A/N: Because Inception is stuck in my head, and I couldn't not write a fic. ;)
Disclaimer: I don't own Inception. I wish I did, as does pretty much everyone who isn't Christopher Nolan and etc.
Bid Price
She's drinking memories of him. (Them.)
Memories of him and wine. They mix surprisingly well, a bittersweet edge left in her mouth.
She finishes the glass, setting the flute on her kitchen counter. The pale, frosted glass has been tinted slightly (blood, she remembers, remembers the color of blood) red from the wine.
She leaves it there, to sink into the comfort of her bed. Leaves the slightly untouched part of her brain to wonder whether this haze will seep into her dreams.
Will she have dreams tonight?
The wine has just enough kick (kick, Ariadne thinks with an amount of gruesome satisfaction) to let her eyes flutter closed without fight.
Will she have nightmares tonight?
She falls asleep, into dreams where she is a no one, creating infinite paradoxes in a nowhere land.
She is anyone at all and it doesn't matter in the least.
She wants to ask what he's doing here, because this isn't his precious dreamland, and there are no things to run from, to create, except in solid, grounded cement, and he's not one to waste reality.
(Waste it on her, apparently.)
"Ariadne," he murmurs.
She has done a matter of stupid things, but she invites him in, and that might just be the stupidest of them all.
—Stupid, stupid girl, the voices in her head whisper—
Shaking hands lift a glass of water to her mouth; it's too difficult to swallow. "What do you want?" is too direct, Ariadne will choose her words carefully.
"What are you doing here, Arthur?"
So much for beautiful words. (His name rolls off her tongue—stupid girl—)
He faces her and her gaze wraps around his figure. (He shivers; hopes she doesn't notice.)
His three-piece suit is charcoal, a color that makes Ariadne think of early days in school, it's gritty texture on her hands, smearing black into gray, covering mistakes she can't erase.
His tie is burgundy (not blood, they both think), hidden under his vest, and his shirt crisp, clean white. His hair is in its controlled mess, and she wants to run her fingers through it, make him groan.
She takes a step back; he steps forward.
"I have a job," Arthur tells her, voice low. The unspoken "for you" follows it.
And she is suddenly angry—because all this waiting she's done, and he waltzes back in her door, like time hasn't passed. Like all those thoughts—will he call? What will I say? How can I act?—haven't lingered in her mind, shouting for attention.
Like her dreams haven't murmured, "Arthur."
Something in her gaze must show her thoughts because, abruptly, there's no distance between them. His head tilts forward, his forehead resting on hers as his nose softly slides against hers. His mouth hovers over hers, and she can't breathe properly.
Her nerves tingle—he is here and she is there, and why aren't they closer?
His mouth forms the harsh words softly, as if he is whispering beautiful nonsense to her. My dear, my darling, you look lovely tonight—
"We need an Architect and I'm going to make damn sure we get a good one, with or without you."
In the end, she draws away first.
She waits a week, because despite her conscious, she will at least make him wait a bit (and is she really sure of this?)
Her dreams twist and turn, morph into lingering winds and impossibilities, mazes that change in the blink of an eye and gunfire.
Ariadne dials a number on a worn post-it and doesn't have to wait, leave a message; he picks it up immediately.
Silence.
"Hello," Arthur murmurs awkwardly.
She replies with a simple, "Hi."
Silence again.
"Erm, so did—"
"I was—"
"No, go on," he assures her, and she flushes.
They are colleagues again. It's not the usual office romance (Eames is the first to point this out), hidden glances and kissing in the copy room.
Instead, they level guns at projections, back to back, and learn to steal secrets, glittering like jewels in dreams. He can't shoot her; she does it herself. He yells, she yells back. And they wake up, not hurting, not bloody, and pure creation is the price of reality.
He kisses her, and reality isn't too expensive.
A/N: Phew. I wasn't sure how this was going to turn out. I tried to make sentences and scene flow into each other smoothly, but I'm not sure it worked. Were they in character? That's my main question though.
Any thoughts/comments would be really appreciated. :D Reviews are like chocolate. You get the idea. :)
Hope everyone is well… It's September—school is starting again. Good luck, even if you've started already!
Bye. :D