Inception: Ariadne/Arthur/Fischer [All That We Keep, part II]
Title: All That We Keep, part II
Author: namistai8
Rating: PG-13 for language
Pairing: Ariadne/Fischer, Ariadne/Arthur
Word Count: 3,011
Disclaimer/Notes/Whatever: Nolan owns, I just borrow. Jumping straight into the fandom with a fic. Started off wondering how different Fischer was after the inception, and it just grew from there. Will be a multi-part fic. This time, told from Ariadne's POV.
All That We Keep, Part I
Four seasons in one day
Lying in the depths of your imagination
Worlds above and worlds below
The sun shines on the black clouds hanging over the domain
Even when you're feeling warm
The temperature could drop away
Like four seasons in one day
Crowded House "Four Seasons In One Day"
"So why did you agree to coffee with me?" his tone light, but his blue eyes trained on her face and unexpectedly serious.
"Curiosity," she says after a beat. She has always wondered how he was doing. After. Responsability, perhaps. Guilt, maybe. But definitely curious. She never thought that there would be an opportunity for her to satisfy her musings, and she had decided they were really just academic in nature. Until this happened.
And there had not been a good reason to say no. Even when she had desperately had wanted to just say no. She said yes, rather nodded yes, because she knew that was the right choice. After all girls did not turn down a chance with coffee with an attractive male. Especially males that they knew were millionaires.
It's all a little surreal actually. After the shock, and the sheer blind moment of panic, Ariadne decided, despite the fear forming a knot in her stomach, the sense of a crushing weight on her chest, the insane desire to check and make sure that there isn't a sniper hidden waiting to take her out, that her best and only course of action was to pretend. After all, why would he ever suspect that she was but a stranger, an architect student (how did he guess?) in Paris.
For a second, or really parts of a second, she thought that he had recognized her from his dream. But this wasn't a Hollywood romance movie. She racksher brain, her neurons firing in overdrive, to recall if he could identify her. On the second level, she had been dressed in what she considers fairly nondescript professional clothing - a gray skirt suit and her hair up in a chignon. On the third level, she looked more like a teenage boy dressed in winter gear and with skiing visor obscuring most of her features. On the fourth level, well... Fischer had definitely taken a good look at her face but he had been both delirious and in pain. It's not that he had spent time focusing on her - she had made sure he was okay and gotten him out of there as soon as possible. And even if he had seen her, it had been pretty far down. There's no way that he could consciously remember her.
She really wants to take her totem out and just place it on the table and see if it tumbles over. To reassure herself that this is real. But there is no logical explanation for her doing so, so she fingers the smooth surface of the bishop piece, the weight reassuring in her jacket pocket.
He gives her a slight smile, his lips curving more on one side of his face. It's almost a smirk, but not quite. Ariadne isn't sure she is pleased to know that she can tell the difference.
Ariadne takes a sip of her hot cocoa. A cup of coffee would just make her jittery at this point, and she's already struggling with trying to maintain a calm facade. It's one of the things she has picked up from the boys, as she has always mentally called Cobb, Eames, and Yusuf. In the face of danger, you slow down. You don't speed up. You think. You move carefully. She's proud of herself actually - she's been relatively calm, if a little subdued. A casual observer would just chalk it up to them being strangers, and not think twice.
Except they are not strangers. At least, Fischer isn't an unknown person to her. He's a mark. Most importantly, he's the mark, that if he ever discovered what had really happened in what he thought was a hotel room in Los Angeles, she is pretty sure that not even Saito's protection would be enough to save her.
"How long have you been in Paris?" he asks mildly, toying with the spoon.
You can do this, she reassures herself. "Two years. I'm working on my dissertation," she shares with a small smile. Smiling is natural. Not smiling is not natural. She knows that Fischer is aware that she is, at some level, nervous. There are any number of plausible reasons. Fear, on the other hand, is hard to rationalize. "I'm taking a few additional classes," she discloses. She missed too many classes, playing architect to Cobb's scheme - or perhaps to call it Saito's would be more apropos - for her to graduate on time. Fortunately, or perhaps not, Professor Miles has given her incompletes. She has spent the past three months getting her life back on track - even if she isn't sure it's the right track anymore - because it's something to do. And while the real world pales in comparison to what she can accomplish in the dreamscape, it's not like you can go out and buy a PASIV.
