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The chapter title means 'disappear'.

WARNINGS: Profanity.

ARTHUR

He didn't sleep much. He never slept much, but that was beside the point, which was that she had filled him with a euphoria that he couldn't shake (not that he wanted to). She'd satisfied some need he hadn't realized he'd had and now he was bursting with that knowledge, giddy, drunk on it. So instead of sleeping, he spent much of the night thinking about her. I love her, he'd think, and marvel at the way she had remade his world as easily as any dreamscape.

Okay, now you're getting carried away. He shifted on the mattress, grateful that Eames wasn't here to witness this. Eames would have seen right through him and he wasn't in the mood for the compulsory ribbing that would accompany said realization (the last time Arthur had even looked sideways at a girl—and this was years ago, mind you—Eames had spent weeks (weeks) popping into dreamscape practice runs as her. Arthur wasn't sure what had disturbed him more—the idea that he'd formed such a serious psychological attachment to a girl who served him sandwiches a few times a week that he was projecting a shade of her in the dreamscape, or, after he'd realized what was going on, the fact that Eames had spent a significant amount of time stalking the poor girl just so that he could forge her appearance and give Arthur a hard time. In fact, Eames had found it so funny that 'sandwich girl' impressions had become, much to Arthur's chagrin, something of a tradition. He was surprised Eames hadn't treated Ariadne to an encounter).

Eventually he did manage to fall asleep, and when he woke again, the gray, creeping dawn had replaced his euphoria with one stone-cold conviction: the best thing I can do for her is leave. He'd thought that he was helping her by coming here; he'd thought that he was taking care of the team. Really he was just being selfish. She still had the option of a normal life, if she chose it. A significant portion of him believed that the twisted world of extraction didn't deserve her; she was young and brilliant and unsullied—she could make her way in the normal world and be damn successful. The nobler fraction of him wished she would.

The other side of it, the side he could hardly bear to acknowledge, was that if he knew anything to be true, it was that he didn't deserve her. He was jaded and broken and older than his years, and he'd accepted long ago that his own future wasn't going to bring a little cottage and a dog and a white picket fence. The more he thought about it, the more he knew that he couldn't offer her the kind of life she deserved. She deserved someone who could be more than a suit and a gun.

It made him wish more than ever that he could talk to Dom. His partner, the closest thing he'd had to a real friend over the past eight years (Arthur supposed in some interpretation of the term Eames might count, too—a very loose interpretation of the term). Maybe Dom would be able to talk some sense into his head.

Because the truth was that reality was lurking (barreling down on them like a fucking freight train, more like), and Arthur was first and foremost a realist. The more Arthur thought about it, the more he knew that he needed to get the hell out of there. He had a few hours left with her at best—and even that was being selfish. Because aside from the fact that getting attached to someone like him would do her no favors, he knew that Cobol still had a price on his head. He knew he would never forgive himself if they came after her to get to him.

So he was worried. Justifiably—it was his nature, and he'd heard some nasty, though unsurprising, stories about what had happened to Nash. Cobol wasn't going to take it well if the inception had taken, given that they were a major shareholder in Fischer's company, and if they tracked he or Dom to Fischer, they'd know—and historically Cobol not taking it well had involved guns, lots and lots of guns. And that would just be the cherry on the cake, given that Cobol already had a price on their heads.

The point man's instinct (slightly over-compensatory instinct that it was) was to rustle up a couple of kevlar vests, a few nice semi-automatics, and a grenade launcher, and settle down to make sure that if Cobol ever tried to mess with Ariadne, they'd regret it (of course, given that this was Paris, he might have to rethink the grenade launcher). But in all likelihood (he prayed) they didn't even know Ariadne existed, yet—they'd be coming after him, and thus every minute he spent here he was endangering her. If it came down to a shoot-out, Arthur wanted Ariadne as far away as possible. The more oceans in between, the better.

It wasn't that she was incapable—Ariadne was clearly extremely intelligent and level-headed. But this was reality, not the dreamscape, and she just didn't have the practical experience to go toe to toe with an organization like Cobol. Arthur didn't want to think about her odds if Cobol came after her (he didn't like his own odds, for that matter, but at least he had some experience in how to avoid getting caught). The thought made him sick. He'd just have to do the best he could to draw attention away from Paris.

The moral of the story was that the best thing Arthur could do for Ariadne was get his ass off the fucking continent. Miles would keep an eye on Ariadne, and Arthur would make some serious tracks to draw attention elsewhere.

But he'd get her a gun. That, at least, he could do.

He got up as the gray dawn was fading into a soft blue, and showered and dressed quietly. I have to leave today, he told himself again, firmly, buttoning his shirt collar as he carefully locked away the sinking feeling in his chest, making a pact with himself that he would at least enjoy the time he had left with her.

He would allow himself a morning—a breakfast—and when the time came, he would walk away.

When he was dressed he very carefully opened the bedroom door, sneaking into the kitchen where he located a sticky-note and wrote, 'Ariadne, I'm going to the market. Be back soon, A'. He stuck it to the refrigerator and tiptoed past the couch, pausing for a moment to look over at her. She was curled onto her side, bishop tucked into her fist, and as he stood there she sighed in her sleep and turned over, muttering something unintelligible. He watched her lashes flutter against her cheeks, trying and failing to quash the sense of awe that arose in him at her beauty and her innocence. Afraid he'd wake her, he turned toward the door and slipped out, turning the locks quietly behind him.

