+ If Only for a Moment, I Could [ 4 / 4 ]
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
Arthur starts his night off at a bar. The lights are dim, and the music is loud and obnoxious; a haze seems to fill the room. It rankles Arthur’s sensibilities, but he deals with it, convinces himself that the noise and the smoke are good things, if only because they keep the projections preoccupied. The people around him don’t pay him any heed as he gratefully slips outside and heads toward the art museum across the street. He walks past the rotating door, and then looks about him-stark white walls sparsely decorated with Francis Bacon paintings.
The people here are dressed to the nines, and Arthur feels right at home as he walks past them, steps purposeful. He spots security walking toward him and pauses in front of the dream version of Head I. The two guards pass right by him, conversing quietly about business deals.
Arthur waits for them to turn off the hallway before proceeding further into the museum, past a velvet curtain. He navigates the labyrinth of hallways until he comes to a small, unlabeled door at the end of one of them, lit only by a single, flickering light bulb.
The point man opens the door and finds himself in a square room with a low ceiling. The walls are wooden, the carpet dark and plush; there is a desk and a chair-a thin layer of dust has settled over them. He shuts the door behind him and approaches the safe sunk into the far wall. Arthur twists the dial, watches the numbers whirl by, and then smiles when it opens.
Inside the vault, the point man finds a photo album. He opens it and finds a familiar face staring at him: Nash. The man, however, certainly doesn’t look the way Arthur had last saw him. The first shot has him huddled in a corner of a small room, concrete all around. Nash’s covered in bruises, open wounds, and he looks thin, emaciated.
As he continues to flip through the pages, Arthur starts seeing faceless men in the photographs, brass knuckles gleaming in their hands, and when they finally disappear from the shots, Nash looks worse for the wear-his face is barely recognizable. The photographs then get closer, as if the cameraman is zooming in or moving closer to Nash.
Arthur figures it’s the latter; the photos are likely snapshots from Kehl’s memory.
The barrel of a gun appears in the photos now, but Nash’s face is so distorted and bloodied at this point that it’s hard to see what the man’s feeling. Arthur flips through the album, watches Nash gets pistol whipped, watches as the man curls into a ball on the floor.
The photographs grow more distant again, but now there’s an arm and hand that joins the gun. The trigger is pulled slowly, shifting slightly shot by shot, and then Nash is dead, a bullet lodged firmly in his brain.
He closes the photo album and locks it back in the safe.
***
Arthur is making his way toward his next vault location, through an office building, when he feels the slight change in atmosphere. The projections are taking notice of him now, their eyes following his every movement. He avoids eye contact with them and keeps his cool.
He can’t help but wonder what caused the shift. Someone has provoked the mark, but he doesn’t think it’s Eames, despite the fact that the man is being the most likely to run into Kehl in the dream world. The forger isn’t one to put himself at unnecessary risk, and in this operation, meeting with the mark in person isn’t needed in the least. At the same time, though, Arthur can’t really see Saito getting sloppy either.
The point man doesn’t have time to dwell on the matter, however, because he has two tails firmly on him now. He heads for the emergency stairwell and climbs up half a flight of stairs before pulling out his handgun and waiting for the projections to step in. Arthur takes the first one out with a shot to the gut as he steps inside, and the second one gets nailed in the chest a second later.
The door catches on their bodies, but Arthur doesn’t care; he’s already climbing the stairs, heading to the fifth floor.
There, the point man finds himself staring at a large vault door. He hears footsteps and shouts echoing upwards; more projections are headed his way. Arthur pounds in the key codes, and then the door hisses, slowly swinging open on its hinges. He looks down the stairwell, sees men circling around and around as they climb the stairs. He sights the closest projection and fires; the man takes a bullet in the shoulder, handgun dropping to the ground with a clatter.
By this time, the vault door is open wide enough for Arthur to slip in, and he does, dragging it closed behind him. Inside, he finds himself surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookcases, all of which are filled to the brim with heavy, leather-bound books. The point man picks one up at random and opens it, finding not a story but lists of names, dates and price tags.
It takes him a moment to realize that he’s looking at a hit list and that Cobol’s picked up quite a bit of spare change from offing people for a price.
He shuts the book and then looks back at the vault door. The walls are thick enough that he can’t hear anything through the steel and concrete, so Arthur has no idea how many projections are already waiting for him on the other side. And there are a hell of a lot of books in the room.
Arthur has neither the time nor the ability to memorize all the names of people listed in every book on every bookshelf.
Muttering a soft curse under his breath, he opens the book in his hands once more and flips it to a random page. Arthur gives himself a minute to memorize the names in front of him and then slams the book shut, replacing it on the shelf.
Arthur then stalks over to the vault door and readies his handgun. There is still nothing but silence from the other side, but that does little to reassure him. He takes a deep breath and then pushes it open, grabbing the projection standing nearest and throwing him to the ground; the man’s skull cracks against the ground, and he goes still.
The point man slams the butt of his gun into the next projection’s face before whirling around and nailing him in the throat with his elbow. Arthur finishes him off with a shot to the heart before tearing down the stairs, picking off any projections that come his way.
***
Arthur’s third vault is in a hotel-a personal safe up in the presidential suite.
The projections have gone haywire, and he still doesn’t know why. The car he stole to get from the office building to the hotel is riddled with holes, and he ditches it the second he gets close to the building. He’s rolling, running, and tumbling toward the lobby, and when he finally steps inside, Arthur makes a beeline for the elevators, darting into one that has just opened up. He shoves his way past a group of projections trying to block his path and slams his hand against the “close door” button.
A few projections push their way in before the doors slide shut, and the point man knocks them out-some with his gun, others with his fists. The elevator sails upward toward the thirty-fifth floor, and Arthur takes a moment to try and even out his breathing, calm his nerves. He knows that dying here won’t cost him anything in the real world, but he has a job to finish, a job that’ll help Cobb get back home.
On the thirty-fifth floor, Arthur hunts down the presidential suite. He presses his ear to the door and hears muffled talking in the background. The point man slips a card out of his pocket and reaches toward the door, sliding it into the key slot. The light flashes green, and he turns the door handle. The door pops open, but just barely. Arthur presses against the wall, gun held just to the left of his head.
He waits until he hears the click of a safety being released on the other side of the door before kicking it open. Arthur’s rewarded with a loud crack of bone meeting wood; whoever had been opening the door is now flat on his back, badly concussed. Arthur doesn’t take any chances though and finishes the man off, a single bullet to the brain. He then rolls further inside the room and takes out a silhouetted form by the window; the body drops to the floor with a thud. There’s yelling and confusion, and he hears shots ring out above his head. Arthur dives behind the couch and crouches there.
Peering under the furniture, he spots the shine of leather shoes the next room over. Arthur watches them draw nearer, steps slow and cautious on the carpet. He waits until those feet are almost on the other side of the couch, and then he pops up, delivering a single shot to the chest. Arthur ducks back down then and shifts his position, running into the bedroom. After he clears it and the bathroom, he returns to the doorway, pressing himself against the wall.
When he looks around the door frame, he spots someone watching for him, and Arthur bends away from the door, hearing the crackle of gunfire hitting the wall behind him. He waits for a break in the assault and then shifts to return the favor, five bullets fired in rapid succession.
None of them hit their mark, and Arthur curses. He peers around the wall again, and the gunfire starts once more. The point man drops to the ground and rolls to the other side. He stands and picks the projection off, hitting him in the shoulder while he’s still shooting at Arthur’s old position.
The second he drops, Arthur dashes across the living room, kicks the gun out of the projection’s grasp. He then delivers a head shot, silencing the other’s groans. The point man peers into the dining room. He hears, rather than sees, the next shots being fired, and he hits the floor out of instinct. Whoever is shooting at him is in the kitchenette, and Arthur rolls away from it, trying to find cover amongst the table and chair legs.
