Inception Fic: Something Dark is Coming
Jan. 28th, 2011 01:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
azuremewTitle: Something Dark is Coming
Word Count: 4,070
Pairing: Eames/Robert
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: mild self-harm, masturbation
Summary: From the Kink Meme: Why does Eames act so defensively in the dream when they find out about the militarised projections? Because he trained Robert, of course.
Author's Note: Aighty, this is the first part to the story arc: Shadows of the Mind. NOT part of any of the other pieces, although just as long. Also filling What calms Robert down from his insomnia is the sound of Eames' heartbeat. in this chapter. YES, I SAID CHAPTER.
This is what I brought you, this you can keep
This is what I brought, you may forget me
I promise to depart, just promise one thing
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep
This is what I brought you, this you can keep
This is what I brought, you may forget me
I promise you my heart, just promise to sing
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep
This is what I thought, I thought you'd need me
This is what I thought, so think me naive
I'd promise you a heart, you'd promise to keep
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep
AFI, "Prelude 12/21"
They sit at a bar, minutes from the LAX Airport, far enough that no one would realize, no one would notice, two men together, holding hands, a thief and a businessman never meant to be here. Eames' hand rises up, brushes against Robert's cheek. The bones of his knuckles are smooth as the shaven, pale face, like silk upon sharp features. His eyes are quiet, lost in thought or the absence of; it does not matter either way. All that does is that it is over, and despite their mistakes, Robert is safe, alive, with an idea growing like cancer in his brain.
Robert swallows thickly, their hands intertwined. “I should be getting to my room, see if there are any messages about the funeral.” A pause, he wets his lips. “Would you like to join me?”
“I should not,” Eames admits, a frown apparent upon his normally jovial face. “Arthur is probably tailing you even as we speak to report back to Cobb.”
“I suppose you are right,” Robert agrees, rising from his chair. With one last tip, the cool, clear liquid splashes onto his throat, ice brushing across his lips with a gentle burn in his belly. None of it is quite as vital as the touch of the other man, but all he could give was a smile. “One year, then?”
“One year.”
One Year Before
The call into his father's office leaves a knot at the back of Robert's neck. Between the shoulder blades, it stings sharp, the tension wrapping around bone, clinging so that his shoulders have to stay pulled back even before he reaches the floor. He is dressed as requested, anticipation threading through each fiber to the very bone since breakfast. A note was sent to his loft by courier since his exile from the manor. Embossed upon thick paper and rich ink, it called for semi-formal attire and to pack a weekend's worth of clothes. This left questions in the heir's mind, worry on what has caused such a request without rhyme or reason. It was unlike his father. Though distant, Maurice Fischer did not play games.
Upon entry, he found no release to his tension. Only further wonder as to what exactly was going on. There was a man, late 40s, sitting in the guest chair. Dark hair, combed back, the man was tall, his knees reaching over the seat as they bent. His clothes carried no form of fashion that would be accepted at Fischer Morrow, yet there he was, speaking with his father with his American accent while he stood respectfully at a distance.
“Robert, please,” Maurice says after a minute, cutting their discussion off. “Nathaniel Hastings. He will be working with our security department until the end of the quarter.”
“Security?” Robert asks. “What kind of security? I thought the surveillance was state-of-the-art.”
“It is,” the man agrees, nodding. “But your mind is not.”
Robert blinks, “Pardon?”
“There are people, Robert,” Maurice begins to explain, his voice flat. “They can enter your mind and steal your thoughts, ideas, before you might even recognize them as missing, and with you becoming the heir to Fischer Morrow someday, we need reassurance that you will be ready.”
It sounds absurd, and it shows. Robert's eyes grow a little wider, and it takes longer than he should to come up with a proper response. “What would you have me do, father?”
“Mr. Hastings will be taking you to his facility, to teach you. You will be staying there for the weekend, more than enough time to accomplish something, don't you think?”
Robert nods, feeling the tightness rising upward and into his skull from forcing an answer his father will approve of. The constriction leaves him a little hazy, and he lowers his head to rub the bridge of his nose. The guest asks if he is alright, and he mutters, “Just a headache.”
“Then we should be on our way, let you rest before training,” Nathaniel says to that, and a slight gesture between the two gentlemen announcing the end of their conversation and beginning of this journey. Robert swears that he can see a content look on his face of not needing to deal with him for an entire weekend, but the observation is too brief as he is escorted out. “My forger has already taken your bags to the car. There is some aspirin there if you would like? It's a long drive.”
“How long?” Robert inquires. “And what do you mean by forger?” His eyes are trained on the other man, but around him, he can sense others. The secretary that works in the front office, a mail clerk making his daily rounds, and as security officer – he can feel them watching. “What's going on?”
“You're catching on?” Nathaniel asks. “Good. What have you realized?”
“That you are making no sense . . .” Robert mutters dryly, rubbing his nose again. “Tell me exactly again why my father would hire you? You secure people's dreams?”
“Their ideas,” Nathaniel corrects, losing the before question as he opens the door into the hallway. “Dreams are only the setting for an extractor enter your subconscious and steal your information.”
“Ah, I see,” he does not, but there was no doubt in his mind that soon he would find out, in vivid detail, until there was not a question left. Anyone hired by Fischer Morrow as like that. “I think that I read this before in an article. The technology was for the military, to train soldiers without causing real life injuries, but somehow, it escaped? Is that it?”
