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Inception Fic: Between You and Me
Title: Between You and Me (1/?)
Word Count: 3,133
Pairing: Past Browning/Fischer, Rumored Arthur/Eames & Eames/Yusuf, Actual Eames/Fischer
Rating: R
Warnings: This content might be triggering to some. There is the age difference between Browning and Fischer, and talk about rape.
Summary: After Reflections of Men. Eames doesn't do exclusive relationships, and Fischer doesn't like the idea of Eames sleeping with other people. Add on what happened with Browning, and we have this part.
Author's Note:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
forgerness, this one is for you and your love for Yusuf, Eames, and Fischer. And yea, it's written in the first/second person and is a wee bit experimental on the format, so I apologize if it's a little confusing. I've also managed to toss in third for the introduction.
Part 2
It was an unexpected surprise to hear from Eames so soon. Unexpected, surprising, but nevertheless welcomed. They spoke for several minutes – about the weather, the shop, and the cat. It prepared them for the request Eames would eventually get to despite them knowing that no matter what, Yusuf would say yes.
“I need a favor, mate,” he said in that cheery voice. “There is someone that needs your expertise.”
“Someone?” Yusuf questioned. “Another extractor?”
“No, though it is about dreams.”
Yusuf frowned, “Could you be a little less vague?”
“If I was, you would probably not agree.”
“You know I would,” Yusuf nearly spat into the phone. “So out with it, Mr. Eames.”
Eames breathed deep on the other side and glanced at the body that slept quietly next to him, “It's Robert Fischer.”
“Ha, bloody, ha,” Yusuf said, but nothing came in response. His eyes grew wide. “You are kidding, right?”
Soon after, because he most certainly was not . . .
Before the plane ride, we stop at a bar, and you order a round of drinks. You slide two, blue pills in my hand, and I look at them. “What's this for?”
“The flight. To help you relax.”
“I'll do just fine without them,” I protest. “Any of them.”
“Robert,” you whisper, closing my fingers to wrap around our secret as the waiter returns. The gentle rubbing across the knuckles softens my anger before you add, “You can trust me. Nothing is going to happen.”
My hand retracts and takes the drink. The liquor tastes awful and burns in my throat, but it gives a moment worth the sip. “Why?” I ask,still talking into the three-quarter filled glass. “I don't get it. Why are you going out of your way for me?”
“Because, pet,” you whisper softly, your hands suddenly around mine to pull the drink away and replace the rim upon my lips with yours in a soft kiss.
It is enough, and after you sit back, I open my hand and toss back the pills and chase it with the rest.
By the walk through the gate, I am feeling a little tired. You have to lift our bags overhead and help me into the seat that I cannot focus enough to ask why we are in coach. Your arm wraps around my shoulders after securing my seat belt, and I drift into slumber before take off.
Before
The morning after I wake to sheets beneath me, soft and cushioned by the mattress. It's warm, not just because of the blankets but arms draped around, folding, keeping me close. I can neither twist or turn, but none of this matters. A deep breath tells me exactly whom rests there so peacefully. Your chin rests on my shoulder, and I moan at realizing that you undressed us both before lying here.
I must be dreaming.
Unless . . .
My eyes close, fingers closing around your wrists as I nudge back playfully, rocking into you until I feel you becoming hard. The excitement rolls through me, down between my legs as I continue and lift an index and middle finger into my mouth to bite back the pleasurable sounds that might upset the neighbors. I feel your body come to life, the first response vocally in purrs, and then nips along my shoulder in consent.
I pull away, biting my lower lip. No, no this is wrong. Terribly wrong. Yet each time you rubbed your fingers along my thighs, I quivered. I ached.
“You want this, don't you, Robert?” you whisper into my ear before biting the soft lobe, flicking your tongue against it as if it were even possible to refuse. I nod, but there is no movement to my body, so you ask, “Then tell me what's wrong, yeah?”
Quietly, I ask, “Did my Uncle Peter put you up to this? All of it?”
You move back, stunned, and I fear that you will leave the bed, but I feel my body move, my back pressed against yours, lined up with legs intertwined to become one. “None.”
“I . . . see.”
