Disclaimer: None of this is mine, it belongs to Warner Bros and other creative outlets and people, I don't intend to profit from this in any way. I am just trying to curb my own writer's block.

Reviews are the best! I thank you all for them: Iole17; yes, it would appear so... Nina.4444; I'm so flattered, thanks for the praise, and especially for taking the time to read/review "Something That Belongs to Me"! 3 Eeyore08; I'm so used to it, it doesn't seem like the shooting came from left field, but I see why it would, too. And I try very hard to create adequate plot twists and emotion to keep y'all reading! L; haha, I'm loving your intensity! Interesting comment about Micah, read this chapter and maybe it'll give you more to ponder. ;) While; loving the response. Glad this chapter kept it going for you! In. Blue. 85; I've only ever taken AP Psych, but I try to read up on psychology when I can, so I'm glad at least parts are working! Knuckiducki; Eames has never been told what Arthur plans to do, he's just very confused/concerned right now about Arthur's behavior, and has yet to realize it could be only self-destructive.

Anyways, love y'all for reading, favoriting, following, and reviewing! 3 3

And look at how long these chapters are! Neat, huh?

Chapter title from the Blue October song.

Hate Me

Friday, October 14, 2011: Los Angeles, California: Long Beach: Micah

"I have to ask," Micah said as Arthur parked the car beside a steep cliff. The cliff overlooked the glittering water of the California coast, jutting sharply down to the ocean. In the distance, Micah could see a group of teenagers had started a bonfire. The sun had set hours ago, and the place was deserted. "Why this spot?"

They were parked on the side of the road, the car mostly hidden in the brush along the cliff. Arthur smirked as he shut the engine off. Micah glanced at the clock on the dashboard: 10:13 p.m.

"We're close to one of my favorite places in Los Angeles," Arthur murmured. "There's an incredible view just a little bit down the cliff. But we won't be going there, in case someone were to find us using the PASIV."

He reached into the backseat, pulling the PASIV forward and setting it on the dashboard. Micah watched as he opened it and began setting it up.

"Isn't this dangerous?" Micah wondered.

"The police will be too busy keeping an eye on those teenagers," Arthur said, nodding at the bonfire down the beach. "They won't care about a hidden Mercedes. They won't even see us."

Micah wasn't sure about that, but Arthur apparently was. The point man passed him a tube and needle, which Micah wasted no time in sticking in his vein. Arthur followed his lead, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt and setting his own needle.

He turned to Micah, eyebrow raised. "Ready?"

Micah swallowed. "Yeah."

Arthur looked like he was about to say something for a moment. But then he shrugged, half-glanced at the locks on the car doors to make sure they were in place and then pushed the plunger down.

Micah awoke on a smooth expanse of concrete, an odd and random-looking piece of human work in the middle of a gloriously beautiful beach. He looked around. He was in a port city, surrounded on all sides by large sailboats and expensive motorboats. In the distance were the lights of the small downtown.

"Where are we?" He wondered.

"Later," Arthur said. Micah spun around, spotting the point man. Arthur was dressed unusually casually, in dark shoes, jeans and a plaid shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up his elbows. Micah studied his own outfit: jeans and a red t-shirt, a pretty standard look for himself.

Micah tapped the hard concrete. "This doesn't look good."

"I'm not going to slam you on it," Arthur said. "But the footing is pretty standard for what you can expect on the job. It's easier than fighting on sand, anyway."

"I suppose," Micah said. He didn't feel convinced. At least sand would be softer and more pleasant.

Arthur straightened, as if he'd just realized something. His face was somber as he studied Micah.

"Micah, we don't have to do this," he murmured. "We can wake up, and Cobb can train you instead, if it makes you more comfortable. It doesn't have to be me."

Micah took a deep breath. "I know. But I want it to be you. You're a better fighter than Cobb anyway."

Arthur laughed. "This is true. Alright then." He raised his arms. "Hit me."

