A/N: So, here we go again! Another story! I'm excited for this one. Hope you enjoy!
Oh, and just a side note: Yes, I have changed my name. I was previously Jazzy'sgirl1121008. I never really liked it; Scratch that, I hated it. Too many numbers, too tacky. So I'm now HalfwayFlawless :)
Disclaimer: Don't own Inception. Although I'm putting a team together to incept Mr. Nolan to convince him to give it to me. I'm looking for a forger and architect. Lemme know if you're interested, but be warned that it is a very dangerous job, since the subject is highly trained. ;)
"You wouldn't happen to need an architect, would you?"
"I do."
She says it without missing a beat. "Could I be that architect?"
One year ago
More than anything, she doesn't want to wind up like Cobb, steadily regretting the stupid moment she chose to walk away. She knows that much to be true.
A female voice announces the final boarding call for a flight to Kansas City overhead.
I can't just leave, she thinks, while the vexation of being violently caught up between two verdicts sweeps under her heart and she grips the black plastic of her suitcase handle. She does her honest best to blend in naturally among the crowd of travelers. But that's easier said than done when her brown eyes are glued to the back of his abusedly-ironed suit. She can't see his face from this angle. How fitting, she thinks. Another parallel to Cobb.
The luggage circulates around and around on the carousel.
It's ridiculous how immaculately he's dressed after the stress of their ten hour plane ride. But that's Arthur and she wouldn't have him dress any other way. If she had a say in what he wore, that is. Something tugs at her with a badgering intent, and for some strange, unknown reason, she wishes she did. She doesn't bother with the Why? that forms in her head.
A woman with dark sunglasses and shoes that shouldn't be worn in an airport walks by, jabbering into her phone.
She grimaces internally at the frustration that courses through her. It shouldn't have to be this hard. It should be a fast, easy choice that's barely thought about. A snap of her fingers. A blink of an eye. That's how it would be for a smart person. She's a smart person who should be able to keep walking without dealing with this sentimental mind set.
It shouldn't be this damn hard.
She stands with her feet stubbornly planted on the ground, now soberly facing the sliding glass doors that she need only step through to continue pressing forward back into her mediocre, run-of-the-mill life. It would leave her hanging on a cliff, with questions of what could've been waiting at the bottom. What if she turned around and insistently poked at her almost-there relation to the point man just once more?
Of course she wonders. She wouldn't be Ariadne if she didn't.
After all they've been through together, all the unforgettable dreams and absurd paradoxes and sanity-threatening situations, didn't it put them the slightest bit closer than mere strangers? Couldn't they be more? Oh, the things they could do together if they combined their talents. She didn't see anything wrong with it. But who the heck cared if he didn't feel the same?
Two men in pilot's uniforms stroll by, smiling and making conversational hand gestures.
Through the shiny reflection that the doors provide for her, she can see him tug a brown suitcase, almost the same size as her own, off the baggage claim and onto one of those smart cart things. It might contain a PASIV or two, but she'd never know for sure. Those magical briefcases were an obvious gift from the gods. She knows he knows she's here and that fact alone tantalizes her to the bone.
He's the sole reason she's still lingering in the airport. All the others had already left and there was hardly any hope of tracking them down now. If he weren't here, she'd already be gone with a one-way ticket back to Paris clutched in her left hand. He was all she was waiting for now. He didn't even know it.
She could march out the door with her dignity still intact, and leave it all behind. But then, of course, she would end up like Cobb, always regretting this one moment. Well, not exactly like Cobb. He got a second chance. She'd never have another shot like this. This was the last shot of them all.
Or she could go back over to the baggage claim and say a good-bye of sorts. Just in case she never saw him again.
Stay or go?
She knows that once she walks out that door, she walks out on them and their lives. There is no guarantee she would ever see any of them again. The stubborn back of her mind tells her she won't. She's her, a college student with a bit more talent than the usual, and they're them, incredibly intelligent criminals with places to be and information to extract. They might need me, she thought, as an architect. Just maybe, but she knows the thought is desperate.
Somewhere to her right, a blender turns on in the coffee shop that is currently swamped with passengers recently de-boarded from airplanes.
She wants to say something, or maybe just acknowledge his presence with a subtle nod at the bare minimum. The impulse is fixed in her and doesn't budge. But it's just her luck that that choice would make the battle back into normal life more uphill than preferable. A bit more ammunition would be required. She wonders if a full recovery were even possible, now that she'd passed the point of no return. That choice takes away the oh-so-precious luxury of a clean break.
The glass doors slide open, allowing a fresh breath of wind to enter the building. It's warm and floats around her face for a few seconds.
Her gut tells her that there was no such thing as a clean break here; the memories would haunt her no matter the state of the relationships, so she might as well.
Her gut also tells her it was now or never, so she better start putting one foot in front of the other.
