Author's Note: Oh God...two year hiatus :'O I don't even expect anyone to still be reading this, and I'm really sorry for those who did like the story. It's summer now and I suppose I'm just writing for completion. I really love Inception and I feel like I owe it to Clara to keep writing :') If you are reading, please enjoy! It probably would make more sense to read from the beginning again, for the sake of the plot and the little details. Thank you!

Disclaimer: Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros.

The Absolute Basic

Chapter Thirteen

The midday sky above them was dark and forbidding, heavy with unshed rain. The wide street was deserted, save for the pair of them. Skyscrapers stood at attention on both sides of the road.

Eames stared at the clouds, then puffed out his cheeks. "Someone's feeling blue today," he commented.

"Oh shut it, darling," said a man who looked identical to him in every way possible, even down to the cock of his brown suede shoes. The clone stood there, hands in his pockets. "Just tell me what you think."

Eames' gaze shifted from the sky to the looming buildings. "Looks fine to me."

His mirror image smirked. It was strange, seeing his own face, dark with stubble, alive with a pleased expression. "Thank you."

"And where's the motel?"

He pointed. "Just round the corner."

They walked down the middle of the road toward the shabby and unimpressive establishment. Its neon sign was half-working, flashing erratically even though it was still light outside, despite the oncoming storm. The two men entered the blurred glass doors. The lobby was small, dank and barely furnished; no one stood behind the tiny reception counter.

"Why is it so gloomy in here?"

"We want to intimidate the Mark, don't we? This'll help induce that sense of fear. Clean and pristine doesn't quite have the same ring to it."

Eames nodded in approval. "Good work on the architecture." He grinned broadly. "And good job on the Forging."

In a single blink of the eyes, Clara stood before him, smiling back with that passive (dead) look on her face. "Thank you very much, Eames."

Eames tilted his head. "Want to show me the room upstairs? Where we're taking him?"

He could see that she did not want to. In the invisible contraction of a muscle in her face, he could tell that he had ruined her fascination in him. Although she was still very much lost in him, her interest was now painted over; changed. He had known she had been onto him ever since they had met, but only now was he really starting to think about what he was doing. He remembered, when they had done it in the basement, how careless and free he had been regarding her feelings and her. To put it plainly, he had not cared.

And he still didn't care, that remained true. But he was curious now. Curious to see how much her innocence, her morality could take. Would there ever be a day when she would push him away? Deny him? He didn't understand it then, but he felt a yearning obsession in trying to make her snap. He didn't know why. Maybe he played his games on her simply because he could. He enjoyed stripping back the layers she had wrapped herself in, protecting herself from the world outside. There was nobody stopping him, except for her. And he highly doubted that she would stop him. She wanted him, she just wouldn't admit it.

Maybe one day, when she did admit she wanted him, he would stop torturing her heart.

"Sure," said Clara, and while they rode the elevator to the second floor, Eames cupped one of her breasts in his hand.

He was not prepared for the next time, which was to come weeks from now, when she would begin to distance herself from him.

Arthur stared at the number on his mobile screen.

He did not like it. He had not seen those digits in a long time. They had been wasting away in his phone, begging to be forgotten. And they had been, but only for a while. Now, here was Arthur, coaxing them back from the grave. It had been a good few months - hell, half a year - since he had called this number, and that had been for good, legitimate reasons.

Ignoring every nerve in his body telling him not to, Arthur pressed the call button and brought the phone to his ear. He leaned back in his chair and waited.

A man answered on the other end. "Hello?"

Arthur sucked in a breath. "Hey, it's me."

"I'm sorry, who's speaking?"

The man did not recognize his voice. Somewhere in the back of Arthur's trained, professional mind, he registered a stir of insecurity. He was already forgetting who Arthur was, who he had been, what they had done together.

"Dom, it's Arthur." And that was so funny: Arthur rarely used Cobb's first name in conversation, if not then never.

He could almost hear the gear clicking into place. "Arthur!" Cobb exclaimed. Mingled in that surprised voice was disappointment. Again, something shifted in Arthur's mind. "Of course. Hey. How's it going?"

"Not great, to be honest," Arthur confessed. "I'm on another job. Another Inception."

Silence. "You don't want me on your team, do you?"

"No. No of course not Dom, that isn't it." Arthur closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his hand into them. "Listen, I just need some advice. I've got a hunch that our team isn't working for the right people, but thing is we don't have enough time to go messing about in Golden Clovers' files. And someone's stalking one of our members."

"Go with your instincts, Arthur," Cobb said evenly. "Your instincts were always right."

Were. Past tense. Cobb didn't want this conversation to last long. Arthur felt a thin thread cut itself in half between them, but there was no remorse in this unnoticeable realisation.

"Do what you need to do," Cobb said again.

Arthur swallowed. "All right. Thanks." A pause. "Look after yourself, Cobb."

"You too. Good luck, Arthur. Bye." Cobb hung up.

Arthur put the phone to one side and sighed, both relieved and comforted and a little broken somewhere.

"Who was that?"

Arthur jumped and sprang to his feet. Ariadne was standing a few paces behind him in the warehouse. She was staring at the phone as if it was on fire.

He didn't bother lying to her. "Cobb." There it was. He was Cobb again. Unlike Eames, and Clara. They would easily call him Dom. But Arthur couldn't any more. He would be like Ariadne. She had never called him anything other than Cobb, yet she had been one of the closest to him. Sometimes, you became strangers to the people you cared about the most.

Ariadne's eyes flashed at him. "What were you doing? Were you asking him for help?"

His hesitation was all it took. Ariadne rounded on him, taking several steps forward. "Arthur, how could you! You know how difficult it was to get him back! Don't tempt him-"

"He's not tempted," Arthur replied curtly, turning away.

