A/N: Currently, I should be working on a speech for my public speaking class. Obviously, though, rifling through old fiction files seems like the most entertaining way to procrastinate instead. I'm not sure why I never posted this one - as it was a completely finished drabble upon my discovering it. But, well, sometimes you don't need a reason for waiting. It takes place immediately following the scene where the team retrieves their bags from the LAX carousel.
Disclaimer: Inception is the brainchild of one Christopher Nolan. Rest assured-the film does not belong to me.
A Scene from the Aftermath
He's good at what he does. The Fischer job is the exception, not the rule. And he knows he'll be kicking himself for a while, anyway. Cobb might be free of his Inceptious past, but him? He's walking toward a full string of jobs; he can feel it in his gut. It's rarely wrong.
The next flight to Paris won't leave for another 4 hours or so. It's his job to know things like this. He is a Point Man, after all. (It doesn't hurt that the departure board is more than happy to display this bit of information for him.)
They're supposed to scatter. That's the plan. Always the plan. Logically, he knows this. So why are his feet moving of their own accord, through the LAX baggage claim and up the marble staircase toward the check-in for Air France? He tries to tell himself he's heading there for another reason. Paris is a great connection port. He's actually heading for la Côte D'Azur, for Nice, for Monte Carlo.
He pretends not to notice the petite brunette weaving her way through the crowd in front of him, a dark scarf tucked neatly over her white jacket. He tells himself he doesn't care whether she's there or not.
He's a damned liar.
He could be anyone passing by her in the airport when he reaches out to tap her on the shoulder and clear his throat.
"Excuse me. Miss? I think you dropped this."
He drops the light object into her open palm before she has time to properly react. He wheels around and weaves his way through the crowd, brown leather bag hoisted carefully over his shoulder.
Her mouth is agape and it's a moment before she realizes what's just happened (actually, a mother and daughter pair almost run her over with their oversized suitcases). She looks down at the flat and flimsy rectangle between her long, pale fingers before glancing back at the spot where they crossed paths. She sees slicked-back hair in the crowd, turning a far corner. But she knows she'll never catch him in this sea of people-he's Arthur, after all.
Standing there, amidst the bustling travelers in the Air France terminal, she puts down her messenger bag and reexamines the small piece of paper enclosed in her right hand.
There are only two lines on the card that Ariadne can see. A pre-engraved phone number with an area code she's never seen before and a neatly scribbled afterthought:
"Just in case."
A/N: Reviews are love.