Disclaimer: I have no claim on Inception, lovely thing that it is.
With a flick of a switch, the record started spinning. Ariadne carefully lowered the stylus onto the edge of the disc. For what wasn't the first time, she considered that if she had known about the utterly phenomenal collection of records he had stashed in climate-controlled storage when they first met, no power on Earth could have kept her from going after the man. She certainly wouldn't have waited months. She eyed both record and stylus carefully as she gently touched one to the other and reflected, also not for the first time, that, professions of love aside, her life would be forfeit should harm come to any of these albums. The risk was worth it, though, and Paul McCartney's voice came through the speakers, also vintage, clear and a little rough, singing about a blackbird. It was her favourite album to work to, though it had belonged to Arthur's father before him, and was the prize of the lot.
"Alright, Crash," Ariadne declared, turning to address the cat that was sitting on the sofa in her office regarding her quizzically, "It's time to make some mazes." Crash, fully living up to his name, responded by attempting to walk gracefully over to her and tipping himself off the couch.
("It's like he's got a permanent inner-ear infection," had been Arthur's initial observation of the feline. "Your cat's a bloody drunk!" had been Eames'. Cobb's daughter Phillipa had called him "The crashiest cat I've ever seen," and the title had stuck.)
"That's okay, dear," Ariadne consoled her companion, who had flopped over on his back and was currently squirming around on the ground, "You'll be much happier down there, anyway." With a contented little hum, she lifted her favourite mechanical pencil, regarded the challenge presented by the expanse of white paper before her, and set to work, unfortunate cat forgotten.
When Arthur returned home, he found them thus, record finished but still spinning, girlfriend utterly absorbed in lines on a page, and cat splayed with absolutely no dignity on the rug. He turned the record over and replaced the stylus, but otherwise did not disturb the scene that had come to mean "home" to him, more than anything ever had before. The cat trailed him from the room, ever hopeful that food would be forthcoming, rapped his head on the doorframe, and promptly forgot he'd been going anywhere at all.
An hour later, rumbling stomachs and the wafting smell of something delicious roused both girl and cat. Ariadne sat back in her chair, surveying the afternoon's work with satisfaction, before switching off her desk lamp and heading for the kitchen. She scooped up Crash as she went, saving him the ordeal of actually having to navigate the flat.
It was a masterpiece of pre-war architecture, their flat was, and Arthur and Ariadne both adored it. They had decided about a year ago that, while living out of hotel rooms might make sense in their line of work, it was far from satisfying. Ariadne, especially, wanted a home base, so they sat down with an atlas in a bookstore in Hong Kong and considered their options.
Ariadne had grown up in Maine, but had been an orphan in the foster system from the age of 12 on. She'd been lucky to have only been bounced through three homes in her six years in the system, but had remained close with none of the families. She vaguely remembered having cousins somewhere in Canada, but they had never gotten in touch with her after her parents' deaths, and she didn't have a clue how to go about getting in contact with them. Arthur had offered to try once, but she'd turned him down. Perhaps someday down the line, but why reach out to family when you'd never have time to visit?
Arthur's parents had been older when he was born, and his father had passed away while he was still in high school. His mother had developed Alzheimer's a year or so afterwards, and had spent her remaining years in a home in Tucson. They had corresponded for as long as she was able, but soon even that was gone. She had died during Arthur's first tour of duty. He, too, had scattered distant cousins, but they'd never been close. Dom Cobb was the closest thing to family Arthur had had for a long time.
Since Dom brought the children to France every summer to spend time with their grandparents in the home Mal had grown up in on the outskirts of Paris, and since Paris had been the only home Ariadne had known for nearly a quarter of her life, it was decided that they would settle there. That they had stumbled across a magnificently well-preserved building in the Art Deco style had simply sealed the deal. The architecture perfectly framed the combination of Arthur's preferred modern style with Ariadne's more eclectic collection of antiques and flea market finds. The sweet, stupid kitten Arthur had found in the building's trash bin was just the cherry on top of a situation neither her nor Ariadne had ever actually expected to find themselves in.