And then he hears it: music-the notes low and distorted.
The point man’s running low on time. He waits for the next round of gunfire to end before dashing across the dining room, tackling the other man around the waist. The projection goes down, slamming into the ground face first.
Arthur yanks one of the man’s arms behind his back, trapping it under his knee; he pulls the other arm backward and up, holding it in the air with one hand. The point man twists, and the projection howls in pain, dropping the gun. Arthur then places his gun on the other’s temple. The man is staring at him with one single eye; he’s terrified. Arthur shifts his weight, pressing down harder with his knee, and feels the other struggle to fill his lungs.
“M-mercy!” the man cries, but Arthur just pulls the trigger.
Arthur shifts and opens up the cabinet under the sink, finds the small safe located there. He spins the dial, opening the door, and grabs the papers inside. It’s a white collar job this time-a goldmine for auditors; whereas the previous vault had been filled with many crimes but few details, this one is the opposite, listing copious details on a single incident. Arthur scans the documents, willing the dream to last just a little longer, but there’s nothing he can do when Edith’s singing in the background.
He’s reading the last of the papers as his consciousness fades, the dream vanishing out from under him.
***
Arthur’s eyes snap open, and he stands up off the floor, yanking the IV line out. Saito’s man starts packing up the PASIV device, and Eames is looking at him and the businessman, shaking his head. Arthur’s guessing he wasn’t too happy with the projections’ behavior either.
Saito, however, seems rather pleased with himself.
“We meet back up in Tokyo in two days’ time. You’re on your own until then,” Eames says, already halfway out the door.
***
“Kehl dropped down into limbo during the job,” is the first thing Eames says to him when Arthur steps into his apartment two days later.
The point man just stares at him before shaking his head. “We didn’t go that deep. How did that happen?”
“One of Saito’s men dosed Kehl with additional sedative while we were under.”
Arthur brushes past the forger and enters the living room to stand in front of the businessman, who just smiles at him pleasantly from his chair. “Care to explain yourself?”
“I expect a return on my investments,” Saito says calmly, hands folding across his stomach as he settles in his seat. Eames comes to stand next to Arthur, expression blank. “Do you think I would finance your foolish exploits otherwise? I am a businessman.
“Even excluding all of your dues for the inception job and the financing for this little adventure, I would still have been losing money. So I found a way to break even.”
“Then what was the point of the extraction if you planned to drop him into limbo from the start?”
“The more I have to work with, the better. If you found something half as good as what I did in the dream, then I will have no trouble taking Cobol apart.” Saito flashes him a feral smile.
“And Cobb?”
Saito tilts his head, an amused expression crossing his features. “Your concern for each other is heartwarming; Mr. Cobb was equally insistent about securing your well-being during our journey to Italy together,” he replies. “You needn’t worry. I still intend to fulfill my promise to Mr. Cobb. It will likely take a few months before all debts can be paid and persons bought, but it will happen. Cobol will no longer be able to keep the law under their control when the press exposes them for what they really are.
“Is that a satisfactory answer for you?”
Arthur nods his head. While he is still displeased with Saito for dropping Kehl into limbo, the point man is more than willing to forgive the man if Cobb stays safe and the plan to return him home remains intact.
“Have you always been so easy to appease?” Eames comments, clearly amused.
“Forgive me for wanting to make sure that all my work has paid off,” the point man grits out. “Or have you forgotten the point of this entire ordeal?”
“No, not at all. I was merely more interested in being paid, is all.”
“Why not see for yourself?” Arthur gives Saito a questioning look, but the man merely smiles. “I had assumed that you would want to return to Mr. Cobb’s side as soon as possible.”
“Then the information I gathered-”
“You may write your report away from here,” Saito says, cutting Arthur off. “If I am not mistaken, you are a wanted man now as well. With the job done, you have no reason not to go into hiding as well.”
Arthur won’t openly admit it, but Saito has a point. He’s been putting himself at great risk since leaving Interpol, and it’s only a matter of time before his fake IDs start to fail him and his pursuers latch onto his trail. Slipping away into obscurity sounds more than a little appealing to him, and the idea of getting to see Cobb again only helps to sweeten the deal.
“When do I leave?”
“I believe you will find a private jet waiting at Narita to take you to Micronesia.” Saito smiles. “I am sure he will be delighted to see you again.”
***
The loud whir of the propellers fills the cabin, and Arthur squints against the sunlight reflecting off the water down below. He’s lost track of how long he’s been stuck in a plane or waiting at an airport; a stack of half-read books rests in the seat next to him. In his lap, he’s got his latest attempt at distraction, but the man’s mind is too filled with thoughts to pay it any heed.
Arthur can’t stop thinking about Cobb.
It’s been months since he’s seen his friend, but it feels even longer. The closest experience he’s had to this long, silent separation was when Cobb had fled California, but even then, Arthur had caught up with him shortly after.
Arthur had made Cobb’s exile his own, parting ways only briefly after bad jobs to disperse the attention following them.
He’s spent most of the last three years unswervingly at Cobb’s side, but now-he doesn’t even know what to say once he lands and has Cobb standing right in front of him. He wonders if Cobb has even been told about his arrival. Saito had kept mum about the matter, shooing him away like a small child, and none of the flight crew have been able to tell him anything. They just look at him quietly and murmur apologies in Japanese, foreign and unusual to his ears.
Arthur comes up with a million and one ways to greet Cobb. If he comes out to the landing strip, they’ll shake hands and clap each other on the shoulder. They’ll talk about the flight over and the weather; Arthur will mention how Cobb’s picked up a tan on the island and that he’s looking good. His friend will, in turn, tell him about the amenities there, tell him about high and low tide.
Or perhaps they should talk about the notes they’ve shared and discuss how close they were to meeting each other in person during those exchanges. Maybe Arthur should thank Cobb for coming up with the idea and for risking his neck to get back in touch with him. Of course, there is always the possibility that his friend will speak first, congratulating him for a job well done.
As water finally gives way to a small spit of land, Arthur decides he’ll just start with hello.
***
As it turns out, Cobb isn’t around to greet Arthur when he gets off the plane.
Instead, five Polynesians make their way out onto the runway. Four of them immediately go to unload the plane, taking his luggage along with boxes of food and supplies. The fifth approaches him and flashes him a million watt smile.
“A visitor for Mr. Cobb?” he asks. “I am afraid he still has not risen yet, mister... “
“Arthur’s fine,” the point man responds absently, gaze flicking toward the large mansion behind the attendant-reminiscent of plantation style homes in the deep South. Arthur thinks it doesn’t really fit Saito’s image, but who is he to judge? He turns his attention back to the man standing in front of him. “He’s still sleeping?
Cobb had never been the type to sleep in late-not as far back as Arthur remembers, at the very least.
“Often until late in the afternoon. Please, come inside.” The attendant gestures toward the house, and Arthur takes his invitation. “Mr. Cobb is a bit of a night owl as far as we can tell.”
“How long has he been like this?”
“Since his arrival, Mr. Arthur.”
The cool of the building puts into sharp relief the heat outside, and the grandeur inside puts the already impressive exterior to shame. Arthur shakes his head slightly as he takes in the grand staircase, the exquisite chandelier, and the marble flooring. “How often does Saito come here?”
“On occasion.”
Arthur cocks a brow, and the man at his side shrugs. “Once or twice a year.”
He avoids making a comment about people with too much money and lets the attendant lead him to what he presumes will be his room. His luggage, as it turns out, has already arrived and rests by the large wardrobe. The curtains are all pulled aside, and light streams in.
“Please feel free to rest or explore the establishment while you wait for your friend,” the attendant says. “Should you need anything, do not hesitate to let us know.”
Arthur just nods. When he hears the door click behind him, he moves to stand beside the windows. It’s undoubtedly beautiful outside, so beautiful that a man could lose himself here, forget all about the world beyond the blue sea.
