Fandom: Inception
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Arthur/Ariadne
Summary: Though you may wander, you will find your way home.
Disclaimer: Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Christopher Nolan, Legendary Pictures, Syncopy, and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. All others belong to me, and if you want to borrow them, you have to ask me first. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.
Finally finished! Sorry for the delay, folks; NaNoWriMo always screws up my schedule. One more chapter and an epilogue. Thanks so much for reading and telling me what you think!
As ever, many, many thanks to Cincoflex for edits, encouragement, poking, admonishment, and beautiful banners. I couldn't do it without her!
Production notes for this and other chapters are available on my LiveJournal.
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Chapter Twelve: Where Sea Meets Shore
Spring in Paris is a miracle, if a rainy one. Arthur was an urbanite by nature and nurture both, but even he was not insensible to the glories the city presented afresh every morning, from buds to blossoms to leaves. It was the first time in years that he had spent so long in one city at a stretch, but it was less of a problem than he anticipated; he took a room at an old-fashioned hotel and settled gingerly in, finding its quirks exasperating at times compared to the more modern places he was used to, but drawing less attention among the other long-term residents.
It was an endless discovery, the long-term relationship he was building with Ariadne. It had been quite some time since he’d had to take anyone else’s wishes into consideration, and it required considerable adjustment. But the rewards were proving worth the effort. It was strange to know that he could go to her tiny apartment, even spend the night there, though on those occasions he usually waited until she fell asleep and then moved to the futon, to spend most of the rest of the night on his laptop or with a book. He would close his eyes for an hour or two, maybe even three or four, before waking again to work the dawn in and listen to Ariadne stir in her cocoon of blankets.
That is, if she hadn’t half-woken in the middle of the night and shuffled over to join him, putting her head in his lap and falling asleep again almost instantly. In his most secret heart, Arthur suspected he liked those moments best; not just Ariadne’s desire to be close, but the utter trust in the gesture.
Some part of him still didn’t expect it to last, but in the meantime, he savored it.
It was dim, not dark, and there were voices, unfamiliar ones. Arthur struggled to open his eyes, groping for the handgun he kept on the bedstand, but his fingers were half-numb and his brain clouded.
He recognized the symptoms, and fought them, because Ariadne’s voice was there too, polite tones that were masking something else. Arthur finally managed to grip the gun properly and levered himself up into a sitting position, but as he did so, he heard the door to his hotel room close and lock.
A few seconds later Ariadne appeared in his view, his robe way too big on her; she had to hold the lapels together to keep it from slipping off her shoulders. Arthur blinked, trying to focus.
The fear he was expecting, the discomfort, simply weren’t there. Neither was the infinitely-worse pity. Ariadne just looked sleepy, and slightly concerned. “Oh, hey.”
Arthur put the gun down carefully; his brain still felt like glue. “I woke the neighbors, huh?”
Her smile flickered. “Just a couple.” Ariadne sat down on the edge of the bed and looked him over clinically. “You okay?”
He swallowed, feeling the roughness from the scream he couldn’t remember. “Yeah.”
This had always been the sticking point, before. Any relationship that went beyond a few dates had run afoul of his night terrors sooner or later; they were rare, but they never left him, and being jolted out of a sound sleep by yelling and thrashing had always put his lovers off--even frightened them.
But Ariadne simply nodded, then stood and removed the robe, draping it over the end of the bed before sliding back between the sheets. Her deep purple sleep shirt was modest enough, but it made her look about twelve years old, and Arthur could understand why she might want to use his robe to face down the people who’d come knocking.
“Can you go back to sleep?” she asked, finishing the sentence with a yawn.
“It’s hard not to,” he admitted. The aftermath of his episodes always left him exhausted, even if he couldn’t remember them; such times were usually the only nights where he slept normal hours.
“Then lie down,” Ariadne ordered, amused, and patted his pillow.
No fear. No drama. Arthur wondered how he’d managed to find the one woman who could simply accept his condition without smothering him in concern, but he was too tired to pursue the thought. Obediently he lay down, ignoring the pillow in favor of Ariadne herself. Her chuckle vibrated under his ear, and her arms were warm around him.
Arthur closed his aching eyes.
Life was so different. Ariadne felt like her world had been turned upside down, again, or that she was living in the Paris of her first Dreams with Cobb, perpendicular to all she’d known before and equally as magic.
It was a city built, in many senses, for lovers, and while she and Arthur were hardly the stereotypical mushy couple, the spring-bedecked streets seemed to give them the extra welcome that they would never have found for instance, in her home town. Nor his, for that matter.
Ariadne busied herself with her last two classes, and her portfolio, and the designs for the two small jobs that Arthur found for them. Or was sought out for; she suspected it was more the latter, but he handled the business aspect of their working partnership and Ariadne was glad to let him. Details like that were his forté, after all.
