Inception is intellectual property of Christopher Nolan and its distributors.

Edited 05/2018

Chapter 05
Inside (Wo)man

So far, being the interim personal assistance to a glorified company face was anything but straining. In fact, it was more of an annoyance for Amelia. It was an inconvenience that she had to keep up a façade of a bumbling, fresh face redhead. It was an annoyance that she had to deal with her backside being groped by business associates who believed it was their right. It was an annoyance that Amelia had yet to make it to lunch without feeling the desire to throttle someone. Instead of breaking character, she just smiled, battered her eyelashes and gave a bit of a giggle while the other assistance in the room—Mandy? Sandy? Cindy? Something Amelia couldn't be bothered to remember—glared daggers into the side of her head.

In fact, Amelia was reasonably sure that, if given a chance, the girl would stab her with a blunt envelope opener.

"So, you're the new girl."

The jerk Amelia's shoulders gave at the sudden acidic ton was all apart of the act, and part reality; she had been a bit caught off guard by the tone. The rail-thin blonde before her put her hands flat on the desk, leaning forward, with a snide look on her face.

Textbook dominance stance, predictable, easy enough to defuse…or rile up.

"If you want to put it that way," Amelia replied snapping her moleskin shut. "Then sure. That's me, Ella."

"Not very impressive than," the snide look intensified. "I don't know how you got this position, but you should know a million other girls would have killed for it. My best friend was up for the position. She had it, so what makes you so special?"

"Well that'd be pretty drastic, they sound like they might be unstable, your best friend included." Yes, poking the bear was the way to go. Always. "And to answer your question, I like to think it's because of my shining personality."

The blonde backed off the desk, arms crossed. "Doubtful."

Defensive, Amelia's mind answered, that fight is gone.

"Anyway, it shouldn't take you long to get the axe, and my friend will slide into your place, so don't get comfortable. I'm Shannon, and I've been…tasked with informing you of how things run—"

"I thought the book was for that?"

"No," she said as if that fact had been obvious. "The book is a guideline, so don't interrupt me again."

Instead of taking the bait, Amelia grit her teeth, staying silent.

"You are Robert's assistance, obviously. I am the assistant to Peter. Hopefully, you'll only be temporary but understand this: working for Robert or Peter—it will set you up to work in any field, for anyone," Shannon explained in a very matter-of-fact tone. "So I hope you understand that when I say this is a challenging and demanding job for which you are completely and utterly unprepared for that I do know what I'm talking about. And it will be my head on the chopping block if you fuck this up."

And that's when the chain on the preverbal rabid dog snapped; the Ella Sampson cover cracked.

"For fuck's sake, the job isn't a brain surgeon's position. It's not even on par with giving yourself stitches as an unlicensed medical personnel. Lighten up."

Needlessly to say, Amelia knew from that moment that she and her co-worker were not destined to be best friends or even frienemies. She was right though, the job was anything but brain surgery, maybe on close to cutting off a cast (she had done that once, and never again; the scar on her right forearm was the reminder). The details though—a bottle of Voss, absolutely frigid was to be kept at his desk in the 3 o'clock position; the only coasters to be used, were a set of three made of Central American zebrawood. That didn't even touch the breakfast and lunch requirements that just continued to cement the fact that Richard Fischer Jr was a bit of a diva, or was at least used to being treated as such.

"Gentlemen, I believe we've finally reached a good agreement here."

Oh, thank god.

There was the sound of shuffling paper over the voice of Richard Morrow as the men around the table began gathering their belongings and chatting amongst themselves. Sitting in her chair near the wall, behind Robert's chair, of course, Amelia smoothly slid her pen behind her right ear before snapping her moleskin closed to hide her lack of note taking (but more importantly, her doodling). It was only when the majority was out the room, and Robert was making for the door that she spoke.

"Sir, your reservation for lunch at Dorsia have been confirmed," Amelia ignored the surprised look that crossed Robert's face. Forgot I was here, this is not starting out well. "And the car is already waiting downstairs on you."

"Good, good." Robert seemed to mutter, straightening his suit, brow furrowed. "Ellen, correct? You've replaced Lisa?"

"Ella, sir." Amelia corrected, her smile plastered on her face as they exited the room, her a step behind him. "Ella Sampson, and only temporarily until they find a permanent replacement."

