Title: Burning at these Mysteries
Chapter: Three
Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or these characters.
Rating: M
Ship(s): Ariadne/Arthur
Summary: Post-movie. The aftermath of the situation isn't something she'll allude easily to. And really, diving into his proposal, what exactly made her think this would be a good idea?

—

It's easier to forget at the bottom of a glass of wine, similar to her experiences after a long smoke, than to remember the cards that fate has dealt Ariadne.

Everything she has worked for, all direction in her life had shifted with the twisting of her pen as she had scratched out a maze for Cobb back in Paris.

These days, she just can't stay away from the warehouse, because despite seeing Cobb after so much hesitation and apprehension, Ariadne's insides still carve up every time she approaches the looming building.

This is the second time in one week that she has called in sick at work so she can see him.

"I knew you'd be here," says Arthur, stepping back from the large metal doors to let her in.

"Can you like, read minds or something?" she asks. The words sound bitter and sarcastic, but Ariadne doesn't give them too much thought because a part of her wants to know what secret powers Arthur may harbor.

He has always been such an enigma to her after all.

"Just yours," he muses as he delicately presses a glass of wine into her hands.

"I'm serious," she prods, because maybe it'll lead to some morbid revelation that'll explain her whole mess of a life.

In fact, Ariadne has been thinking that if she learns a bit more about him, she might better understand why he acts so broody and mysterious. And if it, in any shape or form, somehow reflects into her life considering Arthur is the only contact she currently has.

And yeah, she knows how wild the idea sounds, which is why she can't make herself do it.

Arthur scoffs, "No, I can't."

"Well I can read people. Most of the time, at least."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," confirms Ariadne, "for example, you definitely don't hate me as much as you try to".

As soon as she says it, Ariadne thinks she might actually feel better if he agrees. Arthur is nothing but usually calm and collected with what he is and what has happened and the man who had started it all. She thinks it may actually be healthy to be expressively upset about it, just not at her.

However, instead of responding, Arthur just looks at her. He studies her face like he will forget it if she leaves and he doesn't take the time to memorize her.

"What?" she asks softly. She's surprised that his demeanor only frightens her slightly because this is a completely different feeling.

It's not fear of what he thinks of her, it's fear of what she might feel for him.

"Nothing."

There's a sweet sentiment disguised in between Arthur's efforts to be nonchalant about his blatant staring, and it only causes Ariadne to press the matter further.

He should know by now that she isn't someone that let things go so easily.

"No, tell me," she presses, locking her eyes with his as she sets her wine down on the table beside her.

"I don't hate you, Ariadne," he says finally.

He blinks slowly, just once, and in Ariadne's head, she hears his voice saying something else. She doesn't know exactly what it is, but there's suddenly a lump in her throat because Arthur makes her want what she can't have. That sense of discovering closure, which Ariadne's so certain that she has been longing… she can't get that from Arthur.

She turns away before she does something crazy like tell him that she doesn't hate him too.

—

In a heartbeat, Ariadne settles herself on the lawn chair situated beside Cobb, her hands sliding to hold her head as her eyes land on his sleeping form.

It's been hard.

There's nothing cleansing about the nightmares and the endless cigarettes that don't seem to burn out, and now that she has seen Cobb, she knows that no amount of smoking or drinking wine, will let her forget him now.

You don't understand. These are memories I have to change.

In retrospect, it had almost been too easy in the end; finding Mal in limbo, pushing Fischer off the porch balcony, believing Cobb when he said he'd get out; and then telling Arthur he'd be alright. If studying architecture has taught Ariadne anything, it isn't simply just physics and geometrics, but that opportunities are everywhere, and she grasps them instantaneously.

It had been why she joined Cobb's team, realizing that controlling and designing the dimensions of dreams is better than drawing them in her notebooks.

But Ariadne still doesn't know why she had been so quick to let Cobb risk his life to retrieve Saito, knowing both the slim chances and the dire consequences.

The footsteps are soft, but steady and she knows that it's Arthur. Glancing back at him standing behind her, she catches his eye and holds it, running over and over in her head that she had done this for a reason.

She only hopes that she will find out just what that reason is.

—

Arthur drives her home again, and this time, Ariadne doesn't have to try to know that when he is beside her, in the elevator, he's hoping she'll change her mind and invite him inside her apartment.

And that is Arthur for you; extremely professional, until he plots his way into your personal space, if only for a moment.

But because she is feeling a bit daring, and more than a bit tipsy from the expensive wine, Ariadne purposely fiddles through her bag in search of her keys and makes an excuse to let him in.

There's a sudden crash of glass and distant yelling from elsewhere on her apartment floor. Her stomach tenses up and Ariadne immediately begins to have doubts about having Arthur in her building any longer than he needs to be in it.

"You're going to love this place," she mutters, forcing a brass key into the lock.

"I don't judge," says Arthur, "besides, at least you have neighbors."

She stops and turns to look at him and there's something like heartbreak on his face that she thinks might just match her own.

