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azuremewTitle: Mistaken Identity, Part 1
Word Count: 4,532
Pairings/Characters: Eames/Robert, Ariadne/Arthur, Cobb
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mental disorder - hallucinations
Summary: Ariadne learns Robert overdosed and decides she wants to pay him a visit.
Author's Note: Dedicated to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lycanthrophile, my beta and the owner of Carl Dane. <3
Prologue
Part 1
Ariadne stared at the computer screen. It was not like her to ignore one of her classes, but something caught her ears while walking. “Fischer overdosed.” The rest of the story was lost in the sea of conversations, the morning talk about exams. It was almost summer, the semester nearing its end, so much of the Robert Fischer and his company's collapse was drowned out to the college's general public. But Ariadne was not some bystander. She remembered the dream, the levels that she built, and the endless possibilities. They called for her while she slept without the help of the PASIV, but lucidity alone was not as attainable, let alone as remarkable. Brilliant as she was, Ariadne was not as trained as the others. That was why she returned to her normal life. It was all too much for her to handle, and even as she found herself daydreaming rather than concentrating on blueprints, the architect swore to never tamper with another life again.
Everything did fall back into place after a while. By midterms, she was sleeping sound Saito's company took over what as left of the ashes. It was all very easy, in fact, to ignore it all. Everyone broke contact as they were instructed at the airport. They went on their separate lives, and Fischer let the idea take him. It moved him so completely until the company filed for bankruptcy, the once prestigious heir falling with it and disappearing once his name quit hitting the media.
She thought it was over then, but now, as her eyes remained wide and drawn to the red, white, and black layout of the New York Post, she had this sinking feeling.
It took a second call of her name to pull her back to reality. “Ariadne?” the professor asked with a look of disappointment that had an audience of students turning their heads. Ariadne looked up, and he asked, “Is my lecture boring you?”
“No, sir,” she said. That sinking feeling was taking over her limbs as she shut the laptop and sat back into the wooden seat. At least it seemed to satisfy him enough, but she knew there would be questions afterward. The architect played on that, building on what she knew and what would work as a plausible excuse. A close friend of hers passed away, and his funeral was over the weekend. She wanted to go, but family would be there, old classmates from high school and people she had not spoken to in ages. It distracted her studies, but if she left and returned for the finals on Monday, it would be just as catastrophic.
They gave her enough time to mourn, a week, and by that late afternoon, she had a plane ticket to Sydney. It was after the fact that she sat back again, this time in the small, swivel chair her dormitory provided. She stared at the computer as if looking at it would somehow cause the screen to tell her where Fischer was staying. When that did not work, she called the only other option: Arthur.
Scene 2
Information was a key point to any job, and to be honest, Arthur screwed up with the Fischer job. Everyone knew it the moment the train came through the main street and gunfire sang through the air. It was why Saito was shot, his soul dragged to limbo. Arthur blamed himself, taking a break from being the point man, but he also took it out on Cobb.
That was months ago, and now, there he was at another job. It was solo work, nothing to do with dreams, cut and dry find out more about Madison deWinter. Like extraction, only he actually stood in her New York apartment while she was out partying. His hands were to the knuckles in a filing cabinet when his cellphone went off. It sang a delicate tune, soft and beautiful, that drew him out of the job to stand up. They were not supposed to keep contact, but Eames was not the only one that knew how to use his hands.
“Hello?” he said.
“Arthur? It's Ariadne,” she said tentatively and wanted to curse for it. “Are you busy?” It was polite conversation, like two strangers or old friends that might have forgotten each other.
He had not. “Yes, but I can take a moment.” Or continue what he was doing as he lowered back down and started through the O section. “What is it? I didn't think that you'd call again.”
“Well, it was a sneaky move,” Ariadne said. “Twice. You've been around Eames and Cobb for too long.”
“Cobb never followed the rules when he worked – impromptu, he'd call it or like playing chess,” Arthur reminded her, trying to be careful with his words. He was less so when he added, “And I have not heard shit from Eames since Los Angeles.”
“He probably went back to Mombasa with Yusuf,” Ariadne considered.
Arthur shrugged and pulled the file out he was looking for. “Either way, did you have a reason for calling me? Last I recall, you said that you wanted nothing to with us.”
“It's about Fischer,” Ariadne quietly explained, and on the other end she could hear the thump of something made of paper and somewhat heavy. “Arthur, did you hear the news?”
“I heard.”
“I'm going to Sydney tomorrow, but I don't know how to find him.”
That made Arthur stop looking at the information in front of him, the papers just waiting to be soaked up and stolen so that he would get paid. “And you want me to find out where he is?”
Ariadne spoke quietly again, “Yes.”
And the answer was what she expected, “No. It's too risky.”
She frowned, “This is not another hit. He's not the mark. Just Robert Fischer.” But he was, and there rules and reasons behind them. While Cobb wasn't all that great at keeping them, the others were. The memories filled her head, a shiver down her spine, but Robert reaching that same fate through a different path, one they created, had more presence. There was hope. “I just want to see him, talk to him, maybe give him an idea that will show him that his decision was right. Arthur, we implanted the the idea in his head, and now it's tearing him apart. We might have not been the ones that gave him those pills or pull the trigger, but we started this. His blood will still be on our hands, and I won't sit here and continue my life knowing that I killed a man.”
