The Way Down
Disclaimer: The writer does not own nor is affiliated with Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Ellen Page, Tom Hardy, the characters they portray, or Inception.
You wake up at 4am.
He's sitting in his leather armchair, the faint glow from a cigarette dancing off his lips. There's the faint smell of ash in the air, and flashes of lightning streak their way across the floor, lighting up his dark features. Rain beats heavily against the glass windows, and you shift uneasily – in his bed, you have come to realize. He's up in a second, his crisp white dress shirt almost luminescent in the darkness. "You okay?" He asks, and for some reason, the only thing you can remember is the last time you were in this room, in this bed, with him.
He walks silently across the carpeted-floor, and brushes his hand gently across your face. Pain. You pull away instinctively, and he looks immediately apologetic. "That bad, huh?" You almost speak, but he cuts you off by clicking on the bedside lamp. Yellow light spills into the room, and he sits down next to you. You feel as if there is something you should remember. Why are you with him? (You're not complaining, but there's still something disconcerting about it.) Where exactly are you? How did you get here? Your fingers grope into your pocket, and you tip your bishop. It falls. You sigh and your head falls back against the mahogany headboard.
"Arthur" you try to say, but all that comes out is a croak. He reaches towards the nightstand, and presses a cold glass against your lips.
"Drink." He says.
"Arthur." You attempt to speak again and when he gives you a sympathetic glance and outstretched arms – a generous gesture on his part- , you simply fall into his embrace, burying your face in his shirt, breathing in deep his distinctly Arthur smell, letting yourself cry on his neck as he gently brings his hands to stroke your back. It strikes you that you don't even know why you're crying.
"It's going to be all right. I promise."
"You promise?" You sound incredibly child-like and feel even younger than you are as you hold on to him, but he's strong and he's here, and he's Arthur, and for some reason, you feel that he can protect you from whatever has got you so upset. (What, exactly?) You rack the recesses of your mind but nothing seems to work.
"I promise." His breath is on your neck, and you feel something burn it's way up your spine. "I – I won't let him hurt you Ariadne, not again."
And then everything comes back to you.
"Who is that guy anyway?" It's the first thing he says when you enter the small apartment. He's sitting at the bar, elbows rested on the tabletop, and you see something in his eyes that is anything but loving.
"Oh God." You bury your face in your hands. "Oh God, Oh God. Not again. Oh please, not again, fuckin' hell." Your words run into each other, and all of a sudden, you're this messy, quivering heap.
"What is this about now?" You're tired, and you're sick and the last thing you want to hear after a long day at the university is your husband accusing you of being unfaithful. Again.
"Just you know…" He trails off, standing up slowly. "I've got reason to believe you're fucking someone behind my back." He reeks of the horrid smell of alcohol that you have come to hate, and you step back every time he moves forward.
"Tell me nothing happened, Arthur. Tell me!" you're teetering on the fine line of hysteria and disbelief and he just takes you in his arms, and presses his lips ever so tentatively against your forehead. "You know I wouldn't lie to you. You know that."
That's the furthest he'll get to telling you the cold hard truth, and you look up into his beautiful brown eyes with glistening eyelashes and for some reason or another, you kiss him.
It's soft and it's tender, and it leaves you wanting more, but he pulls away (reluctantly, you'd like to think.) and places a hand on you, tracing out the bruises under your eyes and over your neck. "This isn't the right time, Ari."
"You don't want it?" You reply, bringing him up to your level, noticing for the first time his darkened eyes.
He brings his mouth over yours quickly, and his voice is suddenly rough in your ear. "You can't imagine."
"Then, Arthur, you should know what to do." You try to make contact, but he pulls away.
"Not now. This'll be the first place he'll come looking for you."
"What do you think you're doing? Get your filthy fucking hands off me." He's got a grip on you and you're getting more and more afraid.
"D'you think that I would let you fuck another bloke and not get just a wee bit mad, sweetheart?" He smiles. And then he hits you.
You spring from the bed, your hands rushing to your hair self-consciously. Black and blue patches over you scream for rest, scream for the comfort of newly-pressed duvets and Arthur's hands. But you stagger to his bathroom, close the door tight, and lean your hot, aching forehead against the mirror. "Tell me this isn't happening." You talk to yourself, ignoring the distinctive sound of movement somewhere in the bedroom.
"I'd like to see you get up." He's sneering and you just spit at his feet, and then bite your lip so you don't scream.
You won't give him that satisfaction, at least.
Arthur raps on the door lightly. "Ari, let me in." You dip your hands under the running water of the tap and then wipe your face over before clicking the lock open. He walks in with a small bag and his leather wallet, places one in each of your hands, and then wraps you into a tight hug. "I need you to run. Go as far away as you can. Take the money. There's over eight thousand dollars in cash. Split your money, don't use credit cards, and if you ever think that anyone is following you, disappear."
You nod, try to process everything at once. "He won't find me."
"Don't underestimate him, Ariadne. He's a dangerous man and much more intelligent that most people imagine. You of all people should know that." You realize you're still pulled to his chest, and make no attempt to push him away; choosing to savor what may be one of your last times with him for a long while.
"I know." You laugh bitterly. "I know better than anyone."
"Go." Arthur pulls open the front door and the dingy lighting of the hallway streams into his apartment. His hand lingers on the handle, and you can sense that he's struggling with that internal self-conflict he often has – that desire of his to control everything and everyone around him. If there's anything you know about Arthur, you know he hates being out of control.
"I'd love to see you try and get away again." He helps you to your feet – the sick, sick, bastard. And then he steps back and reaches for another shot of whiskey.
You reach your hand out for a handshake, he takes it, but then pulls you forward; his lips are now on yours. "Tell me," he murmurs against your mouth. "Was he ever as good as me?"
You look at him hard in the eye. "Never." And then his hands are on your waist, and your hands are in his hair, and it's everything you remember. But he drags away eventually, runs a hand through his messy – not slicked back for once- brown locks, and then pulls a coat over you. "It's yours. You left it here, uh, the last time."
You take it from him, divulge on last kiss, and then leave, head casting one last look at his door.
You stumble away, reach for the door knob. He laughs.
"Go on. Leave. I know you won't dare stay away for long."
"Just watch me, Eames, just watch me." And then you run.
A/N:
I started writing this with the outlook that I would just throw some meaningless but necessary fluff onto a word document and upload it for sake of curing this writers block that has come upon me. Guess what? Angst overtook.
Completely unedited, a one-shot piece of writing. Excuse bad grammar/continuity. I promise better work will come soon.