Chapter Text
Chicago, IL, USA: The Hawkins Project (continued)
“It’s okay. I’ll take the compliment. But…what are you doing in my office?”
Having a stroke, probably. He swore there were stars at the edges of his vision. And he heard his own voice as if it were someone else speaking: “It’s not intentional. I mean, I came to recruit someone, but believe it or not, I had no idea you were in Chicago, let alone that you’d be the one in here.” If he’d known…he’d have sprinted. To her, or away from her, he couldn’t decide.
Her squint was disbelieving but not accusatory, “That’s a wild coincidence.”
“You’re telling me.” Ariadne, five feet away, after five years, and by complete accident? Arthur of old would've attributed it to fate. Arthur of the present knew it was irony. If there was such a thing as fate, all it did was play sick jokes, and it was definitely laughing its ass off at this one.
Ariadne rounded her desk slowly, fingers gliding along the wood, “So, you’re recruiting from firms now? What, did the world run out of needy college students?”
He looked up from her notebook, both stumped and impressed. Even Dom's mazes, as incredible as they were, were ones Arthur could eventually solve. The Extractor beamed proudly as if Ariadne's talent was a rare artifact he'd excavated himself and not one Miles handed to him on a silver platter.
“You're a student?”
“And a TA for some courses.”
He should've said yes to the seltzer water. Sharing the same air as her was making his throat dry as sandpaper. He swallowed to coat it. “I had a guy but he fell through, so I’m desperate. Figured the city was full of firms; there had to be a decent architect I could—”
“Corrupt?”
Is that what she felt he and Cobb had done to her? He must’ve imagined that hint of a smile earlier. Cobb must’ve been right; she regretted that period of her life and blamed Arthur for prolonging it.
The guilt cut through him like a knife. He’d always been deeply ashamed of the things he’d done for survival. And if she thought he was dishonorable before, she’d be disgusted out of her mind with the sins he’d committed in the last five years. The lies he’d told, the backs he’d stabbed, and the necks he’d broken, all in the name of himself, were too many to number, and it seemed like she could see them all. Could she see the handprints of the women he’d been with too? His hand ran down the front of his jacket to smooth his appearance, “I’ll go somewhere else.”
“Well, wait—” she blurted, when he turned to go. And as much as he wanted to ignore her and get somewhere he could breathe, somewhere he could escape the humiliation, he couldn’t find it in him to disobey. If she wanted him there, even a little, his feet were leaden. “How many levels?”
Arthur’s attention was glued to the door, reeling from the whiplash of the girl's temper, when Dom returned from the bathroom, wiping his face of sweat. "She'll be back. I've never seen anyone pick it up that quickly. Reality's not gonna be enough for her anymore. And when she comes back...when she comes back, you're gonna have her building mazes."
His protectiveness took over. She was out; she should stay that way. “You’re not actually considering it…”
“Why not? You were gonna offer it to whoever was in here; I’m who’s in here.”
“What use could you possibly have for dreamshare, now?”
“None. But you said you were desperate.”
“Not that desperate.”
She laughed, incredulous and wry. She’d taken it the wrong way. Thought he was being petulant. “Okay…? Geeze. I’m sorry we had to see each other.”
No, no, no. She’d already disengaged from the conversation and started looking through papers that’d been left for her. She was going to dismiss him but he wasn’t ready to leave. He wanted to keep choking on the same air.
“Have a nice day. Hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Arthur panicked, at a loss for what to do. This wasn’t the kind of job to reel her back in for. He’d wrecked enough of her life as it was and besides that, Dom and Miles would kill him.
But on the other hand, while he may not have believed in fate anymore, he still believed in luck. And he’d, undeniably, just been granted a rare stroke of it. He could go door to door through the whole damn country and not find a better architect. A chance at success had been placed in his hands; should he really let it slip through his fingers?
He could make it safe enough. He could treat her as a consultant and conceal her identity from the others. She knew the risks of extraction; it would be her choice. In a few, swift, moves, Arthur was sat in one of the consulting chairs. “Two levels. High complexity.”
Her eyes cut up (still so effing gorgeous, his heart skipped a beat), unenthused by the sudden change of heart. He’d probably already ruined the chances.
“Alright,” she took her seat and clasped her hands atop the desk. “Interiors or exteriors?”
He flooded with relief, “One of each, but open to opinion.”
“Militarized?”
“Yes, but you wouldn’t be going into the field.”
“Now, where have I heard that before…?”
“I mean it. With as high profile as you are now, we'd need to keep you anonymous for your own safety. You’d teach me, I’d teach the dreamers.”
Astoundingly, she gave him no pushback. “Fine. What's the deadline?”
“Early September.”
She pulled out a planner. Small, red, embossed with her initials, and the spine made flexible by use. As she flipped through, he saw flashes of detailed notes, highlights, and post-its. What had she done with the girl whose schedule was normally chicken-scratched on a hotel room’s memo pad?
“Doable. I’m assuming you’d need me to start asap?”
“That’d be ideal, yes."
“I’ll get my schedule moved around so we can have a proper consultation tomorrow.”
Arthur blinked. “That’s it? You’re taking it, just like that? Not gonna ask me who it’s for or what the risks are?”
She peeled off a post-it reminding her to “adjust sched” and stuck it to her office phone. “Not knowing is better. It keeps me a third party with plausible deniability. And I already know all the risks.”
“Yeah, so you don’t want a day to think about it?”
“Do you want me to change my mind?”
"I’ll front the first half of your share now, and the rest post-extraction,” he moved on quickly, before she made good on the threat. From his briefcase, he slipped her a new burner phone, still encased in plastic, and a hefty stack of cash. “Still have that Swiss account?”
Cautious, she kept her eyes on the door, as she tucked the items in the back of her bottom drawer. No one was listening but her voice lowered just in case, "No. I set one up in the Caymans and funneled everything there."
He’d assumed it was hyperbole, when she’d said they should get rid of everything that reminded them of each other. He’d put things out of sight and therefore, out of mind, sure. But after regretfully pawning off her ring, he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of anything else. If someone went digging around his place in Idyllwild, they’d find pieces of her hidden like buried treasure. A box of novelty socks in the attic, a hair tie at the bottom of his underwear drawer, a bespoke desk in his unused office, and a random golden bishop shoved into the plastic chess set in his coat closet. By contrast, she’d rooted him out of everything, down to the bank account he’d set up for her during Fischer.
He shut his briefcase harder than he’d meant to, “Alright, well, just get me the wiring info."
Not a moment later, they were interrupted by news that Ariadne’s car had arrived.
As she flit about her office, gathering her things, Arthur awkwardly hung around. The room felt different now that he knew whose it was. Her trench coat on the rack (still damp from the last rain), her well-tended plants, her mini fridge full of energy drinks and eclectic set of magnets (an assortment of sushi with cutesy eyes), her cup of freshly sharpened graphite pencils—all were glimpses of the life she’d been building, while he was off digging himself an early grave.
He’d avoided it so far, but at last, the temptation was too great. He scanned the array of frames on her desk and stopped on the one of her and Jonathan. She was in the other man’s lap, wearing a grin Arthur wished he didn’t recognize. The one she reserved for moments of effervescent happiness. (“Are you smiling?”) She had him squeezed close, with her arms around his neck and their cheeks pressed together. Behind them, was the interior of Caroline's house, adorned for the holidays. The infamous staircase’s banister, wrapped in holly. The couch Arthur had slept on, bedecked with festive pillows.