"And afterwards?" he inquires.
"An apprenticeship - New York, Rome, perhaps here in Paris," Ariadne says with a shrug. It used to worry her. Until about three weeks ago, when she got calls from KPF, Aedas and Yamasaki Associates. The call from Yamasaki was in reality a call from Saito. Yamasaki Associates had gone under two years ago, amid a mountain of debt. Apparently, Saito had bought it out and had been holding on to it - and now he wanted her to lead the firm as the lead architect. Which was unheard of in the business - out of school and leading her own firm. Saito, had also added wryly, that she would of course be appropriately staffed and would she feel the need to take independent projects, she would be able to. She isn't sure how she feels about it and Saito has, wisely, not pressured her to commit to anything. At this point, at least.
"Must be nice," he comments, but Ariadne can hear the twist of bitterness.
"Why?" she retorts. It bothers her and that, in of itself, is a bother. She doesn't want to feel either guilty or responsible. They've given this man a choice - perhaps choices he's never had as a boy. Everyone has choices.
"Purpose, direction. Knowing that the next step is," he says idly but the words carry enough of an edge that Ariadne knows that she should accept his words at face value.
"I suppose," she concedes as gracefully as she can. "What about you? What do you do?" she asks, because she needs to know. If it did take, that he's doing fine. If it didn't, as soon as this meeting is over, if she needs to make any number of calls and perhaps say goodbye to Paris. Permanently. It gives her a pang, to think about leaving this city. She really does love it here.
"That's a good question. Playing tourist, really, at this point," he says with a smile that doesn't quite reach his brilliantly blue eyes.
"Must be nice," she responds with a smile, and knowing she's skirted too close to some boundary that she shouldn't have.
"You've been here for a while, what do you recommend seeing?" he asks, and this time his smile reaches his eyes. It's not hard looking at him - he really is an attractive man with his wavy brown hair, those cheekbones, full lips and the brilliantly blue eyes. The freckles help too - softening his features, making him look more boyish. Maybe it's also the fact that he's not wearing a suit. All of his pictures have been taken with him wearing a suit. The dreamscape doesn't count. In the dreamscape, Ariadne can get away with wearing heels that would probably break her ankles if she tried in real life.
Ariadne mentions the Champs de Elysee, Montmartre, the Pantheon, several of the museums. Fischer chimes in with a "been there" to the attractions that he has been at. Montmartre seems to be the area that Fischer has least explored - an area that is practically requisite for a student in Paris to know the ins and outs of, despite the tourism. "Have you been to the Moulin Rouge or Le Chat Noir?" Ariadne asks, and Fischer nods.
"The Cimetiere?" she adds. Fischer shakes his head no.
"You should go. I know, dead people. But the artwork is fabulous. And it doesn't feel like a cementery, I guess because it's so popular," Ariadne says enthusiastically. "There's also the Espace Dali, ifyou like surreal art... and you should ride the Funicular. The view is amazing."
"Sounds great. Any interest in playing tour guide?" Fischer asks, dropping the invitation on her lap. She can't say that she isn't flattered to have a guy interested in her, especially a guy as attractive as Fischer. She knows that she's not Fischer's type and it lends a certain sweetness to the invitation, knowing that it isn't really about attraction. And she is tempted. It's been a while since she's been in Montmartre. But it wouldn't be safe.
"Would love to, but can't. Classes," she says by way of an excuse.
"Dinner then? Even students have to eat," he says, lightly teasing.
And there is, again, no good reason to say no. Or to do so gracefully. "Sure," she says sealing her fate, trying to look nonchalant.
"Great. Tomorrow night then?" Fischer says, and he looks pleased. It shoots a warm tendril of... well, Ariadne can't quite identify. It is horribly flattering after all, even when she has a lump in her forming from trepidation.
"Tomorrow," Ariadne echoes and wonders if she has made a mistake.
