well-intentioned social terrorism ([info]vinylroad) wrote,
@ 2010-08-10 20:49:00
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Current mood: mellow
Current music: sia - don't bring me down
Entry tags: fic, fic: inception

inception fic: the new world order
the new world order
inception; arthur/eames/ariadne (and all the permutations thereof - arthur/eames, arthur/ariadne, eames/ariadne); nc-17; 7,070 words; arthur won't fuck her inside their dreams.  eames won't touch her outside of them.





Ariadne stills dreams.  They don't make much sense, not compared to the vivid, logical dreams that she builds with Arthur and Eames.  She doesn't even remember them most of the time, lost to the sharp breach of consciousness, but she knows she still dreams, and there's an odd comfort in that.

She's never asked Arthur and Eames if they still dream.  In a life of zero privacy and few secrets, there are still a few things that are sacrosanct, even for Eames, who seems to delight in consistently treading all over the boundaries of Arthur's comfort zone.  Cobb had offered up the information without a second thought, like sharing it with her - with others - was a way to punish himself all over again, make real the scars of his betrayal.

She wonders if it's tolerance, maybe, if the artificial dreams bleed so bright that they wash out anything the mind breeds naturally; the shared dreams are a thousand times more intense than natural dreams.  She thinks about natural dreams, their fleeting nature, like the brain was built specifically to forget them instantly, a coping mechanism.  Ariadne never forgets the dreams she builds; they burn into her brain in the same way that conscious memories do.

She wonders if there are any consequences to dreamsharing beyond the eventual inability to dream naturally.  Seems like punishment enough in the end, but she can't help but feel like they're toying with something far more dangerous than they're willing to admit, that one day they won't be able to wake up at all, one day their minds will be as bent and broken as Mal's.

One day their totems won't be enough to distinguish reality from the dream.

She can't stop, though.  Years later, years after the Fischer job, years after she tried to go back to school, tried to sit through the lectures, sketch flat buildings that didn't breathe, that didn't bend to her will.  She didn't say goodbye to the professor before she left, the thought of the disappointment on his face unbearable, just finally returned the latest of Arthur's calls, let him think he was talking her into joining him in Brussels.  It was easier that way, letting Arthur be the final kick waking her up out of her old life.

She had called Cobb a year later - a follow-up on a job that Cobb had passed along to them - and gotten the professor instead, who was staying in Los Angeles with his grandchildren during his sabbatical.  He sounded more worried than disappointed, and for that Ariadne was oddly thankful, but listening to him talk reminded her of the excitement she used to feel for his classes, the rush of conscious creation, the simplicity of the pursuit of knowledge instead of a life lived half-asleep.  It had gutted her.

Don't get lost, the professor had said before he hung up, and her mind had immediately fluttered to limbo, to Cobb's world being eaten by the sea.  Now she's not so sure.

It's an addiction, the dreaming.  She knows the drugs they use to induce dreamsharing are strong, that there are less scrupled chemists who mix in addictive compounds as a cheaper, easier way of producing steady sleep, but it's more than that.  She had seen the signs in Cobb, but she had ascribed them to the sickness of Mal, of dreaming to keep memories from dying inside the mind, trying to hold on to something that no longer existed.  But she's starting to see the signs in Arthur, too, in Eames - in herself. 

She had asked Arthur once, asked him how Cobb had known she would come back.  Cobb said that reality wouldn't be enough for you anymore, Arthur had explained, taking a drag off the beer in his hand before handing it off to Eames, who was lounging in one of the lawn chairs.

Don't worry, love, Eames had said to her with the bottle resting against his fat bottom lip. You aren't the only one.







**






She only has one rule: no more inception.

They shake on it in Madrid a few months after she rejoins the fold, on some little bridge over the Manzanares River, Arthur halfway to drunk and Eames already there.  The job in Spain turns out to be a veiled inception request, and while Eames, who has attempted inception more times than Arthur or Ariadne, is moderately intrigued by the idea of planting false memories in the subconscious of a communications tycoon, they all still remember how close they came to ruin with the Fischer job.  For Ariadne, it's more than that.  She knows Arthur's reticence is born from practicality, the likelihood of a successful inception very low and the stakes exceptionally high, but for her it's a matter of principle; she's never gotten over what they did to Fischer.  It seems wrong, even though she knows that what they do - steal ideas, steal memories, steal thoughts - is far from right.

They shake on it, even though Eames rubs at his cheek and calls them spoil sports, leaning over the handrail of the bridge.  At night, the water looks like tar beneath them.

None of them speak Spanish, but it doesn't seem to matter.  They walk halfway across the city that night, long after the bars have emptied out and gone dark.  They don't talk about much; they're all too drunk to keep a conversation going, but Eames rambles on about some of the heists he's pulled - some with Arthur, most without - in between sips from the bottle of whiskey he stole from the bar he managed to get them all kicked out of.

Eames has his own room at the hotel, but he follows them into theirs, kicking shut the door behind him.

She doesn't remember much at first the next morning when she wakes up, room empty except for Arthur asleep beside her, but she remembers Eames kissing her once, sweet and deep, before retreating to one of the overstuffed chairs in the corner as Arthur wrapped his fingers around the sharp jut of her hips and let his mouth rest at the base of her neck.






How do you do it?  Ariadne asks.  He was a little girl in the dream this time, hair braided in pigtails.

Be this charming and sexy?  Eames says lazily, tucking his hands behind his head.  He's stretched out on one of the purple lawn chairs arranged in a small circle in the middle of the room.  It's winter and the small office space they've rented in the north end of London is chilly, even with the space heaters running all day long.  It's hard to find lawn furniture in the middle of January, but Eames manages to wrangle some up.  She doesn't bother asking where; they're dusty and the bottoms are covered in dirt, so she assumes they most likely came from someone's backyard.  It's all natural talent, I assure you.

