A.N: This is my first Inception fic. I saw it a few weeks ago and was astounded by it all, fell in love with Joseph Gordon-Levitt (who DIDN'T, come on) and Arthur/Ariadne as a ship. I haven't written in a while and it's taken a long time to finish, so I hope you enjoy it. Big thanks go to Winter Sapphire who betaed this and is generally awesome in every way. Lyrics at the beginning and end belong to Ellie Goulding's Every Time You Go.
Disclaimer: I don't own Inception, it belongs to the genius that is Christopher Nolan.
It starts with forever, and it ends with a touch.
And I know that you're clever, and I don't ask for much.
. . .
Their parting at LAX is swift and stings more than Ariadne wants to admit. She knows the score, had been told they were to go their separate ways immediately, lest their appearance together attract unwanted attention from their mark or from anyone else. But after her ordeal within the dreamscape, she craves contact. A wink from Eames, a smile from Yusuf, a knowing glance from Arthur –
Or a kiss.
The thought comes unbidden in her mind along with the memory of hot breath on her cheek, dark eyes and a sly, half-formed smile. She shivers, fingering the totem tucked into her jeans pocket. A kiss in a dream isn't really a kiss. Not a kiss that means anything, anyway.
So she picks up her luggage and strides towards the exit without a second glance, however much she wants to turn around to see if he's watching her.
The feeling of eyes on her back is fleeting, and disappears altogether as she rounds the corner.
. . .
She checks into a hotel with a false name and full bank account, being too worn out to brave the flight back to Paris just yet. At least, that's the reason the architect holds onto; she's certainly not waiting around to see who comes after her. And even if part of her is, she knows she's waiting in vain.
As much as she relishes the comfort of her room and the quiet being alone brings, Ariadne refuses to sleep. Her body is aching from the trials of the job and the adrenaline that had coursed through her has dissipated completely, leaving her feeling drained. But images flicker past her eyelids every time they fall closed, and she isn't ready to dream again just yet. The memory of Mal wrenching a knife into her gut plays in a loop along with the cold metal of a gun in her hand and the rush of wind that comes with falling, and Ariadne sets her totem on the bedside table and tips it again, again, again.
In the back of her mind, she wonders if somewhere out there someone is rolling a loaded dice, also confirming their grip on reality.
. . .
Ariadne arrives back in Paris three days later, throwing herself back into her degree, her friends and her old life, burying herself in the comfort of the waking world and the knowledge that everything is exactly what it seems.
In her apartment, she doodles impossible things on scrap pieces of paper, designing unsolvable mazes and creating paradoxical stairs. Her totem lies on its side on the coffee table, a constant reminder that this is real; this routine of life is real.
She dreams of the Fischer job, freight trains and fleeting glances, and begins to wonder if the past six months have only been a dream, after all.
. . .
The first time, Ariadne knows she's dreaming. It starts off exactly like any other dream, right in the middle.
She's walking down the corridor to a lecture, satchel over her shoulder; the place is alive with people. Suddenly, he's there, all sharp angles and perfect lines and she just knows this can't be right. He can't be here, not here in the middle of her mundane reality. Arthur steps forward through the crowd, towards her, and everything around him seems faded, blurry compared to his crisp outline.
Waking with a jolt, she fumbles in the dark and tips her totem on her bedside table, relishing the comforting sound of metal hitting wood.
Ariadne turns on her side and shuts her eyes tight, as if hoping that will be enough to deny him access to her mind again.
. . .
The second time makes her pull the bishop from her pocket immediately, after seeing a flash of tailored suit and slicked-back hair getting out of a taxi as she's walking back home. But by the time she's tipped it and confirmed she is in control, there is no sign of him anywhere.
That night, Ariadne dreams of Mal; with a knife, a broken glass, sitting on a window ledge, firing at Fischer. In her next dream, she becomes Mal, but the person she shoots isn't Fischer, it's Arthur.
She begins to concentrate more and more obsessively on her lectures, forsaking her friends and locking her totem away in a drawer she never uses. Ghostly images from her mind begin to taunt her; she sees Mal, Cobb, Eames and the others everywhere she goes.
Ariadne begins to question her sanity, and no longer wants to know whether she's dreaming or not.
Or which reality is the dream.
. . .