And underneath the busyness and the bliss, she thought. There were decisions to be made; paths chosen, important ones. Ariadne found scattered hours to sit in the park and ponder, or to visit Professor M and talk.
The future was about the only thing she didn’t discuss with Arthur. Part of it was a sense that their relationship was still too new--she hardly wanted to scare him off by talking about permanence. Part of it was that she just wasn’t finished thinking things through.
He knew she was chewing something over, Ariadne could tell. Sometimes she would catch him watching her with the intense, private gaze that he never used on anyone else, but when she waited for him to ask, he never spoke.
It was fascinating to watch the little changes in him. Ariadne only had a sketchy idea of how he’d been before--he was hardly the type to offer up every detail of his past--but she watched with interest as his extremely Parisian hotel room went from the bland charm of its original presentation to something a little more…personal. Not that Arthur was untidy, not at all; but it was more than a spread of grooming tools across the bathroom shelf or the overcoat hung neatly by the door. Gradually books appeared, to be lined up along the back of the desk, and a scrap of calligraphy in a frame took pride of place on his dresser. Ariadne occasionally wondered why someone would frame an obscure quote from Shakespeare, but forbore to ask.
Some of his things migrated to her flat as well, which pleased her deeply, though she didn’t mention that either. Ariadne tried to avoid leaving her possessions in his rooms, because anything extra looked out of place, but a few made their way despite that--a sweater, a scarf, her spare hairbrush. Arthur found places for them all, usually before Ariadne realized that they weren’t at her flat.
It was that, more than anything, that gave her hope for their relationship.
“I’ve gotten another job offer,” Arthur said one April evening, when they were sitting on a park bench to eat supper and enjoy the sunset. “Istanbul, with Peters.”
“Who’s he?” Ariadne tore off a bit of her baguette and tossed it to the sparrow that was looking hopeful nearby. She loved these simple meals almost more than she did the fancier kind in the expensive restaurants that Arthur sometimes favored; fresh ham, fresh cheese, fresh butter and fresh air were a sensuous delight that never failed to please her.
“She is an extractor I’ve worked with before.” Arthur’s little smirk chided her for her assumption, and Ariadne grinned back before nibbling her sandwich. “Not as good as Cobb, but a professional. She has her own architect, though; it’s a solo offer.”
Ariadne swallowed her bite and shrugged. “Good, because I have exams coming up. Are you planning on taking it?”
Arthur gazed off across the park for a moment. “It’s lucrative,” he said thoughtfully. “And Peters is careful. Yes, I’m inclined to accept; I can do the preliminary research from here.”
Ariadne nodded. “How long would you be out of town?”
“If everything goes smoothly, about three weeks.” Arthur looked back to her. “You…don’t mind.”
It was more than half a question, even said so flatly, and Ariadne was confused for a breath’s worth before the concern came clear. She framed her statement carefully, and kept her tone unconcerned. “She didn’t like you going off alone?”
Arthur’s mouth twisted, almost a wince. “Jeanette was, um, the anxious type.”
Needy, Ariadne translated, or maybe jealous. And thought the better of him for not using those words. “If I get pissy about you taking jobs, then how can I justify running off to visit friends for the weekend?” she pointed out cheerfully, watching him blink in surprise and burying her contempt for his ex deep inside. “We don’t own each other, Arthur, as fun as that could be sometimes.”
That made him laugh out loud, still a rare enough occasion for Ariadne to savor it. “Touché. All right then, I’ll tell her yes.”
She gave him a firm nod, and pointed at the paper-wrapped sandwich in his hand. “Good. Now eat.”
Arthur shook his head, laid his arm along the back of the bench behind her shoulders, and obeyed.
He made it back to Paris in the middle of a dreamy May night, the air warm and sweet with sleeping flowers. He missed Ariadne; they’d spoken a few times on the phone, but it wasn’t safe to do so and the calls had been brief.
Tomorrow, he promised himself as he rode the hotel’s elevator up to his floor. You can meet her for breakfast, but there’s no point in waking her up at three a.m.
His heart and his body both rebelled; Arthur had gotten used to Ariadne’s warm breathing weight in his bed, or in hers, despite her refusal to make the bed in the morning.
Tomorrow.
It had been strange, doing a job by himself again--that is, without the team he knew. He’d done solos before, but not recently, and the dynamics were always different. It had been something of a relief to fall back into his old role, with less responsibility, less worry; but Arthur had been surprised to find that just being the point man wasn’t as satisfying as he’d expected.
It just hadn’t been the same, without Dom.
He opened his door as quietly as possible--no passcards for this place, it was metal keys and they did clink--and slipped into his room, setting his bag by the door. The curtains were open, and moonlight filled the space with its fragile glow, a sacrament of light. Arthur was instantly aware of two things; his bed was not made, and there was someone in it.
