Inception Fic: The Longest Day
Dec. 19th, 2010 01:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
azuremewTitle: The Longest Day
Word Count: 1983
Pairing: Arthur/Eames/Fischer, bit of Eames/Yusuf, blip of Browning/Eames
Rating: R
Warnings: psychological turmoil and character death (NOT Arthur, Jeanne!)
Summary: After Jealousy Bleeds Red - a tale of Eames as he becomes more distraught with his decisions and their consequences.
Author's Note: For those that read Incunabula, thank you. Before/Now, 3rd person just cause I wanted to get in and out without getting trapped like I am with Fischer. lol. This is also not being posted elsewhere.
He sits on the steps, the very last one, his knees pointed to meet elbows. Bent over, curled up, it will be hours until Arthur arrives, but there is no turning back. There is a body broken behind him, shattered by his fists, leaving him unable to face that door, let alone what is inside. It churns at his stomach, threatening another spill, bubbling up words like coward into his ears. By his side is a cell phone. Quiet. Still. Blank. What he would do to have a job right now, anything, even the most mundane, to not be here, not now, and certainly not then.
Before
Three in the morning, and Eames wakes up to a nightmare. Stirring and twisting until he's breathing so hard that in his mind he cannot at all, the darkness swallowed him whole. The afterlife is less terrible than he had been told with the one exception: the side next to him was empty, turning cold.
Despite the brisk, winter chill, he lets it settle upon his bones rather than finding a robe or, for that matter, any article of clothing at all. It will only take a moment, he knows. Just a few seconds, and then point out to the point man that warming up is his duty out of fault. This leaves a smile.
It quickly fades the very moment Arthur realizes he is not alone. A swift move of the mouse tells all, Eames knowing he is hiding something. “Something wrong?”
“Just a job,” Arthur says, dressed in night clothes with his hair still a mess. “I have some research to finish up before going into the field.”
“Ah,” Eames frowns. “Is it important enough to leave you restless, darling? There is always the morning. Five hours, maybe less if you must.”
Arthur looks up. No, of course not. Jobs never threaten his dreams, not before at least. He nods and turns off monitor, letting the computer go to rest on its own. “You're right,” he says. “I'll read it over on the flight.”
A kiss is laid upon his forehead before Eames speaks, “Precisely. Now, off to bed to warm things up. I'm going to get a drink first.” Arthur nods, continuing to the bedroom while he goes to the kitchen for a glass of water. It hardly quenches his first, and three-quarters down, the thief goes to steal another bit of information that remains a secret. Such secrets were an agreement, one to keep this relationship working. They never talked about jobs, marks, or anything of that sort unless the other was involved, but this was Arthur's third job in a few, short months that was located in Los Angeles. What was so important in that damned city?
The answer brought pressure to his glass, threatening to shatter as he mutters, “Bloody hell.”
Now
The first hour passes, and Eames pulls himself together enough to face what he was part of. It is quiet, rising the volume of each step to further slow his movement. Weight casts down his legs, shoulders, a hand on the railing to keep his balance. The smell of blood hits his nose first, then the sight that leaves him reaching for his totem, to rub the etchings along the red, worn disc to remind him this is not some horrible nightmare. It is real.
Robert still lies upon the ground, barely moving except for the shallow breaths. Not a single second has passed upon that ground, the puddle still bright crimson, staining his clothes, soiling the fabric that will have to be burned or thrown out. Not one even as Eames inches closer. It is not until his hand touches the red, puffed up skin shifting toward blue that there is a flinch, and the man comes to life.
Throwing his whole body back, he gets up and scuttles across the ground like a cockroach having barely missed death. Stomped on by a shoe, certain parts of him are useless, leaving the total form a mess. His mind, already fragile, amplified with memories flooding forth, cascading to drown him. “Get away,” he manages out. “Don't . . . do not come near me.”
“Robert,” Eames says, quietly, keeping his distance, hands raised. “Least let me check your nose, yeah? You might want to see a doctor.”
“And what? You will take me? Tell them I ran into a wall? Fuck you, Eames. Get out.”