Nathaniel nods, pressing the elevator to go to the lobby below. Others join them, crowding them into the small, metal box, but none take notice. “It was stolen, and now its being used by those that know this field better than those soldiers. Hired men willing to enter your mind and take. Although in their training, they tend to be more subtle.”
Robert shakes his head, following the crowd once they land until it disperses. He heads for the exit, taking little note of the security guard, “Oh? How can someone be subtle in entering another subconscious to steal?
“Not if they have not been trained properly,” Nathaniel explains, nodding to the man that is waiting at he bottom of the stairs for them. “For example, Robert, you are dreaming right now.”
The door opens, and a light chuckle spills from the heir's lips. “I don't believe you. This, it is not a dream. Dreams are supposed to be fantastic feats of imagination. This is the company I go to each day in the city I lived in most of my life.”
“Oh really?” Nathaniel asks, stopping at the door. “Are you certain? Can you tell me specific landmarks around here?”
“Of course I can,” Robert spats, turning his head to see he is between the two men. The other stands next the door, his hands crossed in front of him. Older, Robert realizes, but not like Nathaniel. And this one, he remembers, faintly . . .
The thought is pushed back as he explains, “Across the street is he coffee shop and ban--” His words are cut off as he looks across the morning traffic and realizes there is no coffee shop, no bank. Nothing that he recalls. He spins around, almost losing his footing completely. Catching the bottom stair, he yells, “What the hell is going on?”
“You're dreaming,” Nathaniel repeats, and from inside of his jacket, he produces a Beretta M9. “And now it is time to wake up.”
The bullet does not hurt. The headache is more discomforting, singing far louder than being shot in the head, but the effect is the very same. Topside, Robert bolts up from the leather chair, his body becoming taut as it is forced forward. Lungs filling with the brisk, December air, it aches a certain knowing that this is real. But the headache threatens to tell him otherwise.
“Damn it, Nathaniel,” Eames curses, getting up first from his seat to cross the small room. Kneeling upon the ground, his hand cups Robert's cheek, cold to the touch and balmy, white with shock. “You didn't have to shoot him.”
“The test was complete, and Mr. Fischer failed,” Nathaniel tells, pulling from his arm the intravenous needle that brought with it a few droplets of blood. It clinked on the ground as he watched Eames gently take out Robert's. The blue vein was turning black, bruising from being used so often after so long of not being tampered with, but that was Robert's problem, not theirs. “I'm going out for a smoke,” he says, pulling out a pack of Marlboro Reds and matches to light up. He breathes in the nicotine and puffs out smoke before asking, “You're coming with me?”
Eames shakes his head, “I'll pass. In fact, we can continue in the morning. It's getting late.”
“Bullshit it is,” Nathaniel grumbles, and though his back is turned, steps taking him further away, his voice is clear as crystal, pronounced to every syllable, demanding to be heard. “The week is almost up, Eames. Do you want to be the one to tell Mr. Fischer about our progress?”
Eames almost retorts to that, his hand balling into a fist, but something stops him. Someone. Shaky fingers grasp around the wrist, barely holding as is. A sigh comes out instead. “I'll meet you out there in five.”
“See that you do. We're not getting paid to babysit.”
Words are held back, collected with his saliva to be forced down his throat in a long, hard swallow. It takes all of Eames' will to keep his composure then, to not say Maurice Fischer's paycheck be damned if it means hurting the subject. But the cold, blue eyes looking at him, darkness beneath and hollow cheekbones leave him quiet until the door closes.
But Robert is first to speak, his voice hoarse and dry, “It's . . .” he coughs. “It's okay.”
“It's not,” Eames tells him, getting up to get a glass of water from a gallon he brought with them since the warehouse pipes were frozen. It was like the tundra here, but they needed the privacy. It was not like what they were doing was legal. “Do you remember what happened?” Robert nods as he hands the glass over, settling into the empty spot that is still a hint warmer from where legs were stretched out. “Why couldn't you tell it was a dream? Those projections should have had Nathaniel by now, or even I as Maurice.”
Robert sets the glass down before he speaks, trying to give a little more time before he explains the simple answer, “I had a headache going in, and it wouldn't stop pulsing.”
Eames frowns, “You could have said something before.”
“I did not want to frustrate Nathaniel further,” Robert admits, finding the floor more comforting to stare at than Eames or the door. “He already believes this is pointless, not worth your time, no matter what my father's paying you.” He would smile then, bittersweet knowing this is going to happen, but somehow he keeps the sarcasm out that he showed his tutors, mentors that thought they could help. Maybe it is the job, being so out of the ordinary, or the man being equally so.
Rather, he adds, “He is right, you know, and not far from the truth. You are selling time now to keep me company, to collect.”
“Not necessarily,” Eames tries.
Robert shakes his head, “I see it in his face. He has the same look as my father. I'm not cut out for this, Eames. But it is unlike either of them to give up.”
Eames lies his hand on Robert's leg before getting up, “You'll get there,” he tells, his voice remaining level, not losing to the anger that Nathaniel was showing. “I'll see to it.”
The conversation lasts for all of ten minutes, and it ends with the sound of a car engine coming to life and disappearing down the vacant lot. It is when the sound turns to silence that Robert sits up. His body aches,trembling still, but he rises to his feet and moves toward the large, warehouse door. He stops, his breath hitching at it opening, releasing from seeing Eames enter.