“You sound upset,” you say but kiss my shoulder to show you are not offended, understanding. “This is your first time without his permission, isn't it?” I nod again, and you roll us over onto our stomachs to kiss the back of my neck. “Then lets pretend, shall we? Close your eyes. Imagine Peter Browning is sitting by the window, drink in hand.”
I cough, “You are being silly.”
“Am I, really?
“You are,” I argue and laugh into the pillow. Turning, I add, “He would not sit there because . . .” I pause, and you kiss my neck, stroking the soft spot behind my ear. “We stopped talking to each other.”
You pause and sit up so that I can twist and sit against the headboard. “When did that happen?”
“Few weeks ago.”
“Was I here?”
I nod.
“You could have told me,” you tell me, reaching out to grasp my shoulder, and it takes a lot of effort to not pull away.
“I did not want to be a bother,” I say rather than the whole truth. “Besides, what would I have told you then? Oh, hello, Daniel. How are you doing this evening? I'm great. My uncle just had rough sex with me to tell me he's done, but these bruises forming on my face might make you think it was rape.”
Your eyes grow wide, figuring out why for a week I would not see you, said that I was going away on a vacation that was not. Your point man would have told you this and likely told you to leave me be. “Robert, listen to what you are saying . . .”
“It was not,” I continue. “I made a mistake, talking to him there while he was drunk. And he's done it before.” Just not with the blood. I press my lips. “Please believe me. It's nothing.” But you get off the bed, and I ask, “Where are you going?”
“To shower. Then out.”
“To Arthur?”
“He went stateside after last night, Robert.”
I lower my head, “Oh.”
Your hand touches my shoulder again. There is silence until I am able to lift my hand and lace our fingers together, rubbing the knuckles for some assurance. “I'm going to call a friend, see if he can help you.”
“What sort of friend?”
“He's a chemist.”
Now
You enter the building before I do, leaving me there to continue study the surroundings that seem so foreign. It was before the landing that I woke, startled by the turbulence into a groggy awareness that had me shaking, that you told me about it. Mombasa. At one point, you had promised to show me your secrets; I had forgotten it over what happened while sharing dreams. Was this one of them?
Only a few minutes pass before you exit and reach out for my hand. I take it and am pulled into a place that makes me wonder if this is another dream. There is a man behind the counter, sitting on a stool in comfortable attire, matching perfect to his environment. There is a light to his eyes that reminds me of you, the way you can see things as more than they actually are.
None of speak until I notice something rubbing against my lower leg. Looking down, I see a long-haired cat and bend down to stroke its chin. “Why hello there.”
“Mandisa likes you,” he observes with a smile.
“Unlike me,” you laugh, and he chuckles. I rise up, and you break suddenly. “Yusuf, this is Robert Fischer. You have sort of met.”
“On the plane,” I say.
Yusuf blinks, “You remember?”
“Bits and pieces,” I shrug, disregarding the response. The cat continues to try and catch my attention, so I decide instead to pick her up. She allows it and purrs. “In dreams.”
“What sort of dreams?” he asks, glancing at you and then me.
I close my eyes, letting the cat jump before I recall in minute details: “Raindrops. Rivers. Gunshots. There is a bag over my head, placed by a thief, a crook pulling off the greatest heist – stealing an idea. He never expected the surprise, the bullets shooting passed his head. Misinformation almost got us killed. And a number.” I swallow, pausing. “5-2-8-4-9-1”
“Do you remember what the numbers mean?”
Before
I hear him screaming and want to jump forward, race to his side, but I know it's not possible. There are two men in front of me, asking questions. I stare at them, tell them I don't have the answer.
They bring Uncle Peter in, beaten and bruised, and handcuff him to a pipe. They leave, and we talk about the combination, the kidnapping, and then my father.
“He loved you, Robert. In his way.”
“In his way?” I look at Uncle Peter. “At the end he called me to his deathbed. He could barely speak, but he took the trouble to say one last thing to me. He pulled me close . . . I could make out only one word, 'Disappointed.'” He looks away, unable to say anything. It is quiet, as if this is his fault, and I reach out to touch his hand. “Do you believe him?”
“What?” he stammers. “Of course not. You were not a disappointment, Robert. Just different.”
I smile, “Is that what you really think?” He nods, and with my other hand, I reach across and touch the side of his cheek, pulling his lips to mine. “We are getting out of this,” I whisper to him.