"Well you're off to a good start then, do you—"

"Have your afternoon schedule? Of course," she answered as he boarded the elevator without giving her even a glance, expecting her to follow him like a lost puppy. Amelia didn't disappoint. "I've already synced it to both your and my own phone, as well as both computers. You have a meeting at 2:45 with a representative from British Petroleum and then a phone conference with the South American supplier at 4."

Robert just gave a light hmmm in response while Amelia hit the button—parking garage floor level—and the doors shut, leaving them in silence. The ride down would take fewer than 5 minutes seeing as they were on the top floor.

"Scrap the South American conference," Robert said as they passed the third floor. "I'd like to spend that time in the Suite."

The way he spoke that phrase—the Suite—as if it were words made of spun glass made it clear to Amelia what he meant. His father. Clearly, Robert Fischer Jr. was unaware that Ella Sampson knew what he meant when he used the phrase, but Amelia, she knew. That was her job, to know everything—even the things she shouldn't. That's how people like her, in her line of work, survived. You know more than a little bit about everything, and you're much more dangerous than people suspect.

Amelia nodded, her fingers moving swiftly across the screen of her phone. "Of course, sir. "

Ding.

"Consider it done," she finished as the doors slide to the garage floor, the car and driver waiting patiently before them.

Robert nodded as he stepped off, moving towards the car waiting. "Good. I should be back—"

"By 1:30, no later. I know, sir."

Laying it on too thick, pull back. Pull back. Smile. No, no, too much, a little less. Perfect.

He stopped, turning back a bit while his hand rested on the car roof and passenger door. There wasn't much of a facial expression happening, but there was something there in the eyes. Those stupidly blue, puppy dog eyes that disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared; but not quick enough for Amelia not to catch.

Hook, line, and sinker.

"You're not Lisa," He stated bluntly. "But you're damn close."

And with those words Robert slipped into the back seat of the black Crown Victorian, the driver shutting the door swiftly before all but jogging around to the driver's side. Within seconds the car was pulling away from the curb and up to ground level, leaving Amelia alone in the garage.

She waited only a moment before pulling out her own personal phone and dialed the number she had memorized that morning. It rang twice before being answered, the words tumbling out of her mouth quickly.

"We need to meet, I have about an hour and a half. It concerns the job."

. . .

Of course, the meeting place Eames had picked was a busy place for the professional working class. Usually, it wouldn't have worked for their sort of…business, but at the moment meshed well with their façade of an upper-middle-class bourgeois. The frequent guest of Pure was dressed in a smart business suit or a sharp skirt and heels combo; there was a nonverbal dress code in the sea of black, navy and white as Amelia squeezed herself through the work lunch crowd. It had taken her twenty minutes in a cab to get from Fischer-Morrow to the restaurant, and another five no thanks to her phone's map app.

"Sorry," Amelia huffed out as she dropped into the seat across from Eames. "Got a bit turned around, you know."

Eames took a sip from his drink—scotch on the rocks?—shrugging. "Wasn't waiting long. What have you got?"

Straight down to business, then? Ok.

"Here," Amelia pulled a phone from her bag, sliding it across the table. "You want to know Morrow, this will help. Any calls that man gets, you'll get records of. Corporate espionage aside, it'll allow you know the real man."

Eames put down his near-empty glass in favor of the phone and seeming satisfied with her work, pocketed it. There was still that tension, the words spoken in anger and liquor still hanging in the air, but with practice, it was easier to ignore. Work was something both thieves knew well, like the back of their hands in the dark—or truthfully each other in the dark.

Think about the job. Keep it professional.

"I've already copied both schedules to our phones so we'll know the perfect date for Cobb, so tell him not to worry as I'm sure he is."

"Don't—"

"Hi, what can I get you miss?"

Amelia's eyes broke off Eames to look at the waiter who had just appeared next to her like magic. As easy as pie, she slid back into Ella, a soft smile appearing on her lips as she leaned towards the man just enough.

"Well Brian," She answered after glancing at his nametag. "I'll have a double whisky sour if that's not too much trouble."

"No problem, is that all?"

"Yes, but make sure to get my friend," Amelia gave a wave to Eames, "here another scotch on the rocks, I'm sure he was drinking Vat 69, am I right?"

The waiter smiled, not even bothering to write the order down. "Yes ma'am, I'll get right on it."

"Thank you, Brian."

Taking the dismissal waiter Brian disappeared towards the bar, leaving the duo at the table again alone and in silence. The awkwardness was back in full swing.