He wonders if Cobb’s gotten lost, caught up in a real world limbo.
***
After a late lunch too fancy for his liking, Arthur finds himself standing at the threshold of what might have once been called a library; at the moment, it could only be called a mess.
Arthur has to pick his way across the book-strewn floor, and on more than one occasion, his foot lands on an open book, threatening to tear pages out of their bindings. The shelves, windows, and walls are covered with paper. There are to-do lists, newspaper articles, how-to-guides, and a whole host of other items-all seemingly unrelated. Amongst the mess of paper, Arthur also spots a well-worn women’s magazine on the floor, its pages opened to the horoscope page. That’s one small mystery solved, at least. The point man had been surprised that Cobb would remember the zodiac signs and dates on his own.
What is of more interest, however, are the dozens upon dozens of passports-American, French, German, South African, and so on and so forth-resting on a large desk situated near the windows. Arthur flips through several of them, and Cobb’s somber mien stares back at him in each one, albeit with different aliases.
Arthur has never known Cobb to dabble in the forgery business, but judging by the stack of half-finished IDs nearby, his friend has picked up a new skill of recent. The point man takes one of the American passports and studies it, checking it for inconsistencies, but finds none. It’s high quality work-done well enough to rival Eames’ best efforts.
“So they weren’t lying about me having a visitor, huh?”
The point man looks up and finds Cobb standing in the doorway. He looks rumpled: his clothes are wrinkled, his hair is askew, and his face looks as if it hasn’t been shaved in days. Cobb can’t seem to meet his gaze, blue eyes shifting here and there, and Arthur wonders if this is the difference Ariadne had mentioned but was unable to fully articulate. Still, he offers his friend a smile all the same. “Long time no see.”
There’s something incredibly right about being this close to Cobb again, about being able to see him face-to-face finally. They’re stuck in the middle of nowhere, but somehow, Arthur feels like he’s home. This is where he belongs-right here with Cobb.
It’s then that Arthur discovers that he’s crossed a line: Cobb’s no longer just a friend, not to him at least. When or how it happened, he doesn’t know, but the quiet realization doesn’t bother him as much as he might have thought it would. In truth, it answers a few lingering questions he’s had over the years, makes sense of all the times he’s followed Cobb through thick and thin.
“You’ve been busy,” he says lightly, gesturing at the desk.
Now’s not the time to bring up personal realizations, not with Cobb looking so troubled. The last thing the other needs is another weight on his mind, and burdening him further is the last thing Arthur wants.
Cobb smiles vaguely and shakes his head. “They’re useless now-seeing as Saito’s got me stuck on this island, but I needed to do something to make me feel productive. Otherwise, I feel like I’m letting Phillipa and James down.”
“What, tired of paradise already?”
“It’s not paradise. Not to me at least.”
Arthur then realizes that Cobb looks incredibly pale for a guy who’s spent the last few weeks on a tropical island. “You haven’t gone outside at all?” he asks. “Ariadne mentioned it, but I didn’t think she meant it literally.”
“I don’t want to see the water breaking. It makes...” Cobb’s gaze shifts restlessly, and his hands move to settle on his hips. “It makes me think of limbo.”
“It’s not your fault that Mal-”
“This isn’t about Mal. It was my fault, and I’ll never stop missing her. But I know that she’s gone, and that I needed to let her go. So I have.” At Arthur’s incredulous look, Cobb manages a sardonic smile. “If we had a PASIV device, I’d show you, but that’ll have to wait.”
“So what is it?”
“I’ve lived two lifetimes in that place, Arthur. That second time around, it made me realize something.”
“What?”
Cobb gives him no verbal response, and instead, he just stares, his gaze wistful.
***
A solid week goes by, and Arthur doesn’t ask about limbo, not with the way Cobb looks displeased each time they talk about dreams. He doesn’t even try to guess.
Whatever had occurred, however, hasn’t changed the man’s unswerving desire to get back home. Cobb continues to pore over his fake passports, and Arthur’s stopped trying to make conversation while the other works. Much to his dismay, though, his friend is rarely doing anything but work these days. Arthur doesn’t want to think that Cobb is avoiding him, but he can’t shake the feeling that that’s the case.
It’s not until they’ve been on the island together for twelve days that Cobb finally speaks up.
The extractor wakes up unusually early for once and joins Arthur at breakfast, taking a seat across from his point man. Arthur looks up from the novel he’s reading and sets down his fork and knife; he rests his arms on the table and gives his friend a ghost of a smile. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” Cobb scrubs a hand against his eyes, and Arthur studies the other, notes the redness in his eyes, the deep furrow in his brow, and the slight downward twist in his lips. His friend looks ancient like this, weighed down by a history lived in dreams.
“Something on your mind?” asks Arthur, knowing full well that his friend always does, always will. Cobb shrugs his shoulders with a non-committal air; Arthur tries again. “You want to talk about it?”
Cobb gestures at the book he’s reading but continues to avoid Arthur’s gaze. “What’re you reading?”
“Journey into the Whirlwind.” Arthur shuts the book and pushes it toward the other. “Interesting, but not exactly the most cheerful morning read.”
Cobb reaches over to grab the book, and for the briefest of moments, their fingers touch. Neither flinches, but their eyes meet before Cobb looks away, gaze directed at the novel once more. He holds it aloft, hiding his face from view. “You find this in Saito’s library?”
“Two days ago when you were working on your Belgian identity.”
“You think the supply crew will let me off this island?” The book’s still shielding Cobb’s face, so Arthur can’t read the other’s expression the way he wants to. He frowns and then shrugs his shoulders.
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t suggest it though.” Cobb’s opened the book and is flipping through its pages now. “Why’re you so eager to get off this rock anyway? Saito’s getting you home, you know that.”
The man shuts the book with a snap and tosses it on the table. His arms move to fold across his chest, and his eyes shift to the side to stare out the window, stare at the waves crashing in the distance.
“I should be home with my kids, Arthur.” Cobb shakes his head minutely. “And I hate this place.”
Arthur follows his gaze. “It reminds you of limbo.”
His friend doesn’t give him a response.
“Cobb, what happened the last time you went down there?”
Silence falls and stretches between the two of them, and Arthur starts wondering if it’ll ever come to an end. He worries that his friend is going to stand and leave, and when Cobb shifts, Arthur looks away, unwilling to see the other man walk away.
But as it turns out, Cobb doesn’t go anywhere; he just slouches in his chair. They sit there together, neither looking at the other.
“The entire time I was looking for Saito, I was alone. There wasn’t another soul down there.” Arthur wants to interject and say something about Mal but holds his tongue. The last thing he wants is for Cobb to leave the table and keep him hanging when his friend has finally opened up to him. “When you spend that much time alone, you come to realize things.
“Humans are social creatures. You know that, right?” Arthur nods. “That’s why they have isolation cells in prisons. That’s why-”
“I’m not here for a psych lesson, Cobb,” the point man teases gently. His lips quirk into a small smile, but it disappears when his friend’s expression doesn’t ease. “What are you trying to get at?”
Cobb exhales slowly, like he’s attempting to steel his nerves. “I rely on you a lot, Arthur.” The extractor’s gaze flickers between Arthur’s face and the table. “I didn’t realize just how much until I was stuck in limbo.
“I’m just doing my job, Cobb,” replies Arthur. “It’s what any point man would do for his extractor.”
“That’s what I thought when I went under in Sydney. What you did was the norm-at least, that’s what I had convinced myself of.” He rubs his hands together nervously. “When I had nothing to do but think about all those jobs we’ve been on together, it wasn’t hard to figure out that wasn’t the case.”
“You give me too much credit.”
“I’m not, Arthur. I took you for granted.”
Arthur laughs-voice too loud-and he shakes his head, disbelieving. “Are we having a heart-to-heart here, Cobb?”