She rolls her eyes and Eames's mouth ticks up in amusement.  You know what I mean.

Bucking for my job, are you, pet?


Arthur's on his phone in the other room, and she can see him pacing back and forth through the open door.  He's half-yelling in German, furiously rubbing his brow as he sits down on the edge of the desk.  Ariadne knows the past year has been hard for him.  Without Cobb, Arthur's taken on the job of both extractor and point man, unable to find an appropriate substitute for either.  Yusuf still works with them occasionally, but it's turned primarily into a three person outfit with the occasional contractor hired as the outside operator, watching the time and cuing the music for the final kick.

Seriously, Eames.  The door to the side office creaks shut, and the shouting is in English now, muffled by the glass and wood.  Come on.

The physics of it have her baffled.  She can create cities in dreams, build skyscrapers and mountains, populate an entire world with her subconscious.  But she can't do what Eames does, can't even come close to understanding how he does it.

You have to let yourself go, Eames explains carefully, his tone oddly flat and serious this time.  He pauses for a second, and the room is filled with the sound of Arthur's burnt out voice.  You have to disappear.






Arthur won't fuck her inside their dreams.

He'll push her up against a wall inside a tacky club hard enough to make all the flyers for concerts and raves on the small bulletin board near the bathrooms flutter down around them, lost under the perfect black soles of his shoes.  He'll kiss her with too much tongue, open and wet, in the lobby of a business tower while flocks of anonymous businessmen in soulless suits fly around them, watching.  He'll whisper the things he wants to do to her across a chipped formica table in a restaurant as their waitress scuttles around taking orders, makes her squeeze her thighs against the cheap vinyl seats of the booth as he talks about how sweet she'll sound begging.   But he won't fuck her there.  In the dream.

Arthur waits until they're back in the real world, waits until he gets a hand around his die, palming it in his pocket as she strips out of her jeans and shirt, before he puts her on her knees, or her back, or his hips.  This is real, she thinks every time, the harsh smell of latex from the condom in the air and the sharp taste of sweat on her tongue.  She doesn't need her totem to tell her this.

Arthur won't fuck her inside their dreams.

Eames won't touch her outside of them.






They each keep their own places.

Ariadne keeps her small apartment in Paris.  The rent is ridiculous, but money hasn't been an issue in a very long time, not since Fischer, and she's considered Paris home now longer than she had Chicago.  They're rarely in France, but there's something comforting in having a little piece of reality that she can call her own, some place in the real world that she can tether herself to like an anchor, pretend that she doesn't permanently live out of a suitcase.  She's still unused to living in hotel rooms or houses rented by the week, temporary homes for temporary lives.  Fourteen months after she leaves school and Paris behind is the first time she returns to her apartment.  She had forgotten to throw out her plants, and even with the windows left wide open and a scrubdown with lemon scented disinfectant, her apartment stinks like rotting greenage for days.

Arthur has a loft in New York City.  It's a three bedroom, even though Arthur lives alone and usually stays less than a week at a time.  She had expected it to be cool and tidy, art deco or minimalist, perhaps; she's always believed that the space people live in is reflective of their personality, a principle that guides her in her own work, building architecture that fits seamlessly into a consciousness.  Instead she finds exposed brick and bookcases lined with hardcover books, the walls covered with framed black and white photography.  The kitchen is messy, appliances scattered across the countertops and coloured bottles filled with oils lined up against the tiled wall.  His bedroom is large and sunny, a few pieces of expensive looking furniture shuffled in the space.  His headboard is a rich mahogany and the first time Arthur fucks her in his bed, he wraps his hands around hers on it, her nails dragging across the wood roughly.

Eames owns a house in Morocco, near Tangier.  She's never been there.  He never talks about it.






This is a test.

She builds mazes and they burn through them.  She is the target, stationary, and they are the trackers, running through a maze she breaks down and rebuilds as they are in it, finding new ways of hiding herself.  There are rules to the exercise: she is not allowed to plot the mazes before she enters the dreamscape, everyone carries a gun, and everyone shoots on sight.  It's as much for her as it is for them, letting her stretch her mind, troubleshoot and devise within a dream.  She's reminded of sketching mazes with Cobb on a Paris rooftop the day she first met him, how she had built box mazes at first, easily defeatable, until he had pushed her, forced her mind to think outside of its comfort zone.

Arthur finds her first.  She raises her gun, but doesn't shoot as he moves toward her purposefully.  She can never shoot.

He falls to his knees in front of her.  Tsk Tsk, he says, wheedling the gun from her fingers and tossing it down the long corridor.  It looks like it should be a hotel hallway, low-lit with mirrors, plants, and overly decorative chairs sprinkled through the space, but there are no doorways to rooms, just endless lengths of plastered wall with muted wallpaper and fancy moldings.

Eames, she sighs as his hands run up her thighs, right under her dress, shifting the light fabric up until it's frothy around her hips.  He presses his thumbs into the soft flesh of her inner thigh, urging her to spread her legs, let him get his shoulders wedged between them.  His breath hits the skin there and she feels herself get wet instantly, warmth spreading between her legs as he finally touches her over her panties.

What gave me away? he says with Arthur's mouth bent into a very Eames-like grin, then leans in to lick her, slicking the cotton of her panties to her.  He pins her hips down when they buck up against his face, runs his teeth over the bridge of her hip and bites down lightly, makes a sharp little hurt.

He fucks her in the dream as Arthur too, hoists her up and fucks her right against the wall of her own maze.  She can see Eames's true reflection in the mirror to the left of him though, and when he notices her staring, he looks over his own shoulder and watches too.






