Author's Note: I wrote this while playing Lizst's Hungarian Dance No.2 on repeat. I shall now disappear to Alaska. Ciao!

Summary: Post-movie. It's over. Dom Cobb didn't wake up. Ariadne prepares for the challenge to bring him back out, seeing that she is the only one who can. In Limbo, she finds the many faces of Dom Cobb and the many faces of herself. Eventual Cobb/Ariadne.

Beta: swampophelia

xwx.

Five. 5

Limbo's skies were never the exactly sky blue - everything in this realm was touched with a hint of taupe. Like scurrying ants, projections were everywhere doing their own business whether it was walking with a destination in mind or flipping through some papers or eating a light snack. In fact, the only strange element of this sight was the severe absence of any human interaction. They were determined not to even look at another body, each to his or her small world.

Ariadne saw one man, gelled-back, black hair and dressed in a pressed business suit duck into an alleyway. Moments later, she peeked into the mysterious passage as she walked by and was puzzled when she saw trashcans, brick walls, a dead end, but no projection. There was no way anyone could've disappeared unless it was through the large manhole half hidden under an overflowing trash bag, but that, she really doubted. She would've investigated further if it wasn't for Cobb's firm grip on her hand.

Heat crept into her cheeks making her thankful that he didn't look back. Why hasn't he letting go yet? Does he think I'm going to run away? The man hasn't really spoken to her yet since they left the hospital, but she couldn't detect any negative emotions from him. This was awkward, even for her, and she wasn't exactly sociable according to the norm. He probably isn't a true people-person. And if he wasn't, then how did he get to be an Extractor then? She looked around at the projections and their own personal bubbles. They're probably little bits and pieces of Cobb. Bits and pieces… She grinned at her own lame humor.

His hand was so hot that she could keenly feel its absence as soon as he let her go. His heat was a furnace that could leave an imprint, like a branding mark, on her skin that quickly faded with the incoming wind. Cobb walked past the waist-high gate and into the café, which was situated on a triangular street corner. It was the Paris café that he had taken her for her first PASIV experience. He guided her to the exact same table right under the awning and gestured for a waiter, who quickly took their orders and left them to their devices.

After fiddling with her drink and straw, Ariadne decided to take the initiative, "You said that your previous job, before your therapy work, wasn't strictly legal. You were an," her mind flashed to the moment Cobb looked fascinated at her sketches, "Architect in an extraction team?"

Cobb nodded and tilted his head a little to the side, "I still miss those days." He acknowledged, "It was pure creation and comparing it to a vocation such as a Dream Therapist, there can be no mistake which one triumphs." Ariadne inwardly agreed. One could build entire cathedrals structurally impossible in reality, cities that never existed, with naught but a thought and the proper amount of drive. "But it was a dangerous job and at the time, I was tending to my kids, Phillipa and James, my two little angels. Now, both are in universities on the other side of the country. I would return to my original life, but I'm much too old to go on those daredevil adventures." He laughed and sipped his latte. Ariadne blinked.

"Old?" She parroted.

"You flatter me," Cobb smirking replied, "It's been years since I've done an extraction job, even longer as the Architect." Ariadne was speechless and confused, she opened her mouth and closed it again and looked at the man, trying to see what oldness he was mentioning. He said that years had passed since his last extraction job, but he hasn't aged a day. The little caricature of Ariadne in her head flailed comically this way and that, batting away at the question marks above her head.

"Monsieur et Madame, your appetizers," the clinking of plates on the table alerted her to the presence of the waiter. Cobb gave a close-mouth smile in thanks. Ariadne poked at the vibrant salad and wondered if the waiter had first poured salted olive oil or Italian Sauce. If Cobb could remember this much about her, even if it was subconsciously, then she shouldn't worry. She raised her head to thank the waiter, but her eye was drawn to the reflection of the window behind him, more specifically, Cobb's reflection.

In the tinted, double-paned window, the man before her sported noticeable crows-feet at the corner of his eyes and pepper gray hair, all the signs of an elder man, but his eyes were bold. Cobb cleared his throat; she hastily turned back to her host, feeling guilty for getting so easily distracted. This was just like her seminar classes. The waiter departed in his black and white impeccable glory.

