Marks
Disclaimer: I do not own Inception
Note: Chapter Twenty is coming. Slowly. Hopefully this will serve to whet your appetite. Unrelated to (but sort of references) Cap, cause the time lines are way too different. It's almost before or almost after, but not quite.
i.
Ariadne has scars everywhere. Scars that have nothing to do with her new, dangerous employment, but scars have also been adding up at an alarming rate since that first puncture wound in her left arm. There's the scar on the back of her knee from snagging a branch while tree climbing in the third grade, and the row of four stitches curling up behind her right ear from falling out of that tree.
She supposes she's been preconditioned to hate falling. Ariadne can't even fathom the amount of times she's scabbed her hands and knees tripping on the sidewalk. Now, during extractions, every time Eames or Arthur kicks her out of a dream, her stomach continues to complain even after she's straightened up.
ii.
The architect has a birthmark on her neck; a tiny, triangular thing close to where her pulse beats steadily. A few inches lower there is a thin white scar from that time a target's girlfriend cornered her behind the hotel, screaming about an affair. After she's cleaned off the blood, Ariadne is reminded why she's never liked fake nails. And then she tells Arthur to stop ambushing these men in the hotels where they meet their mistresses.
The worst thing about that night was that the girlfriend had been right to suspect something.
"Is cheating like a requirement or something?"
This wasn't the first affair they'd so smoothly used as a way into a man's dreams, while the woman slept on in sleeping-pill-induced obliviousness. Arthur almost smiles, but if fades when he catches sight of the angry, red line disappearing behind her scarf. The architect curls her fingers over the spot self-consciously. "I'm fine. Really. It could be worse."
And because it's Arthur and pressing the subject would mean overstepping wordless boundaries and carefully detached feelings, (at least on her part) they don't talk about it anymore.
iii.
There's a permanent blister on her heel from all the god-awful "blending in" shoes that magically appear in her closet, in exactly her size.
"They don't make my ass look any smaller you know," she grumbles, limping on the way out of a posh nightclub. Eames claimed reconnaissance on the mark. Ariadne claimed scantily clad women. He laughs, uproarious and too loud in the stillness of the night. She winces and looks at Arthur, who just shakes his head. He shifts closer to her, loping an arm around her and letting her lean into him for the last three blocks home.
She's in too much pain to over-analyze.
iv.
When Ariadne was eleven, she'd been too impatient with a grilled cheese sandwich and tried to flip it in the pan without her mother's help. The resulting burn mars the inside of her wrist, smaller now than it was all those years ago. It's also unfortunately close to the vein.
Eames is recounting some harrowing extraction tale as the architect tries to cut cardboard with an exacto knife. Soon enough: "Shit!"
She drops everything with a yelp, remembering at the last second that waving her hand around will get blood all over her desk. The flash of pain is sharp and disorienting, so Ariadne is powerless in stopping Eames, who reaches out with lightening speed and grabs her hand. "It doesn't look too deep. You'll be fine."
She's about to speak, but words stick inside her throat at the sudden narrowing of the forger's eyes. The burn is stark against her pale skin. She hasn't thought about it in years. Trying to reclaim her limb fails; Eames's grip just tightens. "It's just a burn."
"A burn?" he echoes, and Ariadne wonders if he's trying at all to hide his obvious disbelief.
"From a frying pan. I was eleven." She isn't sure if this hot colour rising in her cheeks is embarrassment or anger. "I was making a grilled cheese sandwich."
The Brit doesn't say anything for a moment, which is a moment too long because now she has to say it out loud. "I would never purposefully do this to myself. I swear. Can I please have my hand back?"
Eames blinks and releases her. Ariadne rubs at the scar with her left hand self-consciously. In her search for a band-aid, Arthur appears in her peripheral vision, holding one. He offers it to her and she tries to quell the panic that he heard the entire exchange. "Thanks."
"He's just worried," Arthur says suddenly. "No one wants this to change you."
And then he walks away, leaving Ariadne feeling too stunned for words.
v.
"Two o'clock. Scotch on the rocks."
"You know I can't recognize drinks, right?"
Eames snorts into his glass in the booth behind them. Arthur coughs slightly, and Ariadne can only hope he was smothering a laugh. Somehow the idea of a smiling, ordinary point man is as thrilling as it is strange. She looks over Arthur's shoulder anyway, to the two o'clock region and the man sitting along in a booth with a glass of amber liquid.
There is nothing especially remarkable about him, besides the fact that he is the victim of their soon-to-be extraction.
"Blonde, straight nose, keeps looking at that awful expensive watch so women will think he has somewhere more important to be?"
This time Arthur does laugh: a soft chuckle that sounds from the back of his throat. "That's him." Ariadne can feel her face warming, although she's not sure why. She reaches for her glass in an attempt at a distraction. Instead the architect feels the distinct weight of a gaze on her, and looks up not to Arthur, but the mark. He's staring over the rim of his glass and Ariadne's cheeks flush hot for a different reason altogether.
