Archive of Our Own

The door to the garage is locked.

It’s never locked. He shakes the handle once, and then again – a little harder this time, but it doesn’t give even slightly.

 

Arthur opens his eyes, blinking in the half light. He’s not sure how early it is, but the cold snap the forecast predicted is starting to creep in under his blankets and nudge against his bare skin. He can hear rain thrumming noisily against the roof; a steady, dull roar.

Sitting up in his bed, head foggy with sleep and mouth sticky-dry, Arthur notices the light on his notebook is flashing. He pulls it onto his lap and flicks it open.

The message is only a few words long.

I’ve got us a job.

It’s classic Cobb to leave out any details; a sly, if unintentional way of getting Arthur curious and fishing for more information. It usually works. Arthur tugs his blanket up over his shoulders before he deletes the email.

The second email comes exactly a week later, when Arthur is working through some paperwork, squinting and head thudding with the start of a substantial headache.

Are you in or not? Can’t talk about this in email. Call me.

Arthur leans his elbows on his desk, and glances out of the window. The sky is bruised grey; promising more rain and the neighbour’s kids – a young boy and a girl; he can’t place their names-- are playing on the front lawn across the road; giggling and squealing noisily as they chase each other into puddles. He turns back to his computer and types:

Not in. Have taken up career as an accountant. Will do your taxes for you next year at a discounted rate, if you ask nicely.

Only an hour or so later this time, his cell startles into life. Arthur sips his coffee and answers it on the eighth ring.

“Your jokes aren’t getting any better in your old age,” Cobb says, but Arthur can hear the smile in his voice, and he grins back despite himself.

“I’m busy,” Arthur says, and it’s not a complete lie. There’s a pile of dishes with his name on it getting increasingly precarious next to sink. “Make it quick.”

“It’s an extraction. Missing woman. The employer thinks this guy – an ex-boyfriend, apparently– is holding something back. It seems straightforward enough, but I could really use your help on this.”

Arthur presses his lips together, taking in the information. Straightforward isn’t the word he would have used. It sounds to him like there is some sort of dysfunctional romantic element involved, and any time the dreams are emotional there is a heightened degree of instability.

“Don’t make me beg, Arthur.”

It’s tempting to do just that. Arthur hasn’t heard a word from Cobb in the eighteen months since their last job, and there’s a small kernel of bitterness sitting low in his gut urging him to tell Cobb in no uncertain terms to find someone else.

“All right,” is what Arthur says finally, walking across the room and setting his mug down on the table. “I’ll do it.”

He’s never said no to Cobb before. And evidently it’s not a trend he’s going to buck today.

 

Three days later Arthur wakes to the sound of knocking. He blearily gets out of bed, pulls on some jeans and a sweater and opens the front door.

“You’re early,” Arthur grumbles, wiping sleep out of his eyes with the heel of his palm.

“Just a little,” Cobb says with a nod, not sounding even slightly apologetic. It’s raining again and he’s drenched through; strands of hair sticking to his face and water dripping from his nose, chin and eyelashes.

Arthur sighs and stands aside so Cobb can come in. “Fifteen minutes is just a little early, Cobb. Two hours is just a little early,” he mutters. “Forty-eight hours, however, is just a little demented.”

“Eager to get at the job, I guess,” Cobb says with a wistful smile. “It’s been a while.”

Arthur kneads his jaw a little, thinking of all the things he wants to say to that and not letting a single one of them form on his lips. “Do you want a coffee?” he asks, finally.

Cobb does, so Arthur directs him to the bathroom to dry himself off, while he shuffles into the kitchen and puts the machine on.

Arthur is stirring his own cup of coffee, and staring vacantly; sleepily into space, when Cobb emerges from the bathroom. Cobb’s divested himself of his jacket and shoes, and has a towel wrapped around his head. Arthur quirks an eyebrow slightly, but doesn’t say anything, he just nudges the other mug of coffee in Cobb’s direction.

Cobb makes an appreciative noise and takes a mouthful. “Did you pull up much on the ex-boyfriend?”

“There wasn’t a lot to pull up,” Arthur admits. “The guy is a nobody. Works nine to five at his desk job. Plays tennis on Saturdays. Has a really dull profile on OkCupid.”

“No loose ends at all?” Cobb asks. “You’re sure?”

“Nothing. If he has any secrets at all, they’re long buried.”

Cobb licks his lips. Arthur can virtually hear the cogs turning, and he knows what Cobb’s thinking because he’s been thinking the same thing. Someone who appears to have no secrets can mean a quick, easy job. But it can just as often mean trouble.

“Do you have any sugar?” Cobb asks, finally.

 

Cobb spends the next few days on Arthur’s sofa, working on their angle for the job and drinking all his coffee. They fall back into a familiar rhythm and Arthur finds he doesn’t mind the early intrusion as much as he thought he might. He even feels a twinge of the old excitement when he watches Cobb explain a design he’s created for the dream; his entire face lit up, intoxicated with it.

If anything is amiss, it is that they are both perhaps wound a bit tight; a bit pointier at the edges. Cobb’s not as reckless as he used to be, and it should be easier, in theory, for them to see eye to eye, but they spend a lot of time arguing the technicalities. Arthur suspects it’s because they’ve both been out of work for a while – it feels like they’ve got something to prove.

Or it could be that the last job they took almost ended with Cobb getting lost in limbo. But that’s a subject Arthur has always steered clear of.

 

Over the years Arthur has learned that everyone has their own way of dealing with the wind-up before a job. As the date ticks closer Cobb mumbles to himself a lot, and paces up and down the house. Arthur occupies himself more constructively. He prints out ordered lists, untangles IV lines and wipes down every inch of the PASIV; tucking vials of somnacin in amongst their artillery. Arthur suspects the grenades and the tranquiliser gun might be overkill for this particular job, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.

They’ve been safe for a while now, after all.

The mark lives in a small town about fourteen hours from Arthur’s place, and they decide to drive there over two days, due in part to Cobb’s aversion to train travel and the impracticality of trying to fly in to the nearest capital city and then double back. The other advantage of having their car is that should anything go wrong, it makes it easy to get out quickly, quietly and without a paper trail.

Arthur is driving the first seven hour leg. Cobb sits in the passenger seat next to him, and spends most of the first couple of hours flicking between the radio stations and telling Arthur about his work at the college. Arthur likes listening to Cobb in rare moments like this; when it’s anecdotes and observations and quiet enthusiasm. Arthur likes less that Cobb seems to have some sort of inexplicable penchant for Neil Diamond, and when Cobb finds a station that is playing Sweet Caroline for the third time, Arthur bans Cobb from touching the radio any further.

