Inception Fic: Games of the Heart and Mind
Dec. 2nd, 2010 01:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
azuremewTitle: Games of the Heart and Mind, Part 2
Word Count: 1,435
Pairing: Beginnings of Arthur/Eames/Fischer
Rating: PG-13, maybe R
Warnings: violence, and kind of fluffy – well, as fluffy as I can be.
Summary: After Games of the Heart and Mind So, this is the beginning of two prompts on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
inception_kink: "I wanted to destroy something beautiful" prompt and the " "Maurice and Robert: Two generations of Fischers, Two very different types of businessmen." " newspaper prompt, part 2.
Also, while this isn't the part dedicated to the lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hesselives, I can blame this ending fully. Thank you. And I lied. This is the ending to Section 1, Part 1, Level 1, what-have-you
Flashing lights. Cue cards. Trembling hands. I stare blankly at the printed words to be spoken, my betrayal and regret I fear will be infinite. Looking up, I see Lisa. She is talking to my father, smiling, laughing. They are talking about dinner plans. One plus side to causing an uproar at a restaurant is that it causes publicity. Reservations sky rocketed at The Aria. In my father's pocket is a gift certificate. He's telling her that we should go. I wonder if he adds in what we said, or if there are edits in those words like the ones on these cards.
What the photographer captured was a mistake. A false image. I was drunk. A colleague dared me. . . .
I close my eyes, remembering the night to shelve it into the back of my mind. Tyler was his name. Tall, dark, handsome type. My colleague was a date, a patron of Uncle Peter's business. We did drink. My body was warm from the liquor, my head fuzzy, my inhibitions far less restrained. He told me to pick up the gentleman at the bar, to bring him back to the hotel we were sharing for the night, and he would sign the papers with my uncle in the morning.
Anything for Uncle Peter, I thought, and went about the performance that would sway this younger man to a stranger's room. The flirtation was quick, consent by a kiss, my arm around his waist to lead him away. I never saw the camera flash. Never knew.
Nothing happened that night. Once we were in the hotel where Mr. Davenport was staying, we told the other man that he could leave. I left shortly there after, thanking him for his time and hope that he would continue his place in Fischer Morrow
Uncle Peter was angry with me. Ashamed. We had rules. He cupped my cheek with his large hand and reminded me, “Robert, no one for Fischer Morrow is worth you getting hurt.”
I realize now that it was that incident that he could no longer take care of me.
Swallowing a lump in my throat, I approach the podium, my footsteps muffled by the clapping. Sight is lost from the flashes. I try to smile, but my hands are still shaking. They continue to do so at the silence, my voice unable to speak.
Now
We dance to a rhythm unexpected. One of footsteps taking stance, defense and offense, and glides, sweeps, and dips to the floor. Arthur is on the ground. I take the advantage, forgetting the tailored suit around my body or the leather shoes that collide with his abdomen, sending another whoosh of air. He coughs. Blood splatters on the floor. I smile, psychotic and serene, with you silent behind the curtain.
“Tell me why,” I say in a flat tone, lowering myself to his level. “Tell me why he loves you. I'm curious.” My fingertips pass over the pool of red pouring from your mouth, mixed with your saliva and now my own, a distant kiss that holds more volume than those before.
Much like his voice, “Fuck you!” He goes to grab at me, but I jump back, laughing, because shortly after he is coughing again. Broken ribs, I guess. Maybe only swollen.
“Don't have an answer then?” I ask, and he gets up, racing forward to crash us into the nearby wall. I let him. The pain rolls up my spine and spits out my air. It stings to breath, but I have to for a laugh. It hurts to move, but I do so to touch the side of his face and move back a stray hair. “Didn't think so. There's really nothing you're good at, not here. Maybe in dreams, but this is reality.”
Before
Uncle Peter walks out at noticing my anxiety. He clears his throat, coughing into his hand, before wrapping it around the microphone to pull it to him. “Forgive Mr. Fischer, ladies and gentlemen. It is a difficult time to speak of these matters, and if you ---”
He pauses because my hand is on his. My eyes catch his gaze. “Please, Uncle Peter,” I murmur, and he backs away. I swallow again, but I never look back, not at the people, not at the cards. I just speak out what needs to be said, “Hello. It's a pleasure to have you all here. I only wish that it was under better circumstances.” Rehearsed words at first. “For many years, I have been part of Fischer Morrow. It was not a position well-known to the public eye; my father did not want to start me too high, for my feet were not stable since Angela's death, and he did not want me to fall such a distance that would not be salvageable. As the story goes, I battled depression for many years after, unsure if this was my place, and if I was the man my father wanted me to be.”
Then it stops. “I am not the man he expected, but I would like to believe that it is something better. We have entered a global crisis, and while it has not been broadcast over every channel and paper, it is the truth. People can make small steps away from this, help stop this catastrophe, but it is the larger companies, like Fischer Morrow, that can step forward and change. I have been researching alternative energy resources for quite some time now, and while this conference was called to talk about my sexual orientation, I implore that you take into consideration a more important matter than if whether or not I have sex with men or women, or even both for that matter.”
