Disclaimer: I do not own Inception.

a/n: This is a wiggy 1940s, World War II AU I did because I've spent far too much time listening to Pomplamoose's version of "Mister Sandman". Arthur and Eames and Ariadne's imaginary brother, Evander, whom she calls Evan, are in the Air Force, about to ship out to fight the Japanese. Uhm...please forgive any historical inaccuracies-they were dumb mistakes born of ignorance and a lack of patience with Wikipedia. Also, I like swing dancing. It's fun. Also, am I the only one who thinks Ariadne would be adorable in 40s fashion, and that Arthur and Eames would look damn good in uniforms? Yummm~

Never had Arthur regretted turning down all those girls, and he was surprised to find that his feelings there had changed when he found himself alone at a farewell dance for the boys being sent off to fight on foreign soil. He was an officer—how was it possible for him not to have a girl on his arm, her smile wide despite the tears already pooling in the corners of her eyes, her waist wasp-thin in the crook of his arm as they slow-danced to the last song of the night…

Still, there he sat, fingers drumming on the table in rhythm with the music, watching his men mingle, couples doing the Lindy Hop and laughing like their time wasn't up. It made his gut twist into knots, but the train of thought was derailed as a glass was thrust into his hand with undue force, cueing Arthur to glance up with a raised eyebrow, meeting the gaze of one Lieutenant Colonel Eames, a subordinate of Arthur's, and one of the most despicable men he had ever met.

Eames took the opportunity to wink and say "To ease your sorrows, Colonel."

Arthur looked unimpressed, though he wrapped his fingers around the glass for the sake of appearances, knowing that Eames would bother him until he at least pretended to appreciate the offering.

"I'm not sure I have sorrows to ease, but the thought is…appreciated," he said curtly, nodding and pulling his gaze back to the crowd, signaling quite obviously that the conversation was over, though his hopes for the Lieutenant Colonel recognizing—or, rather, accepting—this clear dismissal were slim.

"Well, Colonel—no, you know what, this is a social event—I believe I shall call you Arthur, yes?"

Arthur rolled his eyes, sipped at the whiskey before he remembered that it wasn't water, and tried to hide his momentary choking from the relentlessly smug man now seating himself beside him.

"Arthur, then. I noticed that you weren't dancing, and honestly, with a man of your station and, may I say, physical charm, this does seem rather odd to me. Am I to understand that you don't have a girl lurking around here, waiting for you to acknowledge her existence?"

Good Lord, but the man was flamboyant. The way he used his eyebrows and leaned forwards, so falsely earnest and, honestly, so goddamned British. Arthur was still unclear how Eames had been accepted into the United States Air Force with that accent, and he was almost curious enough to ask. It was moments like these, though, that he remembered why he had never asked: Encouraging the man to talk was like feeding gasoline to a fire. A large, violent, irascible fire that was currently burning your house and all its riches to the ground. And possibly the family dog. And your first born son.

"You're correct, Eames—I don't have a girl, and I don't really want one. And before you ask, no, I do not want to dance. Dancing is not on my list of priorities."

"Ah. Well then, that does make things different, doesn't it?"

"I don't see how it does, no. Listen, Eames, don't you think you could go talk to some of the other men? I'm sure they're languishing without you," Arthur said, shooting Eames a look out of the corner of his eye, mouth twisted down a bit at the corner as he set the glass of whiskey on the table so as to avoid sipping at it accidentally again.

"The other men aren't half so interesting as yourself, considering they've all got girls and are currently dancing with them," Eames supplemented with raised eyebrows, leaning his elbows on the table, eyes on the dance floor.

"I see."

Fortunately, Eames let it drop, though he remained in his chair while Arthur's thoughts drifted slightly, eyes wandering among dancing couples, the girl singing on the stage, the man playing the bass. His breath hitched after a few moments, though, eyes landing on a girl he had yet to have seen.

Were he a poet, he would have labeled her loveliness manifest. He chose instead to catalogue her face, it's delicacy, the way her lips moved through what looked to be a quiet, fond conversation, painted a shade just a touch lighter than that worn by most women in those days, the soft curl of hair dipping to frame one side of her face, the rest of it twisted into a low, loose bun, a few bits pinned into curls. The way her dress hung, how she used her hands once or twice to aid in a comment, how small they were.

He was so absorbed that he didn't notice Eames grinning beside him, the man's wicked, wicked eyes flickering between his commanding officer and the petite brunette across the room. What he did notice was Eames' absence several moments later, once he had blinked and looked away, his cheeks just a touch pinker than was normal, heart beating a touch too quickly. The chair beside him was empty, as was the glass.

