A/N: Hello again my lovelies! I couldn't resist the temptation of this story. So I'm writing this instead of studying for my exams. I am so desperately in love with this pairing. I love reviews and I encourage constructive criticism because I am always trying to improve my writing. So, this is a story that ties in pretty closely with the events of my one-shot Bedroom Hymns, but it is not necessary to read that to understand this story (however I would recommend you do because I think it's one of my better pieces of writing and I love encouragement!).
For a further note, I have a little quirk of quotes with my stories. In this story, chapters will be named after a song, and there will be a little quote from that song in italics under the name that indicates which character the chapter is following. Which will mostly be Ariadne or Arthur, but may occasionally be Eames or Cobb or whatever really tickles my fancy. Because I be cool that way.
Arthur
It's you that keeps me dreaming.
There's a taste lingering on his lips; but it's not possible. Already the memory grows hazy, and his fingers are clutching at something insubstantial, a shadowed thought that dwindles; impossibly darker.
Her lips on his-and it's heaven, too, something so difficult to comprehend.
It's gone. It's almost nothing, now, a struggle through thick and murky waters to hold onto the image of her, pristine, hair clipped back, soft, full lips sliding across his own until his heart stops (even if only for that instantaneous moment).
It's gone, now. It had felt so (what was it?) so real when it was happening, and now-now it's gone. Only a memory. Only acknowledged. He doesn't feel it anymore; he can't make himself feel it.
He'd kissed her. But in this, now, in reality, he can't grasp exactly what it felt like to have her lips on his; only the knowledge that the sensation was a world-ender-catastrophe. He'd written his own disaster when he'd taken to the temptation of her skin. Just a kiss. Only a kiss.
(Like hell. There's no 'only' about it.)
A kiss. A half-remembered dream. Something twisting, dark, slipping from his grasp and her smile fades...
Stop.
She's in the seat in front of him. He wrestles down the urge to leap out of his seat, comfort her as she wakes from this murderous dream (and not even her own, an alien dream-an alien mind), because he can't, he has to maintain his façade of cool, disinterested front man, he doesn't care. He doesn't. He can't.
He closes his eyes and listens to her shift in the leather, tracking her movement's in his mind. He imagines he sees her eyes flutter open, her lips parted gently, and then-there. Her soft gasp falls on his waiting ears. He knows her waking routine better than she does. (Because he's the Point Man. Because he's the Point Man. Because it's his job to know. Not because he can't stop watching her, no.)
She's awake. Limbo and back, nonetheless.
(To think Cobb promised she wouldn't even come into the dream with them.)
She's safe. She's here. She's safe.
He shouldn't be so relieved. It's within reason to be concerned, but to care? No. That's not right. It was his job to ensure their safety, but the insane relief he's feeling-it's wrong. He shouldn't, he can't feel this way. He needs to cut it out - cut her out. His fingers dig into the arms of the chair, knuckles turning white as he tries not to count the seconds between her breaths.
(One, two, three, four.)
(On, two.)
(One, two, three.)
Ragged. Her breathing is ragged-and her heart must be racing.
Arthur, stop it.
There's a pause. A momentary reprieve of silence. Then his eyes flutter open and she's peeking around the side of her seat, large brown doe-eyes fixed on him with a smile. He offers her a single, even nod, and then's she's gone and he releases the breath he was holding.
A kiss. (He really needs to stop acting like a teenage girl. It wasn't even real; it was a dream.)
Without realizing it, his hand drifts upwards, fingers brushing against his lips before diving into his suit pocket and retrieving the small red cube inside.
There's a faint clicking sound when the die rolls.
Two.
- x -
Maybe she really does love Cobb. Maybe that's why she's so nervous.
Her voice trembles just a little bit as she speaks. Her face is paper-white, her hands furiously playing with the hem of her skirt. He realizes-he takes his eyes off of her quickly, before she catches him staring. The urge to swallow, to physically suppress the need rising in him is overpowering. (He can't show any weakness; she'll misinterpret. She'll think he thinks Cobb will fail.) Dreaming is still new to her. Yes. That's why she's so frightened. Not for Cobb.
Please, God, not for Cobb.
"Arthur?"
Christ, she's beautiful. Why did she have to be so damn beautiful?
"Don't panic." Don't panic, don't. He's telling himself as much as he is telling her.
Her, being Ariadne. Ariadne. Ariadne. Her name lies unspoken on his tongue. Ariadne. It's like breathing, her name. So simple, so easy, he forgets he's saying it until she looks at him with a question in her eyes and he bites his tongue. But not here, not now. Now he has control. Now. (For now.)
The room shakes. The world shakes. If he didn't know what Cobb-Mr Charles-whoever was doing, he may have written it off as his ineptitude for natural behavior in her presence.
"What's happening?" She's glancing around the lobby; people (projections, not people, don't lose yourself) are staring. She sounds so timid, so frightened, just a child.
He holds that thought. (A child, a child, barely twenty-one and you're older, you're older, much too old for this girl, getitoutofyourhead, twelve years is not something you can ignore, not something you can brush aside.)
But she's scared. How to fix this? How to-
No. Not that. No.
But her lip trembled when she spoke.
He shouldn't-he wants to, but he shouldn't. And then; "Cobb's drawing Fischer's attention to the strangeness of the dream, which is making his subconscious look for the dreamer." Ah. That's right. His dream. His danger. "For me."
Will he do it? It wouldn't work (maybe there's a chance, a one-in-a-million, I'll-be-damned chance, but enough of an excuse-maybe) but at least he'd finally get to taste her. So he's going to do it. He's going to royally fuck himself over.
