200 reviews? I have nothing to say.
Actually, I have a lot to say. So, this practically wrote itself pi times, and every time in completely the wrong direction. It was supposed to be a nice, friendly apology with perhaps a visit from the relaxed and suave Arthur of the infamous hotel lobby, but things went overboard, became utterly ridiculous, and instead I ended up with...this. My only excuse is that this will definitely be the most nonsensical chapter I will ever write and that my cousin wouldn't stop sending me links to cheesy, stick in your head all day Chinese love songs. That and the highly disturbing fact that the Sex Pistols have released their own perfume. I hope this advance apology will result in forgiveness.
By the way, does anyone know a really fancy French dish with pears in it? Or if not pears, a dish with any kind of fruit that you could carry around in a bag as a snack would also work.
Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan.
- Li
Matryoshka
A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object
Chapter Ten
True to his word, Eames doesn't say a single word to Arthur about Ariadne's dream, although she's a bit suspicious about the prolonged amount of time the two of them spend cooped up in a corner. The point man, for his part, seems perfectly back to normal and asks her about their visit to Caligiuri as if the morning hadn't happened at all; in fact, she's a little scared by how friendly he is. After she's satisfied him with her answers, she sets to work transcribing her sketches into a detailed blueprint of the Caligiuri estate while the images are still fresh in her mind.
She's halfway through the second floor when she finally decides to call it a day. The sky is a deep blue black through the warehouse windows and the crisp lines in her sketchpad have blurred into hazy smudges. She doesn't even want to know what time it is.
Arthur looks up as the architect slings her bag over her shoulder. "Are you leaving?" She makes a small noise of consent, too tired to talk and he stands up himself. "I'll drive you," he offers.
"No, I'll walk," she murmurs, despairing of what Ailin will say if she shows up at the dormitory in a different car then the one she left in. "It's not that far."
"I'll go with you," he insists. "It's dark."
"I go out in the dark all the time," she protests, but to no avail. He simply follows her out the door; Eames winks and mouths something that looks suspiciously like clam as they pass.
"You really don't have to walk me home," she mumbles, deeply embarrassed and grateful that they can only see outlines of each other in the dim streetlight.
"Consider it an apology," he replies, closing the metre wide gap she's left between them.
"Apology? For what?" Ariadne asks, confused.
"You can't honestly say you enjoyed my company this morning?"
"I – " She breaks off, not knowing what to say.
"I won't be offended if you say no."
"Well…no. Not exactly."
"Then I apologize for leaving you hanging. Also for being a bit of an idiot. You don't have to tell me what's bothering you if you don't want to."
His speech is oddly relaxed and casual, and not his usual pushed up sleeves, chair tilting casual either. He sounds more like the barista at her favourite café (albeit minus the addictive French accent) than the point man she knows, and somehow, the change brings with it an irrational fear.
"Why the sudden change of heart?" she asks.
"Because I trust you," he replies simply.
The words almost make Ariadne tell him, but the Pyramids didn't become wonders by almost being built. Habit and fear hold her back. As much as she appreciates his trust, he's only made it harder to hold herself together. It was so much easier even to think about lying when she wasn't trusted.
Arthur misinterprets her long silence. "Did I say something wrong?" he asks, anxiety permeating through his voice.
She shakes her head, then realizes he probably can't see her in the lack of light. "You didn't. I'm just…" She struggles to find the right word. "Surprised."
"You're surprised that I trust you?"
She backtracks at once. "No, I'm surprised that you'd give up so easily. I always pictured you as the type who'd go to any extreme to get answers."
"Oh."
It's the most awkward sound Ariadne's ever heard him make. For some reason, the thought comforts her.
"Not that I think that's a bad thing," she adds hastily. "Just…I figured you'd always want to know everything about everybody."
Arthur chuckles and she feels a ridiculous urge to bottle up the rare sound so she can release it later, when she wakes up from yet another nightmare.
"I can see why you'd think that," he murmurs. "But you're not affiliated in any way with a target and I don't research my team mates."
"You don't?" Ariadne repeats, genuinely surprised this time. "Doesn't that go against all your principles?"
