Inception Fic: A Conversation Piece
Jan. 11th, 2011 05:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
azuremewTitle: A Conversation Piece
Word Count: Around 5,000
Pairing: Arthur/Eames/Fischer, Past Browning/Fischer
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: D/s, non-con, cutting (sorry, forgot this one)
Summary: Eames didn't come back from Mombasa empty-handed. He has an idea, and Robert deals with his past a little deeper.
Author's Note: Back to Incunabula - Follows Push the Limits. This was written in parts, different days, etc, etc, so I'm a little worried about coherency, more than usual, lol. I took a lot of days to complete this and decide if certain areas should be part of the story or removed. Hopefully, it worked out in the end and conveys what I'm trying to.
The morning after is lazy. As it should be. The sun is passed high noon before the first one climbs out of bed. Eames. I see him out of the corner of my eye and snatch his wrist before he gets to stand. His fingers trace the lines on my wrist, and I pull away, clutching the warm body that still remains around me. “You don't have to get up,” I tell him. “You don't have to leave.”
“Cigarette, shower,” he tells me, leaning in to brush his lips across my temple. “Then breakfast. And after we need to talk, yeah? You and me.”
“Talk,” I worry, the word coming up in a faint, haunted whisper. “What is there to talk about?”
“I have plans for you, Robert Fischer,” he explains, and Arthur, barely aware, stirs behind me, summoning a smile to Eames' face. “How do pancakes sound for brunch, darling?”
“Brilliant,” Arthur comments, his words touching the back of my neck. I grin and squeeze his wrists. “But I think I'll stay here a little longer if you don't mind.”
Eames reaches out to untangle one of Arthur's hands from around me, pulling it to his lips. “Very well,” he murmurs. “You two can snuggle here and miss the show.”
“Show?” I blink, wondering out loud, but Arthur is holding me tightly, and Eames leaves before I can yell at him for a more detailed answer. “What on earth is he talking about?”
Arthur chuckles, his breath bringing shivers along my spine. “Well, you did notice he did not take any clothes with him.”
The thought crosses my mind, then I lower my head in a smirk, “Tease, but if he thinks tossing pancakes into the air with just an apron on is going to get me out of bed, he still has a lot to learn.”
“We could move to the sofa,” Arthur notes, but his lips travel to my ear. “Good view there, don't you think?”
“And leave here? Never.”
Not in a million years, but the smell of the batter hitting the frying pan is enough to make us move a little more, inching towards the edge of the bed with the heavy weight of comfort around our shoulders. It blankets our minds and fills it with warm thoughts, conversation slowly brewing with the coffee pot. It eventually leads to talking about the night before, how it was, and I am blushing, “We should probably shower, too, before brunch.”
“You smell just fine.”
“I smell like sex. All sweat and come. Great to fall asleep in when you're too worn out from fucking to get up, but the next night, I think not.” I twist to kiss him on the lips. “Shower. Then laundry. It's only fair.”
Arthur pouts, “I suppose.” He lets me up then, to the edge, and with another turn, I am to my feet, bringing him with me. The bathroom down the hall shows signs of Eames before. Still warm, the air wet, and a underlying scent of aftershave as I breathe it all in. Arthur has his hands around me again. “Hold still,” he tells me, and I look away from the mirror while a sharp burn resonates form my shoulder blade, bringing back so much that I bite my lower lip. I want to tell him to rip it off like a band-aid, but he is delicate to not cause further injury. “It'll heal,” he tells me, kissing my shoulder before the water is turned on.
“It looks terrible,” I respond. “Everything does. I can understand why Eames worries. I am a constant reminder. He has to just look at me and see how . . .” I swallow thickly, and Arthur has his hand around my arm, squeezing it to recognize he's there, to remember he was there. “Sorry.”
“Don't apologize,” he says as the shower curtain is drawn, and I step in. “For once, you can speak freely, and I would never want to be the reason you cease.”
He lets me stand beneath the water while preparing an enema, the sound of the cabinet opening through the spray. I try not to think of much, to focus on him, but when the curtain draws open, I don't see the rubber bulb and its plastic, pointed tip but metal, rounded, ready to fire. “Arthur . . .” I whisper, my heart fluttering at the thought. The rain. Then gunfire. I cover my mouth from the vertigo, stepping back into the hot/cold knob. The cold has me frozen, frightened as I was until his arms are around me, bringing me back. My forehead falls onto his chest, the collarbone jutting across. Ragged breaths are taken in before I can confess, “I think I need another treatment.”
“Okay,” Arthur agrees, naturally, but it is not enough.
I look up him to see those dark eyes, to make sure he won't lie though I know somewhere he would not. “Promise me, promise you won't tell Eames.” My nose stopped bleeding after some tissues. The soreness went away with some pills. But I chew on my lip when I'm nervous and break the tiny stitch of dried skin. The taste reminds me every time of that night, and I smell liquor upon his breath, hate in his words. I vomit afterward, nauseated by it all, and my body wracked in that new sensation is all that can stop the memory. “Don't tell him. I'm scared if he knows, he won't stay. I want him to. Please?”
Arthur nods, “Okay.” He pulls away matted tendrils of hair from my eyes and cups my cheek. “We'll go when he's on another job. Until then, can you . . . ?”
Keep it together? “I think so.”
“Okay,” he repeats for the third time, and I worry at that. I worry about keeping secrets, and I suspect this is the first time he has from Eames. “But if there's a moment, you'll tell me. Before . . .”
It worries him further, though, that I might be hurt, that I might hurt myself again, and I kiss him for that. The water has washed away the previous smells, leaving a fresh canvas for me to change. I let our mouths open up gradually rather than forcing my way, his tongue against mine as consent to let the previous fears pass and continue. His hand is around my ass, and I gasp, burying my mouth into his shoulder. The tip is thin, but it pierces still as any foreign object would, and I quiver beneath him, tempted to rock inward, to let us slide against each other and forget completely.
But Eames' words still sit in my head. Breathing heavy, I remind him, “We shouldn't take too long.”