And to my surprise, he pulls away. I do as well, “Sorry.” He says nothing, and I feel sick. My stomach clenches into knots, and I fall further back. My skin feels dirty, and it's not from the place were are sitting in, the filth all around us. For the first time in ages around him, I feel rejected.
“Say something,” I begin in a quiet voice, preferring his yelling over this. Contact is something we have, opposite to my father. A beautiful, loving connection. “Please, Uncle Peter. I need you to tell me what to do.”
He speaks then, solemnly, “I need you to remember, Robert.” His hand lies on mine. “They're going to kill us if we don't give them the combination.”
Now
“They mean nothing,” I tell him. “Nothing at all.”
Yusuf nods, “I can help you sleep. Without dreams. Give me twenty-four hours, and we will see if it works here at my place, where it is safe.” He raises an eyebrow upon looking back at you. “Do you have a place to stay?” You shrug, and he picks up a skeleton key, tossing it to you with graceful expectancy. “Figured as much. Do keep the racket down this time.”
There is a smile to your lips as you pick up our bags and say, “No promises.” It does not pass as we are led to the backroom and up the stairs to a small apartment space. There are two doors, and Yusuf points out that the one in front of them is his while the other was once storage before you came along and stuck around for longer than a few nights. “Home sweet home,” you mutter, wrapping your arm around me. “Thanks again, mate.”
You lead me into the sparsely furnished room and drop our bags. Once the footsteps silence, you whisper into my ear, “So, you want to try again?”
“Here?” I raise an eyebrow. “Now? You can't be serious.”
“Change of scenery might help.”
“I don't think it is going to help this,” I say, but your arms are wrapped around my waist, pulling me close, into your hard cock that presses passed the fabric. I want to. I want you to push me up against the small dresser that sits next to the bed and force yourself into me, trusting deep so that I'm screaming loud enough for Uncle Peter to hear me back in the states. I want it, but as your hand reaches down, you find that I am as reactive as the stillness in your arms. “This man, Yusuf, he's not the cause of your . . . arousal, is he?”
“Bloody hell,” you mutter and pull away. “You know, Robert, I'm getting tired of your accusations.”
“Accu -” I turn, crossing my arms. “You were practically flirting with him all the way to the door, and I did nothing. Absolutely nothing. And here you are with a hard-on.”
“At least I'm not mind-fucked by my godfather to the point to where I can't have sex with my partner,” you tell me, practically yelling. I can see your hands ball into fists, you're shaking. “I'm trying to be civil here. I don't do exclusive relationships, but I made an exception.”
“Does not look like it from here,” I grumble.
“Well, you are making that bloody difficult, aren't you?” you try to smile, although we're both irritated, and add, “Give a man a little credit?”
I turn and open the door, “Fuck you.” It slams behind me enough to rattle some jars that I hear on nearby shelves downstairs. That's more than enough for Yusuf to get and meet me at the end. I don't care. When his hand tries to stop me, I grab his shoulder and push. He stumbles back, barely catching himself on a stack of boxes before what would've been a full collision with a shelf.
“What the ---?”
“You must think this is all fantastic, what you pulled off. Changing a man, implanting this idea. Well you screwed up. You all did.” I hear you at the stairs, coming down after me, and leave before I can hear the fallout. There is yelling again. That this was a mistake.
Before
I stare at the device. The wires. The needles. The whole, damned contraption. I shudder. “It's not going to work.”
“Of course it is,” you tell me, taking pride. “It did before.”
“When you pretended to be Uncle Peter?” I ask, lifting my eyebrow. “And that should give me reason to trust you?”
You pull one of the wires out and insert the needle like a professional. I want to think of a nurse but it's more like an addict. “No,” you say afterward. “But you don't want to come with me to Mombasa unless we have tried all of our options.”
“I don't want to go because I don't want to use drugs,” I protest because it's a terrible excuse to go inside my head again. “I've been to therapy. Meds. Everything. Nothing works.”
“Except Peter Browning, and he's gone,” you tell me and take my hand, rolling it so that the palm is up. I do not stop him. “And if this does not work, you should at least try whatever concoction Yusuf comes up with. He's a good man. I've known him for a while.”
I sigh, letting the needle slip in. “What do I have to do?”
