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.
Reviewers! (I was terrified to read all of your reviews, honestly)- Shanynde: I don't hate you, I expect you're in the majority there! And I'm thrilled you reviewed, thanks. Guest: You can join Shanynde's camp then! :D thank you for the compliment. L: haha, no worries on the typo. I didn't exactly mean to give you hope and then pull the carpet out like that; mostly just considering how Browning might've approached the situation. Regarding an Ariadne/Eames thing... I think you'll like this chapter. Caliber13: thanks, and gosh, I guess you really did like the writing! Ugh I hate weak female characters... I swear I never intended to do that, things just happened that way, I suppose; this has always been more of Arthur's story. In. Blue. 85: oh gosh, crying!? way to quote Micah, I love it! thanks for reviewing, and we'll see... Iole17: Sorry! I feel really bad... I hope you keep reading. Knuckiducki: thanks for the reassurance! new chapter for ya right here. Lazarus76: hello! and thank you very much! MajesticMoments: haha, I feel you regarding the only reading completed stories. I very rarely read fan fiction (honestly) so this isn't a huge issue for me, but I get it. and thank you for the nice comments! While: I was waiting for someone to call me out on that; it drives me crazy when villains in movies prolong the death of their enemy. That would NEVER happen in real life. But I didn't have Browning shoot Arthur right away because-where's the drama in that!? and two, Browning is a bit of an egomaniac, all-powerful nut who'd want to see him suffer a bit. Regarding the writing... Very interesting! I thought "Cosmic Love" was one of my more well-written chapters, matter of fact. It was definitely the one I spent the longest writing, editing and re-writing; maybe I should just not do that? ;)
Knuckiducki said in a review a couple chapters back that she thought she saw some hesitation in Browning on the second level. I didn't mean to imply he was hesitating in his opinion on Arthur's future; I think he was hesitating because he hadn't known, until then, that Arthur loved Ariadne. He knew she loved him, but he didn't know they were together.
Chapter title from the song by Black Lab. Pretty angst-y, but you probably expect that.
This Night
Friday, October 21, 2011: Paris, France: Charles de Gaulle Airport: Eames
Eames wasn't sure he'd ever felt so sick.
He gazed out the window as the plane began to lower itself over the City of Lights. He could see the Eiffel Tower, twinkling in all its glory, dwarfing the darkness that was the sea of beautiful architecture around it. They'd circled a couple times, yet the sight of so much beauty did nothing to appease Eames' nausea.
He looked down, where Ariadne was curled tightly in her chair, the blanket Eames had tucked over her still wrapped exactly the same. She hadn't moved at all since the plane had taken off from Washington. She hadn't said a word, not even to protest Eames' buying them (and bribing the worker in the process) first class tickets for the next flight to Paris.
Eames reflected on how small she looked, the way her chin was tucked into her chest. Her hands were clenched tightly into fists, her breathing even: but he was pretty sure she wasn't sleeping. Heaven knew he hadn't slept a wink either.
The plane was dropping lower and lower, and then, with a soft bump, they landed.
Ariadne's eyes flew open, like the touch down of the plane had acted as a kick. She was breathing harder now, her hands grasping her knees.
"Ariadne?" Eames asked quietly. She turned, looking at him and her eyes widened. And he knew that she'd been so far gone in her exhaustion that a part of her had been expecting Arthur to be sitting next to her.
She swallowed. "Edward."
"Welcome home, love."
Ariadne sat up slowly, looking out the window at the harsh lights of the airport.
Night had fallen over the city; they'd had to loiter in Washington for a while, to make sure Browning's men hadn't followed them. In Washington, he'd suggested that maybe they should make a detour, just in case.
"There's a flight in ten minutes to Madrid," he'd said, pointing it out on the departures board. "One in half an hour to Stockholm, one in thirty-five minutes to Shannon…"
She'd shaken her head, her face set. "Edward, I am going to one of two places: Paris, like he wanted me to, or Los Angeles, to find his body." And Eames had no choice.
Eames watched as she took in the small bits of Paris she could see.