His lips press into a frown, unable to admit defeat, but knowing when it is futile. A nod, but first, he tells, “I called Arthur. He's on his way. I'm leaving now.”
Before
For some reason, Eames thinks it is a brilliant idea to confront Arthur directly. With a ticket to Los Angeles, he shadows and confirms before moving ten steps ahead to the hotel. He is waiting there, in the darkness, like a stalker or insane ex-boyfriend. It startles Arthur, but only briefly as the anger of being followed settles in. They argue. They continue to argue days after until Eames knows the only way he can keep Arthur is by helping him.
Talking to the former mark is easy. Getting things started, flirting, and finally reaching the place that has more personal meaning than the office. Robert is lovely to look at, paler than Arthur, more athletic in build. He takes in each line, curve, and plane down to those distinguishing eyes that caught him the first time. Each move is delicious, and by the time they're undressed, he wants to go through, but Robert is unable to, pulling away like he was kicked back to reality.
“It is alright, pet,” he reaches across the bed to kiss his forehead. “Stay the night, at least?”
“I would, but there is this meeting in the morning I should attend,” A lie, Eames knows, and that brings a sigh to his lungs, filling it up with a depression that weighs him down at the exhale. Still, a kiss is given, a promise that he's not finished yet. “It was fun. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, then,” he smiles. “It's a date.”
Robert leaves, and Eames lies on the bed, uncertain that this will go as planned. Then there is a click of the hotel card key, and a light carrying more familiarity but equal dread. They talk about how the fears are more deeply rooted and likely the cause of those projections. It is agreed that the only way to know for certain is to bring the truth into the fold.
Days later, there is a knock on the door, and he hisses “Fuck” as Arthur is down on the floor between his legs, his tongue swirling around his arse, penetrating just enough to have him writhing and wanting more. A voice tells them it is Robert and the second round that he is not going to leave believing that the space is unoccupied. Eames darts forward, picking up his trousers to quickly slide them on. In the corner of his eye, he sees Arthur disappearing against the wall. If this is played right, everything will go as planned.
But it seems where Robert Fischer is concerned, nothing ever does. His stark realization leaves a gaping hole, thoughts brewing, and all Eames can do is stand helpless, unable to decide what their next move is. It is only through the coaxing of Arthur that they continue with the plan, even as it is crumbling at their feet.
Now
The sun is starting to rise when the point man walks down the street towards their building. Nearly morning, a brand new day, but in Eames' mind it's the longest night ever. Dreams take time, five minutes for an hour, but this feels suspended. Arthur is walking too slow, torturing him further for his crimes. Each step sounding something different. Bastard. Liar. Thief. His head is lowered by the time they stand face to face, no apology seeming to fit the moment.
“Arthur,” what have I done. Swallows his pride, and says instead, “I'm going to Mombasa for a few days, maybe a week.”
“Probably best,” Arthur replies.
“I checked his injuries, if that's what you are wondering. Nothing too serious.”
“Right,” Arthur agrees, but his voice betrays his disbelief in so many layers. “Call me when you land? And when you decide you are coming back.”
Before
Anger drives him all the way to the city, to the place Peter Browning is slivering upward to claim control. With the reputation of Fischer Morrow's golden days to back him, he has already risen, taking, taking, taking even after there is nothing left to see, not even the boy he was supposed to be a mentor for. Eames holds back his move, the embers smoldering into hot coals that might not explode but burn just as deep.
It does not take long to persuade Browning that his services would be equally useful at his new venture as they were before, and the deal is drawn in a hotel room. Eames does not feel the hands on him, the tongue that breaches his lips and teeth. He is unaware, uncaring that he is pushing them together, causing them to swell at the friction. None of it matters as long as Browning's back is against the wall, unable to move, submitting the stronger, more youthful man's will.
Browning's head pulls back in a moan, but it is not out of pleasure but the pain in his stomach that suddenly boils upward. Fallen to the floor, he coughs. A hand shoots up to grab Eames, but he is standing too far, just out of reach as the poison takes hold.