Arthur shook his head, darted a glance at the girl with those rosy cheeks, and resigned himself to more introspection and abstraction as he waited for the evening to wind down, though he was certain to spend more than half the remaining time following her every movement idly.

Imagine his surprise when Second Lieutenant Gray appeared half an hour later, a good ten minutes after Arthur had lost sight of the girl, that same girl in tow.

"Colonel," Gray said, saluting. He accepted Arthur's nod of acknowledgement, relaxing and glancing back to pull the girl forward gently, his hand on her shoulder.

"This is my sister, Ariadne, sir. She said she wanted to meet my CO. Ariadne, Colonel Blackwell." He gestured between them, looking pleased with himself. Frankly, Arthur was pleased with him, too, what with the whole…Ariadne being his sister thing.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Gray," he said, offering her his hand to shake along with a small, but sincere, smile.

"Likewise," she replied, returning the smile and accepting the handshake, surprising him with the firmness of her grip.

A pause developed, Ariadne glancing at her brother, eyebrows raised. The second lieutenant frowned at her, and she shifted her eyes, to which he responded with a quirk of one eyebrow, a glance at Arthur, and a hasty retreat.

Well, that was odd.

Ariadne sighed, looking away, hands twisting between themselves. She didn't have her ears pierced, which intrigued him—an odd quirk in a girl of her age, considering that earrings were the accoutrements of every movie star and idolized woman of the day. He had to work very hard not to stare at her mouth.

"I'd like to ask you for a favor," she said rather abruptly, something that wasn't quite a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth, eyes flashing up to meet his. Something about the look on her face, still verging on a frown, but somehow…sturdier than that—resolved was the word—told him she was quick-witted, and firm, rare traits in a girl her age. If he were to guess, he would label her…twenty, maybe twenty-one. He was surprised not to find a ring on her hand when he looked—subtly, of course.

"I'm all ears," he said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his uniform trousers, eyebrow lifted.

"I know you've probably gotten…a lot of this kind of thing recently, but Evan…" She paused, scanned the crowd with her eyes, her frown deepening into existence. "He's impulsive. I would call it a family trait, but really, he can do the stupidest things without anything even resembling thought, and he won't even realize how idiotic it was after the fact. He lives his life in the moment, from second to second, and he's about to go into…you know, Hell." She paused again, shook her head. She was using her hands quite a bit to talk, fingers curling and spreading apart.

"Sit down," Arthur said while she fell silent, gesturing to the chair Eames had left open and convenient earlier, watching as she blinked at him and sat, sitting himself after she had done. He had a feeling he knew what she was getting at, but he was going to listen all the way through, if only to keep her talking—her facial expressions as she spoke were fascinating.

"I'm sorry, I'm rambling. I'm just…I'm really sort of terrified. For him. For all of you. We just have to…to sit here, and smile, and kiss you goodbye, and then hope we see you again, when there's no guarantee—"

"We'll be back, Miss Gray," Arthur said, feeling a little guilty for cutting her off, but wanting to get her hands to stop twisting in her lap, that frown to lighten just a bit. She, it seemed, was one of the least capable of pretending that tonight was joyous. She, it seemed, shared his fatalistic view of this occasion, and was not content to watch it pass by without doing what she could.

"You can't know that," she said, looking at him again, eyes dark.

"No, I can't," he said, leaning an elbow on the table, barely blinking as he returned her gaze. "But I wouldn't be a good officer if I wasn't ready to do all I could to get all of us back here in one piece. Which I promise to do, for all of my men. Including Evan."

She hesitated, lips parted to say something until she shook her head slightly, closing her mouth to smile the smallest bit.

"When he calls home, we hear your name at least ten times, and in his letters you're practically all he talks about. 'Colonel Blackwell' this, 'Colonel Blackwell' that. He might be right to wax poetic, though. Or, at least, I hope he is."

Arthur allowed himself another smile in her direction, eyebrow lifting again, what could almost be called a twinkle developing in his eyes.

"You'll blame me if anything happens to him." It wasn't really a question, and she laughed quietly, which he took as an affirmation. She wouldn't be a big sister if she didn't worry, and he knew the look of a firm woman when he saw it. Ariadne Gray was ready to make his life a living Hell if he let her brother get killed, and she wasn't afraid to let it be known.