She sighed deeply, finally responding to his last statement. "Not anymore."
They exited the airplane, walking closely together to baggage claim. Eames felt like a fish out of water, surrounded by the native French speakers. He'd never mastered the language; he'd always been a Spanish man, spending the time he was out of England in Spain or Portugal.
They gathered their bags at the claim. They attracted several stares for this, because they had a ridiculously large amount for two people. Eames wanted to yell at them to explain that the reason there were so many was because they hadn't been able to leave behind their dead friend's belongings. But Eames managed to keep his face straight as he stacked Arthur's bags beside their own on the cart.
Outside, Ariadne hailed a cab, her face impassive in the rain that was drenching Paris that night. Eames shoved their bags into the trunk of the cab, climbing in after Ariadne.
She leaned forward, speaking in a monotone voice to the driver, giving him an address in the sixth arrondissement. As the driver nodded, it hit Eames that he was about to find out where Arthur and Ariadne lived.
They drove through the busy streets of Paris, filled with partygoers and tourists trying to escape the torrential rain. Eames and Ariadne didn't speak. They looked out of their separate windows, watching as they passed cafes, hotels, theatres, parks, fountains and the Seine.
After a while, they reached the front of a jaw-droppingly nice apartment building. Eames gawked at it as he followed Ariadne out. She strode straight inside the building, the guard nodding warmly at her (he recognized her, at least) and returning moments later with a carrier for their luggage, the kind Eames often saw at airports and hotels.
She didn't say a word as they loaded the luggage and Eames paid the driver with the euros he'd gotten while they were waiting in Washington. Ariadne led the way into the building, going straight for the elevator at the end of the hall. He got on with her, watching as she calmly pressed the button for the fourth floor.
They rode up on the elevator, listening to the muted piano music through the system, until with a soft ding, they arrived on the fourth floor.
There were only two apartments. Ariadne walked to the second one, fishing a key from the side pocket of her shoulder bag. He hovered behind her as she pushed the key into the lock, turning it with a click. She pushed the door open, but stilled.
"What is it?" Eames asked.
Without a word, she knelt down, her hands feeling over the doormat. Eames stared as Ariadne straightened, clutching a tiny piece of wood in her hands.
"Primitive security system," she murmured. Dimly, Eames recalled Arthur doing this many times, always finding a way to guard the warehouse or office they were working in. "No one's been here."
She pushed the door open all the way and walked inside.
Eames wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but he was almost certain this wasn't it. Ariadne and Arthur's apartment was… elegant. He hovered in the dining room, running his hand along the thick wooden table. He turned, looking at the long line of windows that showed a magnificent view, the Seine in the distance. The furniture was mismatched, antiques. The kitchen was more modern, thick granite countertops and shiny appliances. He quickly dropped the bags in the hallway, ducking out to return the cart and returning within moments.
"Here…" Ariadne reappeared, clutching a stack of blankets in her arms. She set them on the coffee table, beside a leather sofa. "There should be crackers and soup in the cupboards, maybe some fruit if it hasn't spoiled yet… You can sleep here. We—I, don't have a spare bedroom. Sorry."
She straightened, running a hand through her hair. She looked utterly exhausted; Eames was amazed she hadn't passed out.
"I should probably give you a tour," she whispered.
"No," Eames said, shaking his head determinedly. He hurried to her side, touching her arm. "Please, don't. It's fine, Ari. It's fine. Do you need anything?"
She shook her head. "I just want to sleep, Edward."
He nodded. "I think I can help. Hang on." He hurried back to the hallway where he'd abandoned his bags. He picked up his suitcase and dragged it over to the table, heaving it up and unzipping it. Curious, Ariadne approached his shoulder, watching.
Eames continued to dig as he spoke. "Water?"
Ariadne disappeared, walking into the kitchen and grabbing two glasses of water, filling them up swiftly. She returned and Eames held up the small vial of white powder.
She stared. "It's a sedative."
"My own personal supply," Eames confirmed. "Never leave home without it. Interested?"