Arthur lets out a sigh, removing the enema to lay it empty upon the floor to be sanitized later. But he does not argue then, not vocally at least. I wait to feel the washcloth as he has done before, to take care of the scar along my shoulder as soft as he can possess, but I am surprised instead. Another gasp escapes me from his finger sliding into my previously breached hole, hooking against the prostate. “Shhhhh . . .” he whispers into my ear, biting it as a second joins. I am writhing now, barely able to keep silent as he asked, my teeth burying into his shoulder for some support.
Wrapped around him, he fists my cock and pulls. Our secret, I think as I clench frantically at his neck, scratching his lower back until I am still, taut from the wave that squirts come into his palm. We would not want Eames to burn brunch over this.
The linens are collected to be washed and finished by the time the conversation is complete. What this is about, exactly, neither of us know as Eames, now dressed in a pair of worn jeans, pads across the living room to set two plates down upon the coffee table. We join him to pour glasses of orange juice, coffee, and everything else a meal.
He kisses my neck on the final trip and adds, “I'll be back in a moment, pet.” I turn my head, all too curious on what he has in mind, but the smell is too inviting to be distracted by his whims.
Settled back on the sofa, the fluffy stack is divided alongside bacon cooked to a crisp and scrambled eggs. I pull my plate onto my crossed legs, surprised that Eames can even muster an interest from this meal. But he does, for in his hand is a thick piece of leather wrapped around the fingers, a D-hook dangling at the center. I swallow a lump without needing to take a first bite. “Is that,” I ask quiet. “Is that what I think it is?”
“It most certainly is,” Eames tells me, settling in the chair opposite. He lets the leather piece sit on the armrest while taking his plate. “Robert, you understand what I'm thinking of, yeah?” I nod a little, so he asks, “Do you mind explaining to our dear Arthur?”
Arthur paused his meal to have his hand upon my leg, almost to anchor him, protect me, I am not certain, but I react accordingly, holding it, rubbing his knuckles with calm, soothing words. “It acts as a psychological mechanism, symbolic of submission, giving oneself fully, but there is no lock, is there?”
“No, not yet,” Eames notes with a bit of a smile. “Not until you're ready.”
“No,” Arthur is quick to answer despite. “I don't like it. Robert's been through enough, Eames. He's barely made it through . . .”
I stop him, my arm moving around his waist, not realizing just how frightened he is at the prospect. The plate on his lap falls from open legs, making a loud clatter. Eames sets his down to take mine so that I can reach completely around him, pulling him back into my chest. My chin rests upon his shoulder, feeling the shivering wave of anxiety. “There is a difference,” I tell him, nudging my nose against his cheek. His hands grasp mine as I tell him, “I love you, and you me. I trust you, and you me. This bond, it's different. I want you to have me, to hold me, and I think Eames is right. This might be the only way.”
They told me of the shade, the woman called Mal that died from an idea, a thought Cobb left inside of her in limbo. I was there once. The smell of salt is upon my nose from Arthur's tears, and I remember. Drowning. Unclear. The waves take me to the earth, sand soiled a dark brown. I am coughing violently, not knowing, half-remembering minutes before. I was shot, was I not? It is uncertain, but what comes so coherent are those black shoes at my feet, the pointed heels that dig into the sand and long legs covered in silk. She is beautiful, like an angel that helps me to my feet after dying.
But after I am taking to her home, her trust, the guise is removed. She is yelling at me, telling me that this is a dream, that Cobb is no savior, and I am not his to save. I will never free him, and I can never be free.
Uncle Peter is that shade now, even deceased I feel his presence when I sleep. When I am awake, sometimes, I see him. I smell his cologne and feel my stomach tighten in knots. There is nothing that will end him. I know this and ask Arthur, “Will you try?”
He nods, and Eames smiles, “Right. Then we'll need a PASIV, too.”
The mess is cleaned. Broken pieces thrown out. Dishes washed. Laundry pulled. Eames finishes the last, putting them on the drying rack. Arthur in the bedroom. Dark blue linen beneath metal. The case is open, he is setting up the mechanisms, the minutes, thinking it through, over and over. I sit on the seat where Eames was, pulled up in an impossible position borderline fetal. Watching, waiting, my arms wrapped around me, pulling tightly. A hand runs against ribs. Another against the rough, sticky tape of new dressing. Idly, it passes over, time and time again, until a corner peels way. “Do you really think this is a good idea?” I ask.
“It is,” he says, bold and certain. “It will be something that you recognize, something solid to hold onto, in both dreams and here.” He pauses. “We won't be able to stay around forever.”
“I know,” I mutter, tugging at the tape between my index and middle finger. “I am looking into other business venues. Renewable resources, Paolo Soleri – have you heard of him?”
Eames doesn't speak until after he turns off the water, “I cannot say that I have.”
“Arcosanti. It's an arcology in Arizona – a hyperdense enviroment, a city entirely comprised of a few thousand people, living together, being together, comfortably. Existing.”
“I didn't know you were interested in architecture,” Eames noted.
“Not really, no, but the minimal use of energy alongside the rest was quite appealing.”
Eames laughed, “Don't be foolish, Robert.”
I blink, “Excuse me?”
His voices shifts in volume, tone, even accent. A little at first. “Renewable resources. Solar panels. Wind. Hydro. It's all possible.” Then more. “But what would that bring in for you? For your family?Very little, almost nothing. What would the point be?”
The index finger wiggles it way underneath the cotton fibers, scraping away at the tender surface with blunt nails filed down. I tell them that it is for upkeep, that Eames should consider it sometime rather than chewing off hangnails. Disgusting habit. He never listens, of course. Nor should I, really. “I don't have a family,” I murmur. “And what comes from it is worth more than the luxury, don't you think?”
“More than enough?” he laughs again. “So you don't mind squatting here? Robert . . .”
My head is lowered, not really listening, but I see the black suited arm move closer to me, the white undershirt and large hand. I scrape until there is a singe from the rawness beneath.
“Robert,” a hand lies on my shoulder. “You really should come back to Sydney with me.”
“Robert,” another voice says, and I look over to seeing Arthur, his sleeves rolled up and ready to proceed. He walks over, and my hand darts to my lap, clasping one over the next. “Is everything okay?”