When Arthur pulls up at a gas station an hour or so later, he notices that Cobb has fallen asleep. His head is tilted forward and is resting against his chest; his hair hanging over his face. Cobb looks uncharacteristically calm, serene almost, and that can’t be anything but a good thing, but Arthur feels a sudden surge of dread and he promptly gets out of the car so he can breathe.

It must be the altitude, Arthur thinks; the air is thinner up here.

Arthur busies himself filling the tank, watching as the numbers clock higher. Maybe he’s just tired, but there’s something in how the dials spin that makes Arthur’s head feel fuzzy and his eyes unfocus. He stands there, staring dazedly, until the pump can’t feed any more fuel and groans under his hands; jerking him out of his stupor.

It takes him another five miles down the road before Arthur can shake off that strange, blurry feeling, and even a half hour later when Cobb wakes up and asks where they are, he hesitates.

 

They reach their next hotel while it’s still light, and order dinner to Cobb’s room so that they can go over the details for the job.

“His driver picks him up at eight-thirty every Saturday for tennis,” Arthur recites, scooping some (debatably) fried rice into his mouth. “The driver will, rather conveniently, be sick this weekend, so a suave and handsome stranger will be taking his place.”

“I thought we decided you would be taking his place,” Cobb says, flicking through the floor plans for the dream; a re-creation of the mark’s old high school. It’s specs they already know back to front, but Cobb has insisted on going back over everything repeatedly, just in case.

Arthur doesn’t mind, and doesn’t engage with the half-hearted attempt to tease him, either. “It’s a thirty minute drive to the course. We’ll take fifteen – no extra layers and no sedative – that will give us three hours in the dream to find any information he’s got on this missing woman. We won’t have anyone on the top level so the music and the PASIV will be on a timer.”

“We won’t need the whole three hours,” Cobb states.

“Well, we have it regardless.”

Cobb nods, and begins chewing on the end of his pencil. “I still think it would be better if we had someone in there he already trusted.”

Annoyance prickles the back of Arthur’s neck. “I know, Dom, but Eames is otherwise engaged, and we didn’t have time to locate and bring in a new forger.”

“You don’t know where Betts is?” Cobb asks, absently. “You always know where everyone is.”

That does it. Arthur can’t stand the implication that he’s been less than thorough.

“She’s in New Zealand. The south end. We can't work with her.” Arthur says it so quickly the words run together almost unintelligibly, and that suddenly piques Cobb’s interest. He looks up, chewing noisily on the pencil, and Arthur has to bite back the urge to lean across the table and yank the disgusting thing out of his mouth.

“What happened?” Cobb asks. “I thought you two were close?”

Arthur can feel his face warming slightly with frustration; at being forced to address this, at the corner he knows he’s backing himself into. “If by close you mean sleeping with her? Then, yes, we were. But we’re not anymore and I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Hmm,” Cobb murmurs, looking at him with suspicion that makes Arthur's skin itch.

“So the mark’s old school–-," Arthur says, putting down his rice and picking up some of the background documents. “That’s where he met our missing woman, Ms. Fischer, for the first time and hopefully if he’s hiding anything it’ll be back there.”

“It’s not like you to put personal feelings before your job,” Cobb says thoughtfully, refusing to be derailed, and watching Arthur intently. “What did she do?”

“Nothing,” Arthur says, irritably. “Nothing, it was me. She wanted me to work with her and her team on a more permanent basis in Prague, and I said no.”

The pencil falls out of Cobb’s mouth, and Arthur flinches internally, wishing he’d used a vaguer --or even made-up-- explanation; wishing his poker face didn’t crack like bad egg every time Cobb was within a hundred mile radius.

“Why did you say no?” Cobb asks. And Arthur is unsure suddenly whether Cobb is being this frustratingly dense on purpose.

“Because, I already have a team.”

“Are you talking about me?” Cobb says, almost incredulously.

“You’re the best extractor,” Arthur says with a shrug. “I work with the best.”

Cobb abruptly gets to his feet. For a second Arthur thinks he’s going to hug him or something else unnecessarily awkward and he freezes on the spot, but Cobb just crosses his arms and looks Arthur over, thoughtfully.

Arthur doesn’t like that look at all, and clears his throat warningly.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Cobb tells him, seriously.

Arthur sighs, exasperated. “Yes, I know. Are we done?”

“I know we have history,” Cobb continues, undiverted. “But I don’t want you to feel obligated to stick by me.”

“It’s not obligation,” Arthur says, a little crossly. He can’t quite look Cobb in the eye, and he doesn’t want to explain any further, so he throws his handful of documents back on the table and pulls on his jacket. “Look, I told you, I work with—“

“The best, I know. Where are you going?” Cobb asks.

“I’m going to get a drink,” Arthur responds, striding swiftly out of the room.

 

The small hotel bar is over-crowded, dark and smells faintly of old socks, but they have a lot of whisky and that’s acceptable enough to keep Arthur around for the time being. Arthur slides into a booth with deep red cushions that seem to deflate slowly underneath him, and enjoys a whole eight minutes of peace before Cobb slides in opposite him.

“I’m concerned,” Cobb states, brow furrowed.

“About anything in particular?” Arthur asks, quickly emptying his glass; the whiskey burning the back of his throat.

Cobb waves over the waitress and orders a beer for himself, and another of the same for Arthur.

“I’m concerned that you are too commited to your work,” He says, finally. “And I think you’ll regret breaking up with Betts for the sake of keeping...” Cobb hesitates, obviously searching for the right words. “...your professional reputation.”

“She broke up with me,” Arthur states, dryly; his gaze flicking towards a group of patrons noisily slamming back shots the bar. “I was completely willing to continue the relationship, but Betts thought the fact that I didn’t want to work with her full-time meant I didn’t love her.”

“Right,” Cobb says. “Wait—"

“It’s nothing,” Arthur interjects, quickly. “We just saw the situation differently. And inevitably, she was right. It wouldn’t have worked out between us long term.”

Cobb opens his mouth to say something, but then seems to reconsider and snaps it closed again.

Go on, Cobb, Arthur thinks, the alcohol already warming his blood. Ask me why it wouldn’t have worked out.

The waitress reappears and places their drinks on the table without saying anything, as if she can feel the slight tension hanging in the air between them.

“I don’t like the idea of team fraternisation anyway,” Cobb says, offhandedly.

Arthur sips his whisky and smiles slightly. “Has anyone you’ve worked with ever wanted to fraternise with you?”

Cobb frowns slightly. “That’s irrelevant.”

Arthur laughs, unable to help himself, and then again when Cobb’s frown deepens.

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before, anyway?” Cobb asks, after Arthur's composed himself.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, sorry about that, Dom, all those times you were putting barrettes in my hair and we were talking about our feelings, I was really holding out on you.”

Something unreadable twitches through Cobb’s features, but it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared. “I’m just saying I would have told you, if the situation had been reversed,” he says. “If I thought it could potentially affect my work.”