“Remember the moment, the last time you saw him. I'll be in there shortly.”
I close my eyes to darkness and forget that I am lying there because there is a pain in my chest, along my jaw. It's numb compared to the searing pain that stings as I try to stand up. That shoots up my back from my rectum, and I hold onto the edge of the desk for support. I clench my jaw and curse for forgetting so easily, another sharpness filling my body. It is all enough to double over and vomit, but I reach across the ground for my pants and pull them up slowly.
“Robert . . .” Uncle Peter's voice is soft, to hide the shock I sense in his tone. It rarely comes, so when it does, I recognize it immediately. “I'm sorry, Robert.” Apologies also never come from him, so I am wary, unable to speak. He continues, “I was being brash. This decision of yours caught me off guard.”
“I should have consulted you first,” I tell him. “You are right. This is your company as much as it is mine.”
“No, it's not,” he says. “This was your father's dream, and your future. Your decision, and you made it. I should be happy for you, damn it. Not this.” He shook his head. “You should be allowed to do what you want, son, and I am going to let you.”
I look at him, and his face is genuine, filled with the very same concern I saw when my mother died. Slowly, I move to him, close in, and lie my head upon his chest, sobbing. “Thank you, Uncle Peter.” His arms wrap around me, but that is not nearly enough, so I reach up and kiss him, closing my eyes.
He strokes my hair, down my neck, as I proceed to undress him, breaching his lips and teeth to reach his tongue against mine, feeling his warmth envelop me again. It summons me forth, and he catches me, our passions entwining in a mess of clothes on the floor. Soon enough, my hand is around his cock, stroking him into deep, husky moans. It is rare that I actually get to see his reactions, but they are lovely even after he has aged in grace.
His hands move down the curves of my shoulders to the arms, tracing each line until he reaches the more unnatural forms. Raised flesh. Healed cuts and burns. Trophies of our victories that I wear proud. He is less so, hesitant at the circular mark made by a cigarette Mr. Pryor held in his hand.
“What's wrong?” I whisper, my forehead pressed to his, not understanding. I open my eyes, and pull away, the dull blue holding new color and a face no longer his. The image breaks away, and you stare at me, unable to deal with my reality.
Word Count: 3,133
Pairing: Past Browning/Fischer, Rumored Arthur/Eames & Eames/Yusuf, Actual Eames/Fischer
Rating: R
Warnings: This content might be triggering to some. There is the age difference between Browning and Fischer, and talk about rape.
Summary: After Reflections of Men. Eames doesn't do exclusive relationships, and Fischer doesn't like the idea of Eames sleeping with other people. Add on what happened with Browning, and we have this part.
Author's Note:
forgerness, this one is for you and your love for Yusuf, Eames, and Fischer. And yea, it's written in the first/second person and is a wee bit experimental on the format, so I apologize if it's a little confusing. I've also managed to toss in third for the introduction. Part 2
It was an unexpected surprise to hear from Eames so soon. Unexpected, surprising, but nevertheless welcomed. They spoke for several minutes – about the weather, the shop, and the cat. It prepared them for the request Eames would eventually get to despite them knowing that no matter what, Yusuf would say yes.
“I need a favor, mate,” he said in that cheery voice. “There is someone that needs your expertise.”
“Someone?” Yusuf questioned. “Another extractor?”
“No, though it is about dreams.”
Yusuf frowned, “Could you be a little less vague?”
“If I was, you would probably not agree.”
“You know I would,” Yusuf nearly spat into the phone. “So out with it, Mr. Eames.”
Eames breathed deep on the other side and glanced at the body that slept quietly next to him, “It's Robert Fischer.”
“Ha, bloody, ha,” Yusuf said, but nothing came in response. His eyes grew wide. “You are kidding, right?”
Before the plane ride, we stop at a bar, and you order a round of drinks. You slide two, blue pills in my hand, and I look at them. “What's this for?”
“The flight. To help you relax.”
“I'll do just fine without them,” I protest. “Any of them.”
“Robert,” you whisper, closing my fingers to wrap around our secret as the waiter returns. The gentle rubbing across the knuckles softens my anger before you add, “You can trust me. Nothing is going to happen.”
My hand retracts and takes the drink. The liquor tastes awful and burns in my throat, but it gives a moment worth the sip. “Why?” I ask,still talking into the three-quarter filled glass. “I don't get it. Why are you going out of your way for me?”