I swallow thickly, and look up to notice no one. Eames is not even in the kitchen anymore. “No,” I whisper. “But it's going to be.” I wonder for how long I was sitting there, alone, while they fiddled with their things, got ready in their own routine, absent. Shaky, standing up is difficult, but I manage to move, holding onto Arthur as we did before.
“You don't have to do this,” he tells me.
Eames is there, unwinding two lines, far enough to not hear me tell Arthur, “I know.” Arthur lies down on the other side of the bed, reaching over to pull the cord and secure his own needle. I am watching, Eames is sitting on the other side, his back resting against the wall, hand near the machine. He lets me settle between his legs, my lower back against his stomach. My wrist in his hand, he notes how balmy I feel, cold to the touch. “Can't help but be a little nervous,” I whisper. It's the first time since the asylum, the depths of hell, so taking a chance on returning was not my favorite idea. But these men, they were experts, as knowledgeable as Freud or Jung, and careful. Addicts perhaps, rushing to the needle before letting the medication I'm on or the therapy to take care of things, unable to exist in mundane order for long. I trust them, and he kisses me, threading his fingers up my arm, causing shivers as he touches the most intimate truths I bear, exposed freely to them.
“I will be here when you wake, pet,” he whispers. “Breathe now.” I do, and the needle pricks, drawing the faintest droplet of blood. Harder, it is pushed into the vein before the tape keeps it steady. “Breathe and remember, soon, it'll all be over.”
I blink, noticing his hand reaching for the dial, “You're not joining us?”
“It's Arthur's turn to be the dreamer,” he whispers, knowing something I am familiar. All the times before it was Eames or I. Never Arthur.
Arthur nods, though, and I am jealous, briefly. That exchange holds so much, like a secret handshake between old friends or a society I will never be able to become part of. A cult that makes dreams and steals ideas. They think it is worth the price for admission, but the jealousy passes because I hold something far more dear.
They have not dreamed in months, years, that is what I was told. Not without this machine, with drugs. Not naturally. It is like their subconscious is locked away from them. A piece buried after finding the freedom to create.
I am reminded of Nash. I want to ask Arthur of his time in that hospital. What was it like? Why was he there exactly? Was it because of the dreams? No longer dreaming? Does it matter so much. I think so. That is why I do not take part in their world. I cannot lose more. No more. Not after losing so much.
Still, if he is willing, I am willing. I breathe. Inhale. Exhale. I feel him move, shifting us slightly, as fingers wind tightly around his shirt, white from nerves. From the corner of my eye, clear liquid flows through the small tubes, like the intravenous fluids given to my father, saline solution, like ice in my veins.
Count back before ten, and somewhere between six and five, there is nothing. I try to breathe, I try to breathe, but the darkness is crushing. “Eames,” I choke in a gasp before going under.
There is everything. Crushing, I cannot breathe. Choking. I realize I am drowning. Deep beneath the ocean. Eyes open to an endless bubbles. It knocks my body about. A sharp pain. Rock scrapes against me, tearing away, spilling blood. Red stains pure white. I close my eyes.
Coughing, the light is blinding beneath closed lids, brighter still when revealed. Sunlight pours upon me. Earth at my feet, dark by the tidal waves that crash to the shore. In front of me are feet, bare and dainty, to legs connected to an angel. My savior. She crouches down, chocolate curls covering her dark eyes, and pulls a loose, wet hairs from my sight. “You look lost, Robert. Let me help you.”
She pulls me to my feet, barely able to move, my legs feel like cement, my feet like stone. It is so hard to move, but she forces me forward, toward the single building I can remember: Fischer Morrow. The building is crumpling. At different points of decay. Window panes whine in the gusts of powerful winds until another piece breaks from the foundation and plummets. She takes me to a service elevator, down several floors, fear beneath the earth to a cellar lit by candles and the crackling of a fire place. Settled upon a chaise lounge, she goes to get something. Towels. One presses against my shoulder, and I hiss. “It's okay,” she whispers. “It's okay. We know.”
“We – what?” I ask, still dizzy, the taste of water in my lungs. It weighs me down on the chair, lying there still, brought back, she straddles me. “We? Do you mean Arthur? He's here?”
“Arthur?” she asks me, taking my wrists, stretching them up, I feel someone else taking them, someone larger, masculine and shudder. She laughs. “Non.”
Leather straps thread around my wrists, securing them. I want to kick, to buck, to force her away, but the weight, it keeps me there. She removes a knife from her garter belt and begins to cut away at my shirt, tearing it to shreds, letting it grace against me occasionally to provoke another his. “Arthur is with Dom, Robert. You remember him?” she smiles. “Your subconscious security?”
“No,” I whimper, and she gets up to undo my trousers, to peel them away with my socks, shoes, and underclothes. “No,” I cry out, the sharp edge carving along my leg. “Please, Mal, please do not do this. Listen to me. Cobb, he's not here. He's with your children . . .”
Suddenly, she grabs my throat, squeezing out the air until it aches. Lessening it so, she tells me, “My children are gone because of you. You took them away from me. I had them. I had Dom. Then you . . .” she lets go and slaps my face, backhand cracking against the jaw, snapping the neck to the side. “I could have gone away too, but you . . .you kept me here . . . with him.” Her eyes, they peek from beneath the dark curls, and I see them, wide and scared, bruised.
In her retreat, the hands from behind slide forward, brushing against the torso. “You thought you could get away from me, Robert,” he whispers, twisting the nipple until I whine. Moving around the chaise, I see him, Uncle Peter, in his suit as he moves further down, tracing the lines, the ribs, the flat of my stomach and mound of hair to the cock. I tremble at his touch, the soft brush between my legs, teasing the inner things until he reaches the tight ring of muscle. “I will never leave you, but I fear that you need to be reminded of this.”
“Uncle Peter . . .” I try and beg him not to, but I know, I just know, he won't stop until he is finished, and there is no point fighting, so I bite down on my lower lip as his finger passes the ring without lubrication, stretching it, widening it to force more in. “Move into me, Robert. Take it, you slut. You whore. You wanted this. You wanted more than me. Take it.” His thrusts become more rough, fingers curling then scissoring until I am screaming. “Take it, Robert. If you want this, take it.”
