I'm back in the world of fanfiction once again, and let me tell you, my trip away from it was not pleasant. I'm hoping that life doesn't take me away from my homeland again. C: I saw Inception not a few days ago (I know: how could you have JUST BARELY seen the movie? Like I said, life happens and sometimes it happens hard) and voila, a little plot bunny burrowed into my brain and has taken up residence.

I won't give away what happens in this chapter. So before I actually do, I'm going to start.

Ties

Chapter One

-Wherein the Next Job Poses a Problem-

If Ariadne's feelings at the moment were to be described as any color, they would be the same purple as the sculpture she was trying to purchase. Perhaps more of a Red-Purple, though, because she was more angry than blue.

Her current anger was directed at a dog eared old man, whose three-piece suit was doing nothing to convince her that he had been civilized for more than two years. He had all the trappings of a dignified old man, but the words that spewed out of his mouth would have been more at home with a three year-old: everything he said was judgmental. But unlike a three year-old, this man knew exactly what he was saying and it was not endearing in the slightest.

It was in the company of this man that her cell-phone rang for the first time. She didn't pick it up. The old man at the Art Gala had already raised his eyebrows enough at her ratty jeans and her Boston Red Sox t-shirt that she was sure his eyebrow muscle was starting to hurt. She didn't need to give him another reason to raise the displaced caterpillar and to mutter comments about "disrespectful" and "college students" under his foul breath. (Ariadne was glad, however, that she didn't actually know if his breath was foul. She hadn't been close enough to smell, a fact which pleased both party members greatly.)

The source of the contention was a medium sized sculpture that cost a small fortune. The old man didn't seem to think that Ariadne had enough money to purchase the statue and Ariadne was prudent enough not to mention that she did, thanks to a certain illegal procedure. Ariadne hadn't spent any of the "salary" Saito had direct deposited into her bank account over the six months it had been since the Inception job, and she was on tenterhooks. She had always been frugal, but with so much money in her figurative pocket, she knew it would combust if she didn't spend any of it soon.

And now she remembered why it was she never shopped. When she asked for the sculpture to be boxed up (which didn't seem a normal practice around such hoity places) the man handed it over to her with obvious feelings of misgiving. He didn't even bow to her on the way out. She saw in her peripheral that he bowed to the people on their way in. Ariadne didn't bother to keep in her snort of distaste. A man on the sidewalk next to her edged away.

It was her last week in Paris and Ariadne accredited this fact to why she might have splurged on buying the sculpture (now sitting on her desk.) She was, first of all, finished with her undergraduate degree and that itself deserved celebration. She was headed home to visit with family for a month before she came back to Paris to find a job and start her years at graduate school. She wanted to bring something back for her parents, something that meant something to her, which was where the statue came in. Before she had bought it, it had represented an architectural wonder—something she hoped to build. But after she bought it, it became a symbol for the pain and suffering the average college student went through—though she wouldn't tell her parents that fact.

But more than anything, the statue was one last homage to the Inception job. A job that had taken her three months to complete and six months to stop thinking about obsessively. She had hoped someone would contact her again—Arthur, Eames, Cobb, even Yusuf—and offer her another job. But there had been no call. No offer. Not even a promise to call her after X-number of days to see how she was doing and if she had gotten all of the money Saito had told them about. And, heaven forbid that they were friends after working for three months together, there wasn't even a call not about a job. No friendly hello, no warm reminiscing. Fischer had paid her more attention when she had gotten off the plane, and he had only given her a confused look.

And so the statue became, for her, proof that the job had happened. Proof that those three months of make-up work weren't because of some random coma. The statue became proof that something had come out of the Fischer job.

And then her phone rang for the second time.

The number wasn't one that she recognized, but the city locator told her that it was an out of area number. Throwing caution to the wind—who cared that she had enemies now, at Fischer Morrow?—she answered the call with a feeling akin to being at the top of a rollercoaster.

The resulting conversation offered her more excitement than any rollercoaster would.