He'd tucked a shopping bag underneath one arm and he strolled along the sidewalk, making lists of possibilities in his head. It all depended on what they had at the market, of course, but it was obvious crêpes were in order; he'd seen her stop and buy one for breakfast three out of the three days he'd tailed her. She usually went for fruit-filled, but she'd ordered Nutella once. And she always ordered a café-au-lait to go with it, so he'd have to pick up some decent coffee, too. All he had at the apartment was tea.

He'd never done this—make breakfast for a girl, that is. The few instances the opportunity had presented itself he'd been more preoccupied with dressing quickly and quietly disappearing into the chilly pre-dawn air. Ariadne was different, obviously, and he felt himself looking forward to her reaction. In spite of his worry about Cobol and his decision to leave, he found that the idea of making her happy made him happy. Really happy. Strolling down the sidewalk, he had to resist the strange and sudden urge to whistle (he didn't want to think about what Eames and Dom would say if they ever heard him whistling. If they didn't die of shock or suffocate from laughing they'd probably try to declare it a national holiday).

The city wasn't quite awake yet and he passed only the occasional fellow pedestrian as he walked. His feet hurt but he'd opted for a pair of (rather unprofessional) padded running socks and it wasn't anything he couldn't handle (it was a far cry from being shot, in any case). The overwhelming feeling of cheerful anticipation hung on Arthur like an ill-fitting sweater. Detached and collected, he wore like a second skin. He could just as easily do discontented and broody. But the truth was that outside the thrill of the job (which he did, admittedly, love—there's nothing quite like it), Arthur hadn't spent much time being happy over the eight years since he'd fallen into extraction. So he distrusted the feeling. But that didn't mean he wasn't enjoying it.

He was pleased to find that there were some nice lemons at the market, so he bought those along with a fresh chèvre, cream, eggs, coffee, and butter, smiling again with anticipation. Arthur liked cooking because it paid to be meticulous. His favorite recipes were finicky pastries and soufflés, where one was rewarded for good timing and attention to detail.

The walk back to the apartment was short and brisk and before he knew it he was back in the kitchen. Ariadne was still asleep, so he tried to be quiet (and, being Arthur, he was fairly good at it), but the act of cooking itself—mixing, frying, chopping—required a certain amount of noise. He kept a worried eye on her, glancing out of the kitchen now and then, but to his relief she slept through it. She needed the sleep—she'd been exhausted.

By the time he'd finished setting up, he was fairly pleased with himself. The violets had been stolen from a window box down the street, for which he felt sheepishly guilty. But this was Paris and surely his neighbor would have understood the tribulations of love.

He saved the actual crêpe-making for last, and was in the midst of frying the first when Ariadne appeared. Her hair was mussed and she still looked more asleep than awake; Arthur had to stifle a smile as he handed her a cup of coffee. "Good morning. How did you sleep?" He asked, and immediately felt like an idiot because a) he knew she'd been up at 2am looking for his dumb ass, and b) it seemed like a weirdly formal greeting after having someone wash your feet. But she didn't seem to mind. She smiled and sipped her coffee and they chatted as Arthur finished putting things together.

The expression on her face when she stood in the doorway and saw the breakfast spread made it all worth it, and he tucked the glowing feeling in his chest carefully away where it would warm him when he was holed up in some godforsaken place halfway across the world.

He watched her tip her bishop on the table, knowing she'd remember, hoping she'd understand.

He could hardly stand to leave her at the apartment, struggling to suppress images of Cobol thugs bursting through the door, and he circled through three times to make sure the place hadn't been bugged. He knew Ariadne's apartment well from his surveillance, and when he was satisfied he settled in the doorway of the bedroom, where Ariadne was sitting on the bed. The idea of leaving tugged at him more than he had expected, but Arthur was well-practiced at emotional partitioning, and he slipped into his point man persona, refusing to feel the ache in his chest. I need to keep her safe.

She had the same expression on her face as she'd had at LAX, but her eyes got as big as saucers when he'd passed her the gun. To his relief, however, after a moment she took it with a practiced hand, nodding. He didn't think she'd ever handled a gun in the real world, but he'd had Eames teach her in the dreamscape, and he'd tested her himself. She was a natural, and he grinned in a sharp way at the memory of watching her gun down, neatly, several projections in a row. If any of Cobol's bastards came after her, they would at least be in for a nasty surprise. He only prayed she wouldn't hesitate to take the shot.

And then it was time to go. He wanted to stay; he wanted to wrap his arms around her and press his chin to her hair, but he'd allowed himself more than enough emotional extravagance already, so he moved toward the door and opened it, preparing to step out of her life. But he made the mistake of glancing back at her, and she completely disarmed him as he looked down at her and recognized all the emotions that he was struggling so hard to suppress mirrored in her expression. It pained him to think that she was upset; he feared she felt he was abandoning her. "Ariadne, if you need me, I'll be here." It was a promise, and if Arthur was good at one thing, it was keeping his word. He was, after all, Mr. Reliable. So she smiled and nodded, releasing him (he tried not to see the tears in her eyes). Before he could find another reason to stay, he forced himself over the threshold and out into the (ironic) sunlight, where he did something else he was good at: he disappeared.

END PART I