Work Text:
Alexandra spends her last year in college tidying up. That, at least, is the word she uses to describe the quiet, careful plans she puts in place, the way that by the time she leaves a search for her reveals nothing but the barest bones, a construction put in place by her to mislead.
She visits home after she graduates, for the conclusion more than anything. Her mother sips wine politely with her and inquires after her prospects.
“I have a job offer in Chicago,” she lies easily, and then they are saying goodbye and that is that, one last thread tucked carefully in. She carries her suitcase into the airport and gets on a flight to New York City.
+
What you need to be a pointman (or woman) is an ability to see the entire picture and then take it apart piece by piece. You need single bloody-minded focus and an inability to stop, and perhaps most importantly you need the ability to be always one step removed from your surroundings.
+
The government man sent to pick her up from the airport is distant, which suits Alexandra perfectly well. She doesn’t actually need any time to gather her thoughts or wonder about the future, but it is nice to not be required to engage in small talk.
“We’re here,” he says, and she thanks him and disembarks with her suitcase. Accommodation, she had been informed, would be found for her. She finds the idea of others arranging her life frustrating, but these are the terms to work with the best minds in the emerging field of dream technology, so she accepted them.
+
The first time she is shot in a dream it is unexpected, one of the projections trying to take her out. It’s never happened before, and the force of the bullet sends her over a balcony and onto a cliff ledge below, where she watches herself slowly bleed out for almost twenty minutes. It hurts. She wasn’t ready for this.
When she wakes up she spends an hour in the infirmary before she’s released. The first thing she does next is find a gun and a firing range.
+
She spends a total of eight months and twenty two days there before she leaves. By then dream technology is becoming more privatized, and she is no longer required to live by the government’s rules to work with the best.
This is how Alexandra (eventually, and not quickly enough) meets Dominic and Mal Cobb and becomes their pointwoman. Most of their work is experimental, and she finds the freedom to stretch her imagination enlightening. She goes under by herself more frequently now, taking a private delight in the worlds she can build, every piece just so.
+
She doesn’t really like to think of the two years inbetween leaving the government and finding the Cobb’s. It does nothing but negatively impact the present.
+
Some of their work requires a larger team, and this is how she meets Eames.
“Alexandra....?” Eames says when she is introduced to him, and she shakes his hand, firm and businesslike.
“Just Alexandra.” He raises an eyebrow and she raises one in return.“I might remind you of your own eccentricities,” she says, and turns back to her desk.
“No need, darling,” Eames says, casual and relaxed, and Alexandra almost shoots him then and there, the endearment too much of a liberty. She’s still trying to restrain herself from reaching for the gun in the drawer when she hears him call Cobb sweetheart and Mal something in French that sounds unmistakeably endearing. It’s enough to relax her slightly, no special attention or singling out, just a thoughtless part of conversation for him.
+
It’s not the last time she comes very close to shooting Eames.
+
“Alex, the blueprints?” Eames says, and Alexandra eyes him coldly.
“It’s Alexandra,” she says, and passes them over.
“Of course, my mistake,” he says, but he tilts his head and eyes her.
+
“That is an excellent suit,” Eames says. “Do you always dress so ... pristinely?”
“You try being a woman dressed casually in this business, Eames,” Alexandra answers, and walks away without regard for his many follow-up questions. She can imagine the tilt of his head as he tries to figure something out about her. What he is trying to figure out, though, she has no goddamned clue. To be honest, it bothers her.
+
“How are you always here before me?” Eames says, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of her at her desk. “It is five. Five in the morning.”
“I don’t find much sleep necessary,” Alexandra says. Or possible, she thinks. “These dossiers are important.” She doesn’t see a need to say anything else, but Eames is still standing there watching her, so she looks up and meets his gaze. “Why are you here, then?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” he says shortly.
“Not uncommon in this business,” she says, and goes back to her work.
+
The only time she actually takes the gun out is when he steps too close, head bent so close over her shoulder it’s touching her.
“Step back,” she suggests, still reading her papers, metal pressing into his chin, and he does. She slips the gun back into its drawer, not turning around. Eames stands there for a long time, watching her.
+
“Is she always this uptight?” Eames is saying, half-curiosity and half-frustration. Dominic tilts his head.
“You mean Alexandra?” he says, and Eames nods. Alexandra doesn’t move, unwilling to give away her presence. It’s late, she should be home. They all should be home, not standing here talking about her. Out drinking, or having sex, or doing whatever other human beings did with their free time. Not talking about her. “No, not really. She just doesn’t enjoy having strangers around. It’s mostly been just her and Mal and me for the past few years.”
“I see,” Eames says, but despite Alexandra willing him to he doesn’t leave. “She pulled a gun on me today.”
“Jesus Christ, Eames, what did you do?” Dominic sputters. Alexandra smiles.
“I’m not even that sure,” Eames admits. “I was leaning over to read some some of her files and she had a gun under my chin two seconds later.”
“Oh,” Dominic says. “That’s my fault. I should have warned you that she has personal space issues.”