“Nathaniel is going to negotiate a longer time. Either way, he will be contacting me through missive and will return at the end of the week.” There is change in his voice. Confidence brewing, and the escape of accomplishment. Robert does not understand, why anyone would be happy about this, but he is relieved, thankful for what follows: “You should rest.”
“Rest?” Robert asks. “Real sleep.”
“Yeah. We'll continue in the afternoon after a good meal.”
It sounds better and better, but Robert only replies with a nod, detaching himself completely from the scenario so that he might get a few, good hours of silence.
Silence never comes. At least not in the darkness he hoped to wrap around his mind and take him to the depths of slumber he remembers before this training. Rather he lies in the bed that he got used to, the mattress thinner, the blankets rough, and the pillow barely there. He stares at the ceiling, the blank white that connects into four, concrete walls and descends to a concrete floor that chills his bare feet each time he gets up. It reminds him of a prison cell, what solitary confinement would feel like.
By the end of the first hour, his eyes open, sitting up, the world far less weary than it was after trying to defend his mind from intruders. The headache has since passed with a good meal and talking with Eames about anything but business. Laughter. A smile spreads across his lips faintly at the memory. He cannot remember exactly what was said, but that sound, it was lovely, lifting him up to a chuckle that was caught by his hand like a cough. Foreign. It felt strange, but now he knows what it was.
He stands and goes to the bathroom down the hall, to the small, black bag filled with small necessities like his toothbrush and razor. Beneath it all, he does not find it, suddenly sparking the urge to toss the whole, damn thing against the wall. He curses beneath his breath and tries to relax, brushing his fingertip against a sharp edge duller than the first cut. It draws just the same, the smallest hint trickling, enough to put the cacophony into a lull, pushed far enough for a few seconds so that he can think. Eames would never steal from him, would he? Nathaniel certainly would. If it was something that might cause problems, but this, it was nothing. Just a few pills . . .
Pulling his hand back, Robert sucks the tip of his index finger, the thin iron coating his tongue even after the bleeding stops. He sighs, refocusing. Nathaniel checked his bags upon arrival, rifling through hi personal belongings. He was a prisoner, and Eames stood then as the guard, leaned back against the wall with his arms crossed. The orange bottle was pulled out and tossed into a trash can alongside other, less important things. This was a prescription, and now it was only a distraction.
He continues to the main part of the warehouse, where the sessions are done. The coolers there are empty, half-melted ice removed, the supplies discarded or shelved for later. It is unlike him to wander this far from his room, but without Nathaniel sitting here, eying him constantly, his cage feels open, left for him to be free if he chose.
But there is a light at a corner, illuminating the other room sectioned from the massive building. It draws him unexpectedly, like a moth to the flame, yearning for warmth, answers, not realizing what is there.
Death does not come, but there is equal surprise. The room is not very different from his own, but there is a desk with a lamp. And papers. Dozens of papers let loose from a manilla folder. Photographs. Black and white snapshots of him at various ages. But it is not even the psychology studies, the confidential documents between doctor and patient, that has him silent. It is the man that looks over him so intimately, exposed intellectually, with a face of interest that borderlines obsession. His eyes no longer hold the flare of optimism but narrow down enough to burn a hole right through the desk. He stares through lenses framed in steel that wrap around his tan face.
Robert notices this first, wondering if Eames wears contact lenses or simply needs the spectacles while reading, but as he continues to watch the drawn individual, he finds himself equally captivated. His sight draws back to the hair, the soft flesh marked by hints of stubble from needing a morning shave. The shirt exposes his neck, two buttons undone, and dark lines he wants to see further. Cuffs unraveled, they roll back to show more work along otherwise pristine form that brings Robert's arms around his chest. He coughs to be taken notice.
Pulling back, Eames blinks and pinches the thin line of metal to remove it from his face. “Robert – how long have you been standing there?”
“Not long,” Robert lies and clears his throat. He's a terrible liar. “I was wondering if you might be able to break one more of the rules? I can't sleep.”
Eames does not answer at first, taking in the cues, the shifts in volume, speed that leave him unable to answer beyond an “Ah.” He collects the papers into the folder and adds, “I'm afraid not. You'll need clarity if you are going to get this proper, and I'm afraid sedatives would only make things more complicated than they are.”
“Oh,” Robert replies, unable to hide his distress.
It pulls Eames to his feet, setting the glasses down. “Come lie down with me,” and all Robert can do is stare, sending another soft wave of laughter through Eames. “I don't mean whatever is in that head of yours, mate. If you're not sleeping well, it's from the dreamshare. Your body thinks its been sleeping more than enough. Your rhythm is all off. It needs to be grounded again. Without pills.”
“Ah,” Robert replies, pressing his lips at noting his mimic of not knowing what to say. It escaped, but he is thankful that it is all, his face still pale, eyes hollow rather than blooming from the thought he had possessed monetarily to fall asleep from physical exhaustion.
Mentally, rather. He nodded. “Sure. What did you have in mind?”
“Exactly what I said,” Eames tells him, and turns to snuffle out of his shoes and unbutton his shirt. It falls off his shoulders and to the ground, followed by his slacks and boxers. It leaves Robert still, silent, that Eames has to speak for him after the light is turned off, “Don't worry. No tricks here.”
