaving. She gives him a folder of research on a mark and a quick peck on the cheek, accepts a container with some chocolate cake baked by her mother in it, and after promising him that she'll come have dinner with them that evening, she leaves to go meet with their current architect to go over the details of the dream.
It isn't until she's just about to fall asleep that she realizes that she's spent the entire time she's been lying in bed thinking about him.
The third time she sees him they both get on the Métro at the stop closest to the building of the university where her father works, and she sits across and a few seats down from him, peeking up at him intermittently from her book. He appears to be completely engrossed in Vector Calculus, his right leg shaking restlessly, and doesn't appear to notice her for the greater part of the ride. He looks up once when she snaps her phone shut before replacing it in her purse, right before she gets off the train. He gives her a slightly puzzled look, frowning slightly, as if trying to remember where he has seen her before, but appears to dismiss the thought, going back to his textbook after hardly a second.
She isn't sure why he fascinates her. She's sure it isn't attraction – he's clearly at least five years younger than her, possibly closer to seven, and she hasn't wanted to undress him with her eyes the times she's seen him, she just… she isn't sure. He's good looking, to be sure, his face simultaneously painfully boyish and angular. She thinks about how, both times she's seen him, his clothes have been perfectly pressed and neat. She thinks he's gotten thinner, but she knows she hasn't seen him nearly often enough or closely enough to be sure. She's never seen him smile. His hair is dark and soft and straight and cut fairly short. His face is always pale and clean shaven. He carries his books in a messenger bag. She knows nothing important about him and yet somehow he always manages to make her feel a little sad, and she can't for the life of her figure out why.
The fourth time she sees him it's late. She's walking back to her apartment after a night at the bar with a few of her friends from university, and she's a little drunk, but only a little. She hears painful retching coming from just around the corner of the building she's passing, and she sees someone hunched over in an alley, gagging and sobbing intermittently. She comes up behind him, putting a hand on his back, and it isn't until he jumps slightly and turns slightly to lay red-rimmed eyes on her that she realizes that she recognizes him, and that it's him. He reeks of alcohol, which startles her a little even though she's tipsy herself. She puts what she hopes is a comforting hand on his shoulder for a second, and then digs through her purse for a tissue, which she hands him. She wishes she had a bottle of water on her, but there's nothing she can do about it now.
She opens her mouth to ask him if she can walk him home, or maybe call a friend, when suddenly he's coughing. And when that starts, he doesn't seem to be able to stop. He's coughing and coughing and wheezing and she doesn't know when he grabbed her arm but his knuckles are turning white and she vaguely registers that his grip on her hurts and then he's on the ground, sitting dangerously close to the puddle of vomit, still clutching her arm, his lips slowly but surely turning blue.
She doesn't know what to do, so she manages to pull out her phone with his grip still on her arm, and calls an ambulance.