They fought for a solid half an hour, which felt at least four times as long to Micah. He was getting better; he knew that much. Arthur changed his strategy from being easy on Micah to using some of his real strength and focus. For the first ten minutes or so, Micah was taken down with apparent ease. But as Micah observed Arthur's strategies, he began to fight back, forcing the point man to try new tactics and new moves. Micah felt pleased, seeing the intensity of Arthur's expression as he fought Micah. He was making him think, making him re-evaluate how best to take Micah down. And he wasn't having an easy time of it at all.

They finally broke apart. Micah was stunned to see that Arthur was also breathing hard.

"That was good," he forced out. He straightened, putting his hands behind his head as he breathed. "Okay. Let's talk about the specifics of what you just did."

Arthur launched into teacher mode then, describing the pros and cons of each punch and hit he'd landed on Micah, while also establishing how each move would far in a dream.

"Remember, dreams are radically different," he said, standing and speaking to Micah, who felt like he was back in class at Harvard. "So there are certain methods we can use that would never work in the real world. Like this."

He paused his lecture every now and then to show Micah what he was talking about, and encouraging Micah to copy him. He then adjusted Micah's form and grip, explaining why it needed to be done exactly the right way.

"You will be deeply sorry if you ever put your thumb in your fist," Arthur said sternly as Micah tried to make a punch. Micah blushed, embarrassed.

That went on for some time, as the light shifted and the sun continued to move down the sky and to the ocean. At some point, Micah noticed the odd and ethereal colors of the sunset.

"You like sunsets," he stated.

Arthur nodded. "I do. It's my favorite time of day." He looked at Micah, sizing him up and then sat down on the edge of the concrete platform, taking off his shoes and burying his bare feet into the sand. He patted the space beside him. "Take a seat, Micah."

Micah did so, pulling off his own sneakers and following Arthur's example. The air was warm, and Micah didn't feel chilled, even as his sweat dried.

"You're very brave, Micah," Arthur said.

"What do you mean?"

Arthur smiled. "I mean the fact that you just fought me, when I almost killed you two days ago. Most people would've been terrified of me swinging punches at them, but you never backed down. Yet you also kept your head and followed a clear plan when you fought me. That took real courage, Micah, and I am impressed."

Micah blushed at Arthur's praise. "Thanks."

"You're a fast-learner, Micah."

"I want to do well at this," Micah said fervently. "I really want to get this right."

Arthur considered his words, running a hand over his face in thought. Micah studied the older man's face, how perfectly clean-shaven it was, how smooth, yet how old Arthur looked in that moment. He was just seven years older than Micah; but a thousand times more of a man.

"I have an idea," he said. "To get you to understand me a little more, and trust me a little more. I know you say we're fine," he said quickly, as Micah opened his mouth to protest. "But we're really not. You're never going to forget what happened. And that's perfectly normal, except I need to make sure that doesn't interfere with how you interact with me during the job."

"It won't," Micah muttered.

Arthur nodded once. "It won't, once we understand each other a little more."

"Okay…" Micah said slowly. "What's your idea?" He was envisioning intense military bonding programs, the kinds of hard work Arthur probably lived for. He really didn't want to do any of that, especially not with how exhausted he felt.

Arthur seemed to gather this from Micah's expression. He smiled widely. "It's simple, Micah. Twenty questions."

It took Micah a moment to grasp that sentence. "Wait. Did you say twenty questions?"

"I did."

He gaped at Arthur for a moment. "You know twenty questions?"

Arthur stared at him. "It's twenty questions, Micah. There isn't a whole lot that needs to be explained." He continued speaking, facing the ocean. "We each get to ask the other twenty questions about anything. Complete honesty, no lies. But that person gets three opportunities to veto and refuse to answer."

"Anything?" Micah repeated.

Arthur nodded. "That's the beauty of understanding, Micah. Would you like to go first or should I?"

Micah didn't even know where to start with Arthur. "You go first. But don't you have a distinct advantage? You already know everything about me."

"Facts, Micah," Arthur corrected him. "I know facts. That says nothing about character." Beat. "My first question: why did you choose to go to Harvard? You were also accepted into Columbia and Yale."