S�o Paulo is hot all year round, a humid heat that Eames and Arthur enjoy and that she detests.  Eames is off chasing skirt at a bar somewhere, probably already three drinks in, happily buzzed.  He always gets itchy the first night they're in a new city, doesn't like to sleep off the jet lag the way they do.  He lives for the chase and not the prize; Ariadne knows he won't bring anyone back to the hotel.

It's too hot to sleep.  She flips the light sheet off her body, letting the breeze from the ceiling fan pour down over her.  She's in her bra and panties, but it's so muggy that she's seriously considering stripping them off as well. 

How did you find Eames? 
she asks.  She knows Arthur isn't asleep either.

I told you.  We worked with him on the McSerra job. 
His head is still stuffed face first into the pillow, so the words come out muffled.

I meant the first time.

Oh,
Arthur says, tipping his face out of the pillow to look at her.  His eyes narrow as he thinks.  Cobb knew him through someone.  Thieves and forgers usually come through referrals.  It was a couple months after Mal died - our first real heist.

Is that when you-

He stiffens instantly.  Sheets pool around his hips as he sits up beside her, shifting his pillow so he can rest his back against the headboard.

It's complicated. 
He doesn't look at her, just rubs at his eyes tiredly through the pregnant pause. Yes.

The noise from the busy thoroughfare below them filters up into the room through the windows, the sound of people yelling on the street below mixing with the honk of horns and loud music from car radios.  She thinks of all the sounds and smells and tastes that go into building a world, the thousands of sensations that make worlds feel real.  She thinks of that night in Madrid.  Remembering the sound Eames had made - a choked, airy noise - when Arthur's head had disappeared between her legs.  The way Arthur had looked at her while he was fucking her, shifting his eyes between them until Eames started talking, saying something she either doesn't remember or couldn't hear, Arthur's thrusts growing sharper as Eames's low voice grew louder.

Ariadne, he says quietly, slipping a hand down to rest against her thigh.  Their skins are sticky with half-evaporated sweat.  He's going to leave eventually.  I'm surprised he's stayed as long as he has.  He's going to leave - it's what he does.

It strikes her that there's no sadness in his voice, just resignation mixed with a worry she thinks is more about her than anything else, like his biggest concern is that she's the one who's going to get burned in the end.

So she changes the topic.

How did Cobb find you?


Through Miles. I was one of his students.  Way back.  Before Cobb and Mal got married.

What?  The professor?  You... you were an architect? 
She props herself up on her elbows and lets a curious smile bloom on her face.

Arthur grins back.  Yeah.  I wasn't a very good one, though.






She kisses Eames three weeks later, after they climb off a train in Rio de Janeiro, the sound of rapid-fire Portuguese blaring through the PA system.  They're meeting Arthur at the Passeio P�blico at three; he's already been in town for a week, trailing their mark and meeting with some contacts to hire an outside operator.  The station is busy, people milling around on their way to somewhere else, eyes trained on the space in front of them, too rushed to bother noticing anything happening around them, so she kisses him, tips herself onto her toes and presses her lips to his bottom one.

Eames doesn't kiss her back, just drops one of his hands to rest against her wrist and parts his lips, letting her in.  It's so different than her dreams where he's always the aggressor, where he seeks her out, where he kisses her, licks her, bites her, fucks her. 

He tucks the loose, rebellious hair that has fallen into her face back behind her ear when she pulls away.  There's no discernible look on his face, his eyes bright and clear.

Come on, he says, stepping towards the wall of doors to their left, the heat pouring through the open doors clashing violently with the air conditioned space inside.  We've got work to do.






Ariadne wakes from the dream alone.  She had gone under by herself this time to test some new mazes, a new way of altering them without disturbing the dream as much as the traditional method.

She's surprised to find the room empty.  It takes her a moment to remember that she's in Geneva; the first few seconds of consciousness always feel sickeningly disorienting to her, even now.  She lets the beat of her heart slow, calming as the familiarity of her surroundings washes over her again.  The glass ceiling of the greenhouse attached to the warehouse reminds her of the first workshop back in Paris, the same warm curve of clear glass and shine of tapered metal.

She finds them toward the back, Arthur bent face-first over the sturdy wood table that's still covered with all of her sketches for the job.  Just a single layer of dreaming for this heist, but the world is an amalgamation of several different landscapes - a city, a desert, and a dense forest - all three of which are based off of real places, requiring more detailed research to perfect.

Eames is behind him, a hand between Arthur's shoulder blades, pushing him down, keeping him pinned to the table.  From this angle - head on - she can't see anything but their upper bodies, stripped down to their button-up shirts, the cuffs of Eames's rolled up to his elbows.  But she can hear the flat beat of skin meeting skin, see the pull of Arthur's shoulders when Eames fucks into him.

Shit.  Shit, Arthur grunts when he finally looks up and notices her leaning against the dusty file cabinet.

She expects a smirk from Eames, something derisive, some biting comment to Arthur, but she only gets a dark look as his thrusts grow sharper, making the table under Arthur shake mutinously.  Several of her sketches flutter off of it, slipping silently to the floor.  The room is thick with the sounds of them fucking, the wet exhale of breath and the sound of sweaty skin, the light tinkle of Eames's belt as it shakes.

She watches them finish, Eames hissing, going to come for her? at Arthur loud enough that she can hear it; Arthur does, body bucking into the table, still held down by Eames's spread palm on his back.  Eames keeps fucking him through it roughly, without mercy, finally coming with a harsh grunt, teeth finding Arthur's shoulder and biting down into the cotton covered flesh.