“Because, pet,” you whisper softly, your hands suddenly around mine to pull the drink away and replace the rim upon my lips with yours in a soft kiss.
It is enough, and after you sit back, I open my hand and toss back the pills and chase it with the rest.
By the walk through the gate, I am feeling a little tired. You have to lift our bags overhead and help me into the seat that I cannot focus enough to ask why we are in coach. Your arm wraps around my shoulders after securing my seat belt, and I drift into slumber before take off.
The morning after I wake to sheets beneath me, soft and cushioned by the mattress. It's warm, not just because of the blankets but arms draped around, folding, keeping me close. I can neither twist or turn, but none of this matters. A deep breath tells me exactly whom rests there so peacefully. Your chin rests on my shoulder, and I moan at realizing that you undressed us both before lying here.
I must be dreaming.
Unless . . .
My eyes close, fingers closing around your wrists as I nudge back playfully, rocking into you until I feel you becoming hard. The excitement rolls through me, down between my legs as I continue and lift an index and middle finger into my mouth to bite back the pleasurable sounds that might upset the neighbors. I feel your body come to life, the first response vocally in purrs, and then nips along my shoulder in consent.
I pull away, biting my lower lip. No, no this is wrong. Terribly wrong. Yet each time you rubbed your fingers along my thighs, I quivered. I ached.
“You want this, don't you, Robert?” you whisper into my ear before biting the soft lobe, flicking your tongue against it as if it were even possible to refuse. I nod, but there is no movement to my body, so you ask, “Then tell me what's wrong, yeah?”
Quietly, I ask, “Did my Uncle Peter put you up to this? All of it?”
You move back, stunned, and I fear that you will leave the bed, but I feel my body move, my back pressed against yours, lined up with legs intertwined to become one. “None.”
“I . . . see.”
“You sound upset,” you say but kiss my shoulder to show you are not offended, understanding. “This is your first time without his permission, isn't it?” I nod again, and you roll us over onto our stomachs to kiss the back of my neck. “Then lets pretend, shall we? Close your eyes. Imagine Peter Browning is sitting by the window, drink in hand.”
I cough, “You are being silly.”
“Am I, really?
“You are,” I argue and laugh into the pillow. Turning, I add, “He would not sit there because . . .” I pause, and you kiss my neck, stroking the soft spot behind my ear. “We stopped talking to each other.”
You pause and sit up so that I can twist and sit against the headboard. “When did that happen?”
“Few weeks ago.”
“Was I here?”
I nod.
“You could have told me,” you tell me, reaching out to grasp my shoulder, and it takes a lot of effort to not pull away.
“I did not want to be a bother,” I say rather than the whole truth. “Besides, what would I have told you then? Oh, hello, Daniel. How are you doing this evening? I'm great. My uncle just had rough sex with me to tell me he's done, but these bruises forming on my face might make you think it was rape.”
Your eyes grow wide, figuring out why for a week I would not see you, said that I was going away on a vacation that was not. Your point man would have told you this and likely told you to leave me be. “Robert, listen to what you are saying . . .”
“It was not,” I continue. “I made a mistake, talking to him there while he was drunk. And he's done it before.” Just not with the blood. I press my lips. “Please believe me. It's nothing.” But you get off the bed, and I ask, “Where are you going?”
“To shower. Then out.”
“To Arthur?”
“He went stateside after last night, Robert.”
I lower my head, “Oh.”
Your hand touches my shoulder again. There is silence until I am able to lift my hand and lace our fingers together, rubbing the knuckles for some assurance. “I'm going to call a friend, see if he can help you.”
“What sort of friend?”
“He's a chemist.”
You enter the building before I do, leaving me there to continue study the surroundings that seem so foreign. It was before the landing that I woke, startled by the turbulence into a groggy awareness that had me shaking, that you told me about it. Mombasa. At one point, you had promised to show me your secrets; I had forgotten it over what happened while sharing dreams. Was this one of them?
Only a few minutes pass before you exit and reach out for my hand. I take it and am pulled into a place that makes me wonder if this is another dream. There is a man behind the counter, sitting on a stool in comfortable attire, matching perfect to his environment. There is a light to his eyes that reminds me of you, the way you can see things as more than they actually are.