Arthur blinks, stunned; thinking about all the times Cobb explicitly hasn’t spoken to him about things that were a lot more important than this. In fact in many cases, it seemed like he was willing to speak to anyone but him. A familiar anger twists low in Arthur’s stomach.

“Aside from how patently untrue that is, I didn’t hear from you at all for a year and a half,” Arthur says, coldly. “If it weren’t for this job, you still wouldn’t be speaking to me, so please don’t patronise me or infer that we’re anything other than colleagues.”

The startled look on Cobb’s face makes Arthur regret his blunt outburst immediately, but it’s clearly too late to take it back.

“Right,” Cobb says, getting to his feet; his expression smoothed into something professional and detached. “You’re right, as always.”

“Pretty much always,” Arthur mutters, but Cobb is already well out of earshot.

 

The next day, Cobb drives. Arthur watches the white lines on the road and they don’t speak. When they reach the next hotel, Cobb insists they go over the details on the mark again. Arthur’s not sure if he’s just being pedantic, or if he’s trying to force communication between them for the sake of not fucking up the job.

It probably doesn’t matter.

Arthur’s just showered, and is still dripping water all over the beige tiles in bathroom, when Cobb lets himself into his room.

“Silver briefcase, top drawer on your left,” Arthur yells at Cobb through his bedroom door; pulling on his slacks and an old shirt.

“Arthur, what is this thing?” he hears Cobb ask and then there is a loud click and a fizzling sound. “Oh, shit.”

Arthur quickly pulls his door open to see Cobb holding the tranquilizer gun he’d packed in amongst their other artillery.

And the cartridge that belongs to it lodged in Cobb’s thigh, just above the knee. His face is red, with either embarrassment, or fury. Arthur can’t tell.

“You didn’t…?” Arthur gapes; not quite able to process the absurdity of what he’s seeing.

Cobb answers that question by abruptly falling forward onto his knees, his eyes already starting to glaze over. The tranq slips out of his hand and hits the floorboards with an echoing clatter.

“What’s wrong with the old sedative in water trick?” Cobb says accusingly, words slurring together, and his whole upper body beginning to sway.

Arthur moves quickly, catching Cobb as he goes face first on a dive toward the floor.

“I’ll tell you after your nap,” Arthur replies, turning Cobb gently onto his side.

 

Cobb wakes some four hours later, with a shout that makes Arthur jump and drop the book he is reading.

“Careful,” Arthur warns, after regaining his composure. “Don’t try to get up yet. You’re still pretty heavily sedated.”

Typically, Cobb ignores him and attempts to sit up. He fails, of course, and Arthur gets up from his seat and presses a glass of water into his hands before he can start attempt two. Cobb takes a mouthful and then looks over it, at Arthur, frowning.

“You tranquilised me,” Cobb says.

“I think you’ll find you tranquilised yourself,” Arthur responds, settling back down in the corner of the the sofa and picking up where he left off with his book.

“It’s your gun, you packed the stupid thing,” Cobb insists, unwilling to relent. “What were you thinking anyway? We’re extracting dream information from a person, we’re not hunting dragons!”

“I really hope the fact that you’re high is responsible for the implication that I packed that thing to catch mythical creatures,” Arthur says, calmly.

Cobb does manage to get to his feet then, somehow, and teeters over, sitting down next to Arthur. Not looking up from his book, Arthur reaches out and steadies Cobb so he doesn’t roll straight back off the sofa.

“I’m not dumb,” he says, poking Arthur in the chest with his finger.

Arthur looks at him, not able to stop the smile curling his lips. “I know, but I keep forgetting because you shot yourself in the leg with a tranquiliser.”

“Yeah,” Cobb says, licking his lips. “I feel funny.”

“Finish your water then, and lie down,” Arthur says, sternly.

Cobb does as he’s told, tipping the rest of the water into his mouth and then lying down on the sofa, arranging himself so that his head is pillowed in Arthur’s lap. Arthur thinks about pushing him away briefly, but at least he’s resting and not being an obstinate tool while he’s like this. He can feel Cobb watching him and he tilts his head down to look at him.

“What is it?”

“You’re so nice,” Cobb says, and Arthur blinks at him.

“Is the second half of that sentence ‘and reliable’?” Arthur asks, “Because if it is I’m going to push you off this sofa.”

“Okay,” Cobb says sleepily, clearly not having heard anything Arthur just said. He bumps his nose against Arthur’s knee and his eyes fall shut again.

Arthur leans his head back against the cushions, hastily trying to quell a familiar yearning feeling; that irrational fondness swelling somewhere under his ribs.

 

Arthur not sure how, or when, he dozes off, but when he wakes again in his hotel room, it’s dark, his left leg is asleep, and Cobb is making confused noises somewhere near his bellybutton. Arthur reaches out blindly for the lamp switch.

When he finally hits it, Cobb squints up at him, and there is definitely a clearer, albeit still slightly accusatory, look on his face. Cobb sits up slowly, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Christ, my head is killing me,” Cobb grits out. “What time is it?”

“Eight-thirty,” Arthur says, with a cursory glance at his wristwatch. “You should eat something, you’ll feel better.”

“I’ll order room service,” Cobb says, getting to his feet, and to his credit, only looking slightly unsteady. Arthur watches him carefully, ready to grab him if he begins to topple over. “Do you want anything?”

Arthur shakes his head. “I ate earlier, when you were unconscious on the floor.”

“Right,” Cobb says, with a subdued smile. “About that. I’d appreciate if you kept this incident between you and me.”

Arthur nods, attempting to keep his expression completely serious, but cracking at the edges slightly. “Yes, boss.”

“Thank you,” Cobb says, walking over to the door, and pulling it open. “I’ll see you first thing.”

“Cobb, wait,” Arthur says, quickly. “Just to clarify, are we extracting from a person or some dragons tomorrow?”

“Very funny, asshole,” Cobb says and snaps the door shut.

 

After tidying the room slightly, Arthur makes himself a gin and water and sits down in front of television. The channel he is watching seems to be full of infomercials and little else, so after about twenty minutes he flicks it off and just sits in the dark, enjoying the quiet, and the way the city lights blur through the raindrops on the window.

Arthur doesn’t know how long he sits there, but he’s starting to doze off again, when the sound of the door creaking open slowly pushes through his consciousness. Before he can even think open your eyes, Arthur’s standing up and has his gun pointed at the shadow in the doorway.

“It’s just me,” Cobb says, hands up in surrender.

Arthur exhales loudly, and swears. He hadn’t quite flicked the safety off, but Cobb should still know better than to creep up on him like that. Arthur puts his gun back on coffee table and squints against the half-light, his head still a bit foggy.

“What is it? Are you okay?” Arthur asks.

Cobb nods. “Can’t sleep.”