They laugh, and I smile. I know that my father is not, but at the very least there is little that he can do. “Within the next month, a proposal will be brought to the board, and it is in that moment that I look forward to seeing you again. Good day.”
The claps are louder than they were before but nothing to my father's voice behind the curtain. “Robert, this is not what we discussed.”
“No,” I tell him, unable to lose the smile from my face. “It is something better.”
Now
He is too weak, too tired, to do anything more. It's showing in his grip, the way he stands, so I spin us around and force him still. “Had you known, would you have stopped?”
“What?”
My hand squeezes tighter on his shoulder. It brings him into perspective. “You heard me, and you've spoken with him, likely more intimately than I. So tell me, had you known more than your papers, would you have stopped the inception?”
“Yes.” Without lowering his head, he says it. “I would have tried, Robert.”
Whether the truth or not, I want to tear him apart. Unbelievable. “It's not true. What do you think I am? A fool? Just like before? Just like your lover? You mindfuck me, and then you fuck me over a second time for fun? Is that it?” I pull him away and shove. “Tell me!”
Someone pulls me away. You. You take me away from Arthur and wrap your arms around me. Your warmth, your sweat, it smells delightful, intoxicating as it is irritating. “Robert,” you say. “Enough.” I am shaking with anger, shaking apart. You hold me together as we crumple to the floor. My body is wracked, tears flooding my face. I want to scream, I want to buck and punch you.
Your fingers comb through my hair, your strength holding me there. “If we knew before, I would have done nothing. Money and all, the thrill. No regrets.” You pause. “Arthur would have. He would have tried to convince Cobb there was some other way, but there was not. Not to Cobb. But we did not know until now, and now . . .” you words trail off, and I glance over at the wall. Arthur is gone.
I swallow the urge to struggle and ask, my voice bitter with the waste, “You're doing this to get him out of here, aren't you?” That was when I felt it. The arm wrapping around me. The smell of cologne. The chin on my shoulder.
“Who do you think told me to get my arse back to the room, pet?” you ask.
Arthur.
Word Count: 1,435
Pairing: Beginnings of Arthur/Eames/Fischer
Rating: PG-13, maybe R
Warnings: violence, and kind of fluffy – well, as fluffy as I can be.
Summary: After Games of the Heart and Mind So, this is the beginning of two prompts on
inception_kink: "I wanted to destroy something beautiful" prompt and the " "Maurice and Robert: Two generations of Fischers, Two very different types of businessmen." " newspaper prompt, part 2.Also, while this isn't the part dedicated to the lovely
hesselives, I can blame this ending fully. Thank you. And I lied. This is the ending to Section 1, Part 1, Level 1, what-have-youFlashing lights. Cue cards. Trembling hands. I stare blankly at the printed words to be spoken, my betrayal and regret I fear will be infinite. Looking up, I see Lisa. She is talking to my father, smiling, laughing. They are talking about dinner plans. One plus side to causing an uproar at a restaurant is that it causes publicity. Reservations sky rocketed at The Aria. In my father's pocket is a gift certificate. He's telling her that we should go. I wonder if he adds in what we said, or if there are edits in those words like the ones on these cards.
What the photographer captured was a mistake. A false image. I was drunk. A colleague dared me. . . .
I close my eyes, remembering the night to shelve it into the back of my mind. Tyler was his name. Tall, dark, handsome type. My colleague was a date, a patron of Uncle Peter's business. We did drink. My body was warm from the liquor, my head fuzzy, my inhibitions far less restrained. He told me to pick up the gentleman at the bar, to bring him back to the hotel we were sharing for the night, and he would sign the papers with my uncle in the morning.
Anything for Uncle Peter, I thought, and went about the performance that would sway this younger man to a stranger's room. The flirtation was quick, consent by a kiss, my arm around his waist to lead him away. I never saw the camera flash. Never knew.
Nothing happened that night. Once we were in the hotel where Mr. Davenport was staying, we told the other man that he could leave. I left shortly there after, thanking him for his time and hope that he would continue his place in Fischer Morrow
Uncle Peter was angry with me. Ashamed. We had rules. He cupped my cheek with his large hand and reminded me, “Robert, no one for Fischer Morrow is worth you getting hurt.”
I realize now that it was that incident that he could no longer take care of me.
Swallowing a lump in my throat, I approach the podium, my footsteps muffled by the clapping. Sight is lost from the flashes. I try to smile, but my hands are still shaking. They continue to do so at the silence, my voice unable to speak.
We dance to a rhythm unexpected. One of footsteps taking stance, defense and offense, and glides, sweeps, and dips to the floor. Arthur is on the ground. I take the advantage, forgetting the tailored suit around my body or the leather shoes that collide with his abdomen, sending another whoosh of air. He coughs. Blood splatters on the floor. I smile, psychotic and serene, with you silent behind the curtain.
“Tell me why,” I say in a flat tone, lowering myself to his level. “Tell me why he loves you. I'm curious.” My fingertips pass over the pool of red pouring from your mouth, mixed with your saliva and now my own, a distant kiss that holds more volume than those before.