Ariadne had taken Jonathan home…
Of course she had. He was the next chapter of her history book. He’d be every chapter from then on.
“Call the front desk this afternoon. Bev will have a time for you.”
“Will do.”
She held out her hand—her left hand—for a parting handshake. Every bit the professional. “See you tomorrow?"
It took an internal rummage of courage, but Arthur forced himself to look down at it and promptly froze at the sight for who knows how long. Long enough to make her shift her eyes side-to-side, wondering what she'd missed.
Eventually she leaned into his eyeline, brows furrowed, "Arthur?"
He came to his senses and stood straight, "See you then."
It wasn't very often that Ariadne wished she still had a totem to check but the day's events had almost been too unreal to accept blindly. Of all the places on earth Arthur Pirovano could’ve been, he was in Chicago? And in need of an architect? And Beverly just so happened to sit him in her office? Even though Collins had more experience with digital mapping and Theresa had a background in concept art?
Now, the way Arthur had looked at her—she fully believed he was about to have a stroke in the middle of her office. If he’d grabbed his head in any sort of pain or acted the least bit off-balance, she’d been prepared to pick up the phone and call 911. So, when he said he’d had no idea she’d be there, she knew he was being truthful.
Still. What were the chances?
"Sweetie, are you there?"
Frick. Her butter had browned. She snatched the pan to pour it out and start over, coughing at the first wisps of smoke. "Yeah. Sorry. It's just...you'll never guess who showed up at the firm today."
"I don’t know. Who?"
She thanked Wes and barged into her office. “Sorry for the wait. I’m Ariad—”
James and Phillipa were studying her cords of recognition, voices squeaky with excitement. “Is there room for another congratulations?” She looked over her shoulder and saw—
The main concern for Miles’ son-in-law was pointing out ugly lawn furniture but she was concerned with the moody dude in the shadows. She gripped her bag tighter. Cobb followed her eyeline. “That’s—“
“Arthur.”
“How interesting…”
Ariadne snorted at the attempt to sound lukewarm. Her mom had already blown her cover with the hurricane-force gasp she let out at his name. It was no secret Caroline had a soft spot for Arthur. Even after being barred from speaking about him, so long ago, she’d still bring him up on occasion. Would wonder aloud how “that old friend of yours—I can’t remember his name” was doing, like it was some cryptic sentiment only she understood.
“What for?”
“He needed an architect for a new project. We're gonna be working together again.”
“Oh my Lanta…what a small world. Howdo you feel about it?”
“That’s the thing. I can’t decide,” with her new butter melted, she added flour and began whisking to make a roux. The repetitive motion helped her sort thoughts. “I don’t think I’m feeling how I should be.”
“And how’s that?”
She replayed Arthur’s stuttering. His hard swallows. The shaky hands he’d hid in his pockets. Why hadn’t she been as overcome?
“Rattled? Maybe? I don’t know.”
The interaction was maybe ten minutes, at most, and she'd spent the entirety of it expecting the other shoe to drop. Waiting to go weak in the knees, or fall apart crying, or fill with rage. But none of that happened. Even at present, with bits and pieces of memories resurfacing for the first time in years, she was uncannily neutral. Seeing him was a surprise, yeah, but strangely, not a shock. His presence was novel, yet natural. And despite fully believing she'd never see him again, once she had, it felt inevitable, if not anticlimactic.
"In a dream you can cheat architecture into impossible shapes," The Point Man enlightened as they climbed higher and higher. Listening to him with rapt attention, she distractedly stepped around—wait. They'd just passed that woman, hadn't they? The one who'd dropped her file? "That lets you create closed loops, like the Penrose Steps. The infinite staircase." Suddenly, his hand shot out in front of her, and she realized they'd stopped just before a multistory drop-off. "See?"
Paradox.
“I’ve loved him. I’ve hated him. We’ve seen each other naked and shaped each other’s worlds. And then out of nowhere, I see him again and—it’s just another Thursday to me? Is that not weird?” she broke a handful of pasta in half and dumped it into the pot, narrowly missing a splash of boiling water because of the carelessness.
She could picture the hand on her mom’s heart when she cooed: “No, Sweetheart. It’s wonderful. It means you’ve healed. Isn’t it nice?”
“I suppose.”
If nice also meant ‘a little wrong’. What she once saw through a golden filter was stripped down to black and white. Arthur wasn’t the sun anymore. He was just a man. Albeit, a familiar one.
He tensed up at the sight of her hand, like she was offering him a communicable disease instead of a handshake. Did he expect her to act like he had cooties? It'd been a professional encounter; she intended to end it like one. After a few uncomfortably long seconds passed, she shifted forward to catch his eye, "Arthur?"
Trusting her cooking to the timer, Ariadne busied herself with the shades. During the day, the sun’s reflection made it impossible to see through the sloped curtain wall into her living area, but when it got dark, she might as well have been on a stage.
“Maybe this is happening for a reason,” her mom suggested. “Maybe it’s the Universe’s way of giving you two a chance at a nicer ending.”
She looked past her reflection into the inky blue city, towards the direction of the firm, “Maybe…” before sliding the shade the rest of the way and wandering over to her piano (a mahogany baby grand that Jon left with her).
Maybe that’s why she’d been so willing to take up the job. What better way to make up for all the hell she’d put him through than to help him in his time of need, right? Maybe the rift between them could mend if they went back to their roots. Is that what she wanted?
Absentminded, she tinkled the piano’s keys, as she often did when lost in thought. C, E, G….
“How old are you?”
He didn't realize she might take the question as an insult until she was already rolling her eyes, “Older than you think. But probably still young enough to intimidate you. So...”
“I didn't mean—”
“Mhm.” Her eyes did that squinting thing again and he couldn't, for the life of him, decipher whether the woman hated his guts or was checking him out. She reached out to offer a handshake, with surprisingly strong grip strength for someone who looked like a strong gust of wind could break her in half. “Nice to meet you, Ar—”
“Arthur? Number forty-five?” The Point raised his eyes from the sticky black tile to the small oriental man behind the counter. “Enjoy!” he said, with a grin, echoing the sentiments of the takeout carton he presented. “Extra crab rangoons for you!”
They loved Arthur at Great Wall Chinese Restaurant. Not because he was friendly with the staff (he was actually a huge grouch, he hated to admit) but because he was a regular who tipped well. Little did they know, his patronage was due to nothing more than convenience. While he did “enjoy” scarfing down a pound of fried rice and general tso chicken every other day, what he enjoyed most of all was being able to grab a cheap meal across from his hotel.
Normally, he’d stop at the adjacent quick mart and grab a beer too, but that day called for a treat from the mini bar. Not only had he spent it damming a flood of memories, but overanalyzing the fact that there’d been no ring on Ariadne’s finger.
And there he went again: It very well could’ve been that, to follow construction site protocol, she’d taken it off before going. But it also very well could’ve been that Jonathan had yet to propose. If it were the latter, why hadn’t the idiot proposed yet? According to Dom and Eames, an engagement was supposedly imminent months ago; what was he keeping her waiting for?
Unless he had asked and she'd said no…
That was the more likely case, wasn’t it? Knowing Ariadne, she was afraid of the size of the commitment and asked him to give her some time. They were clearly still together, regardless. She wouldn’t have their picture displayed so proudly, if not. As if it mattered either way. It’s not like Arthur had a chance in hell.
“Sir? Are you going up?”
When had he gotten inside his hotel? How long had he been standing in front of the elevator? He apologized to the gloved bellhop holding the door and got on.
