Ariadne is collecting her things and stretching, with all the appropriate yawning and unknotting of stiff muscles, after a long day spent working on the city-maze intended for the mark. She's been gluing and drilling and constructing the white-washed wooden models nonstop since she arrived at the warehouse this morning, and she feels appropriately accomplished but tired - it's been dark outside for several hours. The alarm clock (an ironic object, considering its setting: they've never used it for its intended purpose) sitting on her work table claims that the time is nearing midnight.
Tonight she's the last one to leave, which is unusual - Cobb's not running any experiments, Yusuf has finished tinkering with his chemicals, and Arthur seems inclined to finally take a break from collecting and ordering all the information they have on Fischer. Eames is gone, too; he'd been the last to leave, a packet of papers from Arthur tucked under his arm. Ariadne supposes that he intends to finish his psychoanalysis of the man somewhere a bit more pleasant than a chilled building with a concrete floor and little in the way of comforts.
Having put away her tools into an immaculate little box that looks out of place amidst her chaotic mess of materials, she pulls on her burgundy coat and heads for the warehouse door. Her mind has already turned to what she'd like to do once she gets back to her dorm - take a shower, for one. She's been so deep into her task ever since they'd begun that she hasn't had one in days, and she's certain that she looks absolutely horrific. The weather had been growing gradually colder, too, and, having sat since breakfast on a rough wire chair, the thought of hot water is bliss.
She's reaching for the keys hanging off a small peg by the door, knowing better than to leave without locking up their workplace, when she spots something squarish and small lying on the table where Cobb usually throws his coat. It must have fallen out of one of the pockets, she decides - and despite her desire to go home, unwind, and do something entirely unrelated to this maniacal conspiracy, her curiosity gets the better of her and she's drawn to go look at the thing. The warehouse keys are left on the hook, untouched.
To her surprise, she finds that it's a faded photograph, not so much due to age as to apparent overuse: it's especially pale towards the bottom left corner, the edge by which it must have been held multiple times. She picks it up and looks down at it, and for a moment she doesn't recognize the two figures smiling up at her - mainly because of the very expressions.
It's Cobb and Mal, certainly, but she's never seen either of them look the way they do in the photograph - so . . . relaxed, so happy. From the vestiges of scenery visible behind them, it looks like they're standing somewhere near the École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts university campus: Ariadne guesses this must have been taken shortly after they met. Mal is vibrant, lively, nothing like the shade that eternally stalks Cobb in any dream he enters. Ariadne is used to Mal's projection being full of silent rage, bearing a dark aura and giving looks of such pure hatred that they could kill (and occasionally carrying a blade that could do so rather more painfully, as Ariadne has had occasion to discover.) In this picture, though, she's smiling brilliantly, genuinely, probably because Cobb has his arms around her and is delivering a kiss into her hair even as they pose for the camera. She really is lovely; Arthur hadn't been lying when he'd said so.
And Cobb . . . to Ariadne, he seems even more abnormal than Mal, even though she's the one that's driven a kitchen knife through Ariadne's stomach. She can't see him smiling, because the lower half of his face is hidden by Mal's brown hair, but the look in his eyes gives it away, because they're bright and sincere and everything they no longer seem capable of being. The Cobb Ariadne meets every day at work is closed, tinged with desperation and perpetually haunted, like there's a ghost hanging over his shoulder (which, to some extent, there is.) He's broken, managing to remain in one piece only due to sheer willpower and his drive to get back to his children. Any time he smiles, though that's rare enough in itself, the expression doesn't quite reach his eyes, finding itself stopped short by a steely bitterness that he tries so hard to hide. In this photograph . . . for several seconds, Ariadne can't think of a word to accurately describe him, but then it pops into her mind: he looks in love, so caught up in being together with Mal that nothing could possibly darken his universe.
It's a strange glance into his 'past life' - she can't help but think of it as such - and it breaks Ariadne's heart to see them that way, even as it warms her up inside because of how hopelessly sweet it is. It's so unlike both of them now, and she can't help but feel achingly sorry for both of them, for having had so much happiness and then having it torn away. It almost feels wrong for her to be looking at the photograph, because it's clearly one of Cobb's most precious possessions, and she sets it back down on the table for him to find it when he returns tomorrow morning.
It occurs to her that the little photograph exposes a strikingly human side of Cobb, and she decides to hold onto that as she steps belatedly out into the cloudy night to lock the door. He's just like the rest of them, scrambling to grasp something, anything, that'll make life bearable again. It's a good thought to keep close; that he's not any different from any other person on the planet, despite everything that he's been through (which is too much for one man, and Ariadne has only heard but the short version of what he's dealing with.)
She collects her bike from the lockup a few meters away from the door, the vehicle's metallic components glinting in the yellow light of the lamppost beside it, and she hopes, vehemently, that he'll manage to find happiness as pure as he once had again - even if he's almost ceased believing in that possibility himself.