"I think you age like fine wine," she reassured him, before eating a mouthful of lettuce, and then she realized what she had said. "I mean," she hotly blushed and concentrated on her course, "It's… well…"

"Yes?" His voice gently coaxed. He was clearly entertained.

"Developing a charisma that can," She moved the last portions of her greens over the Italian sauce in a circle, "you know, charm? That's how you became an Extractor."

…Wait. He made it clear that he was an Architect. She wasn't supposed to know of his temporary position as an Extractor. Whoops. Ariadne, what did you just say?

The frown on his face made her cringes even further, cementing how she mentally inserted her foot into mouth. "I became an Extractor because the original Extractor of my team, Mal, my wife, had passed away." His expression was stony and closed off. One step forward and a hundred steps back. Cobb looked down at his plate as he ate with a furrowed brow. A great, impenetrable, invisible wall formed between them and she had no choice but to wait.

Six. 6

Enough time had passed in the café for her to nearly finish her lunch and for Cobb to take pity on her mortification. He had taken both of her notebooks and was thumbing through her most recent sketches. "A Penrose triangle?" Ariadne refused to look up as he spoke; she heard a rustling of pages and the telltale sounds of an exhale. "Ariadne?"

She reluctantly met his gaze. He silently encouraged her with an envious pair of puppy dog eyes that said, 'Please respond' – that small hint of emotion could only be seen through his eyes, shrouded everywhere else. He didn't want this… this… what would you call this rendezvous… to fall flat, for whatever reason that she doesn't know. She lowered her eyes to where his hands were resting on her rough sketch.

His voice was softer more delicate than she can recollect. "I've thought about it from time to time. From a triangle to a Penrose Octagon as an Architect - didn't really see too much point to it." Cobb propped his elbows on the table. She dimly noticed that his plate was clean.

It took her two seconds to react. "Not if you're hiding, but what if you wanted to trap someone?" Ariadne reached over and scrawled out some windows and doors so the shape looked like a modern structure. "I think… it might be a way for projections to disappear into the dream. Once they walk out of the Sleeper's sight, they walk off the possible plane and cease to exist like so," she drew a small stick figure and an arrow pointing in the direction of the impossible dream plane.

At that instant, they wordlessly reached an accord. All was right in Limbo. Cobb beamed at her; she couldn't help but return the favor.

The next few minutes flew by in quick session. They bent over the same notebook, foreheads inches away from touching discussing theories and scenarios, laughing at each other's wild imaginations as they competed to see who would make the most bizarre story. But most of the time, they discussed theories and 'what-ifs'.

Cobb's brow furrowed, "I'm thinking that this structure would be a good way to confuse hostile projections, if the Mark is trained in protecting his subconscious." He traced the drawing, "the triangle's original intent was to distort the definition between 2-D and 3-D. It would be useful." The Café began to play Edith Piaf's La Vie En Rose, Ariadne's heart skipped a beat before she realized that it wasn't a false kick, "But we wouldn't know for sure." Cobb tapped his chin, "the science in the field was never explored thoroughly or officially by the government because many corporations saw the immediate benefits of high-yields espionage."

Ariadne leaned back and tried to visualize the political maneuverings, the heavy lobbying, the greed and the people, the Extraction teams that take advantage of the climate. For Sleepers it was a high-yield, high-stakes game with the danger of losing oneself forever, but the siren call was too hard to resist once it was heard. So what about the future? If virtual reality was to finally come into fruition, where customers can create worlds of their own where everything went their way, would they be willing to spend time in reality? On the streets were projections with their little belongings and personal bubbles. She watched from a distance as a young brunette ducked behind a street lamp and didn't come out the other side. She looks familiar. "Kind of like NASA and Virgin Galactic?" She asked.

He made a half-nod and laid his hands on the table, "Sort of. Again, what the corporations did was not strictly legal." He made an 'oh well' motion with his shoulders, "Money traded hands under the table and the government backed off and out of anything that had to do with the subconscious. It's all private entrepreneurship that's funding the tests and dream therapy sessions in hospitals. So the knowledge of how to operate in a dream are usually kept close to a small number of people except for what you can call the basics."