“I’m being serious, Arthur,” says Cobb, even though he already knows Arthur doesn’t need the clarification. “I thought about you a great deal in limbo.”
“What? More than James and Phillipa?”
With that, Arthur finally encourages a smile out of Cobb. “That’s different.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Look, that was the first time I was under without any help from you.” Cobb pauses, shaking his head. “When I was down there, I kept thinking, if only Arthur was here, then I could do this or do that. If only Arthur was here, then I wouldn’t be having this problem or that issue.
“When I was down there, I finally got to appreciate all the things you’ve done for me.” Cobb’s not looking at him again, his gaze stuck on the title lettering of the novel. “Things I never noticed before.” The man clears his throat. “Little, subtle differences that made the job-my job-all that much easier.
“It only became more apparent when I was on the run in Europe. I came to realize how much I really relied on you-how much I needed you by my side.”
“It’s as I said, Cobb. I’m just doing my job.”
“Your average point man doesn’t go that far for his extractor.” Cobb’s finally looking at him now, and Arthur’s breath catches in his throat from the intensity of the stare. “Your average point man doesn’t stick around after all the crap I’ve put you through.”
“Well, then help me out and stop trying to give me a heart attack.” Arthur laughs dryly.
“How many times have I used you to get back to my family? How many times have I put your neck on the line to get what I wanted, Arthur? Tell me.”
The man makes a vague gesture with his hand and shrugs. “I don’t keep count, Cobb.”
“So you admit it then,” Cobb says, a wry grin spreading across his face. Arthur frowns and says nothing. “You’re the best in the business, Arthur. What makes a guy like you stay with a crazy fool like me? You could work with anyone-why me?”
Arthur can’t bring himself to say it, can’t bring himself to say the real reason why he’s followed Cobb for so long. Instead, he just leans back in his chair, tipping it up onto its back legs. “Someone has to watch over you for Mal.”
Something about his statement makes Cobb look at him oddly. Arthur watches the subtle play of emotions across the other’s face-it’s all in the eyes, always the eyes-before Cobb stands, then leaves.
When the other is out of earshot, Arthur curses quietly: Cobb knows.
***
Sense and reason tells Arthur that he should keep some distance between them for the moment, but that part of his brain doesn’t seem to be in control right now, not when Cobb won’t get out of his thoughts.
Aside from the glimmer of understanding in Cobb’s gaze, Arthur can’t figure out what is going on in Cobb’s mind, doesn’t dare hypothesize. Is Cobb surprised? Angry? Disgusted? The scene in the dining room plays over and over again in his head, and Arthur analyzes each snapshot memory, reads into every single little expression, word, and action. Each replay leaves Arthur feeling different: despondent, agitated, angry.
Hopeful.
When he finds himself standing at the door of the sitting room, Arthur’s lost track of time; he could have been searching the house for minutes, hours, or days-he hasn’t a clue anymore-for Cobb. Arthur had started out determined to get a definitive answer, a proper response from his friend, but now that he’s found him, Arthur’s not entirely sure he wants to know anymore.
Ignorance is bliss, he had told Ariadne. Arthur wonders if the statement will hold true here as well.
Cobb’s leaning against a window frame, his eyes following the waves in the distance; he only breaks his gaze for a moment when he hears footsteps approaching. Neither man says anything, so Arthur takes a seat, settling down in the chair situated the farthest from Cobb.
The minutes tick by, silent and awkward, and then Cobb finally talks. “I never asked you to be a replacement for Mal.”
“It was a slip of the tongue. I didn’t mean that.”
“What did you mean then?”
Arthur’s silent, and he can’t come up with a reply-doesn’t want to. Instead, he stares at his hands clasped in his lap. There isn’t a sound from where Cobb’s standing; Arthur can only assume the other hasn’t moved.
“I’ve never been able to anticipate your needs or wants.” Arthur looks up and sees Cobb staring out the window again. “I can’t read you, Arthur. Not the way you can read me.
“So if I’m reading you wrong, you have to tell me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cobb,” he lies.
“Please, Arthur.”
There’s this note of desperation in Cobb’s voice-something Arthur hasn’t been witness to since Mal’s funeral. It causes Arthur to frown, his brow knitting together. He watches the lines in Cobb’s body tense, sees that jaw clench.
“You know how these things complicate business matters. Don’t make me remind you,” Arthur finally says. “Besides, you’ve got Mal. You’ve got the kids.”
“I told you, I’ve made my peace with Mal’s memory.”
“Then the kids. They’re still waiting for you.”
“Yeah, I know. I… I know.” Cobb finally moves away from the window, one hand gesturing vaguely in the air. He paces slowly on the other side of the room. “And I’m going home to them as soon as I can, but…” The man chances a glance at Arthur, and their eyes meet. “They’re no replacement for you. No one is.”
Arthur reminds himself of how to breathe. His fingers itch to retrieve his totem, feel its reassuring weight in the palm of his hand. For a moment, Arthur wonders if he too has fallen into limbo somehow.
“We could compromise jobs like this.”
“I’m done with mind crime. I’m just waiting to go home.”
“I could compromise jobs like this.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
Cobb looks away again when Arthur doesn’t say anything.
“You know what I’m saying, don’t you? You always do.”
Arthur thinks that “always” is a strong word, especially considering what difficulty he had these past few months. However, he’s pretty sure he’s got Cobb nailed this time.
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“And?”
“Don’t make me say it. Read my mind for once.”
They share a look, and a faint smile pulls on the other’s lips. It takes a moment, but Arthur returns the gesture.
***
Arthur stands next to the runway with Cobb, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The weekly supply plane flies over their heads before touching down further along the asphalt.
“You sure you want to do this, Arthur?” Cobb asks, worry flitting across his features. “You don’t have to, you know.”
“You want to see your kids, don’t you? Nothing’s going to happen if we’re both stuck out here.”
The plane turns around and starts taxiing toward them.
“What if Saito hasn’t cleared your record yet?”
“I’ll arrange something with him until it is. Who knows-maybe he needs another secretary.” Arthur cracks a grin, but Cobb doesn’t look convinced. “Look, I’ll be fine. Worst come to worst, I’ll head back here.”
The aircraft comes to a stop in front of them, and the door is pushed open.
“Going somewhere?” Saito asks as he steps lightly out of the plane. He glances around him with an assessing air, as if the sea, sky, and beach may have offended his guests. “Is the island not to your liking?”
“Saito?” Arthur asks. “What are you doing here?”
“It is my island,” Saito states matter-of-factly.
The business man turns his attention to Cobb then and pulls out a ticket from his jacket pocket. Arthur watches as his friend stares at the document and then Saito; there’s a look of disbelief on that face, like he’s afraid to believe what he’s holding in his hands is real.
“It’s done?” Cobb asks quietly.
“Cobol stocks plummeted when the news hit the media. It was a sad day to see such a powerful corporation close its doors.” Arthur notes the lack of remorse on the businessman’s face. “And your records have been cleared-yes, the both of you.
“It all became much easier with Cobol out of the picture.”
“And Kehl?”
“Early retirement,” answers Saito. The shark-like smile on the man’s face stalls that line of questioning. Saito once again looks at Cobb, an expression of mild amusement crossing his features. “Now then, unless you wanted to wait another week, Mr. Cobb, may I suggest getting your things?”
“But Arthur-”
“-has already packed, I’m sure.” Saito produces a second ticket, handing this one to the point man. “You are both going to Los Angeles, correct? Or were my assumptions-” The businessman looks from one face to the other. “-mistaken?”
Saito looks over his shoulder at the crew on the airplane and tells them something in Japanese. He then starts walking toward the mansion, pausing only briefly to glance at Cobb and point at his watch.
“You think he knows?” Arthur asks, keeping his eyes on Saito’s disappearing figure.
“Does it matter?”
Arthur feels fingers slip between his own; Cobb’s hand is warm and reassuring.