"Yes please," she whispered. Eames carefully measured out two healthy doses, pouring them into the glasses of water. Ariadne watched, almost fascinated, as the white powder settled and then vanished.
"Dreamless sleep," Eames murmured.
She lifted her eyes to his. "Thank you, Edward."
He clinked his glass with hers. "Sweet dreams, love." He watched as she downed the water, immediately swaying as the sedative set in. Eames quickly set down his own untouched glass, catching her before she fell. She mumbled something unintelligible into his shoulder as he shifted her to carry her bridal style. They were both still wearing the outfits they'd worn during the job; their clothes were severely wrinkled. The only article of clothing they'd changed was Ariadne's shirt. She'd changed on the plane, after taking off her jacket and realizing the dark stain over her middle was Arthur's blood. Rather than throw it away though, she'd folded the shirt neatly into her bag, where it remained. Eames thought this morbid, but knew better than to comment.
Eames carried Ariadne down a narrow hallway, taking stock of the rooms and decorations he passed. He could see paintings of Paris, the city and its architecture, on the walls. He counted what he guessed was a hall closet and recognized a small bathroom. There was another door, but it was closed; he wondered what it was, since it wasn't the guest bedroom.
He gently pushed open the door to the room at the end of the hall, and found himself standing in Arthur and Ariadne's bedroom.
The walls were a plain off-white, the lights of the cars casting shadows on them from the window. It was closed, but the blinds hadn't been drawn yet; there was even a window seat under it. The bed was in the center of the room, neatly made, covered by a light blue comforter with a tan quilt at the foot. Eames studied the bedside stands, and guessed Ariadne's side was on the one covered in notebooks and pens. The other side featured a stack of books and an alarm clock. There was a door to the master bathroom, open; he could see a large bathtub directly under a window. The doors to the large closet were shut.
He laid Ariadne down on the side he supposed was hers, reaching back and covering her with the quilt. She didn't protest, or even make a sound. She just clung on tightly to the quilt.
Eames looked at her for a moment, feeling like his heart was about to explode from the pain of seeing how lost she looked. He imagined how this scene would've played out if he'd been the one who'd been killed. He imagined Ariadne lying here, under the quilt; but with Arthur beside her, spooning her, kissing her neck and murmuring reassurances, his own features subdued with the respect he'd retained for Eames. He imagined Ariadne's breathing becoming even as she fell asleep, Arthur's arms around her, his own eyes closing with sleep, and not death-
Eames shook his head, rubbed his eyes.
It should've been me, he thought to himself.
He walked back down the hallway, gently closing the door to the bedroom behind him.
Eames stood in the living room for a long moment, simply surveying the scene. The car horns and busy sounds of Paris were the only things that broke the silence in the gloom. He felt like he was intruding on something, something so personal and intimate, he couldn't even fathom it. His hand went into his pocket, and he fingered the sapphire ring in relief and despair.
Reality. No waking from this nightmare.
He went into the cupboards of the kitchen, searching through the food left behind. He eventually found what he was looking for: vodka. Pleased, he wasted no time in pouring himself a shot and downing it.
It wasn't that Eames wasn't tired. He was exhausted; but he wasn't ready to sleep yet. He wanted to see if he could recover something of this day, any semblance of normalcy.
He couldn't help but keep glancing at Arthur's bags, dropped in the middle of the hallway where he'd abandoned them. A perverse part of him wondered what mementos Arthur had left behind, other notes or instructions for Eames and Ariadne to find. Before he was quite aware of what he was doing, he'd pulled Arthur's shoulder bag forward and started going through it.
He found the expected things: his laptop, notebooks, regular novels (who knew Arthur read "1984" so obsessively, judging by how dog-eared the book was) and dutifully written notes on the job, Fischer, Browning, the power plant (a shiver went up Eames' spine when he saw how Arthur had noted a couple elevators were under construction) and the team.
