ollo, readers. this is my first venture into 'inception' fic, so hopefully it's not completely dismal. after watching the film half a dozen times, I was intrigued by the connections of ariadne to her mythological counterpart, and I decided to write a pointless little oneshot revolving around the color red.
anyway, here's hoping it came out as well as I imagined!
disclaimer: the author owns nothing that the reader recognizes, film and lyrics alike.
enjoy!
x
-x-
buildings & mountains
have you watched the cities move
does nature fall before this age of industry
for today i'll let it go
you've been good to me,
have i been good to you?
-x-
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She wakes with a start; gasping for breath and clutching at her stomach. Her mind reels. Drawing her hand away, she expects her palm to be stained red, bloodied, but the skin is clean. The wound is only a dream. His hand slips to her arm, gentle but always efficient, sliding the needle away before she can rip it out herself. But she doesn't relax and she doesn't stay long at the workshop. She gathers her coat and her thoughts and stomps away. She'll be back, Dom promises, she'll be back because she's the best there is. He nods and puts the PASIV away. He trusts Dom, he does.
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He reaches for his totem and rolls the die.
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She comes back, a small, guilty smile on her lips. Pure creation, she breathes, twisting her fingers around her scarf. She spends hours at her work table, sketching and imagining. He knows she can't even begin to fathom what this job will do to her, but he doesn't say a word because she's fairly pulsing with energy, with vibrancy. It's contagious. And there always seems to be graphite on her fingertips. When she brushes her hair out of her eyes, she smudges soft grey clouds across her cheeks. If he were sure of what he wanted, he'd run a thumb along those marks, watching the red blush bloom beneath her skin. He's in half in love with her, probably.
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He knows he'll get over it.
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There are a number of things that make working in the Parisian warehouse difficult. It's nearly November and it's chilly, terribly drafty inside; the countless windows that bring in muted light also sap away the heat. It's distracting. And Eames is awfully troublesome on his good days. Eames teases because he's got the worst secrets, or so he feels. Perpetually smug, he flirts his way into their good graces, and cracks jokes to earn her laughter. He scowls. She smiles too, always, with her red sweater and wide eyes and his tie feels suddenly too tight.
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He worries that he'll start to crave the sensation.
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They practice; hook themselves up to the PASIV for minutes at a time, because when they close their eyes the minutes become hours and the dreaming becomes actual work. She concentrates, shapes cities and buildings and mountains; a maze carved from stone and steel and red clay. She's endlessly inspired and willing to learn everything she can from him, soaking up each of his words like he's some sort of great prophet. She picks up on the things he likes—clean lines and angles and points—and softens them, makes them her own. She grins at her work. He avoids her gaze.
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He is in very serious danger of risking everything.
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Eames is crass when he slaps his back and muses about the Extractor and the Architect. They're dreaming. Look how blindly she follows him around, The Forger laughs, She's quite besotted, isn't she? He sees red. There's a gun in his hand and a muscle tensed in his jaw immediately after, and the Forger's half-hearted apologies do little to placate him, though he does lower his weapon. The inception job is happening soon, he can feel it. The confidence that he normally has is replaced by an unfamiliar emotion, one he dare not try and name. She turns and examines her work, a sumptuous hotel room bathed in golden light.
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He's on edge and he fears he's forgotten something.
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Dom is the one person who really knows him, knows his last name and his hometown and the reason his totem is a shiny red die. And because Dom is his friend he doesn't pry, not even when the desire to slip into his dreams is overwhelming. Mal is becoming more and more of a problem, but he trusts Dom. He watches from the corner of the warehouse as she, heedlessly, recklessly, sinks the needle into her wrist and steals away with Dom. The job is starting. She's asleep and she's luminous.
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He doesn't know where they go.
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They're unprepared for Fischer. Dom yells loudly, radiating fury as red seeps through the crisp white of Saito's shirt. His hands shake—they never shake. The rain dampens their memorized plans—there's too many distractions now; a wounded tourist, a militarized mark, a slip of an architect. She's not supposed to be there, his mind won't let him forget. The threat of Limbo hangs heavy over them, and the panic that floods his veins isn't for him—it's for her. The adrenaline kicks in.
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He steadies his hands and slides the lead into her arm.
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The hotel is a welcome sight. She fidgets at his side, poorly feigning nonchalance as the projections steal glances. She was never meant to dream with them here, and she is out of place. Her clothes are modest, they border on unflattering and her hair style ages her considerably. But he dreams her like this so he can see the bare arch of her neck. He doesn't know why, although he really does, and he kisses that full red mouth of hers too, for good measure. Her eyes widen.
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He hides his smile and leads her away.
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Eames is to dream next. She's going with them, reclining stiffly in a chair by the bed. He's not going to be there with them, with her, in the next level, and he can't shake the viselike feeling beneath his ribs. But there's no time to spare for anymore lingering moments, the red second hand on his watch ticks away. They dream; and when gravity fails, he protects them viciously. Because if any of them falls into Limbo, if she falls into Limbo, the guilt will consume him.
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He clasps her knee gently, leading them towards the kick.
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The next minute they're half-drowning. Dom is still secured in his seat, as is Saito, and he wants to sink to the bottom and join them as penance. She rips the lead from her wrist and swims upwards, urging him to follow. His lungs burn. The rocks are dark, slippery, and he joins her on the shore. Her cuff is stained with a few coppery drops of red, where she had desperately removed the IV. He couldn't protect her there, at the bottom of the river, and certainly not when she fell into Limbo. Yet her unshakable confidence soothes him, eases some of his worry.
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He still knows that this can't go on.
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When they wake, they are greeted by the roar of plane engines and harsh sunlight. His face is neutral and his fingers are locked tightly around the die in his pocket. Dom stirs, then snaps his eyes wide open and stares. Saito makes a quiet call, done. The mark's eyes are red with emotion, done. A sigh reaches his ears. She shifts gently in front of him, limbs loose and gaze distant. There are words on his tongue, but they are strangers here. No contact for three months if all goes well. Sixth months if it doesn't. The idea has to take.
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He doesn't know what they'll do if it doesn't.
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He knows what hotel she's staying at because he was the one who booked it; eighth floor, corner suite. He knocks on the door, knowing she might not answer. This visit was not a part of the plan, and he patiently waits to see if she'll open the door. She does. She looks so small, her eyes faraway as she ushers him in. The room is dark, red curtains drawn closed against the light. Before any words can leave his lips, she loosely wraps her arms around his waist and rests her forehead on his chest. The silence is heavy. It was horrible, she finally whispers, and so very beautiful. The idea of Limbo makes his whole body tense, and he clasps her close.
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He fears that he would blindly follow her down there.
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A flight is booked for Paris. She's still a student; no amount of Saito's money changes that. Working with them has gotten her behind in her studies, and she can't afford to fall behind anymore than she already has. They take a taxi to the airport. One of her hands clutches her totem, the other is held in his own. The red leather suitcase at her feet is half filled and more of a prop than anything else. The closer they get to LAX, the tighter she grips his fingers. Three weeks, he promises, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, I'll be in Paris in three weeks. She kisses him, urgently, and exits the taxi without another word.
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He doesn't know why she makes him break all his rules.
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so yeah, there's that. review, dear readers, and let me know what you think!
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