I try. I shift my weight as well as I can, but as I do, he moves his hand again in a way that it hurts to have him there. Each attempt is more agonizing than the last that I feel my eyes water. I am choking on mucus between yells until he has all four fingers to the knuckles, splitting me open until he can move from the red slick of being torn apart.
Now, he grabbed me, fisting my cock with dry friction with his other buried in my arse. It becomes hard unwillingly, despite his taunting, his cursing. He tells me I'm a whore, for wanting more. “You were given everything, Robert. Everything. You had a life, people that loved you, opportunities someone would beg for, but you wanted more. So take it, enjoy it. Tell me your enjoying it.”
“No, Uncle Peter,” I whimper through clenched teeth. “Please.”
“What, Robert?” he asks, pulling away only to force himself in again. I rise off of the chaise lounge and fall into him. “What?”
“Please, Uncle Peter,” I repeat. “I want it to stop. I'll stop. Just please . . . “
He does, pulling out of me. “Turn around, then, and I will fix you.”
Hours later, after wandering so far, alone, I find something. Each step aches, but I moved toward it. It is raining outside, but I move toward it. Lightning never stops here, and I do not stop moving toward . .
No, it cannot be. I am standing in front of a building, tall in structure, sound in foundation. It reminds me of Fischer Morrow. Glass, endless and pristine. Untouchable. Only the select few are able to walk in while others stand in awe, and others still let it blend in with the rest of the scene.
I cannot take my eyes off it, worrying that the ghost of my father will walk out and tell me how disappointed he is. Frozen in fear, in pain. At least until I feel arms around me, sliding around my waist, pulling me into threads and fabric so familiar. Stitched together, piece by piece, for one alone, to embody perfection and grace. It is a hard piece to fill, but together, it feels right.
“Would you like to take a look?” he asks, his chin upon my shoulder. I think he might be smiling at the prospect, and his heart is racing. Excited. Nervous. I nod, and unexpected, he darts forward, pulling me along with a grip so tight to not lose me, so strong I barely have to think.
He does it for me. At the front of the building is a list of names. Last names. First initials. With buttons. Big, black ones that yell for you to push at them, but etiquette keeps your hand back. It does not Arthur's. He presses them all until someone answers, and with a mumbled slur of who knows what, the security door is breached.
“What is this place . . .” I ask quickly, before my logical mind tries to snuff out the utter wonder of something so mundane. We stand in a lobby of an office building, stopping at a large, brass table of contents. It tells me. “Memories?”
“And ideas. Thoughts. Musings. Moments. I try not to think about it much,” he admits softly. “Dom built it for me ages ago, when it all became too much, the gravity of it all. Enough becomes enough, especially when you don't forget names, faces, places, everything, anything.”
I squeeze the hand that I now have latched onto. These lists. The minute details. “Arthur . . .”
He smiles. “Don't worry. There's nothing like Cobb's shade here. Just memories.”
“So the moments you deem unneeded are stored here, shelved aside for a later?” I question, trying to understand. He is silent, and I understand. Except one thing. “Why did you bring me here?”
“To share,” he tells me. “With you.”
He moves forward, pulling me along, a smile on his face, fast and free, so unlike the Arthur I know, so much like him too. An elevator opens in front of us, and he pushes the top floor. Glass doors reveal tales pulled together on shelves. Infinite, I think. So much more than what I am. It is overwhelming.
I step back, the length of the wall pressing against my back, the cold metal of a railing at my waist. He watches as I am frozen, the smile fading. “Robert, what's wrong?”
Closing my eyes, my head dips low. “I don't,” I murmur, and swallow back the rising ache that is crushing my heart. “I don't want to disappoint you.”
His hand catches my tie, holding it in a tight grasp. “I love you,” he tells me, inches away. “Every part.” Fingertips brush my cheek, dip beneath the chin. Eyes stare at me, wanting. “No matter how long it takes.” He kisses me, and I am weak.
The door opens to the roof, and he is still holding my hand. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” I murmur. “I'm trying. This whole . . . being my own person. It's . . . I don't know how.”
He lets go, and I am drifting again. “Arthur . . .” I whisper. “What are you doing?” I watch him walk to the edge, step onto it, and turn around. “No, don't. Stay. Arthur . . .” My eyes are watering.
“Trust me,” he tells me again, and I watch him fall back, plummet.
I scream at the top of my lungs. The building is so high, but the ground comes quick. By the time I reach the ledge, he is on the ground. Dead. Gone. “Arthur . . .” His body is a mangled mess of expensive threads, once tailored exquisitely now torn, and blood. It pools beneath him. “No,” I sob, crumpling to the ground beneath me, arms folded, my head lies there. “No . . .”
The earth begins to shake, tearing the world to pieces. Glass shatters beneath me, followed by concrete and metal. But I do not care. I cannot stop staring at the dead, another gone from me. Why would he do it? Arthur, why? If you loved me . . . why?
Trust him, I remember, rising to my feet. I take a deep breath and pull myself up. Trust that after dying here, there is something left. Not limbo.
There is living.
Word Count: Around 5,000
Pairing: Arthur/Eames/Fischer, Past Browning/Fischer
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: D/s, non-con, cutting (sorry, forgot this one)
Summary: Eames didn't come back from Mombasa empty-handed. He has an idea, and Robert deals with his past a little deeper.
Author's Note: Back to Incunabula - Follows Push the Limits. This was written in parts, different days, etc, etc, so I'm a little worried about coherency, more than usual, lol. I took a lot of days to complete this and decide if certain areas should be part of the story or removed. Hopefully, it worked out in the end and conveys what I'm trying to.
The morning after is lazy. As it should be. The sun is passed high noon before the first one climbs out of bed. Eames. I see him out of the corner of my eye and snatch his wrist before he gets to stand. His fingers trace the lines on my wrist, and I pull away, clutching the warm body that still remains around me. “You don't have to get up,” I tell him. “You don't have to leave.”
“Cigarette, shower,” he tells me, leaning in to brush his lips across my temple. “Then breakfast. And after we need to talk, yeah? You and me.”
“Talk,” I worry, the word coming up in a faint, haunted whisper. “What is there to talk about?”