Micah smiled, pleased at how easy he could answer the question. "I'd think that's obvious. It's frigging Harvard. The best and most widely known school in the United States. I couldn't say no. Plus, their psychology program is awesome." He paused. "And yeah, the fact that shared dreaming has some origins there made an impact on my decision. I was interested."

"How did you first hear about shared dreaming?"

"Seth told me about it," Micah said. "I was fifteen, and he was at boot camp. He called to tell me the military had this program called shared dreaming, where soldiers could go in and shoot each other without having to worry about the consequences. Like a stress-reliever."

"Hm." Arthur didn't look at all surprised by Micah's story. Instead, he continued his rapid questioning.

"If Seth walked up to you in the real life tomorrow, what would you say to him?"

"I'm sorry," Micah murmured. "Sorry for leaving him when he needed me, sorry for running away to New York. And I'd tell him he was the best friend I could ever wish to have, and that I forgive him for killing himself."

"Are you into shared dreaming because of Seth?"

"Partly," Micah admitted. "He definitely got me thinking about it. After he died, I wanted to explore it more. Also because… I heard that you could mold projections into people you knew, and that you could talk to them. I wanted to talk to Seth again."

Arthur nodded, his expression telling Micah that he'd assumed as much.

"What will you do after the job is done?"

"Go back to Harvard," Micah said. "And then I'll get my degree, call up Cobb and see if he can find me a job."

"You really want to come back to this?"

Micah smiled. "I love it, Arthur. I love the freedom, the power of it all. It's exhilarating. Or I'm just addicted to the somnacin."

"No, I know what you mean," Arthur disagreed. "If you had a tattoo, what would it be?"

"It'd be on my shoulder," Micah said. "And I think it would be an eagle with Seth's name on it." At Arthur's look, Micah added, "Hey, he was in the army. He was super patriotic."

"What is your most treasured possession?"

That was odd. "My compass."

Arthur smiled. "Why is your totem a compass?"

"I used to go hunting with my dad," Micah explained, fishing the compass from his pocket. He opened it, watching the needle swirl wildly in circles. "And every time we went out, he'd ask me over and over again, 'do you have your compass, where is your compass?' I forgot it once and I've never heard the end of it. It reminds me that I need to know where I'm going, whether in a dream or in reality."

"That's good," Arthur said. "What are your siblings like?"

"Ben's really smart," Micah said. "But he has to work hard for it. School was always easy for me, but it wasn't for him. It was really hard for him to do well, and he used to get really upset about that, especially when he saw how proud my parents were when I got into Cornell. Beth is seriously artistic. She writes, poetry and all that shit. She also plays the cello and she dances ballet. She's completely different from Ben and me, but we love her to death."

"Where are your siblings now?"

"Ben's at the U of Texas," Micah said. "Working on a degree in Physics. And Beth's at Julliard in New York, studying dance and cello."

Arthur nodded. "If you could live anywhere in the world, where would that be?"

"Shit." Micah frowned in thought. "Honolulu, Hawaii. A big old mansion right on the beach. It'd be private, so I could just strut out there in my pajamas and no one would give a damn."

"What do you look for in a woman?"

"Hm…" Micah gave this question more thought. "Kindness. She has to be really nice to everyone she meets. And smart; I can't handle any of that bubble-gum blowing and hair-twirling nonsense you see on television all the time. Drives me crazy. And she can't be with me just because I'm raking in the dough."

"What makes you think you'll be very wealthy?"

"Cobb's told me what you guys usually can expect on a job," Micah said. "Plus, you're not dirt-poor if you're wearing three-piece designer suits and staying in first class hotel suites." Arthur laughed and nodded, not disagreeing with Micah.

"What do you hate most about your parents?"

Another weird question. "My mom's a nagger. I know most moms are, but she's over the top. All through high school, even when I pulled straight-A's, she'd always ask me if I'd done my homework, if I needed help. My dad's really strict. He's also intensely Republican, and I've leaned more to the left since I got out of Texas. We never really saw eye to eye. The only times we did were on our hunting trips."