Arthur took the pause as an opportunity to finish his job rather than try to get Ariadne to change her mind. It took great things to do that, to stop her from using the PASIV and dream with him, and it would take more than his words to change this. So the notes were taken alongside photographs, and cleaned things up before heading to the door. “Okay, I'll find out where Fischer is if you promise me that you won't tell him about the inception.”
“I won't,” Ariadne promised. “I swear.”
Scene 3
If Arthur's message was right, Fischer was staying at the BLUE Sydney, which took her by surprise as she approached the steps. It did not match what she thought of when she imagined Fischer collecting his bags in Los Angeles. She expected luxury but with a more professional, almost common feel. While the design was simple on the outside, a waterfront building, peaceful, there was so much more to the inside. The richness in color complimented the modern structure. It was enough to take her breath away, but somehow she managed a, “Wow.”
But what caught her more so was the man standing the font desk. “Eames? Is that you?” He turned from the long counter, his hand sweeping up the key card and placing it safely into his trousers. She did not notice, but there was reservation in his usually jovial manner, like he was hiding something. “What are you doing here?”
“I should ask you the same thing.”
Ariadne lowered her head, “I was visiting Fischer.”
“That makes the two of us, then,” Eames admitted. “But where is Arthur?”
“Arthur? He's not with me.”
“Come now, we all know about your meeting ever since that kiss. It was an impulse that turned into an idea, and now neither of you can forget about it.” Eames smiled as he could see the slight redness in Ariadne's cheeks. “That and finding out information like where someone that should be in a hospital is would be Arthur's thing, not yours.”
“He is doing a job,” Ariadne said.
“A normal job?” Eames inquired.
Ariadne shrugged. “As normal as Arthur can be,” she pointed out, and Eames allowed a faint laugh. Closer, she could see that he had not been sleeping well either. There were dark circles under his eyes and a worn out stature to his normally strong frame. “Are you staying here?”
“I thought it might be bes--” Eames' word was cut off by a yawn. It was getting late. Everyone else was asleep by then except for them and the night staff. “And I should be off if I am to catch Fischer in the morning.”
Ariadne nodded, trying not to catch that yawn like a cold. She was already feeling it in her bones, along the ache of her muscles from a long flight in coach, and the last thing she needed was to start nodding off before reaching her destination that was still a few blocks away.
Still, the idea that they could work together kept her moving to the front desk and the complimentary notepad that sat for messages to be left occupants. “When you find him, could we meet somewhere? Two heads might be better than one if we're to help him.” She pulled the small piece of paper off and was about to hand it to Eames, but a question stopped her, “You are here to help him, right?”
“Of course,” Eames said in a tone that was too angry, almost like snapping as if that question was an insult. Or it might be from being so tired. Either way, she gave him the note, and he placed it into the pocket with the key. “And I will see what I can do.” He shifted the shoulder bag that was slung over and turned toward the elevators. “Take care of yourself until then, Ariadne.” And before Ariadne could give a response, he left, letting the open path move him as freely and quickly as much as his destination. There was a bed waiting for him on the other side and much needed rest. The card slid in, flashing the red light to green, and the door swung open to the suite.
The room was set like a loft, two floors with ample room for movement, and waiting for him was a man that sat on the blue sofa. His body as leaned over, elbows propping the lithe form that wanted so much to fall and crash into a million pieces upon the floor. Beautiful, gray-blue eyes stared at the floor, washed away from streaks of red veins and puffiness that was very unbecoming. “You're late,” Robert Fischer Jr. said in a shaky voice. His hands were trembling earlier, clenched into fists around balls of tissue that now laid on the coffee table. “You're never late.”
“Only by a few minutes,” Eames murmured as he sat his bags down, the one around his shoulder making that metal on another hard surface sound.
“I closed my eyes for a minute,” Robert said. “For a few seconds, I told myself, to rest after the flight so that we might go out tonight. I dreamed that you weren't coming. I woke a hundred times to an empty bed, and when I woke here, you were not.”
Eames' lips thinned into a frown. “I'm here now, Robert,” he said, reaching behind the sofa to lean forward and lie his hand upon Robert's back. A light press rubbed gently the tension along the spine, to the sharp curves of the shoulder blades. Robert shifted back silently, and his hands moved up before ducking down to kiss him.
Scene 4
Robert was still sleeping when Eames woke. They slept on either side, moved by dreams that was reassuring to the older man. It meant a peaceful rest, one not woken by haunting images because they were violated, or memories just as cruel. Eames crept closer as to not disturb his lover, to lie one, last kiss before leaving. This thought had crossed his mind a dozen times before, but each time it was shelved to remain until Robert woke. There were nightmares then. Every time before, they woke from Robert talking in his sleep, sweat covering his pale, naked flesh and tears in his eyes. Now, even as his lips touched a shoulder, it remained still.
He moved as silent as he could down the stairs that were littered with articles of clothing tangled together like the bodies that once wore them. His bags were downstairs near the front door, abandoned with hopes that the contents for once could wait until morning. There was a smile to that accomplishment, and for that, he needed to go downstairs.
