A/N: So I got some more of my work done and decided to take some time out to do this instead. Enjoy. :)

51.

She moved instinctively, closing the gap between them as though urged on by some deep-seated, half-realised impulse. She felt his hand snake around her waist, settling on the small of her back, pulling her flush against him as their lips met.

It was brief, chaste, and yet urgent all at once. The latter mostly on his part.

Within seconds she had her hands on his chest, pushing him away from her. She stared up at him, dazed, furious. How dare this stranger waltz into her café and kiss her, demand that she come with him? Who did he think he was?

She hardly registered the hurt in his dark eyes as she took a step back and slapped him across the cheek, as hard as her aging body could muster.

It was then she realised that someone else was standing next to her. She turned, only to find a young man with a gun pressed to the stranger's head, his cold eyes fixed on his target. It appeared as though he were waiting – but for what? A sign, allowing him to shoot? She felt a tremor start in her knees and ripple upwards as she watched him, expecting something to happen.

But nothing did.

He simply stood there, still as a statue, whilst the other man had his eyes set on her, rubbing his cheek with his hand.

'Well, at least he hasn't shot yet,' the man called Eames muttered. 'That's something, at least.'

She looked at him, then back at the stranger gazing down at her. 'Who are you?' she demanded. 'What do you want with me?'

Arthur – was that his name? – tried to take a step closer to her, but she held up her hand to stop him. 'Ariadne, please ... you've got to remember us.'

'I have no idea what you're talking about,' she said coldly. 'And my name is not Ariadne. It's Olivia.'

'Ariadne – '

She didn't wait to hear anymore. Before he could even attempt to stop her she had fled, pushing past him and running off down the street. She couldn't take any more of it – the confusion, the false claims that these outsiders persisted in voicing. She needed time alone – to think, to scream – whatever the urge was.

She found an open grassy area not too far away – her third favourite spot in the city, behind the Notre Dame and her own café. It was always so peaceful, beautiful – a place where she could come and mull things over.

She approached the empty space with her mind racing, images swirling across her vision – the young man in the pristine suit – the elder gentleman in ... almost identical attire, though without the slicked-back hair – a garden chair in the middle of a vast, near-vacant warehouse – a set of never-ending, twisting stairs ...

Before she even knew what was happening, those very same stairs sprung up from the ground beneath her feet. She watched, awe-struck, as they rumbled upwards, then stopped just as abruptly.

She hesitated before putting her foot on the bottom step. She walked up ... and up ... and up. They were on an endless loop, she realised – everlasting stairs. The idea fascinated her, so much so that she continued to climb them until she heard a cough from below.

Arthur was standing there, watching her ascent with keen eyes. Behind him was the young man in the near-identical suit, gun still in hand, though he was no longer pointing it at the elder gentleman.

'You have to visualise them separating,' Arthur told her. 'Otherwise they'll just keep on going forever.'

Her brow furrowed as she considered his words, then she nodded. This time when she approached one of the corners, the stairs stopped. She met with a sheer drop instead, and peered over the edge at the men below.

'Paradox,' Arthur called up to her; she could see the hint of a smile playing on his thin lips. 'The Penrose Steps, one of the most famous optical illusions.'

'If it's only optical, how comes I've managed to build them here?' she asked, curious despite her wariness.

Arthur put his own foot on the bottom step and slowly ascended them, coming to a stop next to her. He gazed over the edge, too, down at the lush grass beneath.

'In dreams we can create extraordinary things,' he muttered close to her ear. 'Things we couldn't even imagine in the real world.'

She took a step back, her heart pounding in her chest as she looked at him. He watched her shake her head with an impassive expression – but she could see, deep in his eyes, a sense of urgency, a desperation for her to believe him.

But how could she? How could she accept such wild statements? She had lived here for years – almost her entire life. And now, suddenly, these men turn up and expect her to throw it all away?

'I don't believe you,' she whispered, her hands quivering by her side.

'Don't you see?' he continued, his own voice matching the lowness of hers. 'How do you think you can create things at the drop of a hat – just by thinking about them? Do you not remember where you first saw these?' He gestured to the winding steps with a wave of his hand. 'Once, long ago – in the depths of a dream?'

Still she shook her head. She could feel her legs giving way beneath her and collapsed to the floor, gripping the edge of one of the stairs for support. He moved to sit next to her, slowly, as though fearing to frighten her again. She watched as he reached into his pocket and drew out a small object – a bronze chess piece. A bishop, she realised immediately. He placed it beside her ... and waited.

He said nothing as they both looked down at it. She scrutinised it for a few minutes, before picking it up and inspecting it more closely.

'I don't think it matters that I touched it,' he said as she turned it over in her palm. 'I don't know its unique properties up top, so can't compare them down here.'

She ignored his strange words, focusing instead on the item in her hand. It was cool beneath her fingers. She ran her thumb over the smooth metal, then set it back down on the step.

And pushed it with her index finger.

Nothing happened. She frowned. She had been expecting something to happen – but what?

'It won't topple here, I shouldn't imagine,' Arthur said. 'I assume that's the property you gave it. It will only fall in reality.'

'Would you please stop saying that?' she snapped. 'Words like 'reality' and 'dreams'. It's ridiculous.'