“No. No, it doesn’t.”
Arthur starts his night off at a bar. The lights are dim, and the music is loud and obnoxious; a haze seems to fill the room. It rankles Arthur’s sensibilities, but he deals with it, convinces himself that the noise and the smoke are good things, if only because they keep the projections preoccupied. The people around him don’t pay him any heed as he gratefully slips outside and heads toward the art museum across the street. He walks past the rotating door, and then looks about him-stark white walls sparsely decorated with Francis Bacon paintings.
The people here are dressed to the nines, and Arthur feels right at home as he walks past them, steps purposeful. He spots security walking toward him and pauses in front of the dream version of Head I. The two guards pass right by him, conversing quietly about business deals.
Arthur waits for them to turn off the hallway before proceeding further into the museum, past a velvet curtain. He navigates the labyrinth of hallways until he comes to a small, unlabeled door at the end of one of them, lit only by a single, flickering light bulb.
The point man opens the door and finds himself in a square room with a low ceiling. The walls are wooden, the carpet dark and plush; there is a desk and a chair-a thin layer of dust has settled over them. He shuts the door behind him and approaches the safe sunk into the far wall. Arthur twists the dial, watches the numbers whirl by, and then smiles when it opens.
Inside the vault, the point man finds a photo album. He opens it and finds a familiar face staring at him: Nash. The man, however, certainly doesn’t look the way Arthur had last saw him. The first shot has him huddled in a corner of a small room, concrete all around. Nash’s covered in bruises, open wounds, and he looks thin, emaciated.
As he continues to flip through the pages, Arthur starts seeing faceless men in the photographs, brass knuckles gleaming in their hands, and when they finally disappear from the shots, Nash looks worse for the wear-his face is barely recognizable. The photographs then get closer, as if the cameraman is zooming in or moving closer to Nash.
Arthur figures it’s the latter; the photos are likely snapshots from Kehl’s memory.
The barrel of a gun appears in the photos now, but Nash’s face is so distorted and bloodied at this point that it’s hard to see what the man’s feeling. Arthur flips through the album, watches Nash gets pistol whipped, watches as the man curls into a ball on the floor.
The photographs grow more distant again, but now there’s an arm and hand that joins the gun. The trigger is pulled slowly, shifting slightly shot by shot, and then Nash is dead, a bullet lodged firmly in his brain.
He closes the photo album and locks it back in the safe.
***
Arthur is making his way toward his next vault location, through an office building, when he feels the slight change in atmosphere. The projections are taking notice of him now, their eyes following his every movement. He avoids eye contact with them and keeps his cool.
He can’t help but wonder what caused the shift. Someone has provoked the mark, but he doesn’t think it’s Eames, despite the fact that the man is being the most likely to run into Kehl in the dream world. The forger isn’t one to put himself at unnecessary risk, and in this operation, meeting with the mark in person isn’t needed in the least. At the same time, though, Arthur can’t really see Saito getting sloppy either.
The point man doesn’t have time to dwell on the matter, however, because he has two tails firmly on him now. He heads for the emergency stairwell and climbs up half a flight of stairs before pulling out his handgun and waiting for the projections to step in. Arthur takes the first one out with a shot to the gut as he steps inside, and the second one gets nailed in the chest a second later.
The door catches on their bodies, but Arthur doesn’t care; he’s already climbing the stairs, heading to the fifth floor.
There, the point man finds himself staring at a large vault door. He hears footsteps and shouts echoing upwards; more projections are headed his way. Arthur pounds in the key codes, and then the door hisses, slowly swinging open on its hinges. He looks down the stairwell, sees men circling around and around as they climb the stairs. He sights the closest projection and fires; the man takes a bullet in the shoulder, handgun dropping to the ground with a clatter.
By this time, the vault door is open wide enough for Arthur to slip in, and he does, dragging it closed behind him. Inside, he finds himself surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookcases, all of which are filled to the brim with heavy, leather-bound books. The point man picks one up at random and opens it, finding not a story but lists of names, dates and price tags.
It takes him a moment to realize that he’s looking at a hit list and that Cobol’s picked up quite a bit of spare change from offing people for a price.
He shuts the book and then looks back at the vault door. The walls are thick enough that he can’t hear anything through the steel and concrete, so Arthur has no idea how many projections are already waiting for him on the other side. And there are a hell of a lot of books in the room.
Arthur has neither the time nor the ability to memorize all the names of people listed in every book on every bookshelf.
Muttering a soft curse under his breath, he opens the book in his hands once more and flips it to a random page. Arthur gives himself a minute to memorize the names in front of him and then slams the book shut, replacing it on the shelf.
Arthur then stalks over to the vault door and readies his handgun. There is still nothing but silence from the other side, but that does little to reassure him. He takes a deep breath and then pushes it open, grabbing the projection standing nearest and throwing him to the ground; the man’s skull cracks against the ground, and he goes still.
The point man slams the butt of his gun into the next projection’s face before whirling around and nailing him in the throat with his elbow. Arthur finishes him off with a shot to the heart before tearing down the stairs, picking off any projections that come his way.
***
Arthur’s third vault is in a hotel-a personal safe up in the presidential suite.
The projections have gone haywire, and he still doesn’t know why. The car he stole to get from the office building to the hotel is riddled with holes, and he ditches it the second he gets close to the building. He’s rolling, running, and tumbling toward the lobby, and when he finally steps inside, Arthur makes a beeline for the elevators, darting into one that has just opened up. He shoves his way past a group of projections trying to block his path and slams his hand against the “close door” button.
A few projections push their way in before the doors slide shut, and the point man knocks them out-some with his gun, others with his fists. The elevator sails upward toward the thirty-fifth floor, and Arthur takes a moment to try and even out his breathing, calm his nerves. He knows that dying here won’t cost him anything in the real world, but he has a job to finish, a job that’ll help Cobb get back home.
On the thirty-fifth floor, Arthur hunts down the presidential suite. He presses his ear to the door and hears muffled talking in the background. The point man slips a card out of his pocket and reaches toward the door, sliding it into the key slot. The light flashes green, and he turns the door handle. The door pops open, but just barely. Arthur presses against the wall, gun held just to the left of his head.
He waits until he hears the click of a safety being released on the other side of the door before kicking it open. Arthur’s rewarded with a loud crack of bone meeting wood; whoever had been opening the door is now flat on his back, badly concussed. Arthur doesn’t take any chances though and finishes the man off, a single bullet to the brain. He then rolls further inside the room and takes out a silhouetted form by the window; the body drops to the floor with a thud. There’s yelling and confusion, and he hears shots ring out above his head. Arthur dives behind the couch and crouches there.
Peering under the furniture, he spots the shine of leather shoes the next room over. Arthur watches them draw nearer, steps slow and cautious on the carpet. He waits until those feet are almost on the other side of the couch, and then he pops up, delivering a single shot to the chest. Arthur ducks back down then and shifts his position, running into the bedroom. After he clears it and the bathroom, he returns to the doorway, pressing himself against the wall.
When he looks around the door frame, he spots someone watching for him, and Arthur bends away from the door, hearing the crackle of gunfire hitting the wall behind him. He waits for a break in the assault and then shifts to return the favor, five bullets fired in rapid succession.
None of them hit their mark, and Arthur curses. He peers around the wall again, and the gunfire starts once more. The point man drops to the ground and rolls to the other side. He stands and picks the projection off, hitting him in the shoulder while he’s still shooting at Arthur’s old position.
The second he drops, Arthur dashes across the living room, kicks the gun out of the projection’s grasp. He then delivers a head shot, silencing the other’s groans. The point man peers into the dining room. He hears, rather than sees, the next shots being fired, and he hits the floor out of instinct. Whoever is shooting at him is in the kitchenette, and Arthur rolls away from it, trying to find cover amongst the table and chair legs.
And then he hears it: music-the notes low and distorted.