***
She wakes up to the smell of coffe and something baking in her kitchen. Groggily, she walks out of her bedroom to find Arthur with his brown poplin shirt sleeves rolled, a snowy white chef's apron protecting his brown worsted wool pants (did she even own a chef's apron?) bustling about in her kitchen. There are two cups of expresso waiting, steaming. Milk in one of those saucer pouring thingies, and sugar in a sugar bowl. There are sprigs of lavender in a plain white vase next to them.
"Morning," Arthur says breezily. "Coffee is ready, don't let it get cold," he adds over his shoulder as puts on oven mitts. As if him making breakfast in her apartment was a daily occurence.
Ariadne stays rooted where she is, wondering if its a dream. She can't seem to make herself turnaround and go back to the bedroom and grab her totem from her nightstand. She hasn't seen Arthur in over three months. Hasn't even kept in touch with him. She felt a little lost immediately after L.A., she had gotten used to spending time with him. The first couple of weeks after Cobb had brought her on the job, they had literally spent 10 - 12 hours together, not counting the dreaming time. Afterwards, he had walked away without so much as a word. Okay, there had been a look. Not that she expected differently from him.
It didn't signify anything of course. She liked Arthur, just like she liked the boys. Well, maybe not like the boys because she had kept in touch with all of them. She and Yusuf exchanged emails, and she would sometimes just send him a random "lolcatz" picture from time to time. She heard about Cobb via Professor Miles, who had given her a small family picture of Cobb with his kids. Eames would send her funny text messages and had even sent her a print he had picked up in Bali. It had shown up in FedEx box and the material had been so silky to the touch that she had worried about the cost. She had sent Eames a text message thanking him for the gift and letting him know, that contrary to whatever he and the other boys thought, she did not have a scarf collection. Seriously. Wear a scarf a couple of times and the boys thought she was obsessed with them. She has even kept in touch with Saito, if a bit obliquely through his job offer.
Ariadne knows she's staring, but she can't help but drink in this vision of Arthur. It has to be a vision. Probably brought on by the stress of her encounter with Fischer. It's the only reasonable explanation. Actually, her chance encounter with Fischer is probably the reason that Arthur is in her kitchen, pulling out madeleines from her oven - which she has never used. In fact, she's definitely sure that she doesn't even own a madeleine pan. It's one of those details that makes her think that it could still be a dream. Where else would she have acquired a madeleine pan?
"I made madeleines. It's the only thing I could fix up with the ingredients in your kitchen. You need to go shopping," he rebukes her lightly as he places the madeliene pan on a cooling rack and proceeding to unmold the little sponge cakes. They come out golden and perfect and he places them carefully on a second cooling rack. Ariadne admires the efficiency in his movements, the way he delicately pries each cake from the mold, his care in placing on the rack to cool.
"What are you doing here?" Ariadne finally asks, still bewildered and disconcerted. And even though she's positive that it's a dream, she can't help but ask. And because it's a dream, she doesn't have to worry about how she looks - her hair is a mess, she's wearing a grubby tshirt and pj bottoms that look like they're about to fall off. She hasn't even brushed her teeth yet. None of this matters.
He gives her a lopsided smile, his eyes crinkling in amusement. "I think it's pretty obvious, Ariadne. Your coffee is definitely cold."
The sight does something to her, and she thinks that its so unfair. Dream Arthur is always so... well, if Arthur in real life ever did anything like this - cook her breakfast, smile so openly, kiss her, Ariadne would be head over heels in love. It just makes her feel naive and gauche. Because while she is sure the the point man likes her - in the sense that he isn't outwardly hostile toward her like in Eames' case, and has not ever complained about her to others - she is sure that whatever regard he has for her is professional. Because that is the type of individual he is. A professional.
And Adriane wants to prove to herself that she can be as mature. That's why she never brought up the kiss that they shared. Because it wasn't relevant. More importantly, it made her sound like... she had expectations, like some sort of lovesick teenager. And then Arthur would know that she finds him attractive and then it would have been so awkward if he didn't even find her attractive as well. In all of the scenarios in her head, Adriane still couldn't picture a positive outcome to a conversation around what had happened two levels down in the dreamscape.
Adriane reaches for the coffee, stirs two spoonfuls of sugar and adds as much milk as the little cup allows. The flavor is rich and mellow, coating her tongue. Arthur hands her a plate of madelines and she bites into one, still warm and she approves of the delicate buttery and lemon flavor of them. It's a fantastic way to wake up - and a small part, the smallest she can make it, wishes it were real.