Rolling her suitcase behind her, with a death grip on the handle, she turns on her heel and marches in his direction, each step telling her there will be a price for this later.
But she knows she needs to do it. Just in case.
Just as he's turning away from the baggage claim, she taps his shoulder.
"Arthur."
He's now fully facing her, with an inquiring expression she instantly recognizes. It's the same arrangement of his features that she saw when she returned to the warehouse, the day after rashly storming out. His eyes are alight, a small smile plays slyly on the corners of his mouth, and the characteristic lines on his forehead become slightly more prominent. It said that he knew what she wanted, but still invited her to voice herself.
She wishes she had photographic memory for the umpteenth time in her life, and lets go of her suitcase to let her arms hang limply but casually at her sides.
She opens her mouth, which has rid itself of any moisture and now has cotton clinging to the top. Unconcerned, she looks him straight in the eye, soft edges and all.
She half-shrugs, as she would to an old friend, and looks up with a lit expression. "I just wanted to say…"
The tragic excuse for a smile on his face becomes a smirk.
What does she want to say? How is it possible to sum up all the words she wants to say to encompass the whole of her emotions?
Behind him, she can see a plethora of matching colored T-shirts milling in a group, hastily taking role by calling out numbers.
She settles for three words, which seems to be enough for now. "Thanks. For everything."
The smirk fledges into a soft smile that gives oxygen to the small flame of hope that she's carefuly, foolishly nursing.
He nods in an equally friendly manner. "Anytime."
She gives a one-breathed laugh and grasps her suitcase with a warm smile on her lips. Reaching up on her toes, the smile lightly brushes his cheek and she glimpses an image of a serene, closed-eyed Arthur. He looks like he's sleeping, dreaming. How perfect, she thinks, as she takes her first steps away from him.
"Wait." The word is a regularly-sharpened knife; smooth but cuts through her all the same. She feels a hand on her shoulder, beckoning her to turn back around. She tells herself to make a one-eighty, but since her muscles seem to have frozen up, the hand does it for her.
His eyes are open again, a kindness emanating from them, and she has the telling feeling that they see right through her. They're such a nice brown, she muses quietly to herself.
"Thank you," he says and something akin to joy flits through her veins. "For everything."
She nods, and feels her mouth stretch into a smile, soothing away all the doubt that's worked its way under her skin. "Anytime."
What now?
The craving for pure creation, of course. Exactly as forecasted, the return back to cold, hard reality is a struggle.
Now is the return to classes filled with pictures, not visions, of solid, real buildings. Too solid for her taste. She finds herself bored a lot. Although Cobb had practically given her everything, in effect, he'd taken everything away. That doesn't make her think any less of him.
She used to sit here and work towards what all the greats achieved before her did. But now, she kind of has, and a good six hours of sleep is at the top of her demands list. Besides, sleep means dreaming. And is reality ever actually better than dreams? She doesn't think so anymore.
She misses it. All of it.
Her golden bishop becomes an unnecessary and redundant reminder, pressing to her skin through her pocket. She keeps it close, but has only consulted it once since the rubber wheels of her plane skidded the Parisian runway. Still, it's always in her pocket, no matter how agitating it gets.
A small-talk conversation with Miles confirms her assumption that Cobb is now safe and sound and out of the game. It awards her a small amount of gratification. She adds up all the other things that would give her gratification, but can't attain.
She still hasn't gotten a decent amount of shut-eye. Not that she hasn't tried, because she has. But even the organic dreams don't help. She wakes up exhausted, more tired than she was before she fell asleep. She wishes she could explain it in some form of twisted logic. She's more a tourist in reality than anything, as if she's afraid she won't be able to fall back asleep.
Before she realizes it, she's asking questions. Of course she asks questions.
Where are they? What does their current workshop look like? Do they always have that 'thrown together' look?
Have they done a job since she last saw them? Who was their architect? Were they better than her?
What time is it where Eames or Arthur is? Noon? That early hour in the morning that gave everything the light touched a blue hue? Or are they, by chance, in her time zone?
Does Arthur think about her? Or is she another architect among many? Some other person who happened to cross his path momentarily, to whom he taught the ropes?
Does he even remember her? If so, how well? Which moments?
When would she see him again?
The clock reads seven-twenty-seven when she realizes it.
The epiphany comes to her, piece by piece. Something pricks around the edges of her eyes and a sad smile reaches her lips, but doesn't add to the light in her eyes. She's glad that she did it just in case.
It's been a year. An entire year since she told the point man 'anytime.' And she hasn't seen any of them since.
A year and one day later, she does see him. Exactly how she would expect to see him: asleep.
A/N: I know, it's not much yet. Just a set up. But I have a lot in store for the next chapter. There's a lot more where this came from. (That always seems to happen to me…) Review, review, review!...Pretty please?