A/N: Inception is in no way my property. Spoilers for the end of the movie.

This picks up at the Los Angeles airport just as everyone gets off the plane.

The section title means "strings".

The chapter title means 'goodbye'.

PART I: Les Ficelles

ARIADNE

Ariadne drifted off the plane and down the gangway, following Arthur and Eames, dazed from Yusuf's sedative and jittery from the prolonged adrenaline rush—she felt both shaky and somewhat disoriented, like she couldn't quite catch up to the present. Everything felt surreal… dreamlike (her fingers twitched around the bishop in her pocket). In her head she kept reliving it all—the van, the hotel, the fortress, the beach and the city. Bits and snatches: her hands covered in blood as she helped dress Saito's wound; the texture and taste of Arthur's kiss; the chill of the snow; the feel of the gun against her palm; the look on Cobb's face as he cradled his dying wife in his arms. Every time I close my eyes. She had a feeling she wouldn't be sleeping for a long, long time, but she was filled with a strange euphoria that, despite everything that had gone wrong, we pulled it off.

They funneled through and joined the queue at customs. Cobb looked tense—intense—intent. The customs officer hardly gave him a second glance and stamped his passport without batting an eye. From her vantage point one line over, Ariadne pretended not to see Arthur's reaction—a slight relaxation of the shoulders that indicated his relief—when Cobb passed through without a hitch, but she couldn't keep herself from grinning. Some hardened criminal I am. The customs officer beckoned impatiently, and it took her a moment to register the gesture before she ducked her head and produced her (forged) passport.

They all waited together, but not together, at the baggage claim. She'd been briefed on this, too. From here on out they didn't know her, and she didn't know them. They would all just disappear for a while, until some day, she hoped, they'd contact her again. One by one they collected their bags and headed toward customs. Yusuf inclined his head just the tiniest degree when he passed, and Eames gave her a full-on wink, but that was it. She caught a glimpse of Professor Miles in the crowd, and he and Cobb disappeared together. Fischer stood by the baggage claim, looking thoughtful (she stifled another grin). Arthur strode by with his poker face on and ignored her.

By the time she'd found her bag, her euphoria was wearing off with the realization that it was over—that she would have to go back to her normal life and pretend this had never happened. Wandering into the center of the airport, she dug into her bag for her flight itinerary—she had a connection to Chicago, then a flight to London, and finally a train home to Paris—something about covering their tracks. Even then, Arthur hadn't been happy that she was going directly (more or less) back to France. It would be better if she stayed in Los Angeles for a couple of days, played the tourist. But she desperately needed to catch up on school work. Lucky for her that Fischer senior had kicked the bucket near a school break, though she had a lot of catching up to do for Dr. Miles' class—he'd given her an incomplete at the end of the semester at Cobb's request so that she could focus on the job. The professor hadn't been happy about it, though, and had made her promise to make up the work by the end of the vacation, which was over in a little over a week. That meant she needed to go home and hit the books.

Having finally located the itinerary, she found her gate number, fixed it in her memory, and stuffed the paper back into her messenger bag. She needed to eat something, and get a cup of coffee, but whenever she traveled she like to find her gate first and then branch out from there. Unable to resist the urge to look around one more time, she couldn't spot any of her accomplices; extractor, point man, forger, and chemist had all dispersed, leaving the architect alone.

Something about that made her utterly, inexplicably sad (she slipped her hand into her pocket and gripped the bishop tightly).

Clearly I'm a little hyperemotional, she thought, and she tried to ignore it, writing it off to stress as she made her way down one of the wings and found her gate. But by the time she saw the sign with the gate number she was looking for, it was all she could do to tuck herself into a corner, ignore the strange looks people were giving her (people, not projections), and try to stifle the shuddering sobs that were attempting to burst from her chest. She watched her bishop topple on the linoleum, gripped it in her fist, hugged her knees, and rocked, completely perplexed at her own reaction. Things had gotten bad down there but they'd turned out okay. The job was finished, and everyone was fine. Cobb was going home to his kids, everybody had made a lot of money, and despite the odds nobody had wound up as a vegetable stuck permanently in limbo. Moreover, she'd known how this would end. It made sense that they should all go their separate ways. As Eames said, this wasn't a bloody tea party. It even made sense that she would miss them all, given that they'd spent weeks crammed together in a dingy warehouse. Her reaction was only natural. It's just stress it's just stress it's just stress. She wiped her cheeks impatiently, taking a short, huffy breath.

But when she pressed her cheek to her knees, what her stubborn mind flashed back to was the feel of Arthur's mouth against her own, and she bit her lip, closing her eyes—clearly, despite her best intentions, she'd gotten in way too deep.