"Arthur?"
"Yes?"
As normally as possible, Ariadne lowers her drink. "Should I concerned that he's staring at me right now?"
The faint amusement slips from Arthur's eyes and for a moment a twist of disappointment curls in her gut. She doesn't have to tell him not to turn around.
"Back in a minute," grunts Eames. Ariadne begins to count the seconds in the back of her mind, while her companion commands the rest of her attention.
"Is he getting up?"
"No."
"You're not just staring at him, are you?"
"Of course not," she hisses, snapping her gaze forward. "What if he wants to buy me a drink or something?"
"You refuse." He doesn't even blink.
"Wouldn't it be easier to get—"
"No." The defiance must show on her face, because Arthur's grip on the beer in his hand tightens noticeably. He's left-handed, she notes absently. How had she not realized this before? He leans forward with dark, intent eyes and it takes all the architect's focus not to shrink back.
"Ian Candor is of the mind that women are only good for one thing, and he won't take lightly to being rejected."
"So shouldn't I—"
"No."
"I'm not a child, Arthur." She's getting frustrated now, feeling petulant but unable to stop it.
"I know that." The point man sounds unflaggingly patient, which only serves to anger her more. "So does he."
And there she goes with the blushing again. Eames returns in a rustle of noise which dispels the argument. "He's been fixed on you this entire time. Barely even blinked."
Her stomach turns unpleasantly and she fists her left hand for something to do. The puncture scar from the PASIV IVs stands out in sharp relief; a glaring reminder of exactly what she's gotten herself into. Ariadne always tries to pierce the same spot. The last thing she wants to do is look like an uncontrollable addict. The architect wonders briefly if Arthur and Eames do the same.
"I've done my research, Ariadne." Arthur's voice is low, but determined nonetheless in its urgency. Her stomach sinks. She doesn't like where this is going. "Ian Candor has access to some of the most powerful drugs available...and he likes to use them for his own personal pleasure. Especially in his..." It might be a trick of the light, but the point man's face seems to darken. "Conquests."
The feeling of bile rising in her throat is suddenly overwhelming. Ariadne can feel the blood draining from her face. "Oh my god." What is it with all these shady people? Fisher and Saito at least seemed...normal. At least, this is before she learns what happened to the man she replaced. Arthur leans forward again and the instinct to lean away is stamped down.
"I'm not going to let him anywhere near you." She swallows. "I swear."
She's loathe to admit she's afraid, but the fear is there and there's no use trying to deny it. "What," she manages at last, "Not even an I told you so?"
There it is again; that almost-amusement that spurs warm hope in Ariadne's stomach. Arthur opens his mouth, but whatever he might of said is lost on her. The mark is getting up. He's still staring. He's coming right at them.
"Arthur..."
"Eames," says Arthur, quick like he's been waiting for this.
She almost says "What?" as though she's too slow to follow, but someone's fingers brush her shoulder and Ariadne remembers the man who's been sitting behind her all night. Before the architect can collect her thoughts, a sudden crash makes her jump so violently that Arthur catches her gaze. She nods once in what she hopes is a pacifying gesture. A few feet away is the fruit of Eames' labour.
Ian Candor is screaming obscenities while the Brit holds an empty glass and a falsely apologetic expression. If she weren't so strangely afraid, she would have smiled. Eames is speaking now, too low to hear. He pats Candor on the back and steers him towards the bar. The architect tries to relax, tries to ease the tension in her shoulders, but at the last moment the mark turns his head. The pair locks eyes, and Ariadne just knows.
He's not going to give up.
"Can we—"
"Yes." As if he can read her mind, Arthur reaches for his wallet. Ariadne is too distracted to comment as he leaves enough for both his beer and her gin and tonic. She remembers thinking that Arthur was someone who drinks Scotch too, although she's glad he isn't. At least, not tonight. Out of the corner of her eye, she spies the man who just won't quit.
"He's back."
"Smile." Startled eyes find his. "Trust me."
Ariadne plasters it onto her face. She's never invested so much effort into the smallest upturn of her lips. Perhaps knowing, as always, Arthur just stands up. "Come on." She follows, feeling flustered and barely able to keep it together. Arthur's hand find hers (his right in her left) and their wrists press together. His grip is firm, safe, comforting even, but Ariadne doesn't think to dwell on that.
In fact, all she can think of is identical puncture marks and a morbid kind of matching, and the fact that she can't quite tell whose heartbeat is thrumming against the skin of her pulse point.
A long time from now she'll remember this moment as the first time he ever held her hand.
Author's Note: I kind of don't like it now that I wrote it all out. I just like the very last bit. If I could draw it I would. Just the hand holding. I'm sorry I've been so not around lately, but Klaine (squee!) has officially happened and I spent the rest of the week mourning Emily Prentiss. So look out for the effects of that, if you wish.
Thoughts? I thought I'd post mostly because I'm getting into a habit of not posting what I come up with and then regretting it later.
Annie