She feels her totem heavy in her pocket, but she doesn't reach for it.






When Arthur finds her later, in the bathroom of their modest hotel room as she finishes brushing her teeth, he rests his head in the crook of her neck, his tired eyes disappearing into the shadow there.  She touches the mottled skin of his shoulders, and he shivers when her thumb presses over one of the bruises there.






He comes to her as Cobb in the dream this time.  The ceilings are higher, but the hall is more narrow, walls painted sky blue with black trim.  There are doors stretched evenly down the hall, though she isn't sure where they lead.  There are no numbers assigned to them.

No, Ariadne says as he closes the distance between them, crowding her against the wall.  She didn't even bother with the farce of the gun this time, already discarded by the time he had rounded the corner of the maze.  He always finds her first and she never shoots.  These are the new rules. 

She wonders if he cheats, if he's found some shortcut through her mazes, if her plotting has become predictable to him.  The thought is infuriating to her.

No, she says again as he touches her face, fingers tracing over the bridge of her nose and down across her mouth.

Eames leans back immediately, respecting her wishes, hands falling to his sides like dead weight.  The look he projects onto Cobb reveals nothing, but she can feel the shift of him in the air, like a safe door slamming shut.  Locked.

She closes her eyes and settles her mind until she can feel every part of her dream, from the walls to the plants to the carpet.  To Eames, standing right in front of her.

When she opens her eyes, Eames is staring at her, his own eyes narrowed with suspicion.  He tilts his head down and looks at his hands and body, back to normal.  Back to Eames.  Nice trick, love.  Where'd you learn that?

She shakes her head and reaches for him.

Like this, she says, leaning up to kiss him, guiding one of his hands between her legs, letting him feel her.  I want you like this.






Eames catches her inside the bathroom of their workshop after and pushes her back against the sink.  She knows Arthur's in the next room, knows he must have seen Eames climb into the bathroom after her.  She waits for him to lean into the doorway, but he doesn't come.  

Instead, Eames sucks a pretty, dark bruise right into her throat as she tries to steady herself in the tight space.  The hard line of the sink presses into her spine, and she scrambles for purchase, her hands skipping across the taps until she manages to get a grip around the faucet, her fingers wet from the slow drip there.  There's no sound save for the dripdripdrip of the sink, the water spilling through her fingers, and her blood pounding in her ears; it sounds like a broken shell, a whoosh that reminds her nothing of the sea.  He uses his teeth at the very end, nipping down into the ruined flesh before pulling away.

He doesn't try anything else, doesn't try to get his hands down her pants or kiss her, just steps away, lets her breathe.  Her back aches from the sink.

Who are you for him?  In the dreams.

Eames just smiles ruefully, and his pocket shifts.  She can tell instantly he's flipping his poker chip.  Wearing his perfect poker face.

Arthur finds the bruise that night; she hisses quietly when his hand swipes across it in the dark, his cock deep inside of her and the sheets of their bed twisted around her limbs.  She's surprised how tender it is - when he skims it experimentally again, like he's trying to decipher it by touch, read it like braille, Ariadne lets out a pained noise and bears down on him inside her.   Arthur looks at her, eyes dark and hard, before he leans down, puts his mouth over it and sucks so hard she comes.






She stays behind on a job in Hong Kong.  They try to find an operator, but the only one in the area that Arthur trusts enough to hire won't take the job, so Ariadne is tasked to the position instead.  It's a textbook heist: one layer of dreaming, an untrained mark, no security.  They drug him on the train to Guangzhou, spiking his bottle of orange juice, and she sets the timer for 30 minutes as Eames and Arthur each take one of the leads.  It's odd watching them fall asleep, being there for the moment they close their eyes and drift away.  Left behind.

Arthur wakes up and Ariadne knows immediately from his face that something has gone horribly wrong.  Eames surfaces a moment after Arthur, a surreptitious look in his eye, different than the normal lazy pride.

You son of a bitch, Arthur spits, his hand curling around the lead trailing from his wrist; he yanks it out with a strength that makes Ariadne wince.  There's no way that didn't hurt.  You fucking rotten son of a bitch.

Language, darling
, she hears Eames snap back, but it's not the lighthearted tone he normally employs when baiting Arthur.  This one is meaner.

Arthur bolts up from his cramped train seat while Eames rises slowly across from him.

Can you guys calm the fuck down? Ariadne hisses, stepping between them and putting a hand on Arthur's chest before he decides to take a swing at Eames.  She feels the muscle under her palm jump.

When she's somewhat sure Arthur isn't going to clock Eames, she moves over and reaches to touch the neck of the mark, searching for a pulse.  It's slower than normal, but beating steady, the mark still caught in the dream.  There's 3 minutes left on the timer, but she slides the lead out of his wrist and packs it back into the briefcase, snapping it shut before Arthur reaches over and snatches it up.

Arthur storms out of the small cabin, shoulder slamming into Eames on his way out.  Eames's mouth seizes up, and she can see the slightest hint of teeth beyond his lips.  He moves to slip through the door as well, but Ariadne grabs his arm.

What the fuck happened?

He yanks his arm from her roughly.  His chest is beating with the rhythm of his breath, hard and broken, but his voice is darkly calm.  Ask your boyfriend, sweetie.

Neither of them show up to the scheduled meet in Shanghai after they split up as planned on the train.  Arthur calls her the morning they're supposed to rendezvous on Waibaidu Bridge, gives her some bullshit excuse and tells her to wait at the hotel while he meets with contacts in Beijing and Tianjin, his voice distant, but not cold.  Eames stumbles into her hotel room two days later, completely drunk, his hands torn up and his face bruised.  She doesn't bother asking how he found her, just shuffles him through the room to the bed.  He falls asleep as she cleans the glass out of the wounds between his knuckles.