“I have plans for you, Robert Fischer,” he explains, and Arthur, barely aware, stirs behind me, summoning a smile to Eames' face. “How do pancakes sound for brunch, darling?”
“Brilliant,” Arthur comments, his words touching the back of my neck. I grin and squeeze his wrists. “But I think I'll stay here a little longer if you don't mind.”
Eames reaches out to untangle one of Arthur's hands from around me, pulling it to his lips. “Very well,” he murmurs. “You two can snuggle here and miss the show.”
“Show?” I blink, wondering out loud, but Arthur is holding me tightly, and Eames leaves before I can yell at him for a more detailed answer. “What on earth is he talking about?”
Arthur chuckles, his breath bringing shivers along my spine. “Well, you did notice he did not take any clothes with him.”
The thought crosses my mind, then I lower my head in a smirk, “Tease, but if he thinks tossing pancakes into the air with just an apron on is going to get me out of bed, he still has a lot to learn.”
“We could move to the sofa,” Arthur notes, but his lips travel to my ear. “Good view there, don't you think?”
“And leave here? Never.”
Not in a million years, but the smell of the batter hitting the frying pan is enough to make us move a little more, inching towards the edge of the bed with the heavy weight of comfort around our shoulders. It blankets our minds and fills it with warm thoughts, conversation slowly brewing with the coffee pot. It eventually leads to talking about the night before, how it was, and I am blushing, “We should probably shower, too, before brunch.”
“You smell just fine.”
“I smell like sex. All sweat and come. Great to fall asleep in when you're too worn out from fucking to get up, but the next night, I think not.” I twist to kiss him on the lips. “Shower. Then laundry. It's only fair.”
Arthur pouts, “I suppose.” He lets me up then, to the edge, and with another turn, I am to my feet, bringing him with me. The bathroom down the hall shows signs of Eames before. Still warm, the air wet, and a underlying scent of aftershave as I breathe it all in. Arthur has his hands around me again. “Hold still,” he tells me, and I look away from the mirror while a sharp burn resonates form my shoulder blade, bringing back so much that I bite my lower lip. I want to tell him to rip it off like a band-aid, but he is delicate to not cause further injury. “It'll heal,” he tells me, kissing my shoulder before the water is turned on.
“It looks terrible,” I respond. “Everything does. I can understand why Eames worries. I am a constant reminder. He has to just look at me and see how . . .” I swallow thickly, and Arthur has his hand around my arm, squeezing it to recognize he's there, to remember he was there. “Sorry.”
“Don't apologize,” he says as the shower curtain is drawn, and I step in. “For once, you can speak freely, and I would never want to be the reason you cease.”
He lets me stand beneath the water while preparing an enema, the sound of the cabinet opening through the spray. I try not to think of much, to focus on him, but when the curtain draws open, I don't see the rubber bulb and its plastic, pointed tip but metal, rounded, ready to fire. “Arthur . . .” I whisper, my heart fluttering at the thought. The rain. Then gunfire. I cover my mouth from the vertigo, stepping back into the hot/cold knob. The cold has me frozen, frightened as I was until his arms are around me, bringing me back. My forehead falls onto his chest, the collarbone jutting across. Ragged breaths are taken in before I can confess, “I think I need another treatment.”
“Okay,” Arthur agrees, naturally, but it is not enough.
I look up him to see those dark eyes, to make sure he won't lie though I know somewhere he would not. “Promise me, promise you won't tell Eames.” My nose stopped bleeding after some tissues. The soreness went away with some pills. But I chew on my lip when I'm nervous and break the tiny stitch of dried skin. The taste reminds me every time of that night, and I smell liquor upon his breath, hate in his words. I vomit afterward, nauseated by it all, and my body wracked in that new sensation is all that can stop the memory. “Don't tell him. I'm scared if he knows, he won't stay. I want him to. Please?”
Arthur nods, “Okay.” He pulls away matted tendrils of hair from my eyes and cups my cheek. “We'll go when he's on another job. Until then, can you . . . ?”
Keep it together? “I think so.”
“Okay,” he repeats for the third time, and I worry at that. I worry about keeping secrets, and I suspect this is the first time he has from Eames. “But if there's a moment, you'll tell me. Before . . .”
It worries him further, though, that I might be hurt, that I might hurt myself again, and I kiss him for that. The water has washed away the previous smells, leaving a fresh canvas for me to change. I let our mouths open up gradually rather than forcing my way, his tongue against mine as consent to let the previous fears pass and continue. His hand is around my ass, and I gasp, burying my mouth into his shoulder. The tip is thin, but it pierces still as any foreign object would, and I quiver beneath him, tempted to rock inward, to let us slide against each other and forget completely.
But Eames' words still sit in my head. Breathing heavy, I remind him, “We shouldn't take too long.”
Arthur lets out a sigh, removing the enema to lay it empty upon the floor to be sanitized later. But he does not argue then, not vocally at least. I wait to feel the washcloth as he has done before, to take care of the scar along my shoulder as soft as he can possess, but I am surprised instead. Another gasp escapes me from his finger sliding into my previously breached hole, hooking against the prostate. “Shhhhh . . .” he whispers into my ear, biting it as a second joins. I am writhing now, barely able to keep silent as he asked, my teeth burying into his shoulder for some support.
Wrapped around him, he fists my cock and pulls. Our secret, I think as I clench frantically at his neck, scratching his lower back until I am still, taut from the wave that squirts come into his palm. We would not want Eames to burn brunch over this.
The linens are collected to be washed and finished by the time the conversation is complete. What this is about, exactly, neither of us know as Eames, now dressed in a pair of worn jeans, pads across the living room to set two plates down upon the coffee table. We join him to pour glasses of orange juice, coffee, and everything else a meal.
He kisses my neck on the final trip and adds, “I'll be back in a moment, pet.” I turn my head, all too curious on what he has in mind, but the smell is too inviting to be distracted by his whims.
Settled back on the sofa, the fluffy stack is divided alongside bacon cooked to a crisp and scrambled eggs. I pull my plate onto my crossed legs, surprised that Eames can even muster an interest from this meal. But he does, for in his hand is a thick piece of leather wrapped around the fingers, a D-hook dangling at the center. I swallow a lump without needing to take a first bite. “Is that,” I ask quiet. “Is that what I think it is?”