"Yes," he admits," but I think they deserve a little privacy. And to be honest, it would only make everything more awkward to keep files on everyone I work with."
She wonders if this a veiled rebuke for digging too deep into his subconscious, which, if it is, doesn't bode so well for Eames' advice to extract his entire life story. And then she wonders if it would really be more awkward to know everything about each other. Surely they've already reached the absolute limit.
"You really don't care if I don't tell you?" she asks. "Not that there's anything to tell, of course"
"No," he replies after a moment. "I'd like to know, but what you do is up to you."
He sounds so trusting of her decision that Ariadne is seized with a fresh wave of guilt for deceiving him. She assuages herself with the fact that he's better off not knowing and that, if she's successful, he'll never need to know. The feeling dies, but only a little.
"Thanks." She mumbles, still utterly ashamed of herself for betraying the trust he's so easily given her. "I…Well, just…Thanks."
"You're welcome."
They spend several minutes walking in silence, their footsteps clicking loudly on the cobbled sidewalk. There are few people outside – they're in a residential neighbourhood and it's probably morning already. The ones they do come across are mainly couples of varying ages, who give them knowing smiles as if to say We're like you too. At their looks, she's torn between running away as fast as her short legs will take her and inching closer to Arthur. Both choices frighten her equally, setting off shivers and goosebumps across her skin.
Arthur immediately moves in so close that his jacket sleeve brushes against her hair. "Cold?" he breathes, so quietly that she only catches the word because it vibrates through him.
Ariadne shakes her head, forgetting their proximity, let along that he can't see her, and her head nudges against his arm. The touch drives him away, but not far enough. She stays on tenterhooks, half hoping to brush against him again but dreading what will happen if she does. At this ambivalent distance, the possibilities are endless and the probabilities, uncertain. It's a matter of pure impulse, not even chance, because that, at least, could always be mathematically derived, no matter how complicated the parameters and equations.
It's the constant vacillation that scares the architect more than anything else, the lack of solid, well-defined structures that could potentially stand forever. She wonders if that's what makes Arthur stay exactly where he is, not moving an inch to either side, not even talking. She's in university, not high school, old enough to know that people don't walk the streets during the darkest part of the day for the sake of an unnecessary apology, especially not when wearing designer suits. But the knowledge doesn't comfort her in the least, only makes her ponder why he's so indecisive whereas he's always so quick on the uptake when it comes to everything else. Her own reasons are clear enough – you don't pour all the uncertainties of your heart out to people who murder you in your sleep. But more than that, it's his uncertainty that fuels hers. And the longer they stay like this, the more certain Ariadne becomes that it – whatever it is – will never happen.
Nevertheless, Arthur's mere presence, especially this soft, realxed one that he's suddenly acquired, sends pins and needles crawling through her arms to her fingertips and into her nails, until she's numb from the need to step over the invisible lines on either side of her. The entire right half of her body aches with the effort of not touching him, but not pulling away either, and it takes all her concentration to remember to keep walking, keep placing one foot in front of the other. It's more tiring, she discovers, than running around a labyrinth in full snow gear.
She finally gets her respite when they turn a corner and a cyclist careens out of nowhere between them, snapping the elastic that holds them together. Her bubble of anxiety deflates, her throat clears itself magically and her brain starts functioning at its normal capacity again, although there's still a phantom tingle on the side of her head.
Arthur, too, seems to regain his power of speech and breaks the silence first. "You never said whether or not you're cold."
"I'm not," she replies, although now that she's no longer worrying about where to walk, she realizes that it is rather cold outside. But she isn't going to tell him the truth; he'd probably do something stupid and chivalrous like forcing his jacket on her. And she, in turn, would die of the embarrassment and shame of living up to the perfect Hollywood cliché.
"You look cold," Arthur says, and Ariadne suspects he's getting ready to shed his suit. Drastic times call for drastic measures.
"If you dare give me your jacket, I'll scream so loudly you'll be arrested for assault," she threatens, wishing there was enough light to see his expression.
Arthur, however, sounds unfazed when he answers. "I have connections in every country in the world except Vanuatu and a bank account large enough to post whatever bail the judge cares to set. Not to mention the fact that I haven't touched you."