Now
Flying always takes forever, but none quite like this. Unable to sleep or enjoy the in-flight movie, Eames stares out the window even as the only sight are clouds that leave the small craft trembling. He remembers that night so clearly, and the times before, seeing Arthur falling, unable to help because neither could do anything to save Robert.
Part of him was happy at this, telling himself that at some point Arthur will stop this, and they can continue, but if he listened to it, what would that make him? It was that anger that propelled him to the source, did the deed that he would have never . . .
“Are you sure about this?” Yusuf asks on the phone.
“Yeah,” Eames replies, his index finger and thumb keeping the small, clear vial balanced. “For the umpteenth time, mate, I'm sure.”
“You don't have to. Arthur will forgive you, and Robert, well, you were the one that wanted this kind of relationship,” he finally tells.
“He might.”
The memory leaves him nauseated, the shakes sending his body forward, hand grabbing the white bag to retch out the small bit of a meal he had managed while waiting for his flight. He coughs until there is nothing left but dry heaves, the cool air of the overhang colder against his balmy skin.
Bastard. Yes.
Liar. Yes.
Thief. Oh, most certainly.
But murderer . . . never until now. Never again.
Such a fact grips him even as he exits, wearily finding Yusuf at the baggage claim, passed all of the customs and everything else that is so routine he doesn't need to notice to pass freely. The ride to the shop is quiet and kept so through the opening of the door and ascent upstairs. Clothing is removed, shoes pulled off, before he lies on the bed. “I'll bring some tea,” Yusuf tells him, and once he returns, Eames is not asleep, but his eyes are closed, salty streams finally released in the only place he can admit defeat.
Word Count: 1983
Pairing: Arthur/Eames/Fischer, bit of Eames/Yusuf, blip of Browning/Eames
Rating: R
Warnings: psychological turmoil and character death (NOT Arthur, Jeanne!)
Summary: After Jealousy Bleeds Red - a tale of Eames as he becomes more distraught with his decisions and their consequences.
Author's Note: For those that read Incunabula, thank you. Before/Now, 3rd person just cause I wanted to get in and out without getting trapped like I am with Fischer. lol. This is also not being posted elsewhere.
He sits on the steps, the very last one, his knees pointed to meet elbows. Bent over, curled up, it will be hours until Arthur arrives, but there is no turning back. There is a body broken behind him, shattered by his fists, leaving him unable to face that door, let alone what is inside. It churns at his stomach, threatening another spill, bubbling up words like coward into his ears. By his side is a cell phone. Quiet. Still. Blank. What he would do to have a job right now, anything, even the most mundane, to not be here, not now, and certainly not then.
Three in the morning, and Eames wakes up to a nightmare. Stirring and twisting until he's breathing so hard that in his mind he cannot at all, the darkness swallowed him whole. The afterlife is less terrible than he had been told with the one exception: the side next to him was empty, turning cold.
Despite the brisk, winter chill, he lets it settle upon his bones rather than finding a robe or, for that matter, any article of clothing at all. It will only take a moment, he knows. Just a few seconds, and then point out to the point man that warming up is his duty out of fault. This leaves a smile.
It quickly fades the very moment Arthur realizes he is not alone. A swift move of the mouse tells all, Eames knowing he is hiding something. “Something wrong?”
“Just a job,” Arthur says, dressed in night clothes with his hair still a mess. “I have some research to finish up before going into the field.”
“Ah,” Eames frowns. “Is it important enough to leave you restless, darling? There is always the morning. Five hours, maybe less if you must.”
Arthur looks up. No, of course not. Jobs never threaten his dreams, not before at least. He nods and turns off monitor, letting the computer go to rest on its own. “You're right,” he says. “I'll read it over on the flight.”
A kiss is laid upon his forehead before Eames speaks, “Precisely. Now, off to bed to warm things up. I'm going to get a drink first.” Arthur nods, continuing to the bedroom while he goes to the kitchen for a glass of water. It hardly quenches his first, and three-quarters down, the thief goes to steal another bit of information that remains a secret. Such secrets were an agreement, one to keep this relationship working. They never talked about jobs, marks, or anything of that sort unless the other was involved, but this was Arthur's third job in a few, short months that was located in Los Angeles. What was so important in that damned city?