There was doubt that the hotel offers something as simple as pancakes. Maybe for children, as a comfort food filled with blueberries and topped off with whipped cream. It did not matter. His British accent has a way of catching someone, and the request does the rest. “It's a celebration, and I want to do something special.”
The waiter is unable to deny the request even in such a posh location. “I'll see what I can do,” he said after the list was done. He was waiting for the waiter to return when that familiar voice interrupted him again.
“Eames,” Ariadne said from the lobby. “Good morning.” She approached the threshold that separated one area of the next, not quite going in as if only hotel guests could. “I was wondering if I could wait with you.”
“I'm not waiting yet,” Eames said and tried to lose the tone. A smile was upon his face as he turned to great Ariadne, the first, false one for the day. “Ariadne, it's early. Don't you think it'd be more appropriate to speak with Fischer after he's at least had a few hours away from his dreams?”
Ariadne lowered her head, “I couldn't sleep.”
Eames' smile was lost at that response, and the waiter gave him a chance to think things over as he returned to tell him the good news. The bill was huge, but it was a special order, and when the estimated length of time was given, Eames took in a deep breath. “If you could, also, I think that I'd like to take it up myself.” He glanced at Ariadne and added, “May I get a table for two for coffee?”
They were led to a spot nearest to the entrance, two cups turned to face up while the waiter left for a pot. Eames sat so that he could watch the kitchen rather than the lobby, and Ariadne would be a little surprised if she wasn't assured that Fischer would not be down anytime soon. “You're . . .” she started in that quiet voice again, unsure if she should push like she did with Cobb. “You're not here alone, are you?”
“How observant,” Eames said and leaned back against the soft cushion. “And ever forward. What gave it away?”
“I don't think a single man would order breakfast in bed from the restaurant while not in their room.”
“I like to make sure my eggs are cooked right,” Eames pointed out and thanked the waiter that was pouring their coffee. “But yes,” he said through the last bit of reservation. “I'm with someone.”
Ariadne poured some sugar and creamer into her cup while Eames drank his black.“You weren't in the lobby. Were you meeting them here? Another associate?”
She would ask why a stranger was brought into this rather than her, he thought. They could work together, she would add, and soon, like Cobb, she would find out the truth. Ariadne knew what was wrong with Cobb and his insane projection of Mal long before anyone else did. Surely, some of them had the idea crossing their minds, but none followed suspicions so well as she. And she was stubborn too, which might be helpful, so Eames said softly, “I'm with Robert.”
That almost made Ariadne drop her coffee and choke the first sip if it was not still pooling upon her tongue and now spat back into the cup. “You're with Fischer?” The cup was set down before she asked, “So the overdose was a setup?”
Eames nodded, “A backdoor for him to flee the prying eyes through. Those piranhas won't stop until they have chewed away at every last piece of him, so now everyone thinks that he is at some mental hospital.”
“Not everyone,” Ariadne mused worriedly.
“Or Arthur was able to cross the same connections that know I'm the one responsible for all this,” Eames replied. “We never worked together after that job, but we do share references from time to time.”
Ariadne looked at her coffee, not wanting to believe that Arthur knew Eames would be here and did not tell her, but the idea that someone else knows that leaked Fischer's whereabouts was worse than them keeping secrets. “How long?”
“Shortly after Barron's front page news about the stock crash,” Eames said rather than mentioning it was also the time Fischer was found drinking, his photograph taking the front page of him stumbling out of a taxi cab. “He had his freedom but did not know what to do with it or how to handle it, and then there was the financial end, the board meetings . . .” he looked at the coffee that was still warm and filled as high as Ariadne's. “I gave him somewhere to go and someone to turn to.”
“And it's purely platonic?” Ariadne asked with a slight tilt of her head.
Eames looked at her, and the waiter had timing. There was a tray with several plates covered with metal, glasses filled to the brim with orange juice, and a pot of coffee. “It was,” he told her and stood up, ignoring the slightly wider eyes at that hint. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to get this upstairs before it gets cold.” Once last glance was given to his old teammate, and it held that hope she remembered. “I suggest that you go home now, darling. He's safe now.”
Scene 5
Eames managed to balance the tray with one hand, the edge upon his hip with a natural grace as the key card slid across the electronic lock. He was careful to be quiet, hoping that Robert was still sleeping. The tray was set down in the eat-in kitchen, the plates arranged, the tops removed alongside the plastic and disposed so that everything looked to be done over a hot stove by his loving hands. Eames was not the best cook, and Robert had his fleet of caretakers over the years, but neither minded the ordering out or microwaved meals. He was just pleased to see him eating full meals as he became more thoughtful about his health again.
But the bedroom was empty, the covers overturned to leave a light impression of their shared space. The adjacent bathroom light was on, creeping underneath the closed door with the sound of shower. Eames did not think twice about opening that door, but his body froze at the frame. The small form was blurry behind the frosted glass, but he could see that Robert was not bathing in the warmth, stretched out with the strength he had hoped being together, permanently, would provide. Instead he sat upon the porcelain ground, legs pulled in with taught arms. “Robert . . .” Eames said after a second or two, shaking the initial sadness and disappointment. He stepped to the shower and pulled open the door, expecting to once more have to sooth the tension he helped cause.
