Thanks to all of you who wished me luck with my health stuff; I'm still in the middle of it and your support is really appreciated.
One of you asked me quite a bit ago how far into the story we were, and I said that I'd give some sort of warning before the end. If things work out, I'm guessing there will be about five or six more chapters, depending on how the writing goes. No promises, but I thought I'd let you know.
Your reviews, as always, are my motivation and inspiration, and I am always ecstatic to hear from you.
~M.
Ariadne fights the tremors in her hands as she locks the door behind her and tries opening it twice to make sure it's secure. She's not sure whether she's hiding from Nash or Eames or the truth that one of them is lying to her, but her muscles won't stop shaking and her mind won't stop whispering that it's going to take more than a deadbolt to set everything right again.
Her room is empty, but Arthur's door is cracked. She peers into the darkness for a moment before changing into her pajamas and stepping inside.
She can just make out the edge of the bed and the outline of Arthur's shoulder in the green glow of his alarm clock. Following the contours of the bed around to the far side, she peels back the blankets and climbs in.
Arthur hisses in his sleep, and Ariadne remembers his ribs and wonders how much pain he's been hiding when he's awake. She reaches out to brush her fingers over the bruises she knows mottle the skin of his chest.
A hand catches hers, and the bed creaks as Arthur tenses. She can't see him, and the stillness underscores her shaking.
"It's me," she whispers to the black silhouette of his face.
He's quiet for a long moment, before sliding up to sit with his back against the headboard. "What's wrong?" he asks, reaching for the lamp.
She knows better than to tell him with Whelan recording their every word. Joining him at the top of the bed, she takes one of his hands in both of hers and tries to focus on the feel of smooth skin and slender fingers.
"Ariadne." Her name falls from his lips in four weighty syllables.
"Let's get out of here," she says. "We can make a rope ladder out of sheets, kick out one of the windows, and disappear."
He reaches up his free hand to brush her hair from her eyes. When he speaks, his words are soft. "We could find Cobb's children and tell them that their father isn't coming back."
"We could all leave together, run off into the night, maybe go see some pyramids."
"They are quite a sight."
The steadiness of his voice filters the adrenaline from her system, trading confused panic for exhaustion.
Arthur seems to notice the change. He lies back down and pulls her beside him, arms wrapped tightly around her waist. "You still haven't told me what was wrong," he murmurs into her hair.
She listens to the rhythm of his breathing and doesn't answer.
The edge of the roof over the herbalist's shop on the corner of 17th and 142nd is just barely wide enough to keep Ariadne from getting soaked in the downpour as she waits on the sidewalk for her ride. She's never been much for the city, she is grateful for the way the skyscrapers help block the wind. She does wish, though, that she had a coat.
The red sedan pulls up right on schedule, and Cobb reaches across the seat to open the door for her. "We've got three and a half minutes if Eames can keep control of his projections," he says as she climbs inside.
"It'll help that there are no trains this time around."
"It is one less thing to worry about," Cobb agrees, hitting the gas.
Ariadne turns in her seat to look back at Yusuf. "Something feels different about this level."
"It's been a bit since I last dreamed it. I may be out of practice," Yusuf tells her, his voice jerking at the end as they take a sharp left.
"It's fine for now," Cobb dismisses before Ariadne can say anything more. "Just make sure it's right by the time we do the job."
"Of course. I imagine Arthur will make us rerun the levels until everything is immaculate."
Cobb snorts a laugh and Aridne grins and leans back in her seat.
Their timing is perfect for once. The scene takes on an eerie haze of deja vu as Cobb maneuvers around stopped cars and heads toward the sound of gunshots. The cab at the center of the fray is a shell of broken glass and battered metal, but it's true to Ariadne's memory. From the driver's seat, Arthur catches her gaze for the fraction of a second before slamming into reverse and racing away from the fight.
Cobb leads the way to the warehouse as Ariadne compliments Yusuf on the detail work in the broken pavement. He laughs and reminds her that she had been the one to suggest it back when they were shaping the dream the first time around.
They park, and the cab slams to a stop beside them. The hairs on the back of Ariadne's neck spike when she catches the anger written across every line in Arthur's face.
"This isn't a game!" he shouts, jerking his car door open and closing it with a slam that shivers the shattered remains of his window.
"Thank you for reminding me, I'd forgotten in between the near-constant commentary from you and Cobb." Eames counters, running to close the warehouse door.
"It looked good from where we were," Cobb says.
"Yes, it was fine if we don't mind Saito surviving through all three dream levels," Arthur tells him. "None of the bullets would have even gotten close to hitting him."
Eames joins the ring of bodies. "Why should they? There was nobody in his seat to shoot at. It's not like it'll be my projections in the actual dream, anyway; as long Saito's subconscious remembers what happened, or close to it, we'll be fine."
"If we can't be accurate in the practice runs, we won't be accurate in the job. Get this right or we'll all be compromised."
"Don't you think you're over-exaggerating just a bit? We've done this before; we'll be fine. You're just testy because the stakes are higher."
Arthur glares Eames, then at his watch, then at the rest of the team. "We have forty minutes. Let's take it from the top again. Eames, reset the scene."
"Say please, darling."
Arthur grabs the back of Eames' neck and slams his face into the roof of the cab. The sound of skin and bone hitting metal resonates through the warehouse with a sickening crack. "Do it now."
Eames wipes at the blood trickling from his nose. "Your skin's getting thinner, Arthur. I'd watch myself if I were you; nothing good can come from a brittle point man." He turns toward the others, blood sliding over his lips to drip from his chin. "Shall we?"
The next three days are devoted to practicing the events in the dreams until they're instinctual. In the evenings, Ariadne scours her reflection in the bathroom mirror, looking for signs of the aging she's been feeling in the expanse of dreamworld time.
Arthur catches her the third night.
"It's normal to feel strange after longer stretches," Arthur says without asking what she's doing. "Most jobs don't require this much time in the field."
"How do you stop feeling like this?"
"You don't. After a while you get used to it."
He steps up behind her and wraps his arms over her stomach. His reflection looks young—barely pushing thirty—but Ariadne can see the years in his eyes.
"Have you ever added up how much time you've spent in shared dreams?" she asks.
His mouth curls into the ghost of a smile. "Twenty-two years."
The next question makes it past her lips before she can think. "How many times have you died?"
"Thousands."
There's a pause as she thinks back over all the times she's been killed since first meeting Cobb. Only a handful, but she knows how it sits in a heart. The memory of each one drags her down just a bit farther, and she's already caught herself wondering how long it takes before the weight of death becomes too heavy for a mind to bear without breaking.
"Does it ever get easier?"
He meets her gaze in the glass for a moment before kissing her temple and stepping from the room.