It makes sense, Arthur supposes; the sedative having knocked Cobb out for a good six or seven hours today. That’s more sleep than Arthur usually gets in a week. It’s just the nature of the job – it upsets the regular cycles.

Arthur just nods. “Gin?”

Cobb grunts in the affirmative and takes a few quick strides across the room, sitting perched on the edge of the sofa. Now that he’s not silhouetted against the doorway, Arthur can see Cobb properly. He’s in some old, worn thin flannelette pyjamas and his hair is mussed into a peak at the top of his head. Arthur resists the slightly compulsive desire to offer him a hairbrush.

“Everything is set up for tomorrow,” Arthur says, making his way back into the kitchenette, and retrieving another glass from the cupboard. “Just make sure you’re on Pell Street at eight-thirty five, and try not to shoot yourself.”

“I dreamed about you,” Cobb says, when Arthur brings him his drink.

It’s cool in his room now, so Arthur pulls on his sweater before he sits down on the sofa next to Cobb. “I thought you didn’t dream anymore?”

“I don’t, not usually. But when I was out before, the second time. You were there and I thought you were asleep, but when I touched you, you were cold – your skin was like ice and you wouldn’t wake up.” Cobb’s voice is rough with some sort of emotion, and that’s enough to make Arthur instinctively reach out to him and grip his shoulder.

“Dom, hey, it was a dream,” Arthur says. “I’m much too ambulatory to be dead.”

Cobb looks at him, nodding. “Right,”

“Right,” Arthur repeats, giving Cobb’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “So drink your gin and I’ll see if I can find a channel on this TV that is not entirely Zumba commercials.”

The remote is sitting on the sofa between them, and when Arthur reaches for it Cobb moves at the same time and gently presses his hand over Arthur’s, curling his fingers around his palm. Arthur goes very still, and waits for Cobb to remove his hand, and when he doesn’t, glances up at him.

“Are you checking for a pulse or something?” Arthur asks, throatily.

Cobb doesn’t answer, he just leans in and presses a kiss against Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur doesn’t move for the shock; doesn’t even breathe, and before he can even begin to process what is happening, Cobb seems to regain his senses for both of them and turns his head away.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, embarrassment heavy in his voice. “Sorry, Arthur. That was completely out of line.”

Arthur shrugs, feigning apathy, but his head feels light and fuzzy and he doesn’t quite trust himself to speak. Cobb springs to his feet, backing away, as if Arthur’s silence is further indication of offense. In truth, there are a whole lot of interesting feelings running through Arthur at the moment, but not one of them is anything like repulsion.

“I’m just going to go,” Cobb splutters, not even able to look at him.

“Dom,” Arthur says finally, and he’s surprised by how quiet his voice sounds. Cobb hears him though, and hesitates by the edge of the sofa.

Arthur puts his drink down and gets to his feet. Cobb turns to face him again, his skin a deep shade of red.

“I--,” Arthur starts, but the words die on his lips, doubt suddenly having clawed its way back into his judgement.

Cobb is watching him intently, waiting for him to go on, but somehow that makes it harder. It makes Arthur want to switch back into work mode; file everything he’s thinking and feeling into neat little boxes, arrange them alphabetically and then make a quick summary.

“Your head is probably still a bit addled from the sedative,” Arthur says finally.

Cobb nods, and his eyes look unnaturally dark. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I think we've established that I’m always right,” Arthur jokes, but there’s not much humour in his voice and the room is stiflingly quiet. Arthur can’t quite look at Cobb anymore.

“Arthur,” Cobb says, voice barely a whisper, and Arthur feels Cobb gently wrapping his fingers around his wrist, tugging Arthur forward so that they’re standing so close he can practically feel the intensity radiating from Cobb.

“Arthur.”

“What?” Arthur says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Talk to me,” Cobb says. “Please just tell me what you want.”

Arthur’s heart is slamming so hard against his chest that he feels lightheaded and completely unhinged.

“Do you know why I’m the best at what I do?” Arthur asks, suddenly.

Cobb pauses, obviously slightly thrown by his question. “There are a lot of reasons.”

“Control. I can control details, even in a dream. I file back the edges and fill the gaps and fit everything where it’s supposed to go. Even my paradoxes follow a formula I can control. It all makes sense to me and that’s why I do it so well.”

Cobb opens his mouth to speak, but Arthur holds up his hand and silences him.

“And then you show up again, out of nowhere; noisy and messy like a big fucking parade, and it throws everything out of balance. It’s always the same. You undo the order of everything and rip straight through what I’ve meticulously planned and constructed, and for what?”

Arthur lifts his gaze finally; slightly out of breath.

“I’m a parade?” Cobb asks, looking at him now with a tenderness that Arthur didn’t expect.

“It’s not my best analogy,” Arthur acknowledges. "I panicked."

“If it’s not a problem,” Cobb says. “I’d really like to kiss you again,”

“It’s only a problem that you’re still talking about it,” Arthur responds, over the lump in his throat.

Cobb’s kiss is a little more emphatic this time; needier. His lips are warm and still wet from gin and his stubble prickles against Arthur’s skin in a way that sets off electric sparks in Arthur's chest; waking something inside him that he’d buried a long time ago and almost forgotten about.

Arthur tilts his head up slightly and kisses Cobb back, snaking a hand across the side of Cobb’s face and into his hair. Arthur opens his mouth and tastes Cobbs lips; soft and warm against his; heat shuddering through his body when Cobb licks lazily against his tongue and slides his hands under Arthur’s old sweater, cold fingertips skimming across flushed skin.

It’s strange and it’s perfect. Arthur fists his free hand in the front of Cobb’s pyjamas, trying to anchor himself.

 

When Arthur wakes again several hours later, it’s to the sound of rain. It’s heavy and roars against the roof like waves thrashing against rock. Arthur wonders for a moment if he could have dreamed everything from before, but then he hears slow, even breathing; realises that the press of warmth against him, the puff of warm air on the back of his neck is Cobb.

Arthur twists his body slowly and carefully, rolling over so that he can face Cobb’s sleeping form. He’s seen Cobb asleep before, countless times. But this intimate—this naked. The sight of him seems different now and Arthur feels it like a gentle ache in his chest. He reaches out before he can stop himself, gingerly pushing a stray strand of hair back from Cobb’s face.

Arthur jerks his hand away when Cobb stirs and his eyes open slightly. His gaze focuses on Arthur and softens with recognition.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” Arthur whispers.

“S’okay,” Cobb says, voice thick with sleep, and he scoots closer, nestling his head in the crook of Arthur’s neck and wrapping an arm tightly around his waist; pulling Arthur close. Figures that he’s a cuddler, Arthur thinks, but after a beat, lets himself slip his arm around Cobb’s shoulders.

“You okay?” Cobb asks, voice muffled and warm. His hair is tickling the underside of Arthur’s chin.