But then there were the odd things. An iPod, tucked in a side pocket (the last song Arthur had listened to? The Beatles' "Across the Universe"; Eames wondered how much he should read into that.) He dug more and found a small bundle of receipts, receipts that told him Arthur had rented wetsuits and surfboards three days previously at a place in Huntington Beach (so that's where Micah and Arthur had gone), bought cupcakes at a grocery store in Oceanside (must've been with his family, Eames realized) and then numerous receipts for gas stations across Los Angeles and the greater area. Eames was careful to stack the receipts together; just in case Ariadne wanted to see them, physical proof that Arthur had lived.
And then, in another zipped pocket, he found the passports and IDs.
There were so many, for so many different Arthurs: Arthur Gervais, Arthur Nolan, Arthur Flickerman and of course, Arthur Collette. Not a single one was for Arthur Zaleski. Eames studied the passports, amazed and impressed with how authentic each looked. He was a forger, and even he would've found it difficult to doubt the authenticity of them. He couldn't imagine what Arthur's wallet must've looked like, filled with credit cards for all these different Arthurs.
He didn't think we'd get his bags, Eames realized at why there was nothing about Arthur Zaleski. He wanted to cover his tracks.
So he was surprised when he found a napkin addressed to Mr. Ed.
Eames picked it up from where it'd been tucked inside the passport for Arthur Collette. He opened it up, stunned to see a message in Arthur's distinct handwriting.
Remember what I said. Leave when she asks you to.
And then, an arrow directing him to turn it over…
Thanks.
Eames felt a shiver, and he ran his hands over his arms, feeling unnaturally cold. Arthur had known Eames would search his bags if he found them. He wouldn't have wanted to leave a message like that in one of Eames' bags, in case Eames was caught and they somehow connected the writing back to Arthur…
"You were too good," Eames muttered. Arthur was, without a doubt, the most brilliant and skilled dream stealer Eames had ever known.
He badly wanted a cigarette. Eames abandoned Arthur's bags in the hall and walked over to an armchair beside the window. He opened the window, letting the cool, wet air drift in. He found a pack of matches beside a small grouping of candles on the coffee table, and used them to light the cigarette he pulled from his jacket pocket.
Eames inhaled deeply, letting the calming nicotine wash over him. He couldn't believe what had happened in the last forty-eight hours. His mind kept replaying the scene of Arthur's death, witnessed through a small hallway window. He'd watched it at an angle, from the end of the hallway, and had only seen Arthur in profile, as the point man grasped the edges of the elevator, blood dripping from the bullet hole in his side. He remembered how violently one of the bodyguards shoved a gun into his chest, hissing something at him. Eames had been unable to see Arthur's response, or even his face, but it hadn't been a shock when the bodyguard pulled the trigger and Arthur's chest exploded in a wave of bright red blood.
And then he'd fallen, his feet the last parts of him Eames could see.
He remembered how he'd taken off, racing back around the power plant just as Micah and Ariadne spilled around the corner. He would never forget the look on Ariadne's face as the reality of what she'd witnessed sunk in.
She'd fought Micah, shaking him off and taking a step back, to run inside and either kill the man who'd killed Arthur or dive into the elevator shaft after him. So Eames had done the only thing he could do, a last gift to Arthur.
He'd wrapped his arms tightly around her and pulled her into their van.
I wish she hadn't had to see that, Eames thought desperately. It'd been close to impossible for him to see, and he wasn't in love with Arthur.
The magnitude of what lay ahead hit Eames in that moment.
After Isabel had left, he'd found himself spending day after day in the pub, drinking constantly when not on the job. It was his only way to calm his mind, to convince himself that everything would be all right.
And who'd come to his rescue? Cobb and Arthur, always sniffing out some job and offering it to Eames.
Eames wondered how the world of shared dreaming would respond when they heard the news of Arthur's death. In the last year, he'd fielded call after call from prospective employers and past co-workers, asking where Arthur had gone, if his retirement was true. And Eames had responded as honestly as he could: he had no idea.
Each person had been dejected with that. It wasn't good enough. Arthur was simply the best, and they could pay good money to hire him.
