Inception 1. Part 1

**1. Her Name is Ariadne Hollis; writer, desk climber, autocrat, pizza omnomnomer, strange.**

The sparse whiteness of the office wall were harsh on her eyes, even when she closes them she sees the glaring brightness. Her fingers twitch inanely, awkwardly hovering over the typewriter keys before settling over the paper and ripping it out and crumpling it, the half-finished sentence discarded. She can't think, she can't write, she can't do anything. And with that thought, she slumped back on her high-backed chair, dreaming about anything except the story she's supposed to be writing.

Arthur looked at Cobb, boring a hole on the editor's back with his dark gaze. "You were highly recommended. Your efficiency, they say, is top notch. Hopefully those claims are true, or else we'll be in trouble." The editor spoke while adjusting a few papers behind his desk, his back to the tall, young man seated on the chaise lounge. Dressed in a crisp three-piece suit and exuding an air of control, it wasn't hard to imagine that this man was fastidious and efficient. However, Cobb knew better than to be fooled by his outer appearance; the publication depended heavily on who he would hire. Right now, their hope rested on the broad, well-dressed shoulders of a man named Arthur Maddox.

"My services are decent, Mr. Cobb." Said Arthur, elaborating no more about his reputation as one of the strictest and most efficient office consultants. Claimed to be a work ethic guru, corporations and companies came to him when performances went sloppy and the corporate gears needed to be tightened and well-oiled. He specialized in details, and details ensured optimum performance for each employee for a corporation to keep running. Cobb turned to look at him then, eyeing the younger man for a moment before reaching for a file and a book and thrusting them in front of Arthur. Arthur raised an eyebrow before reaching over and rifling through the file.

"You have heard of Ariadne Hollis, yes?" Cobb reached out a hand to fiddle with a picture frame on his table, his eyes glossing over the picture of his wife and two kids. "Famous writer, Hugo and Nebula awardee, her novels are published by this publication if I am correct." Arthur rattled the information about her, like he'd stored some info about her already. Cobb nearly smiled before taking the book Arthur didn't take and raising it up. "Ever read her books? Absolutely brilliant, every one of them." He said, his tone softening a bit. "She's the best writer I've seen in years."

Arthur regarded the book then said, "I haven't read her works to be honest. I'm not that well-versed in contemporary literature, I'm afraid." He paused as he grasped the book and flipped it open. "But I have seen her interviews on some occasion, she's a very articulate speaker, too wordy sometimes but her dry wit compensates for it."

"Well, you're going to help her write her next book." Cobb announced and Arthur's eyebrow rising a fraction was the only indication of his surprise. "I don't write books, Mr. Cobb. I hope that this isn't what the publication hired me for" said Arthur, his tone clipped.

"Oh no, you'll be her personal assistant. Help her with her writing process; make her life easier so she can work on her next book." Cobb finally sat down and squinted at Arthur. He knew what Arthur was thinking, that this job was ridiculous. Babysitting a writer would be the appropriate job description; once the others realized that this is what they'll be hired to do they backed out. Cobb was nearly sure that Arthur will take the same course of action.

"Ah, she's been elusive as of late, am I correct?" inquired Arthur, phrasing the real problem differently. He already knew what was going on; Ariadne Hollis, famous writer, was having a writer's block. The publication, anxious for another bestseller, hired him to be her assistant, to monitor and make sure that she finishes the book.

"Yes, she has. Mr. Fischer wants her to finish her work. She's a bit recalcitrant about our efforts to help her, though" Cobb replied and by recalcitrant he meant that she was extremely hostile and all but declared war on her publishers if they sent her anymore _spies_ to snoop on her writing process. But Arthur didn't need to know that.

Arthur pondered on the subject, his eyes fixing on the writer's picture. Ariadne Hollis was very young, her face looking more like it belonged to a 14-year old school girl than a 23-year old writer. He didn't know what the deal was with her, or why she was having a writer's block, but if the company's performance would be forgone just to wait for her to realize her creative revelations, she got another thing coming. He would help her, shape her work ethic so she won't be a liability to the company. He will make sure that book will be finished and published.

"Interested in doing the job?" asked Cobb, eyeing him warily, anticipating for a positive answer. If Arthur didn't agree, Maurice Fischer will have their heads on a chopping block. Ariadne was one of their most valued writers and her output is much anticipated within the publication.

The consultant stared at Ariadne's file for a bit before standing up. Holding out his hand in a handshake, Cobb grasped his hand as he said, "Yes, when can I start?" Cobb smiled at him ruefully, but it was brief and his professional mask was back on. "Why don't we discuss this over lunch?"

_What's a good way to die? _Ariadne stood over the edge of her office building; tiny feet perched on the stone precipice. She closed her eyes, feeling the wind whip past her, can feel herself nearly tip over before regaining balance. Her arms stretched outward as she breathes in deeply, her head lolling back as she felt a strange sense of exhilaration rush to her, relishing the feeling of invincibility when one stands over the line between life and death. _I can't write anymore_, she's jarringly awakened from her carefree thoughts and can feel that emptiness seep back in. She lowered her hands and gazed blankly at the street below, imagining the feeling of hitting the pavement. Or perhaps she won't feel it at all. _You won't know until you try_. She steps off and she falls.

"Ms. Hollis."

Ariadne opened her eyes, surprised to see the white walls of her office. She turns towards the source of the harsh call and sees a tall, lean man dressed in a dark overcoat, a silver briefcase in one hand and a stony expression on his young face. He was eyeing her, this tiny woman dressed in oversized men's dress shirts, rolled slacks, dark dressing robe and her small feet bare. It didn't help that she was standing on her desk. "Yes? Who are you?" she said rudely, not even bothering to come down. She felt powerful standing from this height, lording over him. She wouldn't stand a chance if she confronted this tall stranger with her 5 foot 1 stature.