"Quick, give me a kiss."
When her lips meet his, his heart is singing wildly, and he loses all concept of dream, reality, nightmare, thought, breath, time, movement, everything. All he can think is 'Ariadne, Ariadne, Ariadne'.
Ariadne.
- x -
"Ariadne."
Technically, they're not supposed to talk to the team - so that Robert Fischer doesn't suspect anything, doesn't piece together images, faces from his dream and pin them on their real-life counterparts. But he needs her. He's willing to throw years of habit to the wind and take a wild, frantic chance.
He had two choices.
One; whisper in passing. Make a show of collecting his bag next to hers and murmuring low under his breath so that no-one would notice. Through that, just quietly, he could let her know that he's not abandoning her. Because she wasn't even going to be here, but then Cobb had said to Saito 'get us another seat on the plane' and all his plans went up in smoke. So yes, gentle murmurs and a casual stranger's distance. Robert's subconscious mind would most likely treat it as a coincidence. Safe enough.
(Keep her safe.)
Two; (and this one he's planned the most astutely) he would stride towards her with purpose, place his hand on the small of her back, lower his lips and brush them across her cheek before allowing his arm to wrap securely around her waist. She'd blush, for sure, which would add to the sincerity of the scene. Whispering in her ear would be less easy to overhear and far more intimate.
Also far easier for Fischer to pick up on. So although he longed for the second option, to hold her tight against him and play pretend in this, in reality, he held back. Because he's the Point Man, and decisions are always difficult, but he can make them.
So he'd whispered her name. She hadn't reacted but for the slight freeze in her movement. He praised her silently, knowing that he'd done this, he'd taught her this precaution. He sees her reaching for her bag and slips a piece of paper into the pocket when he knows she's looking.
(It has his room number on it; and instructions on how to get to the Crowne Plaza Hotel.)
He knows she'll come. She wants answers. He knows she'll come.
- x -
There's a full glass of red wine in his left hand and in his right, the die.
He lost count of how many times he saw 'two' at somewhere around three-hundred and sixty. The liquor hasn't touched his lips. And the worst part, the worst part is that he's not unsure, not at all. This is reality, and it's a cold, cruel bitch.
The die is still rolling. The clock keeps on ticking.
Arthur can't fight the seething, sick feeling in his stomach. His suit is wrinkled. He's pulled at the (black) tie when the solitude started choking him. He rolls the die.
It's the only way he holds onto those moments; the fading dream, the sweet caress of her stolen kiss.
Because she didn't. She didn't come. She hasn't, and she won't.
Cobb is probably back with his children. Eames is probably sleeping next to some painted blonde. Yusuf is somewhere, tinkering with his chemicals. Saito will be celebrating. Fischer could even now be dismantling everything his father worked towards. And Ariadne...
She didn't come.
He drains the glass in three large gulps. The harsh sting of alcohol numbs that shocking sensation (not pain, it couldn't possibly be pain) for just a moment.
It's not until the sun begins to peek over the far horizon, bleeding into the sky with crimson and violet hues, that he stops waiting for her. The blanket on the world is burning, burning, burning. And he's still thinking of her. Her strength, her resolve, and why she didn't come.
(She doesn't need him.)
He falls asleep in the chair, facing the doorway. The empty glass slips from his fingers. His eyelids droop, he doesn't care about the suit, he only cares about her.
He knows with absolute certainty that it's not chance, it's not coincidence, it's not nothing - he started dreaming again (really dreaming, not the drug-induced stupor that he lives in, not his job, these are real dreams; a paradox he revels in) because of her. He dreams again because she's in his dreams. She keeps him dreaming. She keeps him waiting.
And then just as he drifts into that no-longer-dreamless sleep, the name falls from his lips. Easy as breathing.
"Ariadne."
A/N: I hope you liked that. So the credit underneath Arthur's name is from the song Dream Lover by Luther Vandross. I'm really very excited for this, I'm eager to show you all how we got from Inception to my story Bedroom Hymns. May I also say I am in love with this pairing? I'm really sorry about the lack of dialogue and interaction within this chapter. It's really just getting started - I needed a spring board for the start of the story, and I thought, hey, why not from the end of the movie? Be really clever with the timing. I also apologize because I feel Arthur was a little out of character. I justify this by saying that he's clearly a very guarded character, so anything could be happening in his head. This is what I got out of it.
Yes. Anyway, please do review. Because that really gets me going and then I'll be writing faster and you'll be reading more! On a side note, is anyone else excited for JGL in the new Batman movie? Gary Oldman said on record that it's hard to work with Joseph because he's so good at acting that you kind of get lost! I'll bet; he's absolutely spectacular.
On a further note (yes, I have lots of these, sorry). I would really love a Beta for this story. Someone that I can send almost-finished chapters to so they can check for errors and also let me know how to make the story better, whether to include something or remove something, things like that. Let me know if you're interested, okay?
One more, sorry; I really love Sherlock Holmes. Like, really. I watched it again yesterday and I was so inspired by Robert Downey Jr.'s performance and the chemistry between him and Rachel. Are any of you guys fans of Sherlock? I'm thinking of doing some writing in that fandom (guilty as charged). I'd like to know if there'd be people interested in that. It'll probably start off as a one-shot, like Bedroom Hymns, but then I'd get to maybe writing a story. Sort of like how this happened. Yeah. Thanks again, guys!
Wow. This was a really long Author's note. I feel like I've written more than in the chapter just on letting you guys know things. Yikes. Does anyone actually read this junk?
Reviewing makes dark writers happy to do more dark writing.