His loss would be felt, though the response was sure to differ.
Cobol might have a party, Eames thought wildly. Finally able to take Arthur off of their most wanted list, all the while knowing they didn't have to pay a cent for someone who did it.
Assuming Browning's bodyguards are unaware of the price on his head, Eames reminded himself. He wouldn't put it past them recovering Arthur's body, just to show to Cobol and acquire the reward of $2.5 million. Browning would've told them everything about Arthur, too. It was next to guaranteed they would want the payout.
Arthur didn't have any close friends in the business (as far as Eames was aware, anyway) aside from Cobb, meaning no one would be completely devastated to receive the news. The only sadness would come from knowing Arthur was no longer around to be the world's best point man.
He thought about the phone calls he was sure to receive. Yusuf would probably be the first to leak the news, probably as soon as he got back to Mombasa and saw the list of missed calls. People would want to know where he'd been, and who he'd been working with. And then he would tell them, and breathlessly add: "Arthur is dead…"
"Arthur who? Not Cobb's point man?"
"That Arthur! Arthur Zaleski. Killed in Los Angeles…"
And then the news would spread. People would try and call Cobb first, to get what they knew to be Arthur's most common co-worker to confirm the news. But they wouldn't be able to reach him, because Cobb would be too focused on finding his children and making them safe.
So they'd consult the names of the others Yusuf had worked with, skirt past the name Micah Harper (for Yusuf would explain he was a greenhorn, a novice, and therefore no one knew at this point how to contact him) and settle on Edward Eames and Ariadne Chopin. But while Ariadne was still largely unknown to the world of shared dreaming (thanks to Cobb and Arthur), Eames was not. And so they would descend on him, their demands harsh and without any regard to Eames' grief.
"Is it true? Is Arthur dead? The point man?"
What could he say, aside from the truth? There was no denying Arthur had died, whether from the bullet to the heart or the fall down the elevator shaft.
Eames looked around the room, and he realized for the first time that there were numerous photos around the apartment. He stood and wandered over to the bookshelf, where small souvenirs from exotic places were resting beside the books, alongside photographs in neat frames. Eames picked up one. It was a shot of Arthur by himself, looking more casual than Eames had ever seen, in khaki shorts, a white dress shirt, bare feet and dark sunglasses. He was leaning against a railing, smiling softly in the bright sunlight, an ocean that looked like the Mediterranean spread out behind him.
Eames smiled, looking at the other photos. There were plenty of Arthur and Ariadne together, including one that must've been taken on New Year's Eve, judging by the balloons and 'Happy New Year!' signs everywhere. They were dancing, looking deeply into the other's eyes. Ariadne was laughing as Arthur twirled her.
There were photos of what he guessed was Ariadne and her family: her childhood all the way up until her graduation from wherever she'd gotten her undergraduate degree. There were no photos of Arthur's family.
He could imagine how Arthur must have gritted his teeth over Ariadne wanting to put the pictures out. He could imagine Ariadne reminding him that if they were to look like a normal couple, they had to have normal pictures out like everyone else.
Eames sighed, shaking his head and looked at the cigarette in his hand like it was the first time he'd seen it. Looking at the photographs of Arthur and Ariadne, and seeing how happy they were, made him want to throw up—
A thought struck him.
Maybe it was his exhaustion. Maybe it was the cigarette smoke. But Eames had found a plane ticket inside his own bag earlier. And then he'd found a note from Arthur in Arthur's bag.
Could there be something else from Arthur in his own bag?
Eames practically pounced on his shoulder bag. He began to tear through it, haphazardly tossing out his belongings as he moved. Digging, digging—
A passport fell out.
A passport Eames did not remember owning.
His hands shaking, Eames opened it. It was an English passport, with Eames' picture and basic information beside it. The only thing that was different was the name: this passport was for Edward Zaleski.
He turned it upside down, and a small slip of paper fell out.
Your previous employer did go out of his way to make your return trip to London difficult. Your name is on the no-fly lists of the entire U.K. I didn't know if you'd thought of a way to get out of this, so I did. Good luck.
