I'm having so much fun imagining and serving up a teenage Arthur... have any ideas about his and Paige's backstory? Hope you like this chapter - read on for more tidbits on his secret!

Chapter Three: Well-Placed Stoicism

Hope is the dream of a soul awake.

-Unknown

The car door opens and I leave its heated interior to let the morning temperature take bites from parts of my exposed skin. It's an invisible wall, the cold, and I can feel all the blood rushing to my cheeks. The walk from the cab to the diner not five yards away leaves me trying hard not to think about the beach weather I've just left behind; I fail, miserably. The door jingles when I open it and I give myself a good shake, as if there are invisible ice particles clinging to my body. I see him sitting at a table pressed against the window; thankfully, he's got a second mug of coffee across from his own. "Been here awhile?", I ask as I unwrap the scarf around my neck and shed my coat.

"Not long. Just dropped off James and Philippa." Cobb points to the school across the street from the diner; we see children exiting from a few cars and hastening inside the brick building.

"How's Miles doing? It was nice of him to meet you in L.A."

"Fine. He's heading back to Paris in a few days."

I gulp down the coffee and gesture to the waitress for a refill. I study Cobb. "You look rested."

"Thanks. I have no complaints." He examines me. "I heard you stayed longer than expected in L.A. You're usually gone from there before your next blink."

Trust Eames to tell only half the story. Once upon a time, I might have considered cluing Cobb in on what transpired in the last two weeks since the job ended. But I see the way he keeps looking at the school building and I notice the pale shadow of skin on his ring finger which his wedding band used to cover. I remember what he was like, when Mal was still around. What they were like. I hope he'll be that person again, but not too many people ever recover from trauma like that. It's unfair to try to compare what they are now to what they were before; they are shadows of their former selves. "Yeah, I ended up spending some time with Eames and Lucy. Ariadne came by too. Almost felt like we were back on the job. Speaking of which." I lean forward, the hard plastic that cushions the booth I'm sitting atop squeaks as I shift.

Cobb puts a hand up. "You know that's not a focus for me anymore."

"Believe me, I know. I agree with you; I think you're doing the right thing. But if you hear any interesting offers, let me know. That's all."

He smiles faintly. "I'll bet you haven't even unpacked your suitcase yet and you're already looking for the next gig. Sometimes I think what's said about you is true - you are an automaton, Arthur."

It's not the first time I've heard that and it won't be the last. You'd be surprised at how much you can divulge from people with some well-placed stoicism. "Hm."

The waitress refills our mugs. Cobb is leaning back against his chair, one arm slung over the top of it. We let the silence settle in between us, a good quiet - its very contrast reminding me of dinner with my parents not two nights ago. Seeing my mother and father forcing mindless chatter over entrees, trying so hard to ignore the past that refuses to vacate every time we're all gathered in the same space. Once again, it reinforces my belief that one can love people but not be able to be in the same room with, hell, the same side of the country as they are. It's the reason why I booked the next flight out of California the minute I left the restaurant. It's the reason why I feel such gratitude when a particularly brutal winter wind slaps my face or whittles through the seams of my clothes.

"Actually, if you're really itching for something to do, this morsel might sate your appetite between big meals." He leans forward. "Saito."

"If it's another inception, I would hardly call that a 'morsel.'" Exactly how many monopolies does Saito want to break apart?

Cobb shakes his head. "No. He mentioned he would be very receptive to receiving training like Fischer. Especially after witnessing what we've accomplished."

Training Saito against dream hackers. How long would that last? A week, maybe two at best? But I would be doing something. "Where?"

"Tokyo." He takes out his wallet, pulls out a card and slides it across the table to me.

I pick it up and look at the information. "Thanks. Will he be expecting me?"

Cobb's mouth quirks. "You'll have to brush up on your Japanese."

It's early here, which means it's earlier still over there. I dial anyway. After three rings, I hear a muffled, "Hello?"

"You were sleeping."

There's the rumpling of sheets on the other end and then a click, which must be the lamp on the nightstand. "Was. Past tense. Where are you?"

"Chicago. With Cobb. I've asked him if he's heard any leads for jobs." I pause. It suddenly seems stupid that I'm calling to run down the list of errands I've thus far accomplished. "I should let you go."

"Forget it." She lets out a huge, unladylike yawn. I can picture her stretching as she does, arms sticking out of the comforter like toothpicks. "Who knows when and where you'll call from next."

"I don't work only when I have to because I've run out of money. Unlike Eames, I like to keep busy."

Ariadne laughs. "I find it incredibly adorable how much you try to dislike Eames. Yet you stay with him at his place and you obviously approve of Lucy."

"Lucy's the only thing stopping me from believing he's completely reprehensible. I don't know how she puts up with him."

"She believes in him. That's how." Her voice grows soft, almost like she's about to fall asleep again - I think about the shape of her mouth forming those vowels and syllables, then I catch myself in that half dream-state and force myself to focus.

"What is there to believe in? He won't change, if that's what she's hoping." If her tone is cashmere, mine is a chainsaw.

She makes a noise on the other end of the line. "You're so dense sometimes. Do you think she's some dreamy-eyed teenager? You don't give her much credit."

"You say that, but I know how it works. How it always winds up." My throat coats the words with heat and they come out in a rush. I flex the fingers that are wrapped around the phone.

There's a pause on her end. I dread the next words as she deliberates. "Tell me how it works - how it always winds up."