He let out a slow breath, feeling an old tightness ease in his chest. And smiled.
She was warm indeed, under the sheets Arthur peeled back delicately; arms wrapped around the pillow, dark-lashed eyes buttoned shut, wearing--he drew in a breath--nothing at all. He sat back on his heels on the bed and just admired the white moonlight on her white skin, the soft dent of her spine and the smooth curve of her backside. Ariadne didn’t generally dress to show off her body, and that suited him, because he was the one who not only knew what she looked like underneath, but was the only one who had the privilege of removing whatever she was wearing. But all the time they had been lovers in Paris, she had worn pajamas or a sleep shirt.
“You’re late,” she commented sleepily, and Arthur looked away from her ass and up to her face. He loved the way her hair tangled when she slept, as if it had a rebellious mind of its own, and he reached out to push it away from her eyes.
“Traffic. How’d you know I was going to be back tonight?”
Ariadne stretched, slow and deliberate, riveting his attention as she rolled over. “I have my sources.” Her smirk was equally slow, a hot invitation. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”
“I have to agree.” Arthur arched a brow as if to admonish, but reached for his shirt buttons anyway. Ariadne chuckled, and helped.
He expected her to fall asleep again afterwards, but instead she turned on one dim lamp--the moon having sunk away--and sat half-up against the piled pillows. On impulse, Arthur shifted so that he could put his head in her sheet-covered lap, and closed his eyes in bliss when she began stroking his hair. He had not known how much he missed such small gestures; receiving them as well as giving them was a revelation.
He let several minutes pass by before speaking, deliberately keeping himself relaxed. “What is it?”
Ariadne let out a soft laugh, though she didn’t stop her gentle touch. “Should have known I hadn’t fooled you.”
“Yes, you should have,” Arthur replied equably. “And?”
He heard her exhale. “I got a job offer yesterday.”
This time he couldn’t help the tenseness, though he didn’t move. “Good one?”
“Very good.” Her fingers drifted down to his nape, trailing over the sensitive skin there; it was one of her favorite spots. “Six months with this firm, maybe a year, and I’d be able to get my license.”
Which had been, in part, her original goal in coming to Paris in the first place. Arthur opened his eyes to stare blindly across the room, knowing that she couldn’t see his face. “I hope you said yes.”
He was proud of himself for keeping his voice level. They hadn’t discussed the future; he hadn’t really even dared to think about it. But his heart had hoped, it seemed, and the newborn vision of the two of them forming their own core team was breaking up even as it coalesced. It’s her dream, the one she’s had for years. You can’t expect her to give it up.
Ariadne was talented--he knew that better than anyone except Dom, or possibly Miles. Combined with her intelligence and determination, she could rise far and fast…unhampered by a dream-thief with a history of violence.
He almost laughed. I thought she would leave because of me.
Idiot.
“I wanted to talk to you first,” she said, her voice wavering a little, and he had a heart after all, because no cold gear could hurt like this. He’d forgotten it, how magnificently breathtaking the pain could be.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said gently, and sat up, sliding to the edge of the bed in the same movement. “It’s what’s best, isn’t it?”
Her growl was inarticulate. Small strong hands fastened on his shoulders, and then he found himself flat on his back on the mattress, Ariadne straddling him in all her nude glory--though the burn in her eyes was definitely fury rather than lust.
“Stop it!” she snapped, pressing him down with both palms. “Dammit, Arthur, stop shutting me out!”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Ariadne--”
She pressed harder. “Do you want an excuse to get rid of me?”
That made him look up at her. “No!”
Her chin quivered, then firmed. “Then listen, you twit. I need to make a decision, and I need your input, but only if you’re going to talk to me instead of running away!”
That stung. “I’m not running away!”
“Only because I’m holding you down.” She glared at his protest and settled herself more firmly. Arthur knew he could toss her aside easily if he tried, but her anger was a more potent weight than her mass. “I swear, it’s not like we’ve known each other all that long, but I swear you’re more afraid of being happy than you are of getting hurt.” When he opened his mouth she bumped it shut again with one palm. “Shut up and listen. I like you, Arthur. I like being with you and sleeping with you and arguing over the best way to design a Dream. I don’t want to give that up, I want to see where we can take it. But if you’re going to try to cut and run every time something changes--”
The hot splash of a tear hitting his nose made his gut shrivel in shame, but his reach for her was aborted by her hands pinning his arms. “Don’t you dare, I’m not done yet.”
Arthur licked his lips. “Ariadne, I--I’m not trying to--I mean--” He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them and tried again. “You can’t be a famous architect with a criminal for a lover.”