"Like Arthur's Penrose Stairs." She sipped her drink and tapped the ice together.

For a few seconds, all she could hear was the dull chatting of the other projections and Edith Piaf's dulcet tones. Moi pour lui dans la vie, Il me l'a dit, l'a jure pour la vie… Alarmed, Ariadne raised her head and saw the most peculiar expression on the man's face. Deep within him, between the head and the heart, was an inner conflict that he was struggling to keep suppressed. She waited patiently for him to recover and turned to the double-pane windows; his reflection looked much older. She wondered if this was how he was truly going to look in some years in reality. Finally, Cobb said with minor strain, "M.C. Escher's drawings did spark an inspiration among professional Sleepers and facts about the paradox of Penrose Stairs were published in two books. Sadly, the Dreamer has to visualize and believe in a paradox before it can become a part of a dream. Few people have that gift." Cobb rubbed his eyes; he looked emotionally and mentally wiped out. She wondered if she could push him a bit farther.

"You don't know who Arthur is, do you?" She sadly asked, her hand resting over his in a soothing manner.

He leveled a glare at her that only lasted for five seconds before he relaxed and despairingly said, "Am I supposed to?" He pulled his hand away from hers, absence of contact. His heat can brand skin.

Slightly hurt by his actions, she turned away from him and stared out into the streets and began to drum her fingers against the table cloth. From a distance, there was a man, gelled-back, black hair, wearing a pressed business suit, walking towards the same street lamp where the previous brunette woman had vanished. Moments later, he was gone too. Two and two makes four. That man is-

At the exact time the revelation hit Ariadne that the man was a projection of Arthur, Cobb sighed and said, "I think we're done here," and called the waiter over for the check.

Seven. 7

Once again, she couldn't bring herself to talk to him again, nor could she look at him in the eye. Her mind recycled over this new piece of information which was like a puzzle piece that she was trying to place. The projection of Arthur was there but Cobb couldn't see him. What does this imply? Why was Arthur hiding?

Ariadne sat on the railings of a bridge of steel and wood. At three o'clock, Cobb leaned over the side, watching the sea and the tides. She blinked and shifted her weight back. How did I come here? The roar of the waves over the rocks battled against the cry of the gulls, flying in groups of twos and threes. The regular sound patterns, she admitted, were calming. Maybe this explained why her mother held love for the CDs that broadcasted nothing but nature sounds.

I don't remember how I got here. I think I walked but I'm not positive.

Maybe this was Cobb's way of apologizing, maybe it wasn't. She huffed and crossed her arms as ocean spray sprinkled over her back. Honestly, it's impossible to accurately read him. The man in question was pensive. The sun's rays caused his features to develop a yellow glow, his eyes (it was always about his eyes) stared unblinkingly at the sinking red ball. She saw the breathtaking sunset in the reflection of a beach-house window, a pastel of orange, red and purple and the clouds were lined with similar warm colors.

Ariadne rocked her feet back and forth on a lower rail. I already apologized. She lamented. Maybe it's all over, right now. He just doesn't want to be rude. He's too complicated, I just... I just can't. Should she give up now? She was barely a few days into this trip and the whole team, Arthur, Eames, Yusuf, Saito, wouldn't be too happy if she returned empty-handed. They would understand: she's only Ariadne, and Cobb, well… Dom Cobb is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. How can one worm into the man's life? Ok, she did it once, but that was only when his barriers had been drastically lowered. He hadn't expected her at all. Should I be proud or ashamed? She brushed a stray hair out of her face. Too nosy for my own good?

The golden bishop was in her hand: balanced weight.

Her name was Ariadne, named after the princess who gave aid to Theseus to navigate through the Labyrinths that held the Minotaur. Ariadne of the kingdom called Reality created mazes; she knew their routes and their exits. Each one was her brainchild; she remembered and held all of them precious. Supposedly, she has to lead Cobb out of Limbo, the ultimate maze of twists, turns and dead ends.

It would be easy to give up on this quest. Find a high rise building, get to the roof and step off-

"You should stay the night with me."