"Who was the last person you said 'I love you' to?"

"My sister," Micah said without pause. "When we took her to Julliard. She gave me a hug."

"When you die, what do you want to happen to your body?"

"Cremation," Micah said. "And then scatter the ashes somewhere. Not sure yet." He eyed Arthur. "If I die on the job, give my ashes to my parents."

"Okay," Arthur said, without hesitation at the morbidity of the question or answer. "What's number one on your bucket list?"

Micah smiled. "Skydiving out of a 747 over a tropical paradise. I'd have to do it a couple times first though, because I want to go by myself and you need a special license to do that." He counted backwards in his head. "Two more questions."

"When were you at your most miserable?"

Micah swallowed. "When my mom called to tell me Seth was dead."

"And your happiest?"

"The first time I killed a deer," Micah murmured. "And my father told me he was proud of me. It was the first time he'd ever said it to me, and one of the last." He looked at Arthur. "That was the weirdest therapy session I've ever done."

Arthur laughed. "Good, right?"

"Definitely." Micah cracked his knuckles as Arthur shifted, as if physically preparing himself for the onslaught of questions. Micah created a list.

"What is your idea of perfect happiness?" He asked.

Arthur blinked. "Sitting on the banks of the Seine, at sunset, drinking wine with Ariadne. I'm free of Cobol and the dream world, and we have nothing to fear."

"What's the trait you most deplore in others?"

"Lack of compromise," Arthur said. "Or maybe vanity."

Micah stared straight at Arthur. "How did your father die?"

Arthur only hesitated for a brief moment. "He was murdered in Moscow. Assassinated."

"Why was he assassinated?"

"Because he worked for the U.S. military and was on a top secret mission," Arthur said quietly. "It was the eighties, but Russia still wasn't trusted. My father immigrated to California from Russia in the 1970s. He still had an accent, and was well-suited to deceive them. They figured it out though, and they killed him."

"Who told you your father was dead?" Micah asked. He was a firm believer of the flashbulb memory. He'd never forget how his books were organized as he sat on his desk while his mother sobbed: "Micah, Seth is dead."

Arthur's eyes were dark. "No one told me. I saw him die." Micah gaped, but Arthur continued. "We were all in Moscow, visiting him. My mother, my brother and me. My mother and brother went out to the market for food, and I stayed with my father in his apartment. There was a sudden pounding on the door. My father told me to hide under the table, and I obeyed him. I listened as he spoke to the intruder in Russian, and I watched as he was shot. He landed beside me, and I held his hand as he died. The assassin never knew I was there."

"Jesus Christ, Arthur," Micah breathed. "I'm so sorry."

"Next question."

"What's your greatest regret?" Micah whispered.

Arthur closed his eyes. "Not telling my father that I loved him, and that I would avenge him. Both were true, though the latter came much later."

"How did you first hear about shared dreaming?"

"After my father died, I experienced night terrors," Arthur said softly. "I've always been a researcher at heart, so I threw myself into trying to diagnose and cure them on my own. I succeeded, with the help of one of my dad's military buddies. His name was Monty Eliot, and he kind of took over the role of father after mine died. He gave me some books on psychology and he also taught me how to use a gun and how to fight, all before I was a teenager. Eliot was well-connected." He looked at Micah. "When the military decided to open a program of shared dreaming at Harvard, he recommended me. I went through a series of interviews and aptitude tests, which I passed easily. All because of Eliot."

Everything made so much more sense to Micah now. But he had more pressing questions.

"The time you were held underwater by Arab men," he began. "What was going on?"

Arthur shook his head. "Veto."

Micah tried again. "What happened to your legs?"

"Veto."

Micah sighed in annoyance. "Are those two events connected?"

At first, he'd thought Arthur wasn't going to answer. But then the point man sighed and murmured, "Yes."

Holy shit, he was tortured. "Was it connected to the military?"

"Veto." Arthur looked at him. "Sorry. You still have twelve questions left."

"What's your greatest fear?" Micah asked, allowing the moment to pass.