“No tricks,” Robert repeats. “Right. So, do I . . .” he starts, seeing the silhouette from the yellow lights. It is a sick color, but nothing could alter the image before him.
Or another chuckle. “You mean strip nude with another man? No, you don't have to.”
Robert is relieved, but he takes off his shirt, folding it to lie on the chair. His undershirt follows, and so do his socks, but he keeps his pants on, hoping that the fabric will be enough to hide him. Eames is already lying closest to the wall, the blankets pulled away for him to settle in. He is shaking the moment his leg lifts to climb on, so much that Eames pulls him down.
Laying him upon his chest, Eames wraps his arms around him. “You're shaking like a leaf.”
“It's below zero outside,” Robert mutters. “December, and you feel fine?”
“The cold's never bothered me when I have someone to lie with,” Eames admits. “Mind over matter, which is exactly what you are going to do. Close your eyes.”
Robert shifts a little, his body awkward as he tries to lie in what can only be described as an off angle, his body pulling away from the stomach to arch his back. It will ache by the morning, he thinks, but it is a better conclusion. He breathes in the scent of soap, chest hairs tickling his nostrils. “I don't think . . .”
His start is cut off by a, “Don't. Just close your eyes. Breathe. And listen.”
He does so, if only to not be spoken to like a child. The darkness cuts off the sight of flesh scrawled with ink that he was trying to decipher, curiosity somehow present in his discomfort. The smell passes through his system, he forgets the hairs, never notices the fingers combing through the top of his head, brushing it. Because of the heartbeat. The constant, slow thump against the chest and into his ears. It is all there is until there is nothing at all.
By the morning, Robert is resting on his side, his back pressed into Eames with arms still around him. Their fingers are interlocking, one hand lost in the other if not for the contrast in tone. He does not want to move, but the sudden realization that his pants are missing, along with his underwear, causes a start.
“Hey – hey now,” Eames mutters as Robert bolts upright.
“Where are my clothes?” Robert shouts. “Fuck, you sick bastard. You didn't . . .”
Eames blinks, “No, I did not. You shuffled them off half-asleep, Robert. Swear.”
Robert gets up, picking up his clothes, the ones lazily fallen to the ground, then the folded, without so much as covering up. “Right,” he breathes. “Well, we better get to work then. I'm going to shower.” Turning, it covers the redness in his cheeks.
The bathroom door locks behind him, and he turns on the shower, staring down after the twist of the knob. He brushes his inner thigh before stepping one leg in, The thought of him being asleep, and Eames folded around him so solid in him that he feels the warmth wrap around him. Spread wide, he teases the tight ring of muscle with a finger wet only from a few droplets of water. His teeth clench to hold back the moan. Taking two fingers, it opens up to the head of Eames' cock, breaching him without much warning or preparation. He pushes in hard with three, scissoring passed the pain to hook into the spot that has him shaking. “Please . . .” he whimpers, finding the rhythm, the quick and steady pace that has him hard. “Please, Eames . . .”
His other hand wraps around the swollen shaft, not even playing. He fists it with strokes erratic to the fingers that fuck him three wide and so deep that if not his own, he might swallow it whole. “More . . .” he whispers, knowing this is all alone, but the smell is around him, the fresh scent, that heartbeat speeding fast against his back. “Fuck, Eames, harder . . .”
He manages his pinky, but the tip of his thumb sends his body taut, quivering from the orgasm that spills all over his hand. It takes the little bit of conscious thought to keep him standing through the wave, breathing hard after, his heart racing. “Fuck,” he curses again after a moment, a balled fist sticky from come hitting the wall. He does not need this.
They always said no distractions.
Word Count: 4,070
Pairing: Eames/Robert
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: mild self-harm, masturbation
Summary: From the Kink Meme: Why does Eames act so defensively in the dream when they find out about the militarised projections? Because he trained Robert, of course.
Author's Note: Aighty, this is the first part to the story arc: Shadows of the Mind. NOT part of any of the other pieces, although just as long. Also filling What calms Robert down from his insomnia is the sound of Eames' heartbeat. in this chapter. YES, I SAID CHAPTER.
This is what I brought, you may forget me
I promise to depart, just promise one thing
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep
This is what I brought you, this you can keep
This is what I brought, you may forget me
I promise you my heart, just promise to sing
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep
This is what I thought, I thought you'd need me
This is what I thought, so think me naive
I'd promise you a heart, you'd promise to keep
Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep
AFI, "Prelude 12/21"
They sit at a bar, minutes from the LAX Airport, far enough that no one would realize, no one would notice, two men together, holding hands, a thief and a businessman never meant to be here. Eames' hand rises up, brushes against Robert's cheek. The bones of his knuckles are smooth as the shaven, pale face, like silk upon sharp features. His eyes are quiet, lost in thought or the absence of; it does not matter either way. All that does is that it is over, and despite their mistakes, Robert is safe, alive, with an idea growing like cancer in his brain.
Robert swallows thickly, their hands intertwined. “I should be getting to my room, see if there are any messages about the funeral.” A pause, he wets his lips. “Would you like to join me?”
“I should not,” Eames admits, a frown apparent upon his normally jovial face. “Arthur is probably tailing you even as we speak to report back to Cobb.”