What? "What?" That statement had come out of nowhere and slammed into her mental blind spot. 'Shock' and 'stunned' would be euphemisms of what she was feeling. I should add 'bipolar' to the list of things I need to know about Cobb, she grumpily thought.

The man waved his hand carelessly and cheerfully reassured, "it's ok, the kids are gone and I live alone. It would be nice to have guests over." His tie was hanging off a shoulder and his cuffs were undone as were the first few buttons of his shirt.

"I can't do that," She stammered, "I'll be intruding into your life, more than I have already. I'm a stranger." How could he be so casual about this?

"The perfect stranger." He grinned and gave her a knowing, hooded glance, "which you know you aren't, or you never would've named me as your sole relative. My job is to look after your well-being. Besides," he continued with the force of a freight train, "I get the feeling that you have no home here. Am I right?"

She miserably nodded and placed her head into her hands, her elbows balancing on her knees. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He smoothly replied, "I think it is I who should apologize." He turned and rested his back against the rails, facing the same direction as her. They watched the cars and trucks flit by, leaving after images and horizontal streaks of color. The soft ache that Ariadne had felt in her chest since she entered Limbo grew stronger. "Why is it that I feel like I've known you for a long time?" She took it as a rhetorical question. "Granted the familiarity is intriguing enough," he contemplated, "you've hinted at secrets that you thought I should figure out and I'm still waiting for the majority of them. Yet, despite how frustrating your actions are, you radiate this aura of trust around you. I feel like I can put my entire faith in you."

She didn't really know how to answer that, having never known that he did trust her. She always had the impression that he had seen her as a liability, privy to his darkest secrets. She would have akin herself as his guardian, but now it felt like the roles have been skewed.

"Ariadne?" She blinked out of her reverie and looked up, flushing in embarrassment. Cobb arched an eyebrow.

"Yeah?"

He extended an open hand, "What do you say?"

Eight. 8

For the hundredth time, she shifted positions under the duvet; the air was hot and heavy, causing her to break out in sweat. Maybe she should've argued more vehemently against Cobb's invite, she should've told him that she had some rare case of insomnia and that really, she might as well sit in an abandoned park and wait for the moon to pass and the sun to rise. At the very least, she should've told him that she had the tendency to sleepwalk… or not, that might cause him to lock the guest room door. Small rays of moonlight slipped past the curtains and onto the edge of her bed. Her hands fell over her eyes. The digital clock on the nightstand read eleven-thirty; she deemed it late enough and sat up, her legs raring to move.

The wooden floor was wonderfully cool against her soles but it groaned under her weight. She froze, arms hanging at her sides. Don't wake up, oh god please don't wake up. All was still. The furniture was straight lines and shades of black, where Noir films meet Cubism. Her hand grazed the wall as she felt her way across the room until she brushed against the doorknob. Bingo. With deliberate care, she turned the knob, pulled. She imagined herself as a ghost with eyes and mouth as black ovals; gliding through the doorway like the ground was ice.

A dark hallway greeted her with familiarity, she had been here before. Cobb's subconscious. The metal elevator however wasn't here. She shuffled up to a closed door and lingered before it. She pressed an ear against the wood and strained to listen- heavy, slow breathing, REM sleep. She walked on.

It didn't matter that she was barefoot, or dressed in nothing but Cobb's old t-shirt and shorts ("I was about to throw them out anyways. They're comfortable and you need something to wear since your belongings are still in the dryer.") No need to worry because she was in Limbo where his projections are as private and impersonal as he is. All she wanted to do was walk around, take a harmless walking tour without the brochures, explore like Marco Polo. She stepped out into the street and broke into a loose jog.

The number of projections in the area decreased exponentially to the increasing distance she placed between herself and Cobb. The streets and some late shops were none-the-less lit up like a normal city, except for the fact that from what she could see, all of them were empty. At the end of the road was an office building whose bright windows were arranged so it looked like a crying face was plastered on its side. As she watched, some lights shut off and others lit up so the crying face turned happy again. Happy, sad, happy, sad, etc. A smile tugged at the edges of her lips.

