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“Quick, give me a kiss.”
In the spur of the moment, Ariadne barely comprehended it. It’s only later she runs through the details. The way his mouth felt. The “it was worth a shot” in that tone that suggested there was more to it. The flicker of a restrained smirk on his lips, because that’s what Arthur is. The epitome of restraint.
The last time she sees him is in the airport. He hands her her suitcase, and even though the only words he says are a murmured goodbye, they exchange a look that says more.
She dreams of him, once or twice. Dreams of his slicked-back hair, his dark eyes, his hands. The way he fingers his loaded die, and she tells herself that’s the only reason she looks at his hands in the first place–not just for the sake of looking.
The thing about Arthur is he’s so closed-off she doesn’t know what to think. The meticulous point man, that’s what he is. Most likely he doesn’t have time for frivolous things like this. Like her. Most likely he’s already off on some mission involving lots of chases and gunfire.
Still, he creeps through her mind like a shadow; even in Paris, where she’s as far away from him as she could possibly be.
Physically, at least.
Stateside, and Arthur dreams of Paris.
After the Fischer job he figured it would take some time to get over it. He’s done many, many jobs, but none nearly as complex as inception.
But in the late hours of the night, weeks after the flight, it’s not inception that haunts him so much as the architect.
The architect who designed spaces better than Cobb, who rode the kick up all four levels with apparent ease. Whom he kissed once in a hotel that never existed, simply a preview of the conscience-shaking fantasies that dance through his head.
Arthur’s never considered himself quite the romantic. He sympathized with Cobb, of course, but never truly felt the other man’s lament with Mal. Somehow, he thinks that’s changed now–surely a non-romantic would not lie awake at night thinking of a certain dark-haired woman?
He wonders if she knows how much she affects him. Ariadne’s remarkably perceptive, always looking like she sees right through everyone. (Through him?) Her eyes swim with understanding. But Arthur’s been told more often than once that he can be very subtle. He kept his hints few and far between, anyway. Lips tilting up when he talked to her. Dragging out the syllables of her name. (Ariadne. He likes her name, the feel of it on his tongue.) And the kiss, barely five seconds, replaying embarrassingly long in his head.
When he buys the ticket, he tells himself it’s simply self-indulgence. First class for Paris, nothing more to it than the promise of sightseeing and river cruises.
Maybe Arthur isn’t as subtle as he thought.
Four weeks after the flight to LA, and Ariadne hears a knock on the door. She opens the door. He’s there–briefcase in one hand, loaded die in the other.
He says her name like it’s a promise. She lets him inside.
She brews two cups of chamomile tea, and they talk for hours, until the sun has set and the traffic outside has slowed to a crawl. He has the same understated humor he’s always had, and she loves him for it. He looks at her like she matters. She packs away this memory with the others.
Arthur kneeling beside her as she reels from Mal’s attack.
Arthur in the submerged van, passing the regulator to her.
And now, Arthur seated across from her, eyes on her mouth.
This time, Ariadne’s the one who leans in. This time, it’s him who doesn’t pull away.
They walk the streets of Paris. Arthur tells her of his expeditions since inception. She admits she misses the dreamstate, and he understands because she makes it so easy to understand.
Before Ariadne, Arthur never knew he needed someone like this. Someone to lay beside him at night, to laugh at his dry jokes. She’s an…exception.
Ariadne has this air about her. She has the type of beauty you’d only appreciate after staring for hours on end, which he does. She leans against his shoulder, and he slides his arm around her. He likes the feeling of protecting her. He likes the feeling of her.
“Do you know how it feels to be a lover? To be half of a whole?”
Ariadne lies awake at night, his arm around her waist. She hears the wind ruffle the curtains and his quiet breathing.
Yes.
Now she does.