"Does he suspect anything?" Arthur asks mildly, startling her. His cup is raised, and he looks expectatively at her.
"No. I think it was just a chance meeting," Adriadne says before reaching for another madeliene. They really are delicious. Perhaps she should learn how make them.
Arthur takes a sip of his expresso, puts the cup down. "There's no such thing as chance," he says quietly.
It's such an Arthur thing to say, but Ariadne just rolls her eyes. Although she feels like she should applaud her subconscious, as its created a dead ringer for the point man. Later today, she'd worry about her sanity. Now, she's just going to enjoy it. "Well, I'm going to dinner with him," she says, mid-chew.
Arthur seems to regard her with his inscrutable brown eyes. "Is that a wise decision?" he asks, a bit sardonically.
"Too late now to question if it is or isn't. I also didn't have a good reason to turn him down," Ariadne bites back. God, even her subsconscious thought she wasn't pretty enough or cute enough to attract Fischer's attentions. It really was doing wonders for her own self-esteem. It also didn't help with the sense of nervousness that seemed to have taken permanent residence around her navel.
There's a moment of silence as he seems to consider her words. Ariadne feels the inexplicable need to somehow verbalize that actually, going to dinner with Fischer is a brilliant idea as she could confirm if inception really works. But decides against it. Of all Arthurs, real and otherwise, he already knows that.
"Well, you have to get ready for class. Don't be late. I'll be around," he says by setting the cup down and walks toward her front door. He gives her one last searching look before he leaves, and she's not sure what to make of it. Not that it matters, this is all a dream, as she keeps telling herself. She's going to wake up - to an empty apartment.
Her alarm clock goes off, the sound harsh and jarring. She goes to her room and hits the snooze button. Her totem is standing, quietly, on her nightstand. Ever so carefully, she tips it over.
And it falls against her nightstand with a dull thud.
All That We Keep, Part III
Fan art from the talented renisanz: Ariadne wakes up to...
Comments and criticisms always welcome.
Crossposted in arthur_ariadne
Author: namistai8
Rating: PG-13 for language
Pairing: Ariadne/Fischer, Ariadne/Arthur
Word Count: 3,011
Disclaimer/Notes/Whatever: Nolan owns, I just borrow. Jumping straight into the fandom with a fic. Started off wondering how different Fischer was after the inception, and it just grew from there. Will be a multi-part fic. This time, told from Ariadne's POV.
All That We Keep, Part I
Four seasons in one day
Lying in the depths of your imagination
Worlds above and worlds below
The sun shines on the black clouds hanging over the domain
Even when you're feeling warm
The temperature could drop away
Like four seasons in one day
Crowded House "Four Seasons In One Day"
"So why did you agree to coffee with me?" his tone light, but his blue eyes trained on her face and unexpectedly serious.
"Curiosity," she says after a beat. She has always wondered how he was doing. After. Responsability, perhaps. Guilt, maybe. But definitely curious. She never thought that there would be an opportunity for her to satisfy her musings, and she had decided they were really just academic in nature. Until this happened.
And there had not been a good reason to say no. Even when she had desperately had wanted to just say no. She said yes, rather nodded yes, because she knew that was the right choice. After all girls did not turn down a chance with coffee with an attractive male. Especially males that they knew were millionaires.
It's all a little surreal actually. After the shock, and the sheer blind moment of panic, Ariadne decided, despite the fear forming a knot in her stomach, the sense of a crushing weight on her chest, the insane desire to check and make sure that there isn't a sniper hidden waiting to take her out, that her best and only course of action was to pretend. After all, why would he ever suspect that she was but a stranger, an architect student (how did he guess?) in Paris.
For a second, or really parts of a second, she thought that he had recognized her from his dream. But this wasn't a Hollywood romance movie. She racksher brain, her neurons firing in overdrive, to recall if he could identify her. On the second level, she had been dressed in what she considers fairly nondescript professional clothing - a gray skirt suit and her hair up in a chignon. On the third level, she looked more like a teenage boy dressed in winter gear and with skiing visor obscuring most of her features. On the fourth level, well... Fischer had definitely taken a good look at her face but he had been both delirious and in pain. It's not that he had spent time focusing on her - she had made sure he was okay and gotten him out of there as soon as possible. And even if he had seen her, it had been pretty far down. There's no way that he could consciously remember her.