Past the edifice was another unusual structure, possibly five stories tall and horribly familiar. The Penrose triangle she gasped softly. Feeling the urge to get up close and personal, she eagerly searched for a suitable route to the impossible shape and felt disappointment when there was none. No way to clear the fence. There weren't any roads that would allow her to walk around either. A billboard by the configuration read, 'Under construction.' She snorted in disbelief. Maybe until tomorrow; I can wait.

The ground crunched as she stepped back and lifted her right foot to flick off a stubborn bit of gravel. Across the street was a chocolate and bakery shop with the 'Open' sign against the door. She ventured in, the silver bell above her head rang twice as she peeked in, head first. The place had an Art Deco touch to it but with red leather cushions and tacky yellow wallpaper. The posters were all framed with gold and were vintage photos of Clara Bow and Mary Pickford in different alluring poses that were, strangely enough, safe for an entire family to enjoy. Plucking a newspaper from the stand at the entranceway, she picked a large booth second from her left and sat down, giddy with delight. It smelled sweet. The speakers at the corners of the shop played Edith Piaf's La Vie En Rose.

This is a part of Cobb's project; she surmised as she flipped the paper open, this is what is in his mind... The majority of the articles were inked or scratched out except for the word 'Forget' which appeared every four lines or so… Il me dit des mots d'amour. Des mots de tous les jours… For a minute, she stared, unable to comprehend what was before her, and then she set the newspaper down and slid out of the booth, ignoring the chill at the base of her spine and the horror pitting at the stomach. She moved toward the bar and sat on a high stool, "Hello?" She inquired, tapping her nails against the countertop.

No answer. She was half-expecting a waiter or waitress gliding toward her from the backdoor on retro skates. Taking a menu from the stack at the end of the bar, she opened it apprehensively… It was a normal menu. Thank god. Ok… um… I could get a slice of German Chocolate Cake… or Red Velvet. The chocolate covered strawberries look especially delectable but the cookies look so cute, they have hearts on them. How could anybody not want them? Not quite sure how I'll do this, there aren't any workers nor do I have any money. She hummed along to the French song as she browsed the selection. It's ok to pretend that I'm getting something sweet.

A clinking sound jolted her back to her senses. She craned her neck and looked over the bar- nobody; she leaned back and stared at the booths- nobody. She looked down and nearly screamed: a small plate with two squares of toffee greeted her, placed artfully where one slightly overlapped the other. She pinched herself, it was still there. She lifted the plate and placed it back onto the granite counter- clink. Confusion and panic reared its ugly heads. There wasn't anybody in the shop, she saw no one, she heard no one, and she heard nothing but the plate of toffee placed two feet from her person.

Was this place haunted? Why, of all things, a haunted vintage bakery?

I don't even like toffee.

None the less, in order not to offend whatever supernatural dream-like apparition that resided in this place, she nibbled a corner and scrunched up her face. Still don't like toffee.

She grabbed a napkin and began the arduous task of wiping the taste from her tongue. She paused in mid-motion. "Err. Thank you, shop." She felt silly saying it to thin air, but toffee usually doesn't appear out of nowhere. Her mother had stressed courtesy above all else. Severely freaked out, she backtracked to the door, the silver bell rang again, and she was once again hit by a blast of cool-ocean breeze. Edith Piaf's singing faded into background noise as she faced the deserted streets, unsure of any particular direction to take and where it would lead her. A tumble-weed rolled by a crosswalk as the traffic sign turned red. Throwing one last look at the bakery, still deciding whether she wanted to return or not, she turned right and set down her improvised path.

It got even colder; she cursed herself for not thinking ahead and getting a jacket. Her toes wiggled to bring blood and feeling to them. Her mind moved on to other matters. Why would Cobb stay if his kids were gone? How long has he been alone? A mourning dove crooned on the ledge of a balcony in an apartment. She tucked her fingers under her armpits. But when I was in the hospital, he implied that his kids were staying with him and that they were much younger than anyone college bound. Does that mean that his sense of time is gone too?

She groaned as her mind tried to rationalize away the inconsistencies, a headache began to sprout. Maybe he's just an incredibly doting father. She shoved her fingers into her pockets and shivered.

