Inception Fic: My Temptation and Salvation

[azuremew]

Title: My Temptation and Salvation
Word Count: 10,000
Pairing: Arthur/Eames/Fischer
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: kidnapping scenario, role-play, d/s, dub-con, bondage, toys, delusions, blood, cutting, and generally disturbing content
Summary: This takes place after the film and after the events of Incunabula - like, a few months at the very least. Having learned more about Fischer's mind than they had ever considered on file, Arthur and Eames try to save the man they broke apart in an attempt to fix him – and I don't even mean the inception. They never thought it would lead to this.

Author's Notes:Dedicated to the brilliant hesselives for writing4acause. There was desire for seeing Arthur/Eames/Fischer and one of them going crazy in the mood of the ever inspirational series “Six Feet Under”. I cannot continue to explain what else was given to me, as that would spoil bits and pieces, but I hope it is to your liking. Mixed PoVs and the title is based off of Salvation by Scanners. Ignore the shameless use of lyrics for line breaks, by the way.


It is difficult to decide what to do exactly. Outside of the dreamshare, one can consider everything safely. Every angle. Each step. It was all processed, organized, checked, and double-checked. It is right before you on paper. Diagrams. Models. Notes. There is no Plan B because Plan A was is so complete.

. . . that is, until a train barrels through the main street, knocking one car aside while bullets fly at you.

Then, things get complicated, and you wonder what the bloody hell did you get yourself into.


Then

They escort the mark out of the bathroom, Cobb taking Fischer to the van with a vial to put him under. Eames is smiling the whole time until he tears off the bag, shifting his emotions with a gentle ease to grumbling out loud, “His relationship with his father's much worse than we thought.” There is excitement in his voice, still, betraying his genuine amusement at the challenge Fischer has sparked. When everything is planned ahead, there is never any room for imagination, and that was, perhaps, his reason for never liking Cobb and his work all that much.

But this . . . his lips can taste Fischer's, and each time he glances the mark, it takes willpower to not show equal concern and interest. Curiosity. Need.

How did they miss . . .

“That helps us?” Arthur interrupts that thought, taking the more physical front at dealing with the projections.

Cobb nods, waving to Yusuf, “The stronger the issues, the more powerful the catharsis.” They go upstairs, to Saito.

“I'm working on that,” Eames tells them.

“Well, work fast --” Arthur orders and goes over to the warehouse door. He lines up his shots, taking them out one by one. “Fischer's projections are closing in quick, we need to break out of here before we're totally boxed in.” His aim is accurate, but it misses the last man that hides from bullets to protect a deeper, darker secret than the one the point man ever discovered on paper.

Boxed in. Arthur, you're a bloody genius, Eames notes without spoiling the surprise, “You mustn't be afraid dream little bigger, darling.” Broaden his thoughts, open it up to new ideas.

Cobb was already there when they return to the van. “Shifting Fischer's antipathy from his father onto Browning should work.”

“So you destroy his one positive relationship?” Ariadne asks.

“No. We repair his relationship with his father and expose his godfather's true nature.”


Now

Once you know, it is hard to look back. Once the experience touches you, it latches on, draws you in, consumes you, and never lets go. That is a memory. Like an idea, it completes you, a part you can never quite lose, never quite forget.

And that was the problem.

I remember it well. Clarity is my weakness, pure lucidity, vivid realization. It took a few days to understand, what has happened, why I do what I do. Part of me wanted to scream, to stop myself, following the originally intended path, but before me, I see something I have never envisioned before. Freedom.

When the company is complete, ashes at my feet, I write a letter to Kana Saito, the Chairman of Proctos Global:

Saito -

I often recall a passage that I read while trying to learn the language, to bridge the gap between our worlds, find prosperity in a prospect we could both approve of. It speaks of becoming a master, as both my father and you, and even I pursued. It tells of worthless beginnings, and more so middles, and finally the final point in our journey. When we cross the threshold of what we believe to be the highest level of our mastery, we find the trackless road. Endless. And in that, we find just how truly incomplete we are, that there is no end. Only then can we go forward without pride and humility.

I am certain that you are familiar with my reference as I tell you that while I have not felt the dominance of war or riches attained, I find myself at that moment, ready to step forward into the future unknown.

Thank you for this opportunity.
Robert Fischer

The letter is folded and put into a cardboard envelop for overnight shipping. As it is lifted to place the contents, I note a letter more exquisite than the one I wrote. The script is elegant, well-formed by fountain pen and the most delicate and precise of hands. Each word is thought out to the point of being simple in its request yet so seductive that I shiver at reading it.

Robert,

We will be in Los Angeles for a few nights. Join us?

- Arthur

There is a business card attached for the hotel, a date and time, in a different handwriting. More messy but nevertheless legible. It smells like cigarette smoke. I breathe it in alongside the expensive cologne that lingers on the letter. “Lovely,” I murmur, imagining through closed eyes the night we will spend together. It is too difficult to resist.

“It is, isn't it? Despite your earlier desires.”

I look up to the guest chair across from me. You sit there, all disheveled and wet. The bruises are still prominent along your face. You look weary. Exhausted. So am I. It holds in my voice as I tell you, “Desires that were not my own, were they, Uncle Peter?”

You rise, “We were guiding you, Robert, your father and I. To become what he was, if not more.”

“Well, then, I would say that you accomplished that task,” I say, folding the letter into my jacket pocket. “I am becoming someone else, something more.”

There is laughter while I turn away to collect my things and leave for the night. I move toward the door, and you are standing there, so close that I can feel your warm breath against my lips. “Still the same at heart, Robert. A whore that will do anything to get what he wants.”

“I am done with that.”