Do you love him? Eames asks.

She reaches for her totem, but it's not there, not in her pocket.  Her fingers twist around a poker chip instead, the raised bump of the name of whatever casino Eames lifted it from under her thumb.

They're at a small caf� down the street from the workshop in Amsterdam, sitting at one of the round tables outside on the small streetfront patio.  It's cool outside, the fall weather drifting in slowly, and she watches the people milling beside them on the sidewalk, zipped jackets and light scarves wrapped around their necks.  The waitress brings them a cup of coffee each, a carrot muffin for Eames.  He winks at her and she blushes with a nervous smile before she turns to the recently vacated table beside them to pick up the dirty dishes on it.

Are we dreaming?

What's the difference, pet? 
He takes his own poker chip out of his pocket and flips it into the air, catching it in his open palm.  Answer the question.  Do you love him?

She baits him right back.  Do you?

Eames laughs, a dark, thick chuckle.  What makes you think I'm capable?

You're so full of it.  Ever wonder when you started believing your own bullshit?

He looks vaguely amused by her words, reaching across the small table, the sleeve of his jacket brushing across the top of the coffee cups.  He touches her face the same way he did in the train station in Rio, something too tender from him for her to accept at face value.  You're so young.  She bristles at that, moving away from his hand.  She's always hated when they treat her like some child that needs protection from herself, like she's not capable of making her own decisions, choosing her own path.  She's not the same girl she was in Paris all those years ago, wide-eyed and unprepared.

No, he says, I didn't mean it like that.  He leans back in his chair, the wood groaning under his weight as he tilts his head toward the busy interior of the caf�, customers lined up through the door, couples talking boisterously while others laugh, a joyful ruckus.  Arthur's right.

What?

You deserve better.

She tries not to think about what that means, steels herself against the thoughts that blur through her brain, and asks another question instead.  What happened back in Hong Kong?

Eames's lips purse.  Don't go into someone's head unless you're prepared to see what's in it.






Have you ever thought about going back to school? Arthur asks.  They're in Paris, in her apartment, a short respite between jobs.  Their plane for Chicago leaves in less than seven hours, but they're still in bed, between the sheets she didn't have a chance to change before Arthur pushed her down into them.  They're musty, in desperate need of laundering, but she won't have time to do it before they leave.  She wonders, briefly, if the dishes she didn't wash the last time she was in town are still in her sink.  Her apartment has become a collection of loose ends, of things left undone.

Eames has been in San Francisco for three weeks.  He left her a voicemail message a week ago, but she still hasn't listened to it; she knows he's been calling Arthur as well.

No, she answers, because it's the truth.

You could, he says.  If you wanted to, you could.

I know,
she replies, and tucks herself against the heat of his chest.  Come on, we've got a plane to catch.






I want you to fuck me, she says.  Here.  In here.

It's her dream.  An apple orchard she had visited in France her first year of college.  She relives the memory, the sweet tinge of homesickness in the back of her throat as she remembers the loneliness she had felt walking through it with her roommate's family.  She's rebuilt it perfectly: the endless rows of trees, the dirt paths between them, the overly saccharine smell in the air, the buzzing of insects.

Arthur touches the budding trees around them and shakes his head.  No, he says firmly.

Why? Ariadne asks, hurt.  Why won't you?  What's wrong?

Ari,
he says, catching the hem of her shirt in his fist as she moves away.  Don't do this. I can't- 

Suddenly Eames is there, an intruder in their private dream, mouth thick with his typical derisive smile.  He saunters over like he's caught them with their hands in the cookie jar, naughty children skipping school.

Eames, Ariadne hisses, annoyed.  It's not that they have any secrets, that Eames doesn't know exactly what Arthur does to her inside and outside of the dreams, just that he's dropped into one of their dreams uninvited.  There are some rules to this life, some boundaries that they tacitly agree to.  This is one of them.

She's about to let loose on Eames when he reaches an arm between them and drags Arthur towards him.  She watches them kiss, Eames's hands curling around Arthur's head, mussing his perfectly gelled hair.  Arthur looks entirely debauched by the time he pulls away, his mouth swollen and red, his jaw burnt by Eames's stubble.

Fuck her, Eames says, crowding into Arthur's space. You know you want to.  Do it.

Like all he needed was the order, Arthur leans down and kisses her with his raw mouth, lips dragging over her chin.  Eames helps Arthur with her clothes, layers peeled off before Eames goes for Arthur's belt, fingers slipping into the belt loops of his pants and tugging gently before sliding over to the buckle.

I love you, Eames says to him, Arthur's eyes squeezing shut.

Eames gathers her wrists together in one of his hands and lifts them over her head, pinning them there with a strength that makes her bones ache.  Panties nudged out of the way, Eames bends down over her as Arthur hooks one of her knees over his elbow and pushes into her.

I love you, Eames says to her in the same voice.






She wakes in the workshop alone with Arthur.  There are only two leads out, only two lawn chairs laid side by side.  The silence is deafening between them as she pulls the lead out of her wrist, doubling over.

That... she starts to say, unsure of what she should be feeling, what she should say.  That was your projection of him.

She thinks about Cobb's projection of Mal, how she had become the reflection of his deep-seated desire to be punished for his trespasses against her.  She thinks about what that makes Arthur's projection of Eames, about the vulnerability on Arthur's face across from her, watching her like he expects her to bolt.  She thinks about Eames's words at the caf� in Amsterdam and feels completely lost.






I don't dream anymore, Eames says one night.  There's a full moon, a bright spotlight in the sky; it lights up the dock, reflects off the lake in shimmers.  I haven't had a natural dream in almost seven years.