She rounded a corner too quickly and bumped into a solid body. Slightly disoriented, she mumbled, "Oh. I'm sorr-." Before she realized that two things were wrong about this situation: first, there shouldn't be any of Cobb's projections in the vicinity and second, the projection of Mal shouldn't even exist. Ariadne's eyes widened and her mouth moved to finish her sentence but no sound came forth.

Mal was dressed warmer than she was and still fashionable to boot, a short coat with a fur trim, a pencil skirt and stilettos. Ariadne could imagine the contrast they made, standing side by side, and felt completely inferior. The elder woman crossed her arms and shot an imposing stare, "what are you doing here?" she quietly asked. Her voice was still melodious with a hint of a foreign accent; it hasn't changed since Ariadne had last seen her.

Despite her fight or flight response screaming for action, Ariadne forced her body not to step back, "I'm trying to bring your husband out of this maze." She was amazed at how stable her reply was. How is she still here? Her mind cried. She shouldn't be here!

With hardened eyes, as if sensing her thoughts, Mal moved forward, "Who do you think you are, pulling Dom out of his happiness?" The woman held herself proud and tall, the beautiful and the alluring epitome of femme fatale. It was no wonder Cobb was attracted to her. In a way, Mal was like her husband; her voice drastically lowered whenever she spoke with passion, her expression was hard to place unless one knew where to find the small keys, which were her eyes. They were cold, like the chill she's feeling on her ankles.

"I'm-."

"You're not important." Mal bent down and whispered gently, as if trying to break bad news, "you're an introverted girl with no parents." She leaned forward to cradle Ariadne's cheek with a manicured hand. "What hope can you have to save him if you can't even save yourself?"

(Little kids were dancing around her, holding hands as they gleefully sang, "What a freak! What a freak! What a freak!")

"Shut up." Ariadne muttered. She pushed away the alien feeling and shook her head, "Cobb needs to go back to reality, his kids, his real kids, and everyone there is waiting for him."

"But he doesn't want to go back. Have you ever thought of that possibility?" Heels clicked on the pavement. Mal walked past her and stood on the curb, looking down at the storm drain. Shivering at a subtle breeze, Ariadne pulled out her golden bishop and cradled it close to her chest. Shut up. Please be quiet. "When he's perfectly happy in his own world, where everything is going just as he had wished, he doesn't even want to remember?"

(The newspapers were black except for the words 'Forget. Forget. Forget. Forget. Forget…')

Ariadne breathed in a shuddered breath, Shut up. Please be quiet. Shut up. Shut up. The bishop was balanced in her hand but it was hers and only hers. "Do you want to destroy his little world, the only place where he's accepted, because of your selfish desires?" Her words hurt, stabbing pain into her back and out her front. She envisioned blood seeping out her front, staining Cobb's old t-shirt. "He belongs here." Her knees buckled as each word hammered a nail into herself. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. "Ariadne?"

"It's not true. You're wrong," speaking softly; Ariadne shut her eyes tightly and imagined that Mal's voice was miles away where she can't hurt her. She has to be strong. She's not real. She's not real. Ariadne clasped her hands together with the bishop between then and mouthed the words. Please be quiet.

"You want something from him, don't you?" Please be quiet. Please be quiet. Please be quiet. "But you know that you don't deserve anything he has to offer…"

After some time passed, seconds, minutes, hours, a mourning dove hooted. Ariadne opened her eyes and saw that she was alone once more.

Nine. 9

He heard her return, though unlike her exit, she wasn't trying too hard to stay quiet. Her footsteps indicated that she didn't so much creep back into the guest room as stumble blindly across the hall. He heard her stop in front of her door. He heard small hitching breaths and wondered if she was actually going to knock. But no, like before, she continued on.

Click: her door opened. Click: her door closed.

He pushed the covers back and left the warm confines of his bed. A minute later, he stood outside her door, his hand poised to knock and to ask if she was alright but the sounds of muffled sobs froze his arm.

She's leaning against the doorframe. He touched the door with his finger tips and dragged them across to the doorknob. She's so close and yet so far. I don't know if I'll ever be able to reach her with such a barrier between us.

She once told me to not to lose myself.

She said that her name is Ariadne.