And before she can begin to contemplate her abrupt advances, she's clutching at his tie and pulling his lips down to meet hers.

At first Arthur freezes, but then pulls her body flush against his and runs his tongue into her mouth. Ariadne can taste the raw flavor of wine and another taste that is entirely Arthur's as she struggles with the key.

Arthur is at her side with his mouth fastened to the sensitive skin on her neck, his fingers gripping her waist as they tug at the waistband of her jeans. By the time Ariadne manages to open the door, Arthur has his hand in her pants and nearly every button on his dress shirt has popped off in their desperate attempt to gain access to each other's skin.

He pins her against the closed door once they are inside and takes her right there, with his slacks pooled at his ankles, and her legs wrapped tightly around him. Arthur thrusts into her and she can't stop the gasp from escaping her as he stretches her to her limit. And when Ariadne reaches her peak, she cries from the intensity of her climax, digs her nails into his wet skin and buries her face into his shoulder until she's able to catch her breath.

Afterward, when they finish straightening themselves into their clothes, she tries her hardest to find the right words.

Of course, it's Arthur who ruptures the silence, "So… what you said about loving this place…"

"Arthur, I think you should go," she croaks in response.

For a second Ariadne thinks he hasn't heard her because his expression goes unfazed, but something like understanding, and perhaps even a little exasperation, creeps through his features and she is just able to make it out.

A month ago, she would not have vacillated if such a proposition had occurred, if such a question was brought up between them, but somehow he disarms her.

Arthur is poised and balanced in spite of his tremendous commitment to his culpable condition. His calloused hands, God those hands, they have knocked down nearly every barrier she has built since landing at LAX.

And now, the only barriers she has left are those against him.

—

The next morning, she takes a cab to the warehouse, not certain if she expects Arthur to be there, and only sure that Cobb is still occupying one of the lawn chairs.

She bites her lip and pushes the metal door inward, half expecting it to be locked, but to her sheer amazement it is open. The door screeches against the silence inside the warehouse, and it automatically catches Arthur's attention, as he stumbles out of the corner room and stops in mid-step to look at her.

She can hear his breathing, and she is sure he can hear hers.

"Hey," he says airily, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Ariadne smiles wearily, knowing she can't handle words around the awkward scream stuck in the back of her throat. Therefore, her best option is to go to Cobb.

Arthur watches her silently as she drops her bag next to the lawn chair, before taking a seat. In the back of her mind, Ariadne clings to the naïve hope that Arthur will not talk about the actions of last night.

There's already too much on her plate, most of which is lying unconscious in front of her.

"Can you ever wake up from it?" she asks suddenly.

"He did it once before with Mal, but that was different. He wanted to leave," replies Arthur, his voice heavy with reason, "Yusuf said he might after the sedative wears off."

"10 years…" her voice trails off, and everything she used to be emerges when Ariadne turns to look at him over her shoulder. "How long has it been for him, Arthur?"

Her palms quickly begin to sweat because she's too goddamn afraid to hear the answer she's already aware of.

Arthur rubs his hands over his jaw, closing his eyes as if he's calculating the math in his head. When he opens them, there's an odd expression on his face; a combination between nervous, anticipation and slight fear.

Ariadne recognizes that look and knows precisely what it means. Too long.

"If he wanted to leave, couldn't he?"

"I don't know. Saito got out, but—"Arthur's voice breaks off, and she can see clearly now, like a veil has been lifted. Arthur is just as scared as she is, and maybe he always has been, masking it with his guilt, acting like he is so sure there can't be any other way for Cobb.

Ariadne stands, taking a long deliberate look at Cobb, fine lines and wrinkles and all, and begins to pace. She carefully tries to conjures up the tiny, fragmented thoughts that reflect all sense of faith left in her, but the words won't come out and with the minutes slipping away in silence like sand draining from an hourglass, Ariadne clenches her teeth together, tension straining the edges that defines the moment in a gesture of alteration that may prove fruitless, but she can't bring herself to give up her last shred of hope.

She takes a deep breath and forces the words out smoothly. "Can he die of old age down there? You know, grow up a happy old man, just like he deserves? See his kids grow up?"

The pregnant pause that ensues is deafening, and it's almost as if Ariadne has driven this conversation too far off the edge to be brought back.

"Maybe," Arthur starts, closing his eyes again like he's pulling up the mental depiction for himself. "I'm just getting this picture in my head… of his projection of Phillipa's first boyfriend, and there's this… hilariously unimpressed expression on Dom's face."

Ariadne suddenly bursts out in sudden laughter, noticing the way it brings light to Arthur's eyes.

There had always been that constant with Cobb. It had been one of the first things she'd noticed when she had first met him. Cobb was an honorable man, even with all the shards of his broken life scattered around him in ruins because of Mal.

And ultimately, when Ariadne tries to sum it all up in her head, the only deliberation that formulates is that there's absolutely no reason why Cobb can't be alright.