He would, but at the slightest touch of his hand, Robert took one glance and came to life, startling Eames enough to jump back. Robert pulled away, as well as one could in the round space. His arms darted around his head and neck, ducking his sights down. The sound of gunfire filled his air. It was raining, pouring through shards of broken glass. He could not see right beneath the bag over his head, but he knew the face of the man that touched him.
“Robert,” Eames repeated.
Robert blinked, “Is this a dream?” he asked. “It feels so real.”
Eames shook his head. “No, Robert, it's not. A half-remembered dream, maybe, but you're in a hotel room with me.”
“I was once before,” Robert replied, not quite grasping the words. He stared at the shower head, at the stream of water falling free upon him. It burned his eyes. Would it do so if this was a dream? “You were there, too.” It would, he knew, because pain was in the mind. He remembered falling, being cold, shot . . . “It was raining for a moment, then not. Mr. Charles was there.” He glanced at Eames, “Is he here now?”
“No, only me.”
“Don't you work with him?” Robert asked, his voice turning a little more frantic. “Why would you be here without Mr. Charles?”
Eames lowered himself to the tub again. “Because Robert Fischer, this is not a job.” He reached across the water that spatted onto the sleeve of his shirt and into his hair. His fingers lied beneath his chin to not break that passing glance that held a moment of lucidity. “And I love you.” He kissed Robert then, half-expecting him to pull away. It lingered, Robert moving closer, his arm wrapping around Eames' neck. Eames did the same, securely, taking the initiative as meaning that for now, the nightmare over. He gently pulled them away, turning off the water, and enveloped Robert in one of the thick, cotton towels. The shoulders and down his back were rubbed while Robert's head lied pressed in his chest. “Come now,” he whispered soothingly, “there's breakfast in the kitchen.”
They moved quietly from the bathroom, Robert parting ways once the ground felt more solid beneath his feet. Silence was inevitable, awkward from his weakness and hearing those three words. He opened the armoire, fingers wrapping along the edges as he took in the various pieces that could compose his daily attire. Most of articles were still in their plastic wrapping from the dry cleaners, freshly pressed before his trip to the city he swore once to never return. He took in a deep breath and exhaled as if picking out which tie would match which shirt was the most difficult decision of his life.
While on the other hand, Eames went downstairs to get his bags that were quickly disregarded the previous night. They now lied next to the bed, careless on unpacking, as he removed the damp shirt and pulled out another. He glanced at Robert sparingly – once before leaving, again upon returning, and a third now out of worry. It would not fade until Robert dropped his towel, showing the slight curve of his pert ass that rounded as he bent down to one of the drawers for his underclothes. “So,” he started to break the silence his confession caused. “Lets go shopping after this.”
Robert's eyebrows raised, hidden as he remained involved in the choice of what shirt to wear with the trousers he had already picked out. “Shopping?” he asked, straightening it. “You dread shopping.”
“I do, but you are in need of something else besides those damned suits of yours,” Eames said, careless of the fact that his shirt was not tucked in as he approached with knowing that he was welcome to cross over again without being swatted away. “This isn't a business trip.”
“It's all that I own besides the clothes that you laughed at,” Robert reminded, grimacing at that memory.
Eames snorted, unable to help it. Even if Robert was dwelling on the bad part, he could not forget afterward. “Darling, you were wearing pastel with a sweater over your shoulders,” he chided softly, bringing his arms around Robert's waist. “We're not going to the country club.”
Robert turned if only to glare a him, “And what? You want me to take cues from someone that checks if the tag says 'wrinkle-free' before anything else?” He looked down at the half open shirt. Whether it was the pattern or Eames' mock frown that made him grin was uncertain.
“I travel a lot,” Eames snorted.
“Right,” Robert pressed his lips, but his frown was genuine. “Your job.”
Eames let go only to travel downward, squeezing Robert just enough for him to jump inward. Closer, Robert could feel the excitement that swelled since seeing him naked and aware. “Is over now,” he said, his voice clear to wash away any lingering doubt that he was lying before. If that were not enough, he leaned in and kissed Robert's ear, then the start of his jawline just below. Robert shuddered beneath his grasp, at the rough chin scratching at his neck. It was mixed with a softness of Eames' lips and then sudden pinch of teeth. There was a yearning to those bites, a neediness that while was appealing at first, the rush of being together after days, sometimes weeks, could be found in other ways.
Still, there was no sense in arguing about what Eames swore ended the nights before his arrival to this hotel room. “Breakfast is going to get cold,” he said instead. He saw the pout and kissed it away, adding, “After it and this shopping. You can enjoy ripping off the old clothes.”
“Only because I acquired pancakes,” Eames said, trying not to look too offended even if it carried in his voice.
“Pancakes?” Robert inquired. Not letting his guard down to turn for a second, he pulled the trousers off its hanger and stepped in. “I feel like I should apologize for delaying such a fantastic feat.”
“I am sure that they are just as lovely, Robert,” Eames said and grabbed his hand before a dress shirt could be chosen to drape over the undershirt. He was clothed enough, sans socks. Did not matter. Naked, he would have been just as perfect.