“Are you?” you smile. “Think about it. You are sleeping with two men, letting them fuck your brains out, for what? Knowing. Or at least believing that what you know is the truth.”

“That's not true.”

You shake your head. “Then why the pills to help you sleep at night? Why the secrecy? You will wake up soon enough and realize this idea of yours is just a dream, some fantasy to carry your sick delusions that you are capable of anything beyond being the son of Maurice Fischer and my apprentice.”

“Liar,” I yell, flicking off the lights. There is no one left, yet I say, “Now leave me be.”

Went to the sea,but the tide was out
Stood on the shore,but the wind was cold
Waited around till no ones about
Thought of my spirit till my head took hold

It is a short flight to Los Angeles, five hours and a few minutes mostly spent reading business magazines and what have you. I force myself to stay awake by caffeinated beverages and music, stimulating my mind with thoughts of my arrival. I wonder what it will be like this time. Who will be at the airport? No one? Maybe Arthur will send for a chauffeur to take me to a suite. The thoughts leave me breathing a little harder at times, and I go to the lavatory to relieve myself from the confines that are starting to look like a breach of etiquette.

I sit in the small space, unaware of how tiny or utterly vulgar it might be. At one point, it would have reminded me of my youth, of pulling young interns into the broom closet before a meeting, or some rebellious action, but this is a simple pleasure, an anticipation that cannot wait until landing.

My hand slides beneath the balls, stroking tenderly as I imagine Arthur would. Each pass is gentle, but even the lightest bit of pressure leaves my body trembling with need. I bite my lower lip as he would kiss it, consuming my moans as his strokes rise up to my swollen shaft. He whispers into my ear, asking if this is what I want, what I need, and I moan a restrained, “Yes.”

Tightening around my cock, I pull and release repeatedly, seeing him in front of me, his bare ass exposed as I thrust deep into him. Beside us, I glance at Eames relaxed on a chair, his slacks open to enjoy the sight as much as we are the experience. It amuses him greatly, to watch such pristine men unravel in such an erotic position, makes him hard knowing that soon we will have him pinned to the bed, uncaring of the wrinkles in clothes that at one time would be punished for.

The sight is riveting to the very point of climax, and I come all over my hand, shaking in the small room on top of a plastic toilet. My sounds are muffled, leaving my lower lip a deeper shade of red, and the room feels cooler against my skin. I splash some water on it before cleaning myself off, flushing my actions as the composure of a well bred man returns.

You seem to disagree. “Disgusting.”

“And what you did was not?” I ask with a smile, checking the neighboring passengers. Businessmen mostly, each content on their personal, corporate matters. None notice the flush in my cheeks.

“What I did was for your own good. It taught you what it takes to be someone in this world, and you're doing a damn good job at using it as a mockery of everything I set for you.”

“That was business. This . . . it's personal.” I lean back into the chair, breathing in deep to sigh. “And divine. They are nothing like you and your partners.”

You speak again, but I try to ignore you this time, for a flight attendant is coming around with the last set of drinks for the flight. I order something stronger and tip the glass to you sitting next to me. “Cheers, Uncle Peter.”

Looked to my heart, but my heart was empty
Looked the ground, but the road was long
But now I found my new salvation
It's so new the old ones young

It is down by the baggage claim that I actually begin to worry. No one is waiting for me at the gate, no man in a black suit with that FISCHER sign, no Arthur or Eames. I start to think that this is a joke, and it becomes worse as my suitcase never passes on the carousel. It could go no further, and I step back to talk to the airline about being sued.

That is when I feel something press up against the small of my back, something pointed but not sharp as a knife. There is a whisper in my ear, “Come with me, Mr. Fischer,” and I know it is Arthur. I smile and play along, letting him lead the way to a white van. Eames is at the driver's seat, and as soon as the side door closes behind us, we are moving.

Arthur pulls a blindfold over my eyes because he knows the bag is too much, leaves me unable to breathe from the anxiety. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” he tells me as I feel him all over me, removing my shirt, adding kisses along my neck and shoulder although it breaks the scene a little. I want to return them, twist around and bring him to the metal ground, but I stay; Eames' imagination is too captivating to break because of impulse.

My slacks are undone, and I whine a little from his hand grazing over my throbbing cock. Before he manages to pull them entirely away, though, there is the burn of rope as it is cinched and tied in knots only Arthur knows how to get in and out of. “Lie down,” he commands, and I do so. The floor is cold even with the Los Angeles weather and not turning on the air conditioner. Dirt rubs against my skin, the metal scraping as he removes the last of my clothes and completes the binding at my feet.

His fingers trace along my legs, taking in each line of the muscles until he reaches my hip. He strokes me like I imagined it on the plane, sending shivers until I feel something tight clamp around, sealing my orgasm.

The vehicle swerves at a turn, and I am pulled back onto my knees. There is the rustling of Arthur as he collects my clothes, the sound of a zipper unlocking a secret hidden from me. I wet my lips to hide my grin, for being blinded means I can hear him so well. The uncap, the slicking of the surface before Arthur's hand rests against my shoulder. It is too much to bear, waiting, “Please . . .” I beg, knowing that it breaks the rules.

Eames clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “I think we need to quiet him, don't you?”

“Certainly,” Arthur agrees, removing his grip. A faint thump follows nearby, and he shifts about, returning shortly with the taste of rubber against my lips. “Open up, Fischer. We know you can't keep your mouth shut, so this is for your own good.” I follow him so willingly, letting the ball fill my mouth, my teeth clamping around it as he pulls the gag around to close it. “You think we should wait?” he asks Eames, his finger gingerly touching the side of my cheek. “After all, he spoke out of turn . . .”