She looked ready to say something else—maybe a clear affirmative, something along the lines of "You'll never have a day of peace again if he doesn't come home safe and sound", or "Me blaming you will be the least of your worries—you'll be dealing with momma", but she was cut short by a most unwelcome interruption.

"Miss Gray, would you care for a dance?"

Lieutenant Colonel Eames was smiling all over his face, and Arthur was almost positive that he was the only one in the room who saw how very, very evil the man was in that moment. In fact, Arthur was quite prepared to pull out his gun and shoot him dead. He refrained, however, his face going blank as he glared very passive, but very deadly daggers at Eames, making that grin on his subordinate's face widen infinitesimally.

Ariadne looked astounded and rather intrigued, and after a long silence, mouth hanging open as she looked up at the Lieutenant Colonel, she said "Sure," and accepted his proffered hand, giving Arthur a wave and a faint smile of farewell as she was led off by one cruel, malicious man.

"Damn him," he said, sighing and leaning further into his chair, watching with the intensity of a hawk as Eames jeopardized Ariadne's expressive hands and led her in a swing. Though he hated to admit it, he would never be able to swing dance as well as Eames, and Ariadne seemed to be quite good at it herself, following the large man's lead flawlessly, spinning and twisting when commanded. It looked like they were talking about something as they danced, the conversation eliciting rather sardonic expressions from the lady, nothing but grins and lascivious sneers from Eames.

Still, he thought, propping his feet against his chair, toes on the floor to accommodate his favored chair-tilt, the front two legs floating off the floor, at least I have an excuse for talking to her when he's finished with her. If that happens before the end of the night.

As it happened, Eames held onto Ariadne for a good three dances, and she was flushed and irate by the time he let her go. Another odd part of his "letting her go" was that he practically threw her at Arthur, tossing the Colonel a wink and a wave as he disappeared into the crowd.

Ariadne stumbled, and Arthur was prepared to steady her, but she found her own balance quite quickly.

When she was on her feet again, she turned to look over her shoulder, searching for Eames in the crowd, eyebrows drawn together.

When she turned back, she tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear, not seeming to mind that they had fallen loose.

"Is he always so…" She trailed off, obviously at a loss for words to describe the Lieutenant Colonel.

"Yes," Arthur said flatly, standing out of habit.

"Oh, oh, don't stand, dammit, this is why I can't stand social events. All this pomp and circumstance and-and ridiculous chivalry. If I want to talk to you on the same level, I'll sit down, too, and anyway, we're closer to the same height when you're sitting, so…" She pointed at his chair. "Sit, Colonel."

He felt remarkably like a dog as he sat on command, and he could feel the look of dumb awe on his face. The last woman to go so near to snapping in front of him had been his mother when his father had bought that new car ten years ago, and she hadn't been bossing a decorated officer around.

Ariadne let out a puff of air, flopping rather gracelessly into her formerly vacated chair, crossing her legs forcefully.

"I wouldn't mind if you let him get shot down over there," she said, and Arthur surprised himself by laughing. The corner of her mouth curled in response, eyebrow lifting at him.

"I'll take that to mean you agree? Good God, he's insufferable. How did he become a Lieutenant Colonel?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," Arthur said, shaking his head. "Honestly, I'm surprised he hasn't been shot yet."

"Men like that—they ought to be locked up somewhere they'll never be seen or heard." Her remark was offhand, but the way her eyes widened, the slight clenching of her hands, gave him the impression that Eames had been more inappropriate than he had assumed. He'd have to remember to demote the man later.

"I apologize for him. I remain convinced that he was raised by wolves."

"Oh, he's not your responsibility. Well, his attitude isn't—I suppose he's partially your responsibility, being a subordinate and all, but…you know what I mean."

"I do, yes."

And they lapsed into silence, which was an unexpectedly pleasant experience for Arthur. He was growing fonder of Ariadne Gray by the moment, and this now evident ability to be quiet was making it rather difficult for him to refrain from entirely rash action. After all, it was his last evening in the states—it would hardly be appropriate for him to do something so close to his departure.

Though…if I were to listen to my men, the last night before shipping out is when the most bittersweet memories are made…I suppose I could…

No, no, Arthur, you are forbidden. She's far too sweet to get involved with so abruptly. If she's still available when your service is done—and you're still alive—then you can get in touch with her, but for now—

"Arthur, darling, you do realize that my purpose for throwing her at you after that terribly improper and malicious act of blatantly hijacking her attention was to get you to ask her to dance yourself, don't you?"

It took Arthur a moment to switch from his internal argument to hearing Eames' words, so he was several seconds behind on the front of retort.