Arthur exhaled loudly. "Losing the people I love. To death, and losing them to life." Micah understood him to be talking about Ariadne.

"How many languages do you speak?"

"Fluently? Four," Arthur said. "English, Russian, French and Arabic. I know bits and pieces of Spanish and Italian though."

"When and where were you happiest?" Micah wondered.

Arthur's lips bent in a smile. "Last November. Ariadne and I were having dinner in my apartment, and I told her I'd cleaned out one of my extra rooms for her to use as a work space, and she told me she loved me. It was the first time she'd ever said that to me."

"If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?"

"I'd be more forgiving," Arthur said.

"What did you want to be when you were a kid? Assuming it wasn't a point man."

Arthur laughed. "I wanted to be a commercial pilot. You know, so I could fly, and be completely free."

Micah smiled. "Awesome. Who are your real-life heroes?"

"I'm a fan of Matt Taibbi," Arthur said. "I always read his articles. I respect Dexter Filkins—he wrote for the New York Times—and George Orwell is my favorite author."

"A lot of writers," Micah noted.

"I read a lot," Arthur admitted. Micah thought of the bookcases in his dream house. "Next question."

"Which talent would you most like to have?"

"I wish I could play the piano better," Arthur said. "My brother's really good, but I never got the hang of it. And I wish I could forge like Eames can. Then I would never have to work with him. You've got five left, Micah."

"Excluding Ariadne, who did you last say 'I love you' to?"

"Cobb's kids," Arthur murmured in a sad tone. "I'm their godfather, did you know that?" Micah shook his head and Arthur continued. "I call them up a couple times a year, always on their birthdays. The last time I spoke to them was right after Ari and I got back from the Mediterranean, and they called to say hello. They told me they missed me; I promised I'd be in the States for James' birthday in November."

For some reason, Micah thought this was the most personal thing he'd asked Arthur yet. A thought occurred to him.

"Why are there empty rooms on the top floor of your house?"

Arthur gave him a look, but surprised Micah by answering. "They're for my kids. Assuming I'd have some one day."

Micah wanted to know more about that, but he had other things that he really wanted to ask Arthur.

"Why is your totem a die?"

"Because it reminds me of my father," Arthur said, pulling the red die from his pocket. "He always told me that life is about making your own luck. It's never just a game of chance. It all happens for a reason." He flicked the die around his fingers. "Funny. Both our totems have to do with our fathers."

Micah's voice was soft. "What do you want your last words to be?"

"What makes you think I've thought about that?" Arthur glanced at Micah, who opened his mouth to ask a different question, only for Arthur to wave him off. "I hope they'll be to Ariadne. Not disgustingly sappy or anything, but enough for her to know that I've always loved her, that I never regretted loving her, and that I'm sorry for any pain I caused her. I hope she'll be able to tell me she forgives me before I die."

Micah waited for more, but Arthur didn't say anything. So he asked his last question.

"I've asked when and where you were happiest. When and where were you saddest?"

Arthur looked out over the dark ocean. The sun had long since set, and they were sitting under a tranquil black sky.

"My hotel room, last Saturday night," he said at last. "When I saw the look on Ariadne's face as she left and I realized she didn't love me anymore." He looked at Micah. "She keeps saying she does still, but she just can't let go. She's nostalgic for what we had. She fails to realize that my behavior right now isn't erratic or odd; it's wholly me. There's nothing wrong with me."

He got to his feet, and Micah hastened to follow him. The therapy session was over.

"I have one more question," he whispered.

Arthur sighed. "That would be twenty-one questions then."

"Please," Micah said urgently.

"Fine," Arthur said. He faced Micah, hands in his pockets.

"You don't think she loves you," Micah murmured. "But you still love her. So tell me this: are you still planning to die so she doesn't have to?"

Arthur nodded once. "Yes."

Micah gaped at him. "How can you do that?"

"Is that another question?" But Arthur's tone was light and teasing, as if Micah was asking him a pleasant query into his childhood. He turned and began to walk down the beach and Micah followed.