None of speak until I notice something rubbing against my lower leg. Looking down, I see a long-haired cat and bend down to stroke its chin. “Why hello there.”
“Mandisa likes you,” he observes with a smile.
“Unlike me,” you laugh, and he chuckles. I rise up, and you break suddenly. “Yusuf, this is Robert Fischer. You have sort of met.”
“On the plane,” I say.
Yusuf blinks, “You remember?”
“Bits and pieces,” I shrug, disregarding the response. The cat continues to try and catch my attention, so I decide instead to pick her up. She allows it and purrs. “In dreams.”
“What sort of dreams?” he asks, glancing at you and then me.
I close my eyes, letting the cat jump before I recall in minute details: “Raindrops. Rivers. Gunshots. There is a bag over my head, placed by a thief, a crook pulling off the greatest heist – stealing an idea. He never expected the surprise, the bullets shooting passed his head. Misinformation almost got us killed. And a number.” I swallow, pausing. “5-2-8-4-9-1”
“Do you remember what the numbers mean?”
I hear him screaming and want to jump forward, race to his side, but I know it's not possible. There are two men in front of me, asking questions. I stare at them, tell them I don't have the answer.
They bring Uncle Peter in, beaten and bruised, and handcuff him to a pipe. They leave, and we talk about the combination, the kidnapping, and then my father.
“He loved you, Robert. In his way.”
“In his way?” I look at Uncle Peter. “At the end he called me to his deathbed. He could barely speak, but he took the trouble to say one last thing to me. He pulled me close . . . I could make out only one word, 'Disappointed.'” He looks away, unable to say anything. It is quiet, as if this is his fault, and I reach out to touch his hand. “Do you believe him?”
“What?” he stammers. “Of course not. You were not a disappointment, Robert. Just different.”
I smile, “Is that what you really think?” He nods, and with my other hand, I reach across and touch the side of his cheek, pulling his lips to mine. “We are getting out of this,” I whisper to him.
And to my surprise, he pulls away. I do as well, “Sorry.” He says nothing, and I feel sick. My stomach clenches into knots, and I fall further back. My skin feels dirty, and it's not from the place were are sitting in, the filth all around us. For the first time in ages around him, I feel rejected.
“Say something,” I begin in a quiet voice, preferring his yelling over this. Contact is something we have, opposite to my father. A beautiful, loving connection. “Please, Uncle Peter. I need you to tell me what to do.”
He speaks then, solemnly, “I need you to remember, Robert.” His hand lies on mine. “They're going to kill us if we don't give them the combination.”
“They mean nothing,” I tell him. “Nothing at all.”
Yusuf nods, “I can help you sleep. Without dreams. Give me twenty-four hours, and we will see if it works here at my place, where it is safe.” He raises an eyebrow upon looking back at you. “Do you have a place to stay?” You shrug, and he picks up a skeleton key, tossing it to you with graceful expectancy. “Figured as much. Do keep the racket down this time.”
There is a smile to your lips as you pick up our bags and say, “No promises.” It does not pass as we are led to the backroom and up the stairs to a small apartment space. There are two doors, and Yusuf points out that the one in front of them is his while the other was once storage before you came along and stuck around for longer than a few nights. “Home sweet home,” you mutter, wrapping your arm around me. “Thanks again, mate.”
You lead me into the sparsely furnished room and drop our bags. Once the footsteps silence, you whisper into my ear, “So, you want to try again?”
“Here?” I raise an eyebrow. “Now? You can't be serious.”
“Change of scenery might help.”
“I don't think it is going to help this,” I say, but your arms are wrapped around my waist, pulling me close, into your hard cock that presses passed the fabric. I want to. I want you to push me up against the small dresser that sits next to the bed and force yourself into me, trusting deep so that I'm screaming loud enough for Uncle Peter to hear me back in the states. I want it, but as your hand reaches down, you find that I am as reactive as the stillness in your arms. “This man, Yusuf, he's not the cause of your . . . arousal, is he?”
“Bloody hell,” you mutter and pull away. “You know, Robert, I'm getting tired of your accusations.”
“Accu -” I turn, crossing my arms. “You were practically flirting with him all the way to the door, and I did nothing. Absolutely nothing. And here you are with a hard-on.”