“No, it's going to be a long night,” Eames teases. “Longer if Fischer's not ready.”

Arthur does not reply, not vocally at least, but I feel his hand along my shoulder and the pressure upon my ass. It causes a jump, but his other hand keeps me still. “Careful,” he murmurs into my ear. “No need to make this more difficult.” With another light push, I feel myself being spread, trying to breathe, trying to make it easy. He pulls it out part way to push it in again, repeating over and over until it starts to slide up against my prostate. I shudder beneath around him, biting into the gag, and he strokes my back tenderly until the plug sits firm. “Good,” he says and kisses my shoulder.

Then nothing. There is nothing but the small bumps in the road and the slides against asphalt at each turn. Arthur has settled in the front, passenger seat. They don't talk as Eames drives, letting the silence and cold overwhelm my senses until I want to scream like a madman. Briefly, I try to free my hands, but it remains tight as ever, the burning becoming more like a steady pulse along my wrist from being raw.

It takes a while, maybe ten minutes, not nearly an hour, before the van stops, and the doors open. The side slides open and I feel Eames' rough hands against me, touching me, before he lifts me over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes. I am carried a few more yards until the sudden release knocks the air out of my lungs, my back hitting the soft cushion of a mattress. There is the shuffling of clothes, the soft clink of metal against leather, and kisses not shared with me, soft moans, and I whine again.

“Quiet, pet,” Eames says while Arthur continues to moan from being stroked hard in our lover's grasp. “Patience. It will be your turn soon enough.” They kiss again before the weight on the bed shifts and a hand touches the back of my neck to release the gag. It slides out from around my jaw, but I cannot close it just then. Someone slides into my mouth, burying deep before I can swallow the built up saliva. It chokes, but I try not to cough, too excited by what I now recognize as Arthur falling apart around me as he tries to keep control.

Which means Eames has his hands around me, hovering behind me, his hand caressing down my spine until it holds the base of the plug. He pulls it back, and it sets off a moan. I can hear his smile as he whispers, “God, Fischer. Robert. If only you could see how bloody splendid you look.” His words continue to caress my ears, fill me, as he fucks me with a rubber plug that is hitting my prostate and sending me into a dizzying point to where it's difficult to suck. “Just a little further, pet. Bring Arthur over. Just a little longer. He's almost . . .”

His words cease as I taste the thick, sticky cum spill into the back of my throat. Eames does not stop shoving though, telling me to finish, to carry our lover through. I do so until Arthur is fully spent and lowering himself to the ground. We kiss, his tongue moving passed my lips and teeth, soft as silk. I moan loud into his mouth as Eames removes the plug to settle on top of me. He pushes with one shove, groaning while I moan into Arthur, his hands around my neck, stroking the side of my face while he prepares for another time around.

This continues repeatedly until all I smell is sweat, cum, and blood. I am trembling with Eames above me, his hardness filling me with sounds that would make other men cringe or writhe. He kisses my cheek and arm that was raised over our heads and tied to the board. The rhythm is slower as I feel Arthur's hands around my cock, releasing the bands. His mouth is around me, slow as the rocking, teasing the tip, then down the shaft. I am moaning all the way through, until one last climax that is all mine to enjoy.

We are all breathing heavily as I am guided off of the towels, and Arthur removes the ropes. There is an ache to my shoulders, down my arms, and across my thighs, but I could care less compared to his gentle touches along my stomach. Removing the blindfold, Eames has returned after tossing out the mess, and we lie comfortably above the blankets. “How do you feel?”

“Tired,” I say and laugh. It is followed by soft chuckles as Arthur reaches up and kisses me.

“The rope was not too much?” he asks after wrapping his arms around me, his hand rubbing over the raised flesh that is still red. I close my eyes but shake my head.

When I open them again, you are standing at the edge of the bed. “Not enough.”

Eames frowns as his arm wraps around me, pulling me into a kiss. It is soft, delicate, and trembles with concern. My head rests against his chest, snuggling inward while Arthur rests between my shoulder blades. I feel his breath and shiver with delight and drift to the heartbeat beneath me.

I've been waiting for the dark to come
My temptation and salvation
I've been waiting for the tide to turn

It is a dreamless rest, and I wake to nothing. No one. Silence. The only remnants of last night is the smell, the mix of our cataclysm that has wrapped around me more comforting than the blankets upon my bare body. It brings a quiet stillness, my heart not ravaged by nightmares, my mind not seething with delusions. I want to lie there for eternity, but what is beyond this bed beckons me to rise, shower, and dress.

There is a bathroom on the same floor where I stand naked in front of the mirror, inspecting the marks that are left. My wrists are still red, blurring the older ones to no longer exist, and it repeats at the ankles. It sears under the water, and I taste salt streaming down my face. Leaning against the front, my forehead rests against the arm. The pain is welcomed, lifting the idea that this might be a dream from my mind. I smile, then I feel the hand against my shoulder, pressing over the brand.

“Could not wait . . .” I tease..

Laughter comes in response. A low chuckle that sends a shiver down my spine before I whip my body around to yell at you. Not thinking, I tear open the shower curtain and stomp out all the way to the main room, leaving a trail of water that is still dripping wet from my body. It takes a moment before I can turn around. Breathing hard, I want to scream. I want to tell you to show yourself. But I refrain. I hold back these urges because they are not real. This is real. You are gone. You left me. Sick. You were sick of me.

Folded neatly into a pile are not the clothes I brought with me. There is a pair of pants made of some cotton-like blend with what I think is a bobcat printed on the upper leg. Beneath it is a black sweatshirt two sizes too large. The wrists are worn out, filled with rips and holes. Neither hold the warmth that they do upon first wearing right off the store shelves, but it is replaced with something else I cannot quite describe. The only thing mine are the boxers and socks.