The point man’s running low on time. He waits for the next round of gunfire to end before dashing across the dining room, tackling the other man around the waist. The projection goes down, slamming into the ground face first.
Arthur yanks one of the man’s arms behind his back, trapping it under his knee; he pulls the other arm backward and up, holding it in the air with one hand. The point man twists, and the projection howls in pain, dropping the gun. Arthur then places his gun on the other’s temple. The man is staring at him with one single eye; he’s terrified. Arthur shifts his weight, pressing down harder with his knee, and feels the other struggle to fill his lungs.
“M-mercy!” the man cries, but Arthur just pulls the trigger.
Arthur shifts and opens up the cabinet under the sink, finds the small safe located there. He spins the dial, opening the door, and grabs the papers inside. It’s a white collar job this time-a goldmine for auditors; whereas the previous vault had been filled with many crimes but few details, this one is the opposite, listing copious details on a single incident. Arthur scans the documents, willing the dream to last just a little longer, but there’s nothing he can do when Edith’s singing in the background.
He’s reading the last of the papers as his consciousness fades, the dream vanishing out from under him.
***
Arthur’s eyes snap open, and he stands up off the floor, yanking the IV line out. Saito’s man starts packing up the PASIV device, and Eames is looking at him and the businessman, shaking his head. Arthur’s guessing he wasn’t too happy with the projections’ behavior either.
Saito, however, seems rather pleased with himself.
“We meet back up in Tokyo in two days’ time. You’re on your own until then,” Eames says, already halfway out the door.
***
“Kehl dropped down into limbo during the job,” is the first thing Eames says to him when Arthur steps into his apartment two days later.
The point man just stares at him before shaking his head. “We didn’t go that deep. How did that happen?”
“One of Saito’s men dosed Kehl with additional sedative while we were under.”
Arthur brushes past the forger and enters the living room to stand in front of the businessman, who just smiles at him pleasantly from his chair. “Care to explain yourself?”
“I expect a return on my investments,” Saito says calmly, hands folding across his stomach as he settles in his seat. Eames comes to stand next to Arthur, expression blank. “Do you think I would finance your foolish exploits otherwise? I am a businessman.
“Even excluding all of your dues for the inception job and the financing for this little adventure, I would still have been losing money. So I found a way to break even.”
“Then what was the point of the extraction if you planned to drop him into limbo from the start?”
“The more I have to work with, the better. If you found something half as good as what I did in the dream, then I will have no trouble taking Cobol apart.” Saito flashes him a feral smile.
“And Cobb?”
Saito tilts his head, an amused expression crossing his features. “Your concern for each other is heartwarming; Mr. Cobb was equally insistent about securing your well-being during our journey to Italy together,” he replies. “You needn’t worry. I still intend to fulfill my promise to Mr. Cobb. It will likely take a few months before all debts can be paid and persons bought, but it will happen. Cobol will no longer be able to keep the law under their control when the press exposes them for what they really are.
“Is that a satisfactory answer for you?”
Arthur nods his head. While he is still displeased with Saito for dropping Kehl into limbo, the point man is more than willing to forgive the man if Cobb stays safe and the plan to return him home remains intact.
“Have you always been so easy to appease?” Eames comments, clearly amused.
“Forgive me for wanting to make sure that all my work has paid off,” the point man grits out. “Or have you forgotten the point of this entire ordeal?”
“No, not at all. I was merely more interested in being paid, is all.”
“Why not see for yourself?” Arthur gives Saito a questioning look, but the man merely smiles. “I had assumed that you would want to return to Mr. Cobb’s side as soon as possible.”
“Then the information I gathered-”
“You may write your report away from here,” Saito says, cutting Arthur off. “If I am not mistaken, you are a wanted man now as well. With the job done, you have no reason not to go into hiding as well.”
Arthur won’t openly admit it, but Saito has a point. He’s been putting himself at great risk since leaving Interpol, and it’s only a matter of time before his fake IDs start to fail him and his pursuers latch onto his trail. Slipping away into obscurity sounds more than a little appealing to him, and the idea of getting to see Cobb again only helps to sweeten the deal.
“When do I leave?”
“I believe you will find a private jet waiting at Narita to take you to Micronesia.” Saito smiles. “I am sure he will be delighted to see you again.”
***
The loud whir of the propellers fills the cabin, and Arthur squints against the sunlight reflecting off the water down below. He’s lost track of how long he’s been stuck in a plane or waiting at an airport; a stack of half-read books rests in the seat next to him. In his lap, he’s got his latest attempt at distraction, but the man’s mind is too filled with thoughts to pay it any heed.
Arthur can’t stop thinking about Cobb.
It’s been months since he’s seen his friend, but it feels even longer. The closest experience he’s had to this long, silent separation was when Cobb had fled California, but even then, Arthur had caught up with him shortly after.
Arthur had made Cobb’s exile his own, parting ways only briefly after bad jobs to disperse the attention following them.
He’s spent most of the last three years unswervingly at Cobb’s side, but now-he doesn’t even know what to say once he lands and has Cobb standing right in front of him. He wonders if Cobb has even been told about his arrival. Saito had kept mum about the matter, shooing him away like a small child, and none of the flight crew have been able to tell him anything. They just look at him quietly and murmur apologies in Japanese, foreign and unusual to his ears.
Arthur comes up with a million and one ways to greet Cobb. If he comes out to the landing strip, they’ll shake hands and clap each other on the shoulder. They’ll talk about the flight over and the weather; Arthur will mention how Cobb’s picked up a tan on the island and that he’s looking good. His friend will, in turn, tell him about the amenities there, tell him about high and low tide.
Or perhaps they should talk about the notes they’ve shared and discuss how close they were to meeting each other in person during those exchanges. Maybe Arthur should thank Cobb for coming up with the idea and for risking his neck to get back in touch with him. Of course, there is always the possibility that his friend will speak first, congratulating him for a job well done.
As water finally gives way to a small spit of land, Arthur decides he’ll just start with hello.
***
As it turns out, Cobb isn’t around to greet Arthur when he gets off the plane.
Instead, five Polynesians make their way out onto the runway. Four of them immediately go to unload the plane, taking his luggage along with boxes of food and supplies. The fifth approaches him and flashes him a million watt smile.
“A visitor for Mr. Cobb?” he asks. “I am afraid he still has not risen yet, mister... “
“Arthur’s fine,” the point man responds absently, gaze flicking toward the large mansion behind the attendant-reminiscent of plantation style homes in the deep South. Arthur thinks it doesn’t really fit Saito’s image, but who is he to judge? He turns his attention back to the man standing in front of him. “He’s still sleeping?
Cobb had never been the type to sleep in late-not as far back as Arthur remembers, at the very least.
“Often until late in the afternoon. Please, come inside.” The attendant gestures toward the house, and Arthur takes his invitation. “Mr. Cobb is a bit of a night owl as far as we can tell.”
“How long has he been like this?”
“Since his arrival, Mr. Arthur.”
The cool of the building puts into sharp relief the heat outside, and the grandeur inside puts the already impressive exterior to shame. Arthur shakes his head slightly as he takes in the grand staircase, the exquisite chandelier, and the marble flooring. “How often does Saito come here?”
“On occasion.”
Arthur cocks a brow, and the man at his side shrugs. “Once or twice a year.”
He avoids making a comment about people with too much money and lets the attendant lead him to what he presumes will be his room. His luggage, as it turns out, has already arrived and rests by the large wardrobe. The curtains are all pulled aside, and light streams in.
“Please feel free to rest or explore the establishment while you wait for your friend,” the attendant says. “Should you need anything, do not hesitate to let us know.”
Arthur just nods. When he hears the door click behind him, he moves to stand beside the windows. It’s undoubtedly beautiful outside, so beautiful that a man could lose himself here, forget all about the world beyond the blue sea.