Part 2
Word Count: 4,532
Pairings/Characters: Eames/Robert, Ariadne/Arthur, Cobb
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mental disorder - hallucinations
Summary: Ariadne learns Robert overdosed and decides she wants to pay him a visit.
Author's Note: Dedicated to
lycanthrophile, my beta and the owner of Carl Dane. <3Prologue
Ariadne stared at the computer screen. It was not like her to ignore one of her classes, but something caught her ears while walking. “Fischer overdosed.” The rest of the story was lost in the sea of conversations, the morning talk about exams. It was almost summer, the semester nearing its end, so much of the Robert Fischer and his company's collapse was drowned out to the college's general public. But Ariadne was not some bystander. She remembered the dream, the levels that she built, and the endless possibilities. They called for her while she slept without the help of the PASIV, but lucidity alone was not as attainable, let alone as remarkable. Brilliant as she was, Ariadne was not as trained as the others. That was why she returned to her normal life. It was all too much for her to handle, and even as she found herself daydreaming rather than concentrating on blueprints, the architect swore to never tamper with another life again.
Everything did fall back into place after a while. By midterms, she was sleeping sound Saito's company took over what as left of the ashes. It was all very easy, in fact, to ignore it all. Everyone broke contact as they were instructed at the airport. They went on their separate lives, and Fischer let the idea take him. It moved him so completely until the company filed for bankruptcy, the once prestigious heir falling with it and disappearing once his name quit hitting the media.
She thought it was over then, but now, as her eyes remained wide and drawn to the red, white, and black layout of the New York Post, she had this sinking feeling.
It took a second call of her name to pull her back to reality. “Ariadne?” the professor asked with a look of disappointment that had an audience of students turning their heads. Ariadne looked up, and he asked, “Is my lecture boring you?”
“No, sir,” she said. That sinking feeling was taking over her limbs as she shut the laptop and sat back into the wooden seat. At least it seemed to satisfy him enough, but she knew there would be questions afterward. The architect played on that, building on what she knew and what would work as a plausible excuse. A close friend of hers passed away, and his funeral was over the weekend. She wanted to go, but family would be there, old classmates from high school and people she had not spoken to in ages. It distracted her studies, but if she left and returned for the finals on Monday, it would be just as catastrophic.
They gave her enough time to mourn, a week, and by that late afternoon, she had a plane ticket to Sydney. It was after the fact that she sat back again, this time in the small, swivel chair her dormitory provided. She stared at the computer as if looking at it would somehow cause the screen to tell her where Fischer was staying. When that did not work, she called the only other option: Arthur.
Scene 2
Information was a key point to any job, and to be honest, Arthur screwed up with the Fischer job. Everyone knew it the moment the train came through the main street and gunfire sang through the air. It was why Saito was shot, his soul dragged to limbo. Arthur blamed himself, taking a break from being the point man, but he also took it out on Cobb.
That was months ago, and now, there he was at another job. It was solo work, nothing to do with dreams, cut and dry find out more about Madison deWinter. Like extraction, only he actually stood in her New York apartment while she was out partying. His hands were to the knuckles in a filing cabinet when his cellphone went off. It sang a delicate tune, soft and beautiful, that drew him out of the job to stand up. They were not supposed to keep contact, but Eames was not the only one that knew how to use his hands.
“Hello?” he said.
“Arthur? It's Ariadne,” she said tentatively and wanted to curse for it. “Are you busy?” It was polite conversation, like two strangers or old friends that might have forgotten each other.
He had not. “Yes, but I can take a moment.” Or continue what he was doing as he lowered back down and started through the O section. “What is it? I didn't think that you'd call again.”
“Well, it was a sneaky move,” Ariadne said. “Twice. You've been around Eames and Cobb for too long.”
“Cobb never followed the rules when he worked – impromptu, he'd call it or like playing chess,” Arthur reminded her, trying to be careful with his words. He was less so when he added, “And I have not heard shit from Eames since Los Angeles.”
“He probably went back to Mombasa with Yusuf,” Ariadne considered.
Arthur shrugged and pulled the file out he was looking for. “Either way, did you have a reason for calling me? Last I recall, you said that you wanted nothing to with us.”
“It's about Fischer,” Ariadne quietly explained, and on the other end she could hear the thump of something made of paper and somewhat heavy. “Arthur, did you hear the news?”
“I heard.”
“I'm going to Sydney tomorrow, but I don't know how to find him.”
That made Arthur stop looking at the information in front of him, the papers just waiting to be soaked up and stolen so that he would get paid. “And you want me to find out where he is?”
Ariadne spoke quietly again, “Yes.”
And the answer was what she expected, “No. It's too risky.”
She frowned, “This is not another hit. He's not the mark. Just Robert Fischer.” But he was, and there rules and reasons behind them. While Cobb wasn't all that great at keeping them, the others were. The memories filled her head, a shiver down her spine, but Robert reaching that same fate through a different path, one they created, had more presence. There was hope. “I just want to see him, talk to him, maybe give him an idea that will show him that his decision was right. Arthur, we implanted the the idea in his head, and now it's tearing him apart. We might have not been the ones that gave him those pills or pull the trigger, but we started this. His blood will still be on our hands, and I won't sit here and continue my life knowing that I killed a man.”
