A/N: Normally I don't put author's notes first, but this is an important authors note. First, I want to apologize for how long it took me to get this chapter up. I lost my beta and quite a bit of my inspiration, so I'm struggling. Please excuse any mistakes in this chapter, it remains un-beta'd except for a quick check-over by yours truly. In slightly happier news, today is my birthday and I'd love a review as a present!

Disclaimer: Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan and Co. (aka not me)

Chapter 4: The Letter

"Anybody ever asks you what the sweetest thing in life is- ... it's revenge"
- Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughter-House-Five

Arthur looked down at the letter in his hands.

As soon as he entered his hotel room, the phone began to ring. Surprised, he cautiously went to answer it. "Hello?"

"Mr. Giordano?"

"Yes?"

"This is Kelly from the front desk. We have a letter for you." A letter? Who would be sending me a letter? God help Eames if this was his sick idea of a joke, he thought, but it could be…

"Yes, yes, I'll be right down."

Now, sitting on the queen-sized bed, he stared at the cream-colored envelope in his hands, preparing himself for whatever might be inside. With shaking hands, he ripped it open, pulling out the folded parchment. Opening it, a small object fell into his lap. Upon further inspection, he recognized it as a lock of very familiar golden brown hair. Putting it back in the envelope, he quickly turned his attention to the letter itself.

We have your precious architect.

-F.M.

Placing the letter back into its envelope, Arthur shoved it into his jacket pocket along with his hotel key and his cell phone. He had to show this to Cobb.

Phillipa Cobb tiptoed down the staircase, one hand gribbing the railing and the other hugging her teddy bear to her chest. She might have only been seven, but she was smart. She knew something was going on with her dad. He told her they were going to visit Grandpa, and they did, but she knew there had to be something else going on. She just hoped he wouldn't have to leave again, like after her mother died. Finally reaching the bottom step, she heard muffled voices coming from her grandpa's office. Her curiosity piqued, she pressed her ear to the door. She heard her dad's voice, hushed and angry-sounding, and a familiar, heavily controlled voice she hadn't heard in a long time. Uncle Arthur! But what was he doing here? Nervously, she tapped on the door.

The voices stopped, and she heard footsteps coming closer and closer. When the door was opened, she was excited to see Arthur, just as she remembered him, with his slicked-back hair and tan three-piece suit. "Phillipa? What are you doing up?" He asked her quietly.

"I had a nightmare," she whispered back, giving her teddy bear a squeeze. Sighing, Arthur picked her up and brought her inside.

"Cobb, we have a visitor." Arthur sat back down on the sofa, Phillipa's arms still wrapped around his neck.

Cobb raised an eyebrow. "I can see that. Phillipa, why aren't you in bed?"

"Bad dream," she mumbled, resting her head against Arthur's shoulder.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Arthur asked.

She sat up and shook her head, looking at Arthur. She was shocked at how sad he seemed- she hadn't noticed it before. "What's wrong, Uncle Arthur?". Arthur looked away. Was it that noticeable?

"Nothing, Phillipa. Don't worry about it."

"Okay, sweetie," Cobb said, taking his daughter from Arthur, "Let's go back to bed." Phillipa nodded, her nightmare forgotten. She had never seen Arthur look so upset. It was disconcerting.

As her father tucked her into bed, she couldn't help but repeat her question. "Daddy, why is Uncle Arthur so sad?"

Cobb paused. Should he answer her question, or shrug it off like Arthur did? He sighed, realizing that if he didn't give his daughter some sort of answer she'd keep on asking until she got one.

"Something bad happened to someone Uncle Arthur cares about very much."

"Like what happened to mommy?"

Cobb hesitated. "Kind of."

Phillipa just nodded before closing her eyes, "G'night, daddy."

Cobb kissed her on her forehead, relieved that she was satisfied with his answer, before turning out the light and heading back downstairs to Arthur.

"Sorry about that."

"It's no problem."

"So," Cobb began, gesturing at the open letter and the lock of hair lying on the desk, "What do we do about this?"

"Well, at least now we know who took her. There's only one F.M. who has a score to settle with us- Fischer Morrow. Now we have something to work with."

"Well, research is what you're best at, Arthur. I'll let Yusuf and Eames know. You can get straight to work. But now you should go back and get some sleep. You won't do Ariadne any good collapsing from exhaustion."

"Thanks, Cobb." Arthur was, quite honestly, somewhat relieved. He didn't feel so helpless anymore. He could be doing something to help find her.

It was that thought that helped him sleep that night.

He didn't know what first attracted him to her. Maybe it was her enthusiasm, her obvious intelligence, or her perceptive and questioning nature. Maybe it was the way she'd always smile at him, or all those hours of companionable silence spent in the warehouse.

All he knew, is that by the time he realized the dangerous path he was traveling down, it in many ways, it was already too late. So he panicked. He saw her trying to catch his eye in the airport, smiling widely at him. But instead of seeing her, he saw Mal. He saw Cobb, and what had become of him. So he didn't smile back. He just walked away, without looking back.

Even though he didn't see her face, he knew her smile had faded. He took a deep breath, tightened his grip on his suitcase, and kept walking. He was a Point Man, and he was doing one of the things Point Men do best: hide their feelings until they forget they have them.

Arthur shot up in bed, his breathing quick and shallow and his heart pounding. He exhaled deeply, resting his head against the headboard. He ran a shaking hand through his hair. He knew he hadn't been dreaming- he hadn't dreamed in years. No, these weren't dreams, or even nightmares. These were memories.