And another arrow…
Think you can pull off Russian?
Arthur had intended Eames to find this passport and note regardless of what happened to him. Eames gripped the table as tears sprang to his eyes.
Even when he'd thought Eames hated him… Even as he thought Eames was in love with his girlfriend… Arthur had been trying to help him.
"You son of a bitch," Eames whispered.
It was too much. He was tired of staying awake with only his memories. Eames turned to the table and grabbed the glass of water. He raced back to the couch and sat down.
"Cheers, Arthur," he murmured. And he downed the glass in one.
The days passed, and Eames and Ariadne fell into a pattern.
They went to the market together, Eames trailing Ariadne as she shopped for groceries. She bought fruit, wine, cheese, bread, butter, asparagus, mushrooms, chicken, eggs, milk, orange juice, green beans, pastas, peppers, fish, olive oil, pork… She asked Eames what he wanted and he answered, and she added whatever he said to their cart.
All the while, she wore a mask of calm. They barely spoke.
On their second day together, Eames got the call he'd been waiting for.
The phone number was unlisted, and he mentally ran through a list of potential suspects before he picked up.
"Hello."
"Eames," a man replied. "It's Alejandro."
"Ah," Eames said. "Hello, my dear Alejandro. How's Barcelona this time of the year?"
Alejandro was an old associate of Eames'. He was in the midst of retirement from his work as an architect, spending more and more time in his native Spain, incidentally the same country Eames had met him in.
"Very beautiful," Alejandro said. "But I'm not calling to brag. I heard an interesting rumor about our mutual friend Arthur."
Eames sighed, glancing around. Ariadne was standing in the kitchen, making them dinner. He got to his feet, gesturing to his phone and she nodded, her eyes immediately returning to her work as Eames stepped outside the apartment.
"What was the rumor?" He asked.
"That Arthur has been shot to death in Los Angeles," Alejandro said. Eames opened his mouth but Alejandro guessed the question, adding, "I heard it from a friend, he heard it from a chemist called Yusuf from Mombasa. I called around, no one's heard anything from or about Cobb, so I figured you were the next best."
"I see," Eames said slowly. He was standing in front of a mirror (why did this hallway have a mirror anyway?), scuffing his foot against the ground.
There was a beat; evidently, Alejandro had assumed he would get some sort of response. "Well? Is it true?"
Eames sighed. "Yes, it's true."
"I don't believe it," Alejandro gasped.
"Then why did you need me to confirm it?" Eames asked, rolling his eyes.
"You must see why I'm so surprised," Alejandro said impatiently. "This is Arthur we're talking about. Cobb's point man. Who did it? And how?"
Eames leaned against the wall beside the mirror. "Associates of Peter Browning, after Arthur killed Browning. They shot him twice and then pushed him into an open elevator shaft."
"Jesus," Alejandro whispered. "My God. I never thought I'd live to see the day Arthur was killed…"
"Yeah, I know," Eames agreed.
"How's Cobb?"
Eames shrugged, even though Alejandro wouldn't be able to see. "No idea. He's still in the states."
"Where are you?"
"France," Eames said.
"France?" Alejandro repeated, obviously surprised. "What the hell are you doing in France?"
Eames internally debated with himself for a moment before shrugging it off. Alejandro was fine. "Tying up Arthur's loose ends."
"Cobb?"
"Has more important things to take care of back home," Eames finished.
"France," Alejandro murmured. "So that's where Arthur was last year. I suppose you're trying to collect his money? He must have quite the treasure trove out there, assuming you can find it all." He laughed heartily at the end of his sentence.
Eames did his best to laugh with him. "Yes, I know. No luck so far. It looks like Arthur knew what he was doing. His money is lost to the world." He knew he had to add that detail. No matter how much he liked Alejandro, he knew he would latch onto whatever news he could about the substantial millions Arthur had left behind. Hopefully Alejandro would pass on that to whoever else inquired about it; Alejandro knew Eames enough to know the forger would've pounced on money, if any was to be had.