Up the winding stairs, I smell the aroma of eggs, bacon, and coffee. I imagine there are pancakes and butter, syrup splattered all over the surface because Eames has a secret sweet tooth. Orange juice and milk complete it, the table set for three. Mine is covered with another plate to keep it until I woke while Arthur has finished with his newspaper fully extended and Eames enjoying a second helping.

I breathe in, almost unwilling to interrupt the sight if not for the growl in my belly. Walking up, my hand brushes up against the back of Eames' neck,and he drops his fork immediately to grab it. Pulling me in, we kiss, his lips sticky and sweet. I am smiling then, and so is he. Arthur even sets his paper down to sip his coffee.

“Where are my suitcases?” I ask, certain on who was the culprit. There is silence and my fist weakly collides with the side of Eames' arm. “You did bring them from the airport?”

“I was distracted,” Eames says, and Arthur smirks. “Entirely. Besides, what was more important? Your clothes or getting the ones you had on off?”

“You . . .” I grumble and sit down to uncover the dish. “I hope you realize how much that cost.” The fork stabs into the scrambled eggs, and I look up, seeing the wide grins between them. We break into laughter. “I still cannot believe that you let that happen.”

“Do not worry about it,” Arthur tells me. “I called the airport this morning. It's at the baggage claim's office. We can pick it up today.”

I chew and swallow before asking in knowing curiosity, “And until then?”

“You were never against wearing my clothes before,” Arthur notes, nodding to the pants.

“In private, sure, but outside these walls . . .” he looks offended, and I smile before taking a mouthful of pancakes. After my voice is clear, I expected him to simmer down, but Arthur is still glaring at me, and Eames is trying to not laugh. “I would not want the pavement to ruin such exquisite tailoring.”

He cracks a smile, and I realize that he is joking.

Eames finishes the last of his breakfast and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Well, that is that then, yeah? We ought to get going if we are to have the night to ourselves.”

“Going?” I frown. “Do not tell me you are here on a job.”

“Not a job,” he promises, and I cannot trust it. I want to, but I hear his words, not quite listening. “Errands. Groceries, luggage, and the like.”

“You could do that all after bringing me my clothes,” I note. “Or to hell with it, I will wear Arthur's pants and roll them up if it suits you more.”

He looks at me, and then at Arthur, whom tucks his paper beneath his arm and says that he will be downstairs for when they are ready. Arthur's hand tries to be gentle, to smooth the rough edges, but I swat him away, sending an irritated look to his normally flat features before he leaves.

I stare at Eames, “Well? It is true, is is not? You are going out with him.”

“I am, for a few things that will take shorter if we do it all in one round than return here. Arthur only arrived two days before you; I a day after that, and most of that time was finding this place for your surprise. I had hoped you would be thrilled, Robert, and at the very least a little understanding.”

“Understanding?” My fist hits the table, rattling silverware and dishes. “I spend days in my office, wishing that I was with you, wondering what you are doing, how you are. You do not even send a phone call sometimes, Eames, for weeks. Or a letter. But for Arthur, oh, I am here, right in fucking front of you, and you are choosing to be with --”

He interrupts me with the loud clatter of the chair tipping over to hit the hardwood floors. I shudder at the sound and lose my attention to reality, lost briefly to the explosion that sent me reeling. Unable to breathe, I am shaking. His arms are around me, holding me, combing fingers through hair and whispering words so alien to me. Words like love. I hold onto him, knuckles white with fear. “Don't leave,” I beg. “Don't leave me alone to die.”

“I'm not,” Eames tells me. “It will only be for a few hours, Robert. A little longer. Can you do that for us, pet?”

I nod, as if I have a choice, and for now I am left alone. It takes a while, but Arthur is patient downstairs, and Eames is soothing, finding the perfect words to ease my suffering. There is not much to do. Exploration of the vast building Arthur found for us to temporarily reside in, the more intimate things like bottles of shampoo and silk ties. I spend most of my time in the upstairs room that has a queen size bed, the covers neatly tucked. Nothing is unpacked, but everything is there and theirs alone.

It begins with why their clothes are there and mine are at the airport, but logic tells me why. But then I wonder if they stayed the night or retreated upstairs to this comfortable loft. Surely, I would have felt the movement. My hand sweeps across the blankets, knowing Arthur would have made the bed upon waking. I glance at the closest bag and unzip it, riffling through without a care that one would notice the difference. Everything is neat, folded until my fingers touch it, overturn it, and push it aside. “There has to be something,” I say. “Anything . . .” Behind the clothes, I find condoms, lubrication, a notebook and pens. Nothing out of the ordinary as a point man or liar.

I sigh and twist, falling onto the edge of the bed with a defeated thump that leaves my shoulders sagging.

“What are you looking for, Robert?” you ask in the doorway. “Answers that are out in the open? You already know everything. They're trying to help you, but they don't love you like I do.”

“Shut up.”

“At least I had the courtesy of telling you everything. There were no secrets. I hid nothing, so none of this paranoia needed to fill your mind with wicked thoughts. You were never this distracted by work when I was with you.”

My head lowers, eyes moving down the faded wallpaper to the floor. I see it then, sitting there next to an empty dresser. It opens up to files, then letters. The stamps trail from every point in the world, finding their way back to a post office box in the states. Love letters. Signs of affection, of need and enjoyment with more depth and description than any note card I have received. I read them one by one, hearing Eames' voice as he speaks to Arthur. The last one I can muster only makes it three-quarters of the way, his words laced with a seduction that would leave me hard if any syllable were meant for me. But none. Not from months before or a week do I come into his thoughts that need to be expressed to the man he loves.