Arthur took the pause as an opportunity to finish his job rather than try to get Ariadne to change her mind. It took great things to do that, to stop her from using the PASIV and dream with him, and it would take more than his words to change this. So the notes were taken alongside photographs, and cleaned things up before heading to the door. “Okay, I'll find out where Fischer is if you promise me that you won't tell him about the inception.”
“I won't,” Ariadne promised. “I swear.”
Scene 3
If Arthur's message was right, Fischer was staying at the BLUE Sydney, which took her by surprise as she approached the steps. It did not match what she thought of when she imagined Fischer collecting his bags in Los Angeles. She expected luxury but with a more professional, almost common feel. While the design was simple on the outside, a waterfront building, peaceful, there was so much more to the inside. The richness in color complimented the modern structure. It was enough to take her breath away, but somehow she managed a, “Wow.”
But what caught her more so was the man standing the font desk. “Eames? Is that you?” He turned from the long counter, his hand sweeping up the key card and placing it safely into his trousers. She did not notice, but there was reservation in his usually jovial manner, like he was hiding something. “What are you doing here?”
“I should ask you the same thing.”
Ariadne lowered her head, “I was visiting Fischer.”
“That makes the two of us, then,” Eames admitted. “But where is Arthur?”
“Arthur? He's not with me.”
“Come now, we all know about your meeting ever since that kiss. It was an impulse that turned into an idea, and now neither of you can forget about it.” Eames smiled as he could see the slight redness in Ariadne's cheeks. “That and finding out information like where someone that should be in a hospital is would be Arthur's thing, not yours.”
“He is doing a job,” Ariadne said.
“A normal job?” Eames inquired.
Ariadne shrugged. “As normal as Arthur can be,” she pointed out, and Eames allowed a faint laugh. Closer, she could see that he had not been sleeping well either. There were dark circles under his eyes and a worn out stature to his normally strong frame. “Are you staying here?”
“I thought it might be bes--” Eames' word was cut off by a yawn. It was getting late. Everyone else was asleep by then except for them and the night staff. “And I should be off if I am to catch Fischer in the morning.”
Ariadne nodded, trying not to catch that yawn like a cold. She was already feeling it in her bones, along the ache of her muscles from a long flight in coach, and the last thing she needed was to start nodding off before reaching her destination that was still a few blocks away.
Still, the idea that they could work together kept her moving to the front desk and the complimentary notepad that sat for messages to be left occupants. “When you find him, could we meet somewhere? Two heads might be better than one if we're to help him.” She pulled the small piece of paper off and was about to hand it to Eames, but a question stopped her, “You are here to help him, right?”
“Of course,” Eames said in a tone that was too angry, almost like snapping as if that question was an insult. Or it might be from being so tired. Either way, she gave him the note, and he placed it into the pocket with the key. “And I will see what I can do.” He shifted the shoulder bag that was slung over and turned toward the elevators. “Take care of yourself until then, Ariadne.” And before Ariadne could give a response, he left, letting the open path move him as freely and quickly as much as his destination. There was a bed waiting for him on the other side and much needed rest. The card slid in, flashing the red light to green, and the door swung open to the suite.
The room was set like a loft, two floors with ample room for movement, and waiting for him was a man that sat on the blue sofa. His body as leaned over, elbows propping the lithe form that wanted so much to fall and crash into a million pieces upon the floor. Beautiful, gray-blue eyes stared at the floor, washed away from streaks of red veins and puffiness that was very unbecoming. “You're late,” Robert Fischer Jr. said in a shaky voice. His hands were trembling earlier, clenched into fists around balls of tissue that now laid on the coffee table. “You're never late.”
“Only by a few minutes,” Eames murmured as he sat his bags down, the one around his shoulder making that metal on another hard surface sound.
“I closed my eyes for a minute,” Robert said. “For a few seconds, I told myself, to rest after the flight so that we might go out tonight. I dreamed that you weren't coming. I woke a hundred times to an empty bed, and when I woke here, you were not.”
Eames' lips thinned into a frown. “I'm here now, Robert,” he said, reaching behind the sofa to lean forward and lie his hand upon Robert's back. A light press rubbed gently the tension along the spine, to the sharp curves of the shoulder blades. Robert shifted back silently, and his hands moved up before ducking down to kiss him.
Scene 4
Robert was still sleeping when Eames woke. They slept on either side, moved by dreams that was reassuring to the older man. It meant a peaceful rest, one not woken by haunting images because they were violated, or memories just as cruel. Eames crept closer as to not disturb his lover, to lie one, last kiss before leaving. This thought had crossed his mind a dozen times before, but each time it was shelved to remain until Robert woke. There were nightmares then. Every time before, they woke from Robert talking in his sleep, sweat covering his pale, naked flesh and tears in his eyes. Now, even as his lips touched a shoulder, it remained still.
He moved as silent as he could down the stairs that were littered with articles of clothing tangled together like the bodies that once wore them. His bags were downstairs near the front door, abandoned with hopes that the contents for once could wait until morning. There was a smile to that accomplishment, and for that, he needed to go downstairs.