“I suppose you are right,” Robert agrees, rising from his chair. With one last tip, the cool, clear liquid splashes onto his throat, ice brushing across his lips with a gentle burn in his belly. None of it is quite as vital as the touch of the other man, but all he could give was a smile. “One year, then?”
“One year.”
The call into his father's office leaves a knot at the back of Robert's neck. Between the shoulder blades, it stings sharp, the tension wrapping around bone, clinging so that his shoulders have to stay pulled back even before he reaches the floor. He is dressed as requested, anticipation threading through each fiber to the very bone since breakfast. A note was sent to his loft by courier since his exile from the manor. Embossed upon thick paper and rich ink, it called for semi-formal attire and to pack a weekend's worth of clothes. This left questions in the heir's mind, worry on what has caused such a request without rhyme or reason. It was unlike his father. Though distant, Maurice Fischer did not play games.
Upon entry, he found no release to his tension. Only further wonder as to what exactly was going on. There was a man, late 40s, sitting in the guest chair. Dark hair, combed back, the man was tall, his knees reaching over the seat as they bent. His clothes carried no form of fashion that would be accepted at Fischer Morrow, yet there he was, speaking with his father with his American accent while he stood respectfully at a distance.
“Robert, please,” Maurice says after a minute, cutting their discussion off. “Nathaniel Hastings. He will be working with our security department until the end of the quarter.”
“Security?” Robert asks. “What kind of security? I thought the surveillance was state-of-the-art.”
“It is,” the man agrees, nodding. “But your mind is not.”
Robert blinks, “Pardon?”
“There are people, Robert,” Maurice begins to explain, his voice flat. “They can enter your mind and steal your thoughts, ideas, before you might even recognize them as missing, and with you becoming the heir to Fischer Morrow someday, we need reassurance that you will be ready.”
It sounds absurd, and it shows. Robert's eyes grow a little wider, and it takes longer than he should to come up with a proper response. “What would you have me do, father?”
“Mr. Hastings will be taking you to his facility, to teach you. You will be staying there for the weekend, more than enough time to accomplish something, don't you think?”
Robert nods, feeling the tightness rising upward and into his skull from forcing an answer his father will approve of. The constriction leaves him a little hazy, and he lowers his head to rub the bridge of his nose. The guest asks if he is alright, and he mutters, “Just a headache.”
“Then we should be on our way, let you rest before training,” Nathaniel says to that, and a slight gesture between the two gentlemen announcing the end of their conversation and beginning of this journey. Robert swears that he can see a content look on his face of not needing to deal with him for an entire weekend, but the observation is too brief as he is escorted out. “My forger has already taken your bags to the car. There is some aspirin there if you would like? It's a long drive.”
“How long?” Robert inquires. “And what do you mean by forger?” His eyes are trained on the other man, but around him, he can sense others. The secretary that works in the front office, a mail clerk making his daily rounds, and as security officer – he can feel them watching. “What's going on?”
“You're catching on?” Nathaniel asks. “Good. What have you realized?”
“That you are making no sense . . .” Robert mutters dryly, rubbing his nose again. “Tell me exactly again why my father would hire you? You secure people's dreams?”
“Their ideas,” Nathaniel corrects, losing the before question as he opens the door into the hallway. “Dreams are only the setting for an extractor enter your subconscious and steal your information.”
“Ah, I see,” he does not, but there was no doubt in his mind that soon he would find out, in vivid detail, until there was not a question left. Anyone hired by Fischer Morrow as like that. “I think that I read this before in an article. The technology was for the military, to train soldiers without causing real life injuries, but somehow, it escaped? Is that it?”
Nathaniel nods, pressing the elevator to go to the lobby below. Others join them, crowding them into the small, metal box, but none take notice. “It was stolen, and now its being used by those that know this field better than those soldiers. Hired men willing to enter your mind and take. Although in their training, they tend to be more subtle.”
Robert shakes his head, following the crowd once they land until it disperses. He heads for the exit, taking little note of the security guard, “Oh? How can someone be subtle in entering another subconscious to steal?
“Not if they have not been trained properly,” Nathaniel explains, nodding to the man that is waiting at he bottom of the stairs for them. “For example, Robert, you are dreaming right now.”
The door opens, and a light chuckle spills from the heir's lips. “I don't believe you. This, it is not a dream. Dreams are supposed to be fantastic feats of imagination. This is the company I go to each day in the city I lived in most of my life.”
“Oh really?” Nathaniel asks, stopping at the door. “Are you certain? Can you tell me specific landmarks around here?”
“Of course I can,” Robert spats, turning his head to see he is between the two men. The other stands next the door, his hands crossed in front of him. Older, Robert realizes, but not like Nathaniel. And this one, he remembers, faintly . . .
The thought is pushed back as he explains, “Across the street is he coffee shop and ban--” His words are cut off as he looks across the morning traffic and realizes there is no coffee shop, no bank. Nothing that he recalls. He spins around, almost losing his footing completely. Catching the bottom stair, he yells, “What the hell is going on?”
“You're dreaming,” Nathaniel repeats, and from inside of his jacket, he produces a Beretta M9. “And now it is time to wake up.”
The bullet does not hurt. The headache is more discomforting, singing far louder than being shot in the head, but the effect is the very same. Topside, Robert bolts up from the leather chair, his body becoming taut as it is forced forward. Lungs filling with the brisk, December air, it aches a certain knowing that this is real. But the headache threatens to tell him otherwise.