“Mm,” Arthur hums, and his fingers trace absent patterns on Cobb’s shoulder blades until Cobb’s body goes slack and he starts snoring loudly against Arthur’s chest.

Arthur stays awake for as long as he can.

 

The jarring, mechanical blare of Arthur’s alarm wakes them both at six. Arthur untangles his limbs from Cobb’s as he remembers where he is; remembers what day it is and automatically switches into work mode. He’s barely upright before he’s on his cell to call the mark’s usual driver and tell him Mr. Charles won’t be needing his services today.

When he hangs up the phone Cobb is already clothed, and gives him a quick nod. “I’m going to get ready. I’ll see you on Pell Street. Call me if you run into any problems before then.”

“It’ll be fine,” Arthur says, getting out of the bed and self-consciously taking the sheet with him. “I’ll see you there.”

Cobb nods, and pauses like he’s going to say something, then heads toward the door. Cobb’s halfway out of the room before he reconsiders and doubles back again, walking brusquely over to Arthur and giving him a quick kiss on the mouth.

“See you there,” Cobb says, with a furtive smile.

Arthur smiles back at him, suddenly very awake. He waits until Cobb leaves, and then drags himself and the bed sheet into the bathroom. Arthur turns on the hot water and glances at himself in the mirror. His hair is sticking up at the back like a crest, and there’s a hickey on his neck. Arthur presses his fingers over it briefly, trying to remember when Cobb did that. So much of last night is an unreal blur, but he remembers other parts of it so clearly. The taste of Cobb; the salty, sticky sweat between them. The involuntary noises Arthur made; didn’t know he was capable of making. The desperate way Cobb muttered Arthur’s name against his ear when he came.

Arthur gets into the shower and dips his head under the water; trying to clear his head and concentrate on the day ahead of him. He turns over the details of the job, starting with the mark, in his head, and stores everything else on the periphery.

It’s when Arthur is out of the shower and drying himself off that he glimpses himself in the mirror again, and startles so hard he almost slips and loses his footing. Arthur’s sure it must have been the condensation or a trick of the light, but for a moment he could have almost sworn his reflection was the spitting image of Cobb’s. Arthur stares at the mirror for some time, waiting for his pulse to steady; reassuring himself that it’s really his own confused reflection looking back at him.

“You need to sleep more,” Arthur says aloud to himself, and goes to extricate the driver’s uniform from his wardrobe.

 

Lloyd Charles is in his mid-forties, with curly ginger hair and colourful taste in tennis shorts. Arthur pulls up by his driveway just as he is bustling out of his front door, tennis racquet under his arm.

“Who are you?” Charles says in a clipped British accent, furrowing his brow at Arthur.

“My name’s Ian, Mr. Charles, I’m from the agency,” Arthur says with a polite, and he hopes, convincing smile, as he opens the back passenger door. “Murray is unwell. Food poisoning.”

“I see,” Charles says with a nod, and settles quickly into his seat. “Do you know where the courts are?”

“Of course,” Arthur responds, proffering a bottle of water. “Drink?”

It all goes pretty quickly after that. Cobb is right where he is supposed to be and when Arthur pulls up and Cobb jumps into the back passenger seat, Charles is not completely out but pliant enough that he doesn’t put up a fight when Cobb slides a needle under his skin.

Arthur pulls into a side street and flicks the switch that locks all the doors. Discarding his driver’s hat, he crawls over his chair and into the back of the car.

“You ready?” Arthur asks, and Cobb nods, rolling up his sleeve. “Remember, fifteen minutes out here—“

“Three hours in there, I know,” Cobb finishes for him, putting on the headphones. Arthur slips an IV line into Cobb’s arm, and then does the same for himself, leaning back against the headrest.

“See you in there,” Arthur says, and then hits the button on the PASIV.

 

He’s in a hallway full of students. They bump past Arthur noisily, chattering indistinguishably. Arthur straightens up, quickly scanning the area for the mark. He doesn’t have to look long before he spots the mop of ginger hair lingering by a locker to his left.

“Lloyd Charles,” Arthur says coolly. “Please come with me to the principal’s office.”

A group of students nearby make teasing ooohhh sounds and Arthur shoots them a stern, warning look, before directing his attention back to the mark.

“Now as opposed to later, please, Lloyd.“

Young Charles looks terrified, but does as he’s told and follows Arthur into the staff rooms. Arthur counts the corners as he goes, aware that if Lloyd was paying attention and not just following him obediently, he would realise they’d taken far too many left turns for this to be any regular school building.

They reach the principal’s office and Arthur gestures for Charles to take a seat, before knocking on the door and stepping into the small room.

“Right on time,” Cobb says, with a smile. He looks ridiculous with his hair parted on the side and in a too-small tweed suit, but then, Arthur supposes, he looks pretty ridiculous himself. “He’s with you?”

“Just outside,” Arthur responds. “Thought I’d let him sweat it for a little while.”

“Good idea,” Cobb says. “He’ll be more likely to crack when we speak to him.”

Arthur nods and sits down. Cobb drums his fingers on the desk impatiently.

“Should we talk about what happened last night?” Cobb asks, suddenly.

“Probably not a good idea while we’re on the clock, and in someone's subconscious,” Arthur says, quickly looking out the window and hoping the flush of heat on his skin isn’t showing on his face.

Cobb nods. “I don’t regret it.”

Arthur doesn’t move his gaze from the window, but something uncomfortable settles in his stomach. “...But you’d rather it didn’t happen again?”

“No,” Cobb says, sounding distinctly annoyed. “Would you rather it didn’t happen again?”

“No,” Arthur grits out with some ferocity, turning to look at Cobb. Their eyes lock heatedly for just a second, and then Cobb breaks, smiling across the room at Arthur.

“I guess that’s settled then.”

 

Twenty minutes and a few games of cards later, they haul Lloyd Charles into the office. Arthur stands by quietly as “Principal Cobb” interrogates Charles about an allegation that he and the new Fischer girl were planning on skipping Math class this afternoon.

Charles denies it, of course, but Cobb pushes all the right buttons, uses all the key memory triggers and when Cobb finally excuses Lloyd, and they exchange pointed glances, Arthur knows they’re close.

As suspected, Lloyd doesn’t return to class afterwards. Arthur and Cobb discreetly follow him all the way to the back of the school, and watch him disappear into a dilapidated tin shed behind the football field.

“This is it,” Cobb says, heading towards the shed. “Come on.”

But Arthur doesn’t move. He can’t. His feet are rooted to the spot and he doesn’t understand, but he knows something has gone wrong.

He can’t go inside that place.

“Arthur, come on,” Cobb says. He’s almost at the door now, and gesturing for Arthur to follow.

“No,” Arthur says, his voice thin and his hands beginning to shake. “Don’t.”

Cobb stops, and turns to look at him. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t go in,” Arthur repeats, dumbly.