"Hello?" English was the universal business language, Ariadne thought, so it was her best bet with an out of area caller. That, and it was the only language she knew, aside from asking "Where is the bathroom" in Spanish and French.

"Ariadne?"

It was Yusuf. Ariadne nearly fainted from inhaling too much oxygen.

"Where did you get my number?" Was all she could think to ask.

She heard laughing—more than one person's laugh, which caused her hyperventilation-like breaths to start again.

"Are you still in Paris, Ariadne?" The man asked from the other end. She noticed that he didn't answer her question, but it had become unimportant.

"Yes!" The volume of the answer was almost on par with some of the shouts of anger Ariadne had heard at football (1) matches in Paris. She promised to herself that the next time she talked, it would be quieter. And maybe not so desperate.

"Are you at your apartment?"

Ariadne answered yes at a softer volume this time.

"Stay where you are, then. Someone will be over to pick you up."

The phone clicked and the dial-tone started up again before Ariadne was able to tell him where her apartment was located. But she knew they would find her. All the oxygen gathered during her hyperventilating stage of her conversation with Yusuf seemed to have turned into helium. She was so excited she seemed to be floating

With a squeal not unlike a pig she had seen at a petting zoo (she hadn't been allowed to pet it) and with an undignified grace that would have proved the Old Art Man's point, she nearly slide-tackled Eames when he pulled up in a non-descript car. Usually Ariadne was a more collected girl and prided herself with a head so level a marble would stand still on it. But there was a sense of relief rushing through her body like lava and it was burning holes in that levelheadedness and was causing her to lose the marbles that had been balanced there for so long. Seeing Eames meant that those three months had happened. And seeing the smile on his face maybe hinted that he had missed their time together too. (Ariadne refused to believe that he was smiling because she had almost tripped.)

The car trip was so short Ariadne wondered why they had even bothered to send a car. She had half expected them to drive to the old warehouse, but obviously that had been rented to another customer in the six months since. Eames drove the car instead to a hotel. He threw the keys to the valet with a practiced air. Ariadne found this at odds with his incorrectly tied tie. She hid a smile.

The elevator ride up to the nineteenth floor was longer for Ariadne than the car ride had been. After six months apart, a few floors seemed to be an outrageous boundary between her and a new adventure. The only thing that kept her from hopping up and down in apprehension was the fact that it might stall the elevator and keep her from reaching her destination.

Oddly, when the doors to the elevator opened and Ariadne let out all the air she had kept in her lungs to make herself lighter (and make the elevator move faster) she found herself calm. She wasn't shaking with hysteria like she had been on the elevator. Her steps were measured and she was privately patting herself on the back for not sprinting to the hotel room door. When they finally got to the door (practically a mile from the elevator) Eames inserted the key and the bulb above the lock flashed green.

Green for Go.

Ariadne pushed the door open with the force and speed a shot-put master would be proud of.

And she found the door was blocked by Arthur, who had been in the middle of hanging up his suit jacket.

It was the moment she had steeled her nerves for over the last six months. And probably the reason she had been so calm on the walk to the room. She had spent six months telling herself that Arthur had been a good friend, and only a good friend. That other men (besides the Old Art Guy) looked just as attractive in three-piece suits. She had turned down date offers from classmates, but not for any particular reason. She had told herself that.

But the steel wall of words she had built around herself experienced a cold snap and they came tumbling down the moment she saw his (slightly confused) face. He was the same cool and collected person she had left in the airport and worked with for all of those months. His hair was combed back and his tie was properly knotted.

He halted in hanging up his blazer for long enough to discern who had rammed a door into him. When he saw who it was, he shot Ariadne his customary half-smile (which further melted the steel of her now crumpled walls,) and stepped out of the way to let Eames and Ariadne into the hotel room. Ariadne stepped into the room and found herself examining Arthur's shoes (still very polished, she noted) to hide the red that had covered her face.

