Part 1: Piano
The piano shimmered in the golden morning light.
The notes wavered up steadily from the pianos aged keys.
A, B, C, D, F….
The piano gleamed. A, B, C…
Pink lips, open, forming words too soft too hear.
"What?"
A, B, C…
"Tell me!"
D, F, G…
He couldn't hear. He couldn't hear her.
The piano's surface glinted, forming words too soft to hear…
Cobb's eyes fluttered open, immediately taking in a huge breath of air. For a moment the world swirled before him, shapes and light and color taking on whole new forms through his blurry eyes. Blinking repeatedly he sat up, rubbing a hand over his weary face with a groan. As his body began to stir he became aware of the ache of his muscles, the nasty pulsing sensation in his head; the sure signs of a developing hangover. His memory was at a loss, however. Instinctively he called out, speaking his thoughts aloud: "Where the hell was I…" his croaky voice trailed off as his head made another 360 effect-suddenly he found himself face to face with the bedside clock. The glowing numbers matched some faint shade of red, yet, they were bright enough to make his eyes ache with a passion. As his eyes wandered away from the offending numbers he located three empty glasses-one of them was tipped over, amber liquid dripping off the night stand languidly onto the wooden flooring. Seeing the small accident seemed to kick his mind into alertness; he straightened, swinging his legs onto the floor and reluctantly reached his feet. Adjusting to the strong, definite, THERE, pound in his cranium he studied his surroundings. Behind him was a bed; his simple bed, devoid of anything but a few sheets mattress and one pillow. Beyond his bed was a square, wooden-framed window that displayed the surrounding suburbia. His own face shown back at him-his dark blonde hair glinted like lions fur, hardly ruffled despite his recent awakening. The eyes that peered back at him were a bright sapphire, the intelligence in them making them appear sharp. Dark stubble coated his jaw at length; another remnant of his late-night. The afternoon sun shone through the detailed reflection, golden light pouring into pools on the floor.
The color was key-his head tilted at the sight of it, his sluggish mind whirring.
"What?" His own voice echoed in his head with a conviction; it was substantial…he remembered this.
"Tell me!"
That's when he remembered why he had woken up.
Those lips…he knew them all too well.
Cobb left his room quietly, the door slam credited to shaking hands and a heavy head. The dripping glass slipped off the table, the shattering of it tinkling like withheld tears.
The main floor's peaceful bathroom was what he'd been aiming for; but he never made it. Half-way through the dining room he found himself cut off.
"Daddy!" The shriek was raised with high joy and anticipation-it made Cobb smile, for a half a moment, before he looked down to take in his son. "Good morning James." His voice was scratchy, sounding more like grit on pavement then the gentle greeting he'd expected to come out of him. James didn't notice however; and Cobb only held open his arms for his beloved son.
James paused only a moment-his blonde mane glowing and blue eyes starry-before leaping to accept his father's invitation. Cobb straightened up, the safe weight of his son in his arms. Hugging James, he shut his eyes, momentarily lost in the gratefulness that overwhelmed him.
It was two months after the Fisher job, two months since it was proven that inception was possible. Two blissful months with his children, finally alone and his past behind him…well, mostly behind him. His body stiffened, his eyes snapped open at the thought. His dream was another definite reminder: he would never get over it. He never would be able to forget all of it.
"Daddy?" At the cry of his daughter, Philipa, he set James down in order to see her.
"Sweetie?" he called, his eyes rising from James' contented face into his little girl's. She had skipped right up to him in her pink dress, a toothy smile from ear to ear. Forcing himself to push his darker thoughts behind he focused on the current joy he felt, making effort in order for it to spill across his features. "How's my little girl?" he asked, crouching down so that he was at eye-level with her.
Unlike her brother, Philipa was smarter, more cunning. Peering into her copy-cat eyes his heart ached painfully-for her eyes were as clear and sharp as blazing ice, just as her mother's had been. "Daddy, are you okay?" He had expected the question-Philipa was just like her mother had been; straight to the point, and caring, most of all…
"Of course, Phil!" His voice was bordering on overly cheery but she bought it, the crispness in her eyes dulling away into soft trust. He ruffled her white-blonde locks lovingly, enjoying the little giggle that it brought out of her.
"Sweh were plannings on shopping, today, Dom." The French accent tugged the heavenly moment back to earth; Cobb got to his feet, his children both watching wide-eyed as he grew before them. Behind the two golden-haired children was their grandmother; Grandmamere is what they called her. She was a refined woman who lived by her own rules and was stubborn to the bone. At the moment her hair was tugged up into an intricate bun that pooled the silvers and russets into a strong, butterfly-shaped clasp, her light sundress fitting for the summer season. She carried a dish cloth in her long, elegant fingers, the silver of her wedding ring making itself known in the bright sunlight emanating from the dining room window behind them.