The answer brought pressure to his glass, threatening to shatter as he mutters, “Bloody hell.”
The first hour passes, and Eames pulls himself together enough to face what he was part of. It is quiet, rising the volume of each step to further slow his movement. Weight casts down his legs, shoulders, a hand on the railing to keep his balance. The smell of blood hits his nose first, then the sight that leaves him reaching for his totem, to rub the etchings along the red, worn disc to remind him this is not some horrible nightmare. It is real.
Robert still lies upon the ground, barely moving except for the shallow breaths. Not a single second has passed upon that ground, the puddle still bright crimson, staining his clothes, soiling the fabric that will have to be burned or thrown out. Not one even as Eames inches closer. It is not until his hand touches the red, puffed up skin shifting toward blue that there is a flinch, and the man comes to life.
Throwing his whole body back, he gets up and scuttles across the ground like a cockroach having barely missed death. Stomped on by a shoe, certain parts of him are useless, leaving the total form a mess. His mind, already fragile, amplified with memories flooding forth, cascading to drown him. “Get away,” he manages out. “Don't . . . do not come near me.”
“Robert,” Eames says, quietly, keeping his distance, hands raised. “Least let me check your nose, yeah? You might want to see a doctor.”
“And what? You will take me? Tell them I ran into a wall? Fuck you, Eames. Get out.”
His lips press into a frown, unable to admit defeat, but knowing when it is futile. A nod, but first, he tells, “I called Arthur. He's on his way. I'm leaving now.”
For some reason, Eames thinks it is a brilliant idea to confront Arthur directly. With a ticket to Los Angeles, he shadows and confirms before moving ten steps ahead to the hotel. He is waiting there, in the darkness, like a stalker or insane ex-boyfriend. It startles Arthur, but only briefly as the anger of being followed settles in. They argue. They continue to argue days after until Eames knows the only way he can keep Arthur is by helping him.
Talking to the former mark is easy. Getting things started, flirting, and finally reaching the place that has more personal meaning than the office. Robert is lovely to look at, paler than Arthur, more athletic in build. He takes in each line, curve, and plane down to those distinguishing eyes that caught him the first time. Each move is delicious, and by the time they're undressed, he wants to go through, but Robert is unable to, pulling away like he was kicked back to reality.
“It is alright, pet,” he reaches across the bed to kiss his forehead. “Stay the night, at least?”
“I would, but there is this meeting in the morning I should attend,” A lie, Eames knows, and that brings a sigh to his lungs, filling it up with a depression that weighs him down at the exhale. Still, a kiss is given, a promise that he's not finished yet. “It was fun. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, then,” he smiles. “It's a date.”
Robert leaves, and Eames lies on the bed, uncertain that this will go as planned. Then there is a click of the hotel card key, and a light carrying more familiarity but equal dread. They talk about how the fears are more deeply rooted and likely the cause of those projections. It is agreed that the only way to know for certain is to bring the truth into the fold.
Days later, there is a knock on the door, and he hisses “Fuck” as Arthur is down on the floor between his legs, his tongue swirling around his arse, penetrating just enough to have him writhing and wanting more. A voice tells them it is Robert and the second round that he is not going to leave believing that the space is unoccupied. Eames darts forward, picking up his trousers to quickly slide them on. In the corner of his eye, he sees Arthur disappearing against the wall. If this is played right, everything will go as planned.
But it seems where Robert Fischer is concerned, nothing ever does. His stark realization leaves a gaping hole, thoughts brewing, and all Eames can do is stand helpless, unable to decide what their next move is. It is only through the coaxing of Arthur that they continue with the plan, even as it is crumbling at their feet.
The sun is starting to rise when the point man walks down the street towards their building. Nearly morning, a brand new day, but in Eames' mind it's the longest night ever. Dreams take time, five minutes for an hour, but this feels suspended. Arthur is walking too slow, torturing him further for his crimes. Each step sounding something different. Bastard. Liar. Thief. His head is lowered by the time they stand face to face, no apology seeming to fit the moment.
