Title: The Very Thing
Summary: Where Ariadne is just an architecture student wending her way through a new city, and Arthur is a man looking for an architect... one to design the landscape of dreams. Yes, this is an Arthur & Ariadne tale. This is AU in that the movie didn't necessarily develop as it did, and hence some of the movie's plot is defunct.
Rating: M for language and for future relationship development.
Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, do not own anything related to Inception; its author(s), producer(s), director, actors and probably inevitable merchandise, et al., have absolutely nothing to do with me. I am not making any money out of this; this is purely the result of a sudden need to be creative (a drive I did not know I had). So, please, no one sue me, I intend no harm... just really liked the movie. Besides, isn't this a given on fanfiction? It's in the name!
Chapter 1:
It was an ordinary, Tuesday morning when Ariadne woke up to a pounding on her bedroom door, feeling the crick in her neck that was the direct result of sleeping awkwardly, still clutching the laptop she had been using last night for her schoolwork. These late nights were becoming quite frequent in her estimation. Her musings were cut short, however, and she had about two seconds to wonder 'what is that noise? And why won't it stop?' when her roommate waltzed into her room, declaring that she better get her ass up right now and listen to her godamn insecurities. Not that it was phrased that way, but in her hazy, groggy state, that was just about all she was able to surmise. She sighed to herself; this was not how she wanted to start her day. But, she was up now, and might as well get on with it.
About an hour and a quarter later Ariadne found herself wandering the streets of Paris, quickly walking through the rows of low-budget houses and apartments that made up her new neighbourhood. As she walked on, she considered the circumstances that had led her to this place—to Paris! When she thought about it, she realized that it had all happened very quickly: scholarship—check; plane ticket—check; saying goodbye to her grumpy, no-good uncle and guardian—uncheck, with the tacit understanding that her departure would be of the more permanent variety.
And so it was, lost in her own thoughts, her feet knowing their course, she found herself in her new favourite place in Paris, a quaint little bookstore she had begun to frequent on a regular basis. Actually, it had occurred to her just the other day that she must be visiting the lovely little shop more than she thought, as the owner seemed to know her by name 'when did she tell the older women her name?' and had begun to leave her out books she thought might interest her, conveniently placed in her self-proclaimed corner by the old-fashioned fireplace and super-worn-out-but-undeniably-comfy couch. She loved this spot. Hell, she loved this whole store. I mean, really! What kind of bookstore—you know, a place filled to the brim with paper—had an old fashioned fireplace going all the time? But it wasn't just the fireplace, and the obscenely comfortable chair, but the building itself. It had character! It was old, and painted all kinds of bright colours, interwoven with varnished dark wooden floors and immense, intricately designed arches that acted as doorways between the store's many sections (one for fiction, one for biographies, and—her favourite—the one that lead towards all the books on architecture). Moreover, these arches were mimicked by large arched-shaped bay windows, bringing in enough light so that fluorescents weren't really necessary most of the time. Simply put, it was heaven, and Ariadne decided it was the perfect place to surrender and lose herself for a while (as to why she was so keen on doing so, she steadfastly insisted was a non-issue. After all, life was good, and she was an optimist).
"Bonjour mademoiselle," a voice called out somewhere in her vicinity. She peered up and discovered that the greeting was directed at her. Well, this was going to be problematic.
"Umm... bon-jour mon-sieur...," she replied weakly. In all her haste to get the fuck out of her hometown, she neglected to consider that her French was second-rate—at best. Despite her obvious discomfort, the man launched right into a very quick, very complex discussion that she thought had something to do with coffee and some kind of bread... or dessert. She decided it was time to try and break into the conversation.
"Désolé mon-sieur mais," 'how was she supposed to say this again?' "je ne... comprends pas."
"Ohhh! T'es Anglophone, toi? Américaine? Canadienne? Britannique?" and off he went, saying who knows what to her. As her eyebrows continued their climb up her brow, and her eyes widened ever-more, she heard a distinct cough. Praying that someone else wasn't about to confuse the hell out of her, she looked up to discover the source of said distinctive cough, only to find a pair of highly amused brown eyes staring right at her. She cocked her head to the side, only for him to raise an eyebrow and turn to focus on the gentleman that was still trying to talk to her. The brown-eyed man quietly said something to him in French, and Ariadne watched in fascination as the man's smile crumbled a little, heard him grumble something that definitely did not sound altogether pleasant, and leave in a bit of a huff. More than a little astounded, Ariadne returned her focus to the brown-eyed man, to find a ghost of a smile lingering on his face, clearly trying to contain his laughter.
"Now, tell me something, how does a person who barely speaks French, end up in Paris?" he said, amusement lighting up his eyes.
"What did you say to him? He looked so... crestfallen," she mused.
"Oh, nothing really. Just that we're together and that I would appreciate it if he'd stop hitting on you..." he said, completely calm, with just a hint of a smirk on his lips.
"You WHAT?! You can't just... just... he was hitting on me? No, that's beside the point! I can't believe— "
"Are you telling me that you're not appreciative?" he said, quite composed, but clearly still amused. She couldn't help but redden, and as she felt the blush creep up her neck she had a sudden desire to smack that smirk off his damn, stupid, dimpled face. Really, he looked smugger that anybody had the right to be.
"Ugh!," she groaned, packing up her stuff to leave her hitherto-heaven.
"Ariadne," he called, forcing her to turn around, pure shock overwhelming her—no one, aside from her roommate, new her name here.
"How do you know my name? Are you stalking me now as well as posing as my boyfriend?" she all but bellowed.
"Your name is on your book," he replied gently, handing over her leather-bound journal. Feeling the embarrassment wash over her once again, she took the book and quickly made her exit out onto the Parisian streets, imploring to any universal entity that might exist to return her features to their normal pallor.