A/N: Soooo, watched Inception again recently for the 10 year anniversary and remembered a. how much I loved it as a concept, and b. how much of a fat crush I had on Joseph Gordon-Levitt and his well tailored suits. This is the result.

Even in late May Kiev is cold, and Arthur pulls his jacket closer around him, glancing down at the address scribbled on the piece of paper in his hand. Three days ago an old co-worker, an Estonian architect Arthur had run two or three extractions with, had contacted Arthur on a number very few people knew saying he had something lined up. Something big. Arthur's never liked Kiev, the rules are blurry here and the mood is so depressingly Soviet, but Koppel refused to tell him more over the phone and Arthur's never been able to resist a mystery. And they have good coffee in Ukraine. So, despite the fact that he's supposed to meet Eames in London in two days, Arthur had wrapped up his business in Hong Kong, booked the first ticket to Kiev he could find, and hopped on a plane. Whatever Koppel's got, he hopes it's worth it because the jet lag is terrible and the excellent espresso he bought on his way in to the city is barely enough to make up for it.

Koppel always had been reliable though, kept his head down and did his job and did it well, and Arthur likes reliable in a co-worker. Likes someone you know what to expect from. The exact opposite of Cobb he thinks, and then wonders where it came from. But it is true. As much as Arthur trusts Dom (and maybe that was stupidly sentimental of him) reliable had never been the sort of person he was. A genius yes, driven and passionate and talented. Kind even, to the people who knew him best, but never reliable. He had always let the job consume him, in a way Arthur could never afford too, because then who would there be to pick up the pieces?

No, Arthur had always been the dependable responsible one in the relationship, both professional and personal. Eames liked to say he lacked imagination, but Arthur prefers to think of it as overabundance of it. Predicting every possible way things could go wrong and planning for the eventuality that they would. Arthur who always trailed along behind Cobb to catch him when he fell, like an Icarus who flew too close to the sun. The thought is only a little bitter; Arthur has had a long time to come to terms with it.

He frowns and shakes himself a little, not sure why he's even thinking about Cobb. He's retired, living a mundane comfortable life with what's left of his family, and Arthur's happy for him, truly. Anyways, they've barely talked in months, haven't seen each other in longer. It's probably better that way, Arthur lives in the space on the map where they used to draw dragons and sea serpents to warn people away, to say 'here be monsters' and there's no room in that kind of living for friends with two kids and a mortgage and a regular day job, and there's no room in their lives for him. Arthur is content to fade from Cobb's life like a bad dream, a memory of a world he doesn't live in anymore; like a ghost. He almost believes it when he tells himself that too.

The hotel Koppel's staying at is small and a run down, on a corner tucked in between a pierogi stall and a barbershop. The attendant behind the front desk looks bored, face buried in a glossy magazine with a skimpily dressed model splayed over the front cover. He barely glances up when Arthur walks in, keeps his eyes glued on the page in front him. Arthur coughs politely to get his attention, and when that doesn't work raps his knuckles on the laminated countertop. Finally the attendant looks up, glaring a little like he's put out somebody's actually asking him to do his job.

"I'm looking for Jüri Koppel." Arthur says. "He should have checked in yesterday."

The other man shrugs slowly, his eyes tracing Arthur's expensive jacket, the patent leather messenger bag he has over his shoulder.

"Never heard of him."

He replies in heavily accented English. Arthur sighs, pulls out his wallet and slides a hundred euro note across the countertop. For a second the attendant scrutinizes it, then a pale hand darts out and the money disappears.

"3rd floor," he says, flicking his magazine open again. "Room 314."

"Thanks for the excellent service. Enjoy the tip"

Arthur shoots acerbically over his shoulder as he puts his wallet back in his pocket and heads for the elevator.

Room 314 is at the end of a long dingy hallway, and Arthur has to step over what looks suspiciously similar to an old bloodstain in the carpet on the way there. He really wishes Koppel had better taste in hotels, this one seems like it's one lit cigarette butt away from burning to the ground. Arriving at the room he raps sharply on the door, leaning against the door jam as he waits.

"This better be good Koppel," he calls through the thin wall, checking his watch. "I'm supposed to be in London to meet with Eames on Monday."

There's no response though, and after a few seconds he knocks again, harder this time. The door swings in a little at his touch, unlocked. Immediately the hair on the back of Arthur's neck stands on end, and his body tenses. Something is wrong. Very wrong. Glancing quickly down the hallway to confirm that he's alone, he sets his bag on the ground and reaches for the Glock 17 tucked snugly into his shoulder holster, drawing it and clicking the safety off. Taking a breath, he pushes the door opening, letting his gun go into the room first as he scans the cramped dim space.

He finds Koppel in the back corner of the room, gagged and cuffed to a chair in front of the desk. His face is bruised but the marks don't look fresh, a few days old at least, and it doesn't look like there's been a fight in the room Arthur notes clinically. Quickly and efficiently he clears the hotel room, making sure the bathroom and closet are empty. Once he's certain it's just the two of them he approaches the other man, keeping his gun drawn as he yanks the gag out of Koppel's mouth. As soon as it's gone Koppel starts talking, words tumbling over each other in a rush to escape his mouth.

"I'm sorry, Arthur, I'm so sorry. They-they said they'd kill me if I didn't contact you. S-said they'd kill my family. I didn't h-have a choice. I'm so sorry."

He's half-sobbing as he apologizes again and again, terror and guilt warring in his voice. Realization sinks heavy in Arthur's stomach like a rock.

"Koppel, look at me, calm down" he barks, trying to keep his tone even and controlled. "Look at me. Who's they? Who threatened you? Are they still here?"

Koppel opens his mouth, but whatever he was going to say dies in his throat as his eyes focus somewhere over Arthur's shoulder, pupils blowing out with panic. Arthur spins, bringing his Glock up, but he doesn't even have time to get a shot off before a heavy fist collides with the side of his head and sends him to the carpet, cheap synthetic polyester scraping at his cheek uncomfortably. He tries to roll back to his feet but a foot lands painfully on his wrist, pressing down until he releases his grip on his gun

"Knock him out."

Someone says above him in a distinctly South African accent, and he bucks under restraining hands until he feels the prick of a needle in his neck. Almost immediately his muscles go limp, vision starting to fade and blur at the edges. The last thing he sees before he goes under is Koppel's bruised tear-stained face, lips still mouthing the words of an apology. Fuck, he thinks vaguely as someone starts to haul his unresisting body up, the coffee definitely wasn't worth it.