It's too cold to go swimming, but Ariadne sits on the edge of the old wooden dock, her feet dipping into the water She thinks of mazes made of ocean coral, ripe with fish and eels, sleek sharks on the prowl.  Do you miss it?

No. 
She can't tell if he's lying or not; it's too dark to see his face and his voice reveals nothing.  The air is filled with the mournful croaking of bullfrogs when the silence between them grows.  The lake looks dead except for the chorus of sounds echoing off of it, peacefully calm water disturbed only by Ariadne's toes.

He's afraid I'm going to break your heart
, Eames says finally.  She thinks he might be a little drunk, his voice slipping in the familiar way she's come to recognize oh too well over the years.  But there's still a sharpness in his eyes when he looks at her, reclining back on one hand while the other thumbs at a mostly empty bottle of beer.

Why?

Because I'm exceptionally good at it.
He drinks the last of his Guinness, righting himself so he can toss the empty bottle out into the lake.  But I think we both know who that little heart of yours belongs to, don't we, love?

She doesn't want to play this game with him; he's itching for a fight, looking to sink his teeth into her bones.  He gets like this sometimes, when the rush of a heist has passed and he comes down in the lull between jobs, down from the flirtatious smartass he normally is.  It's been happening more often than not lately, like he's intentionally trying to tip their precarious balance.

Instead, she crawls to him, her feet leaving wet streaks on the dock behind her.  She kisses the corner of his mouth chastely, just a dry peck to shut him up.  Her eyes pop open for a split second as he reaches up a wide palm and tilts her head so their mouths slot together.  It's the first time he's kissed her outside of a dream since Madrid and she's struck by how different it is, that it's nothing like how he kissed her then, how he kisses in the dreams: as Arthur, as any of his forges, as himself.

Tell me something about yourself,
Ariadne asks after she pulls away, tucking her legs under her body, sitting on them.

The light shines off the line of his teeth, like the crooked grin of a coyote.

My first totem was a loaded die.






Her fingers skim over Eames's heart.  She can feel Arthur behind her, his warm hand on her hip while the other rests in the tight space between her knee and Eames's thigh.  Eames's fingers are under the thin strap of her bra, steady against her skin.

I know who this belongs to, she says, leaning down and whispering it in his ear like a secret.






Eames disappears after a job in Egypt.  It's been five years.  He doesn't say goodbye, just checks out of their hotel in the middle of the night.  Arthur doesn't say a thing when she tells him, folding a shirt into his suitcase, but she sees his jaw tick as he reaches for his watch on the nightstand after.  That's all she's going to get, she thinks.

Her chest hurts as she packs her own clothes, not bothering to sort clean from dirty, toiletries shoved next to pantsuits, acutely aware of something being missing.

Arthur announces that he's heading back to New York like he expects that, by extension, so is she.  Cairo International is bustling with people, everyone rushing to make their flights.  She watches the couples in line for tickets, families, business men chattering loudly into cell phones.

I'm heading to Paris, she says. 

He clearly tries to disguise the small tremor of shock that shoots across his face, but doesn't succeed.  We can go to Paris, he says.

No, Ariadne says gently.  Go home, Arthur.  I've just got some stuff that I need to take care of.  I'll meet you in New York in a couple days.

She knows he doesn't believe her.  His fingers grip the handle of his luggage, knuckles bleaching white with the pressure.

Ariadne-

His flight leaves before hers does.  He gets on the plane last, waiting until the last boarding call, like he's hoping she'll change her mind.

She doesn't.






She does her laundry.  Washes her dishes.  Wipes off the thick layer of dust that coats almost every surface in the apartment.  She organizes the small vinyl collection she keeps in a box under her bed and buys food to put in the small fridge in her kitchen.

She meets Miles for coffee.  She no longer calls him professor; that life was a thousand years ago, buried under the wreckage of a thousand dreams. 

So you didn't get lost, he says with a tired grin, sipping at the cup of house blend in front of him.  He looks so much older than the last time she saw him, and her mind immediately skips to Cobb.  She imagines what his kids must look like now, wonders if he ever started dreaming again, if he ever found dreams free of Mal.

No, Ariadne says.  She thinks that might be the truth.






Arthur ends up at her door in Paris six days later.

I love you, he says plainly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.






Her apartment is filled with the dim light from the lamp near her bed.  From the corner near her bathroom, she can see the faint light of the Eiffel Tower again.  She turns off the light in the bathroom and climbs onto the bed; the sheets smell like the cheap lemon-scented detergent she bought from the small store down the street.

Her hand looks small on his chest.

I wasn't leaving.  I just needed some time.

I know,
he says.  That's not why I came.

She rolls over onto her back, Arthur's arm under the sharp wings of her shoulder blades.  I think I'm going to give up my apartment.

Why? 
He sounds genuinely confused, almost worried.

She thinks about the parts of the city she used to see everyday, the comfort that the familiarity had unknowingly brought to her.  There's nothing here that she remembers the way she used to.  It's just an anchor now, no comfort left to give.  This just isn't home anymore.

What is?

She shrugs.  I don't know.

So.  What do you want to do then?
he asks, brushing away a lock of her hair caught on her chapped lips. 

She smiles and shrugs again.  I don't know.

She books their flight to Tangier while Arthur is asleep in the muss of her bed.






Ariadne stops dreaming one day in July two years later.



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(137 comments) - (Post a new comment)


[info]regala_electra
2010-08-11 01:38 am UTC (link)
Kat, I don't think I need to tell you how much I adore your writing. What I do have to say is how much I loved reading this story. You are so damn good at building intense scenes with just a few words. Wow. This is lovely. I love all these characters and damn, I just love that final line so much, you have no idea.

