A/N:
General:
- To those of you who have reviewed: I am so sorry if I haven't personally replied. Operating from a cell phone is such a pain, and it makes it nearly impossible to reply. Again, I truly apologize. I hate not responding to you guys, and I'm going to do my best to reply from here on out.
- I hope you guys like this chapter as much as the last. It's a little less angsty, and I'm worried that the tone won't be exactly the same, but I think it works nonetheless. It's been through about four rewrites, so I hope it works. :)
- The bit from the last chapter about the cracked TV (Instead, though, he sees a flickering behind the main point of impact, as if there is some injured thing with feathers there attempting to flee to a happier place)? That was kind of a reference to the Emily Dickinson poem ("Hope is the thing with feathers/That perches in the soul"). So, Arthur's hope = the feathered thing, and the TV = Arthur's soul/Eames. Make sense now? I thought it was a good metaphor. :D
- My birthday is in three weeks! Anyone who's feeling froggy should totally write me something Arthur/Eames as a present. Also, anyone who would like to, feel free to attempt an Eames POV of the accident. Could be pretty awesome. :)

Warnings:
- Eames is still dead.
- He's staying dead.
- Ariadne might seem OOC, but I do think this is how she would react. Sorry if you do not enjoy my version of her.

Disclaimer:
- I've had a heck of a week; please don't make me say this again.
- FINE. THEY ARE NOT MINE. D:

Arthur Sims is a logical person. Reason and surety are his anchors, his roots. However, when he first wakes to the sounds of breakfast being made, he thinks for a miraculous moment that he has merely dreamed of his breakdown and the preceding events. He thinks that he will walk into the kitchen and that he just might find Eames there, utterly excelling at all things domestic, despite the forger's… well, everything. However, two important things seem out of place in this possible reality, the one where everything is as it should be, and these two simple factors wail at Arthur's brain relentlessly, refusing to let sleeping dogs lie, refusing to let Arthur's illusion of normalcy survive.

The delicious aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air lacks its standard burnt edge. The coffee seems perfectly brewed, for a change, as it always does when Eames is out of town and Arthur is left to fend for himself; that small detail is the first to fracture this fragile façade. The second is the fact that his body aches, all over. The crack grows larger and the façade begins to wobble as Arthur does a mental check of his body, making certain that there is nothing physically destroyed. His head feels as though he has been hit by a train, twice. The knuckles of his right hand are bruised and he cannot even flex his hand without wincing. His throat feels like it has been scoured with acid and a cheese grater, and he can only imagine just how awful he will sound when he speaks. Then, there is the matter of his stomach, and-

And Arthur barely makes it to the bathroom before everything he consumed the night before is finding its way out of his body. He kneels in front of the toilet bowl gracelessly and prays that his insides will call a ceasefire and leave him in a state that bears some loose semblance to peace.

"Arthur?" a voice calls. It is not the voice he expects, and he starts at the sound. With this, the façade shatters gracelessly. Its shards bite at him angrily.

"Who's there?" The words come out even worse than he could have imagined.

A small figure peeks hesitantly around the corner of the bathroom, her long brown hair swept into a messy bun. She is wearing blue jeans and a red blouse, but there is something covering her body, and it takes Arthur a few moments to figure things out.

"Ariadne?" In his hungover and half-asleep state, the confusion weighs even more heavily upon Arthur's brain. He tries his best to figure out how she got there. When his mind comes up blank, he simply asks, "What are you doing here?" His voice cracks painfully at the end of the sentence and he winces as he coughs. He stands from the toilet, flushes it, and then walks to the sink. He washes out his mouth as Ariadne speaks, and he smoothes his hair over as best he can.

"Um, I…. Cobb called me right after he left last night. Well, after he left the apartment. He practically camped out in the hallway. I don't know what good it did, but…. Look, Arthur, I am sorry. I really am."

Arthur is silent for a moment. First, he is simultaneously grateful for and angry at Cobb. Next, something dawns on him. He turns to face Ariadne. He tries his best to keep his voice level, but even he hears the edge when he asks,

"Why are you wearing his apron?"