“Arthur,” what have I done. Swallows his pride, and says instead, “I'm going to Mombasa for a few days, maybe a week.”
“Probably best,” Arthur replies.
“I checked his injuries, if that's what you are wondering. Nothing too serious.”
“Right,” Arthur agrees, but his voice betrays his disbelief in so many layers. “Call me when you land? And when you decide you are coming back.”
Anger drives him all the way to the city, to the place Peter Browning is slivering upward to claim control. With the reputation of Fischer Morrow's golden days to back him, he has already risen, taking, taking, taking even after there is nothing left to see, not even the boy he was supposed to be a mentor for. Eames holds back his move, the embers smoldering into hot coals that might not explode but burn just as deep.
It does not take long to persuade Browning that his services would be equally useful at his new venture as they were before, and the deal is drawn in a hotel room. Eames does not feel the hands on him, the tongue that breaches his lips and teeth. He is unaware, uncaring that he is pushing them together, causing them to swell at the friction. None of it matters as long as Browning's back is against the wall, unable to move, submitting the stronger, more youthful man's will.
Browning's head pulls back in a moan, but it is not out of pleasure but the pain in his stomach that suddenly boils upward. Fallen to the floor, he coughs. A hand shoots up to grab Eames, but he is standing too far, just out of reach as the poison takes hold.
Flying always takes forever, but none quite like this. Unable to sleep or enjoy the in-flight movie, Eames stares out the window even as the only sight are clouds that leave the small craft trembling. He remembers that night so clearly, and the times before, seeing Arthur falling, unable to help because neither could do anything to save Robert.
Part of him was happy at this, telling himself that at some point Arthur will stop this, and they can continue, but if he listened to it, what would that make him? It was that anger that propelled him to the source, did the deed that he would have never . . .
“Are you sure about this?” Yusuf asks on the phone.
“Yeah,” Eames replies, his index finger and thumb keeping the small, clear vial balanced. “For the umpteenth time, mate, I'm sure.”
“You don't have to. Arthur will forgive you, and Robert, well, you were the one that wanted this kind of relationship,” he finally tells.
“He might.”
The memory leaves him nauseated, the shakes sending his body forward, hand grabbing the white bag to retch out the small bit of a meal he had managed while waiting for his flight. He coughs until there is nothing left but dry heaves, the cool air of the overhang colder against his balmy skin.
Bastard. Yes.
Liar. Yes.
Thief. Oh, most certainly.
But murderer . . . never until now. Never again.
Such a fact grips him even as he exits, wearily finding Yusuf at the baggage claim, passed all of the customs and everything else that is so routine he doesn't need to notice to pass freely. The ride to the shop is quiet and kept so through the opening of the door and ascent upstairs. Clothing is removed, shoes pulled off, before he lies on the bed. “I'll bring some tea,” Yusuf tells him, and once he returns, Eames is not asleep, but his eyes are closed, salty streams finally released in the only place he can admit defeat.
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no subject
Date: 2010-12-20 01:09 am (UTC)I just feel steeped in dramatic irony all the time, and that's pretty much my favorite place to be, lol.
Man, I love this part. This part and the last are definitely two of my favorite pieces in the whole arc. I love how Eames is unfolding with his jealousy and his impulsiveness, and the anger that ties it all together. The part with Browning (small as it is!) is probably my favorite out of this chapter. Before the revelation about Eames and where his investments really lie, I probably would have taken it as something undertaken for Robert.
As it stands, though, I think it is, ironically, the biggest "fuck you" to Robert that Eames possibly could have given. WAY TO GO, EAMES. WAY TO GO. I love it! ♥
And the end. THE END! Eames may be a bastard, but he's still human. As big a jerk as he is, I kind of hope Yusuf might be able to piece him back together a little while Arthur takes care of Robert. Best for everyone, I think.
