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Chapter 11: The Reality
Ariadne was chilling on the sofa drinking a cup of tea when Arthur excitedly came to join her. He sat to face her on the couch, his dimples were pressed in, "Guess what?"
"Hm?" She lowered the stifling hot cup and tore her attention from the French morning talk show. It was about 9:30 am and one of her favorite French indie actresses was being interviewed. Ah well…
"I've been offered another job."
Ariadne turned down the volume of the TV and faced him. Suddenly, his news seemed more important than Catherine Deneuve and new project, "Dreamsharing?"
"Yes. And it's perfect. Only three weeks of work, one level extraction, it's well paid. Starts tomorrow."
"Good for you." She smiled.
Ari didn't mean it to sound sarcastic and jealous-hearted but it was the way Arthur took her phrasing. He reached out for her shoulder to make it up to her, "I've secured the Architect position for you. If you want it."
Ariadne sipped her tea again. There was plethora of reactions running circles in her eyes. First was excitement and fire, followed by perception and concern and ultimately the ones that settled were acceptance and disappointment, "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Being exposed to your mind might help you get over this."
She countered too pessimistic to be characteristic for the Architect, "Or it may make it worse…", and set her cup down on the end table.
He sighed. Arthur had hoped this offer would brighten her outlook not dampen it. "I'll call and cancel then."
"No, you should do it." He'd been just as excited as she started out to be. The Architect didn't want to keep Arthur from that awe-inspiring world just because she wasn't stable enough to go back to it yet, "I think time apart may do us good."
He was a taken aback. Had the three and a half weeks that she'd ignored his existence not been enough? They were barely starting to spend time together, now. Just starting to ease back into their relationship and she wanted to be away from him already? He wasn't sick of her, not even close; was she already sick of him? He turned his head and shifted his position.
She realized he'd taken her suggestion the wrong way (again…) and tried to smooth it over, "I mean—you passively trigger a lot of my issues." Yeah, Ari…that helped. Did she even know how to communicate with him anymore? She retraced her thoughts and rewired her phrasing to be more positive, "Maybe breathing room and not having them so often will make me better. And I'll take the next job with you…" She rubbed his shoulder.
"If you're sure."
xxxxxx
That night he woke to her crying in the bathroom again. It wasn't in fear, though. It was sadness, longing maybe.
She wanted to dream. Ariadne craved creation and dreams like crack. It'd been so long since she'd felt the familiar prick of the PASIV needle, heard the hissing sound of Somnacin being injected into her veins. It'd been forever since she'd had a dream in which she was in control, in which evil shades of Arthur and agonizing memories didn't chase and torture her. The thing keeping her back was Mal. What if she changed her mind and agreed to go with Arthur and work again? What if constantly being under fueled her subconscious? What if the Somnacin empowered her regrets? What if she not only developed a shade of Arthur to rival Mal but a shade of Cobb and sweet Philippa and innocent James? What if her hallucinations got worse? It was hard enough keeping Arthur in the loop and keeping their relationship alive and breathing as it was to then throw in figures of her past to constantly stalk her while dreaming, hallucinating or not. What if they haunted her? Followed her like imaginary friends even when she was free of nightmares and flashbacks? She would have to wait out her issues before dreamsharing again, it was apparent.
Desire would consume her in the days to come. She decided that calling on Eames would be the best way to quell her turbulent mind and appear healthy, unfazed and ineffably happy to Arthur. For his sake and hers and the sake of their future together, she would fix this without his help. Ariadne wouldn't drag him under and burden him with issues. He had enough of his own and she was positive he was working through those without her. She was convinced he had his own nightmares, issues and guilt and he obviously hadn't come to her with those. Ariadne would follow suit and hopefully, within time, they'd be that inexorably strong couple they'd been before Fischer deigned himself capable of ripping them apart.
That was the other thing. Their communication was stilted. She had worked so hard and they had come such a long way. They'd been at the point where they could and would tell each other everything with a mere look. Nothing was awkward to bring up, she didn't trip over her tongue and struggle with her meanings before…he just knew. The realization of the giant steps backward their relationship had been dragged was scourging.
xxxxxx
His first day back to dreaming was cathartic. It was a blessing that he could immerse himself in his research and let his mind rest from the turmoil of worrying over his fiancée. His co-workers were very compliant, very work oriented. There was no teasing from Eames to ruffle his feathers… It was very much like a vacation in and of itself. His leader was self-sufficient. He knew exactly what he wanted but was open to suggestions, especially from Arthur as he'd made it clear that The Point Man had his utmost respect. There was no need for a forger on such a simplistic job and the chemist was in and out; he was really only necessary when they needed someone to monitor their time under Somnacin influence. When it came to the architect…Arthur couldn't help his mind from slightly wandering to think of The Architect. It was too easy to compare the one he was working with to Her and too easy for the man compared to lose every time. They had a nice quiet lunch in. No prodding into anyone's personal life, just companionable silence. Silence…it was almost in him to miss the jabbing remark of Eames and the bubbling laughter of his girl.