Her arched brows were half exasperation, half surprise. “Says who?” She shook her head. “Is that--never mind, later. Look. I want my license, and this job is the best way to get it. But that’s not all I want, and if I can trust you not to bolt, maybe we can talk about it.”
She was so beautiful, even tousled and angry and hurt; so fierce and alive, and he didn’t deserve her. But he was inclined to be selfish. Gently, Arthur shook off her grip on his arms and reached up to cup her face and slide his fingers into her hair. “I’ll listen,” he told her. “I promise.”
Ariadne insisted on making tea, pulling on the underwear and shirt she’d removed earlier and tossing his own pants at him with the curt comment that she didn’t need the distraction just then. Arthur obeyed, settling crosslegged on the bed with his mug and watching as Ariadne leaned against the headboard and tucked her feet underneath her. She fussed with the pillows nervously, and he waited; it was her forum, she was in control.
Finally she sipped from her own cup, and sighed. “You still want this, right?” She gestured between them, and the uncertainty in her voice made him ache, made his fingers tighten on the porcelain.
“Yes.” He wasn’t sure if he could keep it, even now, but her firm practicality was starting to make his fears look…absurd. Arthur met her eyes and imagined her held in his arms against all comers. “Yes, I do.”
Ariadne’s cheeks pinkened, but her nod was decisive. “Good.” She took another swallow. “Now. I need to know something else. Are you happy with what you’re doing? The Dreaming, I mean.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to say of course, but the last few weeks replayed themselves, and Arthur was surprised to find that the answer was different. “It’s…not the same anymore,” he blurted, equally surprised to hear the words fall out of his mouth. “I’m a point man, that’s what I do best. The detail work. I don’t really like being a team leader.”
“That’s what I thought.” Ariadne nodded again. “You’re good at it, but I know it stresses you out.”
Arthur shrugged. Extractions were stressful; that was the nature of the job. Ariadne took a deep breath. “Here’s the thing. I love doing architecture work for Dreams, it’s like a fantasy come to life, but I’m not really comfortable with the ethics of it.”
That didn’t surprise him; Arthur knew she’d been having doubts. “The theft?”
“More like the invasion of privacy. Corporate theft is one thing; breaking into peoples’ minds without permission…it’s starting to bug me.” Her expression was apologetic. “I’m not judging you--”
Arthur reached out to squeeze her knee briefly. “It’s okay. Most people would feel that way, you know.”
Ariadne smiled, rueful. “Well. I’ve been talking with Dom and Yusuf, and I think I know a way where I can still do Dream design without quite so much of the risk.”
He swallowed more tea. “And?”
“Remember that conversation we had about customized dream-worlds?”
Arthur blinked. “I thought you weren’t into porn.”
“I never said that.” She smiled sweetly, then burst into laughter and pointed at him. “You should see your expression. No, I mean, there’s a market there, for stuff that isn’t sex, or at least mostly.”
He knew his glare was useless, so he let it go. “You think so? From what I’ve heard most of the interest is in the X-rated stuff.”
Ariadne shrugged. “Sure, porn’s always going to have a huge corner on the market, but according to Dom there are plenty of people looking for something else, like those online communities or games but more immersive. And designing worlds for those would be amazing.”
The hollow feeling was back, if less intense; Arthur told himself that there was no reason why she couldn’t do that and stay with him at the same time, but the truth was he preferred working with at least one or two people he trusted, and if she was doing other things he would be alone again. “I can see that.”
Ariadne regarded him, eyes narrowing, then uncoiled enough to shove him with one narrow foot. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I bet I won’t like it. Spill.”
He looked down into his mug, then back up at her. “I’d miss you, that’s all,” he said quietly. “I like working with you.”
Her grin was soft. “Good, because I like working with you too, and that’s the other half of this. I don’t want to join an ongoing outfit, I want to start one of my own.”
Oh. The possibilities arrayed themselves in his mind automatically, rolling out into the future--options, ideas, potential pitfalls, complications, profit margins. “You’d need to choose your location carefully--use of the machines is still illegal in most countries.”
“I know. And it’s not something I could do on the spur of the moment, or without doing a lot more research first. Or by myself. I’d need someone to find things out for me, organize stuff, handle the details.” Her smile was gone, and she was watching him carefully. “So…would you be willing to work for me?”
He didn’t know how she did it, how she turned his world inside-out with a few words, but it seemed like every time she did it was a better world afterwards. “No.” Arthur watched her face fall, and kept his own sober. “It would have to be a partnership at the very least.”
Ariadne sputtered, breaking into laughter before she got a clear word out, and it was a good thing he’d drunk most of his tea, because he lost his grip on the cup when she launched herself into his arms. Arthur held her tightly, grinning into her hair, dizzy and wondering and--happy.
And, finally, unafraid.