I'm rubbing my eyes with my free hand. "What are you doing, Ariadne? Why did you answer my call?"

She tosses back, "I answered because the phone rang. If you didn't want to speak to me, you shouldn't have reached out in the first place. Is that what you're trying to say?"

"No, that's not it at all." Maybe the dreamy-eyed teenager is me. I don't know what I was envisioning - that I'd be able to tell her about Paige, my parents? That she might be able to understand why I'm being so evasive? It's crazy. I know it's crazy. "I just wanted to talk to you. I know I left in a rush."

"Arthur, you have to tell me what's going on. I'm really trying here but you're not giving me much incentive." I'm being a jerk; I hate it when I find myself behaving so atrociously. She has a point, and, I need - and want - to share with her some truth about me.

"My parents live in L.A." There. I've said at least that.

"Oh." It comes out like a puff of air. "Was that where you were going to at night?"

"Just the last night. I had dinner with them."

"How did it go?" It surprises me that she chooses not to pry into my whereabouts all the other nights.

I laugh. "Well, I left the next day. So."

"I'm sorry, Arthur. I really am." Sweet Ariadne. If I were where she is now, there is no chance I could refrain from kissing her again. I know this as much as I know the window of opportunity to do that shrinks every day. When she returns to Paris and resumes her normal life, this whole experience will fade and all of the characters she's met will get lumped into one quirky dream. Maybe a few of us will stand out - a tribute in which she'll recall a mannerism, a movement, an expression one of us has displayed or said with a detached and dispassionate fondness. It's the way it's supposed to be - that time moves and people move with it.

I'm used to silence - and sharing it with Ariadne has always been as comfortable as it has been spent in conversation. She doesn't seem to expect you to be one way or the other. I suspect that's why I feel the way I do about her. At the moment, however, the quiet is disconcerting. The seconds of static air between us contain too much electrons, charged and exposed. "I'll be in Tokyo by Thursday."

"With Saito?"

"Yes. He wants extraction prevention training." I could say my good byes now - again - and hang up. Even as this thought is scrolling through my head, I hear myself saying, "When are you heading back to Paris?"

"Friday." It's apparent, even thousands of miles away, that she is smiling. "Back to reality."

The nerves in my body tense. "Yeah." I marvel at how I give the color beige a sound when inside I'm lit up like the night sky during Fourth of July celebrations.

"What are you doing?" It's dark out - and very late, considering we both have school the next day. But Paige called and said it was urgent that we meet at the beach. Our beach. Where we first kissed. She doesn't call it by its proper name anymore - and neither do I. It's our beach.

She looks up, and the flame from the lighter in her hand goes out. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm setting off fireworks." The full moon is out, making her skin look like it's carved from marble.

"I don't think we're allowed to do that. Besides, it will wake everyone up." Her hair is a dark muss of loose curls that I want to touch with my hands, and, see if I can taste and smell the salt on it.

Paige smiles. "Exactly." In ten minutes, the sky is lit up so brightly, it filters through my shuttered eyelids, in golden red hues, reminding me of the sun.

"Arthur."

I look out of the hotel window. The sky is grey and I have a view of the elevated train tracks beneath me. I expel a breath of air - it mists up on the glass surface, spreading out unevenly and then receding, disappearing. "Yes, Ariadne?"

"Where were you just now?"

Good question. But then again, am I surprised? Ariadne is nothing, if not full of good questions. I have to work at bringing the name of that spot to the forefront of my memory. I don't think of it as ours anymore. "Camelot Beach - about 15 miles from where you are now. I spent a lot of my formative years there."

She makes a wordless sound. "There must have been a lot of memories for you to wade through."

Too many. "There are reasons why I don't like to talk about my past. It's..." I sigh. What can I say to her to make her understand without having to rehash this? If I were ever to explain the ins and outs of Paige and my parents to her, it would require a sit down, where I can see her face and her eyes. Not over the telephone. Never over the telephone.

"Complicated? I'm starting to get that, Arthur." She doesn't sound annoyed. "I'm sorry I'm making this so difficult for you. I just want to get to know you more, that's all." It's not often when she speaks that her words are inflected with uncertainty.

Ariadne has it half right - she does make it difficult. But she also makes it effortless - so much so that sometimes I can't believe how much I've revealed in front of her. So much so that sometimes I can't believe how much I've been able to withhold from her. "I know. I feel the same way."

There's silence again, but this time it's familiar. Then she says, "Call me when you get to Tokyo. You have my Paris number."

I imagine her hand touching my cheek and remember the way she looked curled into Lucy's armchair. In the few times we've gone under where she is the dreamer without any parameters to follow, we are almost always under open sky - a lavender-sprinkled meadow below our feet and a starry sky over our heads; a desert plain with the moon lighting our path; on the roof of a skyscraper, the air snapping at our skin and stealing our breath. I don't have her Paris number, but she knows that just as much as she knows that doesn't matter. I'll find it. I'll find her.

"Ok. I will." There it is again - that regurgitating feeling inside of me. What would happen if she saw my mess? Would she hang up on me? Refuse to take my call? Avoid me if we bumped into each other on the streets of Paris? What if she did none of those? Would I be the one to run away? I'm not sure which scenario makes me more scared. So I resolve to continue to keep her in the dark instead. "Have a good day, Ariadne." I wish you were here. I wish I didn't have this wall of regrets standing between us.

"Same to you, Arthur." Do you wish the same thing? But there's no answer - and I wouldn't know how to respond anyway.