The stranger merely gave her a cold look before going into business. "Arthur Maddox. Fischer Morrow Publications sent me to assist you." His voice was deep, lacking any warm affectation or character. Ariadne frowned at him then clambered down, moving past him to collect a discarded piece of paper by his feet and crunching it into a ball before tossing it into the bin. "Ah, the spy" she said acidly.

"Assistant" corrected Arthur, his monotonous voice echoing through the vast office. Ariadne made a noncommittal snort and moved to stare out the window, contemplating something. Arthur waited for her to speak, his eyes roving the bare state of her office. Most of the walls were white, the few furniture in the area were all darkly coloured, her typewriter sat atop her desk, wrappers of sweets scattered around it.

"What do you think about falling down a building? Suicide by jumping off the roof?" came her voice, quiet and the girlish tones still evident in it. "I beg your pardon?"

"They say when you fall," she continues, as if she didn't hear him, "it's not the impact that kills you. It's when you're falling; all your troubles vanish, like catharsis. There's this feature I saw once, a woman jumped off her apartment building. When they saw her lying on the concrete, her face was smooth," her small hands come up to hover over her face, her eyes closing as she imagined the woman, "like the wind blowing on her face lifted her burdens, and she looked so peaceful… so beautiful, with the blood pooling around her head like a halo."

He stares at her the whole time she talks, silent as he drinks in the sight of this tiny woman explaining the catharsis of suicide. "What exactly do you mean?" he said bluntly. Her hands immediately drop and she stares at him blankly before shrugging. "Doesn't matter." Ariadne walks to her desk and plops down on her desk. "Well, Mr. Arthur Maddox (pompous name, by the way), I'm assuming you are a stubborn automaton who does his job perfectly, why don't you help me?" Arthur was inwardly relieved when she said that, her cooperation was essential or else he'd have to force her to cooperate. He nearly reached for his laptop, readying himself to draw up a whole systematic schedule for her, or to help her research for her book, when she spoke again.

"Can you get me those chocolate covered pretzel sticks down at the grocer? Or a pack of those fruit gummies? Or Cornish pasties at the bakery? Better yet, get them all." She held up a piece of paper labeled: MY DIET. Underneath it were various names of sweets, chips, pastries and whatever else she deemed fit for her nutritional needs. "Pizza?" he read a random listing and Ariadne gave an excited whoop. "Ooh! Pizza! Go get me some! I need to omnomnom some!" He opened his mouth to argue, set her straight that he was an efficiency consultant, not an errand boy when she waved a dismissive hand and shooed him out. "Go on out, so I can write and you can get your job done." Before he knew it he was out her door, clutching her grocery list and wondering what the hell he signed up for when he accepted the job.

"What do you think of her?" asked Cobb as they sat underneath the awning at a café near the publishing office when he was called to report back after one day. Arthur sipped at his black coffee and frowned at the older man, who seemed to enjoy his frustration when a smile appeared on Cobb's face. "She made me buy her pizza and sweets."

"And?" Cobb said lightly as he swirled his sweet tea around. Arthur gave him an incredulous look. "I said she made me buy her food. That's not in my job description."

"That's not what I asked you, Mr. Maddox." Said the older man, still sipping his tea, seemingly oblivious to Arthur's irritation. "And I did say that your job was to help her, so technically buying her grocery is part of your job. Anyway, I asked you what do you think of her."

Arthur was silent for a bit and he stared at unopened packet of sugar by his cup. "She was standing on top of the desk when I walked in, her hands stretched out in front of her, her eyes closed. The first thing she discussed with me was about jumping off buildings, that plummeting to one's death is cathartic." He watched Cobb pause mid-sip to regard him with a curious glance before resuming his tea drinking. He didn't say anything and Arthur continued on. "She's strange."

Cobb put down his cup, "Is that so? Well, sounds like she's taken a liking to you. She's rarely that talkative at first meetings. And she trusts you enough to let you buy her food without worrying that you'll poison her. That woman is notoriously frosty and obnoxious when she meets someone new."

Arthur said nothing, barely hearing Cobb's next words as he contemplated his newest job. The petite woman standing on her desk earlier was not what he expected when he accepted the job. He didn't count on her being so snarky, or so autocratic. He didn't expect her to be so tiny compared to him, how his towering height easily dwarfed her form. He didn't count on her soft features, her dark wavy hair framing her young face, her slight form or her intelligent brown eyes staring at him determinedly. Lastly he didn't expect her to launch into a discourse about suicide and the beauty of death and catharsis. He did not expect Ariadne Hollis at all.

"You've got five weeks with her by the way. That's the publications deadline for her book." Said Cobb as he finished his tea. Arthur raised a brow, "That's a short time to finish a book."

"Oh, she only has one chapter left. Fischer thinks your efficiency can ensure that she meets the deadline. And judging on what you just told me, I think she'll finish the book in no time." Cobb smiled at him then, a knowing glint in his eye.


	2. Part 2

**Thank you to Legal-Assassin-006 for reviewing for the first chapter. Ariadne certainly is a very quirky character in this fic.**

**This fic was inspired by the film, Stranger Than Fiction. I do not own Inception nor Stranger Than Fiction.**

**2. First Week: Establishing the problem, coffee runs, morning walks and how to kill Harold Crick**

Arthur faced the door, eyes tracing the wood graining. He held his silver briefcase tightly in his right hand while he adjusted his tie with his left. It's officially the first day of his job in assisting Ariadne Hollis, and he is somewhat dubious about this job's success rate. Just beyond this door was the headstrong, autocratic, obnoxious and odd writer. Based on the first meeting he wasn't eager to work closely with the likes of her for five weeks, the desk-climbing little fox that she is (and her gall to boss him, of all people, around). He'd be relegated as her pizza boy, or the man who cleaned up after the remnants of her creative brainstorming (chip bags and sweet wrappers everywhere, he could just imagine). This was NOT what he signed up for.