When Arthur came home, the house was eerily sound. He set his briefcase down and scanned the room for brown curls. A feeling that he shouldn't have left her alone set in his stomach. He passes the kitchen, pots and pans in the sink…the tv was blaring some French cooking show as he walked through the still living area. Thank God, she was peacefully napping on the length of the couch. Flour smudged on her face, arms looking uncomfortably tangled and the tacky apron her friend had bought her back in college was draped off the couch arm. It was one that said, "In-Seine for the City of Louvre," which was a pitiful pun for "Insane for the City of Love." The Eiffel Tower was printed in the corner and little hearts danced around it. Sensing someone's eyes on her, her own fluttered open and grin spread over her face. "Hey you," Arthur smirked and nudged her with his knee, "Falling asleep waiting for me, are you?"
Ariadne hummed a response and folded her arms over herself, "I'm cold."
"I'll get you a blanket." He proffered and started for one but Ariadne lunged for his hand and pulled him down on top of her.
Her lips were curved mischievously, "Or you could just warm me up…" she slithered her arms around his neck and kissed him perkily.
"I'm crushing you." Arthur lifted himself up, a laugh in his throat. When she wouldn't budge or release her hold, he rolled off the couch and landed on his back with an oomph. Ariadne was on top of him now and giggling her head off. She leant down to assault him with more warm, wet kisses and he smiled in between them declaring, "I think- I'll like—this- job if this is—what- I'll come home to- every day." Arthur pinched her side and she squealed and released him from the blissful contact. He pinched her a couple more times in her ticklish spot, laughed as she squirmed and playfully slapped at him. They eased down and she just rested her chin on his chest and smoothed his strands of gelled hair back into place. He laid and adored her for a moment before he asked, "What smells so good?"
Her eyes grew and she gasped like she completely forgot. Immediately she hopped off of him and floated to the kitchen. "Feast your eyes on Boeuf Bourguignon, Tartiflette and Salade Aveyronaise courtesy of Famille Bourgeois." Now it was Arthur's turn for his eyes to grow big and his mouth to gape. He loved when Ariadne cooked. Her grandparents had been pioneers of authentic French Cuisine and had educated their granddaughter well. There were several dishes Ariadne made that Arthur was chronically obsessed with. Arthur had eaten at his share of fancy, five star restaurants in his day but out of them all, she made the best sweet potato casserole, the most divine of chicken cordon bleu's and a killer Pansette de Gerzat. (He was still trying to wrap his head around the French name for certain meals and what ingredients they used but he'd remembered that dish because it was that spectacular.) If Ariadne wasn't so pretty and artistic and everything she already was, he'd still be this in love with her based on her cooking alone. "And in English…"
Ariadne made him sit as she made their plates and brought them to the table. "Just try it." It turned out that the Boeuf Bourguignon was roast beef that had been stewed in red wine. The Tartiflette was a Savoyard potatoes au gratin dish, with Reblochon cheese (his favorite of the underappreciated French cheeses she'd introduced him to) and shredded pork. The salad was a wedge each with ripe tomatoes, Roquefort cheese and walnuts. Damn, she was good. Everything was tender and savory on his taste buds. He ate until he felt sick. Sometimes he wondered if she wasn't unlike that witch in the Hansel and Gretel story…cooking him the most delectable of entrees just to fatten him up so she could eat him. He cleaned the kitchen. In their normal routine, whoever cooked wouldn't have to clean. Although, if they cooked together, they cleaned together. He described the monotonous details of the job, his new team mates and his day's events to her as he scrubbed down the plates and wiped down the countertops. She relayed the drama of her new favorite television series and mused over what she might do the next day. They changed into their sleep clothes and she cuddled up to him to watch tv, during which she fell asleep drawing skyscrapers and cathedrals on his forearm.
Maybe this job was good for them. The difference that eight hours of separation had made was phenomenal. They were practically on the same path they were before the incident. He couldn't describe how good it felt to come home to her grinning face again. For her to pull him on top of her, to cook for him, to snuggle with him before bed. At this rate, they'd be getting married as planned in August. They would pull through this traumatic experience victoriously. Arthur was sure.
xxxxxx
He heard her talking. Muffling her voice. He believed it was coming from the closet if the light under the cracks was any clue. Arthur sat up, wondering whether or not he should go in and check on her. The thought crossed his mind that it might be possible for her to kill herself with a hanger. He caught one word that made his attention zero in on her conversation. "Secret." Arthur leaned forward in his spot and stained his eardrums. "He's asleep. I know…I just needed to hear your voice. Yeah, I think I'll be ok the rest of the night. Thanks…You know, I don't think I could do this without you...ok-" The light in the closet went out and the doorknob began to twist. Arthur laid back down and feigned sleep. The Architect crawled into bed, locked her cell phone and pulled the covers over her shoulders again. She grew silent, rested her eyelids.
Arthur's eyes, on the other hand, flewopen. Aching suspicion swirled within him because of her last words.
"Night Eames. I love you too."
Xxxxxx
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