“Damn it, Nathaniel,” Eames curses, getting up first from his seat to cross the small room. Kneeling upon the ground, his hand cups Robert's cheek, cold to the touch and balmy, white with shock. “You didn't have to shoot him.”
“The test was complete, and Mr. Fischer failed,” Nathaniel tells, pulling from his arm the intravenous needle that brought with it a few droplets of blood. It clinked on the ground as he watched Eames gently take out Robert's. The blue vein was turning black, bruising from being used so often after so long of not being tampered with, but that was Robert's problem, not theirs. “I'm going out for a smoke,” he says, pulling out a pack of Marlboro Reds and matches to light up. He breathes in the nicotine and puffs out smoke before asking, “You're coming with me?”
Eames shakes his head, “I'll pass. In fact, we can continue in the morning. It's getting late.”
“Bullshit it is,” Nathaniel grumbles, and though his back is turned, steps taking him further away, his voice is clear as crystal, pronounced to every syllable, demanding to be heard. “The week is almost up, Eames. Do you want to be the one to tell Mr. Fischer about our progress?”
Eames almost retorts to that, his hand balling into a fist, but something stops him. Someone. Shaky fingers grasp around the wrist, barely holding as is. A sigh comes out instead. “I'll meet you out there in five.”
“See that you do. We're not getting paid to babysit.”
Words are held back, collected with his saliva to be forced down his throat in a long, hard swallow. It takes all of Eames' will to keep his composure then, to not say Maurice Fischer's paycheck be damned if it means hurting the subject. But the cold, blue eyes looking at him, darkness beneath and hollow cheekbones leave him quiet until the door closes.
But Robert is first to speak, his voice hoarse and dry, “It's . . .” he coughs. “It's okay.”
“It's not,” Eames tells him, getting up to get a glass of water from a gallon he brought with them since the warehouse pipes were frozen. It was like the tundra here, but they needed the privacy. It was not like what they were doing was legal. “Do you remember what happened?” Robert nods as he hands the glass over, settling into the empty spot that is still a hint warmer from where legs were stretched out. “Why couldn't you tell it was a dream? Those projections should have had Nathaniel by now, or even I as Maurice.”
Robert sets the glass down before he speaks, trying to give a little more time before he explains the simple answer, “I had a headache going in, and it wouldn't stop pulsing.”
Eames frowns, “You could have said something before.”
“I did not want to frustrate Nathaniel further,” Robert admits, finding the floor more comforting to stare at than Eames or the door. “He already believes this is pointless, not worth your time, no matter what my father's paying you.” He would smile then, bittersweet knowing this is going to happen, but somehow he keeps the sarcasm out that he showed his tutors, mentors that thought they could help. Maybe it is the job, being so out of the ordinary, or the man being equally so.
Rather, he adds, “He is right, you know, and not far from the truth. You are selling time now to keep me company, to collect.”
“Not necessarily,” Eames tries.
Robert shakes his head, “I see it in his face. He has the same look as my father. I'm not cut out for this, Eames. But it is unlike either of them to give up.”
Eames lies his hand on Robert's leg before getting up, “You'll get there,” he tells, his voice remaining level, not losing to the anger that Nathaniel was showing. “I'll see to it.”
The conversation lasts for all of ten minutes, and it ends with the sound of a car engine coming to life and disappearing down the vacant lot. It is when the sound turns to silence that Robert sits up. His body aches,trembling still, but he rises to his feet and moves toward the large, warehouse door. He stops, his breath hitching at it opening, releasing from seeing Eames enter.
“Nathaniel is going to negotiate a longer time. Either way, he will be contacting me through missive and will return at the end of the week.” There is change in his voice. Confidence brewing, and the escape of accomplishment. Robert does not understand, why anyone would be happy about this, but he is relieved, thankful for what follows: “You should rest.”
“Rest?” Robert asks. “Real sleep.”
“Yeah. We'll continue in the afternoon after a good meal.”
It sounds better and better, but Robert only replies with a nod, detaching himself completely from the scenario so that he might get a few, good hours of silence.
Silence never comes. At least not in the darkness he hoped to wrap around his mind and take him to the depths of slumber he remembers before this training. Rather he lies in the bed that he got used to, the mattress thinner, the blankets rough, and the pillow barely there. He stares at the ceiling, the blank white that connects into four, concrete walls and descends to a concrete floor that chills his bare feet each time he gets up. It reminds him of a prison cell, what solitary confinement would feel like.
By the end of the first hour, his eyes open, sitting up, the world far less weary than it was after trying to defend his mind from intruders. The headache has since passed with a good meal and talking with Eames about anything but business. Laughter. A smile spreads across his lips faintly at the memory. He cannot remember exactly what was said, but that sound, it was lovely, lifting him up to a chuckle that was caught by his hand like a cough. Foreign. It felt strange, but now he knows what it was.
He stands and goes to the bathroom down the hall, to the small, black bag filled with small necessities like his toothbrush and razor. Beneath it all, he does not find it, suddenly sparking the urge to toss the whole, damn thing against the wall. He curses beneath his breath and tries to relax, brushing his fingertip against a sharp edge duller than the first cut. It draws just the same, the smallest hint trickling, enough to put the cacophony into a lull, pushed far enough for a few seconds so that he can think. Eames would never steal from him, would he? Nathaniel certainly would. If it was something that might cause problems, but this, it was nothing. Just a few pills . . .
