Six years in the dream world has tuned Arthur's senses sharply and so when the bullet slides into the chamber of the gun pressed under his chin, it's almost melodic.
To the outsider, the scene is stark and horrifying: a well-dressed, handsome young man is a mere finger twitch away from ending his own life. But Arthur is nothing if not thorough and has locked all of the doors and windows, to prevent harming anyone else's mind, and lined his last note up on the kitchen countertop next to his will and testament (his mother gets everything), Passport and the file on one Dominick Cobb.
Arthur has dressed in something almost like a uniform for him. His grey Hugo Boss three piece selected specifically to not show blood is pressed into crisp lines and his ombre tie is tied in a double Windsor knot, lying flat against the same white Oxford he'd worn to Ariadne's wedding almost a year earlier.
The wedding had really been what kick started Arthur's freefall, not because he was in love with her, because he wasn't, but because he realized that he could never have friendships or relationships that went anywhere. Seated next to Cobb at table seventeen, Arthur knew he'd been placed there because there was no place else for him to sit; he was a friend of the bride in some weird, twisted way, but definitely not family and he was, in no way whatsoever, a friend of the groom.
After an hour of uncomfortable silence with a man Arthur thought he knew, he couldn't handle it anymore and excused himself to the balcony where no one other than a few of Ariadne's older family members were milling around.
He had brought his glass with him and drank from it deeply, wishing that, in that moment, he believed in alcoholism. He leaned against the railing and surveyed the Fischer estate, backlit in all it's glory, and couldn't help but feel bitter.
"I take it you're not enjoying yourself?"
He knew her voice without turning around and so he composed his face before meeting eyes with her. Ariadne looked beautiful, the picture of matrimonial happiness and he didn't feel it was fair to ruin that with his pensiveness. She rested her hand on his forearm.
"Thank you for coming," she said, squeezing gently. He nodded and impulsively pulled her into a hug that lingered for a minute too long because before he could pull away, Robert Fischer was clearing his throat in the doorway.
"Ariadne, they're talking about cake," he said, his voice tight. Ariadne nodded and said goodbye to Arthur, following her husband back into the ballroom where their friends and family were beginning to congregate around a massive wedding cake.
He followed the couple (he couldn't say if they were happy or not, though he suspected she probably was) back in and settled against the wall where Cobb was standing, cradling a sleeping Phillipa, her head on his shoulders, long legs reaching past his waist.
"She party too hard?" Arthur asked, no hint of a smile. Cobb shrugged.
"It's almost midnight, I think we're about to head out. It was good to see you, Arthur," Cobb said, adjusting his daughter in his arms to offer Arthur a handshake. Arthur responded in kind and said nothing else as Cobb, Phillipa and a half-asleep James slipped out quietly.
Arthur didn't stay much longer after that, having lost the only other person in the room he knew, and was ready to collapse into bed when he got home, which he would have, had Eames not been sitting on his couch when he walked in.
"You're breaking and entering," Arthur grumped, locking the door behind him and beginning to take his tie and tux jacket off. Eames laughed shortly, propping his feet up on the coffee table.
"Its not breaking and entering if you leave the garage door unlocked, Arthur."
The men said nothing to each other for a long time, as Arthur changed out of his tux and into pajamas and put a pot of coffee on to brew. It was in the kitchen that he first notices the black folder, two inches thick, that hadn't been there before.
He picked it up and was surprised by its weight, turning it over and over several times before opening it.
"Eames, what is this?" Arthur called, flipping through the first pages, pages that contain pictures of Cobb, his children and, most unsettlingly, Mal. Eames walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, picking a banana up and tossing it back and forth between his hands.
"It's our next job," Eames responded, choosing his words carefully and continuing before Arthur could start talking or, as Eames predicted, yelling. "It seems Cobol has figured out our deception."
"Which one?" Arthur asked, grabbing the banana out of Eames' hands and throwing it back in the bowl. "We've deceived a lot of people, a lot of times."
"You know which one," Eames said, crossing his arms. Five years had aged his, grey beginning to fleck his blonde hair, his eyes no longer shining. "They've found Cobb."
Arthur knew that was what he was going to say. He put the folder down on the counter and shook his head no.
"I'm not interested in helping men with guns and a happy trigger finger find a home with two children in it."
"Arthur, they know where he lives and they don't want to kill him, they want to settle the score. They have a scrambler on their team."
Arthur snapped his head back around, ready to call Eames' bluff when a man dressed in an expensive suit that, despite its sizeable cost still looked sleazy, stepped out from the utility room, a man Arthur recognized immediately as Gabriel Cobol.
Eames shook his head once before he drove his elbow back into Cobol's stomach, felled by a shot from the CEO's bodyguard a split second later. Arthur choked back a gasp and grabbed the gun Velcroed under the cabinet next to him, pointing it level with Cobol's head.
"Enough," Cobol sighed, sounding almost bored. His bodyguard dropped his gun, reholstering it. Arthur was not so quick to stand down.
"What do you want?" he asked, pulling the hammer back on the Glock and taking a step forward. Cobol took two steps forward, his forehead pressed against the muzzle of the gun.
"You owe me Cobb," Cobol replied, leaning into the gun. "Kill me if you want, but you owe me Cobb and you're going to find him for me."
Kill me if you want, but you owe me Cobb and you're going to find him for me.
It is self-preservation that made Arthur comply and so, for the next year, Arthur went along with the job, gathering information on Cobb's subconscious and its habits, before beginning to tool the report for Cobb's survival instead of his demise.
He drops little details into the report that are one hundred percent false and subtle enough that the scrambler won't recognize he's being tricked and Cobb will quickly see that he is in danger.
It took the entire year for Arthur to be satisfied with his job and on the night before the report is to be delivered, Arthur showered, dressed in his most expensive and forgiving suit, lined up his posessions on the counter and took a seat in the plush wingback armchair in his study.
The rich wood of the study is dark in the moonlight, shadows bouncing off the collection of books and antique tools lined up on the bookshelves, tools he had collected to represent his work and himself, the working keg of Cobb's operation.
Six years wasted or embraced and in the last minutes of his life, Arthur was, for the first time in a long time, unsure of whether or not it was all worth it. Everything he had acquired, all of the places he had been and what did it amount to?
His hand shook momentarily and he took a deep breath. He knew what it was for, for Phillipa and James and Cobb and that is enough.
The gun was heavy in his hands, the weight comforting and he knew that the longer he waited, the more likely someone was to find him too soon.
Arthur thought back on the six years that had brought him to that point and is satisfied, contented even that his last act was in fact selfless and when he reaches that conclusion, he pulls the trigger.