He wonders if Cobb’s gotten lost, caught up in a real world limbo.
***
After a late lunch too fancy for his liking, Arthur finds himself standing at the threshold of what might have once been called a library; at the moment, it could only be called a mess.
Arthur has to pick his way across the book-strewn floor, and on more than one occasion, his foot lands on an open book, threatening to tear pages out of their bindings. The shelves, windows, and walls are covered with paper. There are to-do lists, newspaper articles, how-to-guides, and a whole host of other items-all seemingly unrelated. Amongst the mess of paper, Arthur also spots a well-worn women’s magazine on the floor, its pages opened to the horoscope page. That’s one small mystery solved, at least. The point man had been surprised that Cobb would remember the zodiac signs and dates on his own.
What is of more interest, however, are the dozens upon dozens of passports-American, French, German, South African, and so on and so forth-resting on a large desk situated near the windows. Arthur flips through several of them, and Cobb’s somber mien stares back at him in each one, albeit with different aliases.
Arthur has never known Cobb to dabble in the forgery business, but judging by the stack of half-finished IDs nearby, his friend has picked up a new skill of recent. The point man takes one of the American passports and studies it, checking it for inconsistencies, but finds none. It’s high quality work-done well enough to rival Eames’ best efforts.
“So they weren’t lying about me having a visitor, huh?”
The point man looks up and finds Cobb standing in the doorway. He looks rumpled: his clothes are wrinkled, his hair is askew, and his face looks as if it hasn’t been shaved in days. Cobb can’t seem to meet his gaze, blue eyes shifting here and there, and Arthur wonders if this is the difference Ariadne had mentioned but was unable to fully articulate. Still, he offers his friend a smile all the same. “Long time no see.”
There’s something incredibly right about being this close to Cobb again, about being able to see him face-to-face finally. They’re stuck in the middle of nowhere, but somehow, Arthur feels like he’s home. This is where he belongs-right here with Cobb.
It’s then that Arthur discovers that he’s crossed a line: Cobb’s no longer just a friend, not to him at least. When or how it happened, he doesn’t know, but the quiet realization doesn’t bother him as much as he might have thought it would. In truth, it answers a few lingering questions he’s had over the years, makes sense of all the times he’s followed Cobb through thick and thin.
“You’ve been busy,” he says lightly, gesturing at the desk.
Now’s not the time to bring up personal realizations, not with Cobb looking so troubled. The last thing the other needs is another weight on his mind, and burdening him further is the last thing Arthur wants.
Cobb smiles vaguely and shakes his head. “They’re useless now-seeing as Saito’s got me stuck on this island, but I needed to do something to make me feel productive. Otherwise, I feel like I’m letting Phillipa and James down.”
“What, tired of paradise already?”
“It’s not paradise. Not to me at least.”
Arthur then realizes that Cobb looks incredibly pale for a guy who’s spent the last few weeks on a tropical island. “You haven’t gone outside at all?” he asks. “Ariadne mentioned it, but I didn’t think she meant it literally.”
“I don’t want to see the water breaking. It makes...” Cobb’s gaze shifts restlessly, and his hands move to settle on his hips. “It makes me think of limbo.”
“It’s not your fault that Mal-”
“This isn’t about Mal. It was my fault, and I’ll never stop missing her. But I know that she’s gone, and that I needed to let her go. So I have.” At Arthur’s incredulous look, Cobb manages a sardonic smile. “If we had a PASIV device, I’d show you, but that’ll have to wait.”
“So what is it?”
“I’ve lived two lifetimes in that place, Arthur. That second time around, it made me realize something.”
“What?”
Cobb gives him no verbal response, and instead, he just stares, his gaze wistful.
***
A solid week goes by, and Arthur doesn’t ask about limbo, not with the way Cobb looks displeased each time they talk about dreams. He doesn’t even try to guess.
Whatever had occurred, however, hasn’t changed the man’s unswerving desire to get back home. Cobb continues to pore over his fake passports, and Arthur’s stopped trying to make conversation while the other works. Much to his dismay, though, his friend is rarely doing anything but work these days. Arthur doesn’t want to think that Cobb is avoiding him, but he can’t shake the feeling that that’s the case.
It’s not until they’ve been on the island together for twelve days that Cobb finally speaks up.
The extractor wakes up unusually early for once and joins Arthur at breakfast, taking a seat across from his point man. Arthur looks up from the novel he’s reading and sets down his fork and knife; he rests his arms on the table and gives his friend a ghost of a smile. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” Cobb scrubs a hand against his eyes, and Arthur studies the other, notes the redness in his eyes, the deep furrow in his brow, and the slight downward twist in his lips. His friend looks ancient like this, weighed down by a history lived in dreams.
“Something on your mind?” asks Arthur, knowing full well that his friend always does, always will. Cobb shrugs his shoulders with a non-committal air; Arthur tries again. “You want to talk about it?”
Cobb gestures at the book he’s reading but continues to avoid Arthur’s gaze. “What’re you reading?”
“Journey into the Whirlwind.” Arthur shuts the book and pushes it toward the other. “Interesting, but not exactly the most cheerful morning read.”
Cobb reaches over to grab the book, and for the briefest of moments, their fingers touch. Neither flinches, but their eyes meet before Cobb looks away, gaze directed at the novel once more. He holds it aloft, hiding his face from view. “You find this in Saito’s library?”
“Two days ago when you were working on your Belgian identity.”
“You think the supply crew will let me off this island?” The book’s still shielding Cobb’s face, so Arthur can’t read the other’s expression the way he wants to. He frowns and then shrugs his shoulders.
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t suggest it though.” Cobb’s opened the book and is flipping through its pages now. “Why’re you so eager to get off this rock anyway? Saito’s getting you home, you know that.”
The man shuts the book with a snap and tosses it on the table. His arms move to fold across his chest, and his eyes shift to the side to stare out the window, stare at the waves crashing in the distance.
“I should be home with my kids, Arthur.” Cobb shakes his head minutely. “And I hate this place.”
Arthur follows his gaze. “It reminds you of limbo.”
His friend doesn’t give him a response.
“Cobb, what happened the last time you went down there?”
Silence falls and stretches between the two of them, and Arthur starts wondering if it’ll ever come to an end. He worries that his friend is going to stand and leave, and when Cobb shifts, Arthur looks away, unwilling to see the other man walk away.
But as it turns out, Cobb doesn’t go anywhere; he just slouches in his chair. They sit there together, neither looking at the other.
“The entire time I was looking for Saito, I was alone. There wasn’t another soul down there.” Arthur wants to interject and say something about Mal but holds his tongue. The last thing he wants is for Cobb to leave the table and keep him hanging when his friend has finally opened up to him. “When you spend that much time alone, you come to realize things.
“Humans are social creatures. You know that, right?” Arthur nods. “That’s why they have isolation cells in prisons. That’s why-”
“I’m not here for a psych lesson, Cobb,” the point man teases gently. His lips quirk into a small smile, but it disappears when his friend’s expression doesn’t ease. “What are you trying to get at?”
Cobb exhales slowly, like he’s attempting to steel his nerves. “I rely on you a lot, Arthur.” The extractor’s gaze flickers between Arthur’s face and the table. “I didn’t realize just how much until I was stuck in limbo.
“I’m just doing my job, Cobb,” replies Arthur. “It’s what any point man would do for his extractor.”
“That’s what I thought when I went under in Sydney. What you did was the norm-at least, that’s what I had convinced myself of.” He rubs his hands together nervously. “When I had nothing to do but think about all those jobs we’ve been on together, it wasn’t hard to figure out that wasn’t the case.”
“You give me too much credit.”
“I’m not, Arthur. I took you for granted.”
Arthur laughs-voice too loud-and he shakes his head, disbelieving. “Are we having a heart-to-heart here, Cobb?”
