Inception is intellectual property of Christopher Nolan and its distributors.

Author's Note: As of 03/18/13 this chapter has been totally rewritten because ahhhh plot holes and things

Edited 05/2018

Chapter 03
Nightcall

Leaving Eames to himself, Amelia began collection the few things she knew she would need, all of which fit conveniently into her worn leather satchel. It was one of the few positives about having safe houses sprinkled across everywhere, it allowed to quick and light travel. Though despite how easy the packing may have been, finding something suitable for first-class travel was a whole other beast entirely, something easier said than done. Opening the second-hand trunk at the end of her mattress, Amelia began sifting through the endless pairs of worn t-shirts and jeans. It was a struggle to find anything that would make her look like the appropriate companion to the man who was making himself at home downstairs.

"Oi, we don't have all day you know!"

She bristled, stopping her search. "Thank you for that breaking news, I had no idea. Now, shut up!"

I'm already regretting this.

She could hear him moving around downstairs grumbling, no doubt snooping his way through her liquor cabinets, a thought that was confirmed when she heard the telltale sound of bottles and glasses; Most likely pouring a nice glass of her expensive bourbon for himself. Rolling her eyes, Amelia went back to her search which had her finding the only suitable clothes: a pair of brown high-waisted trousers with belt, a man's white dress shirt (where had that come from?), and one of her few pretty lace bra, a tweed vest, and red heels.

All pieces of a persona left over from a rather lucrative job.

Oh, I remember you. Amelia couldn't help but smile as she tossed the vest and shoes on the bed. That was a good gig. Always love a job that deals with Van Gogh.

Despite the desire to have a walk down memory lane of heists, she knew it wasn't the time or the place, so instead, she heaved herself off the floor and pushed her sweatpants off. Quickly she pulled on the trousers, which were must looser than she remembers, and then the belt which she tightened securely. Her sweatshirt was the next thing to go, jerking it over her head with her sports bra following, both pieces joining the pile on the floor. Quickly she pulled on her bra and tugged on the dress shirt, only to struggle with the buttons.

It didn't take long then for her to feel his eyes on her back, causing her to squirm uncomfortably as she tried to ignore him and finish the buttons. The small, tiny, stubborn buttons that just didn't want to do what they were meant to. Biting back a growl by the time she had finally reached the last button on the shirt, Amelia had just enough of feeling like a piece of meat.

"If you could stop burning holes into my back," she called while flipping her hair over the shirt's collar. "I'd be real appreciative."

He gave a bark of a laugh that brought back memories better left forgotten. "It's nothing I haven't seen before, love."

Ah, there's the smugness we've all been waiting for.

Instead of snapping back though, Amelia just tugged on her vest and slipping on her heels. Pulling the satchel onto her shoulder, she rolled up her sleeves quickly and started down the stairs to the main floor of the loft, where she was welcome with the back of Eames' head. He was slouched with a glass in hand in his oh-so-casual way on her poor excuse of a couch, flipping his chip between his fingers absentmindedly.

"What is it?"

They were seated comfortably on the floor of her New York City penthouse's living room, in the same general area where they'd begun their excursion a few hours earlier, in front of the floor ceiling to windows with the fireplace going. Dressed in only his shirt, she found herself comfortable seated on Eames' lap with her back pressing against his bare chest. Neither was sure of the time, not that it mattered to either of them, but if the sun was any indication, then it was around mid-afternoon. They'd been busy since noon, moving fluidly between sleep and sex.

"A totem," He answered nipping at her neck before soothing the mark with his tongue. "Anchors us lets you know whether you're dreaming or awake."

"That's—" Her breath caught in her throat as teeth grazed her pulse point. "That's not the full answer, is it?"

He chuckled, the sensation vibrating from his chest through her body, and his breath warm on her neck. It took everything for her not to make a noise. "They're common items, sometimes specially made but always unassuming to everyone but their owner. They can't be touched by anyone else; otherwise, it's tainted. It can't be used properly."

"So," she pulled away to look at him, rolling her backside into his pelvis causing him to groan and her to grin. "What's your totem then?"

"That's enough talking." His fingers, which had threaded themselves into her hair, yanked her forward and crushed her lips against his own.

He looked so out of place in her rusty industrial loft, dressed in his nicely fitted suit and handcrafted Italian leather shoes. He was so different from how he'd looked the last time she'd seen him from a distance. He'd been thinner then, not gaunt and sickly as she knew she must have seemed to him, but even then he'd still be attractive in his own roguish way.

Still attractive now, that little voice reasoned. But we're not going to get into that now. My nonexistence therapist can only handle so much.

Taking a deep breath, Amelia steeled herself before waltzing over towards him and all but snatching the glass. Within seconds she had downed his drink, the harsh taste of the bourbon (how had she been so right on what he would choose?) burning its way down her throat. It wasn't as if he hadn't heard her come, the pumps she wore clearly warned him of her approach, so he didn't bother to look shocked.

"Right, shall we?"

Might as well get this over as quickly as possible.

. . .

Amelia woke slowly as the feeling of consciousness working its way into her brain, cutting through the sleepy fog that clouded her head. She didn't open her eyes immediately though, she kept them closed and stayed completely still for a few moments until she remembered precisely where she was and shot upright, her eyes darting around the jet's cabin.

Job. Airport. Jet.

"Took you long enough to wake up, sleeping beauty."

Eames.

"Jesus, these chairs don't do anyone any favors," She whined while stretching in her seat, letting her bones crack and pop. "How long have I been out?"

"Long enough," Eames answered tossing a folder into her lap. "There's everything you'll need to get started or everything Cobb thought you'd need. Arthur put in a bit extra though."