She sat there, motionless, for at least ten minutes, trying to pull herself together. It was all kinds of ridiculous that she could go four levels deep, be shot at and almost killed (or sent into limbo) several times, and watch Cobb confront the murderous shade of his wife, to come out of it stuck on a brief little kiss that had happened in less than three dream seconds. Never mind that she'd been fixated on Arthur for weeks, whether or not she wanted to admit it to herself. This was a job, and a job meant not getting involved with the point man, no matter how impeccable his taste in three-piece-suits might be.

But when she opened her eyes again, she was shocked to find the point man walking purposefully toward her. Sitting up straighter, she blinked once, confused. She'd been briefed—he'd briefed her, for Pete's sake, and now he was striding right toward her. She put the bishop on the linoleum and observed its customary topple. Okay, this IS real. Brushing the back of her hand over her cheekbone, she watched his approach, feeling a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Arthur paused just off her left shoulder and leaned toward her minutely, one hand in the left pocket of his exquisitely-tailored suit trousers. Feeling a little thrill of… something, she glanced up at him and tried to ignore the heat creeping into her cheeks. Raising her chin, she tried to parse his expression, groping for something to say. "So, it's done—just like that, huh?"

Arthur nodded once. "Just like that." He looked her over, and she knew he was taking in her red-rimmed eyes, her pallor, the totem in her fist and the hastily-ablated tear-tracks on her face. "How about we go get some coffee?" Ariadne was long past trying to predict his motivations—she was busy ignoring the huge swell of relief that washed over her at his words. She opted not to think too much about the implications of her reaction.

"Okay." He turned into the crowd and she stood and followed him to a coffee kiosk, where he paid cash for a mocha and a marionberry scone for her and an Americano for himself. They made their way to an empty row of seats against the wall and she tucked herself into one cross-legged, angled toward him slightly but focused on the soothingly-warm cup in her hand. Often she found it was a little blinding to look directly at Arthur for too long in one stretch. He sat stiffly in his chair, his Americano resting on one impeccably-dressed knee. Somewhat subdued from her own emotional rollercoaster, she was content to be patient and waited for him to speak. Clearly he hadn't broken his own rules just to buy her a cup of coffee.

"I'm going to travel back to Paris with you." He stated eventually, looking directly at her. He took a sip of his coffee. She glanced up from her mocha, trying and, as usual, failing to read his expression.

"But I thought you said that we were supposed to keep a low profile, travel alone—"

"I know what I said. Would you rather travel by yourself?" He'd fixed her with a scrutinizing stare.

"No." She dropped her chin to avoid his gaze and felt her face redden from the implications of… what? That she preferred his company to that of strangers? It was hardly a confession of undying love, but she was blushing nonetheless. Quick, give me a kiss.

Arthur took another sip of his coffee. She ran her finger around the rim of her cup, trying to think. Her totem pressed tightly into her leg through her pocket. Arthur set his cup down again and cleared his throat, once.

"So that's settled." She found herself nodding without looking up. "You should eat." He pressed, and she nodded again.

When her scone had been reduced to crumbs, Arthur stood, tossed his cup in the trash, and waited while Ariadne brushed herself off and adjusted her bag. They made their way back to Ariadne's gate in silence, stopping once briefly for Arthur to purchase a current copy of The Economist and The Wall Street Journal, which he tucked under one arm. The point man worked his magic with the woman at the airline counter—he really could be charming when he wanted to—and suddenly had a boarding pass with a seat assignment right next to Ariadne's. For Ariadne's part, she settled on a bench in the waiting area and buried herself in a textbook, opening it to a chapter on Antoni Gaudí, until they boarded half an hour later.

They settled themselves into their seats (Arthur graciously let her have the window seat), and both of them submerged themselves in their respective reading materials. It was an hour or two into the flight when Ariadne glanced up and caught him watching her read, his face inscrutable as always. That was the point when her patience ran out. "Why are you here, Arthur?" She asked him finally, watching his impassive expression. He met her eyes briefly.

"I'm here to make sure you get home safe." Ariadne sighed a little, frustrated and both mentally and emotionally exhausted.

"I can take care of myself." She told him. She figured that much should be apparent now after what had happened in the dream world. Hadn't she, as much as anyone, been responsible for their success? He blinked once and pressed his lips together without saying anything. She glanced down at her hands in her lap, suddenly feeling like she sounded ungrateful. His voice was in her ears: It was worth a shot. "Well, I'm glad you're here, anyway." She muttered, and she thought she saw him twitch one eyebrow, his expression lightening minutely before he turned away.

A/N: I fear I may have borrowed Eames' line about 'this not being a bloody tea party' from somewhere, but it's such a good line that I don't want to take it out. Kudos to whoever came up with that. The next chapter is on its way soon. Reviews are always appreciated!