"Should you really be drinking on the job?"

The smile dropped right off her face; Amelia looked more like a mannequin than a person.

"If I remember correctly you always more of a liquid diet sort of man."

Eames shrugged, finger absentmindedly tracing the rim of his glass. "People change."

"No," She said. "They don't."

"You certainly did."

Walked right into that one.

Any response she may have had was interrupted by the delivery of their drinks, her whisky sour not seeming anywhere near as appealing as it had moments before. She felt like a stone had dropped from her stomach onto the floor, empty and full at the same time. Devastated, that's what she was feeling at that second.

"I don't—" Amelia started, only to stop and try to gather her thoughts. She felt rusty. "I don't want any of this," she motioned between them, "to get in the way of this job. This is purely business. There's no need to dredge up the past, not now. There's nothing concerning us that is going to become connected to this job. I'm not going to jeopardize this."

The message was clear, and Amelia could only hope Eames would understand. They would both act as if their broken relationship had never happened.

"Okay."

"Okay?" She repeated incredulously.

He took a sip of his scotch.

"Yeah that's it," he answered only to pause and then elaborate. "Look, despite everything…I still trust your judgment when it comes to the job. I know you wouldn't knowingly fuck it up, alright? Now, what do you have Puppy eyes?"

A warm feeling flared up in Amelia's chest at his words, and really, it took everything in her not to let the smile bloom across her face.

"Well, clearly he's trying to be his father even though he and everyone knows he's not."

Eames raised an eyebrow. "You got that nugget from this morning alone?"

"I know, I know," Amelia smirked. "I'm good, but yeah. There's always this small hesitation he has when he's got to make a decision, which is all he did this morning. Well, make decisions and look towards Morrow to make sure they were the right decisions. He's trying to impress both men, you know? He's got all this self-loathing because he isn't his dad, and this depthless need to prove to Morrow that he can be his father."

"You sound sure."

"I am, I do—I did," She corrected hastily, "this for a living you know? People are a bit easier to read than trying to recreate them. It's like second nature, riding a bike."

At her words, Eames gave her a soft smile, one she hadn't seen in such a long time it made her heartache when it disappeared from his face, only to be replaced from nothing much at all. The façade of a Forger in place, truly unreadable.

"You always were good at your trade," He reached into his coat pocket suddenly before sliding a small business sized card across the table. "This is where we're staying. Arthur arranged it all. I haven't been there yet, but knowing him, it's rather posh."

"Arthur isn't known for being a man of simple tastes," Amelia muttered as she picked up the card. It was heavy eggshell white cardstock, raised print and a classic serif front face. Really, the man spared no expense on even the smallest of things. She always liked that about the Point Man.

By the time she looked up from the card, Eames was standing, draining his second glass of scotch and placing a thick wad of cash on the table.

"Where are you going?"

"I've got to update Cobb and arrange a few more things for my own placement. That," he waved towards the cash, "should cover the drinks. I'll see you tonight, I suppose?"

"Yes?" She even sounded confused to her own ears.

"Good."

Then he was gone, leaving her at the table alone.

"Really," She explained breathlessly as he pushed her up against the wall, her legs around his waist. The fabric of her dress was pushed up to her own. "I didn't know you two were working this job."

"Bullshit," He spoke as his mouth moved along her jaw, but to her ears, his words sounded more like a growl than speech. "You knew, that's exactly why you showed up."

"Working a-ah, fuck—a separate job."

She knew his fingers would leave bruises on her thighs, they almost always did when he was in such a mood, not that she minded. But the closer they got to the edge of her garter belt and towards her inner thigh the cloudily her mind became.

"I really don't care," He muttered as he bit along her collarbone leaving obvious red marks behind. "You're a distraction."

As if those words snapped her out of the daze his mouth and fingers had brought her into, Amelia was detangling herself from Eames, pushing him away and dropping her heeled feet back to the floor. She fixed her hair as nonchalantly as possible before moving onto her make-up; her lipstick would have to wait until she could get into the nearest powder room. Only then would she see the damage he had done.

Amelia shot a smirk to Eames then, looking much like a predator as her hand sliding up his chest to pull his bow tie lightly.

"Well, this is one distraction that will remove itself from your presence," her eyes flickered down before returning to his face. "And you might want to take care of that…problem."

"I'll see you later tonight," He ground out through his teeth, resisting the urge to grab her hips as she turned on her heel and began sashing away. "That's a promise."