She really wants to take her totem out and just place it on the table and see if it tumbles over. To reassure herself that this is real. But there is no logical explanation for her doing so, so she fingers the smooth surface of the bishop piece, the weight reassuring in her jacket pocket.
He gives her a slight smile, his lips curving more on one side of his face. It's almost a smirk, but not quite. Ariadne isn't sure she is pleased to know that she can tell the difference.
Ariadne takes a sip of her hot cocoa. A cup of coffee would just make her jittery at this point, and she's already struggling with trying to maintain a calm facade. It's one of the things she has picked up from the boys, as she has always mentally called Cobb, Eames, and Yusuf. In the face of danger, you slow down. You don't speed up. You think. You move carefully. She's proud of herself actually - she's been relatively calm, if a little subdued. A casual observer would just chalk it up to them being strangers, and not think twice.
Except they are not strangers. At least, Fischer isn't an unknown person to her. He's a mark. Most importantly, he's the mark, that if he ever discovered what had really happened in what he thought was a hotel room in Los Angeles, she is pretty sure that not even Saito's protection would be enough to save her.
"How long have you been in Paris?" he asks mildly, toying with the spoon.
You can do this, she reassures herself. "Two years. I'm working on my dissertation," she shares with a small smile. Smiling is natural. Not smiling is not natural. She knows that Fischer is aware that she is, at some level, nervous. There are any number of plausible reasons. Fear, on the other hand, is hard to rationalize. "I'm taking a few additional classes," she discloses. She missed too many classes, playing architect to Cobb's scheme - or perhaps to call it Saito's would be more apropos - for her to graduate on time. Fortunately, or perhaps not, Professor Miles has given her incompletes. She has spent the past three months getting her life back on track - even if she isn't sure it's the right track anymore - because it's something to do. And while the real world pales in comparison to what she can accomplish in the dreamscape, it's not like you can go out and buy a PASIV.
"And afterwards?" he inquires.
"An apprenticeship - New York, Rome, perhaps here in Paris," Ariadne says with a shrug. It used to worry her. Until about three weeks ago, when she got calls from KPF, Aedas and Yamasaki Associates. The call from Yamasaki was in reality a call from Saito. Yamasaki Associates had gone under two years ago, amid a mountain of debt. Apparently, Saito had bought it out and had been holding on to it - and now he wanted her to lead the firm as the lead architect. Which was unheard of in the business - out of school and leading her own firm. Saito, had also added wryly, that she would of course be appropriately staffed and would she feel the need to take independent projects, she would be able to. She isn't sure how she feels about it and Saito has, wisely, not pressured her to commit to anything. At this point, at least.
"Must be nice," he comments, but Ariadne can hear the twist of bitterness.
"Why?" she retorts. It bothers her and that, in of itself, is a bother. She doesn't want to feel either guilty or responsible. They've given this man a choice - perhaps choices he's never had as a boy. Everyone has choices.
"Purpose, direction. Knowing that the next step is," he says idly but the words carry enough of an edge that Ariadne knows that she should accept his words at face value.
"I suppose," she concedes as gracefully as she can. "What about you? What do you do?" she asks, because she needs to know. If it did take, that he's doing fine. If it didn't, as soon as this meeting is over, if she needs to make any number of calls and perhaps say goodbye to Paris. Permanently. It gives her a pang, to think about leaving this city. She really does love it here.
"That's a good question. Playing tourist, really, at this point," he says with a smile that doesn't quite reach his brilliantly blue eyes.
"Must be nice," she responds with a smile, and knowing she's skirted too close to some boundary that she shouldn't have.
"You've been here for a while, what do you recommend seeing?" he asks, and this time his smile reaches his eyes. It's not hard looking at him - he really is an attractive man with his wavy brown hair, those cheekbones, full lips and the brilliantly blue eyes. The freckles help too - softening his features, making him look more boyish. Maybe it's also the fact that he's not wearing a suit. All of his pictures have been taken with him wearing a suit. The dreamscape doesn't count. In the dreamscape, Ariadne can get away with wearing heels that would probably break her ankles if she tried in real life.
