"So what are your dreams like?" Ariadne asked him. They were waiting for the return flight; late twilight was making the view outside the VIP lounge windows soft purple and pinpoints of light glittered like diamonds across the city beyond.
Arthur smiled thinly. "Nowhere near as grandiose as Cobb's, that's for sure. Boring, mostly. I'm no architect."
"Really?" she murmured, catching his gaze and holding it in that intense, honest way she had. Arthur wondered how long she would possess that degree of wonder. A while, he hoped.
"Not my specialty," he reminded her simply. "I'm just an agent, not a visionary."
"There's artistry to that too," Ariadne countered softly.
"Only if you consider the ultimate pragmatism to be artistic," Arthur murmured. "When I'm there, I accept the limitations and possibilities of the dream. I do what needs to be done and come back; the fact that I'm still sane is more a matter of practice and luck over any artistry."
"The music," she smiled. "Piaf. Impossibly romantic. The die token—chance to anyone else, weighed in your favor. You're an intriguing blend of traits."
"Boring," he murmured again. "Landscapes in Legos when I'm on my own. I couldn't build a hut without help."
"What about that orientation?"
"Pre-made." Arthur admitted. "And simplistic, compared to the cities you've whipped up without even breaking into a sweat."
"Thanks," she murmured, modestly dropping her eyes for a moment.
"You know you're in," Arthur muttered after a moment. He shifted and shot a sidelong glance at her. "There's always a market for good architects."
She shrugged her thin shoulders. "Maybe. I love playing with the horizon, but I'm not sure about the rest of it. The . . . ethics of it all. It's one thing to share, but going into someone's dreams without their knowledge or consent—I'm not comfortable with that."
Arthur said nothing for a moment, but his gaze was kind. He let his lanky frame settle back in the chair. "Is this a post-job reaction, or a sudden flare of conscience?"
She made a face. "Both, I guess. Cobb had a way of sweeping a person along, and it was all new; fascinating. I didn't really think through the implications while it was going on."
He nodded. "That's how it happened for a lot of us. The problem is that once you get into this line of work, it makes a lot of the other options look pretty boring by comparison—not that there are too many legal ones anyway."
Ariadne looked down at her hands. "I know. "
"Dreams are a dimension of the psyche, which is why people like Eames can work both sides of the law. He's got the legitimacy—or at least he did—to go into people's dreams without an invite because he's got the law behind him. Stick with him and you could work . . . now and then."
Ariadne considered it for a moment, and in the lull, a flight attendant announced a further delay. Arthur looked up to where the disembodied voice was chattering and made a moue. "If we don't board in the next hour, I'm bailing," he muttered.
Ariadne spoke up softly. "Do you dream off the machine? I've heard that if you use it regularly that after a while you can't dream without it. You lose your ability to REM sleep."
"It's not the machine," he told her. "It's the chemicals. The machine just synchronizes the waves. But some of the soporifics for going deeper can do a number on your body chemistry and yeah—sometimes people have trouble getting into REM if they get too much of the wrong juice. That's why Cobb was so damned careful about what we use. Mildest Sed on the market, geared to bodyweight. And to answer your question, I dream. I just don't remember them off the machine."
"Ah."
He felt a bit discomfited by that and tried to think of what to say, but everything that came to mind sounded either defensive or stupid, so he stayed silent.
"I'd dream with you again," Ariadne finally murmured.
Arthur tried to keep from smiling, and managed. Mostly. "Is that a fact?"
"Sure," Ariadne looked up and grinned. "I'm going to need the practice, if I want to keep working."
"I see," he replied. He found his smirk deepening for a moment. "Practice is a good thing."
They sat in different rows on the plane, and didn't speak during the flight. Arthur dozed, and once, while making his way to the lavatory, spotted Ariadne huddled under her courtesy blanket, dead to the world.
He wondered what she was dreaming about.
He hoped he'd be able to find out soon.