Cobb shoots him a puzzled look. “Arthur, it’s just an old proprietors garage, it’s fine, would you get over here?”

Arthur shakes his head, his whole body is vibrating now with a fear he doesn’t understand. Cobb seems to be feeling no such thing, and loses patience with him, reaching out and opening the garage door.

It’s that movement that finally spurs Arthur into action, and he bolts, panicked, across the remaining space and manages the grab the back of Cobb’s shirt before he steps inside. Arthur pulls back with too much force, sending Cobb stumbling back into him which sends them both toppling over onto the grass.

“Arthur, what the fuck are you doing!?” Cobb hisses, rubbing at his throat.

“You can’t go in there,” Arthur repeats.

“Arthur, for godssake,” Cobb snaps, clearly beyond frustrated at this point. “Our mark has just led us to a place that may have the answers regarding a missing woman. Even if that place is dangerous—Even if it’s full of fucking sharks, we’re in a dream, remember? When we die, we wake up.”

Arthur nods, trying to steady his breathing. He knows Cobb is right. He’s got to focus. He’s being irrational.

“Arthur?” Cobb asks, and his expression has changed from one of frustration to worry.

“I’m fine,” Arthur says, shakily. “Let’s go find out what this guy is hiding.”

Cobb helps him to his feet, giving Arthur's arm a quick squeeze, before pulling out his gun and heading through the doorway.

Arthur takes a deep breath and follows. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, and when they do he can see the shed is full of old, dust covered school desks and chairs. There is no sign of Charles.

“Where’d he go?” Arthur asks.

Before Cobb can answer a third voice cuts through the darkness.

“He wasn’t ever here,” says the unmistakeably female voice.

Arthur and Cobb both turn simultaneously and point their weapons at the woman emerging from the shadows. Light dances across her face as she moves, and even in those short glimpses Arthur can see how beautiful she is.

“Ms Fisher?” Cobb asks.

“That’s not my name, Dom,” she says, her accent curling around the vowels. She turns and sets her gaze directly on Arthur. “You know, don’t you?”

“Cobb—," Arthur says, and he’s surprised by how alarmed his voice sounds –-almost as if it’s a cry for help.

She walks right up to Arthur then, prying his gun gently, carefully from his hands. He doesn’t resist, and he doesn’t know why he doesn’t, but she’s so close now he can smell the soap in her hair. It smells familiar, and something else, deeper than that. He cares about this woman, Arthur realises. This aching feeling inside him is love. Raw and painful, and utterly overwhelming.

“Move away from him,” Cobb orders, but she ignores him.

“You know my name, don’t you, Arthur?” She says, gently pressing her hand against his shirt; over his heart. “It’s there because it’s always been there; because you remember details -- it’s your job to remember.”

Arthur is searching her expression for an explanation, for any sign of malice or deception, but her gaze is steady and clear. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean,” he says finally.

She shakes her head, eyes moist. “You try to forget, but you can’t.”

Arthur opens his mouth to protest but then abruptly, it’s there; pressing like ice water against the back of his skull.

She must see something; a change in his expression, because she grips the front of his shirt more tightly. “You must say it.”

“Mal,” Arthur says. “You’re Mal.”

“Who?” Cobb asks, voice tinged with frustration. “Arthur, what is it? Do you know this woman?”

Arthur blinks hard, trying to clear the confused jumble of images his head. Trying to piece it all together in the right order. “I-- I don’t know. I think, Cobb I think she’s--”

“Clever boy,” Mal says, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Always such a clever boy, our Arthur.”

“Mal,” Arthur says quietly, voice wavering. “What did I forget?”

Arthur doesn’t see the gun go off, and he barely even hears a sound. But he feels it; an explosion of blinding, excruciating pain in his lower back, cutting him almost in half. Everything seems to slow down and flicker out of focus and Arthur’s only vaguely aware that he’s stumbling backward, groaning, and then his legs are folding under him.

There is blood --so much blood on his hands and arms and spreading out across his shirt.

When his eyes can focus again Cobb is there beside him; his arm underneath and across the back of Arthur’s shoulders holding him up; the other hand pressed down against his skin, trying to stem the flow of blood.

“I’m sorry,” Cobb says, looking frantic. “Christ, Arthur, I wasn’t aiming for you, I didn’t mean to--”

“Mal,” Arthur mutters, barely coherent. “What did I forget?”

“Stay still,” Cobb barks.

Arthur hadn’t even realised he was moving. He can’t think properly. His skin feels wet; sweaty and his hair is sticking to his face. “Time’s almost up,” he says, and coughs; warm, wet liquid spilling up over his bottom lip.

“You’re not going to last that long,” Cobb says frankly, releasing the safety on his gun, and pressing the muzzle lightly against Arthur’s temple. “I’ll see you when you wake up.”

Arthur nods, and closes his eyes.

 

The garage door is locked, it’s never locked.

It’s never locked.

 

Arthur wakes coughing and struggling for air. It’s dark and his eyes can’t quite focus yet, but a hand presses down, heavy and reassuring, against his shoulder.

“Arthur, it’s okay,” a voice says.

“Cobb?” Arthur asks, reaching out.

“No, it’s me,” The blurry figure says, moving closer; into focus. “Yusuf. Arthur, you’re okay, you were dreaming, remember?”

“Cobb,” Arthur repeats, unsteadily. “Where is he? Is he still dreaming?”

Yusuf’s expression changes slightly and Arthur’s stomach drops. Something – a memory flickers at the back of his head – his hands fumbling, shaking the handle of a garage door.

“Cobb is gone, Arthur,” Yusuf says quietly. “You know that.”

Arthur goes still, suddenly unable to move. The pieces; fragments of memory are slowly sliding back into place. The mark’s dream wasn’t real, because all of it, all of it was him. There was no job, no mark, no Ms Fischer, no hotels, none of it.

No Cobb.

Cobb is gone.

He knows this, Arthur realises; he’s remembering now; information washing over him in waves.

 

The smell of exhaust fumes stung his nose when the lock on the garage door finally snapped, and Arthur pushed his way in. It was so dark inside, and the air was thick and stifling and wrong. It took a moment for Arthur’s eyes to adjust, for him to see.

 

“Fuck,” Arthur groans, and Yusuf is there to catch him as he rolls off the cot, moving him quickly to the sink so he can be sick.

How many times has he done this? Arthur thinks, wiping his mouth. How long have I been under?

Arthur goes back over what he does know in his head, taking stock of the facts. After the inception job, when it was over, Cobb had gone home and got his kids and his life back. Arthur had followed him, like he always had. That was how it was meant to end. Happily ever after.

 

But an idea, as they say, is the most resilient parasite.

 

“My totem won’t stop spinning,” Cobb had told him over coffee, as easily as if he was talking about the weather.