Arthur inches closer just as her laughter dies down. His palm comes to rest in the bend of her elbow, thumb brushing the pulse point there. She knows her heart is pounding, erratic, uneven, and he must feel it too.

"What's the first thing you remember?" she whispers as her fingers sprawl evenly against his crisp buttoned shirt.

"I remember the van, the freezing water, and Dom not waking—"

Ariadne closes the space between them and kisses him, not letting Arthur continue because part of her believes it's no longer important.

Arthur fists his hands in her hair, and she feels him return her kiss, and then her mind shuts down completely, giving in. He pulls her tight against his body, his hands searching out the slope of her curves, and a pulse shoots through her as if he's trying to climb underneath her skin.

There's a distant roar of thunder as his hand slips underneath the cotton of her shirt and pushes it up, her hands leaving their place in his hair to let him take it off over her head. She moves up against Arthur again, skimming his shoulders, while he unbuttons her jeans and pushes at them. A brief flash of lightning later Ariadne kicks her legs free and feels the brick wall behind Arthur as his tie falls away.

He begins walking her backwards and it's easier when her lips move down his neck and he can see over her shoulder. They tumble onto a nearby lawn chair, hands roving everywhere within reach, building up a slow burning heat between them, and for the first time, Ariadne feels nothing.

Nothing at all.

—

The first thing Ariadne is aware of when they are finished is the sound of rain pattering against the warehouse windows. There's also a gentle muted drumming of Arthur's heartbeat that is pressed up against her back.

They both make a slow start to recover their clothing, even less words said this time than the night before, and the space reserved for her guilt gradually begins to fall away and fill with another, less known emotion that Ariadne can't quite place her finger on.

She could happily give Arthur these things he wordlessly asks for with his hands, his mouth, and his eyes, but she does not think she can cope to give him back afterward.

And as she turns around to put her shirt back on, the faintest of color creeping up her neck, her thoughts begin to turn as well.

"Do you think he's happy?" Ariadne questions, her fingers absentmindedly running through her dark hair.

"I hope so," Arthur replies in a voice so soft, it makes her squint, "He's my best friend."

"Yeah, I know. "

And as she stands there with Arthur, Ariadne realizes that loneliness tastes a lot like wine – bitter and sweet at the same time as it slips down your throat. And sometimes it tastes like cigarettes, the way the nicotine courses through your veins and burns at the base of your lungs.

Loneliness looks like the barren brick walls of a warehouse, and sometimes, it's a rundown apartment with cracked ceilings.

"Ariadne?"

"Yes?"

"This doesn't mean anything, right?"

"Right." She cringes at how small her voice sounds to her own ears.

It's all quiet and ill-at-ease after that, so tense that Ariadne's movements are jerky as she picks up her bag, and searches desperately for a cigarette as she walks towards the edge of the warehouse. The sound of the metal door shutting makes her flinch as if she has been struck.

—

Of course, her barricaded feelings towards Arthur don't deter Ariadne from finding the provisional relief she achieves when he makes her come. The feeling alone is like the earth and stars colliding together to produce a fleeting breathtaking sight before dispersing into nothingness.

In essence, they are just a tangle of convoluted limbs, and usually twisted bed sheets. Ariadne tries not to notice that they're made of silk if they are in his bed and a cheap polyester blend if they are in hers.

And when she's panting, eyes snapped shut as Arthur's pale skin slides against hers, she sucks in deep breaths, almost as if her lungs are about to give out, because she is back inside that submerged van. Except during these times, she isn't awake.

She's drowning.

And only Arthur's ability to coax her release with his movements and groans seeping into her skin, are enough to reel her back into reality and send her over the edge into bliss.

Nevertheless, regardless of where they are, they hardly hold each other, and never spend anymore time together than needed. Ariadne knows that if she allows those intimacies into their encounters, then what they do would cease to be futile.

Then it will actually mean something.

The only thing Ariadne worries of now are opening the floodgates to what she has been trying to lock away since the Fischer job.

Arthur will undo her, she knows; and it is only a matter of time.

—

As Ariadne washes up for bed one night after Arthur has left, she thinks about inception, and the loss of Cobb, as well as the growth and dependability of her imminent remorse – both hers and Arthur's.

She pauses to study her reflection in her dimly lit bathroom, recalling the life she once had and who she once was. However, that had been a different woman in a different lifetime. A woman with more values and aptitude than she possesses now. Not one so close to toppling into the abyss of being forgotten amongst the hustle of the city.

With a sniff, Ariadne yanks her totem from her nightstand, tests its weight in her right hand and pushes it over and over again on the ceramic counter, watching it fall onto the side she expects it to, but it is no use.

You want to start over again on a blank slate? There's no such thing.

With a deep breath and emotions cresting inside her to a degree she's never felt before, Ariadne takes her lone cigarette box out from her jeans, marches over to her balcony, raises her arm and throws it so that there's nothing in her line of vision but a tiny white dot that sails against the evening backdrop of the Brooklyn horizon, disappearing through her tears.

—