It crumples in my hand, and I wonder why I am here.

Your hand is on my shoulder again, and I stand up, grinding a fist into my eyes to wipe the tears that sting. “You made me do terrible things . . .” I whisper. In the hall between the bedroom and kitchen, the sweatshirt is removed, the smell of Eames causing nausea to twist through breakfast.

“To learn. And you did come through, Robert. In the end, you were everything I had hoped for.”

I press my lips, “Is that why you raped me as an award for my decision?”

Silence comes as a response, my admittance to the fact finally coming through. I feel more sick, and the world is becoming less clear. Everything hurts. “Is that why you left when I needed you? Is that why you told the photographer where I would be with that client? Because you loved me?”

In the kitchen, I stop and pull out the drawers. While not fully stocked, there is some. Knives, forks and spoons left by previous tenants to share this place. Other extractors and thieves, I imagine. One is sharp as it bites my finger, slicing it open to spill blood. They would have razors in their bags, but going back there would only make things worse. This would have to do.

At the bottom of the stairs, I stop to remove the pants, stepping out to proceed to the bathroom. The water runs warm into the porcelain while I stare at my arm. They look passed this. They tell me to stop. Arthur tells me that I do not need to do this. His arms are draped around me the day after he was in the emergency room with a broken nose and few, bruised ribs. I stayed there because I had no where else to go, and of guilt, the very same kind that kept them by my side. It seems like the only reason. These scars, we understand more than the words we convey. I look down and see his hand over mine. Arthur, whom could not stay in that hotel room because it reminded him, sent him reeling, to depths he swore to never remember. But he sent Eames back into the fire.

Guilt, knowing, needing to be forgiven for letting all this destroy me. They cannot leave the wreckage knowing I am still suffering, but it is not out of love. They are as selfish as all the men I knew before.

“Don't worry, darling,” I say into the mirror, raising the sharp edge\to my wrist right at the base of the palm. “You need not worry about me any longer.” You laugh. In the reflection, you stand behind me, laughing loud enough to fill the room. “Shut up,” I yell. “Shut the fuck up, Uncle Peter. You are nothing to me. None of you. You are all as dead as I.” But it continues until I am shaking, unable to draw enough stability to silence it all.

I turn, staring at you, at you crisp, immaculate suit and cold eyes. “What?” I ask. “Are you happy of what I've become? Is that it? Are you thrilled to see your project, your slave, broken without your control?” You smile and nod, gesturing for me to turn, and reluctantly, I do. Looking back, I see the scars from cuts and cigarettes, but none are as prominent as the brand. You are smiling still at my realization, not knowing the idea that slows my trembling hand.

The first cut leaves me cursing, for I am not entirely still. You chuckle at the sight, and it fuels me to continue, taking a more precise move to the edge. It buries and shifts, sending a sharpness through me that I ignore. Further and further, the incision is made, unknowing if I have hit muscle or a vein. Blood blankets my shoulder, down my back. It pours, warning signs going off to stop.

“Robert,” you say. “Stop this foolishness.”

I ignore both until it passes completely through, taking with it a large piece of dark, poisoned flesh. My hands are red as I inspect it with smile. “There, you see? Almost there. It's almost over. Maybe they will love me then. Don't you think so, Uncle Peter?” I go up to make another attempt, to rid myself of you, and notice for the first time how much blood there is. Too much that I try to brush it off as an attempt to clear my view. “No . . .” It does little help. “Damn it, no . . .” my own body is trying to stop me just as it did before.

Closing my eyes, I try to focus on where it sits. I hear the scuffle of footsteps in the distance, rubber soles on the concrete floor. Eames calls out, “Honey, we're home. Get your bloody ass out here and before Arthur throws a fit!”

“I'm busy!” I return, thinking that it has to be loud enough. Looking into the mirror again, I decide to try again, that one more time will be enough. Then I can clean up, shower, and join them for dinner, a free man, lovely and intelligent, able to be what they want and not need.

The sharpness is hardly even there this time, so dull that I wonder if I missed it completely. I dig deeper until my hands are shaking so much that the knife drops. “Fuck,” I curse, and crouch down to pick it up, sweeping my hand over a pool of red, unable to find it.

“Robert . . .” Arthur says this time, and I do not respond, too interested in figuring out where the it went in such a small room. His next words, though, catch me instantly in surprise. “Eames, get over here!” Louder, “Call an ambulance!” His hands are on me, there is the rattle of metal from the nearby towel rack. Pressure that stings enough that I writhe and pull away.

It is the last thing that I remember, struggling against them in a deep shade of red that eventually turns black. Then nothing.

My temptation and salvation

It seems like hours. Eames holds a cup of bitter coffee in his hand while Arthur's head rests on his lap. It takes hours for the surgery. Arthur is weak from trying to give blood, having asked if he could give beyond the safe point, being denied, yelling, crying, and finally being taken back to the waiting room without a single drop drawn. He rests finally. It has been hours. The doctors give notice at various times, that the skin graft will be fine, but there was further damage to deal with first. Lucky. That was what they call him. Eames does not understand how this can be lucky, even if unlucky meant losing the ability to lift an arm, use a hand.

Hours, and when the doctor exits to let them know Robert was moved to the post-operative area of the hospital for observation, they expect to be able to see him.

It does not go like that.

“He is sleeping.”

“That is fine,” Eames says. “We just want to see him.”

“You would not want to in his present condition. It is best that he rests, without any visitors.”