Ariadne mentions the Champs de Elysee, Montmartre, the Pantheon, several of the museums. Fischer chimes in with a "been there" to the attractions that he has been at. Montmartre seems to be the area that Fischer has least explored - an area that is practically requisite for a student in Paris to know the ins and outs of, despite the tourism. "Have you been to the Moulin Rouge or Le Chat Noir?" Ariadne asks, and Fischer nods.
"The Cimetiere?" she adds. Fischer shakes his head no.
"You should go. I know, dead people. But the artwork is fabulous. And it doesn't feel like a cementery, I guess because it's so popular," Ariadne says enthusiastically. "There's also the Espace Dali, ifyou like surreal art... and you should ride the Funicular. The view is amazing."
"Sounds great. Any interest in playing tour guide?" Fischer asks, dropping the invitation on her lap. She can't say that she isn't flattered to have a guy interested in her, especially a guy as attractive as Fischer. She knows that she's not Fischer's type and it lends a certain sweetness to the invitation, knowing that it isn't really about attraction. And she is tempted. It's been a while since she's been in Montmartre. But it wouldn't be safe.
"Would love to, but can't. Classes," she says by way of an excuse.
"Dinner then? Even students have to eat," he says, lightly teasing.
And there is, again, no good reason to say no. Or to do so gracefully. "Sure," she says sealing her fate, trying to look nonchalant.
"Great. Tomorrow night then?" Fischer says, and he looks pleased. It shoots a warm tendril of... well, Ariadne can't quite identify. It is horribly flattering after all, even when she has a lump in her forming from trepidation.
"Tomorrow," Ariadne echoes and wonders if she has made a mistake.
***
She wakes up to the smell of coffe and something baking in her kitchen. Groggily, she walks out of her bedroom to find Arthur with his brown poplin shirt sleeves rolled, a snowy white chef's apron protecting his brown worsted wool pants (did she even own a chef's apron?) bustling about in her kitchen. There are two cups of expresso waiting, steaming. Milk in one of those saucer pouring thingies, and sugar in a sugar bowl. There are sprigs of lavender in a plain white vase next to them.
"Morning," Arthur says breezily. "Coffee is ready, don't let it get cold," he adds over his shoulder as puts on oven mitts. As if him making breakfast in her apartment was a daily occurence.
Ariadne stays rooted where she is, wondering if its a dream. She can't seem to make herself turnaround and go back to the bedroom and grab her totem from her nightstand. She hasn't seen Arthur in over three months. Hasn't even kept in touch with him. She felt a little lost immediately after L.A., she had gotten used to spending time with him. The first couple of weeks after Cobb had brought her on the job, they had literally spent 10 - 12 hours together, not counting the dreaming time. Afterwards, he had walked away without so much as a word. Okay, there had been a look. Not that she expected differently from him.
It didn't signify anything of course. She liked Arthur, just like she liked the boys. Well, maybe not like the boys because she had kept in touch with all of them. She and Yusuf exchanged emails, and she would sometimes just send him a random "lolcatz" picture from time to time. She heard about Cobb via Professor Miles, who had given her a small family picture of Cobb with his kids. Eames would send her funny text messages and had even sent her a print he had picked up in Bali. It had shown up in FedEx box and the material had been so silky to the touch that she had worried about the cost. She had sent Eames a text message thanking him for the gift and letting him know, that contrary to whatever he and the other boys thought, she did not have a scarf collection. Seriously. Wear a scarf a couple of times and the boys thought she was obsessed with them. She has even kept in touch with Saito, if a bit obliquely through his job offer.
Ariadne knows she's staring, but she can't help but drink in this vision of Arthur. It has to be a vision. Probably brought on by the stress of her encounter with Fischer. It's the only reasonable explanation. Actually, her chance encounter with Fischer is probably the reason that Arthur is in her kitchen, pulling out madeleines from her oven - which she has never used. In fact, she's definitely sure that she doesn't even own a madeleine pan. It's one of those details that makes her think that it could still be a dream. Where else would she have acquired a madeleine pan?