“It most certainly is,” Eames tells me, settling in the chair opposite. He lets the leather piece sit on the armrest while taking his plate. “Robert, you understand what I'm thinking of, yeah?” I nod a little, so he asks, “Do you mind explaining to our dear Arthur?”
Arthur paused his meal to have his hand upon my leg, almost to anchor him, protect me, I am not certain, but I react accordingly, holding it, rubbing his knuckles with calm, soothing words. “It acts as a psychological mechanism, symbolic of submission, giving oneself fully, but there is no lock, is there?”
“No, not yet,” Eames notes with a bit of a smile. “Not until you're ready.”
“No,” Arthur is quick to answer despite. “I don't like it. Robert's been through enough, Eames. He's barely made it through . . .”
I stop him, my arm moving around his waist, not realizing just how frightened he is at the prospect. The plate on his lap falls from open legs, making a loud clatter. Eames sets his down to take mine so that I can reach completely around him, pulling him back into my chest. My chin rests upon his shoulder, feeling the shivering wave of anxiety. “There is a difference,” I tell him, nudging my nose against his cheek. His hands grasp mine as I tell him, “I love you, and you me. I trust you, and you me. This bond, it's different. I want you to have me, to hold me, and I think Eames is right. This might be the only way.”
They told me of the shade, the woman called Mal that died from an idea, a thought Cobb left inside of her in limbo. I was there once. The smell of salt is upon my nose from Arthur's tears, and I remember. Drowning. Unclear. The waves take me to the earth, sand soiled a dark brown. I am coughing violently, not knowing, half-remembering minutes before. I was shot, was I not? It is uncertain, but what comes so coherent are those black shoes at my feet, the pointed heels that dig into the sand and long legs covered in silk. She is beautiful, like an angel that helps me to my feet after dying.
But after I am taking to her home, her trust, the guise is removed. She is yelling at me, telling me that this is a dream, that Cobb is no savior, and I am not his to save. I will never free him, and I can never be free.
Uncle Peter is that shade now, even deceased I feel his presence when I sleep. When I am awake, sometimes, I see him. I smell his cologne and feel my stomach tighten in knots. There is nothing that will end him. I know this and ask Arthur, “Will you try?”
He nods, and Eames smiles, “Right. Then we'll need a PASIV, too.”
The mess is cleaned. Broken pieces thrown out. Dishes washed. Laundry pulled. Eames finishes the last, putting them on the drying rack. Arthur in the bedroom. Dark blue linen beneath metal. The case is open, he is setting up the mechanisms, the minutes, thinking it through, over and over. I sit on the seat where Eames was, pulled up in an impossible position borderline fetal. Watching, waiting, my arms wrapped around me, pulling tightly. A hand runs against ribs. Another against the rough, sticky tape of new dressing. Idly, it passes over, time and time again, until a corner peels way. “Do you really think this is a good idea?” I ask.
“It is,” he says, bold and certain. “It will be something that you recognize, something solid to hold onto, in both dreams and here.” He pauses. “We won't be able to stay around forever.”
“I know,” I mutter, tugging at the tape between my index and middle finger. “I am looking into other business venues. Renewable resources, Paolo Soleri – have you heard of him?”
Eames doesn't speak until after he turns off the water, “I cannot say that I have.”
“Arcosanti. It's an arcology in Arizona – a hyperdense enviroment, a city entirely comprised of a few thousand people, living together, being together, comfortably. Existing.”
“I didn't know you were interested in architecture,” Eames noted.
“Not really, no, but the minimal use of energy alongside the rest was quite appealing.”
Eames laughed, “Don't be foolish, Robert.”
I blink, “Excuse me?”
His voices shifts in volume, tone, even accent. A little at first. “Renewable resources. Solar panels. Wind. Hydro. It's all possible.” Then more. “But what would that bring in for you? For your family?Very little, almost nothing. What would the point be?”
The index finger wiggles it way underneath the cotton fibers, scraping away at the tender surface with blunt nails filed down. I tell them that it is for upkeep, that Eames should consider it sometime rather than chewing off hangnails. Disgusting habit. He never listens, of course. Nor should I, really. “I don't have a family,” I murmur. “And what comes from it is worth more than the luxury, don't you think?”
“More than enough?” he laughs again. “So you don't mind squatting here? Robert . . .”
My head is lowered, not really listening, but I see the black suited arm move closer to me, the white undershirt and large hand. I scrape until there is a singe from the rawness beneath.
“Robert,” a hand lies on my shoulder. “You really should come back to Sydney with me.”
“Robert,” another voice says, and I look over to seeing Arthur, his sleeves rolled up and ready to proceed. He walks over, and my hand darts to my lap, clasping one over the next. “Is everything okay?”
I swallow thickly, and look up to notice no one. Eames is not even in the kitchen anymore. “No,” I whisper. “But it's going to be.” I wonder for how long I was sitting there, alone, while they fiddled with their things, got ready in their own routine, absent. Shaky, standing up is difficult, but I manage to move, holding onto Arthur as we did before.
“You don't have to do this,” he tells me.
Eames is there, unwinding two lines, far enough to not hear me tell Arthur, “I know.” Arthur lies down on the other side of the bed, reaching over to pull the cord and secure his own needle. I am watching, Eames is sitting on the other side, his back resting against the wall, hand near the machine. He lets me settle between his legs, my lower back against his stomach. My wrist in his hand, he notes how balmy I feel, cold to the touch. “Can't help but be a little nervous,” I whisper. It's the first time since the asylum, the depths of hell, so taking a chance on returning was not my favorite idea. But these men, they were experts, as knowledgeable as Freud or Jung, and careful. Addicts perhaps, rushing to the needle before letting the medication I'm on or the therapy to take care of things, unable to exist in mundane order for long. I trust them, and he kisses me, threading his fingers up my arm, causing shivers as he touches the most intimate truths I bear, exposed freely to them.