“It will only be for a minute,” Arthur pleas, still keeping Eames' arm around him for support, his head resting upon the warmth of his chest with fingers interlaced. “Long enough to know he is okay.”

“Even if I could allow visitors, it would not be possible. That particular ward only allows family.”

The anger shifts, so sudden that Eames' movement caused Arthur to stumble back into the chair behind him. He takes two steps forward, seconds away from throwing his fist, but what would that do? How would that help Robert? And Arthur? “He does not have any family!” he yells. “There is only us, you bloody fool.”

“Mr. Eames, you are not helping your situation.”

“And you think leaving him alone in there is?” Eames barks, but a hand wraps around his wrist, pulling him back. “Fuck,” he grumbles as they walk passed the sliding doors. In the empty hallway his hand balls into a fist and slams against the side wall. “Fuck.”

“Easy,” Arthur coaxes, his arms wrapping around the stretched out battering ram that needs to be pulled back. It does not. Rather, it pulls away. “Eames, you need to calm down. This won't do anyone any good.”

“Like we did any good,” Eames says, looking at Arthur with glassy eyes that sting and cause auras around the lights. “God, Arthur, what are we doing? I don't even know anymore.”

It is minutes after the rental pulls out toward the quiet street that the door of a black, Toyota Prius opens. The man inside straightens his suit coat before entering the hospital, approaching the in-patient service desk with the very same expression as the sea around him. Sullen, depressed, upset, there is little hope to his features as Robert Fischer's condition is requested, and the receptionist gives the very same answer he gave Arthur and Eames.

“But I am family,” he tells her. “My name is Peter Browning, and I hold power of attorney on Mr. Fischer. I was contacted about his . . . accident.”

The woman looks through the brief but informative file, nodding, “Someone will be out in a moment to show you in, Mr. Browning. Please have a seat.”

He waits, standing there, quiet. When they take too long, he pulls out his wallet and from it the photograph of young Robert, holding his pinwheel. His thumb rubs over over the bent edges, but he remembers that boy so entirely that there really is no need for the image to be pristine.

His eyes are closed when the intern calls him over. They walk down the hall to intensive care, a single-occupancy room given to the son of Maurice Fischer for privacy. He lies on his side, his body propped up to keep the bandages from moving or stitches from ripping. Neither stirring or speaking, only the monitors tell that he is truly alive, and that might be just his body.

“He should heal with the proper care and management, but I am more concerned about what brought about these actions,” the doctor tells him, having followed shortly after the intern left. Peter had not moved from three feet into the room, unable to approach the bed just yet. The dark brown hair washed over pale skin, illuminating the scars along his body despite the hospital's poor lighting. The gown had to remain open, exposing him to the world, and partly exposing Peter. “There are options, Mr. Browning, that you should take into accounting,” he continues. “We have private facilities in the network that will take good care of Mr. Fischer until he has fully recovered.”

Before names can be given, Peter Browning is signing the papers. He leaves the hospital that very same night for Europe, having a meeting to attend to. The only note of contact is a fax machine to his private office back in the states, collected by a young woman he recently hired from a temp agency. After all, it was always business, was it not?

The news reaches the next morning while Eames is running errands, checking messages, and looking for another job to not think. Arthur tells him that he is going to the hospital, and there is no stopping him. He waits by reception, but there is no prevail. He asks for at least some sort of update.

“They're transferring him to another facility. I can give you the address to talk to someone there, but I cannot give anymore information.”

It sends him to a computer because the drive would take too many hours to be there before visiting hours. He is sitting on the bed when Eames returns, lying still and facing the ceiling. The laptop is on the floor, turned off from brutal contact against the floor. The forger winces before settling at side, touching Arthur's shoulder. He turns, and Eames slides behind him despite it, feeling the sobs roll through the body in waves. “We will figure something out, darling.”

“No,” Arthur replies. “No, we won't. He's gone. Browning sent him to a fucking lunatic asylum.”

Eames pauses, stunned and then unable to speak because his tone would be filled with anger. They are silent while he thinks. “Arthur,” he says. “Don't you remember? References are something of a specialty for me. I will have us there within a week. Until then, find out what you can. Medical records, diagnosis, medication. The whole nine yards. We will, darling. I promise. I swear.”

It takes one day to find it all. And the rest of the week to pull himself together. Arthur is restless when he sleeps, filled with nightmares, memories, guilt, and something else he should have not buried while Robert was there, shied away from. “Psychotic depression. They are treating him with anti-psychotics and anti-depressants. He's not eating. Not talking. Historically, this is his first episode. It has little to do with the inception,” but that does not change things.

Days later, the nurse escorts them down the white halls, passed white doors with one-sided locks and small windows for brief observation. Each footstep echoes sound, the quiet so much that Arthur feels cold even beneath his suit coat and shirt. Charts are mounted to each side, telling tales of madness and attempts at finding a cure. He stops at one of the farther rooms on the bottom floor and pulls the plastic clipboard off of its hinge, reading over the name. “You have an hour,” he repeats. “I will be waiting outside of the door in case you need anything. If there should be an emergency . . .”

“There won't be,” Eames assures, but the very moment the nurse turns to unlock the door, he swallows a rising lump in his throat. The room is not padded. There is no need for that. The patient, as they were told, has not moved since his arrival from the hospital.

Robert sits on the bed that rests in the far corner, his legs pulled in, arms resting around them. The cotton clothes are white, making his complexion more ghostly. Each shadow along his chiseled jaw was further distinguished, hollowing his face to invoke the imagination to see a skeleton beneath the thin fabric.

He stares at nothing even as Arthur is first to sit down on the empty side. Gingerly, a hand touches the arm, sliding across it and passed the plastic wrist band to clasp over the unmoving fingers. Nothing. He closes his eyes and presses his lips against Robert's forehead. Nothing.