He raised his fist to rap smartly on the door, waiting for her to come and answer it. When no answer came, he ventured to twist the doorknob, frowning when he discovered it was unlocked. Wasn't she concerned that someone might barge in and take her things? Or assault her? He was readying his lecture on security and safety when he walked into her office, his eyebrows shooting upward when he saw Ariadne's prone form lying upside down in her arm chair, her tiny feet wiggling idly in the air as she stared at him.

"Hello, Mr. Maddox," said Ariadne, making no move to right herself or tear her caramel-coloured eyes away from him. Arthur cleared his throat, "Hello Miss Hollis. Shall we get started for the day?" He eyed her desk, noting the mess of papers and sweet wrappers. "Are those the finished pages?" he asked pointedly.

"No, they're letters addressed to me," said Ariadne, still staring at him. "And are you writing back?" he asked sternly.

"No."

He motioned to the pile of sweet wrappers on her desk, "I'm assuming you consumed these." Consuming that many sweets is unhealthy; he'd have to curb her diet along with fixing her atrocious work ethic.

"They came pre-eaten, Mr. Maddox."

For a while they just stared at each other, one of them aggravated and the other just uncaring. "Well, let's start then. I've drawn up a schedule for you; I want to keep a close eye on you. You can't be distracted," he glanced at her pointedly, "if you want to get this job done."

She stood up suddenly, turning towards her window. "I can't write, Mr. Maddox. That's why the publication sent you, isn't it? They think I have writer's block; they can't squeeze any material out of me anymore," she said dully. Arthur made no comment, partly because what she said was true and partly because he can't make any personal sentiments about the matter. That wasn't his job anyway. But as he looked at her petite form silhouetted by the dull light, he felt a twinge of sadness - sadness for her, for the pressure she must be going through, shelling out book after book, bestseller after bestseller. "I'm here to help you," he said simply and she gave him a hard look before her features softened.

"I can't kill Harold Crick."

He gave a discreet cough, a fraction of the shocked reaction he was withholding. "I'm sorry, what?" Murder wasn't part of the job description. Was this Harold Crick person her ex-boyfriend? An annoying neighbour? Someone who owed her money? Whoever he was, fuck this job and hell no to the sizeable pay; this job isn't worth it.

"You want to help me, right? Well, I can't finish my book if I can't find a way to kill my character," she admitted and Arthur felt foolish for over analysing her words. He fixed her with an attentive gaze, his professional mode on. Here she was, finally telling him her problems, being cooperative. Time to work.

"I can't seem to find a good way to kill him off," Ariadne said, frustration lacing her tone. Arthur had no knowledge about the creative aspect of the writing process, but he knew that research was key in the technicalities of writing. He knew he could help her in that area. He had done so many background checks for his clients (getting into the nitty gritty of his clients' habits and preferences so he can customize a work schedule unique to the client) and he could honestly say that he was a professional in that arena.

"How about falling off a building?" he offered suddenly, remembering the first time they met; the vision of her standing atop her desk, eyes closed and arms out in front of her surfacing in his mind. She levelled her gaze at him and shook her head. "No, I can't just kill him off by making him jump a building. It's too mundane. Too… ordinary." As her words drifted off, her eyes slanted downwards and her shoulders tensed slightly. She looked up at him again. "Harold Crick is an ordinary man who needs an extraordinary way to die."

"Tell me more about this Harold Crick character," said Arthur as they stood by a bus stop, bag of groceries tucked in the crook of his right arm, umbrella clutched in his left hand. Ariadne just carried a paper cup of coffee, a paper stuck under her armpit. He'd gone for a walk with her, got drenched in the rain and now they were stuck in this awkward silence with him attempting to supply any sort of topic for conversation. All this started from this morning's events and her sudden coffee craving.

The day had started out normally, Arthur sitting in front of the coffee table (his makeshift desk, he'll acquire a proper desk tomorrow), keen on drafting her systematic schedule for the whole five weeks they are working together while she clacked away on her typewriter. Every now and again she'd stop and viciously rip out the paper and throw it away into the bin. Her frustration was audible and Arthur was feeling it, willing himself not to go over to her and ask her what's wrong or, worse yet, get infected by her frustrations. It's best if he kept a level head, for both their sakes. At least one of them is functioning and working on the task at hand.

"Arthur." He was engrossed in making a time table for her when he heard her murmur. He looked up; adjusting the spectacles perched on his nose, looking at the doorway to the next room where her desk was located. "Yes? What is it, Ms. Hollis?" He saw the tips of her hand appear, making a waving motion then beckoning him. "Come here."

He stared at her hand blandly for a while, his eyebrows rising up and his mouth pursing. Taking off his spectacles, he abandoned his work and strode to her desk. He found her slumped on her desk, the shredded remnants of her latest attempt at writing a chapter lying next to her head. The corners of his mouth tug into a frown; her writer's block must be worse than they predicted. Looking at the pile of papers scattered around her work space, the legible ones all bearing the same unfinished sentence, he could only assume how frustrated she must really be, knowing that she was capable of so much more but reduced to these half-baked, half-finished ideas and sentences.

Ariadne raised her head and smiled sweetly. "I'm hungry," she moaned and a frown appeared instantly on Arthur's face. "Get back to work, Ms. Hollis." She merely pouted and whined again, "But I can't work when I'm hungry. Get me some coffee and melon bread."