And Eames knew there was plenty to be had: but Ariadne would get it all.
"That's a shame," Alejandro murmured. "Ah, well. It's not as if you ever liked that man, hm, Mr. Eames? What was it you called him: a stick-in-the-mud?"
Eames grimaced, feeling his stomach constrict. "Yes, that's right."
"Still, we will all be sad to know the best point man has passed on," Alejandro continued. He laughed then, squishing the grief from his tone. "Ah, who am I kidding? Less competition, am I right?"
Eames wanted to punch him. You don't know what you're talking about. "Right you are, Alejandro."
"What do you say to coming down to Barcelona for a drink?"
"Can't," Eames said. "I'm heading home and taking a nice long breather. I'll be dropping off the radar for a while."
Alejandro sighed. "Whatever you say, Mr. Eames. When you decide to come back…"
"You'll be the first to know," Eames finished. "Goodbye, Alejandro."
"Farewell, Mr. Eames."
He hung up and leaned against the wall, clutching his cell phone in his hand. It hadn't been that bad, he knew. Alejandro was good enough of a person to not openly joke about Arthur, nor the manner in how he died.
But Eames absolutely despised his laughter about Arthur.
That thought was magnified when Eames walked back into the apartment and found Ariadne crying as she cut vegetables.
He ran to her side, shoving the knife out of the way and wrapping his arms around her. "Ari, it's okay… It's okay, love…"
"N-No," she stuttered. "It's just the goddamn onions. Just the onions."
He looked down and realized she was indeed cutting onions. Feeling awkward, he took a step back, blushing. But then he looked at her, her drawn expression, tired eyes and realized… She was lying. It wasn't the onions.
"You can cry," he murmured. "Love, you can cry."
And then she was sobbing, and Eames barely had time to catch her as her legs gave way, sliding down to the kitchen floor with her. Ariadne was sobbing, harder than he'd ever seen anyone cry.
"I miss him," she croaked. "I miss him so much…"
He was helpless as she laid down, pressing her cheek to the kitchen floor, her chocolate brown eyes wide and hopeless. Eames wanted to cry and to his horror, he did. But his tears were unmatched next to hers, a raindrop compared to the ocean.
"I miss him too, love," he whispered.
Eames had told Ariadne what he'd found in the bags, and she had wasted no time in tearing hers and Arthur's apart, desperately searching for something for her. He'd hovered in the background as she tossed out Arthur's shirts, her makeup bag, his shoes, her skirts… And when the bags were empty, and she was surrounded by the material things of Arthur's life, she'd collapsed, defeated. Because there was nothing for her. All that had been left was the keys to the Mercedes.
Even now, Eames couldn't believe it. How could Arthur leave him two notes, and nothing for Ariadne? It was completely unlike him, and Eames wondered if something might've fallen out of the bags in their mad dash from the van to the airport…
"Where do you think he is?" Ariadne whispered, her eyes staring straight ahead of her at something Eames could not see. He leaned against the cupboards, running a hand over her hair.
He swallowed. "What do you mean?"
He didn't want to talk religion. Eames had been raised Christian, but hadn't practiced in years. He had no idea what religion Arthur subscribed to either.
"Has he moved on?" Ariadne asked. "Or is he still here?" Her hand tightened around itself, as if she was imagining holding Arthur's hand within it.
"I don't know," Eames said, honestly.
"He told me, that when his father died, his brother went crazy, searching for signs," Ariadne murmured. Eames wasn't sure she was really talking to him anymore. "Anything to show he was still around. Arthur never bought into that. He was never raised with much faith, and he lost it in Afghanistan."
I don't blame him, Eames though. Torture would do that to someone.
"Pennies," Ariadne continued. "Spilled salt. Four-leaf clovers. Oddly-shaped clouds." She swallowed and closed her eyes. "I don't want him to be gone, Edward. I'd like to think he hasn't completely left me."
"Maybe he hasn't," Eames suggested softly.
"He told me he would be with me for as long as he could," Ariadne continued. "Do you think that's still true, even now?"