It takes Eames' hand upon his shoulder for him to pull away, “Are you sure about this?”

Eames nods, “Yes, darling, and I would do it even if I was not.” He begins to remove the pillows from behind Robert, setting them aside and his coat on top of it. “As you said, we have to try, yeah?”

The PASIV device sits where Arthur was, opened with the wires stretching out to connect the two men. Arthur holds Eames' wrist while inserting the needle, the band keeping it still as he does the very same to Robert. Then, so gently, he lowers the man into Eames' arm for when he falls unconscious, stretching out the legs. His eyes still do not close, and Arthur adds, “I will be waiting for both of you.” He settles on the ground, watching them, Eames trying to smile and Robert so distant before pressing the button.

The only place Eames can create is a repeat, a duplication as he had done before, the building that makes his stomach churn when he thinks of what happened behind closed doors. Fischer Morrow stands tall, but books have fallen off the shelf. The carpet looks moldy. It smells of water having swept through, saturating every point. The windows are open. It is raining outside. But the downpour does not drown the voices beyond the double doors to a conference room.

They surround a table, the vultures, yelling out obscenities, cheering on a man Eames remembers from a meeting. They are telling him to go deeper, to fuck him harder. Robert. They call out names. He wishes there was a way to stop breathing. It is worse than soiled carpets from water. There is alchohol and cigarettes, scented cigars, but none of it masks the urination, the cum that coats the air in a stench that causes him to cough.

He would have vomited then if not for the man behind him, “Ah, Mr. Eames. It is good that you joined us.” Before he can react, the projection has him, guiding him to a seat on the far side of the room. They keep him there, announcing, “Gentlemen, why don't you give Mr. Eames some room so that he can take pleasure in his work.”

“My work?” Eames starts, but there is no response, and he cannot repeat, cannot do anything but see what they want him to see. What Robert wants him to see.

The man was being fucked at both ends, his body completely exposed. It was filthy, caked in blood, mucus, and cum that stains the pale canvas. There are bruises. Cuts. Burns. He looks worn, so detached that he cannot be even the least bit stiff, neither moaning or coughing as he moves to the force around him.

Eames is unable to stand it, the anger moving through the nausea as he tries to stand. Hands hold him down, keeping pressure that actually makes him yelp. When he does so, though, he screams. “Robert! Listen to me, damn it. This is a dream. You can wake up from this. You can get out of this.”

Then someone cracks his fist against Eames' mouth, sending his head twisting to the stretching point that feels like it might snap off. When his sight returns to the center, he sees Peter Browning standing there. “He's not listening to anymore of your lies.” He steps aside then, projections holding Eames down, the display right ahead of them, unattainable.

Closing his eyes, Eames wishes for a kick, but while his arms are immobile, hands roam over his body, removing his gun, the lock picks, and anything else. It passes over his lap, and the woman smiles. “Mr. Browning, come look. You should see this. He's enjoying this.”

“Piss off,” Eames says to the projection, but he cannot help himself. Even in the revulsion, the smell, there is a bulge.

And it amuses Browning. He raises his hand, snapping his fingers for the men to halt. “Bring Robert over here. I think our guest needs some help.”

“I do not need your fucking help,” Eames barks, and in that, Browning hits him again, and again. The first crack collides with his jaw again, sending the iron tang along his tongue and down his throat. It is followed with a bloody nose, the cartilage splitting into a stream.

Robert walks over, limp and weak, his head lowered. Kneeling, his fingers pry at the belt, loosing it before unbuttoning. The zipper comes down easily, exposing Eames to him. He takes the head along his lips, contracting them and sucking in the air to bring the hips up.

“Robert . . .” Eames moans, almost unable to focus as the pleasures of his mind take over his body because of how good it is. Even in that state. But he looked down at the mussed hair, his own blood dripping from his nose and hitting it. The exposed muscle of where the brand was showing how he feels without it. “Robert, please,” he begs again. “This is a dream. You can wake up. Arthur and I, we are with you. Please. Just wake --” the 'up' part comes out in a strangled moan as he comes into Robert's mouth, the man taking him completely with slowed passes until he is fully spent.

Looking up, Robert tells him, “But I am awake, Eames. This is my reality. This is all I have. This is what you left me with.”

Eames opens his eyes to Arthur frowning because Robert lies in his lap. He does not say anything just then, trying to hold back the urge in his stomach. There does not need to be words to tell that it did not work. That is obvious, so together they leave alone.

The building is quiet and dark, late after the long drive. Arthur flicks on the light, “Are you sure that you want to try again?” he asks, having asked a dozen times while driving. Each time comes the same response, a nod. That is all. “Eames,” he says while the other continues without taking off his coat or shoes as they do to not track the halls. His hand grabs a hold of fingers, feeling for the first time how balmy they are, slick with sweat, shaking. “What happened?”

“Can we talk about it in the morning, Arthur?” he asks. “I would like to shower and get some sleep. Think it over so that we can try again as soon as possible.”

Arthur lets go, “Sure. If that's what you want to do.”

They do not speak, but Arthur follows him, settling at the edge of the bed without touching his clothes while Eames undresses. From the small, black bag, a white bottle is removed. It is uncertain of the exact contents, of what the large, white pills are, but Arthur trusts Eames knows what he is doing because of the three, he is the most stable. For a thief, a forger, a man of imagination, he was the most coherent. He watches from a distance as the man steps into the shower, the water scalding hot, visibly so from the steam and red.