“What?“ Arthur said, confused. “What are you talking about? It’s not spinning –-it’s not even here. You quit the business, remember?”

Cobb reached out across the table and took Arthur’s hand. “No, Arthur, listen to me, this is important. I think this, all of it, is wrong.”

The words stung. Arthur pulled his hand out of Cobb’s grip and stepped away from him. “Fuck, Cobb. Do you know who you sound like?”

Cobb just looked through him, as if Arthur wasn’t even there.

Arthur embraced Cobb tightly then, pulling him close, as if he could make him see if he just held on long enough. “Please, Dom,” Arthur whispered against his ear. “Don't-- Just, stay with me.”

 

Arthur reaches out and grips Yusuf’s arm. “Put me back under,” he orders.

“No,” Yusuf says, just as firmly. “That’s enough.”

“I’ll find someone else if you refuse to help me,” Arthur says, and he knows he probably could do it too, but it’s a half-hearted threat at best. He’s so tired and he just wants to stop remembering.

Yusuf shakes his head, just once. “Go home, Arthur. Cobb wouldn’t want you here living out the rest of your life in dreams.”

Arthur leans forward like he’s going to be sick again, muscles clenched so tightly he can barely speak. "Yusuf, please."

Yusuf just hands him his jacket.

 

Miles had arrived when Arthur was pulling Cobb’s lifeless body from the car. He dropped his keys in the driveway and ran to them; his frantic voice permeating through panic and numbness and despair. Arthur held onto Dom until the paramedics arrived and they gently, firmly pried his hands away. Dizzy, Arthur stumbled out of the garage, barely able to see; blinking against the too-bright sunlight. Someone he didn’t recognise asked about the notifying the children and Miles broke down; slow, horrible sobs wracking his body, while Arthur watched from miles away, holding his breath; afraid if he let go, whatever came out would never stop.

 

There are six messages on his machine, two from the power company, one from Saito asking about a job and three from Ariadne asking where he is. His apartment is exactly the same as he remembers it (how long has it been?); meticulously clean except for the tell-tale dust piling up around the edges.

(How long has it been?)

Arthur showers in lukewarm water, shaves, and finds his die on the bureau in his bedroom.

He rolls it and it lands on one.

It’s the number he was thinking of, but he can’t remember if it’s the number he chose.

This is reality then, Arthur thinks, glancing at himself in the mirror. His face is thinner than he remembers, and he needs a haircut. He heads to the cupboard to find himself some clothes, moving sluggishly, as though his limbs are stuck in mud.

There’s a shoebox in the bottom of his cupboard and he remembers what is inside before he even reaches for it. Cobb’s smiling face looks back at Arthur, beaming; the kids hanging from his legs in their backyard. Arthur took the unfocused photo as Cobb moved in close (James was still attached to one leg and laughing), and he pressed a kiss to Arthur’s mouth for the first time since Mal left them.

Arthur can still remember how Cobb’s eyes crinkled at the corners that day; the way his breath tasted, every mark and crease on his face. Arthur still remembers the warmth that spread out underneath his skin when they went back inside and Cobb’s hand rested lightly, casually against the small of his back.

Too much like a dream.

Arthur puts the lid back on the shoebox, gets dressed and then makes himself a coffee. It tastes bitter and wrong in his mouth.

Arthur rolls his die.

One.

He stares at it for a long time, willing his head to clear.

This is not a dream, Arthur tells himself. He knows because in the dream he was steady and certain and knew every floor and every room and even if it wasn’t right, it all made sense to him.

Nothing real makes sense.

Arthur finishes his coffee, mostly out of spite.

 

When Arthur wakes, it’s to the sound of someone knocking on his front door.

“S’too early, Cobb” he mutters, through the half-awake haze of sleep.

“Arthur, open the door!”

The voice cuts through Arthur’s stupor and he realises with an unpleasant jolt that’s not Cobb, and of course it isn’t. Arthur tips himself out of his bed and shuffles to his front door.

Ariadne is glaring at him when he opens it. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Yusuf’s,” Arthur says, simply, deciding he’s too tired to try and lie his way out of it. He gestures vaguely at his forearm, hoping that she’ll get it and not ask too many questions.

She gets it, and her frown deepens. “In Mombasa? Arthur, you could’ve been killed.”

“Cobol went into liquidation last year, they’re not interested in me.”

This doesn’t seem to reassure Ariadne much at all. She crosses her arms, and shakes her head. “You can’t keep dreaming instead of grieving, Arthur—“

“What do you want?” Arthur snaps, more harshly than he intended.

Ariadne doesn’t answer; she just steps inside and hugs him fiercely. The annoyance inside Arthur slowly fizzles out.

“I’m fine,” Arthur says, lightly. “Really.”

Abruptly, Ariadne lets him go. “Good,” she says. “Because I need a sofa to crash on for a couple of days, so unless you have any serious objections?”

Arthur has plenty, but he also knows enough to realise when Ariadne isn’t going to take no for an answer.

“How many days?” he asks.

Ariadne merely grins at him in response, and drops her bag on the floor. Arthur sighs, and picks it up and moves out of the way, while Ariadne goes and turns the kettle on.

Chai tea with honey is what Ariadne presses into his hands several minutes later. Arthur’s perched on the end of the sofa and slightly confused because he didn’t even know he had that stuff in his pantry. Though he realises, with a twinge of discomfort, that it could have been from his last place. He’d packed so much of it up into boxes and then not looked at it again.

Ariadne sits down opposite him, pulling her knees up against her chest. “How are Phillipa and James?”

Arthur puts the tea down, squinting against the sunlight shining in through the window.

“I don’t know,” he says, shortly. "Ask Miles."

“You should go and see them,” Ariadne pushes, hopefully. “It might help, you know?”

Despite his best efforts to keep his expression neutral, Arthur knows his gaze is cold.

“Who would that help, exactly?” he grits out.

“Arthur, you have to stop punishing yourself,” Ariadne protests. “Cobb spent too long in dreams and lost his grip on reality, there’s nothing you could have--”

“Enough,” Arthur says and gets to his feet. But he must move too quickly or he didn’t get enough sleep, because everything sways and blurs in front of him and he stumbles into darkness.

 

When Arthur wakes again, he’s on the floor and his head hurts. Ariadne is leaning over him, eyes wide and fearful, and there’s something else; another sound ringing in his ears. “Are you okay?” she asks

“Do you hear that?” Arthur interrupts, something hopeful stirring inside of him.

Ariadne shakes her head. “Hear what?”

“I think it’s music,” Arthur says, straining to hear better. But just as quickly it has stopped, and all he can hear now is his breathing and the whirr of his old refrigerator.

“When did you last eat?” Ariadne asks.