There was doubt that the hotel offers something as simple as pancakes. Maybe for children, as a comfort food filled with blueberries and topped off with whipped cream. It did not matter. His British accent has a way of catching someone, and the request does the rest. “It's a celebration, and I want to do something special.”
The waiter is unable to deny the request even in such a posh location. “I'll see what I can do,” he said after the list was done. He was waiting for the waiter to return when that familiar voice interrupted him again.
“Eames,” Ariadne said from the lobby. “Good morning.” She approached the threshold that separated one area of the next, not quite going in as if only hotel guests could. “I was wondering if I could wait with you.”
“I'm not waiting yet,” Eames said and tried to lose the tone. A smile was upon his face as he turned to great Ariadne, the first, false one for the day. “Ariadne, it's early. Don't you think it'd be more appropriate to speak with Fischer after he's at least had a few hours away from his dreams?”
Ariadne lowered her head, “I couldn't sleep.”
Eames' smile was lost at that response, and the waiter gave him a chance to think things over as he returned to tell him the good news. The bill was huge, but it was a special order, and when the estimated length of time was given, Eames took in a deep breath. “If you could, also, I think that I'd like to take it up myself.” He glanced at Ariadne and added, “May I get a table for two for coffee?”
They were led to a spot nearest to the entrance, two cups turned to face up while the waiter left for a pot. Eames sat so that he could watch the kitchen rather than the lobby, and Ariadne would be a little surprised if she wasn't assured that Fischer would not be down anytime soon. “You're . . .” she started in that quiet voice again, unsure if she should push like she did with Cobb. “You're not here alone, are you?”
“How observant,” Eames said and leaned back against the soft cushion. “And ever forward. What gave it away?”
“I don't think a single man would order breakfast in bed from the restaurant while not in their room.”
“I like to make sure my eggs are cooked right,” Eames pointed out and thanked the waiter that was pouring their coffee. “But yes,” he said through the last bit of reservation. “I'm with someone.”
Ariadne poured some sugar and creamer into her cup while Eames drank his black.“You weren't in the lobby. Were you meeting them here? Another associate?”
She would ask why a stranger was brought into this rather than her, he thought. They could work together, she would add, and soon, like Cobb, she would find out the truth. Ariadne knew what was wrong with Cobb and his insane projection of Mal long before anyone else did. Surely, some of them had the idea crossing their minds, but none followed suspicions so well as she. And she was stubborn too, which might be helpful, so Eames said softly, “I'm with Robert.”
That almost made Ariadne drop her coffee and choke the first sip if it was not still pooling upon her tongue and now spat back into the cup. “You're with Fischer?” The cup was set down before she asked, “So the overdose was a setup?”
Eames nodded, “A backdoor for him to flee the prying eyes through. Those piranhas won't stop until they have chewed away at every last piece of him, so now everyone thinks that he is at some mental hospital.”
“Not everyone,” Ariadne mused worriedly.
“Or Arthur was able to cross the same connections that know I'm the one responsible for all this,” Eames replied. “We never worked together after that job, but we do share references from time to time.”
Ariadne looked at her coffee, not wanting to believe that Arthur knew Eames would be here and did not tell her, but the idea that someone else knows that leaked Fischer's whereabouts was worse than them keeping secrets. “How long?”
“Shortly after Barron's front page news about the stock crash,” Eames said rather than mentioning it was also the time Fischer was found drinking, his photograph taking the front page of him stumbling out of a taxi cab. “He had his freedom but did not know what to do with it or how to handle it, and then there was the financial end, the board meetings . . .” he looked at the coffee that was still warm and filled as high as Ariadne's. “I gave him somewhere to go and someone to turn to.”
“And it's purely platonic?” Ariadne asked with a slight tilt of her head.
Eames looked at her, and the waiter had timing. There was a tray with several plates covered with metal, glasses filled to the brim with orange juice, and a pot of coffee. “It was,” he told her and stood up, ignoring the slightly wider eyes at that hint. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to get this upstairs before it gets cold.” Once last glance was given to his old teammate, and it held that hope she remembered. “I suggest that you go home now, darling. He's safe now.”
Scene 5
Eames managed to balance the tray with one hand, the edge upon his hip with a natural grace as the key card slid across the electronic lock. He was careful to be quiet, hoping that Robert was still sleeping. The tray was set down in the eat-in kitchen, the plates arranged, the tops removed alongside the plastic and disposed so that everything looked to be done over a hot stove by his loving hands. Eames was not the best cook, and Robert had his fleet of caretakers over the years, but neither minded the ordering out or microwaved meals. He was just pleased to see him eating full meals as he became more thoughtful about his health again.
But the bedroom was empty, the covers overturned to leave a light impression of their shared space. The adjacent bathroom light was on, creeping underneath the closed door with the sound of shower. Eames did not think twice about opening that door, but his body froze at the frame. The small form was blurry behind the frosted glass, but he could see that Robert was not bathing in the warmth, stretched out with the strength he had hoped being together, permanently, would provide. Instead he sat upon the porcelain ground, legs pulled in with taught arms. “Robert . . .” Eames said after a second or two, shaking the initial sadness and disappointment. He stepped to the shower and pulled open the door, expecting to once more have to sooth the tension he helped cause.