Arthur shut his eyes and exhaled, counting to ten in his head. This woman, this smidgen of a woman barely out of girlhood, was ordering him around like it was her goddamn business. He was tempted to tell her that no, he was most definitely not her bitch, so if she wanted to get her damn coffee and melon bread then she'd better march off and get it herself. But no, that would be unprofessional and he was anything but that. He refused to embarrass himself in front of a client (no matter how infuriating that client might be) but he wasn't about to submit to the demands of a woman two heads shorter than him. That's not how he rolled.

"Ok, but come with me," he said calmly and he watched her pout and open her mouth, probably to argue but he beat her to it. "So you can pick out anything else you like. So grab your coat and let's go." He bustled her out of her chair and helped her shrug into a coat and into her shoes (she was always barefoot around the office, he observed). As this was happening, her rosy lips were set into a frown, her face contorted in annoyance but on her doll-like features it seemed more like a childish pout.

Before Ariadne knew it, Arthur had ushered her out and they were standing in line at the nearest coffee shop, picking out her melon bread while he took care of ordering coffee for her (Café au lait though he hazarded an inquiry if they had Café Bombon, and she has yet to question him how he knows her coffee preferences). They were out a moment later, carrying her coffee and her bread when it suddenly started to drizzle. With the rain pelting at them, they scrambled for cover at a nearby convenience store and purchased an umbrella and packages of sweets she insisted she needed to have.

So here they were, standing by the bus stop, Ariadne's hair flopping around her face as she sipped her coffee delicately. He, on the other hand, miraculously looked like his usual impeccable self, his hair perfectly slicked back and the slight dampness of his waistcoat and pants the only indication that he had sprinted in the rain, shielding her from the drops although it was futile and she still came out looking like a sodden kitten.

"Tell me more about this Harold Crick character."

She looked up when he spoke, fixing him with an inscrutable expression. She gripped her coffee cup tighter before she answered. "He's a very methodical man, this Harold Crick character. Tall, curly-haired and blue-eyed; he's an ordinary man, an ordinary man who had a very measured… and dull existence." As she spoke, Arthur felt an odd sensation at her words; like she wasn't describing Harold Crick, she was describing him instead. He pushed that thought away. How could she know about his life in the first place? He was just being paranoid, identifying with Harold Crick's character.

"He is an auditor for the Internal Revenue Service and every day for the past nine years he'd brush his 32 teeth 76 times. 38 up and 38 down and while he's doing this his wristwatch would wish for him to use a more colourful toothbrush."

"His wristwatch?"

"Yes, you see, this is a story of Harold Crick and his wristwatch. Anyway, every day for the past nine years he'd tie his tie in a single Windsor knot, instead of the double thereby saving him 43 seconds. His wristwatch thought the single Windsor made his neck look fat... but said nothing. And…"

A bus came by but they didn't get on, deciding to walk back instead as she twittered on, telling him more of Harold Crick and his mathematical and measured life. He eventually knew the time Harold's bus arrived, the time he took for his lunch breaks and even the 7.134 tax files he'd complete every weekday. He absorbed every info she told him, his brain starting to think up ways to help her with this newfound knowledge. But the most surprising thing was he was fascinated with how she imagined this character, gave him a fully imagined and detailed background. It felt like he was beginning to understand her situation. She spoke about Harold Crick like this character was her offspring, and she probably thought that way too, her child who she'd have to kill off for her to finish Harold's story. Arthur's face faltered a bit and he asked her carefully.

"Why must you kill him, though?"

She'd gone silent for a while, staring off at the tops of the buildings. "I must kill him. I always do." With that answer Arthur began to think that maybe he could never understand her at all.

"How's she coming along?" asked Cobb, pouring Arthur black tea as they sat in his study in his home. Arthur had to report to Cobb at the end of each week. The first week had come and gone and he was invited for tea at the editor's family home. At his entrance he was greeted with a pair of curious wide, eyes, two children, a blond girl and a sandy haired boy staring at him curiously. At their father's prodding they shrieked out excited welcomes, marching up to him and declaring him their _uncle_ from now on. Arthur was flustered at the onslaught of affectionate human contact and had to balance the boy on his hip and handle the girl's insistent tugging on his arm while Cobb looked on with mirth dancing in his blue eyes.

He was eventually rescued by a curly-haired brunette with stunning blue eyes and a beguiling French accent. "Ah, _monsieur_Arthur, my husband told me a lot about you," said Mal, Dom's loving wife, her smile warm and welcoming. She gently pried the children away ("Now, now, James, Philippa, your Uncle Arthur and Daddy need to talk. Let's play in the garden instead." "Yes, _Maman_.") and led them to partake in a game of fort. Arthur suddenly felt uncomfortable, feeling like he was intruding upon a happy home, taking his grimness and tainting this happy environment with it. But at Cobb's understanding look and the memory of the small bodies hugging him (a complete stranger!) in welcome, he felt the sensation slip away.

Arthur noticed that Cobb didn't ask how the book was coming along; it seemed that the man cared more for Ariadne's welfare. Perhaps she was a family friend or something. Suddenly the thought of Ariadne, smiling and being wrestled by James or being hugged by Philippa made his lips quirk into a small smile. The image seemed so right, like she deserved to be relaxed for once and not have to worry about meeting her deadlines and the expectations others had for her. He caught himself and ceased the thoughts; he couldn't be emotionally invested in this job. She was, first and foremost, a client.

"Not much progress. She managed to chuck a whole ream of paper into the dust bin after one week," he reported and Cobb only nodded, sipping his tea. When he made no comment, Arthur ventured to ask, "She says that you guys think she has writer's block. Is it true?"

"It's true, for the publishers at least. For me, I don't think she has writer's block. She just hasn't asked the right questions and looked in the right places," Cobb replied honestly. "It's hard when this type of thing happens, especially for her when she's experiencing all this for the first time, after so many years of turning out masterpiece after masterpiece, to finally hit a road block.