 

Ariadne stays for the rest of the week, and Arthur doesn’t mind the company, so he doesn’t say anything much about it. Neither of them can cook well so they order a lot of take-out and watch a lot of daytime television.

On the second week, during a wholesome lunch of cheese pizza, Ariadne accidentally lets slip that she’s been seeing Eames.

Arthur grins at her, shaking his head. “That is profoundly disturbing.”

“Shut up,” Ariadne snaps back, but her cheeks are flushed and she’s grinning too.

“Did you tell him we made out during the inception job?” Arthur teases, wiping his mouth with a serviette. “He should definitely be worried about our heated sexual chemistry.”

Ariadne rolls her eyes. “Whatever, Eames told me you played that trick on him that first time you worked with him, too.”

“True.” Arthur says, nodding. “You should be worried.”

Ariadne throws a paper cup at him and it bounces off his forehead.

Arthur blinks. “Eames is rubbing off on you already, I see.”

“Hey, if you want to critisize my taste in men,” Ariadne says. “At least Eames has never shot himself with a tranquiliser gun.”

“You were there when that happened?” Arthur asks, smiling a little wistfully.

“All of us were. You don’t remember?” Ariadne asks.

“No, I do now. The memories are just a little mixed up, sometimes,” Arthur admits.

Ariadne nods, but her expression is slightly uneasy. “That’s why I quit dreams, you know? It’s beautiful, but it’s so dangerous, opening up our minds and playing around in the depths of our own subconscious. Never being really sure of what is real, and what isn’t.”

Arthur’s smile falters.

 

Arthur wakes during the night most nights. Old habits and natural sleep cycles die hard. Something like that. Tonight he gets up for a glass of water, padding quietly through the house, mindful not to wake Ariadne. Arthur sits his glass on his bureau and slides back into bed. He rearranges his pillows and turns onto his side, and then he feels the warm press against him; unmistakable and impossible.

“I miss you,” Cobb whispers against his ear.

Arthur knows this is fucked up, that he’s losing it, but Cobb is smoothing back his hair and pressing gentle kisses against his neck and he just can’t make himself stop.

“I miss you, too,” he says, quietly. “But you’re dead, Cobb. You’re gone.”

“I’m waiting for you.” Cobb says, insistently. “You just have to wake up.”

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, and for a moment he’s certain he can hear music again.

 

Eames has a job offer for him, Ariadne tells him. Legit research work; he doesn’t even have to go into the field.

Arthur shakes his head, and continues vacuuming under his desk. “I don’t think so.”

“Come on Arthur, hear him out, that’s all I’m asking," Ariadne pleads. "You need to get out of this house and start living again.”

Arthur switches off the vacuum. “Fine, Tuesday night. Invite him over for dinner and we’ll discuss it. But I can’t promise you anything.”

 

The next day Arthur drives out to the cemetery. It’s right on the edge of the city, and there are long stretches of headstones and dead flowers scattered across them by the wind.

When he gets to Cobb’s grave, Arthur’s faintly surprised to find Saito standing there.

“Do you think he was happy?” Arthur asks, and Saito looks up, startled.

“I’m sorry?”

“Cobb,” Arthur elaborates, tucking his hands into his pockets. “When he died.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Saito says.

Arthur’s not sure what he’s talking about either, but he can’t make the words stop now he’s started. “I mean, if he believed this world wasn’t real, and he thought he was going home, he must’ve been happy?”

Saito doesn’t say anything, so Arthur continues.

“So, what is worse, then? Living a long life believing you’re in the wrong place, lost and wandering through someone else’s dream. Or dying happy; certain that when the pain is over and you open your eyes again, you’ll be with everyone you loved?”

Saito seems to consider this for a moment, and then he turns to face Arthur properly.

“I think it’s important to live, Arthur, especially in darkness when you hope someone will wake you.”

Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just nods and leaves Saito alone; making his way over to Mal’s headstone to leave her some flowers.

 

We’re out of milk is the message on Arthur’s phone when he gets back his car. It’s from Ariadne, and though Arthur’s not really sure why she couldn’t just walk downstairs and grab herself some from the seven eleven, he takes a detour to a shopping centre to pick up milk as requested.

For mid-morning the centre is incredibly full of people; whole families shuffle past and knock into Arthur; crowding him as he tries to get to the supermarket. One particularly burly man knocks into him so hard Arthur stumbles backwards and instinctively reaches for his gun.

That does it. Quickly turning around, Arthur pushes through the crowds of people and heads back in the direction he came from. He finds his car and it’s only when he slips back into the driver’s seat that he realises he’s sweating.

Arthur switches the radio on, and when Edith Piaf’s voice greets him through the speakers, he curses loudly and switches it off again.

“You’ve been here too long,” Mal whispers against his ear. “They’re turning on you.”

Arthur shakes his head, closing his eyes and trying to block her out.

“Don’t you want to be with us, Arthur?” Mal continues. “Don’t you still love us?

Arthur laughs then, a harsh, cold sound.

“Of course I do.”

Mal presses a kiss against his temple; she smells exactly like he remembers.

“Then you know what comes next.”

 

Arthur thinks Eames must have been briefed by Ariadne before he came over, because he’s polite and restrained for at least a half hour, before he starts in on the “friendly banter,” and even then he’s careful not to use Cobb's name. Eames tells a lot of stories about forgeries he’s done recently and Arthur even feels a tug of something like nostalgia amongst the calm that’s settled in.

So he tells them he’ll take the research job, and it’s not too hard to pretend he means it.

“I’m so glad you’re doing this,” Ariadne says, when Eames is out of earshot. “We’ve been so worried about you.”

Her expression is soft and earnest and Arthur almost wants to tell her the truth. It’s so easy to forget she’s really probably just a flicker; a shadow in his subconscious. Maybe something pretty he saw on a subway once.

“Miles wanted me to give you this,” Ariadne continues, pressing something cold into his hands and pulling him out of his thoughts. “He said he found it under a chest of drawers. He thinks it must have fallen back there.”

Arthur looks down at the old, slightly rusted top. He hasn’t seen it in such a long time and it feels heavy and strange in his hand.

He wants to tell Ariadne thank you, but Arthur’s throat has closed up and he only just manages to excuse himself, before the ache that he’s been holding down for so long spills over.

 

Arthur waits until Ariadne and Eames have left, clears the table, places their mugs in the dishwasher and takes the elevator to the roof. It’s just dusk, and the half-light casts reddish shadows over the expanse of concrete around him. Arthur tucks his hands under his jacket and looks beyond the rooftop. He can see lights glowing all over the city, almost too breathtaking to be real.

The cool wind rushes against Arthur’s face and he can hear the music again, and he wonders.

“We miss you, Mal and I,” Cobb hums against the back of his neck. “Come home.”

He’s never said no to Dom before, not once.

But Arthur takes the top out of his pocket, presses it between his thumb and forefinger, and hesitates.