She shot him a glare before she began leafing through the pages quietly, skimming quickly while picking out tidbits here and there that she knew were important all the while aware of his gaze on the top of her head. Of course, that attention shifted when she came upon the photograph of Robert Fischer.

"Well hello there," she examined the photograph closely before shooting him a look over the top of the photo. "He's quite the looker, isn't he?"

Eames simply gave a huff, "If you're into cheekbones and puppy dog eyes."

Ignoring him, Amelia simply shit the folder and tossed it into the seat next to her. She'd look at it more intently later when she didn't have someone glaring a hole in her head.

"Well, gimme the run down then. Who's on the team?"

"Excluding myself and you?" She just shot him a look. "Cobb, Arthur of course, an upstart of an Architect, and my good chemically gifted friend Yusuf."

"Sounds like a good team."

"Anything's better than the crack teams you've worked with."

Amelia didn't even bother to argue.

"Exactly why then are we heading to Sydney if the team is in Paris?"

"Like I said earlier—recon," Eames replied, looking from the window to Amelia. "The company that Junior is set to inherit, Fischer Morrow, is nearly a monopoly and the employer wants it broken up so his company can survive. We get Fischer to carve up his father's legacy, and we keep the world spinning in the manner that capitalism is accustomed to."

"Sounds like a fun political mess," Amelia commented as she stretched.

Eames ignored her comment, continuing his explanation. "The right-hand man of junior's father is Peter Browning; he's almost like the father that Fischer never had. If we're going to make this work, we're going to need a strong emotional push, and I believe it will come in the form of Browning."

She just hmmm'd in understanding, going back to the file to find Browning's photo—one of him and Fischer together, photographed paparazzi style—only to look up as Eames continued.

"The employer of this job, Mister Saito, has arranged for you to be the temporary replacement for Fischer's assistant. While my eyes will be on Browning, yours will be on Fischer. You'll have access to his schedule, his emails, phone calls, everything."

"So basically," Amelia said while tucking a leg under her body, "You need me understand the inner emotional workings of a man, which means to compress a 3-month long op into what? 3 weeks or some equally ridiculous timeline, that's what you mean to say?"

Eames stilled his chip. "What, can't you do it?"

"I never said I couldn't," she sneered. "It just will be difficult. Manipulating a person takes time, to really get to know the insides well enough to know which buttons to push...How long will we have?"

"Two weeks," he reinforced by showing two fingers. "Arthur's set us up in a place downtown. As soon as our two weeks are up and you've…weaseled your way into his electronic planner, we'll fly to Paris and continue our work from there."

"Sounds like a good enough plan."

"Cobb will be glad to hear it."

The finality of his tone seemed to put an end to their conversation, leaving Amelia to do nothing but look out the darkened window at nothing, her forehead pressed against the cold glass. Anytime they spoke their conversations had been too polite and too strained, and the ride to the airport, just thinking about it made her want to cringe but the check-in at the airport and security had been even worse. Just thinking about it made her flustered.

She really couldn't believe she was going to do this. It still didn't seem like a good idea after everything, but she did owe Cobb. She owed him quite a bit, and she knew that however as soon as they reached the airport, it all seemed to not matter at all what she owed anyone.

As soon as Eames tipped the driver, he was on his way, brushing past her with practiced relaxed ease.

"Come along then, can't have you standing there all day."

He didn't even sound like he was speaking to a person, but rather a dog and, like one, Amelia dutifully followed him. Inside the airport was bustling with people, different languages and accents cutting through the air causing an awkward mishmash of sounds. Even with the occasional mistake, the pair quickly made their way to the security checkpoint which was where Eames rounded on her as their turn came up.

"You have your ID, your passport?" She nodded as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, holding them up. "Give them to me and let me do the talking."

Yes, Amelia decided as she gave him the documents, just like a dog.

"What's your reason for travel…" The TSA employee droned while absentmindedly giving the passport and ID a look. "Mister Marshall?"

Eames gave a grin that was all teeth.

"Had to pick out a ring at Tiffany's for my fiancé here," He threw his arm around Amelia's waist, drawing her flush against his while his hand trailed dangerous close to the curve of her ass. "She doesn't speak a lick of English, you see, so she's really got no idea why we this jaunt all the way across the Pond."

The TSA employee gave a chuckle, "Relationships are always better with a bit of a language barrier."

"Don't I know it," Eames quipped while giving her backside a quick squeeze. "Isn't that right, love?"

Amelia could barely contain herself. "Tu te comportes comme un faire l'imbécile."

"Well sir," even the employee seemed flustered as he hurriedly handed back their passports and IDs. "I hope you have a good trip back."

"Oh," Eames tucked everything neatly into his breast pocket, "You know I will, mate."

Her face still burned.

Fucking asshole.

Of course, the rational part of her understand why he'd played that card—it's always better to be safe when doing international travel than not—but it still made her temper spike. Not because she didn't enjoy it, but rather because she had. It almost made her blanch. She could still feel the ghost-like sensation of his body pressed up against hers and his hand trailing her back.

She'd be lying if she didn't admit that it had been awhile since she'd last taken someone to bed.

"Why didn't you come back?" He sounded tentative, and she knocked her forehead slightly, jumping at the unexpected question. "I saw you in Kenya, you could have come back."

Her mouth went dry, her tongue suddenly feeling heavy and like sandpaper. She could feel the sweat gathering on the back of her neck and forehead in spite of the coolness of the cabin. Her heart had dropped into her stomach. She didn't want to talk about anything, least of all that. There was so much Eames didn't know, didn't understand.

"Wake me up when we land in Sydney."

The distance between the two of them grew.