Edited at 2010-08-11 01:38 am UTC

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-11 04:04 am UTC (link)
Reg, you are the sweetest thing ever. I'm so happy you read this and even happier that you enjoyed it :)

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[info]boomboxblues
2010-08-11 01:53 am UTC (link)
Oh my god. Speechless! I'm speechless. I love everything about this. ♥
/mem'd

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-11 04:05 am UTC (link)
Thank you! I'm really glad you enjoyed it :)

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[info]1992
2010-08-11 02:14 am UTC (link)
this is amazing!!!!!! im in awe with this whole story, absolutely fantastic writing!

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-11 04:58 am UTC (link)
Thank you very much! What a lovely complement :)

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[info]la_sikka
2010-08-11 02:16 am UTC (link)
OH MY GOD.

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[info]la_sikka
2010-08-11 02:17 am UTC (link)
i am utterly shaken. i knew opening it that it would wreck me.

(Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread) (Expand)

(no subject) - [info]la_sikka, 2010-08-11 02:18 am UTC (Expand)
(no subject) - [info]vinylroad, 2010-08-11 04:33 am UTC (Expand)

[info]denrito
2010-08-11 02:39 am UTC (link)
EPICNESS. THAT IS ALL.

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-12 01:37 am UTC (link)
Thank you very much :)

(And I love the Alias icon. Fab!)

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[info]skyvehicle
2010-08-11 02:40 am UTC (link)
HOLY. SHIT. I'm wrecked, completely wrecked. This was devastating. (aka lovely job omg)

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-12 01:41 am UTC (link)
Haha, thanks :D

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[info]citiesasleep
2010-08-11 03:05 am UTC (link)
This was absolutely gorgeous.

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-12 01:42 am UTC (link)
Thank you very much :)

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[info]la_victorienne
2010-08-11 03:18 am UTC (link)
I am overwhelmed! This fandom is so full of rich and well-imagined stories--I feel spoiled rotten, especially with a story like this. Poly is so difficult to write and write well, but you have done it with aplomb. Gorgeous.

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-12 01:59 am UTC (link)
Thank you so much. I agree - poly is really tough to write, especially if you want to develop a relatively balanced relationship between the three, so I'm glad that what I wrote worked for you :)

And I know what you mean - this fandom has produced some really spectacular stuff in a short period of time.

Edited at 2010-08-12 02:25 am UTC

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[info]duckcrab
2010-08-11 03:38 am UTC (link)
If I could form a more coherent comment I would, but you have reduced me to just saying wow. Wow. Wow. Wow. Also, wow! Brilliant! Your writing is just so engaging! OK, stunned ramble over. :D

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-12 03:07 am UTC (link)
Thank you! And no worries - your comment is very sweet and very much appreciated just as it is :)

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[info]lissomelle
2010-08-11 04:35 am UTC (link)
Oh, this is breathtaking. Today must be my lucky day -- I'd just finished your Arthur/Ariadne fic (which I absolutely adore) when I saw this up. I almost don't even know where to begin! Just to warn you, this might get slightly longwinded as I rarely break my lurker status to comment on fics and thus usually end up waxing lyrical. (Because I only ever stop to comment when it's just that fucking good.)

First and foremost, I love your characterization of Arthur and Eames, especially how it runs almost directly counter to what I've personally gleaned from canon; Arthur's more open and vulnerable while Eames has a darker streak, and both feel much more intricately layered as a result. You also have a knack for dotting in intimate details that pack a punch (Eames' first totem, Arthur as a former architect, Ariadne finding a poker chip in her pocket), making everything so tactile, yet subtly so. Additionally, I think you've totally nailed the nuances and technicalities of working in the field. I can see the three of them in all of these places -- every season, climate, and emotional atmosphere.

Overall, the precarious balance of the OT3 really rings achingly true for me. Fantastic job! I'm perfectly happy with Ariadne/Arthur as my OTP, but the OT3 doesn't lag very far behind; I want to point an enormous sign spelling "THIS" in blinking lights towards this fic in the hopes that it'll somehow incept the notion of "MORE FIC" into fandom.

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-12 05:21 am UTC (link)
Oh man, do not worry at all. Getting comments like this is such an absolute treat, you have no idea. I always worry that I don't sound appreciative enough because I completely am when people take the time to leave feedback like this. This comment totally made my night.

Mostly, I'm just really glad that the dynamic between the three of them worked for you because I think that's probably the thing I struggled with the most. I wanted there to be a feeling in this that all of them had an uneasy relationship with each other instead of one coupling being solid while the others were shaky. I think that there was generally more tension between Arthur and Eames, but I definitely thought it had more to do with their backstory and definitely not due to a lack of affection.

Anyway, blah blah blah. I'm sure I sound like a pretentious SOB now, but I just wanted to let you know that I really appreciated your feedback and insights. A lot :)

(Reply to this) (Parent)


[info]evergleam83
2010-08-11 04:45 am UTC (link)
Oh. Oh. That was just so raw and dark and full of ache that I've been sitting here staring at the comment box for five minutes unsure what to say. Just, absolutely gorgeous.

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-12 04:30 pm UTC (link)
Thank you so much :) I'm really glad you enjoyed it.

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[info]elliesmeow
2010-08-11 05:39 am UTC (link)
That was fantastic. Really wonderfully expressed emotions from all the players here. Thanks so much for posting.

-Ellie

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-12 04:31 pm UTC (link)
Thank you for reading and leaving a comment :) I appreciate it.

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[info]weatheredlaw
2010-08-11 05:40 am UTC (link)
I can't even PICK a favorite part. I've recently thought of exploring this threesome myself - it's so perfectly twisted.