He phones a week after she graduates, and the sound of his voice is enough to make her rescue her totem from its confinement, tipping and tipping again until she hangs up.
"I thought you might be interested in a job."
"I was beginning to think everything was just a dream."
A beat. She holds her breath, hearing him exhale down the line.
"You'll get used to that."
The coolness of his voice is so quintessentially Arthur that it acts like a kick, working better than any totem in confirming her reality. This is not a dream.
After a moment's pause, he asks if she's interested, if she could head over to the old warehouse tomorrow. He barely finishes the sentence before Ariadne says yes.
She swears she can feel him smile down the phone, and their kiss plays again in her mind. She wonders how often it plays through his.
. . .
Their new job is an extraction, a typical corporate affair of rival businesses wanting classified information from others. It is simple enough, but Ariadne still has to design two levels of mazes. Cobb has abstained from joining them, so the job of extraction falls to Eames, who bemoans having to leave a certain gambling den in the Far East, but gives the architect a look that tells her he's more than happy to be back.
Arthur, she's not so sure about. As courteous as he sounded on the phone, in the flesh he is, if possible, more matter of fact than before, not trying to engage in the slightest amount of small talk with her.
She asks herself why it bothers her so much, but decides she has to talk to him sooner or later, before it drives her crazier.
Unfortunately, the point-man doesn't leave Ariadne much room to implement her idea. He arrives on time, leaves on time and is always focused on the task at hand which, the girl supposes, should be nothing but expected. It takes Yusuf's idea of 'downtime' and Eames' approval of said idea for her to even begin to approach him.
Two gin and tonics and a shot of rum later, Ariadne feels relaxed enough to execute her plan.
"Do you ever think about the Fischer job?"
Arthur nurses his scotch and she watches his face for any change of expression. She finds none.
"I think we were lucky." He says finally, and it feels like he's tested the weight of every word in his head before answering. "I think about what happened in Limbo and still hate Cobb sometimes for putting us all in that position."
"Hey, we all got out ok, didn't we?" Ariadne cocks her head to one side and gives him an easy smile; his eyes bore into hers with an unfathomable expression.
"How have you been sleeping?"
The change of subject throws her for a moment, and she frowns, smile slipping. She thinks of the dreams, of Mal, of the nights where she's too scared to go to sleep, or too scared to wake up.
"Fine."
His eyes narrow as she orders another shot. Ariadne leaves soon after.
. . .
The next time they talk, they're under the PASIV, going through the mazes she has created for the job. Ariadne isn't going under this time; she's the one waking them up when it's all over and (hopefully) done, but she still needs to make sure her designs are perfect, that the assignment can be carried out without a hitch.
She walks him through the basic layering of the first maze, another hotel. It's so like the one from the Fischer job that it gives her a sense of déjà vu, shivering as the shadow of a memory passes over her.
"It was worth a shot."
Her projections are agitated, and Arthur asks what's wrong. Ariadne bats his question away with a 'Nothing' but he persists and she sits down at a table, unable to formulate the right words.
He sighs and sits opposite her, shoving his hands into the pockets of his suit and gazing at the projections around them.
"They're looking at us." The point-man states, his most obvious observation to date.
"I'd say kiss me, but we both know that doesn't work." It's not until the words are out of her mouth that the architect realises what she's said, and a blush clouds her cheeks. "Shit. Forget that."
Instead, Arthur turns his gaze towards her, glancing at her curiously, a small, enigmatic smile beginning to pull on his features.
"You never know, this time it might work."
Even though she knows it won't, and that all this is definitely a dream, Ariadne finds her heart beginning to quicken and her mind buzzing in anticipation as he leans a little closer to her over the table. She meets him halfway and his lips are just as she remembers: cool but warm; addictive.
Then the music kicks in and Edith Piaf's words never ring more true inside her head.
As soon as she wakes up, he's by her side, slipping the IV out of her wrist with a flourish but keeping her close to him. It takes all of a moment to talk herself into it before Ariadne presses her lips to his for the second time in two minutes. She's dimly aware they have an audience and that Eames is cheering in a crude fashion, but Arthur smiles against her skin so she kisses him again and again until the whooping stops.
Afterwards, she takes her totem from her pocket and sets it on her work desk, but Arthur takes her hand and leads her to lunch, so she never sees if it falls.
. . .
Baby, we forgot, are we awake or not?