"But she'll get through, we know she will. And you'll help her won't you?" he asked Arthur and the younger man was silent, not trusting himself to speak his thoughts as of the moment. How could he help her when he couldn't even begin to understand her the way Cobb did? Ariadne was the first client he felt uncertain about. "She's going to finish the book, I promise," was his reply. _Stupid, don't make promises you can't possibly keep!_

"Have confidence in yourself, Arthur. She'll find her inspiration soon enough, just make her life easier for her for the time being," said Cobb kindly. Arthur said nothing, thinking to himself that buying her food and taking her for walks (they'd been doing that for the past week, thinking it would clear her head and inspire her) might not be enough to help her.

"If you have any questions you can always visit us anytime. James and Philippa have taken a great liking to you, a bit like how they welcomed Ariadne the first time she visited. James was barely a month old though, but Philippa, oh she was inseparable from her."

"You've known her that long?"

"Mal's known her longer, when Ariadne was just a first year university student. She's Mal's father's favourite, and perhaps most celebrated, student... which reminds me - if you are really having difficulty, just go talk to Professor Stephen Miles. He'll point you in the right direction."

Later, when Arthur was sitting in his study, he mulled over the things Cobb said. Professor Stephen Miles, Ariadne's mentor, and probably the man who influenced and supported her in her writing career. If there's anyone Ariadne might willingly listen to, this instructor was the best person to approach. Maybe he can help get the young writer back on track.

Taking his agenda, he scrawled a memo into his schedule.

_2__nd__ Week: Visit Professor Miles_

Closing the agenda, he laid it down on his desk as he leaned against his arm chair, suddenly feeling exhaustion creep over him, sinking into his bones. He didn't know what to do with Ariadne, like the various schedules and efficiency methods (things that had always guaranteed him success) he made for her weren't helping her. Charts and systematized schedules will never inspire her to write. He has to help her; he's determined to see her book finished. With that final thought, he felt sleep blanketing him, his lean form curling on the arm chair, the thoughts about the dangers of being emotionally invested in Ariadne dying in his sleep addled brain.

**Reviews are most certainly welcome.**


	3. Part 3

**Thank you for those who reviewed for Part 2! I appreciate your feedback immensely Legal-Assassin-006 (who reviews every chapter ever so sweetly and diligently), blackbird878 and CainaStarsong.**

**Inception is not mine, so please lower your pitchforks.**

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><p><strong>3. Second Week: Picnics under the rain, the visit to the mentor and the cookie-induced inspiration.<strong>

The boy glided on his bicycle, pedaling furiously in the rain, keeping to the sidewalk. Cars rushed past him as they entered and exited the bridge. Suddenly the boy swerved out of the safety of the sidewalk, narrowly missing a school bus and continuing on his way.

The woman driving the bus however, upon evading the boy, found herself facing an SUV instead. Ariadne veered her SUV out of the way at the sight of the school bus, bracing against the sidewalk and over the barricade with the sickening crunch of metal and the groan of engine as the vehicle pitched into the cold, dark waters. All Ariadne could do was brace her hands on her windshield before her car plunged into the river, the coldness of the water shocking her system. And then there was nothing left to feel.

"May I know what are we doing here?"

Arthur's deep voice cut through Ariadne's musings and she looked away from the river in front of them, eyeing the man beside her. He was clutching a bright yellow umbrella, holding it above their heads to shield them from the torrential downpour of rain. A slight frown was evident on the grim line of his lips, and she looked down to his shoes, the water soaking the leather of his sleek Oxfords. She looked back up at him again, noting the deepening crease on his forehead as his brows knotted, his usually slick hair coming out of its strictly coiffed lines. His lack of perfection this morning made a crooked smile appear on her lips and she directed her gaze across the water towards the bridge to their right, where the traffic was still.

"We're imagining scenarios for a car crash."

"And why can't we do it inside?" came Arthur's grumble, the faint noise of leather squelching as he adjusted his feet, doubtless his socks were now soaked and his temper just as sodden. She rolled her eyes at him, hands digging into her coat pocket to fish out a bright red candy. Her other hand came up to her neck, adjusting the little blue scarf, the only thing that was neat in her men's dress shirt/ rolled men's slacks/ tatty flip flops ensemble. She looked sorry next to Arthur's dapper suit and Oxford shoes.

"Did you know 40% of car accidents happen during rain?" she removed the sweet wrapper and popped the candy into her mouth. Arthur gave her a sharp look and adjusted the umbrella, angling his upper body closer to hers to shield her tiny form from the rain.

"Yes and so does 90% of pneumonia cases." He added waspishly. Ariadne ignored him, keeping close to him, untroubled by the sudden closeness in their proximity or the faint, clean smell of his cologne tickling her nose. She was just taking advantage of the protection his larger form offered.

Arthur, however, was acutely aware of her small form snuggled perfectly onto his side. He snuck a quick glance down at her, looking like a kitten latched onto his side, content of the warmth seeping from him.

"You're surprisingly comfy." She said abruptly and Arthur nearly dropped the umbrella. She inched closer and clutched at the lapels of his coat and Arthur had to use both hands to keep the umbrella steady. He could feel sweat springing on his palm, heat spreading up his neck and ears. He tried to move to ease the tension until he heard Ariadne snigger.

"Arthur, are you fidgeting?" she asked teasingly and he stiffened, accidentally jerking the umbrella and sending rain splattering on her. "What the actual fuck-" came her enraged gasp. He quickly shielded her again, but the damage was done and she was now sodden and her eyes were narrowing at him, her lip curling derisively. "Sorry…" He supplied lamely, feeling like a fuck up while enduring her glare.

Ariadne ignored his apology, huffing in irritation. Arthur just gawped at her, not knowing how to react to her foul mood. They remained in that awkward state of silence as she kept herself busy sucking on her candy and focusing on the traffic on the bridge while he did the same, focusing back on researching.