As always, this was a thrilling and entertaining read. You should at least post it to
no subject
Date: 2010-12-20 01:49 am (UTC)*sighs* I wish that I had it in me to write Eames/Yusuf; I might just to show another part to this vast piece of fandom. Your story is so, utterly believable that I could see it as a prelude to this. My mind had to use it as part of Incunbula's canon.
no subject
Date: 2010-12-20 01:59 am (UTC)And you're free to use it, if you like. :)
no subject
Date: 2010-12-20 02:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-20 12:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-20 04:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-21 08:17 am (UTC)if i could go on endlessly about this piece...but you know where my abilities end. ;)
keep on breaking my heart <3
no subject
Date: 2010-12-21 03:14 pm (UTC)Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2010-12-21 06:51 pm (UTC)"For some reason, Eames thinks it is a brilliant idea to confront Arthur directly."
I am confused. I thought he went to L.A. to figure out what Arthur was so interested in. And then Eames meets up with Fischer, and I'm left feeling confused. So, does he find out that Arthur likes Fischer, and then goes to talk to Fischer, because Arthur is worried?
"If this is played right, everything will go as planned." "It is only through the coaxing of Arthur that they continue with the plan, even as it is crumbling at their feet." What exactly IS the plan? I remember this part in one of your previous fics, where Fischer busts in (for I can't remember what reason right now) and sees Arthur there. Is the plan to make Fischer feel better? Loved?
Also, WHY does Eames keep with Fischer? Arthur is worried for Fischer, but Eames doesn't really seem to like him. When Eames asks Fischer to spend the night it's kinda like weird, because doesn't he really actually love Arthur?
"Eames is not asleep, but his eyes are closed, salty streams finally released in the only place he can admit defeat." When you say this, do you mean that he is only able to cry around Yusuf, because he doesn't like other people to see him weak like this?
Also, I think that you should elaborate more on Arthur, Eames, and Fischer's feelings in being in a kind of three-way relationship. You don't really seem to explore that topic that much, and I think that it's a pretty major point - being in a relationship with more than one person must be really hard, and I think I need to see what their reactions are. And the threesomes - doesn't Eames feel bad sharing Fischer? Does Eames feel any love for Fischer at all, or does he just love Arthur?
Also, could you explain the Eames/Yusuf relationship more? What's the background - why are they 'together'? Why does Yusuf let him in like that?
As I said in a previous comment, I really want to see more Arthur/Fischer, because it's like... Eames is actually really horrible and Arthur loves him. And I want to know exactly what made him fall in love with him.
And oh GOD that part with Eames and Browning was hot. You have me loving things I never even knew I could love.
Um... yeah, lots of questions. Is this alright? :B
Let me connect the dots . . .
Date: 2010-12-21 07:14 pm (UTC)Originally, Arthur was to go to Los Angeles alone to shadow Fischer, find out more, and eventually speak to him. Worry is the main emotion here, but there's also deeply rooted, sexual interest due to the photos, the pieces of information he has not quite connected. Eames finds out and follows him and stops them because emotional isn't Arthur's strong suit, and because he loves him, offers to shadow Fischer instead.
Second question is answered with a PRECISELY. And thank you for pointing out the elaboration. This is my first attempt at a poly, so it's interesting to work on as a writer. I should get a beta to work this through, but what I can understand is that Eames was always poly, but he's considered closing it solely with Arthur. Arthur did not like the idea of poly, but he was interested in Eames, so he accepted it, and being open, was allowed to fall for Fischer. Fischer . . . well, he doesn't know. He's okay with poly because he's used to being, well, used.
As for Yusuf . . . *sigh* . . . Yusuf understands Eames' life choices, much like being a thief. They're on again, off again, but mostly they're just really close, someone to talk to, someone to confide in, and the occasional sex.
I would love to find ways to explain this IN the story, but gah! Having issues. Maybe later, as the pieces fall together. S'funny, this really was to be a Eames/Fischer fic, but it didn't feel right, as kirstenlouise pointed out, and then hesselives gave me the idea that literally opened it all up.
And Browning, yes, me too. So very human, so very the only way Eames felt that he could help, seeing as that he was so helpless in Fischer's mind, not being able to deal with what he sees in Fischer.