“At least I'm not mind-fucked by my godfather to the point to where I can't have sex with my partner,” you tell me, practically yelling. I can see your hands ball into fists, you're shaking. “I'm trying to be civil here. I don't do exclusive relationships, but I made an exception.”
“Does not look like it from here,” I grumble.
“Well, you are making that bloody difficult, aren't you?” you try to smile, although we're both irritated, and add, “Give a man a little credit?”
I turn and open the door, “Fuck you.” It slams behind me enough to rattle some jars that I hear on nearby shelves downstairs. That's more than enough for Yusuf to get and meet me at the end. I don't care. When his hand tries to stop me, I grab his shoulder and push. He stumbles back, barely catching himself on a stack of boxes before what would've been a full collision with a shelf.
“What the ---?”
“You must think this is all fantastic, what you pulled off. Changing a man, implanting this idea. Well you screwed up. You all did.” I hear you at the stairs, coming down after me, and leave before I can hear the fallout. There is yelling again. That this was a mistake.
I stare at the device. The wires. The needles. The whole, damned contraption. I shudder. “It's not going to work.”
“Of course it is,” you tell me, taking pride. “It did before.”
“When you pretended to be Uncle Peter?” I ask, lifting my eyebrow. “And that should give me reason to trust you?”
You pull one of the wires out and insert the needle like a professional. I want to think of a nurse but it's more like an addict. “No,” you say afterward. “But you don't want to come with me to Mombasa unless we have tried all of our options.”
“I don't want to go because I don't want to use drugs,” I protest because it's a terrible excuse to go inside my head again. “I've been to therapy. Meds. Everything. Nothing works.”
“Except Peter Browning, and he's gone,” you tell me and take my hand, rolling it so that the palm is up. I do not stop him. “And if this does not work, you should at least try whatever concoction Yusuf comes up with. He's a good man. I've known him for a while.”
I sigh, letting the needle slip in. “What do I have to do?”
“Remember the moment, the last time you saw him. I'll be in there shortly.”
I close my eyes to darkness and forget that I am lying there because there is a pain in my chest, along my jaw. It's numb compared to the searing pain that stings as I try to stand up. That shoots up my back from my rectum, and I hold onto the edge of the desk for support. I clench my jaw and curse for forgetting so easily, another sharpness filling my body. It is all enough to double over and vomit, but I reach across the ground for my pants and pull them up slowly.
“Robert . . .” Uncle Peter's voice is soft, to hide the shock I sense in his tone. It rarely comes, so when it does, I recognize it immediately. “I'm sorry, Robert.” Apologies also never come from him, so I am wary, unable to speak. He continues, “I was being brash. This decision of yours caught me off guard.”
“I should have consulted you first,” I tell him. “You are right. This is your company as much as it is mine.”
“No, it's not,” he says. “This was your father's dream, and your future. Your decision, and you made it. I should be happy for you, damn it. Not this.” He shook his head. “You should be allowed to do what you want, son, and I am going to let you.”
I look at him, and his face is genuine, filled with the very same concern I saw when my mother died. Slowly, I move to him, close in, and lie my head upon his chest, sobbing. “Thank you, Uncle Peter.” His arms wrap around me, but that is not nearly enough, so I reach up and kiss him, closing my eyes.
He strokes my hair, down my neck, as I proceed to undress him, breaching his lips and teeth to reach his tongue against mine, feeling his warmth envelop me again. It summons me forth, and he catches me, our passions entwining in a mess of clothes on the floor. Soon enough, my hand is around his cock, stroking him into deep, husky moans. It is rare that I actually get to see his reactions, but they are lovely even after he has aged in grace.
His hands move down the curves of my shoulders to the arms, tracing each line until he reaches the more unnatural forms. Raised flesh. Healed cuts and burns. Trophies of our victories that I wear proud. He is less so, hesitant at the circular mark made by a cigarette Mr. Pryor held in his hand.
“What's wrong?” I whisper, my forehead pressed to his, not understanding. I open my eyes, and pull away, the dull blue holding new color and a face no longer his. The image breaks away, and you stare at me, unable to deal with my reality.
no subject
And even evil has shades of gray at times. I love playing with that, so thank you. I'm thrilled at this kind of response.