Inception Fic: Arthur/Ariadne - Elevator
I'm not sure about this, but here it is. Surprisingly, it's sort of what I had in mind when I started writing it. My stuff usually runs away from me.
Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or the characters involved.
He stands at the back of the elevator, a man in a suit surrounded by men and women in suits. Floor by floor, the doors open and close as people leave and others enter. He automatically evaluates everyone who steps onto the elevator, alert to any possible threat. He does not look at her when she enters. He does not focus on the pale pink of her cheek or the way her dark hair brushes against it as she adjusts the strap of the bag slung over her shoulder. He shifts, putting a couple of office workers between them when her disinterested gaze sweeps around the small space as she turns to face the doors. His eyes do not linger on the curve of her back, her waist, her hips; he does not react when the flow of people (ding, in and out) comes between them.
There is very little conversation; murmured greetings and see-you-laters are exchanged, after-work drinks proposed and accepted. She is speaking in low tones to the person next to her. He does not strain to hear her words; he does not let the melody of her voice play in his ears and send shivers down his spine. He does not wish she would turn to him and say his name.
The elevator is becoming more crowded. She shuffles backward without looking, making room for more people, moving closer. She stops directly in front of him. He does not use the growing crowd as an excuse to step closer to her, to feel the warmth radiating from her body. He does not reach out his hand to feel the softness of her skin, or run his fingers through the silk of her hair.
They continue their ascent. At each stop, more people leave, and fewer get on. She does not move. He does not lean forward to inhale the delicate fragrance of her hair and the intoxicating blend of lotion and warm skin that is uniquely her.
By the time the elevator reaches the top floor, they are the only two people on it. They have not acknowledged each other in any way. When the doors open, she turns to look at him, a small smile on her face. He does not press his lips to hers, sliding his tongue into her mouth and tasting the remnants of her toothpaste mixed with her morning coffee and lip gloss, silencing her breathy gasp of surprise. He does not nibble and lick his way down her neck, or suck her tender flesh into his mouth, leaving his mark.
He smiles back at her. “Ready to get to work?”
Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or the characters involved.
He stands at the back of the elevator, a man in a suit surrounded by men and women in suits. Floor by floor, the doors open and close as people leave and others enter. He automatically evaluates everyone who steps onto the elevator, alert to any possible threat. He does not look at her when she enters. He does not focus on the pale pink of her cheek or the way her dark hair brushes against it as she adjusts the strap of the bag slung over her shoulder. He shifts, putting a couple of office workers between them when her disinterested gaze sweeps around the small space as she turns to face the doors. His eyes do not linger on the curve of her back, her waist, her hips; he does not react when the flow of people (ding, in and out) comes between them.
There is very little conversation; murmured greetings and see-you-laters are exchanged, after-work drinks proposed and accepted. She is speaking in low tones to the person next to her. He does not strain to hear her words; he does not let the melody of her voice play in his ears and send shivers down his spine. He does not wish she would turn to him and say his name.
The elevator is becoming more crowded. She shuffles backward without looking, making room for more people, moving closer. She stops directly in front of him. He does not use the growing crowd as an excuse to step closer to her, to feel the warmth radiating from her body. He does not reach out his hand to feel the softness of her skin, or run his fingers through the silk of her hair.
They continue their ascent. At each stop, more people leave, and fewer get on. She does not move. He does not lean forward to inhale the delicate fragrance of her hair and the intoxicating blend of lotion and warm skin that is uniquely her.
By the time the elevator reaches the top floor, they are the only two people on it. They have not acknowledged each other in any way. When the doors open, she turns to look at him, a small smile on her face. He does not press his lips to hers, sliding his tongue into her mouth and tasting the remnants of her toothpaste mixed with her morning coffee and lip gloss, silencing her breathy gasp of surprise. He does not nibble and lick his way down her neck, or suck her tender flesh into his mouth, leaving his mark.
He smiles back at her. “Ready to get to work?”