"I made madeleines. It's the only thing I could fix up with the ingredients in your kitchen. You need to go shopping," he rebukes her lightly as he places the madeliene pan on a cooling rack and proceeding to unmold the little sponge cakes. They come out golden and perfect and he places them carefully on a second cooling rack. Ariadne admires the efficiency in his movements, the way he delicately pries each cake from the mold, his care in placing on the rack to cool.
"What are you doing here?" Ariadne finally asks, still bewildered and disconcerted. And even though she's positive that it's a dream, she can't help but ask. And because it's a dream, she doesn't have to worry about how she looks - her hair is a mess, she's wearing a grubby tshirt and pj bottoms that look like they're about to fall off. She hasn't even brushed her teeth yet. None of this matters.
He gives her a lopsided smile, his eyes crinkling in amusement. "I think it's pretty obvious, Ariadne. Your coffee is definitely cold."
The sight does something to her, and she thinks that its so unfair. Dream Arthur is always so... well, if Arthur in real life ever did anything like this - cook her breakfast, smile so openly, kiss her, Ariadne would be head over heels in love. It just makes her feel naive and gauche. Because while she is sure the the point man likes her - in the sense that he isn't outwardly hostile toward her like in Eames' case, and has not ever complained about her to others - she is sure that whatever regard he has for her is professional. Because that is the type of individual he is. A professional.
And Adriane wants to prove to herself that she can be as mature. That's why she never brought up the kiss that they shared. Because it wasn't relevant. More importantly, it made her sound like... she had expectations, like some sort of lovesick teenager. And then Arthur would know that she finds him attractive and then it would have been so awkward if he didn't even find her attractive as well. In all of the scenarios in her head, Adriane still couldn't picture a positive outcome to a conversation around what had happened two levels down in the dreamscape.
Adriane reaches for the coffee, stirs two spoonfuls of sugar and adds as much milk as the little cup allows. The flavor is rich and mellow, coating her tongue. Arthur hands her a plate of madelines and she bites into one, still warm and she approves of the delicate buttery and lemon flavor of them. It's a fantastic way to wake up - and a small part, the smallest she can make it, wishes it were real.
"Does he suspect anything?" Arthur asks mildly, startling her. His cup is raised, and he looks expectatively at her.
"No. I think it was just a chance meeting," Adriadne says before reaching for another madeliene. They really are delicious. Perhaps she should learn how make them.
Arthur takes a sip of his expresso, puts the cup down. "There's no such thing as chance," he says quietly.
It's such an Arthur thing to say, but Ariadne just rolls her eyes. Although she feels like she should applaud her subconscious, as its created a dead ringer for the point man. Later today, she'd worry about her sanity. Now, she's just going to enjoy it. "Well, I'm going to dinner with him," she says, mid-chew.
Arthur seems to regard her with his inscrutable brown eyes. "Is that a wise decision?" he asks, a bit sardonically.
"Too late now to question if it is or isn't. I also didn't have a good reason to turn him down," Ariadne bites back. God, even her subsconscious thought she wasn't pretty enough or cute enough to attract Fischer's attentions. It really was doing wonders for her own self-esteem. It also didn't help with the sense of nervousness that seemed to have taken permanent residence around her navel.
There's a moment of silence as he seems to consider her words. Ariadne feels the inexplicable need to somehow verbalize that actually, going to dinner with Fischer is a brilliant idea as she could confirm if inception really works. But decides against it. Of all Arthurs, real and otherwise, he already knows that.
"Well, you have to get ready for class. Don't be late. I'll be around," he says by setting the cup down and walks toward her front door. He gives her one last searching look before he leaves, and she's not sure what to make of it. Not that it matters, this is all a dream, as she keeps telling herself. She's going to wake up - to an empty apartment.
Her alarm clock goes off, the sound harsh and jarring. She goes to her room and hits the snooze button. Her totem is standing, quietly, on her nightstand. Ever so carefully, she tips it over.
And it falls against her nightstand with a dull thud.
All That We Keep, Part III
Fan art from the talented renisanz: Ariadne wakes up to...
Comments and criticisms always welcome.
Crossposted in arthur_ariadne