"If she dies and I don't, I'll have to change my greatest regret," Arthur said. "Does that answer your question?"

Not really, Micah thought. "What are you going to do now? Since you think you're going to die, and all that…"

Arthur smiled, in a really pathetic and sad kind of way. "I'm going to take every moment she gives me. Right up until she realizes she's just trying to relive our relationship, and she leaves."

Micah was pretty sure that was the saddest thing he'd ever heard, including all the stuff that Arthur had told him about his father. But he nodded instead of saying any of that.

Arthur smiled at that. "You're a good person, Micah. And I want to give you some advice: Cherish your dreams. Because, too soon, they're going to go away and you'll only be able to dream with the PASIV."

"You don't dream anymore?"

"No," Arthur said quietly. "Well, I did have my first real dream in ten years a few months ago. But then Cobb brought me into this job, and, well…"

Micah grimaced. "What was it about?"

"My dream?" Arthur frowned in thought. "Jesus, I'm not sure… Oh." He smiled suddenly. "Yeah. Well, it was like a dream I think I had as a kid. A really common one, actually. I was flying."

"That's nice," Micah murmured.

Arthur stopped walking, and Micah saw why. The ground was shaking, the waves rising higher and higher: their time was up.

Arthur's hand reached out, and he placed it on Micah's shoulder, forcing the younger man to look at him.

"Are we better now?" He asked.

Micah nodded. "Yeah. We are."

"I'm glad to hear it," Arthur murmured. The ocean fell away.

Micah opened his eyes and took a deep breath, shifting in the passenger seat of Arthur's Mercedes. Next to him, Arthur was rolling up the tubes and Micah hastened to help, passing him the tube and following Arthur's lead in tossing the used needles out the window.

Arthur gave him a small smile and then turned the engine on, backing the car out of the brush. He pulled onto the highway with a screech.

"Eames kind of hates your guts right now," Micah murmured.

"I'm not surprised," Arthur said. "I broke his nose, and he takes great care of his appearance."

Micah shook his head. "It's bigger than that. He thinks you're nuts."

"Hm." Arthur stared out the windshield, apparently deep in thought. "Yes, I'm not surprised. Eames and I have never been on the same wavelength, but we've watched the other's back. I might dislike him, but I know I can count on him. But now… Things are different."

"Because of what happened with me," Micah summarized.

"I'm not convinced that's just it," Arthur murmured. Micah looked at him confused. Arthur looked old. "I think it goes deeper than that. Maybe to a level Eames doesn't even know about yet."

Micah frowned in pure confusion, searching his memory for the clues that might've tipped Arthur off to realizing why Eames was so antagonistic. He ran through Eames' various scowls and glares at Arthur, searching, searching…

"I don't see it," he said at last.

Arthur smiled. "Either you're naïve or I'm bitter. Or perhaps an odd mix of both." He turned to Micah, keeping one hand on the steering wheel. "What does Eames' behavior around and toward Ariadne look like?"

Micah's jaw dropped. "You're joking. You think he likes her?"

"Like I said, maybe I'm bitter," Arthur said softly. "I do tend to be jealous. But Eames has always been protective of her, even on the job last year when none of us knew her. He's very fond of her; he tells her that quite often. But lately… God, I don't know. Maybe Ariadne doesn't even see what she's doing. But they're always touching each other, he's got his arm around her, she's holding his hand; they look like a couple."

Micah opened his mouth to argue, but stilled, realizing that Arthur…Wasn't off base. Eames and Ariadne had been touching a lot lately, acting very friendly. He'd assumed it was because they were good friends; but they only knew each other as well as they knew Cobb. He'd assumed then that maybe it was because they were staying in the same hotel suite. But that made all the other clues suddenly took on a whole new meaning…

"He said some stuff in Cobb's dream," Micah murmured.

Arthur snapped his gaze to Micah, his eyes dark. "What did he say?"