There was no way he’d survive the job without her designing the dreams. Hawkins was too smart, paranoid, and prepared, for the usual tricks to work. But there was no way he’d survive her unless he severed their past from their present. She wasn't the dream he prayed to have, night after night; she was an independent contractor providing him a service. She didn’t care about him; she was under contract. Dreamshare was beneath her.
He was beneath her, and he’d do well to remember that.
As soon as she caught her breath, she ripped him and Dom a new one, and he listened to her rave like she was spouting sonnets.
“I don’t know if you can’t see what’s going on or if you just don’t want to, but Cobb has some serious problems that he’s tried to bury down there and I’m not about to just ‘open my mind’ to someone like that!”
In a flash of red, he was smacked across the face with a suede jacket, and his response was to stand and watch her (and her high horse) go. In what way or for how long, he wasn't certain, but he knew the new architect was going to mean something to him.
He fumbled for a rangoon and fled the elevator, shameless about the crumbs that trailed down the hallway of his floor.
Ariadne marched out of the elevator with a roll of blueprints under her arm and a muffin in her hand, “Bev. My eleven?”
“In your office.”
She cussed and picked up the pace, unwittingly dropping morsels of lemon poppyseed all over the freshly waxed floors.
“I promise my punctuality has improved,” The blueprint was slid onto a rack for later and her bag tossed at the foot of the coat rack. “Don’t judge me based on today.”
Arthur stood and turned over his shoulder to greet her, his hands sliding into his pockets.
He stood and turned over his shoulder to greet her, his hands sliding into his pockets. “Cobb said you’d be back.”
“It’s alright. I haven’t been waiting long.”
There was something different about him—something both foreign and familiar—but she didn’t dwell on it. She scanned the vicinity for a silver briefcase but there was just the brown one from before and a stack of manila folders so tall, it elicited a groan. “I forgot about all the reading.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll give you the SparkNote’s version.”
Long story short, in the sphere of Loans and Investments, all eyes were locked on Murdoch Management—a leader of the industry who’d recently announced a restructure of their debt absorption policies. One of their rivals, Arthur’s unnamed employer, stood to lose hordes of clients who’d been criticizing their policy for years. Enter Arthur and his team. They’d steal the details of Murdoch’s reinvented terms, so Arthur’s employer could beat them to the rollout.
The lucky target of their operation would be Dennis Hawkins, MM’s sixty-something year old COO. He was as hard-nosed and uptight as they come. Followed rules to the letter, budgets to the dime, and schedules to the minute. To his employees, he was known as "The General,” not because he was former military, but because he barked orders like he was. He was proud to bear the title. Judging from his picture, the bristly, grey, brows and mustache were a purposeful part of the image.
Plunging into that meeting with Arthur was like plunging into a pool without knowing the depth. She’d figuratively shut her eyes, plugged her nose, and took a leap of faith, hoping there was somewhere her feet could touch. Half an hour later, she was swimming laps.
Their discussion had become so engrossing, she’d moved from behind her desk to the seat next to him. Twenty-one again, in spirit—her feet in the chair, her hands waving about, piecing together an intellectual jigsaw puzzle. “Okay, I have an idea. I know I'm not here for strategy, so I’m sorry if this is overstepping, but...”
“No, please,” Arthur invited, “Overstep.”
"Why don't you run with the concept of him being a General?" She flipped through the papers in her lap to refresh herself on the team’s action plan (before proposing they chuck it), "For instance, on the second level, I could design his office as a military base, similar to how I made the fortress a hospital for Fischer.”
A surge of nostalgia coursed through her at his response. With a slow blink, his head reared back and his eyebrows shot upward. Then with the nod, came the pressed lips. It was the expression he’d always made when she spouted an idea he wished he’d thought of first. "That's genius...” Like clockwork, he began twirling his pen between his fingers. The sign she’d ignited his gray matter. How had she forgotten the satisfaction that came with that? No wonder she used to crave it. He considered aloud, “We could stage the extraction like an incursion.”
“And run a version of the Mr. Charles gambit.”
His body lurched forward, elbows to knees, “Yes. The sub-security would both fuel the ruse and trigger a lockdown, so he and the intel would be trapped with us. It’ll be easier to find the safe that way.”
“Could we prompt him to store it somewhere specific? The center of the maze could be something with high clearance. An arsenal, maybe.”
“Hard drives would be better.”
“A server room, then.”
Arthur snapped his fingers and sat straight with epiphany. It wasn’t until then that she noticed she was quite literally on the edge of her seat. She must’ve lurched forward when he had.
“We’ll stage it as if the projections are raiding us for the intel and it needs to be backed up.”
“Or, hear me out: tell him it needs to be destroyed before they can get their hands on it.”
“He’ll lead us right to it…”
Arthur drifted backwards, eyes glazed and fingers drumming, as he came down from the creative high. Still riding it, Ariadne jumped up and seized a sketchbook from her bookshelf. That was their pattern, to pitch ideas back and forth like a volleyball until it culminated in a solid vision and burst of inspiration, after which Arthur would reflect back and Ariadne would launch forward. To fall back into that pattern with such ease was reassuring. They’d lost a lot of the magic that made their relationship special (by their own doing, sadly) but they still had that brain chemistry.
And that meant that last project would be a blast.
A complete overhaul was the best course of action to take. His team’s initial plan was passable but way too textbook for a man as prepared as Hawkins. They would’ve been crossing their fingers that he’d forgotten some of his sub-con training. Arthur and Ariadne’s plan, however, was layered, persuasive, and personalized. It capitalized on what Hawkins perceived as a strength and turned it into a vulnerability he wouldn’t expect anyone to exploit. At first, the team was against the changes—pissed that months of work would be scrapped—but Arthur convinced them the results would more than outweigh the inconvenience.
The next person he needed to convince of something was Ariadne. For her, discarding the old plan did not equate to discarding the old layouts. One of the core tenets of her firm was adaptive reuse, and having lived and worked by that for years, she couldn’t get past how uneconomic it would be to write off Frank's work without laying eyes on it, dream or not. The mazes could be retrofitted to the new concept (so she said). So, when they reconvened a few days later, Arthur brought the PASIV to give her a walkthrough.
“Okay, I see what you mean," she said, in the end, as they completed the short-lived tour. "This is clearly a square.” Meaning, the boundaries were obvious. As partners, she and Arthur had come to prefer spherical mazes. They were easier to camouflage. Circling herself, she gestured towards a hospital, situated like a dead end on the northern horizon. Then, to a less than subtle grouping of skyscrapers to the East. Then, a park to the South with artificially vibrant grass. And lastly, a poorly executed Ponzo illusion on the west-facing railroad tracks. “One, two, three, and four.”
“Yeah, we’re in a box.”
“A shallow one, at that,” she winced at the sky. Frank hadn’t established a light source either. Every inch of the scape was evenly and fluorescently lit. As they passed it, Arthur kicked the corner of the building at the end of the block and was amazed it didn’t tumble backwards like a piece of cardboard on an old Hollywood soundstage.
“Hey, that’s my brain you’re kicking.”
“Actually, the scape is mine, so…”
He kicked again and she chuckled.
To his surprise, spending time with her hadn't been the polite agony he’d feared it'd be. She walked like Ariadne, spoke like Ariadne, and wore a silk scarf like her, too, but the other trademarks were missing. Her restlessness was gone, her ambition was satiated, and her pessimism, cured. As a result, he was able to view her as two separate people; one, whom he’d loved desperately, and the other, whom he’d just met. This version of her had never been his. And so, he'd never lost her. And so, it couldn’t hurt.