Much like his voice, “Fuck you!” He goes to grab at me, but I jump back, laughing, because shortly after he is coughing again. Broken ribs, I guess. Maybe only swollen.
“Don't have an answer then?” I ask, and he gets up, racing forward to crash us into the nearby wall. I let him. The pain rolls up my spine and spits out my air. It stings to breath, but I have to for a laugh. It hurts to move, but I do so to touch the side of his face and move back a stray hair. “Didn't think so. There's really nothing you're good at, not here. Maybe in dreams, but this is reality.”
Uncle Peter walks out at noticing my anxiety. He clears his throat, coughing into his hand, before wrapping it around the microphone to pull it to him. “Forgive Mr. Fischer, ladies and gentlemen. It is a difficult time to speak of these matters, and if you ---”
He pauses because my hand is on his. My eyes catch his gaze. “Please, Uncle Peter,” I murmur, and he backs away. I swallow again, but I never look back, not at the people, not at the cards. I just speak out what needs to be said, “Hello. It's a pleasure to have you all here. I only wish that it was under better circumstances.” Rehearsed words at first. “For many years, I have been part of Fischer Morrow. It was not a position well-known to the public eye; my father did not want to start me too high, for my feet were not stable since Angela's death, and he did not want me to fall such a distance that would not be salvageable. As the story goes, I battled depression for many years after, unsure if this was my place, and if I was the man my father wanted me to be.”
Then it stops. “I am not the man he expected, but I would like to believe that it is something better. We have entered a global crisis, and while it has not been broadcast over every channel and paper, it is the truth. People can make small steps away from this, help stop this catastrophe, but it is the larger companies, like Fischer Morrow, that can step forward and change. I have been researching alternative energy resources for quite some time now, and while this conference was called to talk about my sexual orientation, I implore that you take into consideration a more important matter than if whether or not I have sex with men or women, or even both for that matter.”
They laugh, and I smile. I know that my father is not, but at the very least there is little that he can do. “Within the next month, a proposal will be brought to the board, and it is in that moment that I look forward to seeing you again. Good day.”
The claps are louder than they were before but nothing to my father's voice behind the curtain. “Robert, this is not what we discussed.”
“No,” I tell him, unable to lose the smile from my face. “It is something better.”
He is too weak, too tired, to do anything more. It's showing in his grip, the way he stands, so I spin us around and force him still. “Had you known, would you have stopped?”
“What?”
My hand squeezes tighter on his shoulder. It brings him into perspective. “You heard me, and you've spoken with him, likely more intimately than I. So tell me, had you known more than your papers, would you have stopped the inception?”
“Yes.” Without lowering his head, he says it. “I would have tried, Robert.”
Whether the truth or not, I want to tear him apart. Unbelievable. “It's not true. What do you think I am? A fool? Just like before? Just like your lover? You mindfuck me, and then you fuck me over a second time for fun? Is that it?” I pull him away and shove. “Tell me!”
Someone pulls me away. You. You take me away from Arthur and wrap your arms around me. Your warmth, your sweat, it smells delightful, intoxicating as it is irritating. “Robert,” you say. “Enough.” I am shaking with anger, shaking apart. You hold me together as we crumple to the floor. My body is wracked, tears flooding my face. I want to scream, I want to buck and punch you.
Your fingers comb through my hair, your strength holding me there. “If we knew before, I would have done nothing. Money and all, the thrill. No regrets.” You pause. “Arthur would have. He would have tried to convince Cobb there was some other way, but there was not. Not to Cobb. But we did not know until now, and now . . .” you words trail off, and I glance over at the wall. Arthur is gone.
I swallow the urge to struggle and ask, my voice bitter with the waste, “You're doing this to get him out of here, aren't you?” That was when I felt it. The arm wrapping around me. The smell of cologne. The chin on my shoulder.
“Who do you think told me to get my arse back to the room, pet?” you ask.
Arthur.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-12-06 02:48 pm (UTC)"There's really nothing you're good at, not here. Maybe in dreams, but this is reality." This line is my absolute FAVORITE. It shows how weak Arthur really is, and how Fischer has really changed. He's not who he wants to be, but what others have made him. They changed him, and it wasn't for the better.
I really liked the part before this too - I just am lazy about commenting, apparently. D: Really, I just love how Fischer is finally reacting, because it's fascinating in a very horrible way. And Uncle Peter is really distant now, and now Fischer doesn't have the one thing (which was also very bad) that really kept him from feeling totally alone and miserable. This makes me hate Peter even more.
You are amazing. That's a fact.
no subject
Date: 2010-12-07 04:12 pm (UTC)And yup, so Peter's fault. No worries, I cannot divulge completely my plans, but all will come full circle.
I do prefer thinking of Arthur as the non-BAMF outside of the dreamshare. Ordinary except for his fantastic style.
And thank you! That icon. Seriously, I was staring at it for a while the whole time I was trying to reply when you first commented and couldn't put together anything. I'm trying my best to not get drawn in by the mad, mad Cillian.