He would, but at the slightest touch of his hand, Robert took one glance and came to life, startling Eames enough to jump back. Robert pulled away, as well as one could in the round space. His arms darted around his head and neck, ducking his sights down. The sound of gunfire filled his air. It was raining, pouring through shards of broken glass. He could not see right beneath the bag over his head, but he knew the face of the man that touched him.
“Robert,” Eames repeated.
Robert blinked, “Is this a dream?” he asked. “It feels so real.”
Eames shook his head. “No, Robert, it's not. A half-remembered dream, maybe, but you're in a hotel room with me.”
“I was once before,” Robert replied, not quite grasping the words. He stared at the shower head, at the stream of water falling free upon him. It burned his eyes. Would it do so if this was a dream? “You were there, too.” It would, he knew, because pain was in the mind. He remembered falling, being cold, shot . . . “It was raining for a moment, then not. Mr. Charles was there.” He glanced at Eames, “Is he here now?”
“No, only me.”
“Don't you work with him?” Robert asked, his voice turning a little more frantic. “Why would you be here without Mr. Charles?”
Eames lowered himself to the tub again. “Because Robert Fischer, this is not a job.” He reached across the water that spatted onto the sleeve of his shirt and into his hair. His fingers lied beneath his chin to not break that passing glance that held a moment of lucidity. “And I love you.” He kissed Robert then, half-expecting him to pull away. It lingered, Robert moving closer, his arm wrapping around Eames' neck. Eames did the same, securely, taking the initiative as meaning that for now, the nightmare over. He gently pulled them away, turning off the water, and enveloped Robert in one of the thick, cotton towels. The shoulders and down his back were rubbed while Robert's head lied pressed in his chest. “Come now,” he whispered soothingly, “there's breakfast in the kitchen.”
They moved quietly from the bathroom, Robert parting ways once the ground felt more solid beneath his feet. Silence was inevitable, awkward from his weakness and hearing those three words. He opened the armoire, fingers wrapping along the edges as he took in the various pieces that could compose his daily attire. Most of articles were still in their plastic wrapping from the dry cleaners, freshly pressed before his trip to the city he swore once to never return. He took in a deep breath and exhaled as if picking out which tie would match which shirt was the most difficult decision of his life.
While on the other hand, Eames went downstairs to get his bags that were quickly disregarded the previous night. They now lied next to the bed, careless on unpacking, as he removed the damp shirt and pulled out another. He glanced at Robert sparingly – once before leaving, again upon returning, and a third now out of worry. It would not fade until Robert dropped his towel, showing the slight curve of his pert ass that rounded as he bent down to one of the drawers for his underclothes. “So,” he started to break the silence his confession caused. “Lets go shopping after this.”
Robert's eyebrows raised, hidden as he remained involved in the choice of what shirt to wear with the trousers he had already picked out. “Shopping?” he asked, straightening it. “You dread shopping.”
“I do, but you are in need of something else besides those damned suits of yours,” Eames said, careless of the fact that his shirt was not tucked in as he approached with knowing that he was welcome to cross over again without being swatted away. “This isn't a business trip.”
“It's all that I own besides the clothes that you laughed at,” Robert reminded, grimacing at that memory.
Eames snorted, unable to help it. Even if Robert was dwelling on the bad part, he could not forget afterward. “Darling, you were wearing pastel with a sweater over your shoulders,” he chided softly, bringing his arms around Robert's waist. “We're not going to the country club.”
Robert turned if only to glare a him, “And what? You want me to take cues from someone that checks if the tag says 'wrinkle-free' before anything else?” He looked down at the half open shirt. Whether it was the pattern or Eames' mock frown that made him grin was uncertain.
“I travel a lot,” Eames snorted.
“Right,” Robert pressed his lips, but his frown was genuine. “Your job.”
Eames let go only to travel downward, squeezing Robert just enough for him to jump inward. Closer, Robert could feel the excitement that swelled since seeing him naked and aware. “Is over now,” he said, his voice clear to wash away any lingering doubt that he was lying before. If that were not enough, he leaned in and kissed Robert's ear, then the start of his jawline just below. Robert shuddered beneath his grasp, at the rough chin scratching at his neck. It was mixed with a softness of Eames' lips and then sudden pinch of teeth. There was a yearning to those bites, a neediness that while was appealing at first, the rush of being together after days, sometimes weeks, could be found in other ways.
Still, there was no sense in arguing about what Eames swore ended the nights before his arrival to this hotel room. “Breakfast is going to get cold,” he said instead. He saw the pout and kissed it away, adding, “After it and this shopping. You can enjoy ripping off the old clothes.”
“Only because I acquired pancakes,” Eames said, trying not to look too offended even if it carried in his voice.
“Pancakes?” Robert inquired. Not letting his guard down to turn for a second, he pulled the trousers off its hanger and stepped in. “I feel like I should apologize for delaying such a fantastic feat.”
“I am sure that they are just as lovely, Robert,” Eames said and grabbed his hand before a dress shirt could be chosen to drape over the undershirt. He was clothed enough, sans socks. Did not matter. Naked, he would have been just as perfect.
Part 2