“The palette is off too...” still deep in analysis, she tread into the center of an intersection. He reached for her sleeve with the intent of tugging her out of an oncoming taxi's path, but the traffic smoothly altered course, going around her as if she were a safety cone. "Chicago is heavier on blues."
He kept on her heels to stay within the bubble of safety, “I’m not sure Frank was going for Chicago.”
“I’m not sure Frank was going for anything.” She’d tried to find positives (artists supporting artists, you know) but when the snark came out, he knew. She was appalled at the laziness. “Why’d you hire this guy?”
“We had a mutual contact.”
She ground to a halt under the redlights and gave him a bewildered look. He was sure it was hard for her to imagine that being the only prerequisite. The Point Man she knew vetted toothbrushes more thoroughly. He amended, “He was the only one who responded. I couldn’t get anyone else to touch this job with a twenty-foot pole.”
When her face dropped, so did his stomach. She’d said she didn’t want to know who they were working for, but he should’ve told her anyway. He’d let her conclude it was a regular, run-of-the-mill extraction, when it was in fact, the last good faith opportunity him and his team were being offered. His employer was vindictive and ruthless and had she known the truth, her answer would’ve been much different. Undoubtedly. “You can still back out if you want.”
“What’ll happen if it goes south?”
He’d been careful to prevent that, already. His employers couldn't get a hold of her unless they found out about her and there were only three channels that information could come through.
Number one was the team, but as far as they knew, their architect was a retired colleague of Arthur’s from Japan, who’d been persuaded to consult them remotely. They assumed it was an Asian male still living in Tokyo and Arthur didn’t plan to correct them.
Number two was his employer. They didn’t care about personnel change unless it cost them money, so Arthur hadn’t and didn’t intend to report it. On paper, they were still paying Frank.
Number three was him. And he had her six. Always.
“Nothing,” he reassured. “You won’t be connected to anything; I’m making sure of that.”
“I’m not asking for me. I’ve got deniability.”
Uncomfortable with the concern in her gaze and the familiar, toasty, feeling of being cared for, Arthur found interest in the asphalt. There was a perfectly jagged rock to kick around. “It won’t go south. We’ve got you.”
“No pressure…” He heard her sigh and pace around the intersection again. One last survey. “Well, we’re definitely starting from scratch, then. You were right. This won’t cut it.”
He’d thought so but, hey, she’d needed to see what she needed to see, to be okay with it.
"How much longer on the timer?"
Another minute more was apparently too much to endure, but he didn’t blame her. He’d just dropped a bombshell about what she’d really gotten herself into. "Probably five, ten, minutes. We can go ahead and go up, though."
He hadn't fully pulled the gun from his waistband before her hands flew up in defense, "No! I don't want to wake up like that if I don't have to. I just wanted to mess around."
One would've thought she was getting naked, from the way he tensed up when her jacket came off. Once upon a time, the thought wouldn't have been awkward. In fact, as her lover, it'd have been welcomed. He’d have cheekily offered to help. But at present, for all intents and purposes, she was a stranger. A stranger in a relationship, on top of that. His comfort rock had already been kicked into the nearby storm drain and images unbidden were destroying his ability to improvise, so he turned his back and pretended to study the crosswalk sign, to give her privacy (she wasn’t even paying attention).
“What, you’ve never seen a naked woman before?” she’d teased, trying not to show the nervousness when he went still and speechless, that first time in Cairo.
“I’ve never seen you,” he’d whispered, in wonderment.
Suddenly, Arthur was thrust off balance. As the ground violently shook, a deafening metallic groan sounded throughout the dreamscape, and shadows raced across the street, overtaking everything in their path. It felt like the dream was collapsing. But when he looked to the sky, he saw it folding in half instead.
Cobb had described the phenomenon to him long ago but funnily enough, for all the time they'd spent together, Ariadne had never gotten around to replicating it for him. He'd seen her perform all sorts of feats, each more spectacular than the last, but not her first. A strange dizziness set in as the horizon disappeared and the city rolled over itself like a wave. The tops of shiny towers descended through the sky with a rumble like thunder to line up with their counterparts, leaving the world dark as night. Heart beating in both terror and awe, he tore his eyes from the sight overhead to the woman sitting criss-cross on her jacket in the middle of the road. At the snap of her fingers, headlights, streetlights, backlit signs, and office windows flickered on. One after the other, like the fireflies back in Finland. Vertigo set in quick, so he hung onto the pole of the crosswalk sign for balance, while cars continued to wheel by on all planes of existence, horns honking and tires squealing. And just like that, Arthur’s fight for survival was forgotten. Cobol was a distant nightmare. For one fantastic moment, she’d transformed his subconscious from prison to kaleidoscope.
And for a few painful seconds after that, the woman he'd desperately loved and the woman he'd just met merged back into one.
He’d yet to catch his breath when she turned over her shoulder and beamed up at him, “Still got it.”
At the highest point of the infinite staircase, she turned over her shoulder and beamed down at him, “I think I got it.”
He was leant, hip against rail, with his arms crossed over his chest. Dumbfounded by the speed with which she picked up paradoxes. “Yeah, I’d say so.” When she pivoted fully, she revealed a paper airplane made from one of the papers the projection was endlessly gathering from the floor. Not only had she replicated the Penrose, she’d done it without much effort. “You’re unreal…”
“Oh, I’m real. Trust me.”
They stared at each other, wondering whose expression would turn flirty first. And when it was his, The Architect snickered in conceit and aimed the plane at his chest.
Slung back to the present by reflex, Arthur caught the PASIV before Ariadne’s yank pulled it off the table.
“Oops. Sorry. I think the spool is caught.”
“No,” he disconnected her iv line from the vial cradle, “these aren’t retractable.”
She wound the tubing around her elbow as she came in for a closer look. (Always curious. That hadn’t changed). “Damn, Arthur.” He’d gotten used to it (he’d had to; it was the only model he could get his hands on after they separated), but she'd never seen a device so outdated. It was was a PASS-II model. One of the earlier military prototypes, so its hardware was clunky. Particularly, the distribution system. There were pressure gauges for each iv lead that had to be set alongside the timer, to properly manage the drip rate. “Looks like a panel in a submarine. How do you make sense of it?”
“By memorizing lots of diagrams.”
She brushed over the trigger lightly. Not a plunger on the PASS-II, but a pull rod, like you’d use to stop the drain on a sink. “How old is it?”
“Old. A dinosaur compared to ours. Or should I say Eames'?"
Her cringe was immediate. “Are you mad at me for that?”
"I'm not ecstatic. But I’ll live.” When he first found out, he'd been livid, but he was past it now. Theirs had been sentimental. Passed down from Miles to Dom and Mal, to Arthur, to Ariadne. Way back when, he would’ve liked to have gotten it back. But right then, sentiment didn’t matter. All he needed was something that functioned. So, she needn’t have felt too bad about it. He changed the subject, “How did it feel to dream again?”
From the way she’d taken back to it—like a caught fish who’d been returned to the sea—he expected a grin. Instead, she blew air out of her cheeks and rolled her sleeve down to cover the puncture mark. “Trippy. I’d forgotten how much it heightens your senses.”
“I mean, you did bend the world over.”
The laugh he received was jarring. She sounded like her younger self, tickled by the accidental innuendo, but more carefree than Younger Her had ever been. He tried to pry his Ariadne from the new one again by asking something he thought would shatter the illusion. “Ever miss it?”
Because, of course she didn’t. Right?