"I… I just grabbed it out of the- I didn't know, Ar-"

"Take it off."

"I'm sorry, Arthur, I didn't mean-" she grabs at the grease-splattered cloth that is overwhelming her small frame and nearly loses her balance in her hurry. She takes off the garment and then holds it in front of her, looking ever the chastised schoolchild.

"I asked what you're doing here, Ariadne." Arthur does not quite intend to snipe at her, not now, but he cannot help the way that his words sound. No one is as sorry for the loss as he is, and hearing people pretend that they are is the worst kind of condolence.

"Cooking breakfast," she replies. "You must be starving."

Arthur thinks about telling her that she is wrong, but his stomach growls fiercely at the exact moment the thought crosses his mind.

"That's not what I meant, Ari. Why are you-?"

"Cobb asked me to keep you company," Ariadne sighs. Arthur takes the apron from her hands and subtly presses it against his chest for a brief moment before he begins walking towards the kitchen to replace the apron on its hook.

"I don't want company," he states flatly. As he crosses the living room, he sees that Ariadne has closed the heavy drapes so that the sunlight does not bother his already pounding head. He makes a mental note to thank her for the gesture when he can, but he says nothing about it now.

"He told me you would say that…. But, Arthur, he has been where you are now. Don't you think he might know a thing or two about handling your grief?"

"Mal killed herself because of an idea that he planted. Cobb can alleviate his guilt in some other way. I'm not going to be his new project. I'm not his do-over."

"Arthur. It is so not like that, and you know better than to even think it. Cobb cares about you, Arthur. He's worried. We all are."

Arthur hangs the apron on its hook, but he does not yet relinquish his grip on the stained cloth.

I am not the one that is dead, he thinks. I am not the one that would run into a burning bus. I am not the one anyone should have had anyone worried.

The cloth slides from his hands as he sighs and turns on his heel. The gesture is quite fluid on the smooth tile floor of the kitchen.

"I appreciate the concern, Ariadne, but it's really not necessary." Arthur almost sounds like his old self, if only for a brief moment. He notices a slight lift in Ariadne's expression at his change in tone, as though she is suddenly relieved that he will not, in fact, jump from a window on her watch. Then, something dawns on him. It's been quite the morning for sudden insight.

"This is a suicide watch, isn't it? Cobb doesn't want me alone, just in case I decide to get creative. He doesn't want me kept company, he wants me to be watched."

"No, Arthur."

"That wasn't a question. Is Yusuf taking the next shift? Or have you all yet to draw straws?"

"It isn't like that."

"Really?" he levels his best stare at Ariadne. She tries to hold his gaze. Arthur can see the stubborn resolve in her eyes, the way she is grasping at every bit of sincerity her soul contains, but eventually, she looks down at the ground, and he can tell that she is defeated and he is correct.

"You don't need to be alone during this, Arthur."

"The only thing I need, Ariadne, the only fucking thing that I have ever needed, is pretty permanently out of the picture as of yesterday! So, unless you have some magical way of fixing that, I suggest you get out of here before I change my mind about getting creative."

Arthur's head throbs mercilessly as he yells, and he hates to threaten the architect this way, but he's out of ideas of how to get rid of her. He wants…. Well, he will not be getting what he wants, but an empty apartment is the next best thing. For now, though, Ariadne is here, and she seems to be as unsure as he is on how to proceed with this… whatever this is.

As Arthur listens to the way his voice seems to echo in the dead silence, Arthur notes how scared the woman appears, and he almost regrets his harsh tone. They stand there beside the refrigerator for a long moment until breaking the silence is suddenly rendered unnecessary. A sudden knock on the door makes Ariadne start, and Arthur's reflexes have him turned towards the door before a second rap even has time to land.

Cobb.

A/N:
- Reviews = love.
- Annacat says that she will punch you if you think this story is dumb or cliched, so watch your back. ;D