“Cobb, that is not personal space issues. That is PTSD-level paranoia, right there.”
“Yours not to question why,” Dominic says. “Yours but to stay out of her personal space and not die. I’ll see you tomorrow.” They leave, one after the other, and Alexandra steps out and heads back to work, lips pressed tight together.
PTSD-level paranoia. Please. She just doesn’t like people touching her. It’s that simple.
+
He does stay out of her space after that at first, but he’s Eames. It’s not that he means anything by it, not really. He just has a weird habit of needing to touch people. Mostly her.
She stiffens the first time he brushes her shoulder, but to her credit the gun remains away this time. He’s watching her cautiously, only belatedly realizing what he’d done, and she knows he can see her muscles tightening, see her folding in on herself. It’s enough to make her slouch down in her seat and tip it back, the picture of calm.
He rarely realizes what he’s doing while he’s touching her. It’s just small things, really, she reminds herself. A hand on her shoulder, a palm on her back. Afterwards he looks apologetic and worried, but over the course of the job she learns to just ignore it. More or less, at least. She finds it easier to resist the impulse to shoot him, at least.
On the other hand, the time she comes up from sleep to find him sliding the cannula out, one hand holding her arm firmly down - well, that is not one of her shining moments. Mostly she remembers Eames’ eyes going blown with fear as his body went limp, not even trying to fight back. She comes back to reason approximately nine and a half seconds into choking him to death and lets go, standing up and stepping away, hands out, palms up.
“I’m sorry,” she says, stiffly. It sounds very loud in the sudden stillness of the warehouse, Dominic and Mal both awake now and watching warily, Mal halfway out of her chair, one hand still stretched to the space Alexandra had occupied. Eames is on the floor still, watching her.
“Me too,” he says after a long moment, and sits up, one hand rubbing his throat. She turns away and starts walking.
It shouldn’t have happened. She’d thought - she’d been so sure she’d gotten things under control, but as it turns out all she’s really done is push them deep under and stayed far away from anyone she didn’t trust. She hasn’t fixed herself at all. It is a frustrating realization.
+
She goes to therapy, but soon deems the experiment unsuccessful. The therapist tries to talk of real-life occurrences and dangers, and she doesn’t know how to tell him that she’s been killed one thousand two hundred and seventy eight times in the past four and a half years, been tortured and blown to hell and shot herself in the head and then woken up, that she didn’t know how to get out and she still doesn’t, not really. She’s just with safer people now. She’s never been good at talking about things like emotions.
She stops coming after two visits.
+
Eames leaves on a cold, rainy day, job succesfully completed. Alexandra hadn’t joined the team in the dream, nor was she there to see him off. She had carefully avoided him since the incident, and was pleased to see him leave, the last visible reminder of her damnable lack of control.
+
It’s not easy being a woman in this profession, or at least not easy being one by yourself. People believe that dreams are nonconsequential, that what happens in them doesn’t truly affect real life.
Alexandra knows better.
+
Mal and Dom are kind and gentle. In the end, of course, it’s Mal who asks her what happened, who tells her that it’s okay to talk about it.
“There’s really nothing to talk about,” Alexandra says. “I worked with people that, in retrospect, I shouldn’t have. There’s nothing more to the story.”
“If you won’t talk about it to your therapist, you have to tell someone,” Mal insists. Alexandra drinks her wine, the whole glass, and then sets it down on the table, muscle tic in her hand jumping. She’s really not surprised that Mal knows about the therapist, just surprised that she doesn’t also know Alexandra stopped going a week ago.
“I’ve got it under control now,” she says.
“That’s not why I was asking,” Mal says, and Alexandra nods.
“I know,” she says. “But it’s the only answer I have.”
“Alex,” Mal says, and touches her hand feather-light. Alexandra doesn’t jump. Mal’s touch is comforting and warm and, above all, completely familiar.
“Please don’t ask,” Alexandra says. “I’m here now.”
“All right,” Mal sighs, and pours them both more wine.
+
Eames comes back three months later on a bright, sunshiney day in May, voice loud and cheerful and presence not as overwhelming. That’s good, Alexandra thinks, and in consequence her smile borders on warm when she says hello to him and shakes his hand. He holds it just a fraction longer than he should and looks at her curiously, and she tugs it away and moves off, heartbeat accelerated but her face and body completely calm. A victory, of sorts.
He follows her into the warehouse but doesn’t come near her, punctilious to a point about not touching her. It’s at once frustrating and comforting, that he cares enough to do that and that it’s necessary.
“It’s a job for the CIA,” she explains when everyone’s assembled. “The target is a military officer who defected and was recently recaptured. The CIA wants everything he knows about the people who recruited him extracted.”
“And where do I come in?” Eames says, and Alexandra shrugs.
“We’re not sure yet, but it’s going to be a difficult job, and a forger seemed like a really good idea.”
“You’ve got a good eye for the emotional side of things, as well,” Cobb adds. “With Alexandra’s attention to detail and your insight, we should have everything covered.”
Eames tilts his head, taps his foot, and shrugs.
“All right,” he says.