Salutations were short and there was no small talk. Ariadne received a hug from Yusuf and Arthur (walls now completely destroyed) and then turned her attention to Cobb for a briefing.

Only to discover that he wasn't in the room.

Instead, Eames, of all people, started talking.

"Now if everyone would find a seat, I've got a proposition."

Ariadne found a place on the foot of a bed. Arthur had found an uncomfortable looking chair and was tipping it back on two legs. By the way Eames was looking at him, Ariadne could tell that Eames wanted to kick one of the legs out and send Arthur sprawling. But Eames was in charge of talking, and he was in a suit and tie, so he seemed to figure that he had to be professional.

But just this once.

"Cobb called me a few days ago," he began. "He called me and told me that he had gotten an offer for a job. But, he was indisposed, so he couldn't do the job. He thought I might like to take it and offer it to you guys."

He let this information sink it for a few seconds. He was about to start again when Yusuf offered up a question that Ariadne had been wondering herself.

"Why can't Cobb help out?" He asked. "What's got him 'indisposed'?"

Eames shrugged. "If any of you girls—no offense to the present company—want to tell me, then you can be my guest."

Ariadne looked at Arthur, who obviously would be the one to know (possible explanation for the negative use of "girl" on Eames' part?).

Arthur snorted and offered another half smile, looking down at his hands. "He's in Disneyland. With James and Phillipa. He told me they were going a few days ago."

Ariadne, for the life of her, couldn't picture Arthur small-talking with Cobb on the phone. Even more so, she couldn't picture Arthur talking about Disneyland. For a moment she thought about the conversation that might have happened. For some reason, the idea of Arthur offering up ride suggestions ("…And you have to make sure that James goes on Splash Mountain. It was my favorite!") was ridiculous.

And then Ariadne had another thought. A confusing one.

"Wait… If you talked to Cobb a few days ago, why didn't he give you the information about the new job?"

Arthur's eyebrows knit and his shoulders raised in a shrug. It appeared that he had already thought of that fact and had been pondering it for some time. Always the point man; forever one step ahead.

But here Eames offered clarity. "Ah, I might have the answer to that…"

All eyes zeroed in on him and he had the audacity to look uncomfortable, though Ariadne realized it wasn't because of the attention. He shot Arthur a quick look before turning back to the other two.

"It's because of our mark. Cobb was being a saint, again, and trying to protect a team member, insufferable and snarky as this particular team member is—"

"Who is the mark?" Arthur interrupted.

Eames muttered something about a "chair" and how something should have been "knocked out." Ariadne was pretty sure he wasn't talking about a chair being knocked out. But then he continued in a normal voice.

"Our mark is Levitt James, an American judge."

If Ariadne had expected a shock, she was disappointed. She had no idea who this "Levitt James" character was, and by the look on Yusuf's face, she wasn't the only one.

But Arthur's chair had come to rest on all four legs and his eyebrows, rather than being angled down in confusion, were arched up in surprise.

"Wait," Yusuf held out a hand in the universal "Halt" command. "Who is Levitt James?"

This time it wasn't Eames who offered clarity. It was Arthur.

"Levitt James is my step-father."

I know, I know. We haven't covered anything that isn't covered in the summary. But we will get to that in the later chapters.

I hope that my writing style wasn't too distracting. Ariadne seems completely out of character in this chapter (*sniffle*) but we'll just accredit that to her acute sense of relief and jubilation to see her life-in-crime buddies again. Next chapter she will (hopefully) be back to her usual hyper-curious, but ultra-reserved self. C:

And for the record, this fic is not another adventure story. This story is more of a delve into Arthur's background than an extraction story. So, I hope you don't mind if the diction and the syntax are not as severe and serious as Inception was.

Review, please. Tell me what I'm doing wrong, so I can make sure to do it right.

Notes for the accidentally confused.

(1)By football, I mean Soccer, for those of you in the USA like me. C: I just felt that since she lived in Europe she would call them "football games" rather than "soccer games" so as not to confuse the locals when she talked about them.