“Once in a while. Watching a project come to fruition in real life is, arguably, more rewarding, but,” she paused in the middle of repositioning their chairs, “there's still nothing quite like it..."
The amusement in her voice made the aim for connection clear. However, despite both of them knowing there was no way he’d have forgotten the phrase, he continued packing the PASIV without acknowledgement.
She moved on without fuss, turning on the lights and lifting the shades. “It’s also really annoying when you have a dream you don’t want to wake up from but can't remember why when you do."
Back in safe territory, he could allow himself interest. There wasn’t a science to when dreams came back. Research had been done but consistent evidence was yet to be found. Every case was unique. For Miles, they’d taken years to return. For Dom, they still hadn’t. And Mal’s had never gone away in the first place. Arthur found it fascinating. “You’re dreaming naturally again?”
With the next client's arrival impending, they crossed over to the door, but rather than rushing him out, she rested against the doorframe to finish their conversation. “It didn’t take that long. Maybe a year. Though, they’re still not super vivid.”
“I’m jealous. Anything other than a thoughtless void would be nice. What was your first?”
“It’s one I have a lot now, actually. It’s where I’m a kid again, on the tire swing at the lake house. I get as high as I can go and then I jump. Then fly. Then fall. Like, endlessly fall.”
The kick was already in motion as Arthur sprinted up the drive ramp, holes in his shoulder and thigh. Up ahead, as the parking garage started to crumble, he spotted Ariadne, scrambling from the edge and clinging to a lamppost for dear life. The woman loved jumping off of stuff, but God, did she hate falling (in every sense).
“I’m on my way. Make the jump.”
“Not without you!”
“I’m right behind you. Go or you’re gonna miss it.”
“If you miss it, I miss it.”
“For Christ’s sake…”
The dream reached its death throes as Arthur tackled her, his chest to her back, sending them off the concrete structure and into the ether.
“Must be scary.”
The grin he’d expected earlier, appeared. “No, the falling is the best part.”
In his head, the new Ariadne shed the old like a snake skin. And thank god, because his chest had begun to ache.
They'd been contemplating options for the first level, divied up into three columns on a whiteboard:
Fort: Common, broad range of functions, most time consuming but most conducive for improvisation.
Depot: Supply and storage specific, most subliminally suggestive, possibly too similar to Level 2.
Camp: Specialized towards a particular mission, least subtle, highest risk but potentially most efficient.
If they went with a camp, they’d have to start off with a gun-blazing infiltration and chance never making it to the second level. And if they went with a depot, the mark's subconscious would be primed for the next level before they got there. The first dream needed to be a stepping stone, not a cannonball. So, fort it was.
With that settled, Arthur began transcribing the pertinent information into his notebook while Ariadne took the opportunity to savor her coffee before it went cold, “So, how’s the family?”
His pen stuttered.
Before the mug reached her lips, she held her breath in realization. It was her go-to question for small talk with colleagues, but all of her current ones had regular lives. She’d forgotten who she was talking to and how sore that subject could’ve been. Before she could redirect, he answered.
“As far as I know, they’re doing well. It hasn’t been safe to go home for a while.” He drifted somewhere else as he was talking. Maybe back to the last time he’d visited. The weight of his absence had been too heavy for him the first time he went to ground. She couldn’t imagine the burden of having to isolate himself a second time, especially after putting so much effort into restoring those relationships. Had he been back since they’d gone together?
“When was the last time you were able to?”
She regretted the question as soon as she saw his fingers tighten their grip on his pen. Filled with suspense, she tightened her grip on the mug handle too.
“Grandpa Carlo’s funeral,” he whispered, eyes blank.
No…
Poor Arthur.
She, more than anyone, understood how devastating the death of a beloved grandparent was. Even then, the thought of a funeral made her stomach churn. She set her mug down so gentle, it didn’t make a sound. “When…?”
"Not too long after yours."
Her eyes shut, more out of guilt than sympathy (though she felt both strongly). He'd been there for her in the thick of her grief and she'd ended things before she could be there in return. She knew he and Lou had to have taken it particularly hard, and her imagination woefully filled in the blanks for itself. She could picture the small wooden church she’d accompanied his family to, the Sunday of her and Arthur’s visit (the one he and his sister were christened in, as babies) filled with flowers arrangements and the dreadful sound of tears. Could see, amongst the crowd, his macho dad in tatters and his mom and sister clinging to each other for solace. And Arthur—her eyes flew open. She could never stand to see him cry, so she wouldn’t entertain the thought.
She hated funerals.
“I'm so sorry.”
“It is what it is. He’s not suffering anymore. That’s what matters.”
“He was a lovely man.”
“He was.”
“You! Arthur’s Girl!” Carlo shouted, out of the blue, aggressively waving her over.
Fearing an outburst, the family went on alert, assuring her she didn’t have to and asking him what he needed so he’d leave her alone. When he was adamant, though, she rushed to obey.
As soon as she was close enough, he jerked her downwards, forcing her to squat by his recliner. The room flinched. Arthur stood, anxious and ready to intervene. He didn’t mean the roughness, though. Once they were eye-to-eye, his were joyful and earnest, like the man described in Arthur’s childhood stories. “If he ever treats you less than a principessa, you just let me know. I’ll whoop him.”
The idea to throw Arthur under the bus was more than amusing, but she didn’t dare mess with the old man’s sincerity. "Don’t worry, Grandpa. Arthur is the perfect gentleman. You’d be proud.”
"I’ll be even prouder once he puts a ring on that finger. Arturo Vincenzo, what the hell you keep her waiting for?”
“Grandpa…” Arthur went rigid as a pole and white as a ghost.
At the same time, Lou put a hand on Carlo’s shoulder, trying to gently lead him to a different topic, “Pa, what would you like for lunch, huh?”
Like a little kid, Carlo swatted Lou away, and motioned Ariadne even closer. His whisper was louder than most people’s average volume but he spoke as if it was their little secret. “I craft your shoes for the wedding, tesorina mia. Si?”
“Grandpa!”
“Pa, you’re making them uncomfortable.”
Arthur met her with apologetic eyes but she thought the whole thing was too endearing to be offensive. And she’d heard it was best not to correct an Alzheimer’s patient, so when Arthur started to do so (“Grandpa, Ariadne isn’t my—”) she hit his chest to stop him. Then played along.
She squeezed Carlo's wrinkly, shaky, hand, with a reassuring smile, "Si. Certo. I’ll refuse any others."
A true expert at his craft, he leaned forward and surveyed her feet. “Size six and a half?”
Genuinely surprised, she exclaimed, “Oh my God, you’re right!”
Then, he kissed the top of her hand and complained he was hungry.
Thwack.
Arthur tossed his notebook towards his briefcase, then took to erasing the evidence of their brainstorm from the whiteboard. She’d told him she’d take care of it later but he insisted it couldn’t be left. (She had a feeling he just needed an excuse to hide his face while he collected himself).
"How’s your family? Any big updates?"
Able to stomach her coffee again, she took a sip and ruminated. She felt compelled to apologize again but holding onto the topic after he’d chosen to move past it would only make her initial mistake worse.
She couldn’t tell him everything that’d happened within her family; too much had. Five years was a long time in the real world. The biggest development was the reparation between her and her dad. They’d had a healthy sit-down about how the divorce affected her, in which she’d been unsurprisingly blunt and bitter, and he’d been unexpectedly patient and receptive. He’d let her speak her piece for hours. And what followed, were tears, and apologies, and a promise for both to work on mending their father/daughter relationship. It’d been going well, too. They called once a month and had been to lunch together during her last few trips home. She no longer hated him or blamed him for her poor romantic decisions…
But that seemed a little heavy. Lighter fare included Camden graduating nursing school and getting engaged, Grant joining the Coastguard, and Kelly and Todd getting bored with their empty nest and buying into The Little Crop Stop. Eventually, she settled on the most exciting news for her, personally:
"Lucy and Nick just had a baby girl."