Straightening up he cleared his throat slightly; he hadn't seen Grandmamere in years as well. She had taken care of the children when he was away; and she still blamed him for her daughter's death. That as it was, he had no idea how to approach her-for they were both strangers now.
Grandmamere's hazel eyes peered back at him with hardly concealed disgust at his existence, and once again he had the urge to explain himself, though none was really needed. She knew enough to form judgments of him and no doubtedly wouldn't stand to hear any excuses.
"Zur daughta iz in need of zome new shoes. And Zames! Hiz rough-huzing hez made hiz pants ze mess!"
Cobb nodded softly, his head swimming; Grandmamere watched him, lightning passing behind her eyes as she waited for his response. It was too long a pause, but he noticed little, focusing only on speaking to her. "Of course, that makes sense," he agreed. At his answer her hazel eyes calmed, the sting in them lessening minimally. Glancing down at his children, his eyes sapphire velvet, he let the honey pour: "Is that what you wanna do kids? Go shop with Grandma?"
To his relief they nodded vigorously, the action creating the effect broken bobble-heads often make.
"Comez along children." Grandmamere cooed, her reserved soft-side aimed only for the two little ones. Her slim, colorless fingers landed on their shoulders, turning them away from their father into the direction of the kitchen, where the door to the outside lay.
"Bye Daddy!" They called, their voices unified to the exact pitch. He smiled wide at their retreating figures, waving despite the fact they could not see his attempts at saying goodbye.
He stood like that, smiling, until he heard Grandmamere call out: "Zwe will be backz lata. Around five." His smile and hand dropped as he heard the audible click of the door, signaling his family's exit.
But Cobb was finally alone. Slumping into the dining room chair nearest to him he placed his head in his hands, letting out a long sigh. His heart ached at the action, physically throbbing with emotion. He couldn't shake off the dream… and he couldn't seem to please anyone but his children. This wasn't what he'd wanted…it was at that moment, that the house phone rang.
Cobb's head snapped up, the shrillness of the telephone ring still deafening in the house's vacancy. Another ring from the kitchen-Cobb remained frozen, his mind stirring awake as they ran through the possibilities. Reaching his feet steadily, he began walking toward the kitchen.
Rinnng.
The only one who could be calling was Miles, professor of Architecture in Paris, grandfather to his children and husband to Grandmamere. His footsteps were quickening; through the arched living room, past the piano (though he could swear he could hear a faint melody *ABCD* as he passed).
Rinnng.
Maybe it was old Mr. Nevels, their neighbor, politely requesting for the kids to stop playing in his backyard. Down the tiny green hallway at last; the familiar family portraits grinned down at him balefully and he hurried through faster. (When he was away he had built the hallway out of memory, out of love. Now the real hallway seemed too twisted, too real. It was painful, knowing that he preferred the imaginary. He didn't tend to think about it often.)
Rinnng.
He burst into the kitchen; there was the table, the back porch, the bar…. And right against the wall, on the bar, was the phone in its cradle. As if he didn't know that someone was trying to reach him, the red light blinked rapidly, and the terrible noise screeched again.
Rinnng.
One, two, three steps…his stomach dropped. For whom else could it be?
Pink lips, forming words too soft too hear…
It would not be her. He shook his head, his world suddenly tilting on the edges.
Reaching over he grasped the edge of the bar, leaning over slightly as if he was about to be sick. His stomach plunged, his hands filming over with a cold sweat, his breath tight in his chest.
"What…" he whispered, gazing at the rapidly blinking red light, "What..is it?"
Rinnng.
He couldn't hear. He couldn't hear her.
The delusions didn't bother him. Rarely did they…they had happened so often before that their return, after so many weeks, seemed completely irrelevant. And the fact that he couldn't seem to stop thinking of her; that nothing, no amount of alcohol, or noise, or spending time with his children, would ever change that. She was always there.
At least in his mind.
The phone's last ring bounced around in his skull, slicing through the little calm he possessed. His gaze iced over as he stared at the phone, his harsh breathing brought to a halt by his hushed fury.
"Tell me, Mal."
His demand floated on the air for less than half a second before the answering machine cut it off.
Beeeeep.
Cobb-this is Arthur. Ariadne's hurt…something's happening. We need you.
The message cut off abruptly, Arthur's stiff, tight voice ending as quickly as it had begun.
Cobb stared at the phone blankly, letting the shock echo and course through his body.
The past had come back to haunt him; and this time, it wasn't a dream.
Faintly he swore he could hear the cursed notes begin once again, wafting from the living area.
A, B, C, D…