Pulling his hand back, Robert sucks the tip of his index finger, the thin iron coating his tongue even after the bleeding stops. He sighs, refocusing. Nathaniel checked his bags upon arrival, rifling through hi personal belongings. He was a prisoner, and Eames stood then as the guard, leaned back against the wall with his arms crossed. The orange bottle was pulled out and tossed into a trash can alongside other, less important things. This was a prescription, and now it was only a distraction.
He continues to the main part of the warehouse, where the sessions are done. The coolers there are empty, half-melted ice removed, the supplies discarded or shelved for later. It is unlike him to wander this far from his room, but without Nathaniel sitting here, eying him constantly, his cage feels open, left for him to be free if he chose.
But there is a light at a corner, illuminating the other room sectioned from the massive building. It draws him unexpectedly, like a moth to the flame, yearning for warmth, answers, not realizing what is there.
Death does not come, but there is equal surprise. The room is not very different from his own, but there is a desk with a lamp. And papers. Dozens of papers let loose from a manilla folder. Photographs. Black and white snapshots of him at various ages. But it is not even the psychology studies, the confidential documents between doctor and patient, that has him silent. It is the man that looks over him so intimately, exposed intellectually, with a face of interest that borderlines obsession. His eyes no longer hold the flare of optimism but narrow down enough to burn a hole right through the desk. He stares through lenses framed in steel that wrap around his tan face.
Robert notices this first, wondering if Eames wears contact lenses or simply needs the spectacles while reading, but as he continues to watch the drawn individual, he finds himself equally captivated. His sight draws back to the hair, the soft flesh marked by hints of stubble from needing a morning shave. The shirt exposes his neck, two buttons undone, and dark lines he wants to see further. Cuffs unraveled, they roll back to show more work along otherwise pristine form that brings Robert's arms around his chest. He coughs to be taken notice.
Pulling back, Eames blinks and pinches the thin line of metal to remove it from his face. “Robert – how long have you been standing there?”
“Not long,” Robert lies and clears his throat. He's a terrible liar. “I was wondering if you might be able to break one more of the rules? I can't sleep.”
Eames does not answer at first, taking in the cues, the shifts in volume, speed that leave him unable to answer beyond an “Ah.” He collects the papers into the folder and adds, “I'm afraid not. You'll need clarity if you are going to get this proper, and I'm afraid sedatives would only make things more complicated than they are.”
“Oh,” Robert replies, unable to hide his distress.
It pulls Eames to his feet, setting the glasses down. “Come lie down with me,” and all Robert can do is stare, sending another soft wave of laughter through Eames. “I don't mean whatever is in that head of yours, mate. If you're not sleeping well, it's from the dreamshare. Your body thinks its been sleeping more than enough. Your rhythm is all off. It needs to be grounded again. Without pills.”
“Ah,” Robert replies, pressing his lips at noting his mimic of not knowing what to say. It escaped, but he is thankful that it is all, his face still pale, eyes hollow rather than blooming from the thought he had possessed monetarily to fall asleep from physical exhaustion.
Mentally, rather. He nodded. “Sure. What did you have in mind?”
“Exactly what I said,” Eames tells him, and turns to snuffle out of his shoes and unbutton his shirt. It falls off his shoulders and to the ground, followed by his slacks and boxers. It leaves Robert still, silent, that Eames has to speak for him after the light is turned off, “Don't worry. No tricks here.”
“No tricks,” Robert repeats. “Right. So, do I . . .” he starts, seeing the silhouette from the yellow lights. It is a sick color, but nothing could alter the image before him.
Or another chuckle. “You mean strip nude with another man? No, you don't have to.”
Robert is relieved, but he takes off his shirt, folding it to lie on the chair. His undershirt follows, and so do his socks, but he keeps his pants on, hoping that the fabric will be enough to hide him. Eames is already lying closest to the wall, the blankets pulled away for him to settle in. He is shaking the moment his leg lifts to climb on, so much that Eames pulls him down.
Laying him upon his chest, Eames wraps his arms around him. “You're shaking like a leaf.”
“It's below zero outside,” Robert mutters. “December, and you feel fine?”
“The cold's never bothered me when I have someone to lie with,” Eames admits. “Mind over matter, which is exactly what you are going to do. Close your eyes.”
Robert shifts a little, his body awkward as he tries to lie in what can only be described as an off angle, his body pulling away from the stomach to arch his back. It will ache by the morning, he thinks, but it is a better conclusion. He breathes in the scent of soap, chest hairs tickling his nostrils. “I don't think . . .”
His start is cut off by a, “Don't. Just close your eyes. Breathe. And listen.”
He does so, if only to not be spoken to like a child. The darkness cuts off the sight of flesh scrawled with ink that he was trying to decipher, curiosity somehow present in his discomfort. The smell passes through his system, he forgets the hairs, never notices the fingers combing through the top of his head, brushing it. Because of the heartbeat. The constant, slow thump against the chest and into his ears. It is all there is until there is nothing at all.