"Fine, you're forgiven…" She finally said, glaring at him but her lips quirked into a smirk. "But you get to buy me pizza after we get out of here…" His eyebrows drew together and he rummaged in his satchel.

"About that… I made this…" And he produced a Tupperware container of steamed vegetables, which he held in front of her.

She stared at the vegetables for a long time, her eyes narrowed. "You made this? Why?" She said after a while, her gaze directed at him now. She still hadn't accepted the proffered container and he felt uneasy. What should he tell her? He didn't like the stuff she was eating; it wasn't good for her; her diet was unhealthy… How do I say this tactfully?

"Your diet is appalling." Well, so much for tact. She just looked at him blankly and shrugged. "I know. I don't eat like this, usually." His brows furrowed, puzzled at her response. "Then why?" He asked.

She looked back at the bridge. "I don't know. I just started eating like this when I started the book. I enjoy eating this way, the few times I actually spoil myself with junk food, but…" She paused and she fiddled at her coat buttons. "Lately, it feels more like a distraction…" She trailed off, looking contemplative. She was quiet for a while, her gaze focused on the water in front of her while he held the container in his hands, not sure if she wanted it or not. Probably not, he thought and he made a move to cover it.

Suddenly her hands shot out to stop him, and she grasped at the container. He looked up at her, meeting her steady gaze. She took the container from him and plucked a baby carrot, taking small bites from it.

He watched her small teeth move over the carrot, his eyes fixating on the movement before he reeled himself in and looked away. He heard the faint sound of her munching away on the vegetables, the sound of rain falling on the pavement nearly drowning it out. But he heard it anyway; everything in him is attuned to her. He gripped his umbrella tight.

"Thank you. For the vegetables, I mean." Ariadne said quietly and Arthur felt himself tense up at the sound of her voice. But he didn't look up, opting to look at the cars stuck in traffic. How hard is it to kill off a character? Would the wetness and coldness be worth it for getting inspiration to kill off a character? He'd never realized how much writers went through just to churn out plots and ideas that weren't even guaranteed a definite spot on a bestseller's list.

Ariadne, well, she was a genius who constantly churned out books that dominated the bestseller lists. She didn't have to go through what most of her contemporaries had to go through to get readers. But look at her now (and he cast a secretive glance her way), struggling through heavy rainfall and waiting for scenarios of horrible deaths just so she could get inspiration and finally finish her book.

She was pressured, he knows that much, by her publishers and the deadline looming above her head. And, perhaps, she might be cracking under that pressure.

He stood up and nudged her arm gently. She gave a start before raising her head and meeting his gaze with wary eyes. "C'mon, we should get out of this rain before you catch a cold. Wouldn't want you to be sick and unable to work."

Perhaps he was imagining things but he thought he saw disappointment flicker in her chocolate eyes before she looked at her rain-soaked feet, her tiny toes pale and wrinkly. "Besides, how can you enjoy the ice cream I'm treating you if you have a cold?" He said in a voice that he hoped sounded light and encouraging. She looked up at him and she grinned delightedly. Grasping his arm, she gamely walked with him towards the nearest cafe.

Later, when she was tucking herself into huge sundae (while he got himself an espresso instead) did he remember that she was supposed to stick to vegetables from now on, that eating junk food was a distraction for her. Seeing the wide smile she gave him from across their tiny table, though, made that thought dissolve for the moment. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to indulge her this one time.

Professor Miles' office was his classroom, as he was always never found in his office and his desk, his official one, was always empty. So Arthur found himself knocking on the door of a small lecture hall instead, hoping the teacher wasn't busy and his arrival at such short notice wouldn't be dismissed. He was determined to get help from the professor and he won`t be denied that help.

He rapped on the door, letting his professional side kick in. He heard a faint "Come in." from within and he turned the knob and pushed the door open, peering into the small lecture hall to see the old professor sitting at his desk, apparently busy marking papers.

He strode in and approached the desk, studying the professor. Professor Miles was not like he expected him to be (Truthfully, he didn't have any expectations of Ariadne's professor. His profession emphasised on the concreteness of goals, not on the ambivalence of expectations). However, based on Ariadne's… eccentricities, he wouldn't have been surprised if her mentor was of similar stock. The old man in front of him was stern-looking, his eyes observing Arthur from behind his spectacles.

"Professor Miles, my name's Arthur Maddox." Arthur introduced himself, stretching out his hands in a handshake. Miles took it and waved at one of the wooden desks behind Arthur. "Take a seat then, Arthur." Arthur sat rigidly on the edge of the desk as he waited for the professor to speak. Miles didn't talk right away, arranging a few stacks of papers on his desk instead for a bit until he spoke again.

"It seems I don't have to introduce myself, Mr. Maddox. Seeing as you already know who I am. Now, what brings a young man as well-dressed as yourself to my office?" Arthur cast a quick glance at his fine suit, noting how Miles easily dismissed the possibility of him being a student. No way would a student be able to afford fine clothes like his.

"I'm here on behalf of Ms. Ariadne Hollis. I've been tasked to help her finish her book." He said in his usual business-like tone. Miles only raised his eyebrows and said, "So you're her assistant, or as she phrases it, a 'spy'." Arthur's eyebrows drew together. "I hardly think being a consultant makes me a spy. Where on Earth does she get these ideas?" He said adamantly.

Miles merely chuckled. "She's obnoxious and paranoid, always has been. Now I'm guessing she's giving you a spot of trouble, am I right?" Arthur nodded. "Yes, and I was hoping you can help me help her." Miles' face took on a contemplative look and he removed his spectacles, polishing them with his tie. "Would you kindly regale with your noble efforts so far, Mr. Maddox?"