Eames honestly didn't know what to say. Fuck, Arthur…
"Edward," Ariadne said. "Do you think he's in hell?"
No, no, please no… Eames swallowed nervously, and ran a hand over his hair, his mind searching desperately for something to say.
"Logically speaking," Ariadne continued, not waiting for Eames' answer. "He killed a man minutes before he died. There seems to be an understanding that that's wrong, right?"
"Ari," Eames murmured. "I don't think Arthur is in hell. He killed Browning for us, remember? To save us? And he thought Browning was going to kill him first, so really, it was just self-defense."
She turned, her eyes finally meeting his. Her cheeks were wet, as was the floor where she'd laid her head. "You think so?"
"Yes," Eames said. Truthfully, he had no idea, but there was nothing else he could say to her. Who was going to tell her the man she loved was in hell?
Ariadne suddenly sat up, leaning against the cabinets opposite Eames. She wiped her eyes furiously, trying to not smear the mascara Eames knew she hadn't bothered to put on in days. He reached forward and grasped her knee.
"Edward?"
He tried to smile. "Yes, love?"
She took a deep breath. "I think you should go home tomorrow."
There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of the heavy grandfather clock in the dining room ticking the moments away, and the sound of the oven heating up near them. Eames gaped at Ariadne. He hadn't expected this.
"You want me to leave?"
She nodded. "I think it's time."
"But, Ari," he said, distressed. "I'm worried about you. You've barely said anything, today was the first day you cried-"
"Excuse me?"
He froze at the ice in her voice. Her chocolate brown eyes were suddenly hard.
"I've been crying every single day," she whispered. "Every night, when I try to fall asleep, all I see is him. His face, the moment he fell into that elevator shaft. I feel his arms around me as he dragged me out of that conference room, his blood against my stomach, his lips on mine when he kissed me for the last time. I see him everywhere, Edward, whenever my eyes are open. I see him walking down the street, working at his desk, drinking coffee in the café, riding the subway, sleeping with the PASIV, reading a book, cooking me dinner, dancing with me and singing along to his records, and holding his hand out for mine… And every time I speak, call his name, he disappears. And I'm all alone."
"Ari…"
She shook her head. "You don't know how I feel, Edward. You don't know what's best for me. I do. And I want you to go home."
Remember what I said. Leave when she asks you to.
Eames nodded. "Okay. I'll book a flight."
She sighed, as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. "Thank you, Edward."
"But if you need anything, anything," Eames said determinedly. "Don't hesitate to call, okay?"
"I won't," she agreed. "I'll keep in touch."
The next day came all too soon. Eames had packed and tucked the passport Arthur had made him into his jacket pocket. Ariadne walked with him to the front of her apartment building as he hailed a cab to take him to the airport.
"What will you do now?" She asked him.
He shrugged. "Lay low for a while. That's standard procedure after any job." He sighed deeply, knowing that she wasn't searching for that answer. "I'll have to deal with some fallout over Arthur. Everyone's shocked, of course. But… it'll fade away eventually. And I can't let go of this world. I'll go back in soon enough."
Ariadne nodded, satisfied. Eames stared at her.
"What about you, love?"
"I'll go back to school," she murmured. "Finally answer Professor Miles' calls. Maybe call Cobb, and see how he's doing. And I think I will call Makena after all. To tell her she was right."
"Will you dream again?" Eames asked quietly.
She considered his question, obviously thinking.
"Probably," she said at last. "Arthur wouldn't like me abandoning it because he died. And I can't turn my back on it either… It's pure creation."
"I'm sorry, Ari," Eames murmured.
He reached out, hugging her tightly.
"Me too, Edward," she whispered into his shoulder. "Me, too."
He got into the cab with a solemn wave. Ariadne watched him go, her arms tucked around her. Eames only turned away when the cab rounded the corner and he couldn't see her anymore.
Truth be told, I was never into an Ariadne/Eames relationship. But it made sense for the characters to at least wonder about the what if.
Two more chapters to go!
Review, please