“I’m being serious, Arthur,” says Cobb, even though he already knows Arthur doesn’t need the clarification. “I thought about you a great deal in limbo.”
“What? More than James and Phillipa?”
With that, Arthur finally encourages a smile out of Cobb. “That’s different.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Look, that was the first time I was under without any help from you.” Cobb pauses, shaking his head. “When I was down there, I kept thinking, if only Arthur was here, then I could do this or do that. If only Arthur was here, then I wouldn’t be having this problem or that issue.
“When I was down there, I finally got to appreciate all the things you’ve done for me.” Cobb’s not looking at him again, his gaze stuck on the title lettering of the novel. “Things I never noticed before.” The man clears his throat. “Little, subtle differences that made the job-my job-all that much easier.
“It only became more apparent when I was on the run in Europe. I came to realize how much I really relied on you-how much I needed you by my side.”
“It’s as I said, Cobb. I’m just doing my job.”
“Your average point man doesn’t go that far for his extractor.” Cobb’s finally looking at him now, and Arthur’s breath catches in his throat from the intensity of the stare. “Your average point man doesn’t stick around after all the crap I’ve put you through.”
“Well, then help me out and stop trying to give me a heart attack.” Arthur laughs dryly.
“How many times have I used you to get back to my family? How many times have I put your neck on the line to get what I wanted, Arthur? Tell me.”
The man makes a vague gesture with his hand and shrugs. “I don’t keep count, Cobb.”
“So you admit it then,” Cobb says, a wry grin spreading across his face. Arthur frowns and says nothing. “You’re the best in the business, Arthur. What makes a guy like you stay with a crazy fool like me? You could work with anyone-why me?”
Arthur can’t bring himself to say it, can’t bring himself to say the real reason why he’s followed Cobb for so long. Instead, he just leans back in his chair, tipping it up onto its back legs. “Someone has to watch over you for Mal.”
Something about his statement makes Cobb look at him oddly. Arthur watches the subtle play of emotions across the other’s face-it’s all in the eyes, always the eyes-before Cobb stands, then leaves.
When the other is out of earshot, Arthur curses quietly: Cobb knows.
***
Sense and reason tells Arthur that he should keep some distance between them for the moment, but that part of his brain doesn’t seem to be in control right now, not when Cobb won’t get out of his thoughts.
Aside from the glimmer of understanding in Cobb’s gaze, Arthur can’t figure out what is going on in Cobb’s mind, doesn’t dare hypothesize. Is Cobb surprised? Angry? Disgusted? The scene in the dining room plays over and over again in his head, and Arthur analyzes each snapshot memory, reads into every single little expression, word, and action. Each replay leaves Arthur feeling different: despondent, agitated, angry.
Hopeful.
When he finds himself standing at the door of the sitting room, Arthur’s lost track of time; he could have been searching the house for minutes, hours, or days-he hasn’t a clue anymore-for Cobb. Arthur had started out determined to get a definitive answer, a proper response from his friend, but now that he’s found him, Arthur’s not entirely sure he wants to know anymore.
Ignorance is bliss, he had told Ariadne. Arthur wonders if the statement will hold true here as well.
Cobb’s leaning against a window frame, his eyes following the waves in the distance; he only breaks his gaze for a moment when he hears footsteps approaching. Neither man says anything, so Arthur takes a seat, settling down in the chair situated the farthest from Cobb.
The minutes tick by, silent and awkward, and then Cobb finally talks. “I never asked you to be a replacement for Mal.”
“It was a slip of the tongue. I didn’t mean that.”
“What did you mean then?”
Arthur’s silent, and he can’t come up with a reply-doesn’t want to. Instead, he stares at his hands clasped in his lap. There isn’t a sound from where Cobb’s standing; Arthur can only assume the other hasn’t moved.
“I’ve never been able to anticipate your needs or wants.” Arthur looks up and sees Cobb staring out the window again. “I can’t read you, Arthur. Not the way you can read me.
“So if I’m reading you wrong, you have to tell me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cobb,” he lies.
“Please, Arthur.”
There’s this note of desperation in Cobb’s voice-something Arthur hasn’t been witness to since Mal’s funeral. It causes Arthur to frown, his brow knitting together. He watches the lines in Cobb’s body tense, sees that jaw clench.
“You know how these things complicate business matters. Don’t make me remind you,” Arthur finally says. “Besides, you’ve got Mal. You’ve got the kids.”
“I told you, I’ve made my peace with Mal’s memory.”
“Then the kids. They’re still waiting for you.”
“Yeah, I know. I… I know.” Cobb finally moves away from the window, one hand gesturing vaguely in the air. He paces slowly on the other side of the room. “And I’m going home to them as soon as I can, but…” The man chances a glance at Arthur, and their eyes meet. “They’re no replacement for you. No one is.”
Arthur reminds himself of how to breathe. His fingers itch to retrieve his totem, feel its reassuring weight in the palm of his hand. For a moment, Arthur wonders if he too has fallen into limbo somehow.
“We could compromise jobs like this.”
“I’m done with mind crime. I’m just waiting to go home.”
“I could compromise jobs like this.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
Cobb looks away again when Arthur doesn’t say anything.
“You know what I’m saying, don’t you? You always do.”
Arthur thinks that “always” is a strong word, especially considering what difficulty he had these past few months. However, he’s pretty sure he’s got Cobb nailed this time.
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“And?”
“Don’t make me say it. Read my mind for once.”
They share a look, and a faint smile pulls on the other’s lips. It takes a moment, but Arthur returns the gesture.
***
Arthur stands next to the runway with Cobb, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The weekly supply plane flies over their heads before touching down further along the asphalt.
“You sure you want to do this, Arthur?” Cobb asks, worry flitting across his features. “You don’t have to, you know.”
“You want to see your kids, don’t you? Nothing’s going to happen if we’re both stuck out here.”
The plane turns around and starts taxiing toward them.
“What if Saito hasn’t cleared your record yet?”
“I’ll arrange something with him until it is. Who knows-maybe he needs another secretary.” Arthur cracks a grin, but Cobb doesn’t look convinced. “Look, I’ll be fine. Worst come to worst, I’ll head back here.”
The aircraft comes to a stop in front of them, and the door is pushed open.
“Going somewhere?” Saito asks as he steps lightly out of the plane. He glances around him with an assessing air, as if the sea, sky, and beach may have offended his guests. “Is the island not to your liking?”
“Saito?” Arthur asks. “What are you doing here?”
“It is my island,” Saito states matter-of-factly.
The business man turns his attention to Cobb then and pulls out a ticket from his jacket pocket. Arthur watches as his friend stares at the document and then Saito; there’s a look of disbelief on that face, like he’s afraid to believe what he’s holding in his hands is real.
“It’s done?” Cobb asks quietly.
“Cobol stocks plummeted when the news hit the media. It was a sad day to see such a powerful corporation close its doors.” Arthur notes the lack of remorse on the businessman’s face. “And your records have been cleared-yes, the both of you.
“It all became much easier with Cobol out of the picture.”
“And Kehl?”
“Early retirement,” answers Saito. The shark-like smile on the man’s face stalls that line of questioning. Saito once again looks at Cobb, an expression of mild amusement crossing his features. “Now then, unless you wanted to wait another week, Mr. Cobb, may I suggest getting your things?”
“But Arthur-”
“-has already packed, I’m sure.” Saito produces a second ticket, handing this one to the point man. “You are both going to Los Angeles, correct? Or were my assumptions-” The businessman looks from one face to the other. “-mistaken?”
Saito looks over his shoulder at the crew on the airplane and tells them something in Japanese. He then starts walking toward the mansion, pausing only briefly to glance at Cobb and point at his watch.
“You think he knows?” Arthur asks, keeping his eyes on Saito’s disappearing figure.
“Does it matter?”
Arthur feels fingers slip between his own; Cobb’s hand is warm and reassuring.
“No. No, it doesn’t.”