"How do you know?" Her voice was painfully accusatory.

"His voice." Arthur rubbed his neck. "You wouldn't get it. But his voice. He's lost too much to give a shit about the Dreams, Ariadne." He doesn't even give a shit about us.

Ariadne looked as though she might retaliate, but her gaze softened eventually. "So, he's okay then?"

Arthur braved a smile. "He's not coming back."

Ariadne nodded at the ground. "Good."

He could also hear it in her voice. That suspicious, guilty disappointment.

"Do you miss him?" he asked her.

Ariadne continued to gaze at the floor, and Arthur saw that he had once been right (he had often guessed things about Ariadne): she had loved Cobb.

Ariadne caught him off guard and looked back up into his eyes. He realized that she knew about Arthur's guesses and jealousy.

"Yeah. I miss him," Ariadne said softly.

Arthur put his hands in his pockets. "Did you miss anyone else after the job?"

Ariadne opened her mouth to speak, then stopped herself and smiled modestly. "Even if I did, I don't think this person would care."

"He would."

Clara bit into her toast, watching the BBC news on the television. The clock on the windowsill read ten-forty. It was a slow morning; she had crawled out of bed and had spent about twenty minutes in the shower. She didn't exactly like being lazy in the mornings. She always had a nagging voice in the back of her head that told her she was wasting the day away.

The thing was, she was tired. Not only did she have to coordinate the team and allocate tasks, she also had to deal with improving the sedative, worry about her mysterious stalker, and try and smooth things out with Eames. Last night she had retired to bed with a head buzzing with questions.

Clara checked her watch again. She could afford another thirty minutes to herself, couldn't she? Surely they wouldn't panic if she turned up a little late today. Maybe she would text Arthur. She found her smartphone and sent Arthur a message, then switched the channel and forgot the whole fiasco.

She had just ten minutes of tranquility when the doorbell to her serviced apartment rang. At first, Clara thought it was room service, but then hadn't she put on her 'do not disturb' sign? Who was it?

"Arthur," Clara muttered, suddenly remembering their conversation the other day. He had told her he would book an apartment next to hers. Looks like he had lived up to his promises. Clara wasn't sure if she was pleased that he had.

There was a fast, impatient knock at the door. It definitely sounded like Arthur's knock.

Clara sighed and got to her feet. "Coming," she called, walking to her door and unlocking it. "Arthur, I didn't ask for a wake-up-"

Eames grinned broadly at her. "Morning, darling."

Clara had to blink several times before she recovered herself. "What the hell?" she blurted. "Eames, what're you doing here?"

Eames arched a brow at her. "No need to look so horrified. Like Arthur said, I'm here to make sure you're not bundled into a bag and swept off into the city." He put a foot into the doorway. "May I?" And without waiting for an answer, Eames shifted himself into her rented living room.

Clara frowned at his back, then shut the door reluctantly. "Arthur told you about the bodyguard thing?" Even though I specifically told him not to? That bastard.

"Yes, and I said I could take over for him if he wanted. I actually live not too far from here. No need for Arthur to spend any more of his precious money protecting you." He sat himself on the arm of her sofa and devoured the remains of her toast.

Leaning against the wall beside the television, Clara turned it off and stared at Eames. "I don't want you following me around, Eames."

Eames shrugged. "I don't want to either. Not the most pleasant of jobs." He unsuccessfully hid a snicker.

"Then let Arthur!"

"He doesn't want to either! He's got better things to do." Eames shrugged. "I live closest. I offered."

"Oh my God," Clara seethed, slumping against the wall in defeat. She sighed, watching Eames finish her pathetic breakfast.

Eames caught her glaring at him. "What? You should be thanking me. This is for your own good."

Clara clicked her tongue. "I suppose it is, but you of all people should understand why I don't want you as a bodyguard."

Eames shrugged with a smirk, and Clara sensed that he didn't want the mood to turn sour, not like the last time they had talked. She wondered why this was. Was Eames starting to regret his petty actions? Was he starting to see how much unseen damage he had done to her? He hadn't yet admitted to his faults - that of twisting her trust in him - but maybe he was feeling his conscience step in. Just like how she had set out to do all that time ago. All she had wanted to do (at first, anyway) years ago was to simply bring out the better in him. She had started with the Forging, and then with the Extractions, and then the sex, all the while thinking that this was for him.

All for him.

By the time she had realized she had been treading too deep, it had already been too late.

"You ready to go?" Eames asked after a while, getting to his feet.

Clara pulled on a coat. "Ready when you are."

His hands were undoing her coat too soon.

"Eames," she breathed, trying to pull away, but her back met a cold, solid wall.

"What is it darling?" Eames muttered into her ear, his warm lips meeting her jawbone. He forced her out of her coat and started working at her shirt.

Clara tried to get herself together in the midst of his smothering temptation. Her fingers dug into his bare chest, feebly pushing at his broad shoulders.

"Eames," she tried again, her voice cracking up slightly when he kissed her collarbone. He wouldn't listen to her. He pushed her up against the wall; the buttons of her shirt were undone now.

"Eames-"

"Shh, darling."

"N-no!" She shuddered as his body pressed seamlessly against hers.

"Relax-"

"Eames! Stop it!" She shoved his heated body away from hers. Her clumsy hands did up her shirt frantically. She ignored his eyes. They were watching her like a tiger. She felt his hand crawl up her shirt again, but she pushed it away furiously.

"I said – STOP IT!" she yelled, and that hated lump in her throat rose and she felt as though she might pass out.

Eames only stood there impassively. "Okay," he said smoothly, and threw his shirt back on and left.

Clara sat on the floor and put her screaming head in her hands.