Title: Back to You

Author: strangelittleswirl

Rating: T

Words: 1407

Summary: Set during the film. Two events that took place between scenes in the film, and a slightly different look at the end of the Fischer job. Part 1: She was alone, but not alone. The ghost of a woman she had never known was somewhere outside her door, possibly somewhere in her sheets, bearing witness to something it didn't want to see.

Disclaimer/A.N.: Inception belongs to the incredibly talented Chris Nolan and the people over at WB. I'm merely borrowing and in no way claiming ownership.

This was written some time ago, and it's been sitting in my writing notebook, forlorn and waiting to be loved properly. The 100th Ariadne/Cobb fic on , as pointed out by the lovely Miss SwampOphelia, seemed a proper choice.

Also: the only good thing about the number of coffee mugs on my desk right now is that I can totally prop my notebook up and type from the page, truefax.

"Ariadne," singsonged Claire into her champagne flute, "Do you see that?" The Welsh girl glanced at her classmate, who was too busy scribbling spirals on a napkin, her chin in her hand. Claire elbowed the petite American, causing the pen to jerk across the program, landing somewhere near the center of the spiral.

"Sorry...who are we ogling?"

"That delicious looking man in the tux, of course."

Ariadne cast a disparaging glance over at the girl. "You're going to have to be a little more specific. We're in the middle of a charity ball where the smallest accepted donation has a four zeroes after the number.

The other Architecture Honor Society Ambassador rolled her eyes and sighed, pettily. "Suit yourself. I'm just going to stand here and try to mentally will that guy to turn around. I bet the front is just as nice as the back. You can keep daydreaming, clearly that's getting you places."

Ariadne dropped the pen and exhaled heavily. "Fine. Who is the victim of your objectification, tonight?"

Three weeks ago, getting to go to the Preservation Society's Fundraiser Ball was something to look forward to. Now, it simply seemed a waste of time, time that could be spent dreaming, or working on a floor plan.

Or with Cobb.

The last though jolted her, and caused her to mentally chide herself. She had analyzed her feelings three days ago, sitting at her mother's kitchen table in Provence she and her mother picked at a vegetarian casserole.

He was acceptably older, clearly a devoted man (to his family), dangerous, protective...She'd found he had a lightening-fast sense of wit that appeared in precious instances where things where relaxed amongst the group. The shrewd realist in her decided that allowing him to be the subject of affection, of a crush, was the emotional equivalent of trying to run into a brick wall: she'd be the only one hurt in the end but it was safe for everyone else.

Lighthearted flirtation with Arthur had revealed that he was far too charming, far too sweet. In dreams, he protected her steadfastly, explaining concepts as they went, whereas Cobb, he pushed her to be a better architect, explaining that the critique he gave her might save her jobs in the future (a future, she surmised, that did not include him). He'd stopped lamenting her ruined prospects of a legitimate future when she reminded him that it had been her choice to meet him in the warehouse, to dream with him, despite all of Professor Miles' warnings.

Claire huffed when the subject of her chanting did not obey and 'turn' as she kept commanding. The figure wandered over to Miles, and realization made Ariadne sit up in her chair.

She knew those shoulders, knew that back. Had spent many a stolen glance tracing it; guiltily, she remembered sketching the abstract shape on the margin of paper. When the man started the action, Ariadne overlayed, in her mind the movement of his hands being put into his pockets, and the image and reality were perfectly in sync. Miles pointed at donation table where Ariadne and Claire sat. Cobb turned to face their direction.

"Sweet Lord," muttered Claire, causing Ariadne to wonder if she was any relation to Eames, what with her obvious appraisal of the human physique. It was, however, more verbose than Ariadne could be at the moment.

Cobb's blue eyes caught hers, and a slight smile spread on his clean-shaven face. In that gracefully easy way he carried himself, he ended up by the ballroom entrance. He waited an instant there, then entered. The architectural student understood his signal.

"That's that guy," sputtered Claire. "The one from your internship."

Ariadne rose from her chair, nodding. She made the action last a full fifteen seconds before excusing herself, saying she had to talk to him about something job related. She followed in his wake.

In the ballroom was a glitzy mix of humanitarians, school alumni, architects, historians...the Extractor was easily found in a corner, waiting for her.

"Ariadne," he acknowledged in a low murmur, his eyes never leaving the dance floor.

She leaned against the wall beside him, watching the people move about the room.

"I've spotted seven heads of Europe's top fifty architectural firms," he declared. "You really should use this as a networking opportunity."

"You really should realize that networking at this event won't help me in my chosen field." The rebuke was enough cause him to look at her.

There was a startled sort of comprehension on his face after a moment. "You look beautiful," he complimented, so genuinely that she blushed.

Her dress probably cost less than a single shoe on some of the women in the room; the red cocktail dress was deemed passable by Claire, since they hadn't planned on leaving the Ambassador's donation table.

"Thank you, she said, and then grinned. "I can suddenly see why Saito's company made such a charitable donation.. Please tell me that wasn't expense money for the job."

He shrugged. "Then I won't," he replied flippantly, but the sparkle of amusement left his eyes, replaced by something else that she had to be reading incorrectly. "You really do look stunning tonight."

She laughed, nervously. "Well, I guess I should tell you my classmate is rather smitten with you. So I'm going to go face her haranguing, now..."

When he laughed it was only a soft chuckle, but it was a novelty to her and she loved the sound. "Then don't go back," he suggested, simply. "Dance with me."

"Ask me," she counter-demanded, feeling bold.

He moved them across the floor with shocking ease, despite their mismatched heights, although her heels helped slightly in that department. They chatted idly. The song ended. They continued to dance. At some point, she realized that the polite space they had been keeping disappeared, and that his hand had slipped to rest lower on her back; when his fingers moved across the skin there, it burned up her spine. Startled, she looked up at him, could see past his shoulder to her reflection in the mirror, could find no resemblance there to his wife.

"Cobb," she said, warningly. "I'm not-"

"-I know," he said seriously, and she knew he meant it.

Was she willing to be target practice, a stepping stone on his path to healing? Ariadne wanted him to move on, and a night with her, that might be a step in the right direction.

There were a few one-night trysts in her past, classmates that understood the mutual meaninglessness of the action enough that it didn't impact their academic relationship. She'd been careful about her heart, and their hearts. She was young, but she wasn't naive.

"I could use some fresh air," she hinted. Wordlessly, they walked back towards the side of the ballroom, and the doors that exited out into the garden. Their departure, hand in hand, went unseen by Miles or Claire.

They ended up back at her tiny apartment. He didn't have a condom, she had several in her bedside dresser. Those two facts and their implication kept Ariadne from sleeping after he dressed once more in the now rumpled suit. Despite sleeplessness, she ignored Claire's texts demanding an explanation, merely telling her she was fine and at her apartment.

Replaying what had happened in her bed, she understood that it had been his first real step in trying to move on.

She was alone, but not alone. The ghost of a woman she had never known was somewhere outside her door, possibly somewhere in her sheets, bearing witness to something it didn't want to see.

She didn't have the choice to love him. It wasn't an option.