"I doubt any of your connections could get past a restraining order," Ariadne retorts, irritated with how easy it is for him to find a loophole in her threat.
"That," he replies after a second, "is probably the worst thing you could threaten me with."
He times his words perfectly as they're passing under a lamppost. The dim, golden light makes her face appear even redder than it already is. She's on the verge of doing some assaulting herself when she catches sight of the smile tugging at his lips and decides that, for the time being, there are worse things in life.
"So no restraining order?" Arthur asks, sounding like he's holding back laughter.
Ariadne scowls. "Not this time."
"And I'm assuming that the jacket is also a no?"
"Definitely a no," she replies firmly. Quite apart from the whole Hollywood thing, she doesn't think her brain can take spending the rest of the night smelling like the point man.
"Well, it was worth a shot."
Her heart skips a beat and she nearly walks into a tree. It's the first time he's used the words since the abstract hotel lobby of the Fischer job, although certainly not the first time she's thought about them. She still can't decide what he'd meant by them; what was worth a shot: his attempt to distract the projections or the brief, barely perceivable contact of skin (she tries not think lips)? In the months of dream free reality, the memory of that kiss had been the first to feel like it had been a dream, and the accompanying words, the last to fade into memory. She hadn't forgotten about it, but she hadn't though too much about it for awhile until Arthur had rematerialized. And now, in the small morning hours less than a block away from her home, is the closest he's ever come to mentioning it.
Ariadne clears her throat awkwardly, casting around for something to penetrate the curtain of silence that's fallen around them once more. Nothing comes to mind, but she's saved by her phone. In the empty street, its tiny vibration is almost deafening. She answers on the second ring and is greeted by the frantic voice of Ailin, who spits out her words faster than a TGV.
"Mon Dieu, Ariadne, where have you been? Do you know what time it is? I've been up for ages, waiting for you to tell me about blue convertible man – "
Arthur makes a sound halfway between a cough and laughter and Ariadne curses the moment of weakness that had led to her purchasing the most expensive phone on the market, which, unfortunately, was equipped with a whisper sensitive mouthpiece. Ailin's voice squeaks up a semitone.
"Is that him?"
"No," Ariadne splutters indignantly. "And I'm kind of busy at the moment."
"Busy? Doing what, exactly?"
"Walking home," she hisses, hoping the words will calm her roommate, who sounds like she's close to hyperventilating. She can feel Arthur shaking with silent laughter beside her.
"With who?" Ailin demands at once. "And don't you dare say someone from work again."
"With a friend, then," she replies, willing to say anything if her roommate will only hang up and save her from further mortification.
"A friend," Ailin repeats, unconvinced. "Must be some friend to walk you home at two in the morning. Well, tell him to hurry up, I have to get up early tomorrow and I need to sleep."
The receiver clicks and Ariadne snaps her phone shut, face burning at twice its normal temperature. She doesn't dare turn to look at Arthur.
"Friend from school?" he asks, amusement clearing in his voice.
"Roommate," she mumbles.
"She sounds…nice," he observes nonchalantly. "Does she always wait up for you?"
"No," Ariadne answers, still looking resolutely away. "She likes to sleep a lot, actually. This is the first time she's done it."
"Because she's worried I won't return you in one piece?" he asks. They've reached the dormitory apartment by now and he stops in front of the door, waiting for an explanation.
"I suppose...She probbaly just wants to pester me about Eames."
"Blue convertible man?" Arthur laughs. "What have you been telling the poor girl? She probably thinks you're working with car thieves."
"She doesn't think I'm working with anyone," Ariadne replies. "And I haven't told her anything. She just happened to see you and Eames waiting outside for me and got suspicious. Which reminds me, I think I'll walk from now on."
"Why?"
She swears he sounds hurt by her galant offer, which will save him both time and fuel. Before she can answer, however, the window of the only still lit room in the building crashes open and Ailin's fiery curls tumble out.
"I thought you said he was leaving the country?"
"That's why," Ariadne murmurs weakly, positive that she can grill a steak with the heat emanating from her face.