It is when he hears the sobs that a movement occurs, a reaction in the form of running into the bathroom, the glass privacy door swinging open. Arthur steps in with his socks and everything else, his arms around the body while it trembles from tears. “This is all our fault, Arthur. This is all our bloody fault. We should have left him alone. Fuck. FUCK. We should have done nothing.”

The water soaks his clothes, turning the bright whites into a faded, light gray that weighed him down. “I know,” he says into the Eames' back. “I know.”

They try again a week later. And again a week after that. It continues like clockwork, appointed visits, until the depression comes crashing to the fore, and Eames is unable to get up off of the bed to get changed for the pointless drive. He lies there, smoking a cigarette, with his head upon Arthur's lap. Neither can move, really. Neither can stand the thought of failing again.

It is forty-eight hours after when Eames tells Arthur that he has taken up a job. “I need some time alone, darling. You can understand that, can't you?” His hand cups Arthur's face, and the other man nods. “I love you.”

He leaves to a few thousand miles. Shadows the mark for six hours. At the exit of a long day's work, he follows to a bar and orders two rounds of scotch before sitting down. “Peter Browning,” he says. “Is that you? I have not seen you since Fischer Morrow ended.”

Browning coughs, not expecting the attention that ended months ago. “Have we met, sir?”

“Everett Forester,” Eames says, stretching out his hand for a firm shake. It takes restraint to not squeeze to hard. “I represented Jeffery Townsend.”

Arthur knows. He is unsure of what exactly Eames plans on doing, but he knows where, who, and why without asking. Just as he is left to his own devices, closing the metallic case and taking the car to the hospital alone. The receptionist does not ask many questions, and he offers the simplest of answers. While he primarily assists, he knows the procedure just as well.

The room is how Eames described it, dark and decaying, torn to pieces, drowned in infinite depression that swept through since the passage of time, Fischer Morrow's end. There are ghosts behind that door and a single soul alive, drifting further and further from reality with each moan. Arthur closes his eyes before his hands touch the double doors. Breathe in, breathe out, it opens.

He is seated in the same chair and watches without a reaction, neither gritting his teeth or calling a single, haunted whisper of anguish or guilt. Rather he waits for Peter Browning to tell them to stop, to call Robert over. Watching, he sees nothing of the man he remembers in those photographs, or upon the plane. Not even the one in the hotel, so lost, never like this. At least then he had hope of a direction, any direction.

The belt moves, easily unhooking as leather slides across fabric. A button begins the first release, then the zipper. Finally, Arthur lifts off of the chair as hands move around the waistband of his underwear and pulls. He moans at Robert, fingers burying into the matted hair. “Fischer,” he whispers, closing his eyes. “God, Fischer.” His hips rise to force himself further in, to feel the wet warmth of Robert's mouth around him until the man moves a hand beneath his balls and strokes at the tender spot that sends his head back.

Arthur comes, spilling into the back of Robert's mouth and not opening his eyes until he is finished, until Robert has completed his task brilliantly and removed himself. He is afraid to see what else is beyond, for the timer is set much longer than the times Eames was under. There is a light pressure upon his legs, the other man straddling him, bent at the knees to sit on him. A hand touches the side of his face, then lips brush against his. Opening to the sight, he is surprised to see the closed lids no longer surrounded by the darkness of a black eye. His skin pristine. His hips rocking against him. “Robert . . .” he whispers.

Fingers thread through the point man's hair, thumbs tracing the lines of ears and chin. Robert tips Arthur's head back to look at him, to stare into those icy blue eyes, “Why are you here?” he asks, squeezing onto the jaw so tight that it would ache by morning.

“Because . . . “ because Eames was away, he could not stand the horror. No. Arthur presses his lips and smiles. “Because I think I love you, Robert.”

Robert let go, stopping his movements. Unlike Eames, that answer sounds real. “Is that why you've been so distant?”

“Yes,” Arthur replies, allowing his hands to move then, threading around the other mans waist to keep either of them from running away. “Since reading your file, seeing your face, your life. I could barely bring my insight to the table.” Lack of imagination? No. He could not bare to express, afraid of losing control. There was enough to worry about, and a job to do. “I was infatuated and terrified. I needed more. I wanted you.”

“Me?” Robert blinks. “And Eames?”

“A delight in bed and to be with, for certain,” the only man Arthur has been able to confess all this to and still remains with him, helping him slowly open up to these truths. The only forger willing to recreate an image of Robert in the dreamshare for Arthur. “He loves me, and I him, and us you . . .”

Robert's hands slide across Arthur's face, wrapping around the back of the neck, grabbing elbows as he leans in entirely. “I'm ready.” The moment lasts longer than he anticipates, half-expecting a gun to his temple and brains splattered along the floor before waking. But they sit there, silent, until the time ends, waking to Arthur still in his arms.

Eames does not return until nights after. The door opens to the lights turned off, and he does not think to call out, expecting Arthur is asleep already. What he does not is Robert lying around him, their arms entangled tightly amongst the comforting chaos of a tossed about sheet. “Bloody hell,” he whispers in a smirk and undresses, sliding into the side that Arthur lies.

Stirring, he reaches out for an arm, bringing the hand up to kiss it. “Eames . . .” A free hand touches his cheek, twisting and sliding around to face each other.

“Arthur, how the hell did you . . .”

He smiles, “You are not the only one with references, contacts.”

They kiss at that, and Robert shifts from behind Arthur, realizing that they are not alone. Eames reaches across, passed Arthur, to tentatively sweep his hand across the high cheekbones. It is met with lips against the palm, parting into a faint smile before Robert turns back to nuzzle Arthur.

Dark eyes become divine
I need the love I crave
Your hands they burn like mine
I'll take you to my grave
I'll take you to my grave