“I will be here when you wake, pet,” he whispers. “Breathe now.” I do, and the needle pricks, drawing the faintest droplet of blood. Harder, it is pushed into the vein before the tape keeps it steady. “Breathe and remember, soon, it'll all be over.”
I blink, noticing his hand reaching for the dial, “You're not joining us?”
“It's Arthur's turn to be the dreamer,” he whispers, knowing something I am familiar. All the times before it was Eames or I. Never Arthur.
Arthur nods, though, and I am jealous, briefly. That exchange holds so much, like a secret handshake between old friends or a society I will never be able to become part of. A cult that makes dreams and steals ideas. They think it is worth the price for admission, but the jealousy passes because I hold something far more dear.
They have not dreamed in months, years, that is what I was told. Not without this machine, with drugs. Not naturally. It is like their subconscious is locked away from them. A piece buried after finding the freedom to create.
I am reminded of Nash. I want to ask Arthur of his time in that hospital. What was it like? Why was he there exactly? Was it because of the dreams? No longer dreaming? Does it matter so much. I think so. That is why I do not take part in their world. I cannot lose more. No more. Not after losing so much.
Still, if he is willing, I am willing. I breathe. Inhale. Exhale. I feel him move, shifting us slightly, as fingers wind tightly around his shirt, white from nerves. From the corner of my eye, clear liquid flows through the small tubes, like the intravenous fluids given to my father, saline solution, like ice in my veins.
Count back before ten, and somewhere between six and five, there is nothing. I try to breathe, I try to breathe, but the darkness is crushing. “Eames,” I choke in a gasp before going under.
There is everything. Crushing, I cannot breathe. Choking. I realize I am drowning. Deep beneath the ocean. Eyes open to an endless bubbles. It knocks my body about. A sharp pain. Rock scrapes against me, tearing away, spilling blood. Red stains pure white. I close my eyes.
Coughing, the light is blinding beneath closed lids, brighter still when revealed. Sunlight pours upon me. Earth at my feet, dark by the tidal waves that crash to the shore. In front of me are feet, bare and dainty, to legs connected to an angel. My savior. She crouches down, chocolate curls covering her dark eyes, and pulls a loose, wet hairs from my sight. “You look lost, Robert. Let me help you.”
She pulls me to my feet, barely able to move, my legs feel like cement, my feet like stone. It is so hard to move, but she forces me forward, toward the single building I can remember: Fischer Morrow. The building is crumpling. At different points of decay. Window panes whine in the gusts of powerful winds until another piece breaks from the foundation and plummets. She takes me to a service elevator, down several floors, fear beneath the earth to a cellar lit by candles and the crackling of a fire place. Settled upon a chaise lounge, she goes to get something. Towels. One presses against my shoulder, and I hiss. “It's okay,” she whispers. “It's okay. We know.”
“We – what?” I ask, still dizzy, the taste of water in my lungs. It weighs me down on the chair, lying there still, brought back, she straddles me. “We? Do you mean Arthur? He's here?”
“Arthur?” she asks me, taking my wrists, stretching them up, I feel someone else taking them, someone larger, masculine and shudder. She laughs. “Non.”
Leather straps thread around my wrists, securing them. I want to kick, to buck, to force her away, but the weight, it keeps me there. She removes a knife from her garter belt and begins to cut away at my shirt, tearing it to shreds, letting it grace against me occasionally to provoke another his. “Arthur is with Dom, Robert. You remember him?” she smiles. “Your subconscious security?”
“No,” I whimper, and she gets up to undo my trousers, to peel them away with my socks, shoes, and underclothes. “No,” I cry out, the sharp edge carving along my leg. “Please, Mal, please do not do this. Listen to me. Cobb, he's not here. He's with your children . . .”
Suddenly, she grabs my throat, squeezing out the air until it aches. Lessening it so, she tells me, “My children are gone because of you. You took them away from me. I had them. I had Dom. Then you . . .” she lets go and slaps my face, backhand cracking against the jaw, snapping the neck to the side. “I could have gone away too, but you . . .you kept me here . . . with him.” Her eyes, they peek from beneath the dark curls, and I see them, wide and scared, bruised.
In her retreat, the hands from behind slide forward, brushing against the torso. “You thought you could get away from me, Robert,” he whispers, twisting the nipple until I whine. Moving around the chaise, I see him, Uncle Peter, in his suit as he moves further down, tracing the lines, the ribs, the flat of my stomach and mound of hair to the cock. I tremble at his touch, the soft brush between my legs, teasing the inner things until he reaches the tight ring of muscle. “I will never leave you, but I fear that you need to be reminded of this.”
“Uncle Peter . . .” I try and beg him not to, but I know, I just know, he won't stop until he is finished, and there is no point fighting, so I bite down on my lower lip as his finger passes the ring without lubrication, stretching it, widening it to force more in. “Move into me, Robert. Take it, you slut. You whore. You wanted this. You wanted more than me. Take it.” His thrusts become more rough, fingers curling then scissoring until I am screaming. “Take it, Robert. If you want this, take it.”
I try. I shift my weight as well as I can, but as I do, he moves his hand again in a way that it hurts to have him there. Each attempt is more agonizing than the last that I feel my eyes water. I am choking on mucus between yells until he has all four fingers to the knuckles, splitting me open until he can move from the red slick of being torn apart.
Now, he grabbed me, fisting my cock with dry friction with his other buried in my arse. It becomes hard unwillingly, despite his taunting, his cursing. He tells me I'm a whore, for wanting more. “You were given everything, Robert. Everything. You had a life, people that loved you, opportunities someone would beg for, but you wanted more. So take it, enjoy it. Tell me your enjoying it.”
“No, Uncle Peter,” I whimper through clenched teeth. “Please.”
“What, Robert?” he asks, pulling away only to force himself in again. I rise off of the chaise lounge and fall into him. “What?”
“Please, Uncle Peter,” I repeat. “I want it to stop. I'll stop. Just please . . . “
He does, pulling out of me. “Turn around, then, and I will fix you.”
Hours later, after wandering so far, alone, I find something. Each step aches, but I moved toward it. It is raining outside, but I move toward it. Lightning never stops here, and I do not stop moving toward . .