He spent around an hour summing up the past week and half with Ariadne and he couldn't help but voice out his own frustrations. He'd done every foolproof way to achieve efficiency in his arsenal but they have yet to give a pronounced and successful result with Ariadne's writing. She was still as stuck before he came. He was starting to think that Ariadne would be the client that would force him into an early retirement.

While he gave a detailed report of Ariadne's progress (or lack thereof) Miles was listening intently, perhaps analyzing the situation himself. Arthur was hoping Miles could give him a sensible answer; Ariadne's situation was unraveling his sense of control.

When he was done talking, Miles gave him a serious look before finally speaking. "I don't know what to tell you, Mr. Maddox. Ariadne's never had writer's block, not even when she was studying here. She constantly churned out extraordinary work and it's not lost on me how her contemporaries view her as writing machine. So if you're here for some wisdom I spout that may help you, I'm afraid I'm disappointing you."

Arthur didn't show it but he was disappointed, he felt like the sliver of hope he was holding out was snatched from him. His expression was stony and he quickly resumed his professional façade. He stood up, offering his hand to Miles. "Well, thank you for your time, Professor. I appreciate it." Miles gave him a confused look. "Would you kindly go back to your seat first, Mr. Maddox? I'm not done. I've still got something to say. And I believe it can help you, in only a small way of course."

Arthur's lips quirked into a small smile as he sat back down, inwardly thanking whatever deity out there that deigned to give him back his sliver of hope. "Now, I'm thinking that your failures up to this point are entirely of your own doing." Arthur opened his mouth to contradict this but Miles ploughed on, giving him no chance to speak. "Ariadne has her own work ethic that she's abided throughout her professional career and they haven't failed her until now. You come in with your systemized efficiency methods and although they haven't failed you before, these methods of yours aren't suited for Ariadne at all."

Arthur didn't say anything and Miles continued on. "I've had my fair share of former students complaining writer's block, and as a writer I have experienced too many to count as well. But I admit I'm only one of the ordinary stock of writers. I get frustrated whenever I can't write and material isn't just sinking in. For ordinary writers, your ordinary methods like research and systemized schedules work wonders.

"Ariadne is, and I'll be one of the first people who can attest to it, not an ordinary writer. Ordinary methods don't work on extraordinary people. I'm sure you know that," he smiled at Arthur then. "You seem like an extraordinary fellow yourself."

The professor's eyes twinkled with amusement and Arthur couldn't quite meet his eyes. If he was extraordinary then he could've helped Ariadne in the first place.

Arthur furrowed his brows in contemplation. "What do you suppose these 'extraordianry' methods could be?" Miles shrugged. "I don't know, Mr. Maddox. It's up to you. Think outside the box, you seem like a very imaginative young man." Arthur nearly scoffed at the thought; he wasn't the most creative person as a friend liked to point out.

"Just be kind to her, make life easier for her." Everyone kept telling him that but how was he to know that life was getting easier for her to finish that damn book. Miles brightened as a thought came to him. "Oh, and try gaining her trust. I'm assuming she likes you if she has already appointed you as her errand boy, but it's her trust that you should gain. I've mentioned that she's suspicious. People used to steal material from her when she was in her early years here, when news of her skills started to circulate. Her notebooks were always being stolen by students hoping that she jots down her ideas. That's why she's so mistrusting of assistants. She thinks that you're out to get her ideas and peddle them to the highest bidder."

At Arthur's look of disbelief Miles only laughed. "Just get her to open up to you, or at least be friendly with her. God knows that girl needs companions aside from books and sweets."

Arthur was silent for a while before he nodded at the professor. "Thank you for your help, Professor." He stood and showed himself out of the lecture hall, Miles' concerned gaze on his retreating form. He didn't think that his suggestion helped at all.

Once Arthur was outside campus grounds, he expelled an angry sigh. He'd never felt this lost or frustrated before. Ariadne and her situation were bringing out the worse in him. An ugly thought flashed in his head that moment as he walked briskly down the sidewalk. Maybe he can get out of this situation while he still can. It's obvious that the company didn't hire the right man for the job and Ariadne…

At the thought of her he slowed down, and he felt a twinge of guilt. He never was one who felt guilt when making tough decisions but at that moment he felt like a terrible human being. He'd seen what her writer's block was doing to her. He knew that the pressure of putting out great material was bearing down on her as her deadline loomed closer. He can't abandon her in her time of need.

He looked at his wristwatch and saw that he can still go to Cobb and discuss Ariadne's progress. At the sight of the watch's face, though, he smiled. He remembered Ariadne's character, Harold Crick, and his wristwatch. Truthfully he wanted to know how the story will finish, whether she killed Harold or not, Arthur was sure she'll do a fantastic job.

It was a nearing sundown when Arthur got back to Ariadne's office, carrying paper bags in his arms. He got into the dark office and called out. "Ariadne! Where are you?" When no one answered he called out again urgently. "Ariadne!" He started flipping light switches as he frantically searched around the room, his voice rising. "Ariadne!" He was on the verge of whipping out his phone to call in the police when he entered another room and saw her lying on the floor, on top of a pile of scrap paper.

She was curled up into a ball, apparently sleeping. He approached her, kneeling by her form and without thinking, he reached out his hand and touched her hair, sweeping it out of her face. He stared at her face, noting the bags under her eyes and the faint frown on her lips. She looks so young, like she should be worrying about making time to go out and have fun with friends her own age instead of struggling to make the deadline for her publishers. He nearly snorted at the thought though, what did he know about having fun? He's like that Harold Crick character, so absorbed in details and routines.

Gently, he nudged her awake, watching her eyes flutter open as she blinked the sleep away from her eyes. She looked up at him and he couldn't bring himself to tear his eyes away from her gaze. She gave a small smile before opening her mouth to chastise him. "Where have you been? I was so hungry cause I ran out of those veggies you gave me but I was too lazy to go out and get food. Then I got sleepy instead."