"Ah, no, I did not realize that—I was too busy considering having you put on scullery duty," he said rather lamely, glaring at the man who had once again appeared at his shoulder. Ariadne, it seemed, was too busy straightening the folds in her skirt to chime in, though the Lieutenant Colonel's remark had certainly been loud enough for her—and everyone within a fifteen-foot radius—to hear. Her cheeks were quite a bit pinker, though.

"Well, now you know. Get on with it, would you?"

Before Arthur could develop a reply to that, Eames was gone again, and he was left gaping at the empty space he had left, some half-baked riposte on the tip of his tongue.

Ariadne cleared her throat.

"Brash, inconsiderate, and really, very painfully forward. I suggest you have him dishonorably discharged, or at least stick him with the lamer recruits," she said, making a very good effort at not looking at him.

Arthur was, in short, torn.

"He'll get something along those lines," he said curtly, switching quite rapidly between not looking at her and looking at her, his heart beating two steps too fast again. She really was quite lovely. Where was the harm?

Everywhere.

Nowhere!

Dammit.

"Well, there's no harm in dancing, is there? Would you mind?"

Ariadne looked at him then, looking very hesitant and very flushed, but she said yes much faster than she had with Eames, and it happened far too quickly that he took her hand and led her out, and they swung. She stopped looking so grim rather quickly, and it became evident that she did quite like dancing, whether or not her partner was positively superb at it, as Eames had been.

They danced four, jiving and hopping, before she let on a desperate need for water, and they got drinks and sat, and eventually started talking about things not so serious or snide. Arthur learned that Ariadne was an artist, that her ultimate ambition was to become an architect. She was unspeakably discouraged that the world denied women so many jobs, but she was determined that she would get where she wanted to be at some point.

She asked after his inspiration for enlisting, for making such a high rank at such a young age—her brother had rhapsodized on the Colonel's youth several times—to which Arthur replied "Everyone wants to fly."

She smiled at that, said "That's what Evan says," and before they could say much of anything significant—in their opinions, anyway—the evening was over, and the last dance was called.

Arthur and Ariadne forwent the final dance, choosing instead to slip out while everyone else was occupied, grabbing their jackets and walking into the street.

Night was heavy on the town, a handful of stars scattered across the sky. The street lamps were dim, and the air was chilled.

Ariadne stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jacket, winding her scarf several times around her neck, eyes on the buildings they passed.

It took him a while, their feet tracing towards whatever parting would meet them, but he eventually opened his mouth and said, "I wish I'd met you years ago."

She looked up at him, took in his expression—mild, as were all of his expressions, but tinged with a bit of wistfulness, a bit of intensity.

"Me, too, I think," she replied, eyes drifting skyward. He slipped his hand into her pocket, threaded his fingers with hers, followed her gaze to the stars as quiet smiles curled both of their mouths, and silence fell again.

When she paused at a corner, looking down the street, obviously considering the way home, he sighed, curled his free hand under her chin, and kissed her. He was pleased that she didn't pull back, didn't shove him away or accuse him of being "brash, inconsiderate", or "really, very painfully forward". He was pleased that she seemed to reciprocate, and when they broke apart, her cheeks were flushed, and her breath was coming faster.

She curled her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her, meeting his lips with her own again, and his own arm wrapped around her waist—wasp-thin in the crook of his arm—his other hand cupping the back of her head.

"You're leaving tomorrow," she said, voice soft, their foreheads pressed together.

"I know," he replied, just as quiet, his thumb rubbing against her cheek.

"The world's kind of mean sometimes." A pause. "You come back, you hear?"

"I'll come back."

He kissed her again—and again and again—and though neither of them wanted to run down that road without examining the path before them, they woke up together the next morning, because that was what couples did when the man was going off to war—they gave themselves to each other, because who knew if they'd get the chance to do so when the fighting was over?

He left, and she didn't cry—at least not where he and Evan could see her—and she hugged both of them, reminded Arthur that she'd see his life made a living Hell if her little brother didn't come home safe and sound, kissed him on the mouth despite the fact that everyone could see. He left, and when she was standing there, her mother wiping tears from her cheeks beside her, she told herself that she'd see them both again, whatever happened to the world. She'd see them again, and when that happened, she would design a house, and she would oversee its building, and she would fill it with whatever kind of a family she could make, be it herself and a few cats, some plants, or…God willing, that man in that plane, flying across the oceans to drop bombs on people, and whatever kind of anything else they could come up with.

She would see them again.