Also unexpected had been the discovery of Arthur's culinary talents. He was a surprisingly creative chef, and excelled at cuisine that required immense skill. Ariadne had yet to eat a soufflé in a restaurant that could rival one whipped up in their own oven. Since Ariadne enjoyed eating but frequently let the necessity of doing so slip her mind in lieu of other projects, the arrangement worked heavily in her favor.
She wandered into the kitchen with Crash hooked under her arm, both sniffing the air appreciatively. "What's cooking?"
"Cat gets fish."
With a happy gasp, as she did every night, Ariadne whipped the cat out from under her arm and held him up so she could beam at his face. "Crash! You get fish!" As he did every night, Crash rolled his eyes in ecstasy and happily stuffed his face in the dish as soon as he was placed in front of it.
Cat thus disposed of, Ariadne surveyed her personal chef. He wore no apron or hat, and rather looked as if he'd just wandered in after a long board meeting. His pants were perfectly tailored and pressed, the points of his collar starched and smooth, buttoned to the top under the subdued blue tie and beige cashmere sweater. The only thing un-Arthur about the whole ensemble was his stocking-feet, which Ariadne insisted on to preserve the flat's hardwood floors. It might have seemed to some far too formal for throwing together dinner, but Ariadne loved it. The more put-together he was, the more fun he was to muss. And besides, he was making her something in a puff pastry. What woman alive would complain in the face of that?
She slid on her own stocking-feet up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist.
He didn't pause in his preparations. "Hi, there."
"I love you something fierce, you know," she mumbled into his back.
"You're just saying that because I'm making phyllo."
"Possibly. But that doesn't make it any less true." She scooted around his left side so she could lean forward under his arm without being too much in his way. He took her less than subtle hint and paused to bend down and kiss her. There were definite advantages to being petite in a relationship with this man. She unwound her arms and boosted herself up on the counter about a foot away, which was the perfect distance for both observing him work and stealing bites of dough. "How was your day?"
"Not terribly productive, I'm afraid." While they had no active jobs currently, Arthur was often contracted by other extractors and even legitimate businessmen to do research from afar. His abilities were both terrifying and renowned.
She frowned as she thought. "Was this one of Saito's jobs?"
He made a sound of assent. "Fortunately not a pressing one." Saito had developed a habit of passing Arthur long lists of "things to keep your ears open for" which had no real deadline. Arthur liked to tackle them in his downtime. Ariadne had realized long ago that Arthur wasn't terribly good at "downtime." Unless she was involved, of course. Then, he was very, very good. Lost in happy memories, she missed Arthur's next comment.
"What was that?"
"Pleasant thoughts?"
"Very." She grinned. "Did you ask me something?"
"Just if you'd made any progress while abusing my father's records this afternoon."
She let the record comment slide, as he'd expected her to. "Yes, actually. I had a breakthrough on one of the mazes Eames asked me to tackle. I was having some trouble incorporating all of the elements he insisted were necessary without the whole thing feeling clunky and obvious."
"But you figured it out?"
"I did! I even came up with several options for him to choose from if he doesn't like the first. Once I got going, it was like everything else figured itself out."
He turned away from his dough long enough to lay a sweet kiss on her. "Genius," he murmured against her mouth.
"Mmmmm," she agreed, "You know it."
He turned away so he could slide the phyllo in the oven.
"There's a big floury handprint on my favourite sweater, isn't there," she asked without looking down.
"Yup," he replied, without looking back.
"Damnit," she sighed. Crash chose that moment to finish his fish, and voiced his agreement with Ariadne's sentiment by toppling off the counter. Ariadne scooped him up on her way to the bedroom to change. He'd be safer in there than underfoot in the kitchen. Still, laundry aside, she thought dinner might be her favourite part of their Paris days.