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-12 04:47 pm UTC (link)
Thank you :) And yeah, I absolutely love this threesome. I think it's tied with Arthur/Ariadne as my favourite Inception pairing. There just isn't much Arthur/Eames/Ariadne fic, unfortunately.

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[info]who_favor_fire
2010-08-11 05:52 am UTC (link)
I have quite a lot to say about this, but I feel like I don't have words for it. I just loved it. A lot.

More coherent comments to come at a later date.

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-13 02:24 am UTC (link)
Thank you so much :) I'm thrilled that you enjoyed it, dude!

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[info]falseeeyelashes
2010-08-11 06:16 am UTC (link)
I really wish I was better with words when it comes to feedback, but let me tell you, right now I feel like crying (in a good way), so what's that all about? LOL. To say this is gorgeous doesn't even begin to touch it. This is so wonderfully fleshed out, and wonderfully told, the neat symmetry of reality and dreams - what Arthur will do where, what Eames will do - washed away as the story goes, as the three of them are tangled together further. I love it. I love everything about this fic.

You have to let yourself go, Eames explains carefully, his tone oddly flat and serious this time. He pauses for a second, and the room is filled with the sound of Arthur's burnt out voice. You have to disappear.

I don't know how to explain it, but for me this felt like the turning point in the fic for me. This little part gave me a small chill, and then to follow it up with Arthur won't fuck her inside their dreams.? The juxtaposition of that? LOVED IT. And this is borderline creepy, but I just wanted to tell you how much I love how realistic you write sex - the smell of latex from the condom, the sound of Eames's belt buckle, etc., etc. It keeps the story so grounded in reality, and it makes it all that much more effective to read. I can't wait to re-read this again tomorrow when it's not 2 in the morning, but seriously: this is amazing.

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-13 03:31 am UTC (link)
UGH, DUDE. I love your feedback. I was kind of giddy that you quoted back that line because it pretty much was the turning point in my mind when I wrote it. IDK, I hate talking about this stuff sometimes because I feel like a pretentious jackass, but oh well. I thought it was just... the first insight into why Eames is the way he is and why he does the things he does later in the story. You've gotta think that a job pretending to be someone else takes its toll after a while. (And honestly, the fact that he was so skilled at disappearing inside the shell of another in the movie? I find that very telling to me.) There's a lot of stuff in fandom about how fucked up inception/dreamstealing is, but I think that forging is an extra layer of fucked up.

I have so much trouble writing sex scenes, I'm not going to lie, so I'm always glad that they work for people.

(Reply to this) (Parent)


[info]petitchanteuse
2010-08-11 06:20 am UTC (link)
This is such a gorgeous story. There's such a strong sense of intimacy between them, and I love that :3 Amazing job.

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-13 02:58 pm UTC (link)
Thank you so much :) I really wanted to convey a sense of intimacy between them, so I'm glad that you felt it in the fic.

(Reply to this) (Parent)


[info]paradise_loved
2010-08-11 11:02 am UTC (link)
Wahh, came here on a rec and I do not regret this in the least! This story is so beautiful and so much of it feels so secret and intimate. This is really amazing and the writing is just beautiful! Well done!

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-13 03:57 pm UTC (link)
Thank you so much! I'm really thrilled that you enjoyed it. :D

(Reply to this) (Parent)


[info]nomelon
2010-08-11 01:22 pm UTC (link)
That was just beautiful and heartbreaking and guh. I really enjoyed it.

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-13 04:19 pm UTC (link)
Thank you, bambino :) I am glad that you enjoyed it!

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[info]amore_di_libri
2010-08-11 04:21 pm UTC (link)
I love every detail and every sensory jolt and every moment where I'm trying to read between the lines while they're trying to read between the lines. Loved it. :D

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-13 05:41 pm UTC (link)
Thank you so much! That means a lot :)

(Reply to this) (Parent)


[info]numara
2010-08-11 05:28 pm UTC (link)
i can't remember the last time a fic made me feel this strongly. this was beautiful and heart-wrenching and fantastically well-written. amazing job.

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-13 05:42 pm UTC (link)
Thank you! That is such an amazing complement. I really appreciate it.

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[info]cerulean_sky
2010-08-11 08:15 pm UTC (link)
This is so beautiful. I am sad that Eames isn't there at the end, but it works nonetheless.

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-13 05:43 pm UTC (link)
Thank you very much :)

(He's not there at the end, but the second last line kind of reveals that he will be later. I couldn't end it on a definitively sad note.)

(Reply to this) (Parent)


[info]sabinelagrande
2010-08-11 08:21 pm UTC (link)
Ohh, I love this so much. This is gorgeous.

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-13 05:43 pm UTC (link)
Thank you very much! I'm glad you enjoyed it.

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[info]zelost_mind
2010-08-11 10:26 pm UTC (link)
Ah.

Now I get it. ♥

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-13 05:44 pm UTC (link)
You haven't even seen the movie, you weirdo. Ahaha.

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(no subject) - [info]zelost_mind, 2010-08-14 05:55 pm UTC (Expand)

[info]historiography
2010-08-11 10:34 pm UTC (link)
I love this! I especially love your Eames. <3

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-13 05:44 pm UTC (link)
Thank you very much! Honestly, I find Eames is the hardest to write. He's a tough one.

(Reply to this) (Parent)


[info]empressearwig
2010-08-11 10:37 pm UTC (link)
This is fucking amazing. Seriously. Awesome, awesome job.

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[info]vinylroad
2010-08-13 05:46 pm UTC (link)
Thank you so much! :D

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(137 comments) - (Post a new comment)

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