He smiled at her and replied. "And you couldn't bring yourself to sleep on the sofa instead?" He indicated toward the sofa across the room. Ariadne looked at it indignantly and then grinned up at him.

"What's a sofa compared to the comfort that my failures can provide for me?" She patted the pile of scrap papers beneath her which bore her many attempts to write. Her smile slipped from her lips and her face became blank. He swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat and turned his attention to the paper bags he was carrying.

"Well, lucky for you I thought ahead and figured you'd be hungry. So I made you something." He shook the bag at her enticingly and her grin was back in full force. "Aren't you a sweet man? Always on top of things, no wonder you're good at what you do." She winked at him and he felt heat in his cheeks and he prayed his ears weren't red.

"So what is it?" Her eyes trailed down to the bag then back up to meet his. He reached into the bag and brought out a container of cookies. "They're homemade and sugar free, so even if it's basically sweets it's not that packaged crap you gorge on." She was practically grinning ear to ear as she took the container and opened it. "Wow, I didn't know you could bake."

His eyes crinkled as he laughed. "I wanted to be a baker when I was a kid. Then I discovered that I'm better off earning big bucks with my attention for detail and that decking myself in three-piece suits attracted more clients…and ladies." Ariadne raised her eyebrows at him. "Oh really? You don't see me falling over myself to get to you and your well-clothed self."

"It's because you're not an ordinary girl. You're programmed to hate my guts and relegate me into becoming your pizza boy." They both burst out laughing. Her giggles trailed off and she looked at him, amusement dancing in her eyes. She raised the container of cookies. "Thanks for these. It makes me glad that you think about my dietary needs."

She captured his gaze just then and he felt something tug at his heart. He looked away and made to stand up. "We better leave, it's getting dark." He went to the other room, leaving Ariadne to gaze at him bewilderedly.

He got her coat and helped her gather her stuff and shepherded her out of the building. They got into his car and drove her to her apartment building. All of this was done in complete silence. He didn't dare to talk to her, not after their eye contact. She was discouraged to engage him in conversation, seeing as Arthur's professional façade was in full control. Once she was outside his car she gave him a small smile.

"Thanks again," She held up the bag of cookies. He only nodded. Her gaze softened and she spoke again, much more gently this time. "You're kinda cool, Arthur." And she walked away before he could reply.

He spent five minutes gazing at the door to her apartment building before he shook his head and drove off. What the hell was that? What the fuck was he doing flirting with her? And what about her? He was kinda cool? Cool? People like him who were nearing their thirties rarely used the term cool. She was definitely too young for him.

And her smile. Didn't she know how disarming her smiles were to others? Judging by how busy she was she probably didn't know it. Did she even have friends her own age? Or boys that asked her out? What was her life outside her career?

He stopped the car and realized he was outside his own apartment building. Life outside careers, he wouldn't know how that felt. Looking at Ariadne felt like looking into a mirror. He was the same, his career was everything to him. He does what he does best and gets paid handsomely for it. It's the same with her.

He laughed bitterly and slumped over the stirring wheel. Ariadne definitely brought out the worst in him.

Ariadne watched Arthur's car speed away before she opened the container. Taking the cookie, she slowly took a bite. She gave a contented sigh. "They're so good…" She said to herself before taking a few more and plopping herself down on her sofa. Arthur was really good at baking, maybe his talents extended to pizza making as well. She giggled at the thought as she munched on the cookies, savoring each bite.

She closed her eyes as she relaxed, her mind flooding with happy thoughts. Food brought her more comfort than anything and she began to let her mind flood with blissful thoughts, of summers reading with her grandfather, of letting her mum and dad read her little stories. She missed home and the security her family gave her. She wished she had them right now.

She suddenly sat upright, thinking deeply, her mouth still working on chewing the cookie. She got off the sofa and ran to her room. Rummaging through her closet she brought out a heavy case and laid it over her desk. Unlocking it revealed a small typewriter and she set it up before running to her supply cabinet and coming back with a ream of paper. She put one sheet into the typewriter and started

to type. The apartment was filled with the loud click clacking of the typewriter as she wrote through the whole night.

Arthur was roused from his sleep by a series of loud, urgent knocks on his door. Groggily he made his way to the door in only his pyjama pants, too sleepy to make himself decent. He opened the door and he suddenly felt wide awake when he was greeted by the sight of Ariadne carrying a file case.

She let herself in without his invitation. "Good thing you answered the door, there's this one guy creeping around the corridors. Anyway, I've got good news for you." She said excitedly as she held out sheets of paper.

He stared at her, his mind still grasping the fact that she just appeared in front of his door at (with a quick glance at his wall clock) 4 am. "How did you know where I live?" Was all he said and she rolled her eyes at him. "You're not the only one good with details, Mr. Maddox. Besides, I wrote something! Aren't you happy?" She was excitedly waving the papers in her hands and Arthur's head was clear enough to feel astonishment at her news.

"Really? Well, let's read it then." He was grasping her shoulders and leading her to his room before he heard Ariadne warble out. "Put a shirt on first." He looked at her red, indignant face and hurried to pull a shirt over his head and then lead her to seat on the couch instead.

It was nearing six in the morning by the time she finished. She'd reworked a part of her original story and it now included a scene in which Harold meets Ana Pascal, a baker, and she feeds him cookies. He was stunned at this new addition; their interaction had brought out a burst of inspiration in her and made incorporate it into her story. He didn't know how to feel about all this.

Ariadne looked at him with excited eyes. "I can still write! Aren't you happy?" He nodded and his smile was genuine, his eyes crinkling at the edges and his dimples showing. "I am. I'm very happy."

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><p><strong>As always, reviews are much welcome.<strong>


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