She noted the flash of surprise that crossed his face, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by a calm resignation. If anything, it only irritated her further. It was as though he was all-knowing, bearing a secret that she wasn't privy to. Or one that she didn't want to know ...

She raised a hand to her forehead and began to rub it, trying to straighten out her spiralling thoughts. They were like the damn steps she was sitting on – never-ending, chasing each other around in her mind, driving her crazy. If only she could make them stop, could see the end ...

'You do remember,' he said softly. 'Even if you don't realise it. The name you're using – the doubt over little things I said back then – even him down there.' He jerked his thumb towards the young man waiting at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes never leaving Arthur. 'I can only imagine that he didn't shoot me back there because – somewhere deep inside – you believe me. Or at least, you want to. You don't feel quite so threatened by me as you did at the café.'

He looked down at her wrist, and she did the same. A faint bruise was starting to form beneath the thin layer of skin. She glanced back up to find him frowning, his eyes shining with shame and remorse. She watched as he reached out and took her hand in his, making no move to stop him as he began to rub her wrist lightly with the pad of his thumb. The movement soothed her. Goosebumps erupted on her skin under his touch. It felt ... nice. Almost ... familiar.

Slender fingers holding her wrist – a needle entering her vein – dark eyes averted from her own.

She blinked against the images that flashed across her mind. Where had they come from?

'I'm sorry ... for before,' he murmured. 'I didn't mean to hurt you.'

She shook her head, unable to say anything. She focused instead on the feel of his fingers as they caressed her wrist, on his dark eyes as they deliberately avoided her own. Why did this man – this stranger, for all intents and purposes – seem so oddly familiar?

Could it be ... he was telling the truth? That she did know him? From a half-remembered dream ...

'You once told me your favourite place in the entire world was right here, in Paris, outside the Notre Dame,' he ventured, apparently emboldened by her silence. 'That you secretly wanted to own a café nearby, so you could gaze at its beauty every day. It seems you got your wish.'

He breathed a sigh as he let go of her wrist, resting his hands on his lap as he gazed off into the distance. She realised – with some discomfort – that she missed the feel of his fingers on her skin. Her hand felt cold now, almost ... lonely.

'You know, Cobb said never to build from memories,' he said.

'Yeah, well, Cobb always did spend a lot of time doing things he said not to.'

The words were out of her mouth before she even realised what she was saying. She blinked again, then looked up at him. The sense of urgency was back in his eyes, coupled with ... hope? She had said something – something that had made him believe. But she wasn't even sure what she had meant.

'Ariadne, try to remember. Please,' he urged, grasping her hands with both of his as he leant closer to her. 'The warehouse – the dreams – the Inception.'

Images stabbed at her mind again, like thousands of tiny needles – a hotel – 528 – an airport – a strong pair of hands around her waist – a blonde man, with those terrifyingly cold eyes ...

'... Denley?' she breathed, her hands trembling beneath his.

She knew – somehow she knew – that she was right. Yes, that was his name. That vile, hateful man – the one responsible for everything ...

A plan – a bathroom brawl – the blood, oh God the blood – a gunshot ...

'He shot me,' she gasped. Her heart was beating fit to burst in her chest. 'He shot me ... '

Arthur didn't reply. He simply withdrew his hands from hers and wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her in a tight embrace. She could feel his breath against her ear as he murmured 'Thank God' over and over again. She buried her face in his creased shirt, letting the tears flow and soak into the soft fabric.

And his voice, from years ago. His soft, mesmerising voice, speaking her name. Ariadne. The anticipation she had felt, when he had almost touched her cheek. The feeling of disappointment when he hadn't. It all came flooding back, the wave of memories crashing over her as she sat there, sobbing, lost in the emotion of it all.

'Arthur?' she mumbled, her voice muffled as it vibrated against his chest.

'Yes, Ari?'

The words juddered down her spine, his chin resting on the top of her head. She felt her lips curve into a small smile as he used her nickname. He had never called her by it before. Not to her memory, at least ...

'Thank you. For finding me. For saving my life.'

She felt him shake his head. 'You once told me you trusted me with your life,' he replied, squeezing her a little more firmly. 'I wasn't about to let you down again.'

Neither one noticed the absence of the young man below; the faint flicker as he disappeared, this time for good.

Suddenly – inexplicably – it felt as though the intervening years had never happened. That she wasn't an old lady, living out her life alone in an empty city in the depths of her own subconscious. That she had never lost her memory – her own sense of self, the most important thing of all.

None of it mattered.

For he was here now, and she realised – how could she have possibly forgotten? – that it was all she had ever wanted.

A/N: So, yes ... a teensy bit of cheesiness at the end there. :P I couldn't help it! They deserve some small amount of fluff, I think, after all they've been through.

Now, I know it seems like I'm always picking on something in the story, but I'm a little worried about the last bit. I suppose it's really one chapter split into two (first half being chapter 50, of course, though from Arthur's POV.) It took a little while to write the whole chapter, so it didn't feel like it at the time, but reading back over it seems a little ... rushed, perhaps. I'm not sure. Hopefully it doesn't appear forced/contrived in any way. If it does, feel free to let me know and I may edit it when I have the chance. For now I shall leave it and drop into bed. And worry that I didn't actually start the book I have to read for Thursday ... d'oh. Never mind.