Micah fidgeted with the end of his sweatshirt, an old nervous habit. "He was freaking out a bit; this was after he'd shot you and you'd died. He kept telling Cobb that you were insane, and unhinged. And Cobb kept defending you, saying he trusted you. Eames took Ariadne's hands and he asked her if she trusted you, if she even knew you anymore. And then… Well, he told her he didn't think you loved her anymore-"

Arthur's hands jerked on the wheel, and Micah fell hard against the window. Arthur swerved back into traffic, having moved so quickly in surprise.

"He said that?" He asked in a deadly voice.

"Yeah."

Arthur took a deep breath. "What did Ariadne say?"

Micah smiled, relieved he could bring Arthur some good news. "She asked me what the flowers looked like."

There was a short silence, during which a million emotions flew across Arthur's face. Micah recognized surprise, relief, heartache and concern. He took a deep breath, rearranging his features to a poker face.

"I told her the flowers looked beautiful," Micah continued. "And she seemed to take some comfort in that. She was real quiet for a little bit, and then she muttered, 'You're such an idiot.' Might've been talking about you."

"Probably," Arthur agreed.

"And then she said she was starting to understand why you…acted, the way you did," Micah said. "And she said she didn't agree still, but that it was something she was starting to understand. She told Eames to leave us alone and to not follow you into your dreams." He hesitated, remembering the words that had a heavy significance now. "And then Eames just stared at her and said 'Are you kidding? Ari, this morning-'"

"I hate how he calls her that," Arthur breathed out suddenly. At Micah's look, he clarified, "Only her closest friends and family get to call her Ari."

Micah frowned. "Well…Huh. This is going to make things even worse then. After he said that, she said, 'I know what I said.' Which kind of implies that she raised her own doubts about you to him earlier." Arthur's expression was frozen and Micah hurried now, thinking about how ripping a band-aid off at once was better than one bit at a time. "And then she said, 'I'm thinking about what you said. Maybe I don't know what goes through Arthur's mind these days. But I trust him to be the point man.'"

It was obvious to Micah that his repeating of Ariadne's words was the hardest blow to Arthur. The man gripped the wheel tightly.

"She doesn't trust me to do for her what a lover would," he murmured, more to himself than to Micah. "I'm just the point man to her now. Fantastic."

"She's not about to get together with Eames," Micah said quickly.

Arthur frowned. "You think too highly of Eames, Micah. He works very hard and very diligently to get what he wants." He looked at Micah, managing to half-smile. "Thank you for confirming my thoughts and helping me establish that I am not just a paranoid ex-boyfriend."

"I think she still loves you," Micah whispered.

"That's a kind thought, Micah," Arthur replied. They'd reached the hotel. The point man parked the car with ease and climbed out. Micah hurried after him through the lobby. In the bright lights from the expensive fixtures, Arthur looked twenty years older than his actual age; probably the physical age he would be if you could somehow count all the years he'd spent dreaming. "But she doesn't love me. I've accepted this, so it's time you do too."

They got into the elevator. Arthur's free hand (the other holding the silver briefcase) pressed the button for their floors.

"Do you need anything?" Micah asked.

Arthur actually laughed. "Wow, you really are a nice guy. I'm fine, Micah. But thank you."

"I just don't want you to be alone," Micah murmured.

"I'm fine," Arthur repeated. He gave Micah a comforting smile. "You can leave me alone, Micah. I'm not Seth. I don't need you to take care of me."

Micah blinked, realizing Arthur was correct in his guess of where this protective streak in Micah had come from. "I just don't want you to get hurt anymore. You're a good man, Arthur."

"Micah Harper," Arthur said in wonder. "You are, without a doubt, one of the most selfless and forgiving people I've ever had the great fortune to meet. And I can't give you higher praise than that."

They reached the floor Micah shared with Cobb. Micah got off the elevator.

"Goodnight, Micah," Arthur said.

Micah looked up, his pleading eyes meeting the point man's. "Don't give up yet, okay, Arthur?"

Arthur's mouth half-quirked into a smile. He nodded at Micah as the doors closed.

Some of Arthur's answers are the same as mine... just throwing that out there to show some humility. I'm not THAT creative. And in all truth, his dream house is mine, too.

Review, please.