By the morning, Robert is resting on his side, his back pressed into Eames with arms still around him. Their fingers are interlocking, one hand lost in the other if not for the contrast in tone. He does not want to move, but the sudden realization that his pants are missing, along with his underwear, causes a start.
“Hey – hey now,” Eames mutters as Robert bolts upright.
“Where are my clothes?” Robert shouts. “Fuck, you sick bastard. You didn't . . .”
Eames blinks, “No, I did not. You shuffled them off half-asleep, Robert. Swear.”
Robert gets up, picking up his clothes, the ones lazily fallen to the ground, then the folded, without so much as covering up. “Right,” he breathes. “Well, we better get to work then. I'm going to shower.” Turning, it covers the redness in his cheeks.
The bathroom door locks behind him, and he turns on the shower, staring down after the twist of the knob. He brushes his inner thigh before stepping one leg in, The thought of him being asleep, and Eames folded around him so solid in him that he feels the warmth wrap around him. Spread wide, he teases the tight ring of muscle with a finger wet only from a few droplets of water. His teeth clench to hold back the moan. Taking two fingers, it opens up to the head of Eames' cock, breaching him without much warning or preparation. He pushes in hard with three, scissoring passed the pain to hook into the spot that has him shaking. “Please . . .” he whimpers, finding the rhythm, the quick and steady pace that has him hard. “Please, Eames . . .”
His other hand wraps around the swollen shaft, not even playing. He fists it with strokes erratic to the fingers that fuck him three wide and so deep that if not his own, he might swallow it whole. “More . . .” he whispers, knowing this is all alone, but the smell is around him, the fresh scent, that heartbeat speeding fast against his back. “Fuck, Eames, harder . . .”
He manages his pinky, but the tip of his thumb sends his body taut, quivering from the orgasm that spills all over his hand. It takes the little bit of conscious thought to keep him standing through the wave, breathing hard after, his heart racing. “Fuck,” he curses again after a moment, a balled fist sticky from come hitting the wall. He does not need this.
They always said no distractions.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
I AM EXCITE.
Date: 2011-01-28 07:34 pm (UTC)I've been wondering who would pick up that prompt, because it's fantastic but you've got to have a lot of stamina to handle it. And I know you do, so I couldn't be more pleased. This is a delightful first chapter. Already, I feel completely sucked into this reality. I can't wait to hear more about how Eames goes from subconscious security to forging (assuming that's a path you're heading down) and to see his and Robert's relationship unfold.
I absolutely adore the passage with them lying in bed together, just sleeping. It's so, so sweet, it had me grinning like an idiot the entire time. I'm such a sucker for fic that deals with sleep problems, probably because I have so many, LOL.
I can't wait for more! :D
Re: I AM EXCITE.
Date: 2011-01-29 05:51 am (UTC)Stamina . . . because you know by reading such a simple prompt that it is in fact not a simple prompt. Complex, it needs layers, it needs scenes, it needs more than one comment that caps at so few characters!
Tee hee. I love prompts like those. And incorporating all the other, delicious Eames/Robert ones that don't demand so much. Like the sleeping. Sweet, yes. And I had fun with your headache, too. (The fiction one, not the migraine, because that would be mean, but the idea of something topside affecting the dream and vice-versa.)
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Date: 2011-01-28 11:21 pm (UTC)Eames wearing glasses? EAMES WEARING GLASSES? Fuck, I think you just hit on a kink I didn't know I had. I love that description of him, though. I don't really know how to describe it, but there's something very... well... animalistic, about Eames? I always thought that, in the film. Like he's ill-at-ease in suits and fancy hotels and 'civilisation' and in another age he'd be out shooting innocent animals in the African savannah, or trekking through the desert in search of ancient archaeological sites or something like that. You know, one of those well-heeled 'men of leisure' adventurers from a past era. He's a bit like a big cat in a too-small cage. And it's odd to see that gentleness, because he never seems so static, but it's lovely as well and there's still that coiled-spring-energy in your description which is so so gorgeous.
I'm rambling. I'll probably use the above to describe Eames in a later fic or something, haha.
The two of them sleeping together so chastely is adorable. I have such a thing for that. And really, Robert, you're so naughty. I'm sure Eames didn't mean anything by stripping totally naked after inviting you to share his bed, huh?
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Date: 2011-01-29 06:02 am (UTC)And nope, Eames meant nothing at all. *whistles* I imagine there will be more moments like that once Robert stops thinking he's gonna be molested in his sleep. Sheesh. Or maybe he wants to be, considering. (I'm just the typist!)
But Eames . . . Intelligent, yes, highly capable, and having that connection, knowing of his emotions, how to use them, etc. I keep thinking back to the third layer, of him watching Robert go into the vault, and how . . . soft he looks.
And oh geez, I just realized that your comment prompted me. lol. I agree, and subconscious security is the Savannah. Everything else is been there, done that. There are forgers, chemists, extractors, point men and women. But to secure a potential mark from these people - that is a challenge.
. . . this reply is for the very same reason. I really should have post-its or something. :)
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Date: 2011-01-29 12:58 pm (UTC)Yes! I know there that he's counting down to the kick, but... I dunno, he still looks somehow different to how he is in the rest of the film. Like, for a moment he's about more than just the completion of the job, he's actually affected by what he sees beyond concern for himself. I think that's why that whole scene is my favourite.
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Date: 2011-01-29 04:21 am (UTC)no subject
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