No, it cannot be. I am standing in front of a building, tall in structure, sound in foundation. It reminds me of Fischer Morrow. Glass, endless and pristine. Untouchable. Only the select few are able to walk in while others stand in awe, and others still let it blend in with the rest of the scene.
I cannot take my eyes off it, worrying that the ghost of my father will walk out and tell me how disappointed he is. Frozen in fear, in pain. At least until I feel arms around me, sliding around my waist, pulling me into threads and fabric so familiar. Stitched together, piece by piece, for one alone, to embody perfection and grace. It is a hard piece to fill, but together, it feels right.
“Would you like to take a look?” he asks, his chin upon my shoulder. I think he might be smiling at the prospect, and his heart is racing. Excited. Nervous. I nod, and unexpected, he darts forward, pulling me along with a grip so tight to not lose me, so strong I barely have to think.
He does it for me. At the front of the building is a list of names. Last names. First initials. With buttons. Big, black ones that yell for you to push at them, but etiquette keeps your hand back. It does not Arthur's. He presses them all until someone answers, and with a mumbled slur of who knows what, the security door is breached.
“What is this place . . .” I ask quickly, before my logical mind tries to snuff out the utter wonder of something so mundane. We stand in a lobby of an office building, stopping at a large, brass table of contents. It tells me. “Memories?”
“And ideas. Thoughts. Musings. Moments. I try not to think about it much,” he admits softly. “Dom built it for me ages ago, when it all became too much, the gravity of it all. Enough becomes enough, especially when you don't forget names, faces, places, everything, anything.”
I squeeze the hand that I now have latched onto. These lists. The minute details. “Arthur . . .”
He smiles. “Don't worry. There's nothing like Cobb's shade here. Just memories.”
“So the moments you deem unneeded are stored here, shelved aside for a later?” I question, trying to understand. He is silent, and I understand. Except one thing. “Why did you bring me here?”
“To share,” he tells me. “With you.”
He moves forward, pulling me along, a smile on his face, fast and free, so unlike the Arthur I know, so much like him too. An elevator opens in front of us, and he pushes the top floor. Glass doors reveal tales pulled together on shelves. Infinite, I think. So much more than what I am. It is overwhelming.
I step back, the length of the wall pressing against my back, the cold metal of a railing at my waist. He watches as I am frozen, the smile fading. “Robert, what's wrong?”
Closing my eyes, my head dips low. “I don't,” I murmur, and swallow back the rising ache that is crushing my heart. “I don't want to disappoint you.”
His hand catches my tie, holding it in a tight grasp. “I love you,” he tells me, inches away. “Every part.” Fingertips brush my cheek, dip beneath the chin. Eyes stare at me, wanting. “No matter how long it takes.” He kisses me, and I am weak.
The door opens to the roof, and he is still holding my hand. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” I murmur. “I'm trying. This whole . . . being my own person. It's . . . I don't know how.”
He lets go, and I am drifting again. “Arthur . . .” I whisper. “What are you doing?” I watch him walk to the edge, step onto it, and turn around. “No, don't. Stay. Arthur . . .” My eyes are watering.
“Trust me,” he tells me again, and I watch him fall back, plummet.
I scream at the top of my lungs. The building is so high, but the ground comes quick. By the time I reach the ledge, he is on the ground. Dead. Gone. “Arthur . . .” His body is a mangled mess of expensive threads, once tailored exquisitely now torn, and blood. It pools beneath him. “No,” I sob, crumpling to the ground beneath me, arms folded, my head lies there. “No . . .”
The earth begins to shake, tearing the world to pieces. Glass shatters beneath me, followed by concrete and metal. But I do not care. I cannot stop staring at the dead, another gone from me. Why would he do it? Arthur, why? If you loved me . . . why?
Trust him, I remember, rising to my feet. I take a deep breath and pull myself up. Trust that after dying here, there is something left. Not limbo.
There is living.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2011-01-12 12:03 am (UTC)Shade!Browning, omg. I'm so glad he's not completely gone, teehee. The interaction between him and shade!Mal is so deliciously terrifying, oh god.
And eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Robert! FINALLY.
(brb, fapping to idea of naked Eames making pancakes)
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Date: 2011-01-12 01:46 am (UTC)And yes, Shade!Browning is such a BAMF. That was the part I was contemplating, his internal fear projected as that. And Shade!Mal highjacking Robert's mind in limbo. (And people thought Cobb had issues.)
I have such a collar kink, if it's not obvious. The whole idea of wearing one while in your master's bed, the kind of dreams it probably invokes . . . guh.
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Date: 2011-01-12 01:53 am (UTC)It's a very nice mental image.
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Date: 2011-01-12 03:02 am (UTC)OH MY GOD, I LOVE YOU MORE AND MORE EVERY DAY. I THOUGHT I WAS ALL ALONE. ;_;
I will have a serious comment on this later, promise.
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Date: 2011-01-12 03:11 am (UTC)Serious for tomorrow if you start giving us gifs, damn it!
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Date: 2011-01-12 03:17 am (UTC)I posted some pics for you, PLZ ACCEPT THEM.
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Date: 2011-01-17 01:24 pm (UTC)a pancake-makerbarely a presence here. :Dno subject
Date: 2011-01-17 06:36 pm (UTC)Yay! Arthur is such a pain in the arse, even now - his mind in the dreamshare was the difficult part, and I still don't like it. I wanted to add paintings or something more to show that it's not so constructed and rigid. I keep wanting Eames to be more, but Arthur is, so I have to just accept it as they find their places. THEY ARE SO CUTE. Even fluff won't be hard, and that's scaring me.
Oh, and you're returning home early? About when so I can send the other half of my gift and not have to wait/anticipate a response. :P
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Date: 2011-01-18 07:21 am (UTC)i am! which means you'll be getting your artifact two weeks early! or wait. maybe not, because there is still snow and shit. D: *perks up* moar gift? :D i'll be home first week of Feb., if the planes are on time. \O/!
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Date: 2011-01-18 04:27 pm (UTC)And WOOT. Because I was seriously tempted to ask if I could send this box to China and loose it in the mailing system. I said coffee, yeah? And . . . something else. It would've all came together, but Amazon had the option of shipping direct. :P