It was a good choice to lift his spirits. He turned to her with a soft, growing, smile.
They’d talked about whether they wanted children before. Back when they used to bare their souls to each other about anything and everything, on the floors of their Tokyo penthouses. At the time, Ariadne hadn’t been fully against the idea of being a parent; she just didn’t want to screw up her kids’ lives by having them with the wrong person. And at the time, she’d had no idea how one could ever tell they’d found the right one. Arthur, on the other hand, was all about it. He could picture two kids, like his parents, or more. He knew he wanted a house filled with love. He’d always wanted to be a husband and father someday.
“Wren. For Grammy and Pop.” The cousins had made a fairly recent pact that they’d name their firstborns after birds, as a tribute to their late grandparents, who’d loved to watch them and called the grandbabies their “flock.”
“That’s charming,” he complimented, wistfully. “I bet she's smart.”
Ariadne thought of the last time she and Lucy talked. Wren had figured out how to climb out of her crib using the nearby dresser and when Nick found her in the morning, she'd painted the walls with diaper rash cream. The pictures were hilarious (because she wasn't the one who had to clean it up). “Too smart for her own good. But she's cute so she gets away with it.”
“Family trait.” His expression was fond when he stepped back to let her wheel the board away. “How's your mom?”
Her mom. She was a close second for most exciting update. Ariadne's voice echoed within the storage closet, while she kicked the locks on the wheels. “She's amazing. And she's dating someone!”
“No way...”
“For almost a year!” Ariadne strolled out, smug with the information. “His name is Richard, they met in the paint section at Lowe’s, and he’s got one daughter, a few years older than me, who I'm supposed to meet at Thanksgiving.” Coincidentally, the woman was a civil engineer named Aletheia, called Ally.
Caroline and Richard were the cutest couple Ariadne knew. In terms of soulmates, they were better suited for each other than her parents were. Arguably better in terms of friends, too, because of their impeccable communication. They loved all things cozy, homegrown, and kitschy. For dates, they took couple classes in pottery, painting, cooking, and dancing. They shared a houseplant collection and an amateur food review blog, and took their tandem bike on trails on the weekends.
Best of all, Ariadne no longer felt a responsibility to help regulate her mom’s sorrows. Richard had stepped up as the partner and confidante she’d always needed. He was funny, in a dad pun kind of way. And the ruffle-your-hair sort of warm. If he ended up being Ariadne’s stepdad, she'd be honored. Thinking of the way her mom talked about him, of the ways he took care of her and made her feel special, Ariadne bubbled with pride, “I think she’s in love. And he’s just as obsessed with her, which makes me so happy.”
“Me too. She deserves that after all this time.”
“She does. And it’s also such a relief to know that my dad was never the one for her either, you know?”
Arthur cocked his head, “Never ‘the one?’”
“Yeah,” she looked out her windows at the big, bright, beautiful, world, “Richard was out there waiting, the whole time. There really is someone special for everyone.”
“You believe in all that, now?”
“Now that I’ve seen it,” she shrugged.
Then immediately wanted to chew her foot off and sew her mouth shut. When she looked back at him, he was nodding in acceptance, but it was clear her careless words had stung.
She felt her pulse in her eardrums. “I just meant that—”
“Give your mom my best, would you?” He smiled and shrugged on his suit jacket.
Crap. She was a menace. "I’m sorry.”
“Not a big deal.”
“That sounded—"
"Let's not walk on eggshells around each other, alright? The past is the past and we've both worked hard to leave it there."
One of Arthur’s favorite stages of a project was the one most teams skipped: curating the aesthetic. If a team did, by chance, put effort into it, they didn’t do it like he and Ariadne. It was a unique aspect of their workflow that they'd perfected in partnership. He'd missed it a lot, working with other people.
The whiteboard was flipped to the pinboard side, divided by level and covered in visual references, and he and Ariadne were sat on either side of her desk, surrounded by books, magazine clippings, and printouts. They took the task very seriously (because in the end, it was), but to an outside eye, they would’ve looked like two kids making a collage for art class. Scissors and all. He was thumbing through an Architectural Digest, when she slid a picture of a weathered, square-shaped, citadel, towards him, "I keep being drawn to these Vauban style structures. The framing, the texture, all of it."
Upon recognition of the building, he smirked to himself, "That's the fort at Son Tay. In Hanoi." He'd had an inkling she'd like it, when he’d come across it during research. It had a French Colonial influence.
"What material is that? It's not concrete."
"Laterite. It's a clay-rich soil that hardens when exposed to air. It's used for a lot of small scale masonry in Vietnam."
"Could you find me more examples of it?"
"Sure thing."
It was near impossible to find an architectural niche Ariadne wasn't well-versed in, so when it happened, Arthur prided himself on the feat. He grabbed his laptop and pulled up the browser, eager to be of more assistance—over ten years and he'd still do anything to spark her imagination—when an email he'd been waiting for came in with good news. He skimmed through it, then asked, “If I could get us onto the executive floor of the Murdoch building, would you be comfortable going for a tour?” He could gain access to the security cameras and wipe any digital evidence of their visit but he wasn't sure if she'd be worried about a face-to-face. Chicago was home; she could run into anyone, to or from. Or she could end up designing for Murdoch one day and be put in a position to lie, if remembered.
Ariadne sat up to both think and stretch, and he tried not to stare when she pulled her head to one side. The memories were manageable when they were confined to their professional relationship and not the romantic one. To the elbows he'd taken to the head while teaching her self defense, not the curve of her back against his palm when she would angle up for a kiss. To the sound of her pencil shading a sketch and not the sound of her fluffing the comforter in the mornings. The smell of an alcohol pad before they plugged into the PASIV, not the smell of the lotion she'd apply after a shower. And to the sight of her thumb nail chewed short from deep thought, not—
“Depends.”
He tapped the keys, pretending to type. As if he'd just been racking his brain for relevant keywords to search and not reminiscing about that damn freckle on her neck that he’d loved to—
Focus Arthur.
“On...?”
A gleam appeared in her eye, “If I’d have to be wheeled around inside a cart or not.”
After taking a few seconds to commit the ridiculousness to memory, Arthur felt for the latch to the facade, located behind the slot for the mops, and released it. "Hey, Architect," he'd grinned, offering both hands to help her out.
Face flushed, she took a deep breath of fresh-ish van air and rolled her eyes, "Oh, the hijinks we pull..."
"I'll have to look into it," he joked casually, "but I think you could use your legs this time."
It was such a marvelous summer day, it could’ve been plucked from the pages of a travel guide. The sky was a vibrant, jellybean, blue, the clouds were perfect balls of cotton, and with the breeze off of Lake Michigan, the heat was barely noticeable. Ariadne closed her eyes and let her head fall back. Don’t get her wrong, she loved her office, but working offsite was her favorite. Nothing beat pedestrian chatter, sunshine, and fresh air. She basked in it until Arthur cleared his throat.
He’d finally gotten his order from the hot dog cart—a Chicago dog, a classic dog, and bottle of water. Without word, they continued in the direction they’d been going. “Do you wanna eat and walk, or find a bench somewhere or something?” she asked.
“Whichever.”
Since he left it up to her, she decided she could use a break before heading back to the firm; her legs felt like jelly. She peered into the distance and spied out an empty picnic table near the Buckingham Fountain (her and Jon had liked that area and it wasn’t too much further) then led the charge.
Because of her stomach’s plea for food, she’d almost forgotten, but as soon as they sat, the bulky object tucked into the back of her waistband reminded her. Before she could get distracted again, she handed him the pen from her skirt pocket, then unpinned the device masquerading as the button of her collar, threaded the wiring out from under her shirt, and handed that over too. “Sorry if it’s sweaty.”
“I don’t care about that,” he dismissed, quickly coiling the wire around two fingers and slipping the components of the gadget into his inner jacket pocket. “I’ll sort through these tonight and send them through your burner email.”
She nodded, before kicking her heels off to let her feet breathe, and ripping open a mustard packet for her dog.
There were at least five hundred pictures of the Murdoch building on that microscopic camera. Per floor. Mostly, because they had to cover the entirety of the space in half an hour to avoid suspicion, and in a panic, Ariadne got shots of anything and everything, just in case.
The majority of the building was public access but there were two restricted areas they needed visuals of that were the tricky part. The best course for stealth had been to go on a Friday, around lunch, when it was brimming with people depositing paychecks and security was worn thin. They kept to the stairwells between floors, where there were no cameras. And only once did they have to duck into the bathrooms to hide, when the same guard who’d checked their ids at the safety deposit vault got assigned a different floor just as they were sneaking onto it.
Compared to other recon missions they’d done, it was cake to get into the restricted areas. Arthur had made an appointment, a week in advance, with a loaning consultant, so they could get a good look at the department Hawkins oversaw and the interiors of those offices. And, sidebar…why Arthur chose “siblings looking into a second mortgage on their grandfather’s home” instead of “business partners looking to fund a startup” as their cover of choice, baffled her every time she remembered it. Because, what? They could pull off one of those scenarios believably, and it wasn’t the one they acted out. They may not have been together nearly as long as they’d been broken up, but she still knew his anatomy too well to ever think of him as a brother, pretend or not. That’s what made the “Hmm, whatcha think, Sis?” he’d whipped out after the consultant’s big presentation feel especially unholy. But she’d digress. Casing the executive floor was even easier. She’d gone up alone and acted like she belonged. No one paid attention to a young, skirt-suited, woman, walking around with an important looking box. Overall, the adventure had been invigorating. (And hopefully, productive. No telling how many images would come out blurry.)
She figured Arthur was reviewing the operation in his head like she’d been and left him to it, forgoing chitchat to appreciate the outing. The snap of her hot dog was incredible and a flock of gulls were putting on an air show over the lake. Soon, there came a particularly gusty wind that blew droplets of mist from the fountain her way, so she turned her head, and happened to spot a gem of a moment.
“Look,” Ariadne tapped the table to get Arthur’s attention. “Isn’t that the sweetest?”
There was an elderly couple further down the path, in the middle of the walkway. The man was kneeling on the ground, tenderly retying the woman’s shoelaces despite his own frailty. It reminded her of Grammy and Pop. Made her sentimental.
Arthur finished tying his skates then batted her hands away to tighten hers. Her palms were red from the coarseness of the laces and the cold; he didn't want her to get blisters. And contrary to her belief, he didn't want her to break her ankles due to loose boots.
There was a strange sense of gratification for a gesture so simple. A gesture that could've been labeled tender.
"You can't tell me you don't at least appreciate the art deco motif here."
When he finished with the first skate, he tapped her foot for her to switch. She obliged, with narrow eyes, loathe to agree with him,"It's the saving grace. But I'm telling you now that if I fall..."
The old man had to catch himself on the pavement but the wobble didn’t deter him. He righted himself and turned his attention to his wife’s other shoe.
“He’s gonna hurt himself,” Arthur commented, unenthused. He wouldn’t call that ‘sweet’ of a man that age. He’d call it reckless. As he went to start on his second hot dog, he caught Ariadne’s analytical stare. “Something on my face?”
“A scowl?”
Once he’d been made aware, he felt the set of his jaw and curl of his lip, and forced them to relax. It wasn’t to her satisfaction, though. She kept staring. And the longer it went on, the more naked he felt. He loosened the knot of his tie, “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
"You're different."
He wasn't the only one. The other day, when she’d gotten all giddy about her mom finding love, his first assumption was that she was being satirical. But no, Ariadne had truly turned into a ball of hopeless romance, waxing poetic about there being ‘someone for everyone.’
“The Arthur I knew would be kicking his feet at that. It would’ve made his day.”
Because the Arthur she knew had aspired to it. The reason that elderly couple offended him wasn’t bitterness. It was envy. He wanted to be that man one day—same as he’d wanted to be Grandpa Carlo, Cecil Palmer, and Stephen Miles—but the woman whose shoes he wanted to tie had found someone else to grow old with. The person he used to be died the day of her grandparents’ funeral. The ideals he once held, he’d sold alongside her ring.
“I haven’t been that Arthur in a long time.”
“That’s a shame.”
No, it was a protection. Apathy was his lifeline. The old him would’ve called their reunion clandestine and pretentiously begged her to leave her (inevitable) fiancé. He’d run through the churchyard, screaming that it wasn’t too late. There was a good reason the Arthur she knew hadn’t been able to keep her. He scoffed at her obligatory compassion, “Come on, I know you’re thanking God. That Arthur pestered the shit out of you.”
“Yeah, he did. And I’m grateful to him for it. He taught me a lot."
Lucien had 'eyes like sea glass' and taught her how to develop film. Théo had a 'velvety voice' and got her into reading autobiographies—He wondered if one day, she’d be making fettuccine for another lucky chump and mention how an Arthur had 'a charming set of dimples' and taught her how to hack—
“Yeah, I’m sure hacking into the international census is something you’ve really needed.”
She leveled her gaze, “Not just about extraction stuff.”
He started another sarcastic suggestion, but she knew he was trying to deflect and wouldn’t let him. “Important things, Arthur. Work-life balance, communication, friendship, and...” She hesitated before the last word, visibly weighing the consequence of voicing it. Before he could plea with her not to, she finished, “and love.”
His chewing slowed. The beef in his mouth suddenly tasted rancid. It took a herculean effort to swallow.
And she still didn't stop: “He’s why I am who I am and have what I have.”
“You’re giving me way too much credit. You were always a better student than I was a teacher. You out-skill me in everything I ever taught you.” He thought of her successful relationship, “Obviously.” Then, wincing, he took a long swig of water to wash the taste of bile away.
“That’s not true.”
“Besides, I clearly don’t know the first thing about any of that. Least of all love. Look at me.” He had to laugh. If he didn’t, her pitying silence as she did, indeed, look him over would’ve made him angry. At himself, at her, at the world, at that son of a bitch named Jonathan…“The older I get, the less I understand it and quite frankly, the less I care to. I hate who I was when I was in love. It brought out the worst in me. I think it does in everyone.”
Unfortunately, anger got the best of him anyway. He played it off as watching the seagulls, but he’d sat back to take some deep breaths. He’d become content with his discontent before she’d popped back into his life. He couldn’t afford to backslide.
After a minute, she gently insisted, “You know I know how you feel. But it brings out the best too. All the time. You just have to keep your eyes open to see it. I mean, it’s right there. Tying shoes."
The elderly man had slowly but surely finished his task. He looked up proudly and, grinning, his wife lovingly took his face in her hands and kissed his cheeks as a thank you. She might’ve helped him up after that too, but Arthur had already turned away.
"And there, sharing a bag of chips."
Skeptical, he followed Ariadne's eye line to the edge of the fountain where two little boys—brothers, maybe—were happily swinging their legs and splitting a snack.
Next, she pointed out a couple college-age friends, lounging on the grass, plucking strings: “And teaching guitar.”
And lastly, far in the distance, through the trees and across the street, they spotted a couple so lost in each other’s embrace, they got left behind: “And missing the bus.” She smiled knowingly, as if she knew from experience.
The new conviction was good for her, but he still couldn’t comprehend the woman before him. She used to be deathly afraid to even think the words ‘I love you’. And now, she was monologuing about it. “Who are you?”
Rather than flatter her, it drained the enthusiasm from her body. He watched her turn somber and consider her hands in her lap. “I wish I’d been as good for you as you were for me,” she admitted quietly, then she collected her shoes and stood to throw the rest of her lunch away, no longer hungry.
Shit.
Arthur caught up with her at the bend, where the path became shaded by a canopy of trees. She heard him before she saw him—those Italian loafers made a specific sound with the heel that she’d never forget.
He looked remorseful, but she’d only left him behind to give him space. She’d gotten the impression that her encouragement had come across as bragging and the last thing she wanted was to make him feel worse about himself than he already did.
She was the one who should’ve felt bad. She kept bringing up their history after he’d asked her not to. What for? What did she want from him? The same kind of conversation she’d had with her dad? Absolving herself had been a huge part of her healing—why did she need absolution from him too? She hadn’t needed it a few weeks ago, and never would have, if he hadn’t shown up again.
It could’ve been because she’d recognized the disillusionment on his face and the careful detachment in his tone. That lack of faith used to be hers, just like her wide-eyed romanticism used to be his. It made it undeniable, that as much as she owed him for his part in her growth, he had cause to blame her for her part in his ruination. And while she knew (from therapy) that accepting responsibility and being wracked with guilt were two different things, and that she couldn’t and shouldn’t conflate them, unless she wanted to undo all her progress…it was still rough to see. It still sucked to live with the knowledge she’d done irreparable damage to someone she’d cared so much for.
She took so long going back and forth about whether an apology was warranted or not, that he beat her to breaking the silence: “Listen. You were good for me, alright? You taught me some valuable lessons too.”
She shot him a doubtful glance. Of all things, his instinct to protect her feelings at the cost of hiding his own was what should’ve changed.
“I thought I was patient, and understanding, and selfless, but I wasn't. I needed to be woken up."
He’d had his slip-ups but he was as much of those things as any imperfect human knew how to be. And it was pissing her off that he was displaying such a stellar example of that, while beating himself up. “No, you didn't.”
“I'm happier this way. Really. I can't be disappointed." He’d smiled so hard, his dimples appeared. And as you can imagine, for someone who’d always been fond of them, the act was tantamount to sacrilege, when the smile didn’t reach his eyes and his voice had no inflection.
“You don’t sound happy,” she challenged.
Defeated, Arthur sighed and ground to a halt. Hands on his hips and sights on his feet. She turned when she noticed, arms crossed in frustration. God, if she’d been half as insufferable as this, she didn’t know how he’d put up with it as long as he had. While she studied him and he studied the ground, the elderly couple shuffled past, arm in arm.
“I’m going to be honest with you.”
“That’d be great.”
“The hole I’m in right now? It doesn’t get any deeper. If this job goes sideways, there’s no hope of climbing out; only buying time before I’m buried alive. All those things I used to dream about aren’t possible for me anymore.”
If inception was possible, anything was.
Somehow, he knew that was what she was going to say and reiterated, “They aren’t possible. And the only way I’m able to cope with that, is to believe I have no use for them. You said I’m different…I am. I have to be.”
He opened his palms as a form of shrug.
“But I'm telling you now that if I fall..."
"I've got your six. I'll be right there to help you up," Arthur promised as he wound the loops around each other.
It probably shouldn’t have meant so much to have him lace her skates, but the gesture felt special. She felt cherished (and she could’ve gagged from admitting it). "How about you be right there to catch me?" She cut her gaze up, and watched his eyes narrow into slits as he finished with a perfect double knot.
“If that's what you want."
“Um, yes, Arthur. I would like you to keep me from busting my head open. Thanks."
He affectionately brushed over the top of her foot before pulling away and f.r.i.c.k. if she didn’t feel her whole stomach burn like the scalding hot cocoa had went it went down.
"Would you catch me if I fell?"
She stared at the lights of the city, as if she were staring up at the stars. Her apartment was unusually quiet, besides the clothes tumbling in the dryer and her freshly washed hair dripping on the floor. She cupped a mug of tea, so hot her hands were tingling.
“You’re going in those?”
Ariadne checked her feet as if she’d forgotten what she was wearing, and flexed her toes. Not ideal with socks but the shower slides had been right there. “It’s quicker.”
“Than what?”
She bit back an unapologetic grin.
Arthur glanced towards the mat by the front door and rolled his eyes. His good influence had rubbed off on her in many ways, but not in untying her sneakers before taking them off. With an un-breaking glare (that he didn’t mean, let’s be real), Arthur got down on the floor, snatched her shoes into his lap, and began working on the knots.
She couldn’t call any of her go-to’s. Not about this. The less they knew about her recent undertaking, the safer they’d be. That left her alone with her thoughts and a baby grand piano. She put her mug down and tinkled its keys for comfort: C, E, G. Then, again: C, E, G. And again, and again, until she’d zoned out, like it was a meditation chime.
“Ariadne, wait.”
Her boots scuffed on the concrete when she turned.
“Your laces,” Arthur wheeled out from his desk. She’d barely processed the comment, before he was out of his chair. “Here. I’m closer.”
She rubbed the back of her neck as he knelt in front of her. Even the top of his head was horrifically attractive. Could someone feel butterflies in their feet?
Somewhere behind them Eames teased, “Ooh, me next! The slipper will fit, I just know it!”
Her pinky slipped and the wrong note startled her back to awareness.
Maybe she should’ve regretted getting involved, but she didn’t. She wished she’d been able to help Arthur sooner. That Cobb hadn’t diverted her concern at Phillipa’s graduation. She couldn’t just stand by and do nothing but the bare minimum. She’d risked worse for people who’d meant much less.
He opened his palms as a form of shrug and Ariadne’s irritation fizzled.
“I haven’t acted like it, but seeing the life you’ve built and knowing you have an extraordinary future to look forward to…if it could only be one of us, I’m glad it’s you. I’m proud of you.”
The words of commendation were nothing but a boa constrictor, wrapping around her heart and squeezing—a heart that was too soft now to ignore.
Ariadne had not left Cobb to his demise, and she was not about to leave Arthur. Without thinking of anything else—the odds, the logistics, or the consequences—she made the decision to go all in. Her hands balled into fists, “Who’s your employer?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“I wanna know what we’re up against.”
“Not ‘we’. Me. You’re a third party in this, remember? Plausible deniability.”
“That’s stupid. Once your partner, always your partner. So, tell me—”
The Point brushed past her, “No. Let’s get you back to the firm.”
“Arthur,” she demanded, unwavering, doubling her pace to keep up with him.
“I’m not Cobb. I’m not going to let you lay on a train track with me, knowing what’s coming.”
Finally, Ariadne caught his elbow and